[Lenore seems completely unrepentant to be caught out in her skepticism; she just hums and tilts her head to one side.] If anyone'll need placating after that incident, it'd be Jocelyn, not you. [It's not an apology, but it's something close to one, and it's the best he's going to get from her for now.
She lifts her eyebrows at him in a move that should demonstrate her disbelief, but she doesn't call him out on the clear symmetry of Uhura's face, nor the lovely color of her eyes. She's not sure where their relationship stands anymore, and there's needling Spock, and then there's needling Spock, and she doesn't really feel like pushing the boundaries that much tonight.
She's tired, and getting a little tipsy, and Spock is in an uncharacteristically talkative mood. She's surprised to find she kind of wants to encourage him.
Her gaze softens when he confesses what she already knows: that he has precious few friends. Instead of contradicting him as she might normally — "I thought Vulcans didn't have friends," — she just sighs and lifts her glass in a facsimile of a toast, holding it out to him like he'd clink glasses with her. Does he even know about the human tradition of toasting? She hasn't ever thought about it.] I know how that feels.
[Smiling a little at him, she leans her chin on her palm and lets her eyes droop in a lazy blink.] Will you tell me about her? She must have been quite a lady.
[ He was not swayed by the perfect symmetry of Uhura's face or even her talented tongue. He is above such basic lusts. Supposedly. It was her keen intellect and unparalleled cultural sensitivity that drew him to her. He was simply lucky enough to find someone smart, talented, and beautiful. And though their romantic relationship has ended, he still counts her a friend and is thankful for that.
The wrappers of the chocolates litter the surface of the table, and Spock carefully collects them, small souvenirs of his taste test of chocolate. He will make Jim gather more at their next stop. ]
You are acquainted with what feeling, Lenore? The few friends or the lack of desire to see them injured?
[ His mother remains a painful topic and there is an emptiness inside his mind where his bond with her once thrived. But the grief grows muted with every passing year, and he finds discussing her not as painful as it had been, even when she had been alive. ] She was a very warm individual, but did not resent Vulcan and the repression of her emotions while on the planet. There were those who thought her less because of her humanity, rather than admiring the grace and skill with which she managed to survive Vulcan.
[So that she has something to do with her hands, Lenore finds herself sorting through the leftover chocolate in the bowl in front of them, just as Spock is fiddling with the empty wrappers. The dark chocolate pieces she fishes out are laid out before him, with the milk chocolate making a smaller pile on the other side of the bowl. The white chocolate she leaves where it is, because they both think it's awful.
She unwraps a chocolate of her own and nibbles on the corner.]
Of course I am, Spock. This may shock you, but I'm not exactly an easy person to get along with. And I never like seeing people hurt. [She's a doctor, and a damn good one, at that. Not only is she adept at all the new hands-off technologies when it comes to healing, but she's done her fair share of extremely hands-on work; in fact, Lenore often prefers the so-called barbaric practice of physical surgery, using her own hands to wield the scalpel instead of a machine.
Mothers are often painful topics. Lenore's relationship with her own is strained, at best, but it's nice to know that despite how cold and unfeeling he might seem, Spock loved his mother the way all little boys should.] I wish I could have met her. [It would have been fascinating to pick her brain; Lenore isn't much of a linguist, so that topic of conversation would be more or less off the table, but she wants to know why someone would willingly pack up and move to a planet that's so very different from your own.
She only left Georgia because there was nothing there left for her. To make that kind of choice when there were other options...
[ Spock nods in approval at her sorting methods, for it is suitable. Plus, someone else is joining him in consuming chocolate. Which brings him to a very curious point. ] Are you familiar with the properties of chocolate, Doctor? Is it normal to feel so warm when consuming the substance?
[ It is not actually concerning to him, but he is quite interested in discovering more. If it makes humans feel this way, he can understand why they would enjoy such delicacies. ]
That is not a shocking fact, Lenore. I believe many would say similar things about myself. Their minds are small and narrow, and they refuse an understanding that would lead to greater knowledge and appreciation of the world around them and personalities that differ from their own. [ It is a long-winded explanation of the words his mother offered to him when his peers persisted in bullying him. Though he found little comfort in the words then, he can appreciate them now. ]
She counted herself a very fortunate human woman. I only wish she were here to meet my crew mates. No. To meet my friends. [ And he is almost sentimental about it all. But he does wish she could have met them, from Uhura to Jim to Lenore, and the rest of the command crew.
He thinks she would have liked them. ] She enjoyed human idioms and often used them in conversation when possible.
Warm? [She frowns lightly at him, just a little quirk of her eyebrows, and makes a moue with her mouth that signifies disagreement.] No, not warm. It's supposed to release endorphins, though, which light up the pleasure center of the brain. Plus it's sweet, and I'm sure you're aware how much we like sweet foods.
