This is the sixth of Three Days. I apologize for how long it's taking me
to post a story I already have written; but that might be the reason!
Anywayz, here's a little more.
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Once outside 'his' quarters, Tuvok, with a typical Vulcanly impassable expression covering his internal confusion, walked to the bulkhead across from the door (which, with a machine-like precision that he could not at the moment imitate, closed behind him) and rested his head against it's cool surface. Experimentally, he knocked his head against it, twice. He had seen it done by first officer Chakotay, by helmsman Tom Paris, and even occasionally by the captain. It seemed particularly useless, but one could never know. *Illogical. I shall proceed to the Mess Hall.*
Entering the Mess Hall, Tuvok steps over a pile of unconscious refugees and is greeted by Neelix, Voyager's ambassador, guide, and cook
The Talaxian does not lower his voice a decibel from his usual cheerful shout, but none of the refugees even stir and Tuvok decides that perhaps they are used to it by now, the sixth day of the evacuation effort.
"Ah, Commander! I've made some delicious Vulcan coffee just for you! ...horrid stuff." He trails off. "Mr. Vulcan ,why are you so green? Should I call Sickbay?" he reaches for the commander as if to steady him.
Tuvok steps back hurriedly. "I do not drink coffee. I am sure that your observation of my facial coloring is a trick of the light."
"Oh, whatever." Neelix waves distractedly at the piles of refugees on the floor. "Where am I supposed to _put_ them all! My hospitality is suffering!"
Normally, Tuvok would have said something calming and logical to shut Neelix up. At the moment, however, he is highly occupied and says nothing. Neelix goes bubbling on.
"Don't you think so, Mr. Vulcan? I mean, normally I'd have all sort of delicacies on hand to offer you, but I just have plomeek soup, and milk, and bread, and caviar, which is raw fish eggs, Mr. Vulcan..." Tuvok inwardly winces a little at that- Vulcans are, by choice, a species of vegetarians.
"No. Soup will be fine, thank you." In the background, Neelix natters on. The commander sips his soup and stares bemusedly at the glass of lavender milk that accompanied it.
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Short, I know. I have plenty more, but I just want to go read my new book and watch Enterprise. I keep on missing it on Wednesdays.
Review! Even though there's not much to do it on. Sorry! ...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once outside 'his' quarters, Tuvok, with a typical Vulcanly impassable expression covering his internal confusion, walked to the bulkhead across from the door (which, with a machine-like precision that he could not at the moment imitate, closed behind him) and rested his head against it's cool surface. Experimentally, he knocked his head against it, twice. He had seen it done by first officer Chakotay, by helmsman Tom Paris, and even occasionally by the captain. It seemed particularly useless, but one could never know. *Illogical. I shall proceed to the Mess Hall.*
Entering the Mess Hall, Tuvok steps over a pile of unconscious refugees and is greeted by Neelix, Voyager's ambassador, guide, and cook
The Talaxian does not lower his voice a decibel from his usual cheerful shout, but none of the refugees even stir and Tuvok decides that perhaps they are used to it by now, the sixth day of the evacuation effort.
"Ah, Commander! I've made some delicious Vulcan coffee just for you! ...horrid stuff." He trails off. "Mr. Vulcan ,why are you so green? Should I call Sickbay?" he reaches for the commander as if to steady him.
Tuvok steps back hurriedly. "I do not drink coffee. I am sure that your observation of my facial coloring is a trick of the light."
"Oh, whatever." Neelix waves distractedly at the piles of refugees on the floor. "Where am I supposed to _put_ them all! My hospitality is suffering!"
Normally, Tuvok would have said something calming and logical to shut Neelix up. At the moment, however, he is highly occupied and says nothing. Neelix goes bubbling on.
"Don't you think so, Mr. Vulcan? I mean, normally I'd have all sort of delicacies on hand to offer you, but I just have plomeek soup, and milk, and bread, and caviar, which is raw fish eggs, Mr. Vulcan..." Tuvok inwardly winces a little at that- Vulcans are, by choice, a species of vegetarians.
"No. Soup will be fine, thank you." In the background, Neelix natters on. The commander sips his soup and stares bemusedly at the glass of lavender milk that accompanied it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Short, I know. I have plenty more, but I just want to go read my new book and watch Enterprise. I keep on missing it on Wednesdays.
Review! Even though there's not much to do it on. Sorry! ...
