CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC
*comes out of hiding place*
*peeks around corner*
...hello? Is anyone still here?
So yeah, it's been a while. I'm tempted to launch into a huge spiel about why I haven't updated in so long, but that's kinda boring, and this chapter is long enough as it is. If anyone is truly interested in getting glimpses of my seven month trudge through the land of "Holy Crap, I Can't Freakin' Write," I've been posting little story progress updates on my profile page. The least you need to know is that I'm slow but determined, and I am eternally grateful to everyone who has been willing to stick it out with me.
Enough about me, let's talk about story warnings. Aside from the usual perv and profanity, I don't really have any. Unless you think you should be warned about OC-centric chapters, that is. Yeah, it's very OC-centric. Sorry' bout that. I'll make it up to you in awkward sexual tension later, I swear!
When Spock had informed him of his need to spend time in meditation, Jim had not been surprised in the least. Considering how severely his emotions had been compromised by the bodypaint, it was only natural that the Vulcan would want to delve into his own consciousness to purge any remaining sensuality from his system. What did surprise him, however, was that he fully intended to accomplish this in a room designed to facilitate carnal pleasure. Throwing his friend a final glance before he left him to his privacy, Jim couldn't help but smile at the paradox he presented. Draped in a heavy black robe and sitting a mere arm's reach away from a canopy bed (with a ceiling mirror, no less), surrounded by a crescent of candles (vanilla-scented, no less), logic had never been sexier. Only Spock could try to suppress his own sexuality looking like he belonged in a holoporn.
Good luck with that, Jim thought fondly as he closed the door behind him.
Resigned to a Spockless evening, Jim made his way to the hotel lobby to arrange a meeting with Droovin, his mind burning with unanswered questions. His conversation with Spock had shed some light on the nature of his reaction to the bodypaint, but he still wasn't any closer to understanding how it could have affected him in the first place. Although he did not relish the thought of conversing with the giddy Jarillian so shortly after an encounter with a naked Spock, he had a sneaking suspicion that the Romance Concierge was his best chance of understanding what had just happened, provided that he could get him to reveal more about the J'seya yi sleya itself.
The lobby receptionist ground his plans into dust with a cheery smile.
"My deepest apologies Mr. Kirkspock, but Droovin is assisting the entertainment staff this evening and will not be available until the end of the Venus Ball. Shall I arrange for another Romance Concierge to see to your romantic needs in the meantime?"
Jim suppressed a shudder at the unfortunate choice in words.
"Thank you, no. Would you mind taking a message for him?"
"Certainly, Mr. Kirkspock."
"Tell him that Mr. Kirk would like to speak to him at his earliest convenience."
"Certainly, Mr. Kirkspock."
Jim gave her a stern look.
"Miss, if you don't mind, the name is Kirk."
The receptionist beamed at him.
"That's a lovely name, Mr. Kirkspock."
He made his way to the dining lounge, where his ears were immediately assaulted by the blatting of a poorly-tuned trombone. A quick visual sweep of the area told him that the Love Buffet tables from earlier had been cleared out, replaced by a makeshift stage, where a quintet of musicians played what sounded like a queasy rendition of Twentieth Century Terran jazz. He groaned inwardly at the sight of their upper-upper-thigh length togas. Strangely enough, he found himself feeling nostalgic for the diapered outfits of the Romance Concierges, if only for the coverage they provided.
They really shouldn't be playing on an elevated stage, he thought grimly, when the trombonist chose that particular moment to tilt his brass. Somehow he doubted that this was what Terran musicians had had in mind when they coined the term "swing music." His appetite completely decimated for the evening, he took a seat at the bar counter and ordered a Bolian beer.
Gradually he became aware of a familiar voice blasting through the cacophony of clinking dishware and bleating music.
"...must think I'm some kind of moron!"