[Lenore is more of a savory snack person than a sweet snack person, but that's not really relevant. (She's reminded of a study she read that found that people who prefer salty foods over sweet foods are often viewed less favorably; 'bitchy' was one word used to describe the group by one of the participants, and oh, isn't that on the nose.)
She taps the edge of her fingernail against the table, continuing to frown slightly.] Most people would say we don't get along, either. Is my mind small and narrow?
[She finds she really is regretful that she never got to meet Amanda Grayson, although she did indulge herself in a little light reading about the woman a few months ago, when she had an evening free and curiosity struck. It's hard to judge a person's character from a dry summation of their accomplishments, but yes, she thinks they would have gotten along.
Spock's next comment just solidifies that idle notion.] So when you profess ignorance over some little turn of phrase I use, you're just being supercilious jackass? [The smile on her face, amused and vindicated in equal measure, should take the sting out of her accusation, but who knows how Spock will take it.]
Puzzling. I shall consult with Doctor M'Benga during his next shift. [ For the sake of science, of course. One must always record observations and follow through with experiments.
He unwraps another chocolate - how many is that now? - and breaks it into pieces again, slipping one into his mouth. Perhaps he can ask M'Benga about increasing lack of circumspect talk. ]
I would name you friend, Lenore, and be ever in your service should you require support. Your mind is illogical and rash, Lenore, and you are given to over-dramatic tendencies in your speech. But it is not small or narrow. Indeed, I believe your dramatic phrases to be the way you process complications. You are always capable of performing under pressure. Simply because we do argue in our approach does not mean we do not get along.
[ Besides, Spock has picked up on the fact that all of those insults from the doctor are simply her way of expressing frustration, and in some ways, a way to include Spock into the group at large. He has long since learned not to take offense.
Though he can't resist feigning offense at her words. ]
I am neither superior to anyone [ which is a complete lie ] nor domesticated hoofed mammal.
I simply must remind people of the egregious claims in their idioms.
If you lot weren't so goddamn secretive about your physiology, I'd be a lot more helpful, you know. [She sounds a little bitter because she is. She's a doctor, dammit, the ship's Chief Medical Officer, and she's kept in the dark about all but the most basic of facts regarding the First Officer on her ship. If he wasn't so famously touchy, she'd be badgering Spock way more to tell her what's so goddamn important about his body that it must be kept secret when none of the other races on the ship feel the need to keep her in the dark regarding the way their bodies function.
Chomping bitterly on her square of chocolate, she's so shocked by Spock's miniature monologue about her good qualities that she almost chokes on the sweet in her mouth.
She coughs, attempting to regain her composure.] Spock. [If he were anyone else, she'd reach out and touch his hand; she may be tipsy, but she's not drunk enough to touch a touch-telepath without thinking about it long and hard. Yet.] I thought you didn't even like me. Illogical and rash. Gosh, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about me. [If she's blushing, it's all because of the alcohol, alright. Definitely not because of the startled pleasure curling under her breastbone.
She doesn't care what Spock thinks about her because she doesn't care what anyone thinks about her. She's a grown-ass woman, and a successful doctor to boot. She doesn't need anyone's approval.
Though it is kind of nice to know she's held in some esteem by her fellow officers.]
I guess you're not so bad yourself. Even if you are pedantic as all get-out.
I am Vulcan, madam. We do not discuss Vulcan biology with off-worlders. [ Not even M'Benga knew everything about Vulcan physiology, though his scope of knowledge was quite impressive. Spock knew well that certain conversations were dropped when a off-worlder entered the room.
There were reasons he could understand, when it came to particular causes. A male Vulcan's time was the cause of a deep, abiding shame, and that was something none wished for the galaxy to know. But otherwise? There were good reasons, Spock was sure, but he could not recall them, could not remember why they were so stubborn about allowing records to be translated and given to medical personnel.
For Spock, it was a different story. Enough time under the cold, calculating eyes of scientists who viewed him as nothing more than a specimen has left him reluctant to spend even the slightest time undergoing poking and prodding.
This chocolate really is going to his head.
He does not mind, however. The taste is still pleasant, and his limbs feel relaxed. He even deigns to slouch the slightest bit, tension bleeding from his frame. ]
I assure you, that was not meant as a compliment. [ Though her reaction does not surprise him; he has always found Lenore to react in ways he does not comprehend.
He recognizes her own words are a return of his sentiment, and bows his head in response. It is, in a deep, startling way he cannot thoroughly describe, gratifying to hear her claim. ]
Someone abroad this vessel needs to be exact, and none but me seem capable.
Don't you "madam" me, okay. [She's not annoyed, though, she's almost laughing. Yes, she's annoyed that Spock keeps her out of the loop, but it's so Spock, she almost expects it from him. The fact that he's playing directly into the role she's mentally written for him just makes her feel satisfied. She shakes her head at him, sighing.] Well, don't come crying to me when you manage to wind up with boils in some very inconvenient places because you reacted badly to something on some off-world mission, alright? I can't help you when I don't know what's wrong with you.
