What the Smeg Did You Do Last Night

Portia’s first thought was that her head hurt. Really hurt. Really really hurt.
She drank, right? Portia wasn’t sure how much she drank but she was pretty sure she would be considered a lightweight, which was embarrassing.
Her head really hurt. Really, really hurt.
“Good morning, wonderful.”
Her second thought wasn’t really a thought as much as a flood of panic and scrambling out of the bed as fast as possible.
She fell the floor, butt smarting on the impact, pulling the blanket down with her. The blanket smoothly glided over Franklin’s to reveal his naked form on the bed.
She tried to say several things at once, finally getting out a coherent, “Did we?”
“It certainly wasn’t a naked accident, is that’s what you mean.”
Her head really, really, really hurt.
“Where am I?”
“The S.S. Starship Rainbow Fluffy Puppy Express Fabulous.”
“Who’s cabin,” she said tartly.
“Mine, if you must know.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“Don’t know.” Franklin rolled over onto his chest, resting his head on folded arms. He looked comfortable. He said, “You weren’t so interest in clothes last night.”
“I’m interested now.” Portia stood up, gathering the blanket around and cinching it in the front. She scanned the cabin. It was a standard issue starship cabin, she imagined. Bed and chair and not much else. Her clothes were not here or hidden very well.
“Seriously,” she said, “where are my clothes?”
Franklin moved a shoulder in a graceful shrug. “Can’t help you there, Gizmo.”
“Don’t call me that.” She peered under the bed and found her boots. No clothes, just boots.
“You told me last night you liked your code name.”
Portia stood up again, the blanket slipping slightly from her hands. “Seriously? Are you smegging me? This is some really horrendous joke you and the crew thought of last night after I drunk myself into a stupor.”
Franklin rolled onto his back.
Portia looked, she had to look. The small green raven tattoo on his heck was visible.
Franklin caught her gaze and smirked. He said, “Friad this isn’t a joke, Gizmo.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Can I call you lover?”
“No!”
“Bea was right, you really are hung up.”
“I’m not hung up,” Portia said.
“Then why are you there wrapped up in a blanket, trying to hide yourself when I’ve already seen you naked. Like three times.”
“Two of those were accidents.”
“Naked accidents, the best of all possible accidents.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe me? Naked accidents are pretty sweet. A little awkward the first time, but really quite nice overall.”
“No. This is a joke, smegging joke. We did not have sex last night.”
“It’s not a joke. We made mad, passionate love like two sailors on shore leave.”
Portia felt weak in the knees. She needed to sit down for a moment but did not want to give Franklin the wrong idea. Too late for wrong ideas now. She sat on the narrowest edge of the bed possible, still clutching the blanket. “But,” she said, “I can’t stand you.”
“Here’s to alcohol: the cause of and solution to all life’s problems.”
That sounded familiar. She remembered toasting the great social lubricant values of alcohol with the rest of the crew. They were celebrating. Oh no.
Oh no.
Portia jumped up like a rocket. “I have to go. Now.”
“Come on, stay a bit.”
“I have to go, right now,” she repeated, rushing for the door. She approached too quickly and smacked into the door before it had a chance to open. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she repeated, making a hasty exit.
Portia dropped the boots trying to rub her forehead at the place of impact, dropping the blanket. Quickly she gathered the blanket again and carried the boots in one hand.
“I have your clothes,” she heard Franklin say. “I can explain.”
Portia walked quickly down the hall, boots and blanket, and passed Turkish. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She slid into her cabin without comment or public nudity. What the smeg did she do last night?