New: Mad About You, Klingon Style 1/? (TNG/Mad About You; parody)
[W/T, P/C, R/f] PG
Author: Anna C. Bowling
Comments, flames, etc to: Unzadi@aol.com
Archive: ASC, ASCA, please. Anybody else, please ask.
Summary: Worf, Deanna and the gang live the lives of Paul and Jamie
and the gang from Mad About You, with Tapestry Saga characters
making a few cameos
Disclaimer: All the Star Trek stuff belongs to Paramount. All the
Mad About You stuff belongs to In Front Productions. All the
Tapestry Saga stuff belongs to Pleasant Little Kingdom press, which
is half mine, so I know that's okay.
Author's note: I started this back in June, wondering what might
happen if Worf and Deanna and the rest were living the lives of my
favourite sitcom people. Far as I can tell, it would be this. The
Trek characters translated surprisingly well (thanks, E, for the
help in this regard, as in so many others!) and those characters who
are unfamiliar to some readers are visiting from the Tapestry Saga.
They just insisted on showing up, and since I've long since learned
not to argue with them....
Ah, enough of that. Just enjoy. Comments welcome, nay, required!
>;)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Murray! Get the vole!" Deanna waved her hand down the hallway as
the targ took off in hot pursuit. Both she and Worf braced
themselves for the inevitable apartment-shaking crash when targ met
wall.
Worf scowled. "When will he learn that there is no vole? This is
the third time this week Chief O'Brien has had to repair the wall."
Deanna took her husband's face in her hands and gazed at him
tenderly. "It makes Murray happy. He doesn't ask much from life."
"So we should give him imaginary voles?"
Deanna gave Worf a quick kiss before pulling away and wiping her
hands on her plaid flannel pajama pants. "It's not so much. Let
him have his vole."
"His imaginary vole," Worf said, stressing the word. "It does not
exist. He will never catch it. He would do better to chase a toy
vole. At least then he would have the satisfaction of catching his
prey."
Shaking her head, Deanna walked past Worf and into the kitchen, the
wooden door swinging behind her. "Do we have any orange juice? I'm
thirsty. I think I'm coming down with a cold."
"I did not leave the window open," Worf said, stepping over his
surveillance camera case as he followed her.
Deanna looked back over her shoulder. "I didn't say you left the
window open. I didn't say anything about the window at all." She
opened the refrigerator and began sorting through the half-emptied
cartons of various juices. "When did we buy guava nectar?" She
sniffed the carton and dumped it in the trashcan.
Worf went to the cabinet and extracted two glass tumblers painted
with cheery orange slices. "You are empathic. You were thinking
it."
Still with her head in the refrigerator, Deanna said, "That doesn't
make sense. If I'm the empath, why did you think you knew what I
was thinking? If you ask me, I think you're getting a little
paranoid. How long were you working last night? You came in pretty
late."
He was saved having to answer her when a tall, striking brunette
entered the room, dressed in black leggings and matching raincoat.
"Hi," she greeted them, taking one of the glasses from Worf and
slipping herself between Deanna and the refrigerator door. "Got any
chocolate milk? I didn't have any breakfast. Do I smell waffles?"
"No." Worf growled, and took another glass out. "You do not."
"I could if you made some," the brunette answered, pouring herself a
full glass of chocolate milk. "I mean, you guys have to eat anyway.
Isn't that why you're in the kitchen?"
Deanna gave up on the orange juice and edged closer to Worf. Hands-
on hips, she stared holes in the back of the refrigerator-raider.
"Danielle, what are you doing here?"
"In case you have not noticed," Worf added, "You are not related to
anyone in this apartment. Your brother lives across the hall.
Perhaps he will be willing to feed you."
Danielle grabbed a takeout carton of Chinese food and closed the
door with her hip. Opening the container, she took a long sniff and
sighed contentedly. "Kung pao. This'll do. You know, if you guys
want me to see Will, you could go get him. Right, Deanna?" She
picked a piece of chicken from the carton and popped it in her
mouth, sticking out her tongue for a mere second in Deanna's
direction.
Deanna flinched. Not for love nor money was she going across that
hallway. If Will answered the door, that might be all right.
Awkward, but all right...if she stretched the meaning of "all
right." There was, however, a fifty-fifty chance that his wife
would answer, and that...well, that wasn't the best way to start off
the day. "No, no, you just make yourself comfortable," she said,
her voice stammering as her heartbeat quickened. "Enjoy your
breakfast."
"What about our breakfast?" Worf asked, glaring from beneath lowered
brows at Danielle as Deanna escorted him from the kitchen.
"We'll eat at Quark's."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Worf and Deanna settled into their booth at Quark's Bar and Grille,
and began looking over the menus.
"Danielle had a good idea," Deanna said, pushing her wire-rimmed
glasses up on her nose with the knuckle of her index finger.
"Waffles sound perfect. I'll have waffles." She closed the menu
and drummed her fingers against the tabletop. "Did she seem okay to
you?"
"She seemed as she always seems," Worf said, still looking over his
own menu. "Hungry, wearing your coat, and in the wrong apartment.
I do not understand why she persists in coming to our home when her
brother lives across the hall."
Deanna reached across the table and closed Worf's menu for him.
"You'll have the Klingon omelette, extra gagh, and a large prune
juice. You get the same thing every time. I honestly don't know
why you even bother with the menu." She pushed a cloth napkin in
his direction. "You've got a little toothpaste in your mustache.