[She's still laughing when he tries to tell her that he was insulting her, which just makes her laugh even more. The synthehol has left her feeling far giddier than usual at this time of night, but Spock is acting looser than he normally does, so she doesn't feel too badly for being a little silly.] Oh, I know. I just choose to take it as one, so thank you.
[His hair is always so neat and tidy, like a wig, or a helmet. It's just another part of his fastidious nature that she's always come to depend on, like the fact that his boots are almost mirrored they're so polished, and that his reports are written with such exact grammar that they might as well be examples in a college textbook. When he bows his head in acknowledgement of her backwards compliment, she can see that his hair is mussed, just a little, just a few pieces lying out of order.
It's startling, and distracting.]
Well, it's a good thing we have you around then, isn't it, Mr. Spock?
Very well, Doctor. If you insist. [ He is not one for familiarity, even with people who might not be concerned. Though he cannot see the difference between "madam" and "doctor". ] As it is unlikely that I will wind up with boils that cannot be cured by a healing trance or medication you already possess, I see no reason for concern. Besides, Dr. M'Benga has some knowledge of Vulcans, and what you cannot do, he can.
[ Spock does, actually, possess some measure of esteem for her medical expertise, but he will never say such a thing. At least, not to her face. If anything negative does impact his health, Spock knows the doctor will find a cure.
He is not going to acknowledge her thanks. Not only does he rarely acknowledge thanks, for no thanks are needed in most circumstances, her reaction is ridiculous. Thanking someone for calling them illogical. Spock does not even try to resist rolling his eyes at her.
It is a good thing he does not notice his hair is out of place. It is a distraction he would not care for, especially when the chocolate is so good and the warmth in his blood startling. ]
Indeed, it is fortunate. Were I given to idle speculation and frivolous imaginings, I would venture to say that the ship would fall apart without my guidance.
However, that is improbable. The ship cannot fall apart, Mr. Scott is most adept at keeping her repaired. And the individuals residing on the ship would likewise not fall apart literally. It is operations that would suffer.
Spock. What did I tell you? [She arches her eyebrows pointedly at him, not even trying to hide the smile curling her lips.] And when something happens to you and Jabilo isn't around? What will you do when you're hurt and unconscious and the only sawbones around is me, with my sub-par knowledge of your biology?
[Of course she'll find a cure if something negatively affects him. She'll stay up all night for days on end, working feverishly until she figures out how to crack the code of whatever ailment is afflicting him, because she's a damn good doctor but also because he's her friend. A friend she enjoys antagonizing, but a friend nonetheless. She's lost enough friends as it is, she's not going to lose any more if she can help it.
If she were braver (drunker), she might reach out and fix his hair for him. For now, she just fiddles with a chocolate wrapper and tears her eyes away from his head.
She chuckles and then opens her mouth as if she was going to ask him something, but freezes before any sound comes out. After a slow blink, she heads in a different direction.] How old are you, anyway?
Edited (i use people's names WAY TOO MUCH in tags whoops) 2016-06-17 22:47 (UTC)
Not to call you 'madam,' which, I will point out, I did not. [ She did not say anything against calling her doctor, and Spock lives for technicalities. ] There are resources you can access, should you need to in such a situation.
[ And while it might be easier to indulge her curiosity now, when there is no disaster, it will take more than some chocolate to get Spock to ignore a lifetime of trained reticence.
Besides, he knows the ship and her crew, and knows that no matter what the universe might throw at them, someone will find a way. And if not - well, dying in space, working along side those he considers close, is a better fate than many.
The pile of chocolate wrappers is larger than the pile of remaining chocolate by the time Spock finally stops eating the chocolate. It leaves him feeling warm and pleasant, and when she asks about his age, it's easy to answer - and explain more. ] I am thirty. It is still young in Vulcan terms, as we generally live much longer than humans.
To call me Lenore. We're off-duty. Good lord. [She rolls her eyes at him and drains the last of her synthehol, setting the empty cup down on her half-eaten tray and then pushing the whole thing to the side so she can rest her elbow on the table surface and her chin in her palm.] You're impossible.
[She gives up trying to explain to him why the CMO needs to know about the weird alien biology of the crew on her ship, knowing she'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall and not wanting to expend the energy any longer. At least, not tonight, not after her horrible drink and especially not when Spock is looking so...tipsy.
There's a green flush high on his cheekbones, and his dark Vulcan eyes are bright and surprisingly human-looking. He looks...approachable.]
Thirty? [That's actually more than she was expecting; somehow she thought he was going to be Jim's age or perhaps even younger, based on the average age of the rest of the crew. Sometimes it feels like it's her and Scotty, the only two adults in a sea of children.] You look younger. How long is your lifespan?
