as long as we know we're trapped, we still have a chance to escape

[perform_admirably]

A trip to the grocer with Captain James T. Kirk has been an eye-opener for Spock, though perhaps his eyes have not been opened in the directions he would consider helpful or appropriate. 21st century eating habits are, frankly, disturbing - not merely in comparison to a philosophically Vulcan diet, but simply because he could not wrap his head around how so many people could feed themselves so much poison with so little thought.

And he is gradually becoming curious about turkeys. Standing in the meat section for just a moment too long had given him the chance to stare and be concerned by the iterations that it apparently came in - turkey ham, turkey sausage, turkey wieners, turkey bologna, turkey pastrami. What is wrong with a food as it is that it can't just be itself, instead of a version of itself rendered and filled with nitrites?

Odious.

The preoccupation with processed meats has, at the very least, ended since they've entered the lobby of the small building in the Ocean View Apartments complex that Spock resides in. He shifts most of the canvas bags full of groceries from one wrist to the other to reach out and jab the appropriate button for the elevator. And begin the wait. Usually, he dislikes pointless waiting enough to take the stairs. But it seems like the correct decision, with as many heavy bags as they're both holding. Even though he did his best to quickly distribute the weight between them, one with a few too many cans seems dangerously close to losing a handle.

The logistics of daily living still leave something to be desired.

"Today more than any other day it becomes plain to me that the vast distances that separate the stars are providential. Beings are quarantined from one another until they possess sufficient self-knowledge and judgment to safely travel between stars. I do not think this society yet reaches the criteria for lifting that primal quarantine."

Comments

[to_boldly]

At his side, Jim shifts from foot to foot, eyes on the elevator numbers as they creep slowly downwards and not on the third bag dangling from Spock's left hand, where he's pretty sure the pack of deli roast beef he'd slipped into the pile ended up.

His stomach growls, and Jim groans loudly to cover it. "Given that I've already said this time period is ass backwards enough to dissect you, I'm not going to take offense to you calling my ancestors too primitive to find their own asses with a flashlight in the dark. However." Jim watches the numbers slow inexplicably, only to pick up again. "If this thing takes any longer, I might get cranky enough to forget that."

[perform_admirably]

Spock takes in Jim's impatient fidgeting with a fluid graze of dark eyes up and down the other man, from toe to gold hair, only to give a very small shrug. In certain situations, there is something energizing about Jim Kirk's impatience. This is not perhaps one of them.

He blinks at the sound of a stomach gurgling, catching it even over the ebullient groaning, and faces eyes-front at the closed doors of the elevator. "Simply so that you don't get a too-narrow impression of my opinions, they are my own ancestors as well." Spock is slightly uncomfortable with the gentle reminder, but it does neither of them a favor to not provide it. Not, at least, where Jim is concerned, who Spock seems to intimate much to, despite himself.

The elevator dings. He pauses to let the other man board first. "It has only been a wait of forty-six point seven seconds." Which Spock would not have bothered with were it not for all of the baggage. At the sight of them and their things, a young woman entering the lobby reconsiders and veers for the stairwell.

[to_boldly]

"Room for more!" Jim calls after her with a broad smile, and though she stays her course, he's satisfied with the pink smile she throws at him over her shoulder. Beaming widely at Spock, Jim shuffles into the elevator, bags banging off his legs as he shifts and struggles to make enough room for Spock to enter.

"Forty-six point seven seconds," he huffs belatedly, "Is a long ass time when you're used to turbolifts. Maybe I can do some work on this thing. Think anyone would notice if I replaced cables with electromagnetic conduits?"

[perform_admirably]

Jim's shout of room for more is a cause for alarm - very small alarm, says the sharp rise of one his left brow as he all but chases her the rest of the way to the stairwell with an intent stare. There was not room for more. The building is rather less than modern even for Spock's understanding of the time period, and the building is small, and the elevator is small.

He turns that look on Jim Kirk. "I think that they would more than notice," Spock ventures. "And would like to suggest, Captain, that your skills would be put to more use in solving the deeply concerning issue of petrochemical use for heating and transportation. I find the very concept of a fossil fuel to be somehow disconcerting. Do they not realize that they are cannibalizing life itself to power their future?"

The doors swing shut in front of them, elevator lurching to a start. The strap on the ailing and over-used canvas bag finally gives itself up, dropping a can of french-fried onions on the carpeted floor.

[to_boldly]

"Big Oil, Spock," Jim grunts, fingers cramping as he releases a set of too tight straps and lowers his groceries to the ground, grabbing the errant can of delicious onions and putting it among his own burdens. He wonders how many he can eat without Bones noticing he's not putting them on the casserole...

