Kirk sat in a puddle on the maindeck, legs sprawled out before him and head dropped limply against the wood behind him. For the first time, it didn't seem to bother Chekov.
The Captain let his eyes remain shut and he concentrated on the basic act of breathing. It was a wonderful sensation in the gentle sunshine that warmed him.
"What's that?" Uhura asked.
Sighing in regret, Kirk reluctantly pulled his eyes open and located the Communication's Officer. Her drenched clothes made an altogether alluring sight. It was not so noble a notion, the Captain knew, but he didn't care.
Following her gesture with his eyes, lines furrowed through his forehead. He climbed to his feet and brushed his rear off. It sent warm water cascading down the back of his legs. Not an entirely pleasant sensation with the infantile memory it produced.
"Pavel, do you have the glass?" The young man appeared and handed it to him, his soulful eyes glancing toward the water which held Kirk's attention. "Do you know what it is?" he asked Chekov, because it was obvious that he did.
"Yes,' he replied. "It's the flag."
Lines creased the Captain's eyes. It could have been from curiosity. Annoyance inspired it however: Chekov had changed back into his dry jeans and t-shirt. He was bright-eyed and refreshed from a nap taken after the storm had subsided and they'd set the mainsail again. The rest of them had collapsed, frazzled, and were still soaked through.
"Are you telling me that we've been wandering around all morning looking for the flag we lost in the middle of a storm?" McCoy demanded up through the window to the galley below.
"Yes," the Navigator replied without a hint of apology in his voice. "It's a matter of respect.
"Are you sure about the code flags?" he continued, glancing at Uhura.
"The four signal flags that used to be in the front of the ship," the woman confirmed again for the uncounted time since the sun rose. "Yes. They were O, D, M, K: from top to bottom."
She shrugged when Kirk looked at her in surprise. "I looked it up. I thought they said something: like the name of the ship."
"They're the ship's code," the Captain explained. "Like it's license plate. NCC-1701," he elaborated when she still showed no understanding. "It's illegal to be at sea in a ship this size without the code flags flying."
"Will you grab it?" Chekov asked Kirk as the out of place thrum of the engine shuddered through the wood around them.
Kirk scowled at him, but again there was no apology in the wide brown eyes. "Yes," he replied without addressing the issue. Although set, the mainsail was barely fluttering in the breeze the way it was currently braced. They were purposely going slow and they could have easily changed direction by moving the sail. Without the engines, however, it would have taken all day...maybe two or three, to actually maneuver the ship over to the flag.
The Captain put down the telescope and pushed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to set it in some semblance of its normal order. "Two points to starboard," he advised, eyeing the water.
Cutting the engine when Kirk produced the flag, the Navigator glared at him darkly. Okay, he's right, the Captain admitted, but he didn't stop wringing the torrents of water from the fabric in his hand as Chekov passed.
"Silver-dollar pancakes," McCoy pronounced as he emerged from the main companionway. "Blueberry."
Chekov immediately scooped up two, shoved them in his mouth and followed them by his third cup of coffee. That he was drinking coffee at all betrayed his true weariness.
"We have syrup," the Doctor rasped, scowling at him like an errant child. "And PLATES!"
"But no sour cream," the Navigator sighed unhappily. He grabbed another handful and grinned at McCoy.
Only a moment's hesitation delayed Kirk from following the young man's lead. He didn't need a damn plate. The taste and feeling of warm food in his mouth and stomach was downright orgasmic at this point.
"Jim!"
Shrugging sheepishly, he pushed another pancake into his mouth and chewed happily.
"You're all mongrols," the Doctor muttered as he dropped the plates on the chart table next to the pancakes.
"Not since the Tartars invaded," the Captain heard Chekov mutter into his cup.
"Found the flag locker," Sulu announced when he appeared from the lower deck. Holding up his booty of fabric and rope proudly, he still shook his head in apology. "Sorry, Pavel: I don't know what the House Flag looked like, but I only found signal flags in the locker."
"I don't know either," the younger man admitted. "We can do without it.
"Ach!" he continued loudly, snatching the flag from Kirk's hand as he went to lay it on the chart table bedside the food.
"It's not a walking surface," he defended himself, withholding the smirk until the Navigator disappeared onto the lower deck.
Kirk threw up a hand to stop McCoy from speaking. Chekov was already at the foremast and the flag was sailing up to its repaired peak. Watching silently until the codeflags were also snatching at the wind, he flashed a smile at the Doctor. "It's a matter of respect."
"It's amazing," the Helmsman mumbled through a mouthful of food.
McCoy shot the Captain a look of self-righteous triumph. "He's using a plate and fork. At least someone around here is civilized!"
Dark eyes sparkling as they met Kirk's hazel ones, Sulu shoved another pancake–whole and dripping with syrup–into his mouth. "How civilized can you be with these metal prongs instead of chopsticks?" He choked when the coffee cup hit him.
Kirk grinned. "What's amazing?" he asked the Helmsman.
"The wind," Sulu answered. "Yesterday it was trying to kill us. Today...well, it's downright invigorating."
The Captain nodded agreement, letting his eyes take in the dancing flags at their bow. "Good twelve, fifteen knots: a glorious day for sailing."
"I'm kissing the land at the first opportunity I get," McCoy rasped. "Space travel seems strangely safe at the moment."
"I always figured you for a mud pie gourmet," Chekov observed as he approached.
The Doctor straightened indignantly. "And just what do Russian children eat?"
"Potatoes."
"Pavel," Kirk interrupted the exchange. Hazel eyes gleaming, he gestured at the ship's flags. "With this kind of wind we could sail right up to the dock."
Chekov stopped short, eyes darkening as he scowled. "Captain, on Earth it's been illegal for over three centuries for a ship this size to enter a harbor under sail."
"I know," Kirk grinned. "I just said you could. Perfect conditions like this make you long for the old days of sail."
"Makes you long," the younger man corrected. "I quit this job."
Shifting, the Captain shrugged. "Yes, well...there's a small tear in our mainsail. We can't brace it to the wind until it's repaired: it'll tear apart."
"Go ahead and fix it."
"You'll have to show me how."
Hesitating as he moved to turn, Chekov leveled dark eyes at the older man. "You don't know how?"
"No," Kirk replied. "But I'm sure you know how to sew a sail. Just give me a canvas needle and..."
"This isn't a museum," the Navigator retorted, his scowl deepening. "Use duct tape.
"Wait," he said. "Hikaru: fix the sail. Jim, can you bring her in?"
It was the first time he'd used the man's name and Kirk straightened, eyeing him curiously. "If I remember, I put you in command of this particular ship."
"Yes," the Navigator agreed. "And as Commander, I'm delegating this task to you. That's an important skill for a Commander, is it not?"
"Yes," Kirk agreed with a wry grin. "I suppose, if that's your command decision, I'll have to abide by it." A leisurely trip, a beautiful day, an incredible tale wind, the ship, the sails and her wheel... Of course James Kirk wanted to bring her in.
"Good. I'm going to check the radio."
"I don't know who's worse," McCoy commented to no one in particular.
"I do," Sulu replied.