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chaletianTitle: The Love Song of Jim + Mike
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaletian
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: In response to a not-quite-a-challenge on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
startrek_crack: Jim gets it on with psychic blue lint.
“Hey,” says the lint. “I’m Mike.”
Jim lies there covered in blue lint, his mouth tasting like a taxidermist’s dream, indicative of too much alcohol. Which is odd, because he hadn’t been drinking.
“Didn’t you used to be a blonde?” he says blearily. He looks down. The lint’s covering his whole torso. “Also: I’m feeling sorta violated right now.”
Mike coalesces into one linty mass and slumps to one side of the bed. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s a thing we do.”
Jim sits up and rubs his hand through his hair. “Who’s we? The lint people?”
“Hey,” says Mike, sounding offended. Maybe. There’s no real baseline for determining the mood of psychically communicating blue lint.
Huh.
Maybe there is. Maybe he should ask Spock. But later. The lint’s still talking.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a lint person.”
Jim shrugs. “Yeah? What was with the blonde, then? Where was your lint pride there, huh?”
The lint constituting Mike shifts and eddies in a way that might be construed as a shrug. “We do what we must to reproduce.”
Jim nods understandingly, then realisation dawns, and he jumps up and out of the bed, hands protecting his jimtastic parts.
“Holy CRAP! We reproduced?”
oOo
“Holy CRAP!” exclaims Bones, running the tricorder over Jim. “You reproduced? With lint?”
“I’m right here,” says Mike. “Though… I think there’s still a bit of me left in that bed.” Jim stares, horrified. “We shed,” it adds. It sounds apologetic. Well. Maybe it’s apologetic. Maybe it’s smug. Blue lint’s pretty impassive.
“Good God, Jim, how did you get yourself into this?”
Jim manages to look both indignant and guilty. “The usual way.”
“Oh, you don’t say,” says Bones, one eyebrow quirking up. “Are we going to have to have the alien sex talk again, Captain?” he demands.
“Oh, dear God, no,” says Jim.
“Cuz, to be honest, the ‘blue lint’ aspect would’ve put me right off from the start.”
“SHE WAS A BLONDE!”
“It’s part of the marriage ceremony,” says Mike.
“Holy CRAP! We’re married?”
oOo
“Holy CRAP!” says Sulu. “You’re married? To lint?”
“And about to have my very own linty babies,” says Jim. “Not that it’s any of your business. Eyes on the road, Lieutenant! Spock. Help me out here.”
Spock raises an eyebrow. “I fail to see how I could be of assistance with regard to lint reproduction, Captain. Surely that would – in so far as anything does – fall within the purview of Dr McCoy.”
“Why you…” begins McCoy.
Jim scowls. “Don’t bitchslap Bones, Spock. I’m pregnant. I need my friends’ emotional support here.”
“D’you think we should throw him a shower?” whispers Sulu.
“I can still hear you, Sulu,” says Jim. “And normally I’d be pissed off, but I sense presents in my imminent future.”
“I do not know, Keptin,” puts in Chekov, turning round. “I do not think booties are appropriate gift for lint baby.”
Jim’s face drops. “Are you being mean about my lint baby, Chekov?” he asks sadly.
Chekov’s eyes widen. “No, sir.”
“Good. Spock. Come on, man, help me!”
“We should perhaps make further contact with the planet,” suggests Spock.
Jim wraps his arms around his middle and looks fearfully at his first officer. “You don’t think they’ll take my lint baby away from me?” he asks.
Spock looks at him. Bones rolls his eyes. Uhura opens a channel.
oOo
After the lint baby appears in Jim’s belly button, Mike takes it back to the planet. Jim stands in the transporter room, Spock and Bones at his shoulders.
“Bye, little lint baby,” says Jim.
“Sweet mother of Jesus,” says Bones.
Jim frowns at him. “Lighten up, Bones,” he says. “I think I’m getting post-natal depression over here.”
“Yeah?” asks Bones. “Well, how about this: you any idea how much money I just made out of you?”
Spock inclines his head. “I believe Lt Sulu and Ensign Chekov were misguided when they first calculated the odds of the Captain becoming impregnated by an alien species.”
“Hey!” objects Jim, but is ignored, and Bones nods.
“You’re damn right. If anyone was ever going to get impregnated by an alien species, it was going to be Jim here.”
“Very true, Doctor.”
“You both suck,” says Jim, and they head back to the bridge, and the next new planet.
