Title: A Celebration in Infinite Combinations
Characters: (this chapter) all previously mentioned, basically
Pairings: (this chapter) Tomlinson/Martine and unrequited Chapel/Spock
Rating: T for violence, angst and minor character death, etc.
Summary: The first year of the five-year mission is a critical time for the crew of the starship Enterprise. A new chain of command, a new crew; and a new captain who must prove himself to both - all must work together and learn to function, not as a crew, but as a family.
Warnings/Spoilers: Liberties with early TOS canon, nothing beyond the usual. Spoilers and specifics are footnoted.
A/N: Ten mini story arcs revolving around ten sets of characters, all converging in the last chapters. Holiday and gift-giving themed story; every even chapter containing main characters and odd containing minor characters with nods at main characters. This is definitely a character exploration piece, with a holiday flavor - because we all need more holiday fluff and hope this time of year.

A/N2: I know it's been so long since I updated this, but my computer crashed on me and erased about four pages of it; I was so upset that I didn't even want to touch the fic for the longest time. This isn't the chapter I originally had here, because I just can't really remember what I had. So have a wrapup chapter, and next chapter will be the actual Christmas party. Again, sorry about the lack of updates. :(


Chapter Twelve

"I swear, if one more person tries to beam aboard this ship with contraband from the base, I'm going straight to the top and siccing Mr. Spock on them!"

"Oh, stow it, Kalov, you know you won't do anything of the kind," Lieutenant Kyle snorted, tossing the SS&R head and Ensign Peters two brightly-wrapped packages from the pile which had appeared on the transporter pad. "Besides, even the Captain said he didn't care as long as it wasn't a biohazard…or traceable to our transport beam."

Kalov shot him a withering look before closing the lid of the delivery crates. The worst part of SS&R was Transport duty, taking packages and cargo to and from the transporter rooms. And, it being Christmas and the Enterprise docked at Starbase Nine, every crewman aboard seemed to take joy in sending his packages on ahead before beaming up himself. This created four hundred and twenty-nine times the amount of work it should have, if everyone would just carry his own presents back on board with him.

And then there was the contraband, which he had to scan and either confiscate or send back down to the 'Base; he was tempted just to stash it all in the unoccupied shuttle bay and say to heck with it, except that he didn't want any 'Base authorities coming after the captain.

"Whoa, hold it," he snapped, as the scanner beeped alarmingly. "I don't care what that is, if it's got a blood pressure and is carrying some kind of mutated DNA signature it's not coming on board this ship without a signed requisition from McCoy's bio-med research teams. Send it back down there, Kyle."

"But –"

"I'm not caving on this, Peters. You weren't here when a new recruit slipped a miniature Bozenian hare aboard two years ago under Pike's command."

"I didn't know there was any such thing as a miniature –"

Kalov shuddered, waving the scanner more carefully over a plain package labeled for the Chief Medical Officer's quarters; you never knew when an assassin would take the opportunity to send an incendiary or other hazard aboard. "Again, no mutated DNA specimens aboard this ship. Put a whole new meaning on multiplying like rabbits, that did."

The scanner under his hands suddenly let out a loud whine, indicating liquids inside the package. "Great," Kalov growled, shoving the box over to Peters. "Get that open and find out what it is."

"Probably Andorian Blue Fire or something like that," was the absent reply. The ensign began to slice through the thick adhesive holding the flaps closed.

"Liquor I can live with, but if it's medical supplies then it has to be beamed up with the Sickbay requisitions, not personal effects, or the paperwork if we're caught can be ugly."

"Roger that. There we go…um. Lieutenant?"

"What?" he barked, waving three brightly-wrapped, harmless parcels through the line. Hmm, looked like Chee'tha was sending up…two boxes of imported kitty treats and a scratching post? Weird; but then again, he was part Katarran. Who knew.

"It's…well, the liquid's harmless."

"…Then what are you staring at, it's none of your business what the man brings on board?"

Eyebrows long since vanished into his hairline, Peters turned, and held up a pair of furry slippers in an obnoxious shade of electric green.

Looking up from the transporter console, Kyle blinked. "What on earth."

"I don't want to know, I don't want to know…" Kalov muttered in a sing-song tone, shaking his head.

A right lot of crazies, this ship was. He couldn't wait until the holiday madness was over.