Jim swiveled his bar stool and scanned the room to locate the source of the noise. Sure enough, he spied Norman Stone at a circular table with Joanie seated beside him in an old-fashioned wheelchair. A young waiter hovered near the couple, wringing his hands. Even from the distance, Jim could see the whites of his eyes. Intrigued, he leaned forward and attempted to tune out the surrounding noise and pick up the thread of their conversation. He heard an unintelligible mumbling from the waiter, followed by Norman's more audible boom.
"I couldn't care less what it tastes like!"
Another muffled reply.
"Did I ask about the nutritional content?"
The waiter hesitated for a handful of seconds, then replied in low, placating tones.
"You're not listening to a fucking word I'm saying!" Norman roared. He pounded the tabletop with his fists, rattling the dishware. Water sloshed from the tumblers. Conversations around them halted. The waiter froze, his lips pulled into a terrified grimace. Jim instantly recognized that look; it was the same look that many a green ensign on his crew had worn when faced with a crisis scenario that had not been covered at the Academy.
Unable to remain a passive observer any longer, Jim hopped off his stool, picked up his bottle, and ambled toward the fracas.
"Norman Stone!" he greeted in his most jovial voice when he approached the table, "How many times are we going to run into each other in a day?"
Norman gaped at him, startled out of his harangue. Jim favored him with his most innocuous smile.
"Enjoying yourselves this evening?" he asked.
"Hardly."
"Oh?" Jim arranged his face into his most Spock-worthy expression of detached curiosity. "What seems to be the problem?"
Rallied by his question, Norman sat up straighter in his seat, his chest and eyes puffing and narrowing respectively.
"I've been coming here with my wife for our anniversary for thirty-three years now," he began. He threw the immobile Joanie a fond look before continuing.
"And on the third day of our vacation, we watch the sunset at the naked beach, and then we come here for supper. Joanie orders the filet mignon—medium-well, with buttered beans and garlic roasted potatoes. Made from scratch. It's tradition. This idiot here..."
He jerked a thumb at the waiter, who stood rooted to the spot like an Academy cadet receiving a severe dressing down at a disciplinary hearing.
"...brought her the wrong order once already, and instead of getting it right the second time, he's trying to get away with bringing her this crap."
He gestured at the dish in front of Joanie. Jim glanced at the offending cuisine: a butter-bathed assortment of beans and roasted potatoes surrounding a plump lump of bacon-wrapped beef.
"Clearly this is the meal you just finished describing," he said.
Norman shook his head.
"It's synthesized," he spat, glowering at the plate as if it were a nestful of Osaarian dung worms.
"And is there any reason in particular why you wouldn't want Joanie to enjoy a synthesized meal?" Jim asked.
Emboldened by the presence of a potential ally, the waiter piped up.
"I've been trying to explain that a synthesized meal is just as good as a hand-prepared meal, both in taste and nutritional content," he supplied.
Norman fixed the waiter with the full blast of his scowl. Jim could almost swear that he heard the sound of a soul shriveling.
"I don't give a hoopin' funt about the merits of synthesized food," Norman insisted, his voice saturated with deadly patience. "But what I am interested in knowing is why all these other guests get to enjoy hand-prepared, traditional Terran food—made by trained chefs—while my Joanie gets stuck with some lazy-ass, push-button swill that any idiot with the right food card could make. How is that fair?"
He brandished an index finger at the waiter's chest.
"It's not her fault you botched her order once already, so why are you trying to rip her off a second time? Did you think she wouldn't notice? Did you think she wasn't worth the time it would take the chefs to make another meal from scratch? Did you?"
With each question he fired off, the indignation in his voice mounted. The waiter quailed under the volley and shot him Jim helpless glance. Instinctively Jim moved to stand beside him.
"You don't honestly believe that anyone here would deliberately try to insult your wife, do you?" he asked. "Surely, after thirty-three years of coming here, you would have a higher opinion of the staff than that."
Norman hesitated.
"I haven't seen him here before," he protested feebly.
"Which is a good indication that he might be a new," Jim put in. He angled his body toward the waiter.
"Have you been working here long?" he inquired.
The waiter shook his head.
"This is my third week on the job," he said.
"And is it fairly common to replicate the menu items here?" Jim asked.
