Authors: MJ and Kate Kernshaw (Yes, she did!)
Pairing: Archer/Reed, our favorite
Rating: PG
Summary: Malcolm goes to the movies.
Archive: EntSTslash, Archer's Enterprise, WWOMB, Blts, Tim Ruben, allslash; anyone else ask pretty and it's yours
Author Note: Kim says she did not write any of this. Okay, she only did a three-page outline, some of the dialogue, and the bulk of the description of how Malcolm eats popcorn when he wants to get Jon's attention. Other than that, not a word of this is hers.
Humor.
Finger Lickin' Good
By MJ and Kate Kernshaw
One of the most successful ventures on Enterprise had been Hoshi's effort to teach Chef a larger repertoire of Oriental dishes than he'd already brought with him. It had proven so successful that the Captain's Mess was now frequently enjoying Chinese banquets just so Chef could show off his new recipes. Jonathan Archer liked Chinese food tremendously, so he had no reason to complain about the situation.
Others weren't always as overjoyed by the additions to the menu; they certainly weren't that particular night. While Archer was cheerfully digging his way through orange beef and a vegetable lo mein with his chopsticks, Trip Tucker was chowing down on a special request of fried chicken. Chef had offered to make lemon chicken for him, but Tucker had refused to eat anything that "needed pick-up sticks to eat it." T'Pol might well have enjoyed her steamed vegetables and vegetable fried rice, but for her efforts to use chopsticks that evening. Archer had called a steward over to bring T'Pol silverware, but she was insisting on mastering this new skill. The new skill, however, was eluding her with all the cunning of a fox on the run; vegetables, especially slices of water chestnut and carrot, were sliding everywhere.
Malcolm Reed was calmly working his way through moo goo gai pan and broccoli with garlic sauce. His skills with a pair of chopsticks were impressive; he had professed once before to having learned to use them during summers in Malaysia with his parents. He'd eaten his way through San Francisco's Chinatown while in training, having had to instruct more than one other
officer in what they were doing with those wooden things they were holding. "Would you like me to help you with that?" he offered to T'Pol. He was trying his best to be excessively polite, since he'd only recently joined Archer's regular dinner companions. The fact that they'd been seeing each other for nearly three months had contributed to that. However, he still wasn't quite comfortable taking most of his dinners with all three of the most senior officers, even if he was dating one and friend to another, and his discomfort manifested itself in falling back on etiquette, which was always a useful defense.
"Thank you, Lieutenant, but no. I understand the mechanics quite well now; all that is required is for me to acquire the requisite skills through practice." T'Pol sent a water chestnut sailing onto Tucker's plate. Tucker rolled his eyes at Reed; he'd told Reed stories before, and Reed had seen the proof, now for the third time, of T'Pol's war with chopsticks.
Tucker, staring at the offending vegetable on his plate, struck back. He placed the chicken wing he'd been munching on his plate - he knew that T'Pol, like almost all Vulcans, shuddered at eating with one's hands - and proceeded to lick his fingers clean with an almost obscene enthusiasm. "Um, um, finger-lickin' good. Gotta tell Chef he's done it again."
If Vulcans winced, T'Pol was wincing. If they didn't wince, Reed didn't know what that expression on her face was.
"So," Tucker asked, "you goin' to see the movie this week, Malcolm?"
"I believe so. It's some Twentieth Century alien invasion film called 'Independence Day'. Mr. Mayweather assures me that it has a considerable number of explosions in it. I'm all for explosions, of course - I really think no film's complete without one or two at the least."
"Me," Tucker said, "I like those old Westerns. I need to find out what we have in the library. I ain't seen a good shoot-'em-out in a long time."
T'Pol used a chopstick to spear through a carrot slice. Spearing the vegetables seemed to work better than trying to tweeze them. "Don't you find that your Western movies glorified a culture of violence and of oppression of a misunderstood native culture? That hardly seems fitting for someone engaged in trying to meet an become acquainted with other civilizations."
Tucker shrugged. "Nah, nobody takes 'em seriously, I don't think. They used to, I hear. Back when, I guess it would have been in the Twentieth Century, around World War Two, I understand foreign soldiers used to ask the Americans about the cowboys and Indians and what it was like, and naturally, most people'd never seen a cowboy or a Native American who wore feathers and
stuff. I hear you Brits believed it, Malcolm."
