Story Notes:
This story was written for the Ship Wars! at St_Respect on LiveJournal. The prompt was "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." I don't own Star Trek or Bill Wirthers excellent song.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
What Friends Are For
Kirk swiveled in his chair, letting out a long sigh as he observed his crew. This was their eighth week patrolling the Omricon system, an uncharted section of space that somehow interested Starfleet command. Their scans revealed a system devoid of planets capable of sustaining complex life. Their few landing parties returned to the ship with only a few samples of a mold like organism. Kirk’s boredom reached the point where he prayed for a Klingon bird of prey to suddenly decloak in their vicinity. He’d even settle for another tribble infestation.
To top it all off, his command crew was out of sorts. Sulu and Chekov bickered constantly at the helm. McCoy became a constant fixture on the bridge, the lack of activity making business slow in sickbay. Jim soon found himself wishing for an outbreak of Andorian shingles. When McCoy was not bitching about his staff, the food in the mess hall or life in general, he was needling the First Officer. Spock normally endured such attention by employing his skills of Vulcan perseverance, calmly ignoring the Doctor before retorting with some amusing barb made more devastating by its deadpan delivery. Instead, Spock bore McCoy’s diatribes and semi-racist insults with the longsuffering reserve of a monk. The Vulcan didn’t even twitch one damned slanted eyebrow.
Spock was practically moping, an emotional state Jim never thought would apply to a Vulcan. Their weekly tri-level chess games were a bore. Spock seemed to just go through the motions, listlessly moving his pieces about the board with a sigh. Jim knew something was seriously wrong with Spock when he won four games in a row. He immediately ordered Spock to sick bay for a complete physical, a task that Bones was ecstatic to complete. When Bones reported that Spock was in excellent physical condition, Jim could only think of one cause.
Kirk’s eyes fell on the communications station. Instead of being treated to the sight of his lovely long-legged lieutenant, Jim was assaulted by the vision of Lieutenant Carmichael’s muttonchop framed pimpled visage. The man was downright fugly and smelt of beef and cheese. Jim cursed Starfleet command for the hundredth time since Uhura’ s temporary re-assignment. Admiral Jeffries personally requested her for a top-secret intelligence operation where her skills as a linguist and codebreaker were desperately needed.
Bones once said that Uhura was the soul of the ship. Uhura was a calming presence on a bridge full of testosterone-addled males. Her dulcet tones over the ship-wide com helped keep the ship ordered and efficient. Jim began to miss the sound of her laughter over their morning coffee and her impromptu performances in the recreation room. She managed to befriend every member of the command crew. She cultivated roses with Sulu; held her own with Scotty during their weekly chats over scotch; was Chekov’s preferred shopping companion whenever they stopped at a starbase or pleasure planet; gave McCoy legendary back massages in exchange for the Doctor’s services as a foot masseuse; and regularly trounced them all during their weekly poker game. However, Jim knew that Spock felt her absence most keenly. With Uhura off ship for an indeterminate period of time, there was no one for Spock to play the lyre with on Thursday evenings in his quarters; no one to mentor in the art of Vulcan meditation; no one to tease him and make him smile in public, endearing him to the crew; no one to touch him casually because they could and because he enjoyed it.
Jim noticed Spock turn to observe the communications station, his lips curving downward slightly at the sight before him. His shoulders slumped minutely before he turned his dark eyes back to his scanner. Jim sighed before swiveling to face the view screen. Something had to be done. He quickly typed a private message to McCoy and Scotty. “1800 hours. Commander Spock’s quarters. Bring your strongest booze.”
***************
Spock awoke with a throbbing headache, his face pressed uncomfortably against the rough carpet. He had no recollection of the last ten hours, but after surveying his quarters he began to form a hypothesis. The sitting area was littered with empty bottles and glasses with remnants of alcoholic concoctions. Chekov lay unconscious in a heap by the door, his face adorned with drawings aimed at giving him the appearance of being in possession of facial hair.
Spock’s last cogent memory was of the arrival of Jim, McCoy, Scotty, Chekov and Sulu at his door, their arms laden with Terran snack foods, alcohol and a device that McCoy called a bong. However, none of those items could account for the intoxication that resulted in his present condition. Spock sighed before commencing cleaning his quarters, stepping around Chekov’s unconscious form as he worked. His eyes fell upon a data disc whose presence he could not explain. Spock slipped the disc into his console. A video began to play on the screen that caused Spock’s eyebrows to creep towards his hairline.
“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone. It’s not warm when she’s away…”
Spock sang in a deep baritone, his head wrapped in a multi-colored scarf that he recognized as Nyota’s as he played his lyre. Sulu could be seen waving an antique lighter slowly over his head, Scotty swaying at his side, one arm thrown comfortingly around a weeping Chekov. McCoy wobbled across the screen, taking a liberal swig from a flask before yelling “Free Bird!” From the scene before him, Spock surmised that Jim was behind the camera and that he undoubtedly made a copy for his private entertainment.
“Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone, but ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone. Only darkness everyday…”
Suddenly his com chimed, the piercing tone intensifying his headache. Spock read the incoming message, his ears flushing green.
“That was so sweet. I love you too, baby. I’ll be home soon. Try to avoid Chocola-tini’s until I return. I expect an encore when I get home. ~ Ny.”