I've had a hellish week, and just felt like writing something soft and fluffy. Proceed at your own risk.
Thank you for reading!
After such time in the company of a most unusual human such as James Kirk, it is quite rare that Spock is able to surprise him; but it is even rarer, that the captain is able to return the favor.
The odds of both happening in the same evening are lower still; this is a notable occasion under those parameters alone. Spock is unsurprised that the captain has retreated, both physically and mentally, after the events of this day; he is, however, surprised that the man chose this location instead of another far more likely candidate. This is new.
Kirk looks up at him over the top of an antique hard-backed novel edged in faded gold. He half-smiles as Spock glances around the room from the doorway, regarding the somewhat garish décor and strange smells with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
"I wasn't expecting you yet, Commander. I honestly didn't think anyone even remembered we have this place."
"On the contrary. I was informed only last week by Lieutenant Carstairs that an ongoing rivalry between beta-shift Cartography and delta-shift Botany is becoming a topic of heated debate below decks. The initial formation of an amateur league seems to be in progress."
Spock does not understand the appeal of the game, as it is little more than calculating Newton force, mass, deceleration, and trajectory; but he has before noted the effects of healthy competition upon his Science personnel, and knows it is important for humans to have recreational activities amid the high-stress life of a starship crewman. That recreation often takes form of an organized sport, although this particular game only dubiously qualifies.
The mechanics of bowling, Spock understands. The linguistic subtlety Lt. Carstairs attempted to demonstrate during gameplay, something called trash talking, Spock does not understand. Perhaps some clarification by an expert such as Doctor McCoy is in order, at a later date.
"Really? I had no idea." Kirk places what looks like a small cloth strip in the book and closes it, setting it with gentle care on the somewhat dingy table. "We should probably allocate some resources to refit the place next year, then. There is vintage ambiance, and then there is actual wear and tear. It's definitely seen better days."
"Affirmative. It is on my list of topics to discuss when we finalize the refit recommendations."
"I don't even know why I mentioned it." The captain's smile is genuine, if considerably slower to appear than usual. "So. You're carrying two cups and no data-padds. Is this a social summons? Or did Bones send you down here with a bribe."
"Negative, to both questions."
Thus assured that the captain is not particularly insistent upon complete solitude, Spock moves into the room and sits beside him at the long, uncomfortable table. He places one steaming cup in front of Jim and keeps hold of the other, not trusting the cleanliness of the well-worn table-top.
"I have no inclination toward social summonses, and Doctor McCoy has been for the last hour administering a particularly graphic reminder of intimately transmitted diseases commonly acquired on a starbase, in preparation for Decks Eight and Nine departing for shore leave."
Caught halfway through a sip, Kirk laughs into the cup, narrowly avoiding spilling it all over the front of his tunic, then pulls the drink back with a surprised squint at its contents.
"Is something amiss, sir?"
"Spock. Did you seriously send some poor yeoman down to the 'base to snag me real coffee, instead of that god-awful swill Scotty insists is the best the replicator can do?"
"Negative."
Still suspicious, the captain raises an eyebrow over the rim of the steaming cup.
"I do not make a habit of delegating non-work-related tasks to subordinates, sir."
A fleeting smile, and Kirk leans back slightly in the creaking chair with a slight, self-deprecating shake of the head. "I don't need you to coddle me, Spock. Or at least I shouldn't," he adds, almost to himself.
"I have neither the intent or desire to do so."
"Oh? I'm fairly certain there are a few dozen other places you could be this evening."
"I would, in fact, prefer a location which has seen a sanitization bot within the last seventy-two hours."
"Well, I can't argue with the logic in that. Shall we adjourn, then?"
"I have no objection."
The captain picks his book up from the table with a slightly sticky thwip of released adhesion, and Spock raises an eyebrow when the title comes into view.
"I, Robot? Really, sir."
"Oh, come on." Kirk's eyes dance over the top of the coffee cup as he tucks the book under his arm and they start to pick their way over the dingy carpet toward the door. "Asimov was far beyond his time. And I deserve some credit for trying to learn more from this escapade than just how fragile my ego apparently is."
Spock makes a quiet hmm-ing sound, neither an agreement or a denial.
"The M-5 could have benefitted from a few Laws of Robotics, don't you think?"
"Perhaps," he allows, gesturing for the captain to proceed him out of the room. "But I would hesitate to draw much logical correlation between this particular incident and a fanciful collection of twentieth-century fiction."
"It's science fiction."
"Meaning it contains fictitious science."
