Peanut Butter Soup For The Vulcan Soul
It had been a miserable day. The replicators had been out of order since before breakfast; an energy relay malfunction had put all shipboard lighting on the fritz unless it was set to emergency-level dimness; the Laikeen whip-vines had gotten lose in the conservatory; a few inaccurately soldered wires in the comm unit upgrades had put her departmental work back weeks; both Jim and Hikaru were grumpy from one of their rare but bitter arguments; the harmless but impressively stinky Belltor mice Bones was studying for Starfleet Medical had somehow escaped into the air vents and their odor could not be swept out until all of them were found; and to top it off, a nasty 'flu was making its way through the non-Human members of the Enterprise crew.
Bones had diagnosed it as the common Klickkan'jura cold, and said it had probably gotten aboard with the Botany department's shipment of decorative Juraleen patchwork moss. Ironically, the moss had been part of an effort to improve morale by brightening up the mess hall and rec-rooms. But instead of making things better, joint pain, headaches, sore throats, and fevers resulted for nearly 30% of the crew. Everyone had been exposed before Bones could synth up a vacc. It wasn't dangerous by any means, but it was annoying, and while the Humans were immune, 100% of the non-Humans aboard were listed among the effected species.
Spock, being half-Human, had of course ignored the quarantine protocols to pull extra shifts in the Science labs, and, of course, managed to ignore his symptoms too, making his resulting illness much worse than it needed to be.
Of course.
Nyota sighed.
Really.
Men.
She sighed again, stirring the pot of soup over her makeshift hot-plate a little more vigorously than was wise given the precarious setup. If they hadn't been flying through space, she was sure it would have been a dreary, muggy, sticky, drippy day into the bargain.
Still. . .
There were a few good points about the situation. She hadn't had a chance to make her mother's recipe for peanut butter soup for. . . for. . . well, years.
She'd replaced the chicken broth with vegetable stock, the shredded chicken with ketek-barkaya - a sort of marinated Vulcan tofu-ish bean-curd (heaven only knew why the kitchens stocked it, but she was very glad they did) - and she had doubled, then tripled the amount of red pepper flakes the recipe called for, but all in all she thought it was a pretty okay effort, especially since it was so spur-of-the-moment.
Picking up a spoon, she tasted it one last time, making absolutely sure the sweet-potatoes were cooked all the way though. She smacked her lips over the small bite - not only did it taste good, it was quite invigoratingly spicy.
She smirked. If she knew Spock at all, he would love it.
Carefully, she ladled out two bowls full, and arranged them neatly on the nearby hovertray. She put her hands on her hips, happily surveying the portable camping stove, extra stasis unit, and makshift rinsing/chopping station she'd managed to get Scotty to rig up for her.
"Oh aye, annythin' far you two lovebirds," he had said, and grinned unashamedly. "I'm wishin' I had such a lassie as you, you know." He had reached out and patted the nearest bulkhead, "Not that my girlie is lacking for talents, mind, but she hassent the least bit of skill with food, more's the pity."
She had agreed, commiserated with him for a moment on the Enterprise's skittish replicators, and then thanked him warmly. The truth was, very few on Terra had much skill with food any more. Chefs had, of course, and some farmers, but very few others. But her mother had been highly insistent that she and her brothers learned to cook, even taking it to the point of enrolling each of them in the special six-week cooking course their local secondary school offered every summer.
Consequently, Ny felt very accomplished at the sight - and taste! - of her stew, and the little kitchenette that had made it possible.
At last, she turned away, lightly pushing the hovertray before her. The quarters she and Spock shared were blessedly spacious by shipboard standards - perhaps. . . perhaps she could convince Spock to let her keep her little kitchen.
Whoa there. Easy. Let's see how he likes the soup first.
She paused in front of the bedroom door.
Huh. Funny.
She had been so confident just moments before. And she did know his tastes, and her abilities. The likelihood that he would find her cooking more than acceptable was very high.
And yet. . .
There was something about the act of cooking, she supposed. Something primal and natural that went beyond food. Cooking - no, cooking for someone - was powerful, intimate. . .
Loving.
That was it. Loving.
He might be half-Human, but he lived as though he was full-Vulcan - and as such, he rarely told her he loved her. Consequently, she rarely told him either. The bond they shared made many of the verbal endearments unnecessary, but she was still Human, and suddenly, ridiculously, she was nervous that her blatant love-token would not be satisfyingly appreciated.
Silly, silly.
She didn't need him to say it. She only needed him to feel it. Whatever he felt, she felt - that was the glory of the bond.
But would he?
If he didn't, he wouldn't be able to hide it.
Every other time she had given him something, or done something for him, it had been after she had felt his wishes - conscious or otherwise - through the bond. This was the first time she would be doing something for him without knowing exactly how he felt about it.
Strange, strange.
How horribly, frighteningly safe the bond made their relationship. There was never any questioning, never any wondering, never any mystery about what the other person might be feeling at any point during the day or night.