A loud crash, followed by the tinkle of shattered glass and a very annoyed Scottish burr indicated the decorating at the far end of the modified ball-room was not proceeding as rapidly as it was under Lieutenant Uhura's brisk direction at this end. Sulu eyed the spreading pile of multi-colored shards and again wondered why they hadn't gotten plasticene from Ship's Stores instead of the traditional glass balls. He shot Ensign Lin from Maintenance a sympathetic look, as the woman moved smoothly into place with a dustbin and a narrowed glare at the clumsy engineer who'd stepped on the ornament.

"Nurse Chapel, Dr. McCoy's on the comm for you," Mott, an ensign from Researching, called over the din.

"Tell him I'll be back when we're done here, not before, and if he doesn't like it that's what he gets for being a Grinch and refusing to help with the preparations," the woman said dryly, not even looking up from hanging garland over the holographic fireplace the Engineering crew were tinkering with close beside the massive artificial conifer. Sulu was much impressed by the fact that the smell was actually quite authentic; rumor had it that Scott had fifty galactic credits on his Engineering crew against Commander Spock's skepticism (and the captain's great amusement) that they could produce a tree which only close inspection would prove artificial, and if this was the result the Vulcan was out a bit of pocket change.

"I heard that!"

"And deserved it, too, Doctor," Uhura retorted into the comm. Honestly, the drama. She was grateful that at least Janice Rand had just transferred off at the Starbase; it was one less potential problem to deal with tonight.

"I'm a doctor, not an interior decorator! And y'all had better get me a list of ingredients for that punch Scotty's making, so I can print up the allergy warning labels before half the crew goes into a coma tonight."

"Here now!" an indignant Scott bellowed from across the room. "Nothin' in that punch will do anything but good to the lot of you, especially you, y'old Scrooge!"

"Boys," Uhura said calmly. "You'll have what you need, Doctor, sooner rather than later if you let us get this done. Everything has to be ready for safety inspection by 1400 hours, and you aren't helping, calling down here every few minutes. Cory, fix that wreath a few degrees to the left; it's smashed on that side."

"I can tell when I'm not wanted." A pathetic little fake sniff, which made everyone within earshot roll their eyes fondly. "So let me know when – Matthews! Don't you dare sneak out of here without so much as a 'by your leave'! Back on that table or so help me – oh, McCoy out."

Amid the smattering of laughs which erupted from those closest to the comm-unit, Sulu didn't hear the light footsteps come up beside him.

"Lieutenant Sulu, are you ever going to start up a conversation with me, instead of just eyeing me over the top of your clipboard?"

Panicked, Sulu dropped the stylus with which he'd been checking off tasks, and scrambled after it; more in an effort to hide his embarrassment than in fear for its safety. Obviously he wasn't as subtle about his observation as he'd thought – but who wouldn't be scared of a six-foot-tall genius female black belt?

Cory Forst-Nechart was an open-minded young woman, and while she wasn't overly attracted to men shorter than herself thought the lieutenant's nervousness was a bit endearing. Besides, she'd always wanted to learn how to fence and just had never gotten around to it. And, it was always such fun to make a man blush and fumble for words; the power of female intimidation was a honed skill she had mastered long ago.

Grinning, she followed the young helmsman as he fled after his rolling stylus. This would be an enjoyable diversion from setting up wreaths and other décor, at least…


"Have I said recently, how much I am really not looking forward to this?"

"Fifty-four-point-three seconds ago, Captain." While the tone was dry, the Vulcan's eyes were not without sympathy. Though the ship was fairly rocking in space with excited preparations for the biggest seasonal social occasion of their first year, her captain was still keenly feeling the stress and loss of recent events. Kirk had also mentioned, melancholy, that it would be the first Christmas he'd spent without what the human termed 'hanging out' with Gary Mitchell, the late First Officer and long-time friend of the human before him.

"It's a human thing, Spock," he had been informed, somewhat bitterly, when he had attempted to inquire upon the human's sadness. "Sometimes I wish we had the capability to close off the parts of ourselves that hurt, so we can enjoy the present as you Vulcans do. It just isn't that simple for us."

Spock had not fully understood, but that was nothing novel when in contact with humans; and in five months he had learned the wisdom of sometimes simply allowing humans to 'vent,' was the term he had heard McCoy use once. And so he sat in the captain's desk chair, half of his available brain-power computing rotations for the crew on the following day should some of them prove to be foolish in their consumption of alcoholic beverages tonight; and the other half in watching his captain grumpily struggle his way through final preparations to his appearance.

