Aloha, friends! I hope you're not getting tired of me. As always, thank you all so much for the favorites and reviews on So He IS Self-Aware and Jim's Observation Deck. You all are so fantastic. So this little gem will be a series of semi-related short one shots that will more than likely stay funny or fluffy. And, like, okay...I feel like I have to apologize for making this multichapteral? Because personally, the likelihood of me reading a fic with even three chapters is VERY slim because I have no attention span for reading anymore. That's why I'm going to try to keep these short and sweet. If y'all are interested in future projects, I've got two more planned, both multichapteral. Again, I hope you stick around for them! 3

Disclaimer: I ONLY OWN A BURNING LOVE FOR THIS DUMB FANDOM THAT IS SLOWLY DESTROYING MY LIFE

Chapter 1 - Drunk Philosophy

"Dammit, Pavel!" Jim Kirk pounded his fists on the table so violently that several of the black and white pawns toppled.

The Russian smiled angelically. "Checkmate, Keptin."

Bones and Sulu roared with victorious laughter as they collected the winnings of their bet from the crowd of unhappy barflies.

"You didn't even bet on me?" Jim yelped, staring indignantly at his longtime friend.

"Kid, please. It's just bad business sense to bet against Russian whizzes."

The crowd dispersed. Chekov collected his share of the winnings and slipped off in the direction of an attractive Bolian girl that had been eyeing him for a few hours. Jim grumbled mutinously into his fifth Samarian sunrise and shot sulky glares at the men very openly counting their haul.

"I see you lost," Spock commented, appearing from nowhere. "Perhaps it was unwise to try to play a game of wits while intoxicated."

Jim scowled sourly at him. "You're terrible at pep talks."

"I apologize. If it's any consolation, the odds were only slightly out of your favor."

Jim heaved a sigh and signaled a passing waitress for more alcohol. "I guess you're right," he mused. "Chekov's a damn genius. I don't know why I bothered. Probably the liquid courage."

"And you're cocky," Bones put in. "Spock's right, though. You probably could have beat him if you were sober. How many drinks does that make?"

"What's it to you, you traitor?"

"Because I'm the one who's gonna be holding your head out of the toilet while you throw up your guts," Bones snapped.

Jim stuck his tongue out.

The waitress came back with two more sunsets. Jim pushed one in front of Spock and started in on his own.

Spock slid the glass away and reminded him, "Vulcans are immune to the effects of alcohol."

"Ohhhh, Spock." Jim propped his head on his hand and regarded his friend with fuzzy fondness. "You're only half Vulcan. That means you are fifty percent human and fifty percent able to get drunk."

"You have a tendency to overemphasize the dominance of my human heritage."

"You have a tendency to totally dismiss it. Being human is great! We can laugh and cry and scream and drink and not need any more of a reason than what we are. We're kind of like the highly-functioning pet species of the universe."

"That is an interesting comparison."

"I know." Jim giggled. "I get philosophical when I'm drunk."

Spock asked, "What is it like to be intoxicated? I can only infer so much through observation."

Jim hummed and closed his eyes. "It's like being in a room with broken artificial gravity. You can get around, but it's weird and tilty and hard. It's like being almost asleep, but you can still hear the music and people talking. It's like trying to walk when both your legs are asleep, and like trying to talk after having dental work done."

Spock processed this description. It was little like the technical symptoms he'd heard of, such as loss of coordination, speech impairment, and erratic behavior. He wondered why Jim didn't just list those signs.

"Imagining?" Jim inquired tranquilly.

"Pondering. Your description was very sensory and specific."

"Obviously."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

Jim grinned sleepily. "I doubt you would have gotten it if I'd've just told you I get off-balance and silly. But you know what it's like to move in zero gravity."

For what had to be more than the hundredth time, Spock was speechless. Jim was right. The idea of uncoordination carried little personal meaning for the Vulcan, but even he had been plagued by the clumsiness of numb limbs. Even drunk, Jim had managed to get through to him by appealing to sensations instead of science.

"'Atta boy," Jim mumbled when Spock lifted the untouched glass to his lips.