Sulu is my Muse!
Aug. 19th, 2011 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katmarajadePopped out of my non-writing mood to love on my love-of-all-loves, one Hikaru Sulu.
Have you not seen my pimping?
Come play with us! It's a little bit slow over there and there must be more Sulu love! *stomps feet in protest* *gazes moonily at Sulu stills*
I managed four fills! Go me! One really lame fanart and over 3k of fic! \o/
Uhura and Sulu have a contest to see who can handle the spiciest food. prompt by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
igrockspock
Sort of a continuation of my previous fic about them bonding over spicy food
At first he doesn't really mean it as a challenge. Uhura takes it that way anyway. And he's lost when she gets that intense, focused, bring-it-on expression.
It's been four months since they ate dinner together on shore leave, four months since they bonded over spicy food, four months since she kissed him for the first time.
They're not together, except that they usually are. They're not monogamous, at least they pretend they're not. They're not serious, except for sometimes. They're not in love, but possibly maybe they're heading in that direction. Neither of them has the time or desire to worry about it.
They watch vids, eat crazy amounts of food, talk about everything and nothing, and sometimes have sex. It's not really a relationship, but they like it. For all their intensity in everything else in life, they're both oddly reserved about this.
When news of another shore leave comes around, they start talking about things to do. Uhura's been talking about spice rolls for months and Sulu is craving them too. It gets interesting when they're drinking with Scotty and he mentions the local cuisine of the chosen shore leave planet. He claims that no human can handle the spice.
It's possibly Scotty's exaggerating, as he's wont to do when he's had a couple drinks. Sulu rolls his eyes at first and makes an offhand comment, but Uhura latches on. She's stubborn and passionate and unbelievably intense and when she gets one of those hot-headed ideas in her head and that daring gleam in her eyes, Sulu can't think about anything else. It's the reason he's agreed to many things during the course of their not-relationship. She's gorgeous and brilliant and he can't help but agree with almost anything when she gives him that hot, taunting, not-quite-smirk.
It's how he finds himself roped into an eating contest on shore leave. As he looks around at the large table with plates upon plates of spicy fare from all over the galaxy, he wonders just what he's gotten himself into.
Scotty has appointed himself the official judge and Gaila and Chekov are both there, ostensibly to cheer on their friends, but really they just want to laugh at the watering, bulging eyes and pained expressions that they're sure they'll see after a few of the dishes.
They start out with the easy stuff, Earth curries and Risan spiced vegetable purees. They pause for water and small bits of bread to cleanse the palate between each new challenge. Sulu is slow, methodical, and determined. Uhura is slightly more dramatic and maintains a witty banter with the onlookers.
They make it through the Kahdorian spice rolls, both relishing the familiar flavor, both trying to blink back the spice-induced tears.
Uhura is sweating when they try the spicy bean curd from Halon III, her skin flushed and damp. Sulu is so distracted by the sweat dripping down her neck that he barely notices his own flaming taste buds.
Sulu's eyes bulge when they sample another alien meat dish with a shockingly yellow sauce. He's sure it must be comical, his eyes huge, red, and watering, because Uhura and Gaila are giggling like crazy and Chekov begins pounding him uselessly on the back.
When they finally make it to the local cuisine, the one that Scotty warned them about, the one that started the entire thing, their taste buds are nearly dull from the heat. Sulu glances over at Uhura, who is breathing through her mouth. He wonders idly if her lips are burning as much as his are.
They both stoically grab their spoons and bring the first bite up to their mouths. Pausing with their flatware hovering near their lips, they eye each other.
"This is ridiculous," Sulu finally mumbles, eyes darting back to the spoonful of promised brain-burning spice with apprehension.
"Ugh, you're right!" Uhura moans and drops her spoon loudly back onto the plate.
With a grateful groan, Sulu drops his spoon as well. Scotty begins debating out loud which one of them won.
"Hard to call, this one," he muttered. "Sulu spoke first—made the first move, but Uhura, you're the one who dropped the spoon first. Generally the action beats out the verbal in most betting circles, at least the more reputable ones, except when …"
"Call it even?" Sulu interrupts, looking at Uhura with a mix of impressed wonder, exhaustion, and a hint of a challenge; he knows how much she hates to admit defeat, including calling things a draw.
"Works for me," she says, though he can tell by the scheming look in her eyes that she'll be challenging him to a rematch someday.
With breathless laughs and watery grins, they push away the plates. Her eyes are red and shining and Sulu marvels for a moment at how beautiful she is. She kicks his leg lightly and he grins back.
