Title: A Series of Laughs – 7
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Characters: Spock, Kirk, McCoy, surprise guest
Summary: Drabble fill for trek_crackbingo prompt: fan mail/paranoia.
Previous Fills: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

I like you.

Spock, with an eyebrow raised, discards the first message as irrelevant. Though he does not forget—as Vulcans have well-ordered and extremely excellent memory banks—the Vulcan has no time to consider the strangeness of the phrase. He simply decides that it was a message sent in error; it was more likely intended for a giggling yeoman or a shy ensign.

Some days later, he is placing his order at the replicators in the mess hall when a surreal notion of being watched prompts the Vulcan to turn around. The chatty, social crowd situated around the room is ignoring his presence, more engrossed in flirting with tablemates or arguing over the latest publications on warp-core technology. Spock picks up his meal, intent on consuming the proper amount of nourishment in a proper time frame when he is summarily slapped on the back by his Captain.

“Spock. Find us a seat, will you? I’ll grab some lunch.”

“Captain.”

Kirk smiles knowingly. “Jim.”

The only two seats available are at a table occupied by the irascible Doctor McCoy. The man eyes Spock when he asks, “May the Captain and I join you, Doctor?”

McCoy gestures at the empty seats opposite him. “I ain’t got no claim on ’em, Mr. Spock. Have at it.”

The subsequent conversation over the course of the meal and fascinating banter between the Captain and Chief Medical Officer is enough to keep Spock from recalling his earlier unease. Spock ends up spending twice the amount of allotted time for lunch.

Upon returning to his quarters to address some basic bodily functions, Spock returns from the bathroom to find his computer console flashing with a new message. It reads:

I like you very much.

The anonymous sender has emphasized the last two words. Spock re-considers the small possibility that he may be the intended recipient. Illogical, highly improbable, but possible nonetheless.

The frequency of the messages increases; Spock creates a graph highlighting the difference in time intervals upon receipt during his spare time. The messages do not change in content, remaining along the lines of rather impersonal (to Spock) observations. It’s not until he receives the twelfth message which boldly states…

It’s sexy when you hypothesize before bedtime.

…that Spock feels uncomfortable.

The natural response, of course, for even an emotionally repressed Vulcan is that Spock must identify his admirer and ask her or him to stop.

“Spock?”

The Vulcan blinks, reorganizes his train of thought, and half-turns to ask, “Yes, Captain?”

Kirk is frowning at him from his chair. “The report, Mr. Spock.”

The Vulcan hastily (he acts as calm as ever) taps a button on the console of the science station and rattles off a list of mundane readings. When he finishes, says, “Is that all you require, Sir?” Kirk has not changed expression.

“Spock, are you feeling alright?”

Vulcans do not flush with embarrassment. “I am in optimal health, Sir.”

“Oh. Well, carry on then. Sulu, warp…”

Spock goes back to work, feeling eyes on him. He cannot afford to be distracted from the affairs of the ship again.

One particular shift, Mr. Spock rises, showers, and dresses in time to find a short sentence stating,

If only every man was a Vulcan like you.

He foregoes the completion of his daily routine and spends the next twenty nine point nine minutes resetting the security on the computer’s message retrieval system.

Later, when walking the corridors of the ship with quarterly inspection reports in hand, the Vulcan comes to a halt as a group of crewmen round a corner. He greets the group at large with a nod and several “Lieutenants” as they stream past.

That’s when he feels the brush. No, not a brush. A deliberate touch of one body part to another. Spock immediately stiffens, pivots with his back to the wall and eyes the retreating group of people. None of them appear concerned or interested at his reaction.

Spock is unnerved, to say the least.

If he snaps at a laboratory tech—a poorly phrased, brusque communication of words—after she steps within one meter of his personal space, he will experience a small sensation known as guilt when her face pales and she quickly moves to put the table between them. Spock does apologize in a roundabout way and proceeds on through the shift desiring only to return to his quarters and meditate.

The physical contact, after much rational thinking, he classifies as an accidental occurrence. That soothes Spock’s mind for the time being and he is able to focus on his performance as First Officer of the Enterprise, which includes settling disputes between Science and Engineering, preventing the Captain from being brainwashed by another hostile race, and vetoing the collective insistence on a holiday party. (There are no religious holidays recognized by the Federation as there are simply too many religions contesting for dominance.) A blissful (to a Vulcan) week passes without a message of adoration.

Then Mr. Spock walks into the medical bay during his free shift to address an unfortunate phrasing of words from Doctor McCoy to an official of Starfleet when he overhears the following:

“Oh but don’t you think his ears are the cutest?”

There is giggling, some of which is too strange to be identified as male or female.

