They are beautiful. They are always beautiful. A distress call, difficult dignitaries, and excessive strain on the machinery of the ship, but it has resulted in early authorization for shore leave. The captain's dress uniform is aglow. It wraps his all too human physique in a package which showcases his dedication and achievement. It is no wonder they gather. He is a flame. The reception goes into the night. The young women are increasingly too young or too inebriated. The captain bows out of their introductions quickly, patronizingly. The peach haired woman from earlier has her hand on the captain's arm, hooked around his elbow as if appropriating him as her escort. I want to believe the captain is tolerating the touch with great effort. He appears relaxed only in the way alcohol induces it. I am still speaking with the chief of engineering from the Lexington regarding warp core warm restarts, pretending it takes all of my attention.
I had a storybook as a child. A boy visiting an alien world tames a funny little creature colored in rainbow scales. He tames it by figuring out what it likes to eat. The creature doesn't behave like a dog or a cat, the pets the boy has at home. But he gets used to its oddnesses, discovers the oddnesses make sense for the world it is on. Then the boy and his family leave. The rocket ship shrinks to a dot in a midnight blue sky. The creature waits. The creature starves.
I was dutiful under Captain Pike, more dutiful than now. But, in truth, there is a fuzziness to the application of logic needed to make a comparison. I put no effort into loyalty now. In contrast to before when my duty was akin to my meditative regime, practiced, full of rigorous intent. I try to hypothesize how my life will be after James Kirk. Logic slips away in the face of the initial assumption and I can reach no conclusion. I can barely dwell on the premise. How did I let logic and emotion become inextricably intertwined in this manner? Do full Vulcans do this with certain topic areas, or is it just me? Logically, does it matter if it's just me?
I put on a front for the planetary ministers. I put on a front for the rescued dignitaries. My desire to pretend is growing fragile. It will soon snap. Peaches and Cream, as I think of her, smells wonderful. She's wearing some kind of engineered scent. I breathe it deeply. It's like the alcohol, a cheap shortcut. She's clingier than expected, perhaps worried about the younger competition, who imply they would be wanton or coy or innocent, whatever their hormones tell them minute to minute. I put a hand over Peaches' hand in a reassuring gesture and sense her relax beside me. We understand each other at least at this one small level.
"Mr. Spock." The captain stops. Uncharacteristically seems to be searching for words. I wonder if he's trying to articulate something about the mission, confirm something comprehended since the reception. He looks away. His brows are furrowed. I estimate the light is low here for him and wonder if he believes I cannot see his expression. It is oh three hundred and twenty five local time. We have encountered each other outside the hotel on a boardwalk which cuts a straight line across a sinuous lake edge between clusters of cityscape. If the wind were not still, it would be cold. "Want to walk?" He asks. His tone is one of giving up, annoyed with himself. I nod. We fall in step. The boardwalk is loud under our boots.
Curiosity is a weakness meticulously cultivated in Vulcan children. I ache due to this weakness. I am curious why the captain is out here instead of with his date from the reception. I cannot ask. The question itself would speak for me in ways I am incapable of controlling.
I've had too much to drink, my mouth is pasty, my brain stuck on one track. I want another drink. Ahead just offshore, floor sitting level with the shimmering water, is a small glassed in bar half full of fashionable patrons flickering in candlelight. Romantic. Apart from everything. I tip my head at the narrow dock that forms a walkway out to it. Spock nods. He is equitable. With me he is equitable. With everyone else he is exacting to the point of distraction. I order a drink, a double. If I get drunk enough, will Spock get exacting with his captain?
Lack of responsibility has opened up space for the captain to brood. He sits hunched, tries to look out at the lake. Even basked in the simple candlelight as we are, the glass is too reflective. He keeps looking away. Looks back again as if maybe his ability to see has changed. This particular aspect of restlessness is a novel one for him. I sense defeat, and this is also novel. Whatever this is, he is choosing not to fight.
The ice has melted and the scotch has become watery smoke. Spock sits across from me as if at his duty station, observant, patient. I can't put words to any of what is consuming me. "Perhaps Dr. McCoy?" My logical Vulcan. I shake my head. There are a row of lights about half a klick away, rocking mesmerizingly. Boats at dock I assume. I want to be stone sober. I feel like I'm almost there.
The captain emerges from his thoughts, straightens. His gentle smile is calculated entirely for its effect on me. "It's okay, Spock." I know the captain detests any worry for him. And that dislike and his pride could constitute the entire energy behind his apparent recovery. He has abandoned his drink which no longer collects condensate on the outside of the glass. He stares past my right ear when he's not looking at me directly. His attention has wholly shifted in my direction. He is burying the source of the crisis. My curiosity overcomes me. "May I ask what is the matter?"