Author's Note: Thanks to SpockLikesCats for beta-ing (psst, check out her stories here under that name). Any remaining typos, mistakes and general goofs are mine alone.
Star Date: 2256.340 7:12 pm
Old Date: Friday, December 6, 2256 7:12 pm
Location: Amanda Grayson's Beach House near San Francisco
"Ready to get drunk, Commander?" Nyota Uhura asked as soon as Spock let her into the beach house. She breezed by him carrying a brown paper bag that clinked with each step she took.
Taking the bag from her, he watched as she took off her coat. Underneath she was wearing a long-sleeved aquamarine top and matching skirt that clung to her curves. Though it covered more skin, the dress managed to be more revealing than her cadet uniform. The knee-length hemline was still a great deal higher than Vulcan fashion norms but Spock had grown to appreciate this cultural difference.
He let his gaze linger while she hung up her coat. High-heeled boots rose over the tops of her knees, meeting the hemline of her dress. She flashed him a friendly smile as she bent down to unzip her boots. He decided the better part of valour was to take her purchases into the kitchen.
As he unpacked the bottles, Spock mentally reviewed the logical leaps that had led to this evening.
Determining the level of theobromine he could safely tolerate would be useful—it had been pointed out to him that one never knew when such information might be needed, perhaps even in the line of duty.
Having supervision in this experiment was logical—his previous experience with theobromine had convinced him of that.
Choosing someone discreet was paramount—he had no desire to endure the inevitable attempts to spike his food and drink should his susceptibility to theobromine become known.
And yet, despite this unassailable chain of logic, he could not quash the feeling that accepting Nyota Uhura's assistance was a bad idea—that combining Nyota, a bagful of alcohol and chocolate was unwise.
Ignoring his misgivings, he lined up the contents of the bag in front of him: vanilla vodka, dark chocolate hazelnut liqueur, lemons, sugar, and two small glasses. At the very bottom of the bag he found a box of chocolate truffles.
She joined him in the kitchen and made herself comfortable in a chair at the table. He looked over and found his eyes drawn to the fabric pulled taut over her breasts.
Unwise, he told himself again but the voice sounded very much like his father's so he ignored it. He held up the package of dark truffles and tilted his head.
She shrugged and smiled. "Impulse buy."
He considered the package for a moment before pushing it aside. Better to stick with a single source of theobromine to reduce the number of experimental variables.
Nyota picked up the medical tricorder on the kitchen table and pointed it at him. "What are you planning on doing with this?"
"Monitoring," he said, deftly plucking it out of her grasp before she could alter any settings. He determinedly ignored the tingle as their hands briefly touched. Unintentionally. Or so he told himself.
"We should discuss the parameters of the experiment," said Spock, calibrating his borrowed medical tricorder. The device was not in need of calibration but it was a convenient distraction.
Nyota crossed her legs and rolled her eyes. "Parameters?"
"Variables. Methodology. Sampling." He glanced her way, determinedly avoiding her breasts, and immediately regretted it. Her skirt had ridden up over her crossed legs, revealing a strip of bare skin between her skirt hem and the thigh-high socks that he had initially mistaken for leggings. He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale.
"Variables?" She prompted when his silence dragged on.
He pried his gaze away from her legs, which he had been staring at over the tricorder display, and cleared his throat. "Intoxicant levels, body mass, enzyme activity, delivery mechanism." He trailed off as he saw the smirk on her face. He wondered how it was that all females, no matter their species, managed to convey both skepticism and a negative assessment of a male's mental capacity in a single facial expression.
"What are you doing now?" She asked as he swept the tricorder over himself.
"I am endeavouring to establish a baseline of our cognitive and biological functions before we begin." He glanced at the tricorder display and dismissed the slight elevation in heart rate and respiration. Saving the scan, he held the tricorder out in her direction as she sat at the kitchen table. Spock watched the fabric of her dress ride further up her thighs as she shifted position and reminded himself, once again, that this was a bad idea.
"That's not how you figure out how drunk you are. Or who drank who under the table." She got up from the chair and came over to look around his shoulder as he processed the results of her scan.
"What is the standard method?" He said clearing his throat. Her scent was different than usual. Perfume? Shampoo? Whatever the source, it was distracting.
"Oh, there are lots of ways. We Humans are very creative when it comes to drinking games."
Her grin triggered a curious lightness in his chest. He took a deep breath and the feeling lessened. He was taking a lot of deep breaths lately.
"There's always the gold standard though."
"And that would be?" He stepped away from her to put the tricorder back on the table and get some distance.
"Last one conscious wins."
"That would be a single data point." And highly subjective. Also uninformative.
"So?" She examined the two bottles that he had lined up on the counter. The labels faced the front and he caught her knowing glance in his direction. He stared her down. His attention to detail was logical and he refused to give in to her need for chaos.
"A single data point is insufficient to establish a continuum of intoxication."
"A what?"
"A curve."
"Hmm, well … let's see what's on your list." She picked up his PADD from the counter and peered at his notes. "What the—?" Her eyes narrowed as she read his notes. "Are you planning to give tests?"
"How else will we determine the extent of our inebriation at any given moment?"
