Title: Operation Dignity
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Intervention becomes necessary when the planning of a simple party goes awry.
A/N: Written for fellow writer and awesome Word Wars companion, urbanspaceman, who requested a story based on a surprise party. Please enjoy some mishaps on the starship Enterprise.

McCoy drops into the widest chair in the lounge and swings a leg over its arm. He complains, “If we’re supposed to host dignitaries in here, why the hell can’t the furniture be more comfortable on a man’s backside?”

No one answers the doctor in lieu of coordinating the hustle-and-bustle of those men and women working on the lounge’s decorations.

“No, no, to the left,” a man calls out to a lieutenant trying to hang one flopping end of a banner across an archway without overbalancing himself. That he is none other than the highest-ranking commander of the ship appears not to surprise anyone present. “Your left!”

“We have forty minutes and thirty-one seconds remaining, Captain,” reports the person next to James Kirk, his dark gaze fixed intently upon a PADD in his hands. “Our guests will arrive precisely on time.”

Kirk sighs heavily through his nose. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Spock.”

“The banner is off by thirty-seven thousandths of a meter on your left, sir,” Mr. Spock intones, still without looking up.

McCoy’s shoulders start shaking in the background as Kirk presses his mouth thin, staring for a moment in dismay at his First before turning again to the fellow on the ladder. “Lt. Riley, raise that banner!”

Pivoting away now, Mr. Spock also remarks, “The caterer is late.”

Jim Kirk flushes and, to no one’s surprise, huffs loudly, an equivalent to throwing his hands up in the air in defeat. McCoy watches the man stalk to a chair on the other side of the couch and sink into it.

“Why do I bother?” Kirk asks the doctor plaintively.

“Because you’re you. Not to mention this event is for Spock’s father, someone you would hate to embarrass yourself in front of.”

Kirk’s mutter of “Don’t sugarcoat it, Bones” only sets his friend to shaking his head and tsking.

A minute later, McCoy braces an arm against one thigh. “You know, Jim, Spock is likely more nervous than you are.”

“Spock, nervous?” Kirk looks at the doctor askance. “That doesn’t seem…”

“Possible?” supplies his friend knowingly. “Even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then. Vulcans are thick-skinned, sure, but with the proper motivation, they aren’t immune to feeling pressured—especially a perfectionist like Spock.”

And McCoy would know, recalls Kirk. No one on the ship is as talented at getting under Spock’s skin as the doctor, or so determined to see what can make a Vulcan lose his composure.

At Kirk’s lack of response, McCoy adds, “Or haven’t you noticed him nitpicking every single detail about this party to death?”

“Oh, I noticed,” Kirk counters in a dry tone. “I had to call to Engineering and ask Mr. Scott to spare a few of his men to finish these preparations when the event planners quit.”

McCoy nods along to that explanation. “Before this, has Spock ever been responsible for an entire department threatening to resign over something simple like a party?”

Following a short silence, Kirk shakes his head.

“Then I leave you to draw your own conclusions, Captain,” the doctor finishes. He winks as he levers himself out of his chair. “I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”

Jim reaches for his CMO’s arm as the man passes by him. “Bones.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Jim?”

“Thank you.”

McCoy pats the captain’s hand. “You’ll take care of it. You always do.”

Kirk needs another minute after his companion’s leave-taking to abandon the safety of his chair. When he eventually pinpoints the location of his little raison d’être for being hauled to the Officer’s Lounge an hour ahead of schedule (sadly, the task isn’t overly difficult if one simply follows the litany of apologies), he girds himself for what’s to come.

If all goes well—that is, if Spock chooses to accept his captain’s opinion that Ambassador Sarek will appreciate the party no matter the alignment of the banner, the sparsity of the food and other poorly managed accompaniments—the evening can proceed as it was meant to: in honor of a man who, professionally, has achieved more success in unifying the Federation than any of his predecessors and who, for Kirk personally, is quite a singular person he has been both looking forward to and dreading meeting.

Moreover, he hears at this particular event Ambassador Sarek is to be attended by his wife.

Spock’s mother, Kirk thinks. Perhaps by making the acquaintance of the renowned Amanda Grayson, for the senior officers of the Enterprise, some light can be shed on the human half of Mr. Spock.

That half which, at the moment, seems to be dominating the lounge and terrifying the catering team from setting out the evening’s buffet before the guests arrive.

