DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, Paramount owns him. I get to play with him only via my keyboard. This story is copyright 2001 by Momthing and may only be posted on this list and my own website.

Labor Day Aftermath


Spock opened his eyes slowly. He could tell through the brief glimpse of daylight that he saw shining through the heavy drapery of the windows that it must be morning. But he didn't know where he was, at first … just that he wasn't in his quarters.

He sat up and then wished he hadn't. His head pounded and the room spun around. His thoughts were unusually disorganized. He tried to remember how he came to be in this bed, but he couldn't … and then a bright flash assaulted his eyes! He held his hand up over his face, palm facing outwards and fingers spread to try to protect his eyes. What was going on? Was he being tortured by Klingons? If so, he would never talk.

"Good morning," said a bright cheery voice, its owner brandishing a camera. "Did you have a good night's sleep?

Spock opened his eyes further and saw a slim young woman with a bright sunny smile and long curly light brown hair holding a camera to her face and taking another quick snapshot.

"Sorry," she said. "I just couldn't resist another shot … would you like some coffee?"

"Where … who?" Spock croaked, trying to place the young woman who suddenly seemed familiar to him.

"Ronda, remember?" she grinned. "You're at the Homewood Suites Motel. Room 319 to be precise. Guess we shouldn't have fed you so much chocolate, huh?"

Spock groaned. Now he remembered. His communicator had beeped while he was walking back to his quarters at the end of his duty shift, and he had answered its summons. Then, the ship had lurched unexpectedly, and he'd felt the familiar tingle of a transporter beam. He had apparently materialized in the middle of a large room. When he'd tried to contact the ship, his own communicator had given him nothing but static.

He looked around the room. It was apparently some sort of hotel room.

He noted that it had a small kitchenette area, and two doors leading off to the side. It was empty, but it was obvious that someone was staying there. There were some open suitcases, boxes and baskets filled with some kind of reading material (real paper, he thought) and food and beverages on the table. It was a very nice setting, if a bit impersonal … until his gaze fell on the two pictures on top of the fireplace mantle. He stalked toward the fireplace with narrowed eyes: they were he! The two pictures on the fireplace mