When Spock entered the lab Sam Kirk and the woman he'd been kissing pulled apart. The woman, Angela Henry from Operations, averted her gaze, her face reddening. A moment later she had her chin up, her expression belligerent, as if challenging him to comment on what he'd just witnessed.

Sam gave her shoulder a quick squeeze that lingered, and she smiled as his hand drew down her arm. "I need to drop by my quarters first. Meet you in fifteen?"

"Sounds good." She glanced at Spock, defiant stance disappearing along with the smile. She slipped past him with a whispered "Sir." The lab door hissed open and shut behind him.

Spock and Kirk exchanged looks properly defined as awkward.

"I'm off duty."

"Regardless, this is not an appropriate venue to arrange a tryst."

"Understood. Won't happen again."

Spock wondered why it happened at all. Sam Kirk was married. He and his wife had two children. And though marital arrangements took many forms throughout the galaxy, Lt. Kirk had always struck Spock as a human traditionalist prone towards performative nostalgia.

Hence, the mustache.

"Look, Angie and I are just friends." The right side of his mouth ticked up. "With benefits."

"It is none of my concern."

"Yeah, but I don't want you getting the wrong impression."

"What would be the right impression?"

Kirk scratched behind his ear. "Uh, well, there's kind of an unspoken agreement with spouses, especially when you're on deep space missions like this."

"I was not aware of that."

"We all know it can get pretty lonely out here."

Loneliness was indeed a problem for humans, however…

"You do not seem to want for friends on the ship." In fact, Sam Kirk's leisure time was spent in large groups, engaged in social activities that often involved one of the endless human drinking games.

An embarrassed chuckle. "Maybe I mean it gets horny out here," he said, then winced, realizing his mistake. He beat a hasty retreat before a Vulcan could ask him what "horny" meant.

But Spock had attended Star Fleet Academy. On Earth. Surrounded by humans. One could not escape the myriad, colorful variety of euphemisms humans used to describe anything pertaining to sex.

He knew what "horny" meant.

"Friends with benefits" however nagged at him.

Spock brought up the issue after shift the following evening.

Nurse Chapel, in the process of taking a drink of her beverage, inhaled the liquid instead and spent the next forty-one seconds coughing. Eyes watering, she apologized between gasps and spasms. He would never understand the human need to apologize for things over which they had no control.

Lt Ortegas pounded Christine between the shoulder blades, but her grin was all for him. He tamped down a flare of irritation before realizing the phrasing of his query had been… problematic.

"I am not obliquely referencing a desire for such an arrangement," he stated emphatically. Christine seemed relieved, Erica, skeptical.

"So, you know what it means then?"

Friendship was psychologically and socially beneficial for many species. But "benefits" as an addendum to friendship implied conditions outside the normal parameters. He had, of course, done his research before even broaching the subject.

"The term usually refers to sexual activities between friends who have no interest in a romantic involvement with each other."

"Aw. They grow up so fast," Erica said, mopping away imaginary tears.

"Stop," Christine admonished. Her demeanor had shifted from mild panic to mild intrigue. "What's got you pondering this particular subject, if I might ask?" At Spock's hesitation she immediately back-pedaled. "No. Never mind. I'm being nosy-"

"Not at all. Though I am concerned revealing more would stray into the realm of gossip."

"Oh. Okay, well, if you're not comfortable—"

"Screw that," Erica said. "You've opened the door, there's no going back now."

Christine gave her a scolding side-eye then offered reassurance he was under no obligation to do anything he thought unethical.

"Oh my god. He doesn't have to name names!" Erica planted her elbows on the tabletop, face perched between them, batting her lashes and wearing an expression of rapturous entreaty. "Just give us the juicy."

Spock threaded his fingers together. He checked Christine for guidance, but she was now whistling tunelessly and gazing about in feigned disinterest. He sighed. "Very well. I… I inadvertently observed an interaction. A prelude to further intimacy. One of the participants is married to someone who is not posted on the Enterprise."

It occurred to him he wasn't sure if Kirk's spouse was even in Starfleet.

"I see," Christine said, carefully.

"Intriguing," Erica said.

"This… person assured me such arrangements are common between spouses, especially on deep space missions."

Erica snorted, "Let me guess." She leaned back, stretching an arm along the booth's backrest. "Was it 'Stache Man by any chance?"

"I am not aware of a crew member named Stashman—"

"She means Sam Kirk," Christine said.

"Oh. Ah. A nickname referencing his facial hair."

"And his attitude. They kinda go together."

Spock had drawn his own conclusions about the mustache but knew could be making assumptions with limited data. "Can you clarify?"

Christine considered a moment, then a moment longer before Erica jumped in.

"Spock. Remember when you came back from your 'vacation' last year?" Finger quotes. The conversation was about to take a turn – and not in his favor. "You had the whole beard thing going on?"

"What?" Christine squeaked in horror and delight. "No!"

"Yup. Beard, shaggy hair, dressed in black like some tortured Heathcliff retro-goth guitarist—"

Christine fanned her face dramatically. "Be still my heart."

