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Doctor McCoy had knocked his drink back in one. To Spock’s eye this looked ungraceful. He idly wondered how the Doctor’s throat and stomach didn’t burn from the liquid like his did. His father’s race may have been spared the effects of alcohol, but that didn’t make it taste any sweeter.
Leonard McCoy, James Kirk and first officer Spock sat around the table of Jim’s quarters. The captain had averted another interstellar crisis, saving the ship and the crew once again. This was becoming such a regular occurrence that Spock saw no point in celebrating it anymore. But Kirk had still promised a “small, quiet celebration” in his room after shift ended, which, in Spock’s experience, nearly always meant the two men would get devastatingly drunk while he sat there in complete sober silence.
Brandy had a sweeter taste than most liquor. Very warming. Spock much preferred it over the scotch they were currently consuming. A gift from Engineer Scott.
“For you to enjoy, captain. Just a little thank you,” Scott had beamed proudly, bestowing the captain with the bottle as though he had malted and distilled it himself.
Spock swiped the bottle before McCoy could pour himself another glass, partly because he wanted to read the text on the back and partly because he believed the doctor needed to pace himself. He was already redder in the face and had began banging the table when he laughed, an annoying drunken habit.
“To the captain!” McCoy had exclaimed raising his glass, mostly to himself, as no one else drank. Kirk gave a modest glance and sipped at his drink, a much classier way to consume, Spock thought.
The content on the label contained nothing of interest. Just words of praise for its distillery and its “smooth, spicy taste.” Spock could detect the spice, but nothing about the liquid was going down smoothly.
“Not enjoying your scotch, Mr Spock?”
He looked back up from the bottle to see Kirk regarding him with a warm smile. He was right, of course, Spock was not enjoying his scotch.
“The taste is…” he trailed off, thinking of a polite word, “unique, captain. I shall, however, endeavour to drink it all, as I can see the good doctor seems particularly parched this evening.”
They laughed at this, raucous and loud. McCoy slammed the table again, causing Spock to flinch slightly.
He enjoyed the company of the men, he enjoyed their conversations and debates. What he enjoyed less was their company while they were intoxicated.
Humans get louder as their inhibitions lower, they slur their words and giggle at things that normally would not deserve it. At least that’s what Kirk and McCoy do. Spock was very grateful they weren’t violent or crazed drunks. They’d once regaled him with stories of their youth, of old peers who engaged in fist fights and vandalism in drunken states, and the vulcan could only sit in abstract horror and listen.
“It’s a shame that green blood of yours prevents you from joining us, Spock,” the doctor mused as the bottle was set back down. He addressed Jim; “Could you imagine him drunk?”
Kirk broke out into a wide smirk at the mental image. The vulcan stumbling as he walked, singing jaunty songs to himself in the empty corridors.
“I’d say we’re lucky he can’t,” he grinned.
Spock disliked the feeling of being left out. He took another exploratory sip of the dark liquid and felt his nose crinkle at its burn.
“I remember the first time I touched the stuff,” the doctor said in his storytelling voice, and Spock braced himself for whatever useless anecdote was about to be told.
“Fourteen. Mother had left the liquor cabinet open when she went out. Almost a full bottle of Jim Bean… you know, the cheap stuff,” he gestured to Kirk looking for his recognition. He nodded.
“Somehow ended up falling down the stairs and taking a shower with all my clothes on. Spent the rest of the night with my head in a bucket. Could’ve taken the contents of it and drowned a small elephant.”
“Exaggeration, Doctor.” Spock stated, not looking up from a mark he was currently wiping off the table.
McCoy looked over at him, no annoyance on his face, but an expression conveying that he thought Spock’s statement was ridiculous.
“Yes, Mr Spock,” he said, and if he were feeling an ounce less professional, he might’ve said something along the lines of “No shit, Mr Spock.”
“Fourteen, Doctor, really? I don’t know what I expect from you southern boys,” Jim said with a playful grin. His face was now colouring too.
“No better than my first time, though,” and Spock once again rolled his eyes and waited for the story he was about to tell.
“I believe I was 18? A few friends and I went to our local store and paid a stranger to buy us a bottle of vodka, you know, the cheap stuff,” he slapped McCoys shoulder after repeating his wording, which earned a hearty laugh. The table received another bang. Spock failed to see the humour.
“We went into the woods so we wouldn’t be found. Well… I was found. Half naked stuck in a tree. Still don’t remember how I got up there… or down.”
The doctor erupted in unruly laughter. Spock had to steady the bottle of scotch as the table thumped, and he pretend he hadn’t just lost a minute amount of respect for his captain after that confession. He could feel his eye twitch in annoyance.
Once their cackling had ceased they sat in comfortable silence for a moment. They still had wide smiles plastered on their faces, but they drank without saying anything for at least thirty seconds, Spock predicted. He had began to ease into this peace, only for it to be interrupted again.
“All I need now is a cigarette,” McCoy slipped his eyes shut and breathed out deeply, no doubt remembering the taste and feeling of inhaling tobacco.