I assure you, I am not impossible. I do exist, Lenore, and am not a figment of your imagination. [ He could not resist the raised eyebrow, or the slightest curl of his lip. ] Unless you make it a habit to imagine conversations with me when you are inebriated.
[ It is possible she might get information from his counterpart, who has been in the habit of sharing information with humans, and has his own memories of a different Bones. He makes a mental note to mention that to her, and then changes his mind to add: ] The ambassador might offer information. Or my father. Should you need it.
[ And if that surprises him, that those words escaped his mouth, then well, he has certainly gotten more than one surprise that evening. ]
Generally, Vulcans can live to be 200, if not slightly older. However, we are unsure of the effect my human blood will have on my lifespan. It is possible I might only live to 150.
You know what I mean. [She picks up one of the wrappers she's rolled into a ball and flicks it at him, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again.] And my imagined conversations usually end with me winning, so. [He rarely follows the script she writes for him when she makes up conversations in her head whilst in the shower or on the treadmill, but that tends to happen with her scripted thoughts, so whatever.
She shrugs and shakes her head, an action that's more of a roll of her head from side to side so she doesn't have to lift her chin off her palm.] I'd rather hear it from you.
[She hums, her eyebrows lifting lazily.] No kidding. Well, you'll still beat the rest of us, even with all the best modern medical advances, reaching one fifty is mostly considered a miracle.
[ The indignity! Spock's eyes widen for a brief second as the wrapper hits his forehead, and he fishes up the wrapper, flicking it back. ] That is why they are imagined conversations, not actual.
[ He wins just as many arguments as he loses with her; it is a battle to see who will come out the victor, with them. A nice challenge, even if he rarely admits such a thing. ]
I am aware, Lenore. Such is the issue with being a Vulcan. My father expected to outlive my mother by a number of years, even.
[The look on his face when she brains him with the chocolate wrapper is so indignant and shocked that she can't help the bark of laughter it forces from her lips, laughter that she immediately tries to stifle by slapping her hand over her mouth.] I'm sorry! [But he gets her back by flicking it right back at her, and somehow she finds herself returning the gesture. Are they going to play table hockey with chocolate wrappers? Maybe.] I need all the practice I can get, going up against you.
[Forgetting, for a moment, that Spock is a touch-telepath, she reaches out to cover his hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy and solidarity.] I'm sorry, Spock. That must be hard.
[ Her apology, hardly sincere with that laughter, only gets a glare, and when that wrapper she shoots at him goes skidding off the table, he crumples up another one, flicking it back.
Spock would deny it, but he cannot resist a challenge. ]
Perhaps you should converse with me, rather than imagining such things, for practice.
[ Was that an invitation to talk to him? You decide, Bones. ]
It is what is. One learns to accept such things.
[ In theory, it is simple and straightforward to accept, but reality is much different from the nebulous concepts of theory and logic. Who knows how it will be when such an occurrence actually happens.
Spock nods at her, and brings up his hand to cover hers for a brief second. ] Your sympathy is unnecessary, but you have my thanks.
[Lenore may have been an only child, but she's competitive enough to mean that there's no way she's going to let him best her in any sort of endeavor, and certainly not in table-top wrapper-hockey.
She flicks it back at him.]
I believe we're conversing right now, Commander.
[She's going to take it as one, whether he meant it as an invitation or not. Get ready, Spock. She's gonna show up at random and just start conversations with you, and you have only yourself to blame.]
Still. [She squeezes his hand gently, almost surprised when he lifts his other one to cover hers, shocked once more at how warm his skin feels pressed to hers.] It sucks, outliving people. Especially people you love.
[ The competitive nature of most of the crew is one thing that draws them together. They can work together (nearly) seamlessly, but they continue to push each other to be better, turn it into something of a competition.
Spock crumples up a few more wrappers, flicking them at her one after another. ]
Your ability to point out the obvious truly astonishes me, Doctor.
[ Do not mind the sighs and rolling of the eyes, then. You'll have brought it on by engaging him. ]
[Bones can't help laughing, the surprised sound bubbling up out of her as he flicks wrapper after wrapper at her, scrambling a defense and then mounting her own offense strategy in order to win.
The way he sighs and rolls his eyes at her is so surprising she's speechless for a moment, left just watching him with a smile curling her lips.]
It's a skill forged in medical school and honed by parenthood.
[Never mind that she hadn't really been much of a parent before she got shunted off into space.]
[ Spock is not a playful person by nature, but it might simply be that the playfulness of Vulcans is defined differently from that of humans. This certainly feels playful, even by human standards.
He manages to dodge a few of her wrapper-missiles but just as many hit him. Soon enough, they have amassed a pile of wrappers around them. ]
And do both medical patients and children need the obvious pointed out to them that often? Or is that a particular trait of your own?
[ It would not surprise if it were a combination of both. ]
Perhaps it is not, but I do have it on good record that I handle it admirably.
