Soup That is Too Hot: Part 2

Stardate 2262.325

Thursday, 2013 hours

It seemed to Spock that the south promenade of Starbase 11 should have been temporarily closed to the public. Then again, the Federation's offworld administration could hardly be considered fully logical.

Standing at the center of the long walk path before the individual transport pad, Spock cringed at the din of construction. At least four of the several tall office buildings lining the promenade were being renovated. One was mere scaffolding, swarmed by drones and small, automated dumbwaiters carrying buckets and pallets of supplies to the workers on the upper levels. From somewhere in the shell of the building on the ground level, Spock could see sparks flying out onto the walk path. Surely regulations of one kind or another were being ignored, though incredibly, most of the bars and restaurants lining the south promenade appeared to be open. Likely a bid by their owners to maintain an inflow of customers and capital despite the construction efforts—and an ineffective one at that. Apart from himself and Jim, the path was all but deserted.

"A little loud," came Jim's observation from his left: a gross understatement, muffled by the buzz of a reciprocating saw.

From behind them came the unmistakable chimes of the transporter. Seconds later Doctor McCoy materialized, looking faintly nauseous. "I'm never gonna get used to that," he groaned.

"Give yourself a little credit," Jim answered, clapping McCoy's shoulder. "You're a hell of a lot better with it than when we first met."

They never ceased to mystify Spock—these bizarre rituals of human forgiveness. Jim seemed still more drained than Spock had seen him in months, but his mood was considerably less foul than it had been only the day before.

"Bones, you're the mastermind here," Jim said after a moment. "What's the plan?"

"Depends how you wanna wake up tomorrow morning."

Something tugged at the corner of Jim's mouth. "When does the ambassador arrive again?"

"Approximately 1700 hours tomorrow," Spock replied.

"Well, then. Decision made."

They started down the narrow path away from the construction (distance did not significantly diminish the noise), Jim looking out at the high glass observation windows across the gulf of space between the promenade and the starbase's outer wall, McCoy scanning the restaurants to the right of the path. Spock trailed behind.

"What kind of state you planning to be in tomorrow, Spock?" Jim asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Spock arched an eyebrow. "If you are inquiring if I intend to become inebriated, I can assure you the answer is no."

"Fair enough, but you should be aware that you're gonna be the designated pedestrian."

"Designated pedestrian, Captain?"

Ahead of them, McCoy laughed. "The babysitter, Spock. Still glad you decided to come after all?"

"You weren't gonna come?" Jim asked, dryly. "What changed your mind?"

And there it was, the inevitable twist in his stomach leaving him lost for words.

Looking ahead, Spock noted that McCoy had glanced off to the right and was scanning over the restaurants again.

To his credit, the doctor had not requested an explanation for Spock's abrupt change of plans. Spock was unsure whether this was because his friendship with Nyota meant that he already knew, or out of a surprising amount of respect for Spock's privacy.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're here," Jim clarified. "You've just never struck me as a guys' night out kind of guy."

Again, Spock found himself without an answer. He could hardly tell Jim the full truth. Stating it aloud reinforced its finality.

He was saved from having to formulate a response by McCoy, who had stopped dead in his tracks, causing Spock to bump into him. The twist in his stomach was promptly replaced with a flash of irritation.

"Doctor. Please advise me the next time you intend to—"

McCoy didn't reply, nor did he react to having been jostled forward. "Jim," he said.

Jim looked back at him. "What?"

Spock watched, transfixed, as McCoy reached out and grasped Jim's shoulder, steering him to the right.

"Bones, what—" Jim broke off, evidently catching sight of whatever had the doctor so agitated.

Spock frowned. The small square off the walk path contained nothing remarkable: a handful of small restaurants, a stand selling some sort of refined sugar refreshment, and what looked to be a tailor shop, with a pair of suits hanging in the window behind the emblem of an archaic needle and thread.

Jim's jaw dropped. "Holy shit."

Without further comment, he veered off the path and made a beeline for one of the restaurants. To Spock's eye it was the least aesthetically appealing of all, with a color scheme involving pale blue and cream orange tile, and neon pink signage, in a slanted, looping script.

Taqueria Jalisco, it read.

Spock quickened his pace to keep up. "What is the nature of this establishment?"

"Sorry?" Jim was already too far ahead to hear him properly over the sound of construction down the street.

Spock clarified: "What is this place?"

"It's a restaurant, Spock," McCoy called over his shoulder with a grin.

"Evidently, Doctor," Spock replied before he could stop himself. "I simply meant that it clearly holds some significance for you two."