"Look it up. It's not about sustainability, it's about lining pockets, until..." He cuts off with a hum. "Almost the twenty-third century. Our shared ancestors have some cultural thinning of the herd to do."

[perform_admirably]

"Big Oil?" he repeats after Jim - he is, of course, achingly familiar with the history of Earth, but it's a dry familiarity. He could rattle off the date that Andrew Carnegie died, but perhaps not understand all of the complexities of a capitalist system as thorough as that. Vulcan is not anything like that - Vulcan has never been like that. Money had never been a priority, even when priorities were different during the more verboten parts of the planet's history.

"At times I forget how often in Earth's history that science and ethic has been blasphemed when it tries to eliminate scarcity in the economy."

He blinks abruptly - the noise that the humming elevator ropes and pulleys have been making changes slightly. And then ... it begins to slow. "That's interesting."

[to_boldly]

Jim's already dubious expression collapses into a deep scowl. He's not only trained in engineering - his brain is programmed for it, as ruthlessly logical in this, if only this, as any machine. Before the lift even began to slow he sensed that something was wrong, and though he could yank the panel open and set himself upon the wires as rabidly as could Scotty, he does what any sensible human would do instead.

He bangs his fist against the panel, groaning, "Come on. Seriously?" as the elevator comes to a dead stop.

[perform_admirably]

Spock does what any sensible Vulcan would do -- immediately as the elevator car comes to a complete stop, he reaches out to pound a fist gently against the emergency call button. It does not light up. When it doesn't, Spock hits the big red button with the pictogram of a firefighter on it.

It does not light either. Nobody comes over the speakers - not static, either.

He sets all of the bags in his arms down on the floor of the car and, very slightly, his mouth turns down in puzzlement.

"The control console is not responding," he informs Jim with entirely unhelpful neutrality. "What is your suggestion?"

[to_boldly]

"More button-pushing," Jim replies, fingers setting to just that, "Placing undeserved trust in our cell phones, shouting, eating all our groceries, escaping through the roof of the elevator, prying open the doors. In that order."

He punches his fingers into the buttons again. "Or, I risk electrocution, place undeserved trust in this time period's safety ordinances instead, and try rewiring this clunker. You got anything better?"

[perform_admirably]

Spock does not have anything better - which is why his finger-tip is already flying across the very small keyboard of his cellular phone to send a text message to McCoy at the hospital. The man is unlikely to receive it for a few hours, but, strangely, Spock thinks to do this before anything else. After, he attempts to dial 9-1-1, only to have the phone inform him in pleasant female tones that he has no service.

It was not unlikely to be the case. McCoy won't be getting his message, apparently.

"You may begin shouting, Captain," he informs Jim, peering first around the small space of the elevator car, and then moving forward to give a slight look of considering consternation to the closed doors. Would it be wise to open them? They may be able to just walk off, if the car's breakdown was timed in their favor.

"Do not risk electrocution. I have no desire to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation for the duration of the time that we have yet to wait until help arrives. Provided that we cannot help ourselves."

The way that his eyes are still drifting to Jim, around the car, back to Jim again in broad sweeps says more than loudly enough that Spock doesn't believe yet that they can't help themselves if they need to.

[to_boldly]

"Be more action than I've seen in....almost a year," Jim grumbles, staring at the console. Despite statements that strongly suggest the contrary, he yanks open the console without fear and stares into it with great intensity.

"Well," he says after a moment. "I think I know the quickest route to the bottom."

[perform_admirably]

"Action, Captain?" Spock murmurs in mild curiosity, picking his way through groceries to slide up behind Jim's back and peer into the wiring. Spock isn't at a loss for what he's seeing, and while he could easily repair any of the computers on the Enterprise, his skill is with systems, the more modern the better, and this ... if it is more to Jim's skills and knowledge, Spock is happy to leave it there.

Just because he can build a transistor radio out of scraps and paperclips does not mean he desires to do so.

"A quick drop and an abrupt stop," Spock observes politely, no stranger to gallow's humor - however much it might be frowned upon, from a Vulcan face. It is just the two of them. Jim Kirk has already informed Spock that he knows better, in a manner of speaking.

[to_boldly]

"Action, Commander," Jim affirms, and maybe it's the hunger gnawing in his gut that prompts him to add, "Or whatever they called where you're from. Hugging without shirts."

He sits down abruptly, not resigned, exactly, but neither is he too reluctant to pull forth the contents of his own third bag. At a mere 4% alcohol, the Corona is unlikely to induce him into any state of inebriation, but Jim believes in the power of a cold beer. "You want something to drink?"

