A stream of Ukranian epithets, which had no direct translation into Standard, broke the silence in the darkened cabin. Groaning in frustration he reached for the exquisite blue eyed creature who had invaded his dreams but his ethereal bedmate had fled in soft blue haze of Romulan ale. His jaw ached, and he tentatively rotated his mandible as his fingers surveyed his teeth which it appeared were thankfully all present and accounted for.

Cautiously he lifted his head from the bed pillow, fighting the intense nausea and disorientation that he recognized from past experience as the legacy of an overabundance of Romulan Ale. The dark cabin was illuminated only by the soft crimson light of the chrono on the desk. It was almost oh five hundred hours he noted, and a sense of relief washed over him as he realized that he was on Beta shift today. The pain in his jaw however, was hard to ignore, and he wondered if perhaps a trip to Sickbay for a scan might be in order, and while he was there a shot of antitox as well.

Sickbay, the Russian sat up quickly, far too quickly for his alcohol compromised stomach which evacuated the offending contents to the decking beside the bunk. It was all coming back now, at least bits and pieces. He had been at the small party the Admiral hosted for the original Alpha command team. Commander Uhura left early to meet someone at another party, he remembered that part quite clearly. Then they broke out the Romulan ale, and things started to get fuzzy. He'd been arguing with Scotty about how a team of Russian astrophysicists had actually postulated the theory of Warp drive, even though Cochrane had taken all the credit for himself. Seriously, how could someone get through 25 years in Starfleet and not know basic history?

The Admiral and Commander Spock and been deep in discussion of something obviously troublesome for the Vulcan. He moved closer to them to refill his glass and was startled when the generally tea totaling First Officer held his own glass up to Chekov for a refill.

The next part was fuzzy, but Pavel clearly recalled Admiral looking at Spock and saying, "I certainly can't fault your choice, Chapel has the finest ass in Starfleet."

Pavel remembered clinking his glass to the Admiral's and saying "I totally agree."

He rubbed his aching chin, which triggered a much less pleasant memory. The somber Vulcan set down the goblet of ale and coldcocked him. Incredulous, the Admiral had helped Pavel to his feet.

"The Admiral said it," Checkov had protested, "why did you hit me!"

Spock had regarded him with barely focused eyes. "Indeed, but it would not be logical to strike a superior officer," he responded as he calmly refilled Pavel's glass then his own. After that he had no memory, except a vague impression that he'd commed someone later in the evening.

He snuggled down into the covers, convinced that sleep would be his best plan for the time being when the thought hit him.

The chrono in his cabin had a blue display.