It's always a challenge with her, always something new, always something exciting, always all or nothing. Sulu can't help but think that he's up to the challenge, the challenge of them and this, whatever it is. He wonders if, just maybe, she is too.
Sulu has an in-universe fan club. prompt bymercaque
It all started about a month after the Narada incident, about three weeks after they'd returned to Earth, about two weeks after Jim "Story-Teller-Extraordinaire" Kirk gave his first public interview, about a week after Kirk's face was plastered on the cover of every publication on the planet.
Sulu hadn't bothered to read it. He had been there for most of it and didn't feel a strong need to relive that particular mission.
His first clue that something was going on was when he was walking back from the market, a bottle of soy milk in one hand and a bag full of fresh produce and potato chips in the other. A teenage girl darted out in front of him, waved her communicator in the air in front of him, and gave one of those warbling high-pitched squeals that he, being the older brother to three sisters, was unfortunately all too familiar with.
One eyebrow lifted, he stared after the girl with non-plussed amusement. Three minutes later he could have sworn that he saw his face on the shirt of another girl. He shook his head in chagrin, feeling silly to have imagined such an egotistical sort of thing. It was probably the face of some new pop star.
He got back to his Starfleet-issued set of rooms, dropped his produce in the kitchenette, and glanced at the message board. A red light blinked indicating a Starfleet message, which he opened up expecting a return summons or an update on the state of the Enterprise or a notification that he actually had to complete those final exams after all.
Instead it simply told him that he had mail at the Starfleet Postal Center. Most mail was sent via communicators or via holo-messaging, so he wondered briefly who was sending him physical mail. He expected a small note card from his grandmother or a notification of pending punitive measures from a commanding officer about his failure to obey direct orders from his captain when he'd piloted the flagship back into hostile territory to attempt a rescue mission.
However, when he showed his credentials to claim his piece of mail, the bored-looking receptionist raised an eyebrow.
"Hope you brought a cart," she muttered before heading to the back room. Sulu stared after her in confusion.
A moment later she returned dragging an enormous canvas bag, a bag so large that she could not lift it, a bag so large that she could barely pull it.
"What on God's green earth is that?" Sulu asked, looking at the sack warily.
"Your fan mail, Lieutenant," she retorted snippily, pushing the bag in front of her desk and going back to her poorly-hidden word puzzle.
Sulu sat in one of the lobby chairs and glanced through the bag. There were letters. Old, paper letters. Letters with his name on them! And pink hearts and glitter.
With dismay, he read through a few of them. There were letters praising his skill with a sword, letters lauding his bravery, letters offering marriage, letters filled with sexually explicit invitations. There were letters from teenage girls—complete with hearts and sparkles. There were letters from lonely housewives offering up romantic, sex-filled getaways in condos in South America. There were gifts of locks of hair and teeny tiny panties. There were offers to bear his children. There were embarrassingly graphic letters from elderly women, including one offer of a retirement home threesome that elicited a strange, horrified garbling sound from him and a glare from the preoccupied receptionist.
He shoved the letters back in the bag and stomped up to the desk with a determined, grim expression.
"Where did these come from?" he demanded.
"All over, I imagine," she said, not looking up from her puzzle.
"Why? Why are they here?" he continued, an edge of hysteria to his voice.
The receptionist finally looked up. "I would assume that they're excited about your big sword and the space jumping thing and how you single-handedly saved the incredible Kirk from a vicious Romulan. And then how you piloted the sole remaining Narada survivors, including the Vulcan High Council, to safety, barely escaping a black hole."
"Wait! What?"
"Hey, you were there. You know best. I am only saying what I read in Starstruck Weekly. That interview with Captain Kirk. Now, if you ask me, he is gorgeous. Are you two still good friends? I mean, do you know if he's single?" she eyed him eagerly, suddenly all smiles at the thought that he might be her link to the golden boy of Starfleet.
"Oh my … " Sulu shook his head in disbelief and walked away, leaving the large bag of letters behind. He kept walking until he hit the officers' quarters. With grim determination, he stalked over to room 317 and began pounding steadily against the metal door.
Kirk opened the door and had the audacity to look surprised to see him.
"Sulu!" he exclaimed, the now-famous lazy grin tickling his cheeks.
"Kirk," Sulu growled. Kirk smirked at the hostile tone, clearly unfazed, and invited him in. He listened with undisguised glee as Sulu described his predicament.
"It's not funny!"