[Lenore can be uncharacteristically playful when she's happy. She's almost surprised to find how happy she feels, sitting here with Spock, of all people, but here she is, playing table soccer with him with bits and pieces of chocolate wrappers.
If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
[ Spock fervently does not want Jim to see him in such a state. He knows the captain and knows that he will spend the rest of their five year mission trying to escape the handful of chocolate that will be shoved at him at any given moment.
No. Far better than Jim never sees them.
The loosening of his usual reserve means Spock wrinkles his nose when Lenore mentions ass wiping. ]
One would hope that the crew is capable of that simple task, Doctor. It is one that should have been trained at a very young age.
[ If that is an idiom, it is one he is not familiar with, and one does not wish to understand. But it tumbles about in his head for a moment and he is almost tempted to ask Lenore to explain when she blurts out her news.
Spock is not the person others confide in for a variety of reasons, and Spock is well aware of most of them. It is understandable, and he appreciates that. Jim is an exception, as was Uhura for a short time. McCoy usually does not fall into that category. He listens to her explanation and does not let go of her hand. Nor does he tighten his fingers around hers as his mother used to do to him because he is unsure of the reception, unsure if it would help or hinder. And he deliberately avoids attempting to get a read on her emotions, understanding that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
It is a troubling story, and Spock cannot imagine how difficult it would be to see a loved one struggle with such pain. There is the possibility of a future where he will have to watch his father deal with pain, or worse, a terrible emotional state that afflicts elderly Vulcans. But that is far in the future and there is only a slight chance, so he has no conceptual framework for handling such situations.
He does know that to suffer is illogical and that future discoveries cannot be predicted, and opens his mouth to tell Lenore as such. ]
You are not to fault, for either situation. To prolong his suffering would have done nothing to help your father's spirits, and you had no idea there was the possibility of a cure. Do not fault yourself.
[ Easy enough to say. Spock knows how difficult it is to assuage guilt, even in a situation such as his, where his actions did not directly kill his mother. He still harbors some blame for himself, deep beneath his shields. Had he been faster, held on tighter, insisted she stand closer -
To dwell is illogical, and Spock pulls his mind from that topic. ]
I grieve with thee, [ he says simply and finally does offer a small squeeze of her hand, careful to keep his touch from being too firm. ]
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She lifts her eyebrows at him in a move that should demonstrate her disbelief, but she doesn't call him out on the clear symmetry of Uhura's face, nor the lovely color of her eyes. She's not sure where their relationship stands anymore, and there's needling Spock, and then there's needling Spock, and she doesn't really feel like pushing the boundaries that much tonight.
She's tired, and getting a little tipsy, and Spock is in an uncharacteristically talkative mood. She's surprised to find she kind of wants to encourage him.
Her gaze softens when he confesses what she already knows: that he has precious few friends. Instead of contradicting him as she might normally — "I thought Vulcans didn't have friends," — she just sighs and lifts her glass in a facsimile of a toast, holding it out to him like he'd clink glasses with her. Does he even know about the human tradition of toasting? She hasn't ever thought about it.] I know how that feels.
[Smiling a little at him, she leans her chin on her palm and lets her eyes droop in a lazy blink.] Will you tell me about her? She must have been quite a lady.
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The wrappers of the chocolates litter the surface of the table, and Spock carefully collects them, small souvenirs of his taste test of chocolate. He will make Jim gather more at their next stop. ]
You are acquainted with what feeling, Lenore? The few friends or the lack of desire to see them injured?
[ His mother remains a painful topic and there is an emptiness inside his mind where his bond with her once thrived. But the grief grows muted with every passing year, and he finds discussing her not as painful as it had been, even when she had been alive. ] She was a very warm individual, but did not resent Vulcan and the repression of her emotions while on the planet. There were those who thought her less because of her humanity, rather than admiring the grace and skill with which she managed to survive Vulcan.
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She unwraps a chocolate of her own and nibbles on the corner.]
Of course I am, Spock. This may shock you, but I'm not exactly an easy person to get along with. And I never like seeing people hurt. [She's a doctor, and a damn good one, at that. Not only is she adept at all the new hands-off technologies when it comes to healing, but she's done her fair share of extremely hands-on work; in fact, Lenore often prefers the so-called barbaric practice of physical surgery, using her own hands to wield the scalpel instead of a machine.
Mothers are often painful topics. Lenore's relationship with her own is strained, at best, but it's nice to know that despite how cold and unfeeling he might seem, Spock loved his mother the way all little boys should.] I wish I could have met her. [It would have been fascinating to pick her brain; Lenore isn't much of a linguist, so that topic of conversation would be more or less off the table, but she wants to know why someone would willingly pack up and move to a planet that's so very different from your own.
She only left Georgia because there was nothing there left for her. To make that kind of choice when there were other options...
But then again, love is a powerful motivator.]