Before McCoy could answer, they caught up to Jim at the door, leaning forward to observe a console displaying the restaurant's menu. He scrolled down on the document, squinting at the small print at the end of the page, murmuring to himself:

"Locations…25 South Promenade UFP Starbase 11, 230 Union Street, Santa Cruz, California, Earth…400 Shotwell Street, San Francisco, California, holy shit, Bones, this is it!"

McCoy stepped forward to see for himself. "Well, I'll be damned."

"With respect to what is still unclear to me," Spock said.

Jim turned, and his face lit up in a grin, his eyes dancing with a familiar glint.

"This," he said, "is the best goddamn taqueria you've ever set foot in, Spock."

"I have never set foot in it."

"Ya have now," McCoy said, clapping his shoulder and following Jim inside.

The restaurant's exterior had done little to recommend it, and the interior did not mitigate the effects. The large room beyond the door was poorly lit and crammed with tables, leaving little space between the chairs. Whoever had chosen the exterior color scheme had adapted it to the inside as well. Spock was unsurprised that it was nearly as empty as outside on the promenade, with three lone figures perched at the bar, and a Terran family at a table on the far side of the room.

Once they were seated at a booth in the corner of the room, Jim explained the significance of the restaurant:

"Bones and I hit up the Taqueria Jalisco in the city all the time when we were cadets. I think it became a finals tradition. Right?" Jim leaned over and nudged McCoy in the ribs with his elbow.

The doctor was leaning into the aisle, trying to flag down a server. "No—it became an I-failed-the-Kobayashi-Maru-let's-get-shitfaced-and-eat-tacos tradition."

"Oh c'mon, we went more than twice. How did we find it in the first place, anyways?"

"Christ, Jim, I don't remember."

"It wasn't Gaila, was it?"

"No."

"Helpful, Bones."

"I know it wasn't Gaila," McCoy huffed, "because you dragged me along when you introduced her to it, and then spent the whole night chugging margaritas and undressing each other with your eyes. All I wanted was some damn guacamole."

"Well, we can remedy that." Jim turned to Spock. "That answer your question?"

Spock merely looked between the two of them. "Fascinating" was the only word that came to mind.

As it turned out, guacamole was one of the few things on the menu he could order, as most of the dishes contained some form of meat. This hardly mattered; he had little appetite. In fact, he had not eaten since the previous day: an irregularity to be sure, even for a Vulcan, but far less dire than if he were fully human.

Jim seemed unable to accept this. Well after the main dishes had already arrived (and halfway through his second tumbler of tequila) he insisted on ordering something vegetarian for the table. This resulted in the server bringing over a large bowl of dark soup, easily a full meal for one individual, human or Vulcan. Spock had already nibbled at the chips and salsa—far too bland for his taste—but ladled out soup for the three of them regardless. To waste it was illogical, now that Jim had already ordered it despite his protests.

It was McCoy who took the first sip. Almost instantly his eyes widened and he coughed, fanning himself with his free hand, eyes watering: "Holy mother of God, that's spicy."

And if past experience were any indicator, Jim's reaction was predictable: "Really? Let me try."

In moments, he too was choking between bouts of laughter. "Oh Jesus. Spock, you have to try this. You'll love it."

In the days following, Spock would pinpoint his last clear thought to the moment he placed the first spoonful in his mouth, to find that the soup was surprisingly flavorful. Perhaps he would eat after all. It was only logical: he could not operate without adequate sustenance.

The conversation wound a serpentine path from topic to topic—Jim and McCoy exchanging memories of incidents at the Academy that stretched credulity, becoming more and more difficult to follow as the evening wore on and the noise level in the restaurant climbed. Spock found his thoughts wandering between the soup—he marveled at the fact that it was even on the menu, as it was hardly marketable to anyone with oral receptors more sensitive to spice than Vulcans—and his presence in the restaurant in the first place. It seemed only logical that Jim and McCoy would ask him about that again, if not that night then at some other time. More than once McCoy had glanced over at him, his expression appraising. It was only good planning to have a proper response in mind.

I am concerned my relationship with Lieutenant Uhura cannot survive present circumstances. It sometimes seems as if our commitments and goals are irreconcilably different.

The thought bubbled to the forefront of his mind. It was not, strictly speaking, a lie. The word "relationship" had variable definitions, referring to interpersonal connections of all kinds. And their commitments and goals likely were irreconcilably different. Last night had evinced that in short, painful order.

Spock paused in the middle of lifting his spoon to his mouth, realizing that Jim and McCoy were staring at him. He frowned for a moment, opening his mouth to ask what had happened.