"It's hilarious," Kirk countered.
"I have a fan club!" Sulu yelled, trying valiantly to keep from stomping his feet like a small child.
"They love you! That's awesome, Sulu! You're a total bad-ass—you totally should have a fan club," Kirk declares adamantly. Sulu shot him a withering stare.
"They have t-shirts, Kirk. They have t-shirts with my face on them. And old ladies are inviting me to orgies. This is not okay."
"It's hard being awesome, Sulu," Kirk replied seriously, as if he were offering some sort of sage advice.
Sulu sighed and leaned back into the cozy couch that Kirk's high rank afforded him. This was all Kirk's fault, after all. If he were going to be subjected to fangirls of all ages, he may as well get something out of it. Lounging around in luxurious officers' quarters was sounding better and better. Sulu explained his new plan to a suddenly dismayed Kirk and smirked at the floundering reaction. Yes, this would work out just fine.
The gif of ultimate John Cho adorability (i.e. this) prompt bytresa_cho
It's the week after they hooked up for the first and possibly only time. Sulu knew that sleeping with Jim Kirk was probably a bad idea, but it's always hard to think clearly about things like that when there are shining cerulean eyes that glow with fire and laughter and strength … and when the hell did Sulu get so poetic about a fucking pair of eyes anyway? Everyone's got them, after all. Kirk's aren't anything special, except for how they really are.
Sulu knew it then. He knows it now. It was a bad idea, but Kirk was there and wanted him, wanted him, Hikaru Sulu. Just for the night he was the object of that plasma-bright Jim Kirk focus, complete and intoxicating and able to wipe away all objections to unwise dalliances.
He knows that it was just for the night, just because Kirk was Kirk and horny and Sulu happened to be there and was probably an easy target. He knows that. He might not be quite the genius that Kirk or Chekov or Spock is, but he's still light years above average. He's damn smart, even if it sometimes seems like he's slow, because he's on a crew full of top-tier geniuses, who make regular Joe geniuses like Sulu look like idiot school children.
He's all set to forget about the whole thing, pretend it didn't happen, and prepare himself for watching Kirk throw himself at whatever man, woman, or alien happens across his path during their shore leave on Earth. The Enterprise is in for repairs and the crew has an unprecedented two weeks off. The first night was Sulu and Kirk's infamous (if it's not infamous already, Sulu expects that it will be so later on. Even if only in his own mind) one night stand. It's a week later and Sulu has watched Kirk flirt with no less than forty-seven other people. He can only wonder how many of them made it into Kirk's enormous Starfleet-supplied hotel room with the stupid huge bed and gigantic bath tub and luxurious carpeting. (Lieutenants are not supplied with such luxurious accommodations.)
What he doesn't count on is his irrationally violent response to seeing Kirk getting pummeled in a bar fight. It's irrational because everyone has seen Kirk get bruised and bloodied in fist fights—the man attracts violence like Orion women attract human men.
But it's six against one. And the other guys are fighting dirty. And even though Sulu knows that Kirk has emerged with only a bruised face and a grin from fights much more uneven and far dirtier than this one, he's shocked at just how pissed off the sight makes him.
There are no loud Tarzan-style cries or Braveheart-bellows. Sulu doesn't bother with such macho displays. He's terse. Furious. And utterly focused.
The six assailants have no idea what's coming. Sulu never bothers with showy strikes. Every move he makes is deliberate and hits its mark. Eight punches, seven jabs, six kicks, four elbows, and three minutes later there are six groaning men on the floor. Sulu stands there looking around, his face bruised from a couple of nasty punches that he hadn't bothered to duck from. He looks and Kirk is nowhere to be seen.
Sulu finally spots Kirk lying in the laps of two scantily-clad women, who are cooing over Kirk's fighting prowess, even though Sulu is the one who took them down, not Kirk. Kirk grins at the girls, that cocky, arrogant, shit-faced smile that Sulu knows all too well. And Sulu can't help the glower that crosses over his face like a storm cloud.
A worried crewmember whose name Sulu can barely remember comes up and gingerly touches his face. There's talk of bruises and going home and mending and other probably important things, but Sulu can't really be bothered to care about it. He's had worse. Then he thinks that that's probably what Kirk usually says in this sort of situation too. That makes it somehow worse. With a curt dismissal, he promises the fretting colleague that he'll get it taken care of and walks briskly away. Back to his lieutenant chambers, back to his normal-sized bed, back to his standard-planetside-issue dual capability sonic-water shower, back to industrial gray carpet, back to solitude and a painfully obvious lack of teasing blue eyes, all intense and fiery hot.
