Beta'd by Vesper(Regina) - many thanks!

A little seasonal something!

He wasn't a kill-joy. No, of course he wasn't. It was just that there was a time and a place for everything. And a starship definitely wasn't the place, regardless of the time.

Malcolm glared at the assortment of bunny-ears decorating various heads around the mess hall. It was enough to put you off your breakfast. These people were supposed to be professionals, for God's sake. It was bad enough Chef getting carried away with the spirit of the thing – he could pretty well guarantee that come lunchtime the dessert cabinet would be filled with Simnel cake and other confections featuring garishly coloured and nauseatingly sentimental fluffy chicks, not to mention miniature chocolate Easter eggs (and there wouldn't be a plain piece of apple pie in sight). But bunny-ears were the limit. Heaven help anyone who turned up for duty in the armoury wearing a pair, that's all he could say.

The tactical station didn't help either, when he reached it. A small, foil-wrapped Easter egg was gleaming on the top of it. The donor thereof had apparently chosen to remain safely anonymous. He took what comfort he could from the fact that whoever it was had at least the minimal sense to ensure it was placed somewhere that didn't get warm, or the bloody thing would have melted; and what if it had leaked all over his console? 'Sorry, Captain, I can't fire the cannons at that ship that's about to blow us all into a million pieces, I've got chocolate in the weapons sensors...'

He glowered around the bridge. His capacity to complain was severely limited by the fact that the captain, who had arrived a minute before him, had also found an Easter egg waiting for him (on the arm of his chair, right where it could have leaked into the comm panel) and so far from being outraged by the possibility of disruption to a piece of sensitive and vital equipment was actually eating the damned thing with a big smile on his face. Good grief. Straight after breakfast. Had the man no finesse?

At least T'Pol appeared to share his opinion on chocolate eggs in general. She had received one too, and was eyeing it with the appropriate severity. Nevertheless she said nothing, but set it aside – he could guess where that one would end up. If Vulcans didn't have a sweet tooth he knew someone who did. Pecan pie and chocolate. For pity's sake. The man was dangerous enough to passing traffic without taking on board a sugar bomb with that payload. He'd had him barge into his back in the mess hall earlier on because he was too busy shouting back over his shoulder to Ensign Hess to pay attention to where he was going – luckily both of them were on their way out and apart from an irksome impact to the lower part of his spinal column no damage had been done.

Travis was evidently among those who had been affected by the malaise. A fluffy yellow excrescence was perched on top of the helm station – stuck in place with temporary adhesive, true, but what if it came off in an emergency? That thing could fall anywhere. The captain couldn't have noticed it. This was the first Warp 5 capable starship, for crying out loud. The pride of Starfleet. They were supposed to be professionals...

As for Hoshi – he hardly dared look. She'd been chatting to Trip in the mess hall at breakfast, and ... well, perhaps bunny-ears would have suited her in a more appropriate setting. Well, perhaps they suited her anyway. Well. Come to think of it, they'd look bloody marvellous with...

...but whatever they'd look bloody marvellous with, at least she wasn't wearing them on the bridge. There were limits. He surveyed her and her station with faintly proprietary approval. No egg in sight, no fluffy things, no bunny-ears; at least Hoshi knew how to behave on duty.

At that moment the comm chirped on his station. Trip's unmistakable Southern drawl was faintly anxious. "Hey, Malcolm, I could do with you takin' a look at somethin' in the armory. Gettin' a peculiar readin' on that circuit you were talkin' about yesterday..."

Bloody hell, I thought that was fixed! With an apologetic murmur to the Captain he jumped up and hurried to the turbo-lift. He was due to carry out a series of tests in his lair for the rest of the day anyway; with luck he'd get the problem sorted out before he had to start. At least he could get to spend his shift in the one place on the ship where he could guarantee that proper standards were upheld.

The white cotton bunny-tail that had been stuck firmly just above the seat of his uniform during that collision in the mess hall that morning was the last the bridge crew saw of him.

It was enough to make even a Vulcan smile. Almost.

Later that evening.

He walked into his quarters, yawning. On the whole the day in the Armoury had been most satisfactory. The only thing that had impinged on his awareness occasionally was that some of his staff appeared to have developed a compulsion to whisper. Once or twice he'd even caught a stifled giggle. He'd had to glare quite hard to recall a couple of the worst-afflicted to the seriousness of duty, but eventually they'd settled down. More or less. Though when a number of them left to go to the mess hall at lunchtime he'd thought he'd heard an explosion of laughter in the corridor. They must have been having it out of some poor sod over something. Nothing to do with him, thank God.

He sat down on his bunk, removed his boots and stood up again to strip off his uniform. As he picked it up to place it in the laundry chute, a flash of white caught his eye.

What...?

Who...?

When...?

On my arse? All bloody DAY?

Commander Tucker, I swear, you are a dead man.

The End.

*Note for readers: Simnel cake is a traditional light fruit cake decorated with marzipan, made especially for Easter in the United Kingdom and Ireland; its origins go back to Medieval times.

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