Chapter Text
For the first three minutes of their acquaintance, Spock is confused.
He actually looks around the room again, although he is sure that his first visual sweep was conclusive. But there is no one else in the bar wearing a red shirt, so Spock goes back to the man slouched in a corner table, with his muddy feet propped up on the tabletop, headphones over his ears (and Spock can hear metallic pop blaring from where he’s standing across the room), and a flimsy paperback novel titled Mrs. Daisy Goes to the Moon. The man is snickering at the antique, and in front of him is an array of seven lollipops, the eighth of which is in his mouth.
(The wrapper is on the floor. Spock steps around it on his way over).
“Hello,” Spock says, uncertain as to how he should approach this situation. The human does not appear to notice that Spock is standing over his table. He giggles, and turns a page in his novel. Spock cautiously sets a hand down on the tabletop—
He regrets this deeply in a matter of seconds. The surface is scummy in a way no eating establishment furniture should ever be.
“Excuse me,” Spock says, a little louder, and a flush of embarrassment crawls over him as other bar patrons look over. He is becoming a disturbance, and he experiences a moment of intense enmity towards Scott, because this is entirely his fault.
Out of a lack of options, Spock reaches out and interposes his hand between the book and the human’s nose. There is a tense moment where he thinks that the man won’t notice this either, but slowly, eyes crawl up Spock’s arm and reach his face. Spock averts his eyes from the other man’s quickly, but not before he has the impression of their being very blue. “Excuse me,” he says again.
The human shifts, and pries a headphone from one very round, very human ear. “What?” He asks, voice loud enough to make Spock wince. Spock does not look around the bar again, though. He has no desire to take note of the staring.
“I am Spock,” Spock identifies himself quietly—and nearly stumbles back when the human suddenly reels towards him, climbing halfway over the table in seconds. “I—hello,” he says, taken aback.
The human’s eyes rake at him. They are still very blue. Spock appears to have become fixated on them, which does not bode well. The human’s face wrinkles up in confusion. Slightly hostile confusion, if Spock is not mistaken.
“Who the hell’re you?” He demands. His voice is rough and has a slurred, imprecise quality to it. Spock’s fingers curl in distress.
“I am Spock,” he repeats, feeling completely out of his element. “You are James Kirk, correct?” When this prompts the human’s eyes to narrow to slits and to suddenly be out of his chair and on his feet, Spock manages, “Are you not acquainted with Montgomery Scott?”
The thus-far-unidentified human’s face twists as though the candy in his mouth has suddenly grown unfavorable. “Montgomery… Hey. You talkin’ bout Scotty?”
Spock has heard Scott referred to as such before. He nods warily and to his relief, the human returns to his chair. “Oh,” he mumbles, and reclaims his paperback. “S’up. Forgot you were comin’.”
He apparently begins to read again and Spock, at a loss, continues to stand awkwardly in front of the table. He hears giggles among the bar patrons.
After 6.2 minutes the human peers over the top of his paperback, the color of his eyes again violently assaulting Spock. “Gonna sit, big guy?”
Spock deduces that this is truly James Kirk, and not some fevered nightmare brought on by long hours in the lab. He sits stiffly, and tries not to touch the grimy table with any part of his body. Kirk replaces his shoes upon the surface and Spock watches a clump of mud fall from them and land in front of his nose.
Spock seriously hates Scott right now.
----
Six months ago, Spock applied for a position with one of the Starfleet Research Labs in San Francisco, CA, Earth. Up until then, Spock had been working as a troubleshooter for a modest software designer, so he knew the odds of his getting the position. The only reason he’d sent in the application that had littered up his desk for the past three months was because it was either send the thing in or run it through the paper shredder in a fit of nerves, and one choice was vastly more logical than the other.
He’d been more than a little shocked (and slightly terrified) when 2.3 weeks later, he’d gotten a call from Montgomery Scott himself, co-head of the project, and been requested for an interview. After the deeply trying experience that was attempting to explain how long he’d been following the mobile transporter research Starfleet was working on—without overtly stating that he knew more than was strictly legal considering the security clearance involved—Scott had finally peered at Spock across the immaculate holodesk and said, “You do know you’re hired, yeah? Th’interview is just a formality. Are you sure you dinnae want to sit down?”