It was wonderful, incredible. Ecstatic, beautiful, intoxicating, and at times pure delicious heaven.
But it was also. . . unhuman.
Had she fallen in love with a Human man she would have been used to not knowing exactly how he felt about things, and she would not have to worry if he couldn't hide his feelings afterward. If she had fallen in love with a Human -
Stop it. You fell for Spock. And he's sick right now, and needs the soup you made him.
Oh yeah.
Need.
There was that too.
She took a second to be thankful that this sickness was not the dangerous fever of pon farr, and then finally activated the door.
He was laying flat on his back, but clearly awake, for he was performing Vulcan acupressure on his forehead. The malfunctioning lighting was fortuitous in this case, since Spock had indicated a particularly sharp headache among his most egregious symptoms.
He carefully sat up when he saw her. Then he slowly inhaled, struggling with a nose he had little experience of ever being stuffy.
"That smells. . . enticing." His voice was gravelly, and much deeper than usual. Had he not been so miserably sick, she might have found it rather enticing herself. . .
"My mother's recipe for peanut butter soup. Suitably tweaked and enhanced, of course."
"Of course."
"I hope it's spicy enough for you."
"Given that my sense of taste has been dulled by my illness, I hope so too."
She pushed the tray over to him, deftly removing her own bowl and turning to set it on his nearby desk. "Tell me if it needs salt or anything."
"Nyota?"
A strange tone had entered his voice, clearly detectable to her, even through the warping static of his sore throat. She felt curiously reluctant to turn and face him.
"Nyota?"
The tone was still there, more commanding now. She turned and looked at him.
He was offering her the ozh'esta.
Slowly, very slowly, she reached out with her own two fingers, and wrapped them around his.
His skin, always fever-hot, was positively grilling now. But behind the distracting heat there was the usual buzz and hum of his emotions - a complex, brilliant, engaging music that she loved to listen to, and was beginning to understand.
I heard your worry, K'diwa.
Oh. She blushed hot with her own fever of shame.
You must not worry. Nor be ashamed for worrying.
But I -
Am Human. I am aware.
His mind-voice was not gravelly or any deeper than normal, but it was warmer somehow. . .
I cannot give you Human assurances, adun'a, but I can remind you why we became friends and lovers in the first place. . .
He looked her straight in the eyes, his own face flushed green and eyes too bright with fever, but still he could communicate everything he needed with a look.
Then he took a bite of soup.
The sensation burst across the bond and ozh'esta at the same time. First, the heat of the pepper, blended with the rich texture of the broth. Then, the bite of sweet potatoes, and the smooth silkiness of the ketek-barkaya. As he chewed, he got more of the flavors, but dulled, as he had said. Still, there was only pleasure in his experience, which was only slightly offset by having to swallow it down a scratchy throat. But the texture and heat of it made even this pleasant - only one bite, and some of his discomfort had already been soothed.
You see, ashalik?
I see that you like it. And I am gla-
That is not what I mean, adun'a. It is very good, but I did not show you my reaction so clearly because I wanted to reassure you that you are a good cook.
Nyota's breath caught in her throat, You didn't?
No.
Then wh-
Because our souls speak across time and space, k'hat'n'dlawa. We fit. We are suited to each other. A shimmer of music went though the bond that meant he was smiling at her. I may be ill, but I have not forgotten my responsibilities as your husband.
Your. . .
Yes.
She smirked wryly at him, Are you sure you're up for that?
A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, That is not what I am referring to.
No?
No.
Then what do you mean?
I mean that I swore to make your dreams come true. And I have not forgotten that vow.
"That's very sweet, Spock," she said out loud, finally taking up her own bowl and digging in. "But I'm still not quite sure what you mean." She mumbled around a large chunk of sweet potato, "What dreams are you talking about?"
He took another precise bite, chewing and swallowing before he answered her. "You made this meal to care for me, correct?"
"Yeah, of course."
"But, you also found more fulfillment in the act than simply that, did you not?"
She paused a little, "Well. . . yes. I mean, cooking - and especially cooking well - isn't something everyone can do, and yeah, I liked doing it."
"For its own sake?"
"I guess so. For its own sake, yeah."
He gave his almost invisible smile again. "Then, there is no need to convince me to retain your cooking apparatus. It makes you happy. Therefore, you do not have to ask for my permission." His voice turned uncomfortably raspy, but he was still in utter earnest, "Even if I disapproved, which I do not, a Vulcan husband does not have the right to impede his wife in such a manner." He turned his head, and coughed, in obvious pain from speaking aloud.
"It's okay Spock, don't talk any more. And. . . thank you." So many Human emotions were swirling about in her head, she needed him to stop speaking herself. She felt so much more than thankfulness. . . and so much more than she could say to him.
But, of course, he knew that too. . .
He nodded his head in response, and returned to eating his soup.