He doesn't bother stopping by the Starfleet clinic, where there's always a few medical students and doctors on-call and willing to mend up simple scrapes like this. He doesn't stop by McCoy's place, even though he's pretty sure the doctor's there and would be more than willing to patch him up. He just goes back to his room, slaps a simple bandage on the scrape on his neck, and goes to sleep.
His dreams are disjointed and angry, and it's definitely not the most restful night's sleep he's had, but he's frustrated and angry. Mostly with himself, because he knew better and still let Kirk into his head and body and apparently his heart. And everyone knows that falling for Jim Kirk is a colossally stupid thing to do. Kirk loves everyone and no one. He can't settle down, can't stay in one place, can't hold onto a relationship. He's brilliant and loyal to his crew and his friends. He's fiercely devoted, protective, and astute. He's beautiful and funny and sexy as hell. He's amazing and he's not Sulu's to have. He's not anyone's to have. Kirk is a fantastic, awesome force of nature, affecting everyone but tied to nothing. Sulu knows this and knows that if Kirk weren't that way, he wouldn't be Kirk and Sulu wouldn't be falling for the cocky bastard.
He's awake but still lying in bed, sore from the fight and exhausted from his emotional rationalizations, when he hears a loud crash from the entry way. He glances over, surprised at his lack of concern about the break-in, and decides he should get up and see what the fuss is about.
He hears muffled cursing as he pulls on a less-than-perfectly-clean white t-shirt and wanders into the living area, running a hand through his mussed black hair, feeling a couple blood-sticky sections, and getting a strange hollow sensation in his gut.
He should be more surprised to find Kirk there, glaring at the coffee table and swearing.
"You know, I don't think that your Captainly room-lock-override privileges count when we're not on the ship," Sulu says flatly, not really caring that Kirk broke into his room or why.
"Well, no, but my lock-picking skills are tried and true. Wouldn't want those to go to waste," Kirk responds, flashing a tired, confident grin. "That was pretty amazing last night, wasn't it? I mean, I could have taken that bunch easily, but you were pretty bad-ass. Even without the sword, which was probably a good call. They tend to call the authorities if you drag weapons into the mix."
"You're welcome," Sulu answers, recognizing the roundabout thank you within Kirk's babble. "So, did you manage another threesome last night with those girls?" Sulu can't help but let a little bit of contempt leak into his voice.
"Huh?" Kirk looks momentarily baffled and runs a hand through his blond hair, which is just as messy as Sulu's. "Oh, those girls, yeah, didn't stay too long. Got a little woozy for some reason …" Sulu rolls his eyes at Kirk's explanation, which makes it sound like his dizziness was from dehydration instead of getting hit upside the head thirteen times.
"So I sat down for a minute. They offered a rather cozy spot to rest. Once I got my equilibrium back they became much more annoying, actually. Looked around for you, but didn't see you around."
Kirk says this casually, but Sulu can sense that there's something to this.
"I went home. The night seemed pretty over, if you know what I mean."
"Right, of course. I mean, that place was a little dull to begin with and the patrons were far too easily offended. Good call."
Sulu stares, his face a blank. Kirk fidgets, because the man can never stay still, and looks around the room.
"You've been a hard man to track down this past week, Sulu. Thought maybe you were avoiding me. Then I saw you last night and thought maybe we'd have some fun, but then those guys got all offended—seriously, they need thicker skin in these parts, and I got a little distracted with the punch-throwing and the not-passing-out, and you vanished. Again."
"I've been right here," Sulu says flatly, not really wanting to hear Kirk make excuses or fake apologies, because those things aren't Kirk and they don't fit with the Kirk he knows, the Kirk he's gotten all stupid over.
"Yeah, well, maybe the problem was that I wasn't. So, what do you say we go get some breakfast? My treat." The words are casual, but Sulu knows Kirk and knows what he's saying.
"Well, I'm not going to be happy unless I get the whole package deal—eggs, pancakes, bacon, toast, the works. If you're just going to buy me a waffle and call it good, I'm not interested."
"I don't offer full breakfast deals unless I mean it, Sulu. You know that. Grab some pants. Let's go."
The smile creeps up on Sulu before he even realizes it, slow and slightly gobsmacked and full of hope and disbelief. Kirk grins back and Sulu still can't wipe the stupid smile off his face. Breakfast, indeed.
