after a good dinner one can forgive anybody

[perform_admirably]

Spock is not having a case of the nerves.

Because Spock does not get nerves, and he does not second-guess himself, and both of these things are in fact largely untrue, but Spock also has a duty to himself to believe them of himself, for half the power of an idea is in the consistent belief of it. Failure often rides on a single doubt.

So he is not having a case of the nerves, he's only cleaned his apartment double spotless and worn the least casual outfit that he owns in his wardrobe because giving a good impression of oneself at a social gathering where one's own home is concerned is only logical. One's living space represents oneself, and so it should represent most the self that one wishes most to be.

All of the necessary ingredients that they have purchased are now neatly organized and available, on the counter, in the refrigerator, for easy and sensible access, so that McCoy has no need to go searching around unnecessarily for much. Spock has already laid out all of the utensils he presumes will be needed for cookery, and has just finished setting three neat places at the small kitchen's even smaller table.

Which he sits at, drinking a glass of very cold water, and mostly staring at words on a page of a book as he waits to hear a knock at his apartment door.

He's read this last sentence three times already and knits his brows at it.

Comments

[goodgodman]

Since this was all Jim's grand idea McCoy made him come along to pick out the peaches and various sundries they still needed. It was much like it was at the academy; 'bullying' Jim into tagging along and then McCoy bitching at no one about the quality of the produce. By this point the whole thing is making him feel nostalgic.

Except for the part where Spock is involved. This is a whole new thing for the three of them. He'd never made his cobbler on the Enterprise and given how ingredients worked, when you were drifting alone in the yawning darkness of space for months at a time, McCoy isn't sure it would have been possible.

"Hell, Jim, he's probably not even gonna like it. It's southern cooking, it's goes against every Vulcan sensibility there is," he grouses as he juggles the one grocery bag in his arms and the bottle in his other hand. He'd already refused any help with the brown-bagged bottle of bourbon, so he finally settles on cradling it against him awkwardly while he reaches up to knock at the door.

"It's full of crap that doesn't do anything but taste good and ruin your health."

[to_boldly]

"He'll still try it," says Jim, leaning his hip against the wall by the door. He's dressed a little nicer than he's given to when off duty, his jeans washed dark and neat, his shoes leather and his shirt a button down in pale blue. The salesgirl had been sure to note that it compliments his eyes, a fact Jim is all too aware of, but he'd preened all the same. What Jim is less aware of is why he's bothered at all, and, as with many uncomfortable things Jim doesn't care to worry about, he pushes the thought down until it's all but gone.

He's in a good mood, regardless, picking up on that same nostalgia that Bones feels, and he grins at the other man. "He's a scientist, he has to experience everything once. Ah."

The door is opening, and Jim stands up straighter, moved to pluck a peach from the top of Bones' bag and toss it to Spock. "Room service!"

[perform_admirably]

Spock catches it because it's flying at him, rather than because he knows what to do with it (besides eat it, of course, and he'd have been satisfied with just the peach before doing anything else to it). Holding it for now in one hand, he stares out the door at the two of them, surveying them - and possibly what he's wrought on himself - before stepping, graciously enough, out of the way.

"There is no room service in an apartment complex," he says, rather than 'hello.' Greetings are polite, but politeness as a rule is not necessarily the Vulcan way. Only Spock's mother's, which on most days, is nearly as important. Spock simply isn't sure what to do with himself, and it's the uncertainty that's strange.

He hadn't expected Jim Kirk to be wearing anything than what he ever does, and that he is gets a lifted brow from Spock, but one he tries to hide by turning his head and moving to the kitchen to put the peach in a bowl already full of oranges. "I admit that I was mildly concerned that Doctor McCoy would have an emergency to attend to." There is a heaviness to Spock's tone which suggests 'emergency' equates with 'changed his mind about dining with a pointy-eared child of questionable origin.'

[goodgodman]

"If you say so," he mutters at his friend as the door opens.

Even McCoy, upon seeing Jim, had arched an eyebrow at how smart Jim'd dressed for what was supposed to be a casual get together. And now, looking at Spock, he's thinking he missed the memo where he was supposed to dress nice. Not that it would have made much of a difference to McCoy. No one dresses nice just to cook. Unless you're Jocelyn. Jeans and a t-shirt will do him just fine, thank you.

Rolling his eyes at Spock's comment he steps inside ahead of Jim, "Hi Spock." He says dryly, "Nice to see you, too."