"Only for the staff, sir. We use the food processors to save time on our own meal breaks, but the guests' food is all made from scratch."
The waiter risked an appeasing glance at Norman.
"Sir, I never meant to insult you or your wife," he said. "It's just that I felt bad about bringing her the wrong dish the first time, and I didn't want her to have a long wait. I know how annoying that can be. I only wanted to save you some time; I never meant any offense."
"Surely, Norman, you can appreciate his good intentions." Jim said. He clapped the waiter on the shoulder and allowed just a hint of condescension to creep into his voice—enough to remind Norman of how much older and wiser he was.
"We've both been there, right? We know what it's like to be young and new on the job, and bursting with ideas on how to improve the system."
The appeal to his kinder nature seemed to wilt some of the older man's righteous indignation. He dropped his gaze to the table.
"I didn't bring my Joanie here to have synthesized food," he said in a tired voice.
"And now that you've made that abundantly clear," Jim shot him a pointed look. "I'm sure the chefs would be more than happy to make Joanie a handmade meal while you wait. Peacefully, " he added when he saw Norman opening his mouth to protest.
For a moment, Norman sat motionless, gazing at Joanie as if he expected her to snap to wakefulness and back him up. When she offered him no acknowledgment, he pressed his lips together and nodded his assent.
The waiter collected the rejected plate and scurried away, throwing Jim a grateful look over his shoulder. Norman watched his departure in silence, then unfurled the cloth napkin beside his plate and began to sop up the spilled water on the table. Jim took a slow swig of his beer and contemplated whether he should remain where he was or leave the couple to their privacy. When Norman spoke next, the bleakness in his voice settled the matter.
"Not my finest hour, huh?"
Jim glanced at the older man. His head was so drooped he looked like he had an invisible anvil tied to his beard.
"I'd be worried if it was." Jim said. He smiled to take the edge off his words and took a seat across from the couple. "Your Joanie must really have a grudge against replicated food."
Norman perked up a little at the mention of his wife.
"That lady was born with a golden palate," he said. "Most people can't tell if a meal has been synthesized, but Joanie always said she could. And the Joanie I married would never take a synthesized meal over the real thing. Isn't that right, you old food snob?"
He turned to Joanie and Jim saw him smile for the first time that evening. The fact that Joanie did not return the gesture seemed lost on him.
"So what's your story, James Kirk?" he asked. "I don't see your Vulcan anywhere. You and Spank have some kinda lover's quarrel?"
Jim flinched, taken aback by the sudden about-face in the conversation.
"It's Spock," he corrected, "and no, there's no quarrel." Seeing the skepticism on the other's face he added, "We just thought we'd give each other some space to pursue our own...personal interests."
He drew a long draught of his beer and pointedly ignored the smirk blooming on the corner's of Norman's mouth.
"You come to couples resort, and this is the best 'personal interest' you can think of?" Norman asked, his voice laced with incredulity. "I would've thought there'd be other things you could be sucking on right now instead of that bottle...and looking a hell of a lot happier about it, too. Either you've got one lousy imagination or you're bullshitting me. Judging from that big trench between your eyebrows, I'm gonna go ahead and guess it's the latter. I know a 'doghouse' face when I see one."
Jim watched Norman tuck into his own neglected meal with a smirk and considered whether it was worth it or not to set him straight. As much as he wanted to resent the smugness on Norman's face, he couldn't help but suspect that it was not generated out of malice, but out of a perverse sense of relief at the possibility that he was not the only one who had made an ass out of himself that evening. A feeling he could wholeheartedly relate to. He settled on a noncommittal shrug.
"Well, try not to let it get to you too much, son," Norman continued in a kinder voice. "Go and have a time out from Spock if you think you need one, but don't drag it out too long. I'm not the kind of guy who likes to force his opinions on others, but if I could give you just one piece of relationship advice, it's that unless you're a Klingon, nothing good will ever come out of going to bed angry with your sweetie."
He nodded at his own sagacity and bit into his dinner roll.