I would love to see a bashful courtship between McCoy and Sulu. :-) prompt bysecretsolitaire
Have you not seen my pimping?
Come play with us! It's a little bit slow over there and there must be more Sulu love! *stomps feet in protest* *gazes moonily at Sulu stills* I managed four fills! Go me! One really lame fanart and over 3k of fic! \o/
Uhura and Sulu have a contest to see who can handle the spiciest food. prompt by
igrockspock Sort of a continuation of my previous fic about them bonding over spicy food
At first he doesn't really mean it as a challenge. Uhura takes it that way anyway. And he's lost when she gets that intense, focused, bring-it-on expression.
It's been four months since they ate dinner together on shore leave, four months since they bonded over spicy food, four months since she kissed him for the first time.
They're not together, except that they usually are. They're not monogamous, at least they pretend they're not. They're not serious, except for sometimes. They're not in love, but possibly maybe they're heading in that direction. Neither of them has the time or desire to worry about it.
They watch vids, eat crazy amounts of food, talk about everything and nothing, and sometimes have sex. It's not really a relationship, but they like it. For all their intensity in everything else in life, they're both oddly reserved about this.
When news of another shore leave comes around, they start talking about things to do. Uhura's been talking about spice rolls for months and Sulu is craving them too. It gets interesting when they're drinking with Scotty and he mentions the local cuisine of the chosen shore leave planet. He claims that no human can handle the spice.
It's possibly Scotty's exaggerating, as he's wont to do when he's had a couple drinks. Sulu rolls his eyes at first and makes an offhand comment, but Uhura latches on. She's stubborn and passionate and unbelievably intense and when she gets one of those hot-headed ideas in her head and that daring gleam in her eyes, Sulu can't think about anything else. It's the reason he's agreed to many things during the course of their not-relationship. She's gorgeous and brilliant and he can't help but agree with almost anything when she gives him that hot, taunting, not-quite-smirk.
It's how he finds himself roped into an eating contest on shore leave. As he looks around at the large table with plates upon plates of spicy fare from all over the galaxy, he wonders just what he's gotten himself into.
Scotty has appointed himself the official judge and Gaila and Chekov are both there, ostensibly to cheer on their friends, but really they just want to laugh at the watering, bulging eyes and pained expressions that they're sure they'll see after a few of the dishes.
They start out with the easy stuff, Earth curries and Risan spiced vegetable purees. They pause for water and small bits of bread to cleanse the palate between each new challenge. Sulu is slow, methodical, and determined. Uhura is slightly more dramatic and maintains a witty banter with the onlookers.
They make it through the Kahdorian spice rolls, both relishing the familiar flavor, both trying to blink back the spice-induced tears.
Uhura is sweating when they try the spicy bean curd from Halon III, her skin flushed and damp. Sulu is so distracted by the sweat dripping down her neck that he barely notices his own flaming taste buds.
Sulu's eyes bulge when they sample another alien meat dish with a shockingly yellow sauce. He's sure it must be comical, his eyes huge, red, and watering, because Uhura and Gaila are giggling like crazy and Chekov begins pounding him uselessly on the back.
When they finally make it to the local cuisine, the one that Scotty warned them about, the one that started the entire thing, their taste buds are nearly dull from the heat. Sulu glances over at Uhura, who is breathing through her mouth. He wonders idly if her lips are burning as much as his are.
They both stoically grab their spoons and bring the first bite up to their mouths. Pausing with their flatware hovering near their lips, they eye each other.
"This is ridiculous," Sulu finally mumbles, eyes darting back to the spoonful of promised brain-burning spice with apprehension.
"Ugh, you're right!" Uhura moans and drops her spoon loudly back onto the plate.
With a grateful groan, Sulu drops his spoon as well. Scotty begins debating out loud which one of them won.
"Hard to call, this one," he muttered. "Sulu spoke first—made the first move, but Uhura, you're the one who dropped the spoon first. Generally the action beats out the verbal in most betting circles, at least the more reputable ones, except when …"
"Call it even?" Sulu interrupts, looking at Uhura with a mix of impressed wonder, exhaustion, and a hint of a challenge; he knows how much she hates to admit defeat, including calling things a draw.
"Works for me," she says, though he can tell by the scheming look in her eyes that she'll be challenging him to a rematch someday.
With breathless laughs and watery grins, they push away the plates. Her eyes are red and shining and Sulu marvels for a moment at how beautiful she is. She kicks his leg lightly and he grins back.
