"Will that be all, Doctor?"
Nurse Chapel glanced expectantly across the room.
"Could be," Doctor McCoy began, "Depends on where you're running off to."
"I thought I'd told you…"
The pause tugged at her remaining confidence, which fell over her like a curtain. She refused to look up.
"You did, this morning. I just thought, maybe if you said it enough, you'd realize how completely ridiculous it sounds."
Nervously, she laced up her fingers, and continued focusing on the floor. It was painful, waiting for the doctor to speak:
"We all do crazy things," she was relieved to hear his smile, "Go on."
"Thank you, Doctor."
Since the broadcast of Uhura's announcement, Chapel's cabin had become home to an imposing pot of plomeek soup. It brewed on a temporary burner, borrowed from the Lab. The lid was barely visible, peering over the headboard of her bed, and rattling as it grew hotter. She reached to stir it, and set aside a cup to sample.
Completely ridiculous.
Her tolerance of the taste was the product of many failed batches. Plomeek soup was, essentially, the film on the roof of her mouth, after a restless night. Bitter, lingering, and metallic.
Chapel pressed the cup to her lips, testing the scent of the steam, as well as its temperature. After determining it to be perfectly settled, she dipped one finger into the center of the bowl. She shrugged and prepared herself for the feeling.
This batch was, she decided, as close as she would ever get to authentic. The library stores did not contain detailed instructions, and she never gained the courage to ask Spock directly. Once, while visiting Vulcan with Roger, she was given a bowl. She was dismissive of the taste, but tried to recall every ingredient and proportion.
Nurse Chapel replaced the lid and turned off the electronic flame beneath the pot. She prepared two shallow bowls, sprinkling parsley and pepper into her own, before journeying to Spock's quarters.
She stood for too long in the hallway, waiting to knock. No, she would cough first, then knock. What if he didn't hear her? A louder cough. Two. Three…
The broth, being so thin, cooled quickly. She sighed and knocked, as she stared down into the bowl and counted flecks of pepper.
He was a Vulcan; he heard her perfectly.
"Come in," Spock said. The door slid open, and she did so.
Spock sat at his desk, facing the door. He did not look up at the nurse as she entered, however. His eyes were fixed on two shiny strips of grey.
"Nurse Chapel," he observed. She remained in the doorway, until he glanced up, "Are you feeling well?"
"Oh, um, yeah. And I can come back, if you're doing something."
The Vulcan gave a final, calculating look at the failed cards. His own was disappointingly blank:
"I am doing nothing productive. May I ask the reason for your visit?"
Christine nodded and set both bowls on the desk, to complement the cards. She would not inquire about them, as she sensed they were a source of embarrassment.
"I know it's a bit late in the day," she mumbled, "But I thought you might want something to eat. I just made some—"
"Plomeek soup," he reached for the unenhanced bowl, "Did you also, 'want something to eat?'"
"You can… have both bowls, if you want. I don't mind."
"I only require one. Anyway, the other is clearly intended for human consumption."
"Yeah."
He continued his visual patrol, between the cards, the door, the soup, and the visitor.
"I do not understand why you are still standing, Nurse. You do not typically stand while eating."
Chapel smiled at this, accepting the comment more warmly than it was intended, and sat down across from Spock. She stirred her soup, trying politely to eat it in the same manner and speed the Vulcan demonstrated.
In the sloshy silence, she became compelled to find out the meaning of the grey slates on her own. She stared intently, between bites.
"An Earth tradition," Spock explained, watching her, "They are called Christmas cards."
"But that one is written in Vulcan," she said, pointing gently. Spock looked instead at the blank one.
"By my mother. I am currently composing a response. So far, I have been unsuccessful."
The nurse had to search her mind for a suitable scrap of logic. She found it shivering in a corner, unsure of itself:
"Well, what do they normally say, Christmas cards?"
"I have no other sources for comparison; they are a correspondence between relatives."
"Oh," she sighed, and dug for another spoonful of soup. Her bowl was nearly empty, but she could not convince herself to be thankful. Although it would provide an excuse to leave, the taste would settle on her tongue if unoccupied by conversation.
"I believe I must say 'thank you,'" Spock began, setting down his finished bowl, "for the soup. You possess almost a natural skill at preparing it."
Chapel felt the blood, etching against her cheeks, but she could not stop it.
"Thank you." She leaned forward, "I believe I'm supposed to say 'merry Christmas,' since it was a gift."
Spock nodded, looking again at the project on his desk.
"The ideal start of my message," he said.
Christine smiled, rushed to pick up the dishes, and stumbled from the room.
I just want you for my own,
More than you could ever know.
Make my wish come true:
All I want for Christmas is you.