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[ It is not actually concerning to him, but he is quite interested in discovering more. If it makes humans feel this way, he can understand why they would enjoy such delicacies. ]
That is not a shocking fact, Lenore. I believe many would say similar things about myself. Their minds are small and narrow, and they refuse an understanding that would lead to greater knowledge and appreciation of the world around them and personalities that differ from their own. [ It is a long-winded explanation of the words his mother offered to him when his peers persisted in bullying him. Though he found little comfort in the words then, he can appreciate them now. ]
She counted herself a very fortunate human woman. I only wish she were here to meet my crew mates. No. To meet my friends. [ And he is almost sentimental about it all. But he does wish she could have met them, from Uhura to Jim to Lenore, and the rest of the command crew.
He thinks she would have liked them. ] She enjoyed human idioms and often used them in conversation when possible.
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[Lenore is more of a savory snack person than a sweet snack person, but that's not really relevant. (She's reminded of a study she read that found that people who prefer salty foods over sweet foods are often viewed less favorably; 'bitchy' was one word used to describe the group by one of the participants, and oh, isn't that on the nose.)
She taps the edge of her fingernail against the table, continuing to frown slightly.] Most people would say we don't get along, either. Is my mind small and narrow?
[She finds she really is regretful that she never got to meet Amanda Grayson, although she did indulge herself in a little light reading about the woman a few months ago, when she had an evening free and curiosity struck. It's hard to judge a person's character from a dry summation of their accomplishments, but yes, she thinks they would have gotten along.
Spock's next comment just solidifies that idle notion.] So when you profess ignorance over some little turn of phrase I use, you're just being supercilious jackass? [The smile on her face, amused and vindicated in equal measure, should take the sting out of her accusation, but who knows how Spock will take it.]
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He unwraps another chocolate - how many is that now? - and breaks it into pieces again, slipping one into his mouth. Perhaps he can ask M'Benga about increasing lack of circumspect talk. ]
I would name you friend, Lenore, and be ever in your service should you require support. Your mind is illogical and rash, Lenore, and you are given to over-dramatic tendencies in your speech. But it is not small or narrow. Indeed, I believe your dramatic phrases to be the way you process complications. You are always capable of performing under pressure. Simply because we do argue in our approach does not mean we do not get along.
[ Besides, Spock has picked up on the fact that all of those insults from the doctor are simply her way of expressing frustration, and in some ways, a way to include Spock into the group at large. He has long since learned not to take offense.
Though he can't resist feigning offense at her words. ]
I am neither superior to anyone [ which is a complete lie ] nor domesticated hoofed mammal.
I simply must remind people of the egregious claims in their idioms.
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Chomping bitterly on her square of chocolate, she's so shocked by Spock's miniature monologue about her good qualities that she almost chokes on the sweet in her mouth.
She coughs, attempting to regain her composure.] Spock. [If he were anyone else, she'd reach out and touch his hand; she may be tipsy, but she's not drunk enough to touch a touch-telepath without thinking about it long and hard. Yet.] I thought you didn't even like me. Illogical and rash. Gosh, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said about me. [If she's blushing, it's all because of the alcohol, alright. Definitely not because of the startled pleasure curling under her breastbone.
She doesn't care what Spock thinks about her because she doesn't care what anyone thinks about her. She's a grown-ass woman, and a successful doctor to boot. She doesn't need anyone's approval.
Though it is kind of nice to know she's held in some esteem by her fellow officers.]
I guess you're not so bad yourself. Even if you are pedantic as all get-out.
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There were reasons he could understand, when it came to particular causes. A male Vulcan's time was the cause of a deep, abiding shame, and that was something none wished for the galaxy to know. But otherwise? There were good reasons, Spock was sure, but he could not recall them, could not remember why they were so stubborn about allowing records to be translated and given to medical personnel.
For Spock, it was a different story. Enough time under the cold, calculating eyes of scientists who viewed him as nothing more than a specimen has left him reluctant to spend even the slightest time undergoing poking and prodding.
This chocolate really is going to his head.
He does not mind, however. The taste is still pleasant, and his limbs feel relaxed. He even deigns to slouch the slightest bit, tension bleeding from his frame. ]
I assure you, that was not meant as a compliment. [ Though her reaction does not surprise him; he has always found Lenore to react in ways he does not comprehend.
He recognizes her own words are a return of his sentiment, and bows his head in response. It is, in a deep, startling way he cannot thoroughly describe, gratifying to hear her claim. ]
Someone abroad this vessel needs to be exact, and none but me seem capable.
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[She's still laughing when he tries to tell her that he was insulting her, which just makes her laugh even more. The synthehol has left her feeling far giddier than usual at this time of night, but Spock is acting looser than he normally does, so she doesn't feel too badly for being a little silly.] Oh, I know. I just choose to take it as one, so thank you.