It's always a challenge with her, always something new, always something exciting, always all or nothing. Sulu can't help but think that he's up to the challenge, the challenge of them and this, whatever it is. He wonders if, just maybe, she is too.
Sulu has an in-universe fan club. prompt by
mercaque It all started about a month after the Narada incident, about three weeks after they'd returned to Earth, about two weeks after Jim "Story-Teller-Extraordinaire" Kirk gave his first public interview, about a week after Kirk's face was plastered on the cover of every publication on the planet.
Sulu hadn't bothered to read it. He had been there for most of it and didn't feel a strong need to relive that particular mission.
His first clue that something was going on was when he was walking back from the market, a bottle of soy milk in one hand and a bag full of fresh produce and potato chips in the other. A teenage girl darted out in front of him, waved her communicator in the air in front of him, and gave one of those warbling high-pitched squeals that he, being the older brother to three sisters, was unfortunately all too familiar with.
One eyebrow lifted, he stared after the girl with non-plussed amusement. Three minutes later he could have sworn that he saw his face on the shirt of another girl. He shook his head in chagrin, feeling silly to have imagined such an egotistical sort of thing. It was probably the face of some new pop star.
He got back to his Starfleet-issued set of rooms, dropped his produce in the kitchenette, and glanced at the message board. A red light blinked indicating a Starfleet message, which he opened up expecting a return summons or an update on the state of the Enterprise or a notification that he actually had to complete those final exams after all.
Instead it simply told him that he had mail at the Starfleet Postal Center. Most mail was sent via communicators or via holo-messaging, so he wondered briefly who was sending him physical mail. He expected a small note card from his grandmother or a notification of pending punitive measures from a commanding officer about his failure to obey direct orders from his captain when he'd piloted the flagship back into hostile territory to attempt a rescue mission.
However, when he showed his credentials to claim his piece of mail, the bored-looking receptionist raised an eyebrow.
"Hope you brought a cart," she muttered before heading to the back room. Sulu stared after her in confusion.
A moment later she returned dragging an enormous canvas bag, a bag so large that she could not lift it, a bag so large that she could barely pull it.
"What on God's green earth is that?" Sulu asked, looking at the sack warily.
"Your fan mail, Lieutenant," she retorted snippily, pushing the bag in front of her desk and going back to her poorly-hidden word puzzle.
Sulu sat in one of the lobby chairs and glanced through the bag. There were letters. Old, paper letters. Letters with his name on them! And pink hearts and glitter.
With dismay, he read through a few of them. There were letters praising his skill with a sword, letters lauding his bravery, letters offering marriage, letters filled with sexually explicit invitations. There were letters from teenage girls—complete with hearts and sparkles. There were letters from lonely housewives offering up romantic, sex-filled getaways in condos in South America. There were gifts of locks of hair and teeny tiny panties. There were offers to bear his children. There were embarrassingly graphic letters from elderly women, including one offer of a retirement home threesome that elicited a strange, horrified garbling sound from him and a glare from the preoccupied receptionist.
He shoved the letters back in the bag and stomped up to the desk with a determined, grim expression.
"Where did these come from?" he demanded.
"All over, I imagine," she said, not looking up from her puzzle.
"Why? Why are they here?" he continued, an edge of hysteria to his voice.
The receptionist finally looked up. "I would assume that they're excited about your big sword and the space jumping thing and how you single-handedly saved the incredible Kirk from a vicious Romulan. And then how you piloted the sole remaining Narada survivors, including the Vulcan High Council, to safety, barely escaping a black hole."
"Wait! What?"
"Hey, you were there. You know best. I am only saying what I read in Starstruck Weekly. That interview with Captain Kirk. Now, if you ask me, he is gorgeous. Are you two still good friends? I mean, do you know if he's single?" she eyed him eagerly, suddenly all smiles at the thought that he might be her link to the golden boy of Starfleet.
"Oh my … " Sulu shook his head in disbelief and walked away, leaving the large bag of letters behind. He kept walking until he hit the officers' quarters. With grim determination, he stalked over to room 317 and began pounding steadily against the metal door.
Kirk opened the door and had the audacity to look surprised to see him.
"Sulu!" he exclaimed, the now-famous lazy grin tickling his cheeks.
"Kirk," Sulu growled. Kirk smirked at the hostile tone, clearly unfazed, and invited him in. He listened with undisguised glee as Sulu described his predicament.
"It's not funny!"
"It's hilarious," Kirk countered.