It was another moment before he realized he had just voiced his thoughts about Nyota aloud.

He flushed emerald.

Across the table, McCoy was giving him a familiar look that was equal parts annoyance and disbelief. But before he could say anything, Jim leaned abruptly across the table and put a hand on Spock's shoulder.

"Spock."

It was only through sheer power of will that Spock managed not to cringe away. Jim's expression seemed to be wavering somewhere between astonishment and sympathy, and the fact that Spock had invited both with his outburst made them no less discomfiting—

"You get it," Jim said.

Spock blinked. His eyes flicked to McCoy, who was staring at Jim, incredulous. "I thought you didn't want to—" he began.

Jim interrupted him again: "You gotta talk that shit out."

"Captain?" was the only word Spock seemed capable of uttering.

"With Uhura," Jim clarified. "Before you don't have a chance to. I'm serious. This is personal experience, here. Bones gets it, right Bones?"

"Don't you drag me into this," McCoy growled, leaning back in his seat and removing his glass from the table. "I went around that block eight years ago."

"Look," Jim said, "if kids haven't come up yet, you're probably safe."

"We have not discussed the matter," Spock heard himself say, and was promptly horrified. A second lie in as many days.

Jim seemed not to notice. "Well, then you're probably safe." His eyes lit up briefly and he turned back to McCoy. "Hey, Bones. You have a daughter."

"Leave Jojo off the damn table, Jim."

"I'm just making an observation!"

Grateful for an opportunity to duck out of the argument, Spock turned back to his soup, quickly finding that he had an appetite after all.

Thirty minutes later:

"You okay, buddy?"

Jim's voice was muddled, barely audible over the sound of the restaurant around them, but Spock wasn't sure he could have responded anyways. How to explain it to them? That in days, possibly hours, he would either have to mate or die, that before he did he would be consumed by unthinking animal rage—and that once he was fully in the grip of the plak tow, there was no knowing what he would thought sent a wave of hot, dark fear—yes, fear, he may as well acknowledge it—through his head and chest.

Before him, Jim and McCoy exchanged a concerned glance.

"Spock, you all right?" Now McCoy leaned forward across the table, brow knitted. "You look a little flushed." His eyes darted over Spock's face to his ears, which were still burning. Examining. The thought sent another spike of terror through Spock's gut.

The doctor was at times illogical and petulant, but he was no fool. He would make the connection easily. Spock jerked back and attempted to stand up, forgetting he was seated in a booth. His legs banged into the edge of the table, scattering chips across the plastic tablecloth and slopping liquid from the glasses containing McCoy's wheat beverage and Jim's tequila.

Both Jim and McCoy jumped—evidently his movement had startled them. He needed to remain calm, to keep himself under control, at least until—

Until what?

Nyota was the only person he could even remotely imagine approaching in this state. She knew the risks of pon farr and had stayed with him despite them. But after last night…he could not, would not ask for her help. If he did, he knew, she would agree, and afterward she would never forgive him.

But he could also hardly divert the Enterprise to New Vulcan—could hardly arrive as an unbonded male and expect his mere presence among other Vulcans to solve the problem for him—

Steps. Break the problem into its composite parts—then move forward. Yes. That was the answer.

He needed to get off the starbase. Aboard the starbase he was a danger to civilians and Starfleet personnel alike; aboard the Enterprise he could lock himself in his quarters, could at least be properly restrained, if it came to that.

"I must return to the ship," he said.

Jim and McCoy stared at him.

"What?" McCoy asked.

Of course—they were still surrounded by the din of the restaurant. Surely if he was having trouble understanding them with his Vulcan hearing, they were having trouble understanding him. Spock adjusted his volume accordingly.

"I must return to the ship."

Jim flinched and raised both hands in protest. "All right, settle down! We heard you the first time!"

Spock was already stumbling out of the booth, narrowly avoiding crashing into another patron. (When had the restaurant become so crowded?) He felt lightheaded, unsteady. When he was finally upright in the space between the booth and the tables, he tried and failed to take a step toward the door, pitching to his left and catching himself against the wall—

—then a firm hand was gripping his upper arm and somewhere in the distance, McCoy was speaking: "Something's wrong. I'll take him to Medbay."

Spock craned his neck to see Jim nodding. "You go, I'll take care of this."

As McCoy led him out the door, Spock caught another glimpse of Jim, calling after a server and gesturing at the guacamole.

"Can we get this to go?"

The ship was painfully bright compared to the dim restaurant and the promenade. The high walls of the corridor between the transporter room and the Medbay blurring as he stumbled along in McCoy's grip.