[perform_admirably]

"Mating pair-bond maintenance," Spock replies, infinitely dry. It's obvious in the patient, slow dart of brows that Spock has understood Jim's meaning well enough, and he leans back against the elevator wall and rests his head against it and stares down at Jim for a very long moment.

That Jim has at least decided not to get himself electrocuted is relieving, to say the least - and entirely logical, given that there is no need to be overly frustrated about the situation if one is patient enough. Ideally, they might have been able to avoid the waste of time and the worry that some of the groceries may not react well to being unrefrigerated for so long. Ideally. But it will not be unhealthily long before someone realizes that the elevator car is trapped and, possibly more out of inconvenience than worry for Jim and Spock, will call a maintenance worker.

"I do not require a drink at this particular juncture," Spock informs Jim, and the way that the sentence is codified is not a yes or a no, in perhaps a way that is a favor to Jim. For small things that Spock is not willing to go so far as to allow himself, he will accept when Jim Kirk requests him to.

[to_boldly]

"Mating pair bond maintenance," says Jim, expression thoughtful as he pulls a second beer from the pack. They'd go better with the limes at the bottom of another bag, and hell, a chaser of tequila, but Jim will make do. Trapped in an elevator with Spock, he won't require the buzz of tequila to stay entertained. "That's very polite. I like that."

Resting his back against the wall, Jim stretches his legs out. In the cramped space, they almost reach the other side of the elevator, but it's not as uncomfortable as it could be. Jim smiles up at Spock, nodding at the other beer. "Just in case we reach a new juncture. So. How will we pass the time? You want to play Never Have I Ever?"

[perform_admirably]

"Mmm," Spock agrees - at any rate, that the words are very polite, polite beyond the true intimacy of such things in a distinctly Vulcan way.

He bends to take the bottle carefully from the other man's hand, switching it to his other before wiping the condensation on his fingers onto the side of his pants and, slowly, sliding down the wall that he's leaning against to seat himself on the floor. It leaves him studying Jim's legs to figure the best, least awkward - socially, physiologically and geometrically - way to position them when they are at opposite angles.

Spock gives the bottle he's holding a slight, illustrative shake toward Jim before pressing his palm down on the metal cap and twisting it off, slowly enough to avoid foam all over his slacks, or anywhere else in the public space. Just because they're stranded in it does not mean it belongs to them.

"I have no particular desire." He knows what that game is, after all - he went to the same campus as most of the rest of them. Participation, however, had never been a requirement of observation in the study of foreign cultures. "However, as I also possess a certain standard level of intelligence, I am aware that when met with an irresistible force, rather than become an immovable object ... it is at times highly logical to acquiesce. I believe that we have already covered the relevant topic of your emotional, attitudinal and behavioral response patterns."

Sure, why the hell not, in fifty-eight words.

[to_boldly]

Jim's mouth ceases its gradual loosening around the mouth of the bottle, hanging in a gape for the space of whole moments before Jim grins.

"You know, I did not have a contingency plan for you saying yes," he says with a quiet laugh and a shake of his head. He looks at Spock sitting across from him, long legs in graceful lines and spine straight, holding his beer so precisely that Jim can see that the liquid is perfectly level. "Apparently," says Jim, "and you're going to tell me how some day, you already know the rules, but just to recap. I say 'never have I ever' something, and if you have done that something, you drink."

Jim holds up his beer, adding with a smug smile, "To illustrate, if you were to say, 'never have I ever been called irresistible by a Vulcan,' I would now have to drink."

[perform_admirably]

Though Spock's brows lift in what is clearly satisfaction at being able to surprise Jim Kirk, the set of his mouth plainly says stop treating it like it was flirting when you know that it wasn't somewhere in your ultramassive ego although truthfully, even Spock can't be sure that a part of him wasn't. Can't even say that he doesn't flirt even if he doesn't consciously know how to flirt, because how otherwise could Nyota Uhura have sensed that he did return her interest, for as reserved as he is; desires to be; needs to be.

"Of course. It is logical to plan only for expected outcomes, if one cannot plan for all possible eventualities. Never," Spock says, with a long pause of consideration. He never lifts his drink on what he considers Jim's turn.

"Have I ever failed a test."

He studies Jim from across the distance, very intently, with very dark eyes, before without a change of expression or further explanation, taking a small drink from his own bottle. To give a little to get a little in return is not illogical.

[to_boldly]

Spock earns a sharp bark of surprised laughter, Jim's eyes wide and crinkling in equal measure as he takes a drink of his own, his failed test courtesy, of course, of the man seated across from him. "Don't think you were the first to fail me," he says, pointing with his bottle, "I have a string of failed sobriety tests as long as Iowa is wide."