"I have a fan club!" Sulu yelled, trying valiantly to keep from stomping his feet like a small child.
"They love you! That's awesome, Sulu! You're a total bad-ass—you totally should have a fan club," Kirk declares adamantly. Sulu shot him a withering stare.
"They have t-shirts, Kirk. They have t-shirts with my face on them. And old ladies are inviting me to orgies. This is not okay."
"It's hard being awesome, Sulu," Kirk replied seriously, as if he were offering some sort of sage advice.
Sulu sighed and leaned back into the cozy couch that Kirk's high rank afforded him. This was all Kirk's fault, after all. If he were going to be subjected to fangirls of all ages, he may as well get something out of it. Lounging around in luxurious officers' quarters was sounding better and better. Sulu explained his new plan to a suddenly dismayed Kirk and smirked at the floundering reaction. Yes, this would work out just fine.
The gif of ultimate John Cho adorability (i.e. this) prompt by
tresa_cho It's the week after they hooked up for the first and possibly only time. Sulu knew that sleeping with Jim Kirk was probably a bad idea, but it's always hard to think clearly about things like that when there are shining cerulean eyes that glow with fire and laughter and strength … and when the hell did Sulu get so poetic about a fucking pair of eyes anyway? Everyone's got them, after all. Kirk's aren't anything special, except for how they really are.
Sulu knew it then. He knows it now. It was a bad idea, but Kirk was there and wanted him, wanted him, Hikaru Sulu. Just for the night he was the object of that plasma-bright Jim Kirk focus, complete and intoxicating and able to wipe away all objections to unwise dalliances.
He knows that it was just for the night, just because Kirk was Kirk and horny and Sulu happened to be there and was probably an easy target. He knows that. He might not be quite the genius that Kirk or Chekov or Spock is, but he's still light years above average. He's damn smart, even if it sometimes seems like he's slow, because he's on a crew full of top-tier geniuses, who make regular Joe geniuses like Sulu look like idiot school children.
He's all set to forget about the whole thing, pretend it didn't happen, and prepare himself for watching Kirk throw himself at whatever man, woman, or alien happens across his path during their shore leave on Earth. The Enterprise is in for repairs and the crew has an unprecedented two weeks off. The first night was Sulu and Kirk's infamous (if it's not infamous already, Sulu expects that it will be so later on. Even if only in his own mind) one night stand. It's a week later and Sulu has watched Kirk flirt with no less than forty-seven other people. He can only wonder how many of them made it into Kirk's enormous Starfleet-supplied hotel room with the stupid huge bed and gigantic bath tub and luxurious carpeting. (Lieutenants are not supplied with such luxurious accommodations.)
What he doesn't count on is his irrationally violent response to seeing Kirk getting pummeled in a bar fight. It's irrational because everyone has seen Kirk get bruised and bloodied in fist fights—the man attracts violence like Orion women attract human men.
But it's six against one. And the other guys are fighting dirty. And even though Sulu knows that Kirk has emerged with only a bruised face and a grin from fights much more uneven and far dirtier than this one, he's shocked at just how pissed off the sight makes him.
There are no loud Tarzan-style cries or Braveheart-bellows. Sulu doesn't bother with such macho displays. He's terse. Furious. And utterly focused.
The six assailants have no idea what's coming. Sulu never bothers with showy strikes. Every move he makes is deliberate and hits its mark. Eight punches, seven jabs, six kicks, four elbows, and three minutes later there are six groaning men on the floor. Sulu stands there looking around, his face bruised from a couple of nasty punches that he hadn't bothered to duck from. He looks and Kirk is nowhere to be seen.
Sulu finally spots Kirk lying in the laps of two scantily-clad women, who are cooing over Kirk's fighting prowess, even though Sulu is the one who took them down, not Kirk. Kirk grins at the girls, that cocky, arrogant, shit-faced smile that Sulu knows all too well. And Sulu can't help the glower that crosses over his face like a storm cloud.
A worried crewmember whose name Sulu can barely remember comes up and gingerly touches his face. There's talk of bruises and going home and mending and other probably important things, but Sulu can't really be bothered to care about it. He's had worse. Then he thinks that that's probably what Kirk usually says in this sort of situation too. That makes it somehow worse. With a curt dismissal, he promises the fretting colleague that he'll get it taken care of and walks briskly away. Back to his lieutenant chambers, back to his normal-sized bed, back to his standard-planetside-issue dual capability sonic-water shower, back to industrial gray carpet, back to solitude and a painfully obvious lack of teasing blue eyes, all intense and fiery hot.
