(Written for slwatson, to the prompt one-way street.)

Bringing Down the House

It was a time-honored morale booster. It was supposed to be fun. It was good for his crew. And that was the only reason.

The only reason, the captain thought mutinously as he pulled the heavy greatcoat over his shirtsleeves. Why, he wouldn't be here at all if anyone else had been available after Chekov came down with the Altarian flu.

(Part of him suspected, though, that it was really because Chekov wouldn't stop ad-libbing about Russia.)

Someone was running piano scales out in rec -- Tixe, probably, unless Collins had gone all motherly on the instrument again. The wardrobe department in a barely controlled state of panic; if it had been a challenge to redesign primitive Earth garb for people with six limbs instead of four, the sole Sulamid in the cast had to be sending them into conniptions. Kirk groaned, slicking his hair back again. That one lock in front wouldn't stop springing out of place.

And Bones, running a medscanner over his wrist, was grinning.

Kirk elbowed him. "How did I let you talk me into this?"

"Frankly," said McCoy, with that aggravating crinkly expression he got when he knew exactly how much insubordination he was getting away with, "I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. You're a natural; I always suspected there was a revolutionary streak in you."

"Smooth talk'll get you nowhere, Bones." Someone yelled Five minutes! and the scurrying outside intensified. "This shirt's going to give me claustrophobia--"

"Maybe you should try sitting back and taking a few deep breaths."

"And you call yourself a doctor."

He couldn't be too worried, really. The ship's status was as good as it could be on a long, boring supply run. And Spock had the bridge, probably happier up there than he would be out in the audience.

Still, Kirk couldn't help having a sharp stab of fellow feeling. What was he doing this for? Hiding in a back room, fussing with his hair, his communicator jammed in a pocket too narrow to easily yield it back? He already knew what McCoy would say. This was exactly why he needed to be down here. Why he needed, if only for a few hours, to let go.

It didn't mean he had to like it.

Out on the stage, the chief of rec was finishing a short refresher on the states of the various colonial worlds. Those who didn't learn from the past, he said, were condemned to repeat it, but that didn't mean the learning couldn't be liberally laced with fun.

The one minute light came on. Outside, the few live members of the ship's band were warming up.

"Now get out there," McCoy stage-whispered. "Your public awaits."

Kirk grimaced over his shoulder.

"Next time, doctor, you wear the hairpiece."

The lights got in his face, far brighter than they ever did in the chair where he belonged. He let the nervous high carry him out onto the stage, in front of the cheering, laughing crowd; let it roll him through the overture and stalk among the company with flashing eye and smoldering tongue, calling on the same fire in the belly that drove him through all his engagements. He wasn't much of a singer, but by heaven, he knew how to shout.

"Oh, good God!" he bellowed. "Consider yourself lucky that you have John Adams to abuse, because no sane man would tolerate it!"

"Sit down, John!" roared the rest of the cast.

Out in the audience, his crew were falling all over each other, drowning in mirth. He wasn't sure whether it was the lyrics or the players that inspired them so.

And on second thought, he decided never to find out.


Notes: Though Captain Kirk, after numerous rehearsals, made a respectable Adams, Lt. Athendë (Diane Duane's My Enemy, My Ally and The Wounded Sky) stole the show as a multi-tentacled Benjamin Franklin. And yep, Kirk got one word wrong there. Forgive him; his first calling is not the stage.