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Spock moved to San Francisco, where he lived in a tiny apartment, sandwiched between two neighbors, one of which had too many cats, the other of which was a perpetually drunk Tellarite. He’d found two vegetarian restaurants (which he never went to), taken the expected tours of San Francisco, purchased a library subscription card, and gotten used to Scott’s accent. He spent nearly all his time in the labs, working primarily with Dinauri, Chekov, and Syrek, or with Scott himself. He was content.
Until Dinauri had started asking about his personal life.
“You know, I never see you out and about,” she called up to Spock, who was in the process of tightening the compression coils of their new transporter hub.
Spock had noted that 82% of his interactions with Gaila Dinauri took place while he was performing manual repairs. He had deep suspicions about whether this was the case because he was effectively immobilized at such times and couldn’t extract himself from the situation without decreasing work efficiency. “I know even Syrek goes to the botanical gardens and attends on-campus lectures. You must do something for fun…”
“Affirmative,” Spock said. He could only achieve 58% certainty of the coil’s integrity with a pressure wrench. He glanced down at his Orion coworker. “Please hand me the magnetizer.”
“You’re stalling,” Dinauri observed, and handed him the tool anyway. “Come on, Spock. We’ve been working together for ages. Aren’t we friends?”
Spock had never been entirely comfortable on the subject of ‘friendship’. Vulcans, he knew, weren’t supposed to have them. And Syrek was watching their interaction with raised eyebrows (Spock resisted the urge to frown because Syrek had calculations to run through and should not have let his focus stray elsewhere).
Even so, Spock swallowed and turned his attention back to the reassuring null-sociality that was the compression coil. “You are a valued and trusted coworker, Dinauri.”
Spock actually did know her pretty well at this point, because he could all but hear her pout. “Gaila.”
“Gaila Dinauri,” Spock compromised, and made his final adjustments to the compression coils before he slithered back out of the machine. Fresh oxygen hit his lungs, creating a pleasing sensation. He looked back at the machine. “Shall we begin testing the hub?”
“Spock,” Dinauri whined. “We were having a nice conversation and everything.”
“We are working,” Spock objected politely. “We should test the hub.”
Before Dinauri could protest further, Scott suddenly appeared in their workspace. He did so with his usual volume, which did not make Spock jump and identify the closest building exit. Today.
He was still getting used to Scott.
“You’ll do no such thing!” The engineer bellowed, waving a data PADD at them, which Dinauri regarded with the cool gaze of someone totally unimpressed and Spock edged away from slightly. “The circuits aren’t in working order yet, someone forgot to clear out the coolant cylinders—“ From Checkov, scribbling theorem proofs on half a dozen PADDs, “Oops.”
“—and the D-6 is on the blink again.”
Ah, the D-6. Spock hated that thing with a passion. While he understood Scott’s insistence upon it, rather than the highly advanced fusion core the Academy ran off of—after all, a D-6 was what a person would be getting in most Federation outposts—it was, in Spock’s opinion, a temperamental, outdated, and largely defective piece of machinery. On occasions, Spock had to talk himself out of upgrading the engine.
…With a phaser.
“What’s wrong with the circuits?” Dinauri asked. Scott shrugged.
“Cannae say. But efficiency is at 75% or so; we’ll be needing to check.”
Dinauri felt the need to state, “There are 258 circuits.”
Scott responded, “Which is why we’ll be getting started on them now.”
Dinauri smiled toothily, and Spock covertly moved away from her in case she tried to punch the project co-head again. Instead the Orion woman sighed and motioned for Spock to follow her. Scott came along with them, consulting his data PADD over where they should start. The three of them were neck-deep in machinery when Scott piped up,
“So, Spock. What is it that you do in your leisure hours?”
And 258 circuits later, Spock’s private life laid bare before them, they decided that the hub was ready to run.
Oh, and that Spock’s life was deeply flawed.
“Do you ever even leave your house?” Dinauri asked in tones of fascination. Spock raised his eyebrows at her, because: the labs were not his house. She pouted. “You know what I mean!”
“I obtain groceries,” Spock allowed. Scott had just returned, bearing a bag that smelled of the highly hydrogenated corn snack Scott insisted on before test runs.
“Ooh, popcorn,” Dinauri said happily, dodging Scott’s slapping hands to snag a handful. “Want some, Spock?”