“Oh, Bones, don’t do that to yourself. It’s been, what, almost ten years now?”
The doctor crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Yeah but you never forget it, Jim. Every now and again that feeling comes nagging back at ‘ya.”
Spock noted that the doctor’s twang was thicker, no doubt due to the intoxication. He noticed that he was having to really concentrate to understand some of his wording. He felt like weighing in on this topic, he was beginning to feel overlooked.
“It is illogical to me that humans would purposely, and willingly, destroy their health with the use of tobacco. Besides, the substance has no real physiological effects on the body. Alcohol; I can at least try to understand, as you humans seem to enjoy the feeling of being intoxicated.”
Kirk and McCoy both glanced up at him, a twinkle in Kirk’s eye as he listened to the vulcan speak, and a smirk pulling on the doctor’s lips.
“It’s crazy, Spock, but you’re beginning to sound just like my ex wife.”
Jim snorted into his glass at this, and Spock wondered how the inappropriate comment could cause such laughter.
The vulcan wiped a dribble of condensation from his glass, just to busy his hands, and decided to share something of his own.
“We have a substance on Vulcan, very similar to your Earth tobacco, but its purpose is, obviously, more logical.”
The captain and the doctor seemed to perk up at this. They exchanged an odd looking glance, clearly Spock was being left out of some joke again.
“Oh?” was all Jim offered.
“It is smoked recreationally,” he took a cautious sip and wondered whether he should share the next bit. “The effects are somewhat similar to your alcohol, more… calming. I found it to be a helpful stress reliever, during my experiences.”
The men stared at him with open mouths, something in their eye that Spock couldn’t identify. It seemed as though this information had surprised them and that they found it humorous. For what reason, he didn’t know.
“So sort of like…” Kirk started, smile widening.
“Marijuana?” the doctor finished, flashing his crooked teeth in a lopsided grin.
Spock didn’t recognise this word, it sounded alien to him, not one that came from earth english. He’d check the language banks later.
“I’m not familiar with that substance, Doctor, but if they are similar, then yes.”
The captain grabbed McCoy’s shoulder, roughly and squeezed and they giggled. They didn’t make a lot of sound as they laughed, but Spock could see that they were tearing up and gasping for air. He wondered how this statement could be anything more than what it was: a statement. How could it render the ship’s surgeon and captain so helpless with laughter?
The doctor took a deep breath and cleared his throat before asking: “You’re pothead, Spock? You smoke alien weed?”
This comment made Kirk slap a hand to his mouth and double over, but Spock could still hear him chortling under the table.
The words didn’t mean anything to the vulcan. “Pot” and “weed” were obviously part of the vocabulary he understood, but clearly had some double meaning to he was unaware of.
“Many moons ago, Doctor, but I gave it up as it started to invoke…” he searched for an explanation, “negative reactions in me.”
Kirk was still giggling as he asked; “Don’t tell me it made you paranoid, Mr Spock.”
The vulcan sat up in a surprised silence for a moment, as he wondered how he could have possibly guessed that.
“Yes, captain, how did you know?”
This, for reasons unknown to Spock, made both Kirk and Bones double-over in crippling laughter, the doctor producing a very loud, very prominent “ha!” as he slid down his chair.
Spock felt his cheeks colour, a twinge of embarrassment came through him (something he shouldn’t be feeling, on account of being a vulcan). He couldn’t understand why he was being ridiculed, and suspected they were mocking him. The unpleasant tasting liquid hit his stomach again, as he secretly willed it to take effect the way it was taking the men in front of him. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel like such a fool.
“Oh we’re sorry, Spock,” Jim chuckled, reaching over to clap the vulcan’s shoulder, an act Spock had learned was affectionate. “It’s just that, where we’re from, the mental image of a vulcan such as yourself, reclining in bed to smoke a blunt, is quite amusing.”
“And shoving a wet towel under his bedroom door so that his mom won’t find out,” McCoy added, an addition that made Kirk spit his mouthful of scotch out and choke.
Spock sat, unblinking, his mind clearly racing to decipher the meaning of the doctor’s words. He had genuinely no idea what the “wet towel” was for, or why his mother was being brought up. Normally, he would’ve retorted with a remark on how the doctor spoke it earth-riddles that meant nothing to his vulcan dialect.
Instead, he settled for an ineloquent, unprofessional: “What?”
Mccoy barked, caught off guard by the Vulcan’s surprisingly transparent reaction.
“Let’s just drop the subject. We’ll stop making fun of ‘ya, Spock. You’ve gone bright green,” the surgeon drawled, accent even thicker now.
Spock straightened at the mention of his colour, even more embarrassed then he was before. He tried to correct his blush by pressing a cold hand to his cheek.
“Sorry about that,” Kirk rubbed his palm against the vulcan’s shoulder reassuringly, he seemed to relax a bit.
Bones and Jim polished off the remaining liquor in their glasses and went to pour themselves another. Spock watched as the captain fumbled and clinked their glasses together accidentally, an effect of intoxication. His grip on the bottle didn’t look too sturdy either, and the vulcan winced as he lifted it. If he was a betting man, he would’ve but good odds on that bottle breaking tonight.