Walking straight for the kitchen he sets down his bag and bottle and starts unpacking everything. Then he notes how perfectly everything is laid out in the kitchen, down to the millimeter he was sure. He shoulda known. After a moment of consideration he reaches over and pushes a few things out of their perfect alignment. Smirking to himself he continues unpacking. "And miss out on this? Not on your life..."

[to_boldly]

Following Bones into the immaculate kitchen, Jim wonders that all three of their apartments could have the same layout when this one looks as alien as any new planet to his eyes. He smirks as Bones smacks a few spices out of alignment, an act he's sure Bones will claim as an accident, and puts his own load of sweet tea the counter.

"This jug says a lot for the dehydrated drink mix movement," he says, rolling out his arm before turning back to Spock. He looks nice, too, Jim notes, and wonders if Bones has noticed. Not that the man needs more than his drawl to turn a head, the old Southern bastard. Jim would have had his linguistics staff dissect every nuance of that accent if he hadn't been sure that he'd walk in on a compromising scene in sickbay as a direct result.

"Well, Spock," he says, leaning back against the counter. "Are you ready to be dazzled and amazed?"

[perform_admirably]

For a moment, Spock stares after McCoy's back as he already sets to work, ignoring what the man does as if simply to get a rise and wondering instead at why McCoy agreed to come at all. Spock can see no other reason at this point other than that McCoy does it as a favor to Jim - that this is a logical reason is debatable. Still, it is the reason that best fits the relationship between the other two men.

His attention is grabbed away by the large jug of what appears to be some kind of tea. "I am prepared to have my expectations met or exceeded." He isn't certain what else to do - since everything else has been prepared, and he doesn't know the first thing about cooking. Yet, at any rate.

So he picks up the book and cup on the table to get them out of the way, tugging out one of the other chairs with his foot to invite Jim to sit, rather than lean bonelessly against the counters. "Should I ... be doing anything? Rather, tell me what I should be doing."

[goodgodman]

McCoy snorts and flashes a lopsided smile at Jim, "Hush your mouth, that is authentic, genuine southern tea just how my mama made. Be glad I found us some unprocessed sugar. This 21st century shit is full of preservatives," He pulls out a peach and and gives it a critical eye, "Not to mention pesticides. Jim, you know the drill. Wash 'em good then peel n' cut for me would ya?"

Turning, he looks at Spock with an eyebrow cocked in mild surprise. "Well, thanks Spock," he starts, ready to turn him down but at the last second he thinks better of it and says, "How about cutting the green beans, then? I'm assuming you know how to cut vegetables."

It's not a large kitchen so McCoy's expecting a tight fit. That tin can called the Enterprise got one used to smaller spaces pretty damn quick. They'd cope. He squeezes next to Jim and uses the sink, thoroughly washing the green beans. Moving to a clear bit of counter he puts out the cutting board and lays the green beans down along with a knife.

"Now, we just need them about ye big," he says, indicating the length with his thumb and index finger. "Alright?"

[to_boldly]

Corralled into the sink, Jim tosses a grin over his shoulder. "Thanks for the chair, Spock, but it's going to be a while before I can grace it with my butt."

Turning a peach over in his hands, Jim sets it under the spray, rubbing away any stray bit of dirt before setting it on a towel to dry and reaching for another. He's done this dozens of times before, but he never gets tired of it, letting Bones boss him around in the name of good food. "I advise doing whatever he says," he adds, catching Spock's eye as he jerks his chin at Bones. "If we ever get back to the Enterprise, you'll have firsthand experience with what his nurses go through."

[perform_admirably]

Staring between the other two, eventually he does as he's told, snaking carefully into the work-station that McCoy has set up because, yes, it is a small kitchen for three people to work at, but many of the labs on the Enterprise were small labs for three people to work at. Space had never been a premium on a planet like Vulcan. A starship was another matter.

So, too, Darrow. Apparently.

"Your analogy is imperfect, Captain," Spock murmurs in reply. "I do not work under Doctor McCoy. I am doing this under no obligation and could refuse if I saw fit. There is no reason to do so."

He's getting ready to start stringing the beans before making the cuts, but when he actually gets to the point where he reaches for the knife, Spock pauses, staring at McCoy.

"Hold your hand up once more and show me."