Another voice inputs, “A baby version would be adorable!”

“I’d love to—”

Spock says loudly enough, “I am here to speak to Doctor McCoy. Is he available at this time?”

McCoy pokes his head through a doorway. “Spock! Why I’ll be! Hold on a sec.”

When he enters the main area of the medical bay, he does so not alone. Three nurses and a grinning lieutenant follow right behind McCoy, some of which seem to be paying particular attention to Spock’s ears as they slide past him. The Vulcan immediately proposes that he and the Chief Medical Officer retire to the doctor’s office for a “pertinent discussion on diplomatic communication with Starfleet Command.”

McCoy scowls so fiercely that the tension in Spock’s back releases its tight grip. But throughout the day, he cannot help but wonder if what signs he might be missing. He sleeps per usual but does not feel rested upon waking.

The next message follows swiftly.

I must agree with the consensus. Pointed ears intrigue me.

Suddenly, all actions around Mr. Spock are subject to suspicion. He may be stating a report to the Captain in his usual flat tone, but he’ll be watching a yeoman in the background and think that her eyelashes are quivering in an unorthodox manner. When the navigator leans over his shoulder to point out an interesting set of data on Spock’s console, he can’t help but count the seconds until that person moves away. Even the Captain’s random touch of a hand to his shoulder or squeeze of his arm is not above doubt.

Unfortunately, Spock cannot seem to voice his objections to any one person. He continues to be bombarded with strange looks, glancing physical contact, and now—he suspects—an overage of innuendo during professional conversations.

Such occurrences would drive a normal man mad. Spock is half-Vulcan. He adapts.

As he reviews the updated list of messages in his personal files, Spock contemplates this conundrum that must be solved. He runs down the list, repeating aloud:

“Vulcans mate for life. So do I.”

“I wasn’t bored during yesterday’s briefing. Your voice is phenomenal.”

“Did you like that bowl of plomeek soup I sent you?”

“You look good in—”

A sharp buzz causes the Vulcan to break off mid-repetition. He hesitates before answering.

“Spock here.”

“Spock, it’s—”

Kirk’s introduction (as if the Captain needs one) is interrupted by a loud “Open this damn door, on order from this ship’s Chief Medical Officer!”

Spock had forgotten that it was locked. He commands the lock to release. The door slides open to reveal Kirk and McCoy, the latter of which pushes his way into Spock’s quarters and crosses his arms.

The Vulcan’s eyebrow naturally rises to greet this display of the doctor’s. “Good evening, Captain. Doctor. How may I be of assistance?”

“Now look here, Spock—”

“Bones.” The fond nickname still has an undercurrent of authority. The Captain gives his First Officer a small smile. “Good evening, Spock. I hope that McCoy and I aren’t interrupting… anything.”

He punches a quick code into his PADD and it shuts off. “No, Sir. Won’t you be seated?”

McCoy is not known for holding his silence long. “This is business. I think we’ll stand.”

Again, Spock is intrigued. “I am always available to discuss any issue or concern pertaining to the functionality of the Enterprise.”

“Right. Well, this is about you, Mr. Spock.”

“Doctor, if you will elaborate.”

“Don’t patronize me, you green-blooded—”

“What Bones is trying to say is that we’re worried about you, Spock. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

He blinks. “I have not detected any change in my behavioral pattern, Captain.”

“That’s just it, Spock,” McCoy tells him while his look intensifies. “You won’t notice that about yourself because you’ll rationalize any little differences. But other people will notice—and have.”

“You seemed distracted at first,” explains Kirk. “Now…” He glances at McCoy.

The doctor adds, “Now, you’re the opposite. You are too aware.” He pauses. The next word takes Spock by surprise. “Paranoid.”

Paranoid. Spock is unable to accept this for thirty seconds. Then, upon examining the honesty in the eyes of the officers who stand before him, Spock feels that he must acknowledge the word’s existence.

The Captain saves him the trouble of formulating a proper response. “What is bothering you, Mr. Spock?”

McCoy nods as if to say, yes, tell us.

“It is a private matter. At this time, I am unprepared to discuss details.”

“Do I have to make it an order?” asks Kirk softly.

“I desire that you do not do so.”

“Jim, you can’t just let this go.” The doctor says, “Spock, it’s important that we are aware of anything, anything, that might affect you in a negative way. If you don’t feel comfortable talking to Jim or myself, then I would advise you to seek out the ship’s counselor.”

Kirk sighs and Spock realizes that that small exhalation of air bodes ill. “McCoy is right. Sorry, Spock, but consider this your official notice. Talk with the counselor. Captain’s orders.”

He bows his head. “I will do so.”