How many times had he walked these halls unencumbered, unassisted? That loss was thrown into stark relief, now that his mind was swimming with unregulated emotion, his skin feverish and uncomfortable—

Instructions. McCoy did not understand, had no idea the danger he was in, the danger the crew was in. The mere notion of explaining why made Spock flush with humiliation. No. He needed to be isolated, but McCoy need not know why. At least not until he could formulate more of a plan.

"Doctor, I must go to my quarters." The words felt like marbles in his mouth.

McCoy scoffed. "Pull the other one, Spock."

An illogical response—likely idiomatic—but clearly a dismissal. Panic blossomed in his chest. "You do not understand."

"No, I don't. Do you?"

"I must be isolated."

"Jesus Christ, Spock, I'm just gonna run some tests to make sure you're not dying. Then you can go hermit up all you want."

Hermit up…? Another expression in Standard he could hardly remember. Had Nyota explained it to him?

"Doctor, I must request that you speak more plainly."

McCoy gave an exasperated sigh. "Just come on."

A pair of doors parted before them, a flash of a white caduceus, and suddenly he was sitting on a biobed. A medical tricorder appeared out of his periphery and he flinched back.

"Hold still," McCoy growled.

"Doctor, I must reiterate how vital it is that I return to my quarters imme—"

"I said hold still, dammit."

Spock leaned back further and nearly fell off the biobed. There was a hand on his shoulder now, keeping him in place.

The Medbay doors hissed open again and Spock turned to see Jim standing there, a plastic bag in one hand, a concerned look on his face. "What's going on?" he asked.

Directed to McCoy, not to him.

"Not sure yet," came the doctor's gruff reply.

"Anything we should be worried about?"

"I said I'm not sure yet, Jim."

Jim. That was the answer. Jim would listen to him. He clearly understood the value of personal privacy; he would understand if Spock insisted he needed to go to New Vulcan, he would go to New Vulcan. That was the problem with McCoy: he was too good at his job. Too insistent on the well-being of his patients, to the point that he failed to listen to the patients themselves.

"Captain," Spock interjected, "I must return to my quarters."

"Let Bones run his tests first, ok?"

Spock felt his heart sink. He was slipping, he could feel that even now. Time was short—but he could no more bring himself to say the words pon farr than he could stand up and leave the Medbay unassisted.

A light—bright and blinding, even more so than the lights in the corridor—in one eye, then the other.

"Hmph."

Jim, to his left: "What?"

There was a finger in his periphery now instead of a tricorder. Spock glanced to his right and found McCoy pointing at him but not looking at him, moving away from them. "Keep him here."

"What are you gonna do?" Jim demanded.

The doctor's mouth was a grim line. "I gotta make a call."

Jim's voice, somewhere above his head: "Do you know what's happening here?"

Across the room, Doctor McCoy was a blurry outline moving toward them from the back of the room. "I think so," he replied grimly.

For the last several (five? ten?) minutes, there had been shouting coming from his office. This in and of itself was hardly unusual, of course. McCoy seemed to exist in a state of semi-permanent irritation.

"Doctor," Spock said again, "I assure you the longer I remain here the greater the risk to the rest of the—"

The hypospray took him by surprise. He jerked back, his hand flying to the side of his neck, heat flooding his face.

"What have you—"

Spock broke off.

McCoy's outline was less blurry than it had been only minutes before. Lines and edges were becoming more defined. He could see the chronometer on the far wall, reading 2354—and realized he could hear the low hum of the ship again, present beneath the sounds of McCoy removing from the hypo and discarding the cartridge of—of whatever he had just injected into Spock's bloodstream.

He blinked. The anger he had felt only moments before seemed to be bleeding slowly out of his system, replaced only with confusion.

"What…what did you…"

The doctor turned to him with a grim smile. "Nothing special, Spock. Just your standard synthenol treatment. Sobered ya right up."

Spock stared at him.

To his left, Jim moved toward the other biobed and put down the plastic bag he'd been holding, voicing Spock's thoughts for him: "Sobered? You mean he was—"

"Drunk? Yeah. Off your ass, Spock."

Something was tugging at the corner of McCoy's mouth—a smirk, Spock realized. The doctor was smirking at him.

"On what?" Jim demanded.

The soup.

Both Jim and McCoy turned to him, and Spock realized he had voiced that thought aloud as well.

McCoy nodded. "Yeah. It was molé-based. Might as well have been a pitcher of tequila."

The word was unfamiliar to him. "Molé?"

"Unsweetened chocolate powder," McCoy clarified. "Probably couldn't taste it through all that spice."