"But in that instance," Spock argued, "Facial hair was not the only indicator of whatever attitude you assumed I projected at the time."

"True. It was the whole package." Her brows rose and waggled about on her forehead – some sort of cipher Christine clearly comprehended and about which he could only guess.

Staunchly opposed to guessing, he returned to topic. "And Lt. Kirk's mustache? What attitude does that convey to you?"

"It says a lot about how he wants to be perceived when you first meet him," Christine said. "Fun loving-"

"But still professional," Erica added. An impression Spock would debate. "Old-fashioned but in a way he thinks is charming. Maybe a bit of a player—"

"But only if you want to play."

"Yeah. He's not a total douche."

"Play what?" Spock asked.

Erica gulped down the rest of her drink and peeled a finger away from the empty glass to point it at him. "Circle back your opening question."

Right. Friends with sexual benefits.

Still, he had not confirmed their conclusions about the person he'd observed, and now wondered why they had both so quickly assumed Sam Kirk. "Has he approached either of you with similar… offers?"

"He's not harassing anyone, Spock." Chirstine said quickly.

As head of the science department, Spock would have responded swiftly to any accusations of harassment. There had been none.

"Yeah. It's all mutual." Erica said. "And he does take no for an answer without hard feelings. Anyway, it's not like no-strings hook-ups are uncommon amongst us space-faring folk. He's hardly the only one." Christine flushed at that and cleared her throat, looking at anything but her companions at the table. Erica seemed not to notice. "I mean, it's not how I'd handle the loneliness of space if I was married."

"Such behavior would likely be construed as betrayal of a marital bond for Vulcans."

"For a lot of us humans too. But people seem to make allowances for, you know…" She looked around the galley bar bustling with off-duty crew, gestured vaguely at the view of space no one was paying attention to. "…all this stuff. Distance. Proximity. We're nothing if not flexible, us humans."

"And forgiving," Christine said.

"And prone to self-deception, as well."

They both eyed him at that, both a little annoyed.

"So how do you handle it, then, Mr. Spock? Being away from your betrothed for extended periods?"

"We speak as often as our schedules allow. And, of course, meditation is a useful tool in mitigating the separation."

"Yeah. I bet you meditate hard after talking to her."

"Mediation does not require strenuous effort. With regular practice it comes easily."

"I'm sure it does."

"Erica…" Christine cautioned.

"What? If I couldn't see my smokin' hot girlfriend on the regular, I'd be meditating like crazy every chance I got—"

"But as a human in similar circumstances would you not be more likely to masturbate at every opportunity?"

Erica Ortegas, insouciant pilot extraordinaire, looked briefly, sincerely scandalized before her trademark grin returned, a prelude to a pithy response. But a high-pitched, percussive explosion of laughter out of the woman sitting next to her rendered any comment she could make irrelevant.

Christine covered her mouth desperate to contain it, one hand, then both, but nothing could stop another volley bursting forth. And another. It was not, as the saying went, pretty. Spittle flew. Eyes streamed. Breath bellowed out a miasma of red wine and onion rings at him. She seemed helpless. Gasping. Overcome. He had no idea what to do or if even he should try. Flapping a hand at him, she somehow communicated that she was not dying of hilarity and would soon be on the other side of this paroxysm, recovery imminent.

Laughter was a known contagion. But in a room full of people made jovial by alcohol, Christine's fit was a only minor spectacle. Spock's presence at her table may have upped the interest briefly, but after a few sympathetic giggles and hushed speculation came the shrugs and a return to participating in their own minor spectacles.

Somewhat recovered, Christine gulped down a glass of water and declared herself mortified.

"You have a sneaky mean sense of humor, Mr. Spock."

"I could argue I have no sense of humor. I admit I did not expect such a dramatic reaction."

"Wait. You knew?" Erica said, affronted for some reason..

"That you were using the word 'meditation' euphemistically? Did you think you were subtle?"

"All this time I've been counting on your virtuous sincerity and adorable naivete."

"Because I may choose not to react or respond does not mean I have no idea what is being said."

"Ooh. So does that mean Vulcans—"

"Noooo, nuh uh." Christine scrambled out of her seat, grabbing her friend by the biceps. She gave a forceful jerk. "Come on."

"But—"

"Nope." Managing to pull an irritated but unresisting Erica from the booth, she wrapped an arm around the pilot's shoulders and steered her away from the table. "Oh look," she said, too brightly, "karaoke's starting."

"You hate karaoke."

"No, I don't. Shut up." Her smile as they left him was mostly clenched teeth.

As he had no interest in watching inebriated people inflict their delusions of talent on others, he left.

When he returned to his cabin, there was a message notification from T'Pring. It was not their scheduled night to converse which meant the message regarded something she thought could not wait. Yet he experienced lethargy at the thought of listening to it, at having to return her call upon hearing it, having to converse, perform. Wondering if she required his Vulcan reason or his Human lust.

An automatic calculation of time and distance justified his decision not to respond and he went to bed without meditating. Stared into the darkness as he had when he was small, contemplating his shameful human desires, colorfully illustrated by his all-too-human imagination.