XXX
Although he would not have imagined that a visit founded on a tantrum could be anything but uncomfortable, Jim soon found himself grateful for the company. A man with a scope of conversation that rivaled his girth, Norman was more than happy to steer the discussion away from Spock-infested waters, and Jim was more than happy to let him. Pausing only to sneak in the occasional spoonful of French onion soup, Norman regaled him with stories of his early days on Jaris II as a Kestorian crystal miner who had been assigned the same shift as a "foxy little potty mouth" named Joanie.
"I've never met anyone who could cuss quite like Joanie," Norman admitted with a proud grin. "She's the only woman I've ever known whose farts were more ladylike than her conversation. Compared to the crudeness that came outta her mouth, the stuff that came from her ass was purer than the flapping of angel wings."
He reached for his wife's hand without breaking eye-contact with Jim.
"Still, it didn't take me long to fall for her. Thought I did a good job of hiding it, too." He smiled ruefully. "I should've known better than to try and sneak it by a Jarillian woman. I knew the jig was up the day she showed up for shift calling me 'Normanjoanie.'"
He lifted Joanie's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her knuckles.
Although Joanie's participation in the visit was strictly limited to her physical presence, Jim was impressed by the lengths to which Norman went to include her. Whether it was by patting her hand, stroking her hair, or tossing out the occasional "Right, Joanie?" in the middle of his stories, the older man seemed determined to keep her in the forefront of his mind.
As the evening wore on, Jim found himself sneaking glances at Joanie's slack face, wishing that she would do something—anything—to acknowledge her husband. As much as he admired Norman's continued affection for his wife, he couldn't help but feel saddened by the lack of reciprocation. It was like watching a one-sided relationship between a man and a storefront mannequin. Not that Norman seemed to mind. Seemingly undaunted by her averted gaze and sagging mouth, he continued his repertoire of anecdotes, nodding and bobbing his head so enthusiastically as he spoke that Jim kept waiting for him to accidentally plunge his beard into his soup.
By the time the waiter returned with Joanie's meal, Norman's mood had improved so dramatically that he greeted the youth like a long-lost friend and promised him a generous tip for his trouble.
He waited until the waiter was out of sight before pushing his own bowl aside and scooting his chair closer to his wife. Jim glanced at the mound of food on Joanie's plate and and sent him a quizzical look.
"Norman, are you sure Joanie will be able to manage a meal like this?" he asked.
"Are you kidding? Her doctors have her on a diet of pureed food cubes. Even if she could chew this stuff on her own, it would do a number on her digestive system."
"Then why..."
"...did I freak out over a meal she can't even eat?" Norman finished for him. He smiled at Jim's confusion. "She might not be able to eat this stuff, but that doesn't mean that she can't enjoy it. Here, I'll show you."
He lifted Joanie's plate and held it close to her face.
"Watch her closely," he instructed.
Jim fixed his eyes on the diminutive woman in the wheelchair and waited. At first, she remained unchanged, her face locked in a perpetual blinking grimace. Then, as if in response to the warm currents of aroma rising from the food, her nostrils began to flare.
"Attagirl, Joanie," Norman whispered.
Joanie's features began to soften. The rapid-fire blinking ceased. Her lips, loosely parted, drew together in a soft pucker. For just an instant, Jim saw the Jarillian woman's eyes flicker in Norman's direction before her eyelids fluttered shut.
Jim Kirk did not consider himself a fanciful man. Although he would never come close to matching Spock's level of pragmatism, he had little use for the mysterious or the whimsical. As he contemplated the transformation that had stolen over Joanie's face, his rational mind told him that whatever her illness, she had obviously retained the sense of smell, that the familiar scent had merely stimulated some long-dormant neural pathways. But when he considered the way Norman's eyes shone as he regarded his wife, he couldn't help but feel as if he had just witnessed something straight out of a fairy tale—the glimpse of a captive princess through prison windows. This was not the face of a woman beset by a debilitating illness. This was the face of a woman inhaling the essence of her favorite meal—her gourmet soul restored by the scent of potatoes and prime beef.