He's supposed to ask his own question now, but Jim just can't. "Okay, I have to know. What test?"

[perform_admirably]

Spock accepts the laughter patiently, still staring across the distance with deliberate neutrality as Jim takes the drink that they both know Spock is already aware that he will. The patience wavers only slightly, just enough for one of Spock's brows to give a very tiny dart.

"I do not recall anywhere in the prescribed rules for this game that I am required to answer a request for elaboration."

But Spock does, however vaguely. The vagueness is not out of evasion, though he does not wish to elaborate on his experiences as a child just yet, either - even to Kirk. The vagueness Spock uses deliberately, to link his own experiences with those of Jim Kirk. To the words that Spock does slightly regret speaking to the man on their first meeting.

"It was a test of character," he replies simply. "It's your turn."

[to_boldly]

"Bullshit," Jim exhales easily, even as he's filing that small clue away for later contemplation. "You've got character up to your pointy eyebrows, but fine. My turn."

Resting his head back against the thin wallpaper, Jim considers. "Never have I...ever been in love." After another moment's thought, Jim drinks. The Enterprise counts, and Jim will fight Scotty for her, and he will win. So long as the challenge isn't drinking.

[perform_admirably]

The tiny dart of Spock's pointy eyebrows this time is almost slightly challenging at Jim's objection, rough language aside. But pushing it to the side suits Spock - as Jim has said, it's fine.

What comes as a surprise to Spock is how immediately, honestly, without hesitation, he swallows more of the bright-tasting beer (he prefers the flavor of this one by far to the one that was given to him on the beach). Jim never specified the type of love: romantic, platonic, filial. And Spock cannot press himself so far as to pretend at anything less than love when Jim Kirk had used those very same feelings against Spock on the bridge of the Enterprise. Nor does he hold a grudge. Still.

It seems like entirely too long before Jim responds to his own condition. About being in love. And perhaps later that evening Spock will contemplate Jim's actual statement down to the component words: Been. In. Love.

"Never have I ever ... " He squints. He is out of ideas. He is not very proficient at this game, he believes. "Been caught undressed in a public area."

[to_boldly]

"Oh, please," Jim exhales, watching Spock expectantly, "Please drink, please drink and give me something to bring Bones, it's been way too long since I've seen him do his happy dance, just - "

Cutting himself off, Jim drinks, as Spock must have known he would, and holds up a hand. "I'm not taking a drink for every time. There's not enough beer and there's not enough beer here to get me drunk, but there would be a swift and imminent state of emergency in my bladder and we are still in a confined space. And before you judge," Jim continues, suddenly aware that he's babbling, that he's nervous, and, perhaps even more uncomfortably so, he doesn't know why. "Spend a month in Riverside, Iowa and see how bored you get, and if we're talking the Academy, again. See Riverside for details. What the hell was I supposed to do, suddenly exposed to so many new and fascinating alien species after a lifetime of farmgrown, cornfed vanilla?"

He's already drunk this round, but Jim takes another pull from his bottle. He's an explorer, dammit. He'd explored.

[perform_admirably]

Spock doesn't. But he does stare at Jim, deeper this time than he has for the entirety of their conversation since having been trapped for whatever duration within an elevator car: counting 27 minutes now. He could estimate to within ten seconds, but he is currently too engaged in studying Kirk's face and certainly too-blue eyes with a mixture of confused discomfort and consideration.

Vulcans come in a great deal of variation; blue-eyed is not one of those variants. He thinks he might inform Jim Kirk of this one day, but not, decidedly, this one, and certainly not after that long-winded, defensive response.

Too defensive for a man who seems so comfortable with his reputation from where Spock can view him from.

"I have no desire to spend a month in Riverside, Iowa," he says, confusion still coloring his voice before he reigns it back into something more sterile. "And have determined, this time from personal experience, that this game is absolutely, irrevocably, highly, illogical. It is apparent that it considers itself a way for individuals to better learn intimate information about their peers, but I have to wonder what is the point of that information when it is gained through such an unsavory channel as ... manipulation. What is the point?"

Perhaps in protest - though his face remains almost blank - Spock drinks his bottle down to less than a third remaining.

[to_boldly]

"It's not unsavory," Jim returns, his face strangely hot, but then, the air is getting close in the small car. "It's just a game. It's supposed to build camaraderie through the revelation of shared experience." Having pulled that straight from his ass, Jim takes a minute to congratulate himself, even as he wonders if desert species have superior water retention. At the rate Spock is going through that bottle, they'd both benefit from it right now.

"And it's not manipulative to talk about all the things we've done. It's just...it's talking, Spock. If you didn't want to talk about being caught undressed, why'd you bring it up?"