[His hair is always so neat and tidy, like a wig, or a helmet. It's just another part of his fastidious nature that she's always come to depend on, like the fact that his boots are almost mirrored they're so polished, and that his reports are written with such exact grammar that they might as well be examples in a college textbook. When he bows his head in acknowledgement of her backwards compliment, she can see that his hair is mussed, just a little, just a few pieces lying out of order.
It's startling, and distracting.]
Well, it's a good thing we have you around then, isn't it, Mr. Spock?
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[ Spock does, actually, possess some measure of esteem for her medical expertise, but he will never say such a thing. At least, not to her face. If anything negative does impact his health, Spock knows the doctor will find a cure.
He is not going to acknowledge her thanks. Not only does he rarely acknowledge thanks, for no thanks are needed in most circumstances, her reaction is ridiculous. Thanking someone for calling them illogical. Spock does not even try to resist rolling his eyes at her.
It is a good thing he does not notice his hair is out of place. It is a distraction he would not care for, especially when the chocolate is so good and the warmth in his blood startling. ]
Indeed, it is fortunate. Were I given to idle speculation and frivolous imaginings, I would venture to say that the ship would fall apart without my guidance.
However, that is improbable. The ship cannot fall apart, Mr. Scott is most adept at keeping her repaired. And the individuals residing on the ship would likewise not fall apart literally. It is operations that would suffer.
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[Of course she'll find a cure if something negatively affects him. She'll stay up all night for days on end, working feverishly until she figures out how to crack the code of whatever ailment is afflicting him, because she's a damn good doctor but also because he's her friend. A friend she enjoys antagonizing, but a friend nonetheless. She's lost enough friends as it is, she's not going to lose any more if she can help it.
If she were braver (drunker), she might reach out and fix his hair for him. For now, she just fiddles with a chocolate wrapper and tears her eyes away from his head.
She chuckles and then opens her mouth as if she was going to ask him something, but freezes before any sound comes out. After a slow blink, she heads in a different direction.] How old are you, anyway?
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[ And while it might be easier to indulge her curiosity now, when there is no disaster, it will take more than some chocolate to get Spock to ignore a lifetime of trained reticence.
Besides, he knows the ship and her crew, and knows that no matter what the universe might throw at them, someone will find a way. And if not - well, dying in space, working along side those he considers close, is a better fate than many.
The pile of chocolate wrappers is larger than the pile of remaining chocolate by the time Spock finally stops eating the chocolate. It leaves him feeling warm and pleasant, and when she asks about his age, it's easy to answer - and explain more. ] I am thirty. It is still young in Vulcan terms, as we generally live much longer than humans.
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[She gives up trying to explain to him why the CMO needs to know about the weird alien biology of the crew on her ship, knowing she'd have better luck arguing with a brick wall and not wanting to expend the energy any longer. At least, not tonight, not after her horrible drink and especially not when Spock is looking so...tipsy.
There's a green flush high on his cheekbones, and his dark Vulcan eyes are bright and surprisingly human-looking. He looks...approachable.]
Thirty? [That's actually more than she was expecting; somehow she thought he was going to be Jim's age or perhaps even younger, based on the average age of the rest of the crew. Sometimes it feels like it's her and Scotty, the only two adults in a sea of children.] You look younger. How long is your lifespan?
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[ It is possible she might get information from his counterpart, who has been in the habit of sharing information with humans, and has his own memories of a different Bones. He makes a mental note to mention that to her, and then changes his mind to add: ] The ambassador might offer information. Or my father. Should you need it.
[ And if that surprises him, that those words escaped his mouth, then well, he has certainly gotten more than one surprise that evening. ]
Generally, Vulcans can live to be 200, if not slightly older. However, we are unsure of the effect my human blood will have on my lifespan. It is possible I might only live to 150.
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She shrugs and shakes her head, an action that's more of a roll of her head from side to side so she doesn't have to lift her chin off her palm.] I'd rather hear it from you.
[She hums, her eyebrows lifting lazily.] No kidding. Well, you'll still beat the rest of us, even with all the best modern medical advances, reaching one fifty is mostly considered a miracle.
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[ He wins just as many arguments as he loses with her; it is a battle to see who will come out the victor, with them. A nice challenge, even if he rarely admits such a thing. ]
I am aware, Lenore. Such is the issue with being a Vulcan. My father expected to outlive my mother by a number of years, even.
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[Forgetting, for a moment, that Spock is a touch-telepath, she reaches out to cover his hand with hers in a gesture of sympathy and solidarity.] I'm sorry, Spock. That must be hard.
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Spock would deny it, but he cannot resist a challenge. ]
Perhaps you should converse with me, rather than imagining such things, for practice.
[ Was that an invitation to talk to him? You decide, Bones. ]
It is what is. One learns to accept such things.
[ In theory, it is simple and straightforward to accept, but reality is much different from the nebulous concepts of theory and logic. Who knows how it will be when such an occurrence actually happens.