When Norman finally spoke, his voice was softer than Jim had ever heard it before.
"The first time I saw Joanie make this face was during our first date. I took her to some ritzy, overpriced restaurant after work, and she had a Delovian souffle. She took one bite of the stuff and told me she was having a 'foodgasm.' This is the expression she wore. She only makes it for the best of foods." He paused, and Jim saw the plate tremble briefly before he steadied it again.
"This look is one of the only things that she has in common with the woman I married...at least, on the outside...and she's making it less and less. Most days, it's only ticcing and bodily functions."
He winced, as if it pained him to speak the words aloud.
"I'm no dreamer, James. I don't expect that bringing Joanie to the Cove and doing all the things we used to do will somehow restore her. My Joanie will never speak to me or kiss me again. That part of our marriage is over. But if there is any chance that she can still understand anything I say or do, then I have to reach her...let her know that she will always be my Joanie-girl...the belle of the ball, who deserves nothing but the finest filet mignon, prepared by the best chefs."
Jim nodded his head, gripped with a sudden insight.
"She wouldn't have reacted this way for synthesized food," he stated. No wonder the older man had acted so boorishly.
Norman smiled.
"How do you think I knew to send the other meal back in the first place?"
"It's a shame about all that wasted food, though." Jim said. Norman shrugged.
"That's why it's a hell of an inconvenience to love another person, James; no matter your best intentions, there's always a price."
XXX
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Not wanting to encroach on what was obviously a special time for Norman, Jim diverted his attention to the dance floor, where several couples had gathered to sway in time to the music. He smiled to himself as he watched a pair of innamoratos waltzing in tandem, so attuned to each other's movements that it was impossible to tell who was leading whom. Briefly, he allowed himself to mentally superimpose Spock's and his faces onto their bodies, wondering if their natural trust and symbiosis would translate into something that didn't involve keeping each other alive in a crisis. The fantasy immediately evaporated when his mind painted a clearer picture of the bored disdain that would likely adorn the Vulcan's face during the entire activity.
He stifled a sigh and drained the remainder of his beer to brace himself against the bland, impassive face that swam before his mind's eye—the face that awaited his return to their shared suite. No doubt Spock was deep into his meditation now, summoning up every Vulcan mental discipline to dissect, analyze, and ultimately discard the memories of shared embraces and spoken confessions. Not that he could expect anything less from the same man who once coolly requested to go over duty rosters with him a mere six hours after trying to kill him in a hormone-induced rage. But still...was it too much to hope for that the Vulcan had at least deposited the memory of their encounter into a mental database entitled, "Illogical Things I Would Do Again If I Were Human?"
Norman's voice jarred him from his musings.
"You're missing your sweetie."
Jim glanced up sharply.
"Don't bother trying to argue me on this one, son," Norman warned. "If there's one thing I've been forced to learn since Joanie's illness, it's the importance of picking up on the subtle things. And you, my friend, are about as subtle as a fart on a wood chair. Instead of sitting here and moping, why don't you go fetch that Vulcan of yours and take him for a twirl on the dance floor?"
Jim smirked as the mental picture of waltzing with the sour-faced Spock resurfaced.
"Clearly you are not familiar with the Vulcan race," he said.
"No, I guess not," Norman agreed readily. "Everything I thought I knew about em' was shot to shit the moment I saw ol' Perogie Ears making googly eyes at you at the naked beach."
Jim flinched at the memory. He was about to make a disparaging retort when a sudden thought occurred to him: Norman had taken the J'seya yi sleya himself once. He leaned forward in his seat.
"You mentioned earlier that you and Joanie had your bodies painted for your wedding," he said.
"The J'seya yi sleya? Yeah, it's pretty standard around here."
"If I remember correctly, you referred to it as 'sexypaint.'"
"Sexypaint?" Norman gave him a curious glance, then smiled at the recollection. "Oh, that. That's just another one of Joanie's word smooshies. She has a thing for sticking words together. Must be a Jarillian trait."