As Kirk approaches the scene, he hears, “This is not the triple-tier Swedish sponge cake favored by the Ambassador’s wife. And this—” Mr. Spock’s monotone momentarily breaks form on the word. “What is this dish?”

The ship’s best chef frowns but answers, “The dessert known as Mint Delights, Mr. Spock.”

“Negative. Even to an untrained eye, it is clearly made of common mint, Mr. Tersigni, not the mint of Vulcan as specified in my instructions. I am beginning to suspect you did not read them.”

Chef Tersigni stiffens, his face rapidly reddening, a very bad sign. Kirk nearly breaks into a run.

Tersigni is a calm man by nature, hardly ever ill-tempered, except of course when ridiculed for any dish coming directly from his kitchen. Last year Kirk had had the misfortune of witnessing an Andorian spit out an Italian wedding cookie (one of Tersigni’s specialties, much beloved by the crew), claiming it must have taken great skill to make the cuisine on the ‘Fleet flagship so disgusting. Tersigni hadn’t batted an eye, just sailed across the room from some self-appointed watchpost, nabbed a serving spoon from a tray of roasted vegetables and delivered a resounding whap! to the top of the blue hand reaching for another finger-food, likely for the Andorian to insult, with a speed that put even the most highly trained security officers’ reflexes to shame. Though Kirk had to soothe ruffled feathers (of both victims) and make a few rash promises to coax Tersigni to stand down, that Andorian never touched another morsel that didn’t come from a replicator for the duration of his journey on the Enterprise. Apparently, none of the kitchen staff would serve him.

Kirk is not about to watch his men come to blows over sponge cake and mint something-or-other. “My dear Chef!” he cries loud enough to precede him. Gesturing broadly at the dishes displayed on the carts brought in by the catering team, he declares, “It all looks wonderful, just wonderful.”

Spock opens his mouth.

Kirk bumps the officer deliberately in the side, going on, “We’re appreciative of your efforts, as always, Mr. Tersigni.”

Oh, of all the times for Spock to look aggravated from being unable to speak his mind. Kirk holds his breath. By some small miracle, Spock keeps his mouth shut, at least long enough for the color of Tersigni’s natural tan to return.

“Thank you, Captain,” Tersigni says with a half-bow, though the chef eyes Mr. Spock with a certain amount of brooding in his expression.

Kirk nods in relief, then swings around to block Spock’s view of the other caterers setting up the buffet table and clears his throat. “Mr. Spock, a word?”

Spock glances at his data padd in consternation but thankfully yields. “Of course, Captain.”

Kirk steers the Vulcan none-too-gently toward a decorative array of potted plants, hoping the foliage will provide some cover from curious bystanders. When the pair reaches their destination, he folds his arms over his chest.

For once, Spock doesn’t appear concerned with what his captain may be thinking, as his attention is still elsewhere—flitting about critically from section to section of the lounge. “We may need to postpone the event by an hour,” he duly informs Kirk. “Given such chronic disorganization, it will be nearly impossible to meet the standards required to host an event for a galactic representative, particularly one of high regard, as with the Ambassador.”

“Oh, I think you’ve contributed your share to the chaos, Commander.”

Spock’s head finally swivels in his direction. “Excuse me?”

Kirk narrows his eyes. “Spock, what’s going on with you?”

Not surprisingly, Spock evades the inquiry. “Do you believe my assessment to be incorrect?”

Firming his mouth, Kirk counters, “Is mine?”

The Vulcan studies him in silence for some time.

Kirk releases a breath slowly. “After careful observation, it seems to me you are hindering the progress of others by expecting them to met your impossible standards—and berating them in excess when they do not.” He goes on quickly when it looks like Spock wants to interject, “Yes, I know there have been mistakes made in the planning. But pointing out each one at this late juncture is not productive for anyone.”

“I…” Spock starts, stops. “I comprehend your concern, Captain. But the fact remains, we must complete preparations in less than thirty minutes. If you will allow me to—”

Kirk’s controlled sigh is a grim one. “I don’t disagree, Spock. This work does need to be wrapped up, and quickly. However, there is little enough time to set things to rights without also trying to accommodate your demands.”

“Sir.”

“Spock,” the captain says more softly, sensing he might be walking a fine line with his subordinate and friend, “I understand your position. In fact, I sympathize with it. Your parents are being hosted tonight, not some diplomat you are unlikely to encounter again.
I don’t want our crew or our command to appear amateurish any more than you do.” He holds Spock’s gaze for a second. “Therefore it is with regret that I relieve you of oversight of this event, effective immediately.”