Now Jim was grinning at him. "Shit, Spock." He glanced at McCoy. "This is a first, isn't it?"

"You know, Jim, I think it is." He turned to Spock. "Oh, and just so you're prepared, one of the unfortunate things about the hypo treatment is that it doesn't save you from the hangover. Sobering up that fast actually just makes it hit ya that much harder and faster, so…"

As if prompted by the doctor's description, a wave of nausea swept through him. Spock leaned forward, pressing a hand over his mouth. The headache hit him next, and he squeezed his eyes shut, suppressing a groan. Whereas in the restaurant, sound had been muddled and confusing, everything was now much too sharp, and much too loud.

Leaning against the other biobed, Jim crowed: "Baby's first hangover!"

Spock pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and ground out a response. "Gentlemen, I believe I will recover in my quarters."

McCoy appeared at his elbow, holding up a second hypospray. "Hell, Spock, what kind of asshole do you take me for?"

Spock allowed him to administer the analgesic, and slowly the pain began to ebb away.

"Now what the hell was all that nonsense about locking yourself in your quarters?" McCoy demanded.

Spock paused for a long moment before he answered, formulating his response before he spoke. "Evidently a lack of…clear thinking," he said finally. "I was unaware of my own inebriation."

A look passed between Jim and McCoy, but neither pressed the point.

"Happens to the best of us," Jim said.

"Indeed." Spock rose.

Jim's face fell. "You're still leaving?" He glanced at McCoy with a frown. "Not you too!"

"It's midnight, Jim." McCoy gestured at the chronometer.

Jim placed his hands on his hips. "You two are a couple of little old ladies. C'mon, I still have half a bucket of guac here, and I'm not gonna finish it by myself."

"Jim—" McCoy began.

As the captain and ship's surgeon began to bicker back and forth, Spock began making his way to the exit. He was halfway there when he remembered his quarters would be cold—and empty.

"One card game," Jim was saying.

Spock paused, then turned to face the room. "One game?"

Jim's hands were spread in conciliation. He sent Spock a grin.

Across the room, the doctor's brow had knitted thoughtfully. He glanced in Spock's direction. "You ever played cutthroat hearts, Spock?"

Metaphorically, perhaps. Spock pushed the thought from his mind.

"I am unfamiliar with the game, Doctor."

McCoy chuckled. "Oh, good. We'll play for money, then."

At 0300 hours, pleasantly tired and a handful of credits richer, Spock finally left the rec room, noting the soft glow from the overhead lights as he walked through the corridors. To provide grounding for the crew over the course of the deep space mission, the ship's lighting was adjusted to maintain the illusion of solar and lunar cycles of a regular Terran day. At this hour, except during the rare crisis that required all hands on deck, Spock rarely ventured outside his quarters to see it. There was something oddly calming about it. Perhaps the notion of being awake when no one else was, when no one required his attention. When he could think, uninhibited by distraction.

Therein lay the problem.

All at once, the thought of his empty bed flashed across his mind, leaving him punctured and deflated. He paused before the turbolift, then turned and walked instead in the direction of the botanical lab.

Years ago, during the shakedown cruise, Lieutenant Sulu had petitioned to redesign the lab so that it more closely resembled a public greenhouse, outfitting the space with benches and a narrow walk path. At the time Spock had resisted the idea, conceding only when Jim had proposed dividing the space into two parts: the greenhouse and the closed lab, where the ship's botanists could research potentially more hazardous plant species without exposure to the general crew.

When the greenhouse doors slid open before him, they enveloped him in air that was heady and warm. He located a bench opposite a display of succulents from various planets: some Terran, some varieties from their recent planetary surveys. Some Vulcan.

He sat for a long time before coming to a decision.

It saddened him. In the odd clarity of the silent, early morning, he could admit that to himself. At the very least, the emotion was transient, controllable. It would fade with time, finally detached from memory-memories he would retain regardless. Memories of the ship. Memories of Nyota. And…

He rose, mouth quirking at the thought.

The memory of Jim, McCoy, and Taqueria Jalisco.

A/N: It's probably not a surprise that the idea for this chapter came well after I had already written the other two. For the longest time, I had no idea what I was going to do for Spock's portion of the story. And even when I did, his angst demanded so much more than I realized it was going to. (What can I say? He's an angsty guy.)

In any case, I hope you've had as much fun with this story as I've had writing it. I look forward to posting some more stuff in the next couple of weeks here—if you're interested, stay tuned. As always, thank you for reading.

The title of this chapter (and the previous chapter) is lovingly pilfered from Cards Against Humanity.