He doesn't bother stopping by the Starfleet clinic, where there's always a few medical students and doctors on-call and willing to mend up simple scrapes like this. He doesn't stop by McCoy's place, even though he's pretty sure the doctor's there and would be more than willing to patch him up. He just goes back to his room, slaps a simple bandage on the scrape on his neck, and goes to sleep.
His dreams are disjointed and angry, and it's definitely not the most restful night's sleep he's had, but he's frustrated and angry. Mostly with himself, because he knew better and still let Kirk into his head and body and apparently his heart. And everyone knows that falling for Jim Kirk is a colossally stupid thing to do. Kirk loves everyone and no one. He can't settle down, can't stay in one place, can't hold onto a relationship. He's brilliant and loyal to his crew and his friends. He's fiercely devoted, protective, and astute. He's beautiful and funny and sexy as hell. He's amazing and he's not Sulu's to have. He's not anyone's to have. Kirk is a fantastic, awesome force of nature, affecting everyone but tied to nothing. Sulu knows this and knows that if Kirk weren't that way, he wouldn't be Kirk and Sulu wouldn't be falling for the cocky bastard.
He's awake but still lying in bed, sore from the fight and exhausted from his emotional rationalizations, when he hears a loud crash from the entry way. He glances over, surprised at his lack of concern about the break-in, and decides he should get up and see what the fuss is about.
He hears muffled cursing as he pulls on a less-than-perfectly-clean white t-shirt and wanders into the living area, running a hand through his mussed black hair, feeling a couple blood-sticky sections, and getting a strange hollow sensation in his gut.
He should be more surprised to find Kirk there, glaring at the coffee table and swearing.
"You know, I don't think that your Captainly room-lock-override privileges count when we're not on the ship," Sulu says flatly, not really caring that Kirk broke into his room or why.
"Well, no, but my lock-picking skills are tried and true. Wouldn't want those to go to waste," Kirk responds, flashing a tired, confident grin. "That was pretty amazing last night, wasn't it? I mean, I could have taken that bunch easily, but you were pretty bad-ass. Even without the sword, which was probably a good call. They tend to call the authorities if you drag weapons into the mix."
"You're welcome," Sulu answers, recognizing the roundabout thank you within Kirk's babble. "So, did you manage another threesome last night with those girls?" Sulu can't help but let a little bit of contempt leak into his voice.
"Huh?" Kirk looks momentarily baffled and runs a hand through his blond hair, which is just as messy as Sulu's. "Oh, those girls, yeah, didn't stay too long. Got a little woozy for some reason …" Sulu rolls his eyes at Kirk's explanation, which makes it sound like his dizziness was from dehydration instead of getting hit upside the head thirteen times.
"So I sat down for a minute. They offered a rather cozy spot to rest. Once I got my equilibrium back they became much more annoying, actually. Looked around for you, but didn't see you around."
Kirk says this casually, but Sulu can sense that there's something to this.
"I went home. The night seemed pretty over, if you know what I mean."
"Right, of course. I mean, that place was a little dull to begin with and the patrons were far too easily offended. Good call."
Sulu stares, his face a blank. Kirk fidgets, because the man can never stay still, and looks around the room.
"You've been a hard man to track down this past week, Sulu. Thought maybe you were avoiding me. Then I saw you last night and thought maybe we'd have some fun, but then those guys got all offended—seriously, they need thicker skin in these parts, and I got a little distracted with the punch-throwing and the not-passing-out, and you vanished. Again."
"I've been right here," Sulu says flatly, not really wanting to hear Kirk make excuses or fake apologies, because those things aren't Kirk and they don't fit with the Kirk he knows, the Kirk he's gotten all stupid over.
"Yeah, well, maybe the problem was that I wasn't. So, what do you say we go get some breakfast? My treat." The words are casual, but Sulu knows Kirk and knows what he's saying.
"Well, I'm not going to be happy unless I get the whole package deal—eggs, pancakes, bacon, toast, the works. If you're just going to buy me a waffle and call it good, I'm not interested."
"I don't offer full breakfast deals unless I mean it, Sulu. You know that. Grab some pants. Let's go."
The smile creeps up on Sulu before he even realizes it, slow and slightly gobsmacked and full of hope and disbelief. Kirk grins back and Sulu still can't wipe the stupid smile off his face. Breakfast, indeed.
I would love to see a bashful courtship between McCoy and Sulu. :-) prompt by
secretsolitaire 