Reed grinned. "That was because we could see that the Americans were acting like uncivilized boors. I'm not sure much has changed, has it?"
"Ouch! If you're tryin' to cut, Malcolm --"
"Settle down, children," Archer sighed. Fortunately, he was smiling. "I think we still have dessert to contend with."
"If you'll excuse me, Captain," T'Pol said, pushing her chair out behind her, "I have a great deal of work I should finish tonight. I still have to begin work on next week's duty rosters."
"Certainly," Archer told her. T'Pol rarely ate dessert; it was one more non-Vulcan thing she had an objection to. She often left at dessert, as she was doing now. A steward cleared her place as she left the table and exited the room.
The steward brought out dishes of orange sherbet, and, to Reed's satisfaction, slices of pineapple with it. Reed picked up his spoon and pointed it at Tucker. "You really were rude to T'Pol, you know."
"Well, if she can't use those damn chopsticks, she better start usin' her fork, 'cause I don't 'preciate havin' her food flyin' onto my plate."
"That was an accident." Reed stared at Tucker. "You were deliberately trying to make her upset. That's really too much."
"Well, now, we can't all be perfect English gentlemen, can we?" Tucker was snarking now; when he got started on something, it often happened.
"It has nothing to do with that, and you know it. There's no call to be deliberately rude to anyone, Trip - especially when she outranks you."
"I may be an officer, but no one ever told me that 'gentleman' was gonna have to come first."
Archer tapped a glass with his spoon. "That's the gong, gentlemen. The round's over. Trip, that *was* pushing it; don't do it again, okay? Malcolm, simmer down. We've got things to do this evening."
"Right you are." Reed put his spoon down and picked up his napkin. "T'Pol's chopsticks display is *not* the only entertainment this evening. I believe you were joining me for the movie tonight, Jon?"
There was a moment of total silence. Tucker and Archer exchanged looks. Tucker laughed quietly. "Well, Cap'n, looks like you already got that ol' ball and chain wrapped around you, huh?"
Reed ignored Tucker, but turned to Archer. "Would you care to enlighten me?"
Archer had the grace to look sheepish at being caught. "Uh, Trip caught me just before dinner, Malcolm. He got in an upload of the Stanford/Florida State water polo playoff match." Reed knew of the match; Archer, a former player, had been following the playoffs as best he could, and couldn't help talking about them - even to Reed, who knew little of the sport and preferred soccer over anything. The winner of this match was slated to go on to the finals. "Besides, rank has its privileges. I'm the captain; I can get them to have 'Independence Day' shown again. I'm sorry, Malcolm, but it's the final round of playoffs. And I know you're not much for water polo."
"Well, I won't say I'm not disappointed, love, but I know the Stanford matches mean a lot to you. And God knows I'm your lover, not your nanny - we certainly don't need to do every single thing together. Besides, I'm sure Travis will be grateful for some company." Reed stood up and pushed in his chair, leaning over to kiss Archer quickly. "Enjoy the match. I'll see you later."
Mayweather, it turned out, was grateful for the company. Hoshi was feeling under the weather, she'd said, and wasn't going to the movie; Mayweather thought that it might really be that she just didn't appreciate good on-screen destruction and carnage. Malcolm Reed could be counted on to enjoy a good explosion or a crazed rampage by one manifestation or another of Godzilla.
Unwilling to miss one screen inch of death, destruction, or detonation, the stalwart duo headed for seats right in the front row. Unwilling to miss one second of the excitement, they arrived early. Their promptness was ill-rewarded due to technical difficulties of some unexplained sort that
forced the movie crowd to sit through several cartoons first. Reed didn't think much of cartoons; they were all well and good for the comic book fans, like Trip, perhaps, but he preferred something a bit more culturally enlightening - perhaps a good vintage movie reel of World War Two air raid bombings, or footage of some Twentieth Century nuclear test blasts.