"Do you remember experiencing anything...out of the ordinary after the painting?" Jim asked. "Any different behaviors? Physiological changes? Unusual though processes?"
Norman set Joanie's plate down, thought for a few seconds, then shook his head.
"No, nothing's coming to mind. Mind you, that was over thirty years ago. I was probably too distracted by all the rockin' newlywed sex to worry about unusual symptoms."
"So is it fair to say that there was an increase of, ah, amorous feelings after taking the J'seya yi sleya?" Jim asked.
Norman made an incredulous face at him.
"Kid, it was my honeymoon...whadaya think?"
Jim grinned and tried a different approach.
"Does the bodypaint contain any special ingredients that you are aware of?" he asked.
"Water, liquid latex, some kind of coloring agent..." Norman shrugged. "I dunno, what do they normally use for that kind of stuff?" He leaned forward, turning an intense gaze upon him.
"I'm surprised you're so interested in the J'seya yi sleya, seeing as you were so eager to get rid of your own," he said.
When Jim offered no response, he added,
"This has to do with your Vulcan and why he's not with you right now, doesn't it?"
Jim looked away and Norman chuckled.
"Subtlety, James. You have none."
Jim frowned, torn between his desire to finally have some answers and his instinct to protect Spock's inherent sense of privacy.
"Let's just say that Spock had a very...unexpected reaction to the bodypaint, " he hedged.
Norman said nothing, clearly waiting for him to continue. Jim sighed.
"He seemed to believe that the J'seya yi sleya contained certain...aphrodisiac qualities," he added.
Sorry, Spock.
"That shouldn't be too much of a surprise, right?" Norman said. "I mean, what's an aphrodisiac but something that makes you horny? A guy sees his partner walking around a naked beach with paint on his pecker—that's bound to count as an aphrodisiac, if you ask me."
"Not if you're a Vulcan," Jim said in a low voice.
He didn't know if it was the alcohol getting to him, or if Norman's own openness about his personal life had fostered a desire to reciprocate the older man's trust, but before he could talk himself out of it, he found himself telling Norman everything. The older man's face vacillated from confusion to surprise to amusement as Jim relayed the events surrounding his vacation with Spock. Although a part of Jim wanted to berate himself for being so liberal with the details about his strange friendship with Spock, he couldn't deny how great it felt to finally have someone to confide in. He couldn't remember the last time he had engaged in a lengthy conversation where he didn't have to weigh his words against the possibility of being deemed "unfit for command."
When he finally finished, Norman sat back in his seat with a bewildered expression on his face.
"And here I thought I was the only guy at this place who wasn't getting laid tonight," he muttered. He lifted his glass in a mock toast and downed the remainder of his water. Jim chuckled, strangely relieved by the older man's levity
"Well, I don't know what you want me to tell you, James," Norman said, shaking is head. "I've lived on Jaris II thirty-seven years now and I've seen plenty of paint jobs—the traditional and the tourist kind—but I've never heard of any of them causing a case of 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Sex.' You sure your buddy doesn't just have the hots for you?"
Jim made a face at him. "You have noticed the ears, right?"
"Yeah, they're kinda hard to miss. But best as I can figure, there's a bit of a distance between a man's ears and his schlong. And Spock's a tall guy." The grin on Norman's face melted away when Jim gave him a sour look. He let out an exasperated sigh.
"If you want my opinion, you're spending way too much time brooding over something you could be enjoying. The guy agreed to vacation with you at a lovers resort, for cripes sake. Relax! Pull out the stick and make way for the dick! At the very least, be grateful for what you do have with Spock. He loves you."
Jim looked away.
"Now you're starting to sound like Droovin," he muttered.
"I'll take that as a compliment. People like Droovin are the reason I keep coming here," Norman insisted.
"How so?"
Norman hesitated and stole a quick glance at his wife before continuing.
"Strangers look at Joanie and see a woman with Bornik's Disease. Friends and family look at her as if she is a preserved corpse, and they grieve for the woman they remember. People like Droovin look at Joanie and see 'Joanienorman,' the woman I married...a woman who enjoys beaches and sunsets and filet mignon." His voice roughened. "A woman who loves me."