Spock nods at her, and brings up his hand to cover hers for a brief second. ] Your sympathy is unnecessary, but you have my thanks.
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She flicks it back at him.]
I believe we're conversing right now, Commander.
[She's going to take it as one, whether he meant it as an invitation or not. Get ready, Spock. She's gonna show up at random and just start conversations with you, and you have only yourself to blame.]
Still. [She squeezes his hand gently, almost surprised when he lifts his other one to cover hers, shocked once more at how warm his skin feels pressed to hers.] It sucks, outliving people. Especially people you love.
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Spock crumples up a few more wrappers, flicking them at her one after another. ]
Your ability to point out the obvious truly astonishes me, Doctor.
[ Do not mind the sighs and rolling of the eyes, then. You'll have brought it on by engaging him. ]
Death is a part of life we must learn to accept.
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The way he sighs and rolls his eyes at her is so surprising she's speechless for a moment, left just watching him with a smile curling her lips.]
It's a skill forged in medical school and honed by parenthood.
[Never mind that she hadn't really been much of a parent before she got shunted off into space.]
That doesn't make it easy to do so.
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He manages to dodge a few of her wrapper-missiles but just as many hit him. Soon enough, they have amassed a pile of wrappers around them. ]
And do both medical patients and children need the obvious pointed out to them that often? Or is that a particular trait of your own?
[ It would not surprise if it were a combination of both. ]
Perhaps it is not, but I do have it on good record that I handle it admirably.
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If only Jim could see them now...]
As a matter of fact, yes. For all that this crew is staffed with a bunch of geniuses, sometimes I wonder if they'd know how to wipe their own asses without instruction.
[She would love to trust the crew to follow simple directions, but the whole reason for the antibiotic-resistant bacteria epidemic that threatened global population numbers in the early 22nd century was people not following their doctor's orders.
She looks down at their hands, eying Spock's slightly green-tinged fingernails, and finds herself blurting out,] I killed my father.
[Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth shut with an audible click, pulling her hands back to herself as she closes her eyes and ducking her head down a little like she could just will the words back into her mouth. But she can't, so she has to explain, obviously, or Spock will go around thinking she's a murderer, so she forces herself to open her mouth and continue.]
He was dying. He'd been dying, for months; a long, slow, drawn-out death I wouldn't wish on anyone. [Perhaps it's a good thing she's drunk for this conversation. It makes it easier to speak the words, but there is the awkward truth that it also makes it easier for her to cry about it, even after all these years. At least her eyes feel bone-dry right now.] Pyrrhoneuritis. I tried so hard to find a cure before he died, but he was withering away right in front of me. He begged me to end it for him, and I refused.
Eventually, I gave in. All I was doing was prolonging his suffering. So I gave him an overdose of morphine, the real stuff, not the synthesized version, and I watched him die.
[She lets out the barest wisp of a laugh, something harsh and hollow sounding that almost gets swallowed up in her throat before it makes it past her lips.] My colleagues discovered a cure three weeks later.
I...did not handle it admirably.
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No. Far better than Jim never sees them.
The loosening of his usual reserve means Spock wrinkles his nose when Lenore mentions ass wiping. ]
One would hope that the crew is capable of that simple task, Doctor. It is one that should have been trained at a very young age.
[ If that is an idiom, it is one he is not familiar with, and one does not wish to understand. But it tumbles about in his head for a moment and he is almost tempted to ask Lenore to explain when she blurts out her news.
Spock is not the person others confide in for a variety of reasons, and Spock is well aware of most of them. It is understandable, and he appreciates that. Jim is an exception, as was Uhura for a short time. McCoy usually does not fall into that category. He listens to her explanation and does not let go of her hand. Nor does he tighten his fingers around hers as his mother used to do to him because he is unsure of the reception, unsure if it would help or hinder. And he deliberately avoids attempting to get a read on her emotions, understanding that would be a gross invasion of privacy.
It is a troubling story, and Spock cannot imagine how difficult it would be to see a loved one struggle with such pain. There is the possibility of a future where he will have to watch his father deal with pain, or worse, a terrible emotional state that afflicts elderly Vulcans. But that is far in the future and there is only a slight chance, so he has no conceptual framework for handling such situations.
He does know that to suffer is illogical and that future discoveries cannot be predicted, and opens his mouth to tell Lenore as such. ]
You are not to fault, for either situation. To prolong his suffering would have done nothing to help your father's spirits, and you had no idea there was the possibility of a cure. Do not fault yourself.
[ Easy enough to say. Spock knows how difficult it is to assuage guilt, even in a situation such as his, where his actions did not directly kill his mother. He still harbors some blame for himself, deep beneath his shields. Had he been faster, held on tighter, insisted she stand closer -
To dwell is illogical, and Spock pulls his mind from that topic. ]
I grieve with thee, [ he says simply and finally does offer a small squeeze of her hand, careful to keep his touch from being too firm. ]