“None for you, Mr Spock?”
His glass was still full, bar two or three small sips.
“I have plenty, captain,” he mused, holding his cup under his nose and breathing in its almost mechanical smell. It was still no sweeter or palatable on his forth sip. He clenched his jaw as it burned the back of his throat. He had a question he was eager to receive an answer to.
“Do humans enjoy the taste of hard alcohol, or do they just partake to feel it’s effects?”
He was genuinely curious.
Jim and Bones exchange a glance, waiting for the other to answer first.
“Well, I like it!” McCoy offered, cheers-ing himself and taking a long, leisurely sip. Not finishing his cup, Spock noticed. Perhaps he was reaching his limit.
Jim pondered for a moment.
“Scotty loves this stuff,” he said, he had also taken to idly reading the label on the back, as Spock had done before. “It depends on the man, Spock. Chekhov adores his vodka, but put that stuff in front of me and I may threaten to spew where I stand. It’s about… taste,” he licked his lower lip to remove a droplet of liquor.
His question wasn’t really answered, not at all in fact. All the captain had really said was “people like different things”, which wasn’t enlightening in the slightest. Spock decided not to press and settled for a respectful nod.
They sat in a respectable silence for a moment longer, the doctor ryhthmatically tapping at the table in a tune Spock was unfamiliar with. He liked these moments. Moments where nothing needed to be said, but he still felt wanted. His presence was still appreciated even when words weren’t being exchanged. It was nice. Maybe he was thankful that the scotch was having no effect on him, because tomorrow he would be able to remember their conversation. He’d already stored away the knowledge that Doctor McCoy had once showered with his clothes on and fallen down the stairs. Surely at some point that could be used for leverage during an argument. He must remember to research the word “pothead”.
“Whelp!” the doctor declared, slapping his thighs as he stood. The sudden noise almost made Spock jolt in his seat.
“C’mon, Spock, drink up. You’ll be escorting me to my quarters, can’t trust myself to find them in this state.”
The hour had grown late, and the effects of alcohol and tiredness were showing on the doctor’s face. He rubbed his reddened face and yawned.
“I agree, Doctor," Spock said, tossing back the remaining contents of his glass and successfully managing to keep a straight face as the liquid scorched his tongue. “At least the ship has no long staircases you can fall down.”
Jim snickered and McCoy clapped the vulcan roughly on the back as he chuckled. As illogical as it was, he wouldn’t admit it to himself at the best of times, Spock took a little bit of pleasure from making the men laugh.They proceeded to the door to exchange proper goodbyes.
“Gentleman, it’s been a pleasure,” Kirk had a wide, warm smile. His eyelids were droopy and his words were slurred, but they both knew he deeply meant it.
He pulled Bones into a drunken embrace, the two men chest to chest as they swayed, trying to keep their balance. They patted each other on the back and parted. The captain turned to Spock and extended his arms out, as though he genuinely believed the vulcan would willingly hug him. After a moment too long of Spock standing motionless with his arms behind his back, Jim stepped forward and pulled him into a firm embrace. His arms squeezed around Spock’s sides, and he thumped him on the back the way he had done to Bones. The vulcan did not reciprocate.
“Get home safe you two!” He called over his shoulder, as he’d already started making his way to bed before they had left.
Spock was left alone with an irritatingly drunk McCoy to care for, at least until they reached his room. He swayed and stumbled, running a hand across the corridor wall to steady himself. The vulcan took it upon himself to hold the doctor upright by his arm, but knowing full well that if McCoy took a fall he would just let go of him, rather than be dragged down too. It was only logical that one of them get hurt, not both.
“People are trying to sleep, Doctor,” Spock whispered before Leonard could even say anything. He had watched the doctor open his mouth and turn to him, and being completely honest, Spock had no more strength or willpower to listen to his slurred ramblings. They, thankfully, spent the rest of the walk in silence.
“Good morning, Captain. Good morning, Doctor McCoy,” the vulcan almost shouted, as he watched the men pass him on their way to the mess room. They both groaned in unison at the address.
“I hope you had a pleasant sleep,” he said, his volume much louder than normal, going straight to Jim and Leonard’s aching heads. The damn vulcan was messing with them.
“Damn you, Spock, and your damn alcohol immunity,” Bones mumbled, nursing a terrible headache behind his left eye. Kirk looked no better, colour drained from his face and a wince whenever a light came on or a machine beeped.
“Unfortunately, gentleman, I have been notified that the replicator is malfunctioning, again,” Spock informed, a self satisfied smirk plastered on his lips. He waited a beat longer more to drop the stinger.
“There will be no coffee this morning.”
He turned away abruptly and headed towards his post, not waiting to see the results of the bomb he’d just dropped. Instead, he secretly delighted in the simultaneous groaning and cursing of the captain and doctor. Spock bit the inside of his check so that his evil sneer didn’t grow any wider.