"Fair point." The captain chuckles as he lifts the coffee cup to his lips again. "Did we settle the shore leave issue with Enwright?"
"Affirmative. All parties were granted leave in twelve-hour rotations, although several of the senior staff have foregone this in favor of accomplishing a backlog of various departmental tasks. Unfortunately, twelve hours per rotation is the maximum duration the base was able to accommodate on such short notice. The Commodore extends his apologies for the limitations."
"It's not really his fault; he had orders, too. I just don't appreciate them keeping our people left behind in a secure holding area, instead of just letting them have leave on the 'base. Ridiculous bureaucracy. What exactly did they think anyone was going to do with information they weren't even privy to?"
"I agree, it was most unreasonable." As they move down the corridor and into a side wing, Spock nods in greeting to Lieutenant Dorsai, and the young man waves back with evident good cheer before darting into Laboratory Twelve for his evening shift.
The captain pauses, gestures questioningly toward the arboretum, and at Spock's blink of indifference approaches the door to trigger the sliding mechanism. A wall of cozy, humid warmth washes into the corridor, accompanied by the sharp scent of various flora, damp earth, and pungent grasses. When the door shuts, it is as if the rest of the world has faded away, the sound-dampening field around the ward evoking a peaceful tranquility not found anywhere else on the ship.
There do not appear to be many other occupants of the various cubicles and garden-plots, which is not surprising, given most of the xenobotanical Science division is enjoying a shift of shore leave. From somewhere overhead in the foliage, a single insect chirps at regular intervals, clearly busy at work in maintaining the delicate ecological balance of its hybrid environment, and Spock's more sensitive hearing can pick out two muffled human voices from one of the floral plots in the very back of the wing, near the hydroponics chambers. Nothing more.
"I've reviewed the full writeup from Medical about Daystrom's prognosis. Anything else I should know before we start trying to sort this mess for reporting?"
"Nothing from official channels. However, Commodore Wesley did send over a communiqué forty-three-point-two minutes ago, requesting your presence for what I believe is a social event later this evening, once the Lexington arrives at the base for repairs."
Kirk's eyes flick upward to his, and then slide away almost guiltily in the soft, hazy light. "I'm not looking forward to stepping foot on another man's ship, when it was the Enterprise who fired and killed several of her crew."
"It was the M-5 computer which fired on the Excalibur and the Lexington, Captain," he corrects quietly. "An unfortunate outcome, unquestionably. But one which you at least partially predicted, even if those warnings were ignored by those responsible."
"Still." Kirk sighs, and sits heavily on a bench under a large, drooping Andorian moonflower shrub. Spock settles beside him after clearing the last of the stray petals from the seat. "Why would he want to rub elbows tonight, anyway? I barely know the man, and haven't seen him in years."
"A casual observer would not make that particular assumption, based solely on the commodore's less than professional interactions with you," he observes mildly.
Kirk's laughter is warm and light, co-existing rather than disturbing the peaceful stillness of their surroundings. "Why, Mr. Spock. Is that a biased opinion on human interaction I'm hearing? And you, the science officer. For shame."
"Factual observation is not biased, nor can it be categorized as opinion." Spock glances sideways, a pointed gesture. "You would never have tolerated such disrespect toward one of your officers, Jim."
"No, I wouldn't." A subdued sigh, and the captain absently traces the edge of a faded filigree scroll on the book's cover. "But humans tend to lower their standards in that area when there's a pre-existing relationship. There's no real harm done."
"Perhaps. But neither superior rank nor past familiarity preclude the expectation of a Starfleet officer to respect his peers and subordinates." A floating petal, brilliantly pink and blue with white at the edges, floats down and rests on the cover of the captain's book for a moment before twirling onward to the ground. "Captain, your 'fragile ego' notwithstanding, it was unacceptable to denigrate your authority in front of your crew."
"I appreciate that, Spock, but it's not important, not considering everything that came after. And it's not that, really." The captain shakes his head, and sets the now-empty coffee cup on a nearby flat paving-stone. "I just don't look forward to three hours of pretentious small talk and story-swapping tonight, that's all. Particularly when this mess cost innocent lives. It just doesn't feel right, even if the fault doesn't entirely lie with the Enterprise."
Spock is silent, knowing verbal reassurance or contradiction is neither expected nor particularly welcome in this case. He does note yet again that this one human seems to care far more than many of his peers and superiors. It is both a strength and a potential liability in a Starfleet officer, but one which is worthy of the respect Kirk did not receive over the course of this troubled mission.
