Chapter Text
As it always was, the issue was that of… biology. Spock turned to look out of the viewport in his quarters. Though he often kept the rhombus-shaped golden panel closed to keep his mind from wandering, on this particular day he had it open. Perhaps a wandering mind was what he desired. Playing softly from his computer was a tinny-sounding recording of Vulcan folk music, likely from the early days. Had he wanted to, Spock might have wracked his brain for the exact date of this particular recording as well as the complete history of the performers, all of which he undoubtedly knew. However, it was this kind of hyper activity he wanted to calm.
Calm. Yes, that was what he wanted. Calm from everything swirling around in his mind. Meditation would not do—he couldn’t concentrate. Meditation was a fickle delight, and would only bring peace if one was already peaceful. Spock had had enough fits of frustration (forbidden) at his inability to meditate to know that he should not even make an attempt on this particular day. A busy mind was like being put on drugs with heretofore unknown side effects, which had also happened to Spock, a number of times. (Though this was not due to any malpractice of the good doctor—rather due to alien life-forms with Spock in their possession, thankfully though, never under the blade.) (Perhaps something should be done about how often Spock was, for lack of a better term, abducted by aliens.)
“Incoming transmission,” buzzed the ship’s computer.
“From whom?” Spock asked, still looking down into the abyss of space, only a few stars to remind him that not only is there eternal nothingness, but also that everything living will die, just as the imprints of the stars’ light in space is just an after-image of what are surely dead suns.
“Pavel Chekov,” answered the computer. Spock turned away from the void with one eyebrow quirked. The young officer was on shore leave, not due back for another few days. This contact was intriguing. Had there been some altercation or problem of any sort, he would have contacted the bridge. Spock activated the viewing screen on his computer. Chekov’s chubby young face came slowly into focus. As it did, Spock noted that his face was ruddier than normal and every so often gave a snuff, with his watery eyes downturned. Had… had he been crying?
“Ensign Chekov,” Spock said, startling the lad out of his reverie. When he jerked his head up to attention, a tear rolled out of his eye, which was quickly rubbed away.
“Commander Spock,” Chekov said. “I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
Spock’s eyebrow remained raised. “You are talking to me, ensign.”
“No, I mean, well, mano-el-mano. You know the Spanish took that saying from Russia? We—“
“Thank you, ensign,” Spock said. A reference to his beloved mother country meant the young man was not completely out of sorts. “What do you wish to speak of?”
“Well,” Chekov’s pink face turned redder. “Spock, I really look up to you. And I really trust you. And I feel like you might understand what I’m going through.”
Spock said nothing, but waited for Chekov’s admittance to having tried illegal substances during his shore leave, that he was now being held in custody, and was hoping Spock might have some magical Vulcan way to get him out of his spat with the authorities without having to notify Starfleet of his transgression.
“Spock, I think I’m gay.”
Had he been human (incorrect), Spock would have been “blown out of the ballpark,” but as a Vulcan (correct), he remained planted in his seat—a tribute to nonmoving inanimate objects everywhere. “Oh,” he said.
“And I didn’t really know who to tell, but I thought it would be, well, weird, you know? To tell the captain,” Chekov sputtered. “And it’s not like I’m coming on to you, or confessing my love or anything, that would be weird, but, like—“
“You’re quite alright, ens—Chekov.” He mused for a moment, then said, “There, there.”
“Thank you, Mister Spock,” Chekov said. He swiped at his eyes again.
“Chekov, it appears you have been weeping. Is that so?” The mention of his tears seemed to stir them up again. “I do not mention it in jest. If you are crying, then I assume something bad has happened.”
“Oh, no, not really, well, I mean I had kind of my heart broken but… I mean, I shouldn’t have gotten so attached so quickly, don’t you think, Spock?”
“I cannot give you any advice without knowing more details about the affair.”
“Oh, well,” Chekov said, voice cracking. “Wh-what you mean by affair?”
“Just tell me what happened,” Spock sighed, slouching slightly in his chair. Suddenly self-conscious of his mannerisms, he checked himself and sat up straight again.
“Okay, well, I was just going to have a fling, you know, or, well I guess you don’t know but you know,” Chekov gestured emphatically.
“Please continue,” Spock said.
“Well, you know how things go, you meet people, you have a couple drinks, it’s all fun and games, another Russian expression, Mister Spock, but I was hanging with this girl, or with these girls, and they just kinda weren’t doing it for me, you know? Well, they were thinking of having a, you know, a uh, party. Type thing. With a lot of people. Like with not-girl people. And that got me going, so, initially, I thought, ‘oh that’s weird’ and didn’t really even think about it? Cuz we were going to this party, and I was already kinda tipsy, I mean, you know how well I can hold my liquor, Spock, you remember the Christmas party, but anyway—“
Chekov’s story was quickly becoming arduous. Though Spock held the young man somewhere between respect and affection, he had quite the tendency to ramble. Spock’s eyes were slightly drawn back behind him, where the endless expanse of space beckoned him to gaze at forever. He kept his viewport closed for a reason.
“And after that, he never returned my messages, and I haven’t seen him since. He probably gave me a false name, the bastard,” Chekov sneered and blew his nose. Spock leaned forward to indicate, yes, he had been listening this whole time. Apparently Chekov had met someone—some man—at this party, and, well… something had happened. Curse l’appel du vide. (Spock appreciated the human language of French. Some of the uses of apostrophe were almost reminiscent of some unknown, ancient Vulcan dialect.)
“I see,” Spock said. “What are you going to do now?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Chekov said noncommittally. “I think I’ll probably just go to sleep. Kind of a lot to digest, huh?”
Spock nodded sagely.
Chekov rustled his hair self-consciously. “Hey, well, thanks for listening, Spock. I haven’t really done that before, so sorry if I maybe went on a little too long.”
“Not at all,” Spock fibbed. “I’m glad to have helped.”
“Yeah you have,” Chekov beamed. “It was really good to get that off my chest. I tried to tell a girl all this when I was drunk, well I wasn’t that drunk, you know how well I can hold my liquor, you remember the captain’s birthday, Spock, but all that only made her wanna get with me I guess, and you know how I feel about that now.” Chekov laughed. “I guess this actually explains a lot of things that I was having difficulties with in the, uh, attraction department. Seeing as how now I know what I’m not attracted to.”
“Yes,” Spock said, without a firm grasp on what the ensign was talking about.
“Well, I’ll sign off now. Thanks again, Spock!” said Chekov, quite chipper.
“Goodbye, Chekov,” said Spock, and the computer screen went black. Not unlike the eternal blackness of space.