[goodgodman]

Jim gets him smiling again, enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Hey, now, don't go making Spock think that I'm easy on my staff." He's distracted for a moment as he watches Jim's hands move with familiarity over the peaches. The pattern of working together is coming back like it hasn't been years since they've cooked together.

He's so distracted that he only barely catches what Spock says. "Well until you know how to make green bean casserole for your own damn self, you're working under me," he smarts off, though his tone is mild. Again, he shows Spock the general length with his fingers. "Not much bigger than that."

Though he hates to admit it, the fact that Spock managed to string the beans without being told is somewhat impressive. Not that he'd let on to Spock, of course.

Turning he puts his hand nearly into the skillet on the stove to check the heat, then he pulls out a pot and pours what looks to be about 3 cups of chicken broth. The measuring cups still sit untouched to the side.

[to_boldly]

"My analogy," says Jim, "was meant for you to draw an extrapolation, which there's still time for, by the way, once you stop measuring every cut bean down to the millimeter. Trust me, an imperfect bean tastes just as good as a perfect one."

Turning back to his work, Jim sets to skinning and then slicing the peaches. So as to prevent waste, he eats any piece not carved to par and hopes Bones doesn't notice. "God, it's been too long. When can we start drinking? Is it after the knife-wielding or after the heat?"

[perform_admirably]

The first time the knife comes down, it comes down over a neat line of beans - at an angle that's just precise enough to be intentional and forced. 'Not much bigger' was not a very useful measurement. If McCoy couldn't bring himself to be more specific, Spock may as well aim for a bell curve.

"I am not measuring them down to the millimeter. I am not measuring them at all. And Doctor McCoy does not seem to be doing much measuring as a standard operating procedure."

He sighs, very softly, but his face remains relaxed enough. He would like to protest, but he is outnumbered, and also a layperson to any of this, and generally would prefer that things remain somewhat peaceful. Somewhat.

Drinking may or may not encourage peacefulness. More likely, not. "I presumed that the purpose of gathering was to be eating. Obviously, I have presumed incorrectly."

[goodgodman]

McCoy rubs a finger over one arched brow and quickly finishes sauteing the onions and mushrooms. "'Standard operating proce-" he cuts off with a noisy sigh then opens his container of mushroom soup he'd made from the day before. "Trust me, Spock, once you've done this enough times your eyeball is as good as any measuring cup, in most cases. Besides. Haven't you heard of intuition? Works in cooking, too."

A dishcloth hangs halfway out of McCoy's back pocket and he's wishing he'd thought to snag an apron from his own kitchen. He turns off the stove and then leans over Jim's shoulder, aiming to check his work. Noting the sudden disappearance of a slice of peach he pinches Jim's side. "Cut that out," he admonishes, careful not to let his eyes catch where the peach juice has lingered on his friend's lips. Cooking with Jim has certainly improved his focus, that's for sure. "It ain't cobbler without the peaches."

"You have indeed presumed incorrectly, it ain't a proper get together without a little booze," he drawls, as he checks on the boiling broth. "Put those in there when you're done," he instructs quietly to Spock before returning to his train of thought, "Food and booze go great together in fact. Though not until after knives are all put away and our fingers are safe from accidental deboning."

[to_boldly]

"M'hungry," Jim grumbles, sneaking a last chunk of peach into his mouth before he reaches, slapping a bit of flour from Bones' sleeve, "Been thinking about this for days."

Peaches neatly cleaned and sliced, Jim turns, seeking out the can of French fried onions and carrying it to where Bones has begun assembling the other parts of the green bean casserole. "I want to do this part," he says, rattling the can. He'll eat half the contents if left to his own devices. "And the brown sugar for the cobbler. I want all the sprinkling! Besides Spock," he adds, abruptly continuing a bit of conversation from before, "If you eat any cobbler, we're going to have to drink to catch up with you, it's only fair."

[perform_admirably]

Spock raises a dainty, doubting little eyebrow in McCoy's direction, but washes his hands and moves away as his job has been completed, instead taking a seat at the table in the chair he'd been occupying before the other two arrived. There are times, Spock can admit, that being a help is instead being a hindrance. This may be one of them - for him.

"Intuition doesn't work. By definition, it avoids work." He blinks and shifts a gaze to Jim. "There couldn't possibly be that much added sweetener in a recipe already concerned with stone fruit." Though Spock's voice, despite the words, does not suggest a great degree of doubt. Jim has proven himself already to not be particularly discerning about the healthfulness of the foods that he consumes.