His rumination is interrupted by the sound of light footsteps on approach. Lieutenants Sulu and Uhura soon come around the corner of a sheltered greenhouse cubicle, and they clearly were the voices he heard earlier. Uhura is carrying a data-padd in one hand and a miniature orange rose in the other, which Spock is aware one of the teams has been experimentally cross-pollinating recently. Apparently, the experiment has been successful.
"Good evening, Captain, Commander."
Sulu's voice is cheerful and relaxed, and so Spock refrains from commenting on the human's somewhat disheveled appearance, damp potting soil and a few stray twigs plastered to various parts of his uniform. He is obviously off-duty, or at the least, working beyond his expected duty; some leeway is to be permitted.
Wearing a bold green kaftan-like garment and clearly on her way to well-deserved shore leave, Uhura offers them both a warm smile of her own as she pauses momentarily to hand Spock the padd. The lieutenant has been looking for potential musical numbers for Spock to accompany her singing during what has now unofficially (and somewhat inaccurately, in most participants' cases) been dubbed ship's 'Talent Night.'
"Let me know what you think, sir," she says with just a hint of playfulness, as she then continues toward the exit in a graceful swirl of floating emerald silk.
Spock clicks the padd's power button and verifies his conjecture was correct; the scores look very simple to transpose for the Vulcan lyre. "I will do so at earliest opportunity, Lieutenant. Enjoy your shore leave."
"Oh I plan to, Mr. Spock." Uhura waves airily over her shoulder and, smiling, disappears into the corridor.
"Commander, the fungal growths we transplanted from L-477 are looking much better this evening. I think I can hand the project back to Carstairs tomorrow if that's all right with you, he should be able take it from here."
"I appreciate your time and expertise, Mr. Sulu. Please proceed as you see fit."
"Anytime, sir. The report's in your inbox, let me know if you need more detail. I won't be on leave until 1030 tomorrow."
As he turns to leave, the young pilot's eye falls on the empty coffee cup atop the nearby rock. He gives the captain a disapproving look before picking up the offending object and dropping it somewhat dramatically in the nearest recycling bin on his way out.
Kirk looks like he can't quite decide whether to be offended or impressed, and ends up closer to the latter, arms folded and clearly trying not to laugh at the sheer audacity.
Spock notes this in periphery, as he is already mentally calculating a slightly more modern adaptation and key change for the score Lieutenant Uhura has marked with a tiny sketch of a smiling face, no doubt to indicate her preference.
"Well, there goes my hope for a refill, I suppose."
Spock silently holds out the second cup, still untouched, and keeps scrolling.
It is a full five seconds of silence before the cup is removed from his fingers, slowly, and with a deliberate brush of their hands which allows a fleeting sensation of surprise and gratitude to be felt before the emotion dissipates just as gently.
"You're ridiculous. You do know that, right?" Jim's voice is still quiet, but tinged with clear affection.
"When the cause is sufficient. It is an unfortunate and somewhat inevitable degradation due to close association with an emotion-driven species."
What sounds like a snort echoes slightly inside the cup.
Spock shuts off the data-padd after making a final notation, and brushes an errant flower petal off of his sleeve.
Jim clears his throat. "You said Wesley's message came forty-five minutes ago?"
"At the time, I said forty-three-point-two minutes. The elapsed time is now fifty-six minutes precisely."
"And the Lexington was an hour and a half away at last indication?"
"Ninety-six minutes and seven –"
"Yes, yes, close enough." With far more energy than he had shown from the start of this unpleasant mission, the captain's eyes reflect the softer solar lighting with a mischievous glint. "I think I've changed my mind about taking shore leave, Mr. Spock."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed. Might I interest you in a couple hours of close association with an emotion-driven species?"
"Captain, are you insinuating –"
"I'm asking you to play hooky with me and be conspicuously absent when a follow-up invite comes, yes, Spock." The captain stands, book and half-empty cup in hand, and scattering moonflower petals in his wake. "So, what do you say? Dinner on the 'base?"
Spock looks up at him and raises a patient eyebrow. "I made the reservation for 2000 hours, Jim. You are nothing if not predictable."
A vague splutter of indignation.
"However, if you would prefer to attend Commodore Wesley's engagement instead, which coincidentally happens to be in conflict of schedule with said reservation, that is of course your prerogative. Shall I alert Communications to respond accordingly?"
"Don't you dare."
"As you wish, sir."
"And Mr. Spock, may I just say that if your memory engrams were ever impressed upon a computer system, the galaxy itself would not stand a chance against you."
"Obviously."