“I do not comprehend why you insist on eating substances of detrimental nutritional value,” Spock reminded her dutifully. She rolled her eyes.
“You are a sad, sad man,” Scott informed him. “Alright, lads and lasses, goggles on.”
Goggle securely in place (no one wanted to go blind just because energy transformers malfunctioned), Dinauri began to enter the experiment parameters. Scott munched a handful of popcorn. “You know, you really could get out and about a bit more, Mr. Spock. See the world. You’ve been on Earth for near twenty-five years, and sometimes it seems like that one—“ a nod of Scott’s head towards where Syrek (eyes now concealed behind tinted goggles) “—knows more about this place than you do.”
“Syrek is an observant and intelligent individual,” Spock said.
“Energize,” Dinauri called out. The transporter hub hummed, lighting up, and Dinauri sat back. “Beginning resistance test at 13:06 hours.”
“And you hate each other,” Scott said, goggles doing nothing to conceal his amusement.
“Hate would be illogical,” Spock murmured. “I have nothing but respect for… Syrek’s many accomplishments.”
“Aye, respect him you do,” Scott said, leaning back against the console. “That dinnae mean you can’t hate him, and he can’t hate you.” Scott gave a snort. “You won’t have nothing to do with each other, unless it’s about matter converters.”
His tone implied that there was something deeply wrong with this. Spock could not fathom why. No one doubted Syrek’s expertise with matter converters, least of all Spock. Which was why he left that work almost entirely to Syrek, and people better qualified to deal with matter converters (and Syrek).
“It is kind of obvious,” Dinauri put in, apparently grown bored of watching the transporter hub not explode.
Spock put his arms behind his back. “I would appreciate it if you would both cease antagonizing me.” This prompted them to cackle. On neither part did it sound particularly repentant. Spock sighed.
The transporter hub passed its resistance test easily, and maintained full functionality throughout the battery of efficiency, precision, and energy wave tests. That meant the lab could officially move on to the next phase of testing, and hopefully not melt key pieces of machinery this time.
It did not necessitate that Dinauri and Scott (who had now also recruited Checkov) move on from their favorite in-work pastime; badgering Spock about his personal life.
“Spock, did you know that socialization is a vital component of every known living being’s health?”
“I appreciate your concern. However, I find myself within acceptable parameters of social contact within the context of my work.”
Or:
“Mr. Spock, if you are thinking that there are no nice people to meet—I was thinking when I came to America—I can say that I have found many friends. We have many nice conversations… This is sufficient compensation for ionic disturbance, yes?”
“I appreciate your concern, Chekov, but I am inadequately equipped to deal with new people, particularly in that it is difficult to locate individuals with whom I share interests. And the ionic disturbance formulae appear adequate.”
Or:
“Morning, Spock. Myself and some lads from the Academy are getting together this fine evening for a drink or two. Care to join us?”
“My apologies. I intend to go over the polarity readings, and will be occupied. Perhaps another time.”
Proceed to looks of concerned disappointment.
Quite frankly, it was getting old. Spock had no need of friends, his apartment provided adequate shelter, and his work provided mental stimulation bordering on ecstasy. His life was very fulfilling—the most it had ever been—and the fascination of his coworkers with Spock’s private time was beginning to fray his patience.
So Scott had pulled rank.
“Think o’ it as a social experiment, Mr. Spock, but you’re leaving your apartment this evening and that’s an order, so don’t expect to weasel your Vulcan way out of it. It’ll be just you and one of me mates, and you’ll have lots in common, and he’s the easiest sort to talk to there is. 18:00 hours, Treng’s Pub, he’ll be wearing sommat red, and you’ll be there.”
There was an implied threat of terrible, terrible things coming to pass in the event that Spock wasn’t present. Apocalyptic things. Being cut off from tinkering with the dematerialization vectors kinds of things.
Piece delivered, Scott swept back the way he came. Silence stretched after him, in which Chekov stared wide-eyed at Spock, whose face was frozen in an expression of utter dismay, and Syrek audibly cleared his throat. Dinauri started applauding. She beamed at Spock when he did not quite glare at her.
Later, as they were departing, Scotty came over to inform Spock, “Oh, that’s right. Forgot to mention. The man’s name is James Kirk. Good sort, I promise.”
And the rest, as they say, was history.