But Spock has agreed and they are guests and he would not, at this time, for this reason, go back on his word ... any more than he would for any other reason.

[goodgodman]

Snorting he gives Jim a small playful shove then turns back and adds the remaining ingredients into the skillet. "You're rushing. This ain't a race," he says absently as he finally pours the mixture into the greased casserole dish. "We got alllll evening." Then, he angles it towards Jim and gestures. "By all means, sprinkle away."

It takes effort to keep himself from going off on Spock the way he wants to. He was raised right, despite him rarely acting like it, and as a guest you don't mouth off to your host. So instead he just says, with his typical mouthiness, "Well, I'm not surprised it doesn't work for you. Kinda requires one to go with their 'gut feeling'. And, as we all know, you and feelings don't really get along."

At the comment about sugar, he flashes Spock a look and a pointedly arched eyebrow while he pops the now onion'd casserole into the oven. "In southern food? There's always sugar. Cornbread alone calls for a little over a cup of sugar."

[to_boldly]

"But we don't have to put so much in, do we?" Jim asks, one hundred percent oblivious to the art of cooking, excepting the part where he eats the result. "I said it'd be as good as this - " And for no reason at all, Jim lowers his voice, "Tufeen hushani, it's like a birthday cake almost, and he really likes it, so we've got to make it good."

Lifting his head from where it's been conspiratorially lowered, Jim asks, "How much sugar can you eat before you get goofy, Spock? A tablespoon? A half cup?"

[perform_admirably]

"Hm," Spock directs at McCoy, as if he is actually thoughtful about what the other man has to say about his 'getting along.' Though he folds his arms over one another on the clean, service of the table, where he sits between two place settings, his patiently curious eyes watch as Jim and the doctor work with their hands at preparing the meal.

"You ought to call it something more descriptive. 'Southern' is somewhat lacking in specificity. Being anything south of 'here,' on any planet with magnetic poles." He shifts his look to Jim's face, wondering at his half-whispering when, surely, they must all be aware that Spock can hear them clearly.

"Sucrose," he corrects again, although this time it certainly seems a matter of importance more than a matter of course. "I do not know, seeing as I have never been struck by any great need to consume something that I am aware is so unfortunate to my biology."

[goodgodman]

McCoy's eyebrows hunch over narrowed eyes as he stares at Jim incredulously, "'Like a birthday cake,'" he echoes slowly, barely matching the lowered tone of Jim’s voice, "'Almost'. Jim, I always make my food 'good,' thank you very much. But if you wanted me to bake him a god damned Vulcan birthday cake you shoulda told me."

But hell if Jim doesn’t look especially earnest about this so McCoy drops his voice further and offers, "It'll be fine. I can cut some of the sugar on the cornbread, make it a little healthier for all of us." He lifts one eyebrow as if to say 'okay?' and turns back to mixing the cornbread ingredients.

"Spock," he says with a grow, not looking up as he stirs, "Sometimes I think you’re deliberately trying to get a rise outta me. What would you call it then? Terran North American Southern Food? Kinda a mouthful if you ask me."

[to_boldly]

"It's not a birthday cake," insists Jim in an even more fervent whisper, but Bones seems to appreciate the sincerity of the request, so Jim drops it, even if he still worries that it won't be quite up to matching something Spock's mother had made for him. Whatever Spock says now, whatever necessity had dictated at the time, he'll never stop feeling bad for invoking Spock's dead mother on the bridge in front of god and everyone.

"Southern is what we call it in the United States," Jim explains to Spock. "Like 'Chicago style' pizza means deep dish, people just know what to expect when you say something's a food from the southern states. It's probably fried, it's probably comfort food, and it always tastes at least as good as it is bad for you."

[perform_admirably]

The growl gets Spock to lift his head again to Dr. McCoy, eyes meeting only the back of his brown-haired head. "I would not call it deliberate," he replies, intentionally, pointedly, addressing the inappropriate part of the response. Though there is a suggestion of friendliness, somehow, beneath the teasing. Pigtail pulling would not be an entirely inappropriate metaphor, but also one which Spock would never admit to aloud, certainly not about the doctor.

"I'm not from the United States," he observes dryly, before determining that, perhaps, a degree of friendly mercy may be appropriate. "How long will the dishes cook? And is there anything that you believe would be appropriate for us to do in the meantime?"