They leave him, then, to the task of rehearsing a dialogue with an imaginary counselor. Once Spock has outlined any potential troublesome questions, he catalogues specific answers that would make his Ambassador of a father proud.

Spock re-engages the locks on his door, boots his PADD, and goes back to mulling over the paradox that are those annoying, remarkably disturbing messages. Who sent them?

The session with the counselor doesn’t go at all like Spock plans. A non-descript young man with glasses introduces himself and asks the Vulcan to take a seat.

“I’m rather new at this job, so bear with me, Mr. Spock.”

“Of course, Dr. Roddenberry.”

“Gene, please. I find that I love working on this ship, more so than any other—such fun dynamics.”

The Vulcan does not take the bait.

The counselor clears his throat. “This is an official appointment, of course, because of the Captain’s involvement but that won’t prevent us from the niceties of conversation between two intellectuals.”

Fascinating. Spock recalls that this man has only been aboard the Enterprise for three months, one week and five days. Perhaps Dr. Gene Roddenberry will continue on in this position longer than his predecessors.

“Let us begin. I have hear that your shipmates are concerned about your—” The man pauses, adjusts his glasses. “—paranoid behavior.”

“I do not display behavior atypical of a Vulcan,” explains Mr. Spock.

“Ah. And what behavior is typical of a Vulcan?”

“Logical, rational behavior.”

“Would you use the description carefully controlled?”

Spock admits, “This is a crucial component of the process.”

Roddenberry smiles and murmurs, “Vulcans are superior in every way.”

Just the way that the man speaks makes Spock sit up straighter (though that is hardly possible). “Please explain your sentiment, Dr. Roddenberry.”

“Gene. I was merely pointing out the obvious, Spock.”

Spock is silent for some seconds. “I am not familiar with all facets of Terran humor.”

“I promise you,” says the man as he leans in slightly, “I wasn’t joking. I’ve always admired you, Mr. Spock.”

If Spock’s eyebrows could go higher, they’d vacate his face altogether. “You… admire me. You are suggesting that you have respect for my position,” he clarifies.

That smile widens, showing a top row of very straight, gleaming white teeth. “Respect is part of it.”

Spock now feels the beginnings of a suspicion tickling his brain. He says, without meaning to, “I am aware that I have popularity with a certain individual of this crew.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Does it not? Then you must also know that I am not privy to the identity of this individual.”

“A little mystery keeps us sharp, Spock,” explains the counselor.

“I find that I do not appreciate such admiration.” The Vulcan does not flex his fingers against the table; not at all. “It is an illogical approach.”

“Then you wish to be approached in person?”

Spock finds that there is no safe way to answer that question. He says nothing.

The counselor taps a pen against a clipboard. “Spock, tell me one thing.”

He tilts his head as an indication of proceed.

“If you could choose the identity of the person sending you love notes, who would you want it to be?”

Spock’s brain takes only a moment to recognize the inevitable. He stands. “At no point in time during this conversation did I specify the form of communication from my admirer, Dr. Roddenberry.”

The man looks, quite simply, unrepentant. “You didn’t answer my question. Who, Spock of Vulcan?”

“There is only one wish I shall express to you: I harbor no intention of reciprocating the desired response of an inappropriate message; such action must cease at once.”

Roddenberry frowns.

“This concludes our session. You may inform the Captain that a satisfactory outcome has been achieved.”

Point in case, the messages do stop. Spock is able to restrain himself and present a façade of graceful calm that appeases the Captain and enrages the Doctor (as is proper). He does, however, keep close surveillance on the ship’s counselor. Spock is at the point where he has a favorable balance between his work and his extracurricular spying (non-invasive, of course) when something unexpected happens.

The Enterprise returns from one of its bouts of time travel—unfortunately too frequent for Spock’s liking—and the body count of the crew turns up short. It takes hours, but Spock is able to discover who the missing crew member is.

Dr. Gene Roddenberry.

It is late in gamma shift and Spock stares at the report in his hands. He decides, prudently and with no small amount of pleasure, that this turn of events is not necessarily ill-fated. A series of careful tweaks to the report, and the Vulcan signs his signature with a smooth motion of the PADD pen.

Ship’s counselors are apt to come and go. No one need know of the particulars of this man’s disappearance. The Enterprise will acquire a replacement at the next starbase.

Spock sleeps and wakes refreshed for the first time in some months. And the Enterprise goes on about its business in blissful ignorance of a man that is creating its history from a knowledge—and a love—that is just too good to be true.

8

Related Posts:

• A Series of Laughs – 9 – from February 9, 2011
• A Series of Laughs – 8 – from January 16, 2011
• A Series of Laughs – 6 – from December 10, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 5 – from December 8, 2010
• A Series of Laughs – 4 – from December 3, 2010