The delay, however, permitted more important things to be done. Beer was always important, wasn't it? Reed got up and strolled over to the refreshments, grabbing a very cold American beer for Mayweather and, miraculously, finding a Guinness that someone had managed not to put on ice. He and a couple of the Aussies on ship had spent months trying to explain that God had never intended beer to be served at temperatures colder than the North Pole until they'd been able to get a few set aside that hadn't been utterly ruined by near-freezing.
Another trip was required for popcorn. It promised to be a two-bowl event that night - one bowl for Mayweather and one for himself. Mayweather was making some kind of unfortunate comment about no butter on his popcorn. Reed couldn't fathom it - extra butter was invariably the order of the day in his book. In fact, it was hard to get enough extra butter on most popcorn to bother discussing it. Popcorn wasn't meant to be bloody health food, it was meant to have enough butter and salt on it to cause a nurse to have nightmares for weeks.
While waiting for his popcorn to be properly corrupted with topping, Reed craned around for a moment. Whatever were Archer and Tucker doing there? They had just walked in, and were trying to find seats even though the room had begun crowding. Reed pretended not to notice them, or that they'd found two seats together three rows back, just to the side of Reed and Mayweather. There were no empty seats in the front now; Mayweather was holding Reed's seat for him.
Well, if Archer wanted to show up late with Tucker and blow off Reed that evening, that was his problem. Reed intended to enjoy himself thoroughly. He had been enjoying himself so far, he was about to have popcorn - ah, that looked like nearly enough butter, now... and Mayweather had promised explosions to die for. And there was always the entertainment he could get out of torturing helpless victims. There were two helpless victims sitting three rows behind him, and he knew just how to get Tucker's goat over what Tucker had done to T'Pol. If it bothered Jonathan Archer, so much the better... and oh, was he going to bother Jonathan Archer.
The best part was that he wasn't even going to have to do anything in order to do it.
He headed back to his seat in the dim light, arms full of popcorn, and happy to have a plan.
Truth to be told, the movie wasn't bad. Oh, the plot was a bit implausible, the aliens were unlikely - of course, there hadn't been any real aliens around back when this movie had been made - and the effects were a bit old-looking, but the explosions... ah, Travis was an honest man; the movie,
antiquated as it was, delivered on explosions.
As the first explosions burst on the screen, Reed pulled his left hand out of the popcorn bowl and popped a few kernels in his mouth. Why, damn if there wasn't butter all over his fingers - one of the disadvantages of popcorn with extra butter, to be sure. However, it would be wasteful just to wipe one's hand when there was butter all over it, surely. He could see the trail of butter all along his left pinky. Only one thing to do, surely, even if it wasn't precisely in the etiquette book. He slipped the finger into his mouth, sucking and nibbling from the tip to the base knuckle. It was amazing how butter insisted on clinging to the skin, he thought. Even that effort hadn't removed all of it - nothing to do but to repeat, licking all along the length of the finger, gently pulling back then slowly reinserting, back and forth, until all traces of the butter were gone.
Another explosion meant that it was time for more popcorn. First more Guinness, then another dip into the bowl, another bit of popcorn. The ring finger glided gently between Reed's slightly parted lips. From a sound behind and slightly to the side of him, it seemed that someone or other was watching him dealing with the butter problem. That didn't concern him; they ought to be watching the movie. Of course, the fact that anyone was noticing increased the chance that Tucker, Archer, or both might just wind up seeing him at work with the popcorn, and that was something he *was* aiming for.
Mayweather was intent upon watching the movie, paying no attention whatsoever to Reed's performance with the popcorn. Just as well, Reed supposed. The ensign really did want to follow what was happening on screen. A pity to disturb him; the only person who needed some serious disturbing was one Jonathan Archer.
Reed returned his own attention to the problem of the butter coating his fingers. He returned to his ring finger, noting that it was still covered. Once again he sucked the butter from his skin, up and down, then slowly around, laving at the base before working back up to the tip, nibbling and sucking. There, that was much better. And whyever that ensign behind him was making that moaning noise at his girlfriend, it was *very* distracting; Reed could barely hear over it. The man should be watching the movie, not his eating.