Jim frowned, recalling the moment on the beach when Droovin had stared intently into Joanie's face and declared, "She's in there, Mr. Normanjoanie...and she loves you." At the time he had been too preoccupied with thoughts of his impending liaison with Spock to pay much attention, but in retrospect, the man-cherub's words seemed inordinately presumptuous, if not irresponsible.
"The last thing I want is to seem indifferent to your situation, but has it ever occurred to you that he might've been offering you false hope—telling you what you want to hear?" he asked.
He fully expected the older man to grow defensive or erupt in a stream of profanity, but to his surprise, Norman just chuckled and waved his words away.
"Clearly you are not familiar with the Jarillian race," Norman replied, his voice faintly mocking. "That kid might be walking around in a diaper, but don't think for a second that he's full of shit. If Droovin tells me that my Joanie still loves me, I'd be an idiot not to believe him." He leaned forward, pointing his finger across the table at him. "And you would do well to do the same. No decent Jarillian would ever dick around about that kind of stuff. Whatever you and Spock have going on, if it's enough to get you a paint job and a name like 'Kirkspock,' it's enough to count as a love-bond."
Jim's mind raced as he considered the implications of Norman's words.
"From the moment Spock and I arrived here, the staff have refused to call us by our given names—it's been nothing but 'Kirkspock' and 'Spockkirk.'" He narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting that there is a specific reason for that...a reason that goes beyond our being at a couples resort?"
"Now that's something you're gonna have to take up with an actual Jarillian," Norman replied.
"Why?"
"Privileged information, son. Not every Jarillian is comfortable with the idea of filling outworlders in on the inner workings of their society. I probably shouldn't have told you as much as I have."
Jim favored the older man with his most disarming grin.
"But why stop when you're on a roll?"
Norman laughed.
"Nice try. I might have the citizenship, that that doesn't make me an ambassador." Seeing the frustration on Jim's face, he relented a little. "I will tell you this, though: you're asking the wrong questions. If were you, I'd stop trying to figure out why Spock reacted to the bodypaint, when the question you should be asking is why you were singled out to receive a paint job in the first place."
Before Jim could even begin to formulate a follow-up question in response to the information he had just received, the air was filled with the sound of a prolonged wet rumble, followed by a whispered curse from Norman. A cursory glance at the scarlet flush on the older man's face confirmed his recognition of the sound. Funny how a man who could make so many casual references to bodily functions could look so mortified when confronted with the real thing.
"Sorry James, but I think that's Joanie's way of telling me that supper's over. I don't wanna run out on you or anything, but..."
"It's perfectly understandable," Jim assured him. He sent a concerned glance in Joanie's direction. "Will she be alright?"
"Nothing a little clean-up won't help, but it's best if I don't put it off. You're never too old to get diaper rash."
Norman rose from his seat and gripped the handles of Joanie's wheelchair, maneuvering it away from the table. He paused and looked at Jim with a pensive expression on his face.
"Hey James, have you ever heard of that old game Earth kids play with flowers? The one where they rip the petals off and say, 'He loves me, he loves me not'?"
Jim nodded his head. Norman regarded him solemnly
"Don't play that game with your Vulcan...it isn't worth it. I know you want answers, but if you get too caught up in picking apart and analyzing all the details, you could end up destroying something beautiful. Go talk to a Jarillian if you think it will help, see what you can find out, but don't mangle a good thing if you don't have to. Now if you'll excuse me, my wife and I have a little 'spa session' to attend. Help yourself to the filet mignon."
With that, he gave Jim a two-fingered farewell salute, turned, and wheeled Joanie away from the table, leaving Jim with a plateful of untouched food and a head full of thoughts.
So I know the story has taken an angstier turn in the last couple of chapters, but just so you're aware, I have no intention of turning this fic into a huge bummer-fest. This is about as heavy as the story is going to get...I still have a whole lotta crack and pervy wish-fulfillment to get out of my system! ^_^