Spock simply stares, for all his rapid-fire logic and brilliant intellect clearly uncomprehending that the metaphorical rug has just been pulled out from under him.

Jim retrieves the PADD from the officer’s unresisting hold, tucks it under his arm and points to the opposite side of the lounge. “Until such time as Ambassador Sarek and his wife arrive, you are restricted to the bar area.”

His brain seemingly back online, the Vulcan transfers an unblinking gaze to the place in question, observing, “Dr. McCoy is there.”

Jim suppresses a smile. “As a matter of fact, he is.”

“Captain…”

Kirk lifts a hand to stall an argument—or excuse. “And while you’re in the company of McCoy, I suggest you reflect upon the circumstances which landed you there.” When Spock’s eyebrows pinch together, Kirk lets his expression even out. “Don’t tempt me to extend the discipline beyond the hour.” Because you know I will do it, mister, goes unsaid.

His First wisely does not. Spock merely locks his hands behind his back, his posture slightly stiffer than usual. The brief pause before his “Understood” is the only hint of a rebellious consideration that Kirk can discern.

He tracks his second-in-command’s progress across the lounge with the tiniest of smiles. Then something behind the captain—near the table with the food—crashes and everyone in the room freezes, including Spock. But in the next second, with renewed reluctance, the Vulcan resumes his heading toward a now openly staring McCoy with a mint julep in hand.

Experiencing both regret and resignation, Kirk turns to confront his next problem. Along with one of the caterers, he looks helplessly at a splatter across the carpet of what looks like one giant green nutrient cube, its platter approximately halfway under a nearby table. He sighs. “Do we have a replacement for that?”

Just by the way the caterer stares at him, he knows with certainty it’s going to be a long, long evening. And the wall chronometer heartlessly continues to count down toward his guests’ imminent arrival.

Kirk is shooed away from helping with the green goop clean-up, then snapped at by an irate Riley for remarking that the banner is still crooked and subsequently nearly mowed down by a line of crewmen ferrying in extra chairs and tables because he is distracted. He has begun to suspect he may have bitten off more than he can chew in time for a young man to hurry through the lounge doorway, looking around the room anxiously. When he spots Kirk, he comes over. By his attire, Kirk decides, he must be one of the musicians hired as the party’s entertainment. When he spots Kirk, he comes over. By his attire, Kirk decides, he must be one of the musicians hired as the party’s entertainment.

“Captain Kirk, I found you!” the man cries, ringing fine-boned hands. “Oh, what should we do? My bandmates are in a bad way!”

“Bad way?” Kirk repeats, stomach sinking. “Explain.”

“Tis the flu, sir. I’ve just come from Sickbay where the nurse said—” The musician cuts himself short, turning a peculiar shade of green.

When the man suddenly doubles over clutching at his stomach, the captain doesn’t back up in time. As a result, two pairs of footwear suffer instead of one.

Kirk covers his eyes with one hand as the activity in the lounge once again comes to a dead halt. Gathering his courage, he peers between his fingers, noting that McCoy is cutting through the crowd at a quick clip, no doubt coming to the aid of the man who obviously has the flu himself.

Far beyond McCoy, Spock still resides at the bar, merely looking on. The Vulcan cocks an eyebrow when Kirk lowers his hand enough to meet that impassive stare. A moment later, Spock pulls out a bar stool and sits down, facing the opposite way.

Kirk just had to take matters into his own hands, and by god Spock will make certain he regrets it. The captain runs a hand down his face, wondering absently just how long Vulcans hold grudges.

“Gonna be a hell of a party,” McCoy says as he straightens up from inspecting the pallor of his soon-to-be patient’s face.

“You can say that again,” Kirk mutters. In a few minutes, Spock’s father and mother and all other esteemed guests are going to be dining in the rec room where a bowling tournament is currently taking place. So much for his—or anyone else’s—dignity. No doubt it won’t take long for Starfleet Command to find out he had the Federation’s finest schmoozing over pretzels and big mugs of ale while overzealous crewmen threw themselves about without restraint or care every time one of the bowling teams scored a strike. The rec room’s disco lights will likely leave a lasting impression too.

McCoy adds cheerfully, “I’ll be back in a jiffy after I run this fellow down to the ‘Bay. Wouldn’t miss this show for the galaxy, Jim!”

Weakly Kirk waves the doctor and ill musician away. Then he powers up Spock’s PADD, asking no one in particular, “Who knows how to change the location on a party invite?”

-Fini

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