How one human could need so many hair and body products, which were currently lined up along Kirk's side of the bathroom shelves, continued to astound him. Their shared bathroom countertop of a typical morning was a veritable study of infinite diversity in infinite (scented, many of them) combinations.

At present, it was that single lock of unruly hair which gave its owner so much trouble in the mornings, which was the cause of the human's current consternation. Finally giving up, Kirk let it flop over his brow with a gesture of resignation and sighed, leaning against the bath counter for a moment.

"I don't want to go, Mr. Spock," the human finally said in a low tone, eyes upon the drain below. "All I can see is the ship's roster, and the people who should be there and won't be."

Spock rose and silently moved closer to the open bathroom door. "That is understandable; it is your first command, and you are already known for taking that command – and its people – most seriously."

Kirk glanced sidelong at him, no doubt waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Nevertheless," he continued, "that does not negate your responsibility to those members of your crew who still remain. Tonight, this crew needs the presence of their captain, far more than their captain needs solitude."

The captain winced. "Ouch." For a moment Spock thought perhaps he had over-stepped himself, despite Kirk's standing orders to call him on areas in which his command style could improve – but then the human's eyes softened. "Of course you're right, Mr. Spock. But you don't mince words, do you?"

"Mince words, sir?"

"You can't possibly be as ignorant of human idioms as you pretend to be," the human returned with a chuckle. "But leave it. I'm going; you don't have to drag me."

"I did not anticipate needing to."

He received a small smile, and after a final look in the mirror Kirk straightened his tunic and turned. "Well, then. Once more unto the breach, my friend?"

He was still not accustomed to this human's peculiar idea that shared conversation and the occasional chess match seemed, apparently, to constitute a human 'friendship'; but he would not disillusion the man, not at least before more fully researching the unusual phenomenon.

He nodded, stepping aside to allow the human passage, and then taking up his position at the captain's shoulder.

The Shakespearean quote regarding battle zones was apt, the wry thought flitted through his mind, considering that he was no doubt going to have to face Nurse Chapel head-on at some point in the evening.


"No, we got the approvals on time, it was just that one of the bulkheads looked like it wasn't locking into place. Commander Scott was working on it when I left," Robert Tomlinson said into the comm, earpiece in place to keep his hands free to arrange his cuff-links in the nearest mirror. "I don't know, it wasn't my area – I was stuck under the fake fireplace trying to figure out the mess Riley made of the wiring under the artificial logs…yes, I know he has a good heart, but sometimes I think the kid's just a teacher's pet, that has to be the only reason he's on board. Captain's pet, whatever. Yeah, I know. Look, I have to go, Turner – make sure you scoot your hoverchair out on that dance floor tonight, you hear? No reason you can't have fun like the rest of us. Psh, Angela will dance with you, I know she will. Right. See you later."

He glanced once more in the mirror, and then activated the intra-vid-comm.

"Hey, gorgeous."

He received an eye-roll for his pains in romantic greeting, much to the amusement of his hyperactive room-mate, who was already high on sugar and adrenaline, more so to come. Tomlinson looked askance as the young ensign literally bounced into the wall and off again, and he turned a please-help-me look toward his (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée's face on the screen before him.

"Seen my comb anywhere?" O'Dell asked as he blew by on the way to the bathroom.

"Left drawer, where you leave it every morning?" he returned dryly. "Now shift for a few, will you?"

"Sure thing," the ensign replied promptly, leering slightly at the open comm-link before cheerfully disappearing into the bath.

"Thank every deity in the quadrant," Tomlinson muttered, and heard a female laugh trickle over their vid-link, which was blank screen now; Angela had moved away in her preparations.

"Sooooo," he added after a moment's pause, "what're you wearing?"

"Robert!"

Temporarily derailed, he slapped a hand over his face in mortification. "I meant what're you wearing to the party – I want to match!" he groaned. "I wasn't –"

A giggle drew his attention back to the screen, and he saw Angela appeared more amused than anything else by his embarrassment. "White and gold," she replied, stepping back so he could see the sparkling holiday-themed gown and matching shoes she had coaxed out of Lt. Kalov on a good day last month.

Tomlinson whistled in genuine admiration, bringing a slight blush to his love's face. "Look," he finally found his voice after a moment, "I have something for you before we show up to the party; it'll go really well with that dress. Meet me on the Observation Deck in fifteen?"