THE END
Author:
chaletianFandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: In response to a not-quite-a-challenge on
startrek_crack: Jim gets it on with psychic blue lint.“Hey,” says the lint. “I’m Mike.”
Jim lies there covered in blue lint, his mouth tasting like a taxidermist’s dream, indicative of too much alcohol. Which is odd, because he hadn’t been drinking.
“Didn’t you used to be a blonde?” he says blearily. He looks down. The lint’s covering his whole torso. “Also: I’m feeling sorta violated right now.”
Mike coalesces into one linty mass and slumps to one side of the bed. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s a thing we do.”
Jim sits up and rubs his hand through his hair. “Who’s we? The lint people?”
“Hey,” says Mike, sounding offended. Maybe. There’s no real baseline for determining the mood of psychically communicating blue lint.
Huh.
Maybe there is. Maybe he should ask Spock. But later. The lint’s still talking.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a lint person.”
Jim shrugs. “Yeah? What was with the blonde, then? Where was your lint pride there, huh?”
The lint constituting Mike shifts and eddies in a way that might be construed as a shrug. “We do what we must to reproduce.”
Jim nods understandingly, then realisation dawns, and he jumps up and out of the bed, hands protecting his jimtastic parts.
“Holy CRAP! We reproduced?”
“Holy CRAP!” exclaims Bones, running the tricorder over Jim. “You reproduced? With lint?”
“I’m right here,” says Mike. “Though… I think there’s still a bit of me left in that bed.” Jim stares, horrified. “We shed,” it adds. It sounds apologetic. Well. Maybe it’s apologetic. Maybe it’s smug. Blue lint’s pretty impassive.
“Good God, Jim, how did you get yourself into this?”
Jim manages to look both indignant and guilty. “The usual way.”
“Oh, you don’t say,” says Bones, one eyebrow quirking up. “Are we going to have to have the alien sex talk again, Captain?” he demands.
“Oh, dear God, no,” says Jim.
“Cuz, to be honest, the ‘blue lint’ aspect would’ve put me right off from the start.”
“SHE WAS A BLONDE!”
“It’s part of the marriage ceremony,” says Mike.
“Holy CRAP! We’re married?”
“Holy CRAP!” says Sulu. “You’re married? To lint?”
“And about to have my very own linty babies,” says Jim. “Not that it’s any of your business. Eyes on the road, Lieutenant! Spock. Help me out here.”
Spock raises an eyebrow. “I fail to see how I could be of assistance with regard to lint reproduction, Captain. Surely that would – in so far as anything does – fall within the purview of Dr McCoy.”
“Why you…” begins McCoy.
Jim scowls. “Don’t bitchslap Bones, Spock. I’m pregnant. I need my friends’ emotional support here.”
“D’you think we should throw him a shower?” whispers Sulu.
“I can still hear you, Sulu,” says Jim. “And normally I’d be pissed off, but I sense presents in my imminent future.”
“I do not know, Keptin,” puts in Chekov, turning round. “I do not think booties are appropriate gift for lint baby.”
Jim’s face drops. “Are you being mean about my lint baby, Chekov?” he asks sadly.
Chekov’s eyes widen. “No, sir.”
“Good. Spock. Come on, man, help me!”
“We should perhaps make further contact with the planet,” suggests Spock.
Jim wraps his arms around his middle and looks fearfully at his first officer. “You don’t think they’ll take my lint baby away from me?” he asks.
Spock looks at him. Bones rolls his eyes. Uhura opens a channel.
After the lint baby appears in Jim’s belly button, Mike takes it back to the planet. Jim stands in the transporter room, Spock and Bones at his shoulders.
“Bye, little lint baby,” says Jim.
“Sweet mother of Jesus,” says Bones.
Jim frowns at him. “Lighten up, Bones,” he says. “I think I’m getting post-natal depression over here.”
“Yeah?” asks Bones. “Well, how about this: you any idea how much money I just made out of you?”
Spock inclines his head. “I believe Lt Sulu and Ensign Chekov were misguided when they first calculated the odds of the Captain becoming impregnated by an alien species.”
“Hey!” objects Jim, but is ignored, and Bones nods.
“You’re damn right. If anyone was ever going to get impregnated by an alien species, it was going to be Jim here.”
“Very true, Doctor.”
“You both suck,” says Jim, and they head back to the bridge, and the next new planet.
THE END