More explosions, more popcorn. It was an entirely satisfying evening, even if Archer didn't want to spend it with him. Whatever had become of the water polo match was of no import whatsoever - and what an excellent explosion that had been, a magnificent special effect for the time it had been done, and such exquisite damage to that building; not as symmetrical as if he had set it, of course, but one couldn't have everything... and it was time for more popcorn, a larger handful, which was thoroughly covering his middle finger. Ah, only one thing to do about that, right? The offending digit slid into place in Reed's waiting mouth. The butter had cooled just enough to begin
being truly stubborn; this was going to take some serious work. His tongue swirled around its entire length, round and round, up and down, with special attention paid to the base knuckle and the very tip of the finger, where some salty, oily butter was insisting on sticking under his fingernail.
Odd; there wasn't an intermission... but at least that blasted ensign and his lady friend had decided it was time to quit watching him and to sneak out of their row. It sounded as if a few others were following suit - maybe they didn't like explosions, or the Americans couldn't handle watching the United States being attacked on screen? He returned to an attempt to lick the butter out from under his middle fingernail, using just the tip of his tongue and working it firmly, keeping his other fingers bent back and out of his way.
Hm, Cutler was all but dragging her date for the evening away from behind him; perhaps she didn't like these old movies as much as she'd thought she did. His tongue swirled around the tip of his finger before he began sucking on it again. There, that was better.
Reed turned his head almost imperceptibly and thanked God for good peripheral vision. Archer had also noticed the show a few rows ahead of his seat, and seemed to be staring at Reed intently now that there was a clearer field of vision. It was definitely time for more popcorn. Reed could feel Archer's intent focus, watching in fascination as Reed skimmed his index finger along the side of the bowl, quickly sliding the buttery goodness into his now expectant mouth. Expertly, Reed once again savored and suckled, slithering and swirling, along and around, from knuckle to tip and back again.
Another several couples following the grand display in the front row made good their escape. Mayweather was still enthralled by the on-screen action directly in front of him.
Archer couldn't stand it anymore. He rose and approached Reed, taking the seat directly behind him. The row hadn't been completely full at the start; now, save for Archer, it was entirely vacant. "Malcolm," he hissed, "I need to see you-now."
Malcolm turned his head, affecting to be startled. "Why Jon, what are you doing here? Water polo game over already? Who won?"
Tucker moved to join them, sitting directly behind Travis, who was still intently watching the movie. "The damn match... the upload didn't go through, glitch in the communications equipment. I'm hopin' to get it tomorrow. We kinda figured we might as well just catch the flick ourselves. Sorry, Malcolm."
"Oh," purred Reed, returning to a butter-coated index finger, "what a shame. But I've been having a lovely time anyway."
"Let's leave, Malcolm," Archer insisted. "Unless you'd rather I ravish you right here and now."
Mayweather was now irritated at all the chatting going on around him. "Shh." Then he turned his head - the four officers were the only people left watching the movie. "What? -- "
Tucker cut him off. "Don't ask; trust me, you don't want to know."
"We need to leave, Malcolm, right now," Archer bit out desperately, his hand on Reed's shoulder.
"Why, Captain?" Reed asked, still with that soft purr in his voice. "Are you saying you require my, um, services?" Mayweather began choking on a piece of his own popcorn; Tucker pounded the helmsman's back. Obviously Reed had kept that little piece of news from his friend. Reed turned around still more and fixed his eyes on the obvious bulge in Archer's tight jeans. He continued, "I suppose you need me to...display my expertise?" He licked some remaining butter from his index finger in front of Archer's face. Mayweather coughed again, his embarrassment clear.
Archer yanked Reed firmly by the elbow, pulling him up from his seat. "I said, we really need to leave now." He tugged Reed quickly out of the nearly deserted room, thanking his lucky stars that his cabin was not that far away. Reed, despite the near abduction, was grinning. There was nothing quite like getting one's own way after all.
Mayweather, still amazed and a bit bewildered, looked back at Tucker, who was also heading for the exit. "Ah, Commander? Where are you going?"
Tucker stopped for one moment and turned back towards the helmsman, shivering as he saw Reed's abandoned popcorn bowl. "Gotta find me a willin' woman or a damn cold shower!" And with that, he was gone.
Mayweather shrugged, still a bit confused - where *had* everyone else gone? -- and returned his attention to the screen for the rest of the movie. Too bad about everyone - boy, were they ever gonna be sorry they missed the climax.
END