It's not so bad having Danielle around the apartment. She said
she'd wait for Chief O'Brien to fix the wall. That frees us up for
the morning." Deanna tapped the back of Worf's hand as he reached
for the menu again. "Leave it alone. You already know what you're
ordering."
"They may have something new," Worf said, looking about for some
member of the waitstaff. "I think the waiters are all hiding."
"If they are, it's because of that sweater you're wearing. I told
you to wear the red one my mother gave you. She's meeting us for
lunch later."
Worf looked down at his sweater, poking a finger through the old
phaser singe marks across the left shoulder. "It is comfortable.
Why does your mother not wish me to be comfortable?"
Deanna sighed. "Mother wants you to be comfortable. You just tense
up around her."
"I do not tense up," Worf said, swabbing at his facial hair with the
napkin. "That sweater itches."
"Then wear an undershirt," Deanna said, finally catching sight of
the only waitress in the dining room.
"Klingons do not wear undershirts. Undershirts are for children."
A loud snap of gum put an end to the discussion. "Can I get you
guys some menus or something? Maybe a tabletop dabo wheel? Only
thirty credits extra."
Worf glared at the waitress and handed her the menus. "We have
menus. We wish to order now."
Deanna reached across the table for Worf's napkin and shook it out
before placing it in her lap. "Hello, Leeta."
Leeta blinked in surprise, then broke into a wide smile. "Wow, what
a coincidence. My name is Leeta, too! Do you ever give your name
over the phone and then you get mail addressed to 'Peter?' 'Cause
that happens to me a lot." She cocked her head and looked at
Deanna expectantly.
"No, I can't say that I've ever had that happen," Deanna said,
digging her heel into Worf's leg beneath the table. "I'll have the
waffles and my husband will have the Klingon omelette with extra
gagh. Hot chocolate and a large prune juice to drink."
Leeta scribbled the order down on her padd, her brows lowered in
intense concentration. "Okay, but I'll have to check on the baked
potato. We usually don't have them until after four in the
afternoon."
Worf extended his wrist so that Leeta could see his digital watch.
It read 0723 hours. "It is morning, and we did not order any baked
potatoes."
"Oh, right. That was the other couple from last night. Never mind.
I think we can find some of those Greek olives in the back, but I'll
have to see some ID before I can give you the danar."
As Leeta left, Deanna grabbed Worf's wrist. "Just let it go," she
whispered in his ear. "This is a good morning for her. She is
feeling very confident."
"That is not a good sign," Worf muttered. There was a short pause,
then, "Why is Beverly coming over here? Did you call her?"
Deanna craned her neck. Sure enough, Beverly Crusher, still dressed
in the mint green sweatsuit from last night, was coming straight for
their table.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Beverly Crusher grabbed a chair from a nearby table and plopped
herself down between Worf and Deanna. "I'm not going in to work,
and you can't make me. I need the day to get ready for my date with
Julian."
"I'd recommend a shower first," Deanna said, looking at Beverly with
critical eyes. Granted, Beverly was dressed, but that was about all
Deanna was willing to give her. "What are you wearing?"
"This." Beverly shrugged. "What does it matter? I'm too old for
this."
Deanna shook her head. "No, no you're not. You're a beautiful,
vibrant woman in her prime. Any man would be very proud to go out
with you. Wouldn't they, Worf?" She cast a meaningful glance in
his direction.
Worf growled something in Klingon and pretended to examine the list
of specials. "Look. They have heart of targ appetisers. With
honey mustard."
Deanna ignored him, reaching across the table to pat Beverly's hand.
"Are you missing Jean-Luc again? Don't tell me you sat up all night
eating ice cream and looking over the wedding album?"
The redhead nodded. "Half the time I wish he'd never left, and the
other half I want to hunt him down..."
Worf picked up the list and scanned down it. "They also have Death
By Chocolate. With extra sprinkles. They serve it after noon.
Maybe Leeta will bring our food by then."
"And kill him," Beverly finished, taking the list from Worf and
tearing it into itty bitty pieces.
Deanna flinched. "I sense that you're feeling anger and resentment.
You stay out of it," she said to Worf, recognising impatience in the
tilt of his winged eyebrows. "Go see if you can find Leeta.
Beverly needs to order. You are eating, aren't you?"
Beverly nodded. "I should. There's no ice cream left."
"You ate all the ice cream in your refrigerator again?" Deanna
tapped the back of Beverly's hand with her fingertips. "You know
that's not a good nutritional choice."
"Not my refrigerator," Beverly said. "The supermarket's. I binged."
She lay her head on her folded hands, her lime green scrunchy
looking as though it were about to hop off.
Worf pushed back from the table. "I believe I will search for
Leeta," he said, the chair falling backwards as he stood. "If we
are fortunate, she will still be in this quadrant." He turned and
stalked toward the door marked "employees only."
No sooner had he reached the door than it swung open, smacking him
in the face.
Deanna and Beverly sprang from their chairs and rushed over to help.
Worf, knocked to the floor by the force of the collision, was
holding both hands over his nose, a thin trickle of purple running
into his goatee. Standing over him, blinking in surprise, was a
bald humanoid male, holding a tub full of empty salt shakers and
danar glasses.
"Merde."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
[To be!] continued in part four
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