She stared at him for what seemed an eternity and then determinedly gathered up his equipment—the hyposamplers, the medical tricorder, his PADDs—and stuffed them in the nearest empty cupboard.
"You won't be needing any of these."
"How will we monitor our state of intoxication?" He glanced at the cupboard wistfully and she stepped in front of it, leaning against the counter casually.
"We'll use tried-and-true methods for that."
"I did not find any established protocols in my literature search other than those involving elementary coordination and cognition exercises that are unsuitable for—"
"You did a literature search?" She looked at Spock for a moment before shaking her head. "Why am I surprised? Of course, you did."
She uncorked the bottle of dark chocolate liqueur and set up the shot glasses. "You can slice the lemons," she said as she rolled one across the counter to him. "I'll make us some Chocolate Cakes and explain drinking games to you."
Spock looked down at the lemon in front of him and frowned. "You are going to bake?"
"Shots, Commander. I'm going to pour us some shots."
Spock downed his fifth shot and bit the sugar-coated lemon wedge. The combination produced a fascinating flavour that was greater than the sum of its parts. Nyota had relented and let him have his PADD and medical tricorder back, so as soon as he finished the shot he recorded his vitals and observations. He looked at her pointedly until she made an entry on the PADD. If he was to have accurate data he would need objective observations about his own behaviour.
"This is … intriguing." Spock licked his lips and contemplated his shot glass. "Is that truly the flavour of chocolate cake?"
"You mean you've never had chocolate cake?"
"I have not."
"You," said Nyota tilting her shot glass in his direction, "have been missing out." She downed the shot in one swallow and bit her lemon wedge. Spock watched her eyes water. "Whoa. Don't breathe in between the shot and the lemon. Changes the flavour."
She took his empty glass, lined it up next to hers, and expertly poured them another round. "How have you managed this many years around Humans without having chocolate cake?"
Spock stared at his glass for a moment debating the wisdom of answering her question. When he looked up he found Nyota staring pointedly at his full glass. He drank his shot, took a breath, and bit the lemon. She was right about the change in flavour. It was not an improvement.
"When do you propose to begin measuring our state of intoxication?"
"Well, when you starting feeling drunk we'll start playing 3D chess."
Spock stared at the table where his shot glass had left a sticky ring of alcohol. Normally he would have the urge to clean it up and restore order; at the moment he was seriously entertaining the thought of licking it.
Interesting.
"How will this measure our state of intoxication?"
"We've played 3D chess before, right?"
"Yes, on several occasions. Most recently—"
"'Yes' is enough." Since becoming his teaching assistant, she had developed the habit of cutting him off during some of his explanations—he was slowly learning when to expand on a statement and when to let it go.
"Yes," Spock said dutifully although he was more amused at her tone than chastened.
"Have I ever won?"
"No. I am a grandmaster while you have only recently started playing. Even under my tutelage it would be remarkable if you—"
Nyota drummed her fingers on the table. Her nail polish was silver tonight.
"'No' is sufficient?" Spock ventured.
She smiled and asked him, on average, how many moves it took him to win a game against her.
"Nineteen."
She tipped her head to the side, considering the low number, but he simply stared at her fixedly. She moved on. "Would an increase in the number of moves needed to win be a measure of how drunk you are?"
"Ah. Yes, I believe so." Spock thought for a moment. "Will your abilities not also decrease due to intoxication?"
"I knowwhat I'm doing."
"That's 29 moves, Commander." The amusement in her voice was clear even to a Vulcan.
"And yet you still have not won." His pride was only somewhat soothed by this fact as he was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain his supremacy in the game.
"But I will." She held his gaze confidently as they reset the board. "Ready to admit that you're drunk?" She rolled a white pawn between perfectly manicured nails—the light reflected off their mirror-smooth finish.
"Perhaps." He continued staring at her nails and realized that he had lost his train of thought. "Marginally."
"Right," said Nyota, drawing out the word. "How about we make this more interesting?"
"What do you propose?" He set down his knight in its designated spot and gave her his full attention.
"Strip 3D chess."
"Explain."
"If I capture one of your pieces, you give me something you're wearing."
His eyebrow crept up toward his bangs until the obvious question occurred to him. At which point his eyebrow rejoined its twin in shrewd contemplation. "I see. And if I capture one of your pieces?"
She merely smiled at him and placed her pawn in its square.
Interesting. The fact that this did not seem like a terrible idea should have warned him that he was already highly intoxicated.
"How is the winner determined?"
"I'm sure you can figure that out. Follow it to a logical conclusion." She leaned back in her chair and waited for him to make his move.
"It would be inappropriate for me to see you in such a state of undress." Inappropriate, but not undesirable. "As a superior officer." He moved his King's pawn as his opening move.
She looked at him pityingly. "What makes you think you're going to win, Commander?"
"I am a grandmaster."
"You're a grandmaster sober," she corrected as she responded to his pawn.
"Sober," Spock agreed amiably.
He found himself wondering what, exactly, she was wearing under her dress and how many pieces he would have to capture to reveal it. He arrested that particular train of thought when he noticed a small smile playing on Nyota's lips as she watched him. He had the unsettling feeling she was thinking exactly the same thing about him.
She is correct, you are intoxicated.