A/N: Oh gods—haven't written S/Ch fanfic since I was about sixteen, but Djinn's work reminded me how I got into all this in the first place. Everybody's done this. Everybody. But nobody sees it the same way.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not at all—thanks Theo and Paraborg—don't sue.
Feedback: Aye!
Distribution: Makes me all smiley
Rating: PG-13
Plomeek Soup
I should march back in there and throw it right in his face—
His smug, pointy-eared, completely vulnerable face. Which is how I got myself into this—Instead of just leaving him to his logic, his cold may-he-choke-on-it rations, his dreams *and what was that about anyway…*
Concentrate, Chris. The seeds of the malthya plant has to go in just so, as the mixture begins to boil.
Cooking and chemistry were both soothing pastimes. You had a formula, you had a procedure, you did the right thing at the right moment, combined the appropriate elements for appropriate effect, and things worked out the way you expected them to. Easy, predictable. And it wasn't hard to bribe Sulu into ignoring a corner of the hydroponics bay. Combine real, unreplicated, plants with the latest Starfleet issue bacteria incubation unit and it makes for a smart little kitchen.
After all, I am a nurse. Healing people is what I do, that strange mixture of professional and emotional care. McCoy might fix what's ailing you, but it's my duty to get you back on your feet. And don't let anyone fool you, soup was still the cure for half of nature's illnesses, even ones evolving light years from Earth.
As for the rest, I told myself that the plomeek plants made for good variety—not every species craves tomatoes or my carefully hoarded stock of chicken bullion (Biomedical culture # 2472-3). And of course Mr. Spock wasn't the only Vulcan to come aboard Enterprise, the only Vulcan in Starfleet-- sure, but his father and at least six other…
Oh, who am I trying to kid? They were for Spock. A taste of home, a sentimental gesture, so sue me. See me not be ashamed of my stupid, uncontrollable, adolescent, unrequited love.
Which was why I was using my doctorate in Xenobiology and two years deep space triage experience to hand dice ten-inch long green amorphous blobs which resemble slimy potatoes into a sort of gelatinous puree. Simmer over Bunsen burner: 10 minutes. Stare at wall trying to gather dignity before invading Spock's privacy for the third time that day: 1 hour. Re-heat soup: 10 minutes. Longest cook time for plomeek soup on record and I still wasn't ready to go back in there.
I knew what was going on. Vulcans were cagey but alien physiology was my specialty and I admit to spending a few more hours than necessary with the Vulcan anatomy files after coming aboard. Besides which, there were only so many ways you could add up elevated sperm count and "Spock has to get to Vulcan or die," before the great unspoken mystery went flying out the door like a bowl of plomeek soup.
And well, yeah, I deserved it. How was I supposed to know good nursing was Vulcan foreplay? And contrary to what you hear in the crew mess, I monitor the eating habits of every crewmember on board. Anorexia is a primary symptom in over two hundred physical and six hundred and fifty emotional maladies. I'm sure in a hundred years they'll have psychiatrists, nutritionists and plastic surgeons floating around on starships but for right now file it under the "supplementary duties" of the ship's head nurse. So my responsibility, sure. Would I have made a home visit to every crewmember on board? *Honesty, Chris* Probably not. But seducing Spock wasn't really on my mind.
I had figured out that whoever Spock was speeding to Vulcan to mate with wasn't going to be me. And so, I decided to face up to it, save his stupid life and exit with dignity from this sham of a relationship. The soup was supposed to be my final gesture of goodwill—See no hard feelings that you would rather face death than consider me as an alternative, fuck you, good luck, good bye. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Granted, I expected a comment on the illogic of making something by hand with replicators on board, or even a lecture on unauthorized use of the ship's facilities, I was not expecting plomeek soup to come flying by at warp five and any last shreds of dignity I had left after Psy-2000 joining it on the bulkhead. Christine Chapel finally drives Vulcan to insanity with her immature crush, vid at eleven. Which still doesn't explain why he did it, why he reacted like a, *human*, --don't think it, like a male pushed right to the limit, finding it impossible to resist—what, temptation?
Give it up Chris, temptation implies he wants you.
It also doesn't explain why he didn't throw you into the brig for using medical override to sneak back into his quarters. Nope all he did was look at you with those eyes, like flame…
And then he did more than look. If I close my eyes I can still feel it. I keep expecting it to show, the memory of those burning fingers against my face becoming overt, physical, branded. And his words, a code I could almost unlock—our natures…
What the hell did he mean by that? Wasn't that the problem, my illogical human nature to adore him? And why love him anyway? Uninterested, uninvolved, unemotional—except for the sadness, so poorly concealed within that patented Vulcan reserve; and in that sadness I saw my own.
Resonance, I suppose we are all looking for it, the reason why some proteins come together, why the strange mechanics of the body join and recombine—something missing, something seeking. Which doesn't explain why I didn't give up. Though I suppose that was my nature as well, to persist in faith even in the absence of all evidence, encouragement, *logic.* After all, I was right, Roger was waiting to be found, even when I had lost all reason for wanting to find him.
Leaving me with a broken heart, a rapidly cooling bowl of plomeek soup and a sense of unease, of lost chances.
And what of him, anyway? More Vulcan than pure Vulcans, more vulnerable than anyone I had ever known, unable to choose a human woman as his father had done, because his father had done so—perhaps regretting that, perhaps burning…
Right now it is in his nature to mate.
True, correct, logical even, but not with me. The other shoe was going to drop any second now and I was sure she had pointy ears. Which is why this was the best plomeek soup in the quadrant, if I could ever work up the nerve to get it to him.
It was, of course, the exact moment for my hair to conquer the hairspray and fall down from its heavy knot. Starfleet protocols aside, I hated the uniforms and regulation hairstyles. Uniform was a must, this was a purely professional pathetic last gesture of affection—hair was a necessary sacrifice. I gathered it into a simple braid, prayed to the gods of scuttlebutt no one would see me *skulking to his quarters in the dead of night like a whore.* And see, yeah, I admit it. But it didn't stop me. Last check at all the equipment safely shut down, and I was off.
Beware lovesick nurses bearing soup—I meant it sarcastically but it came out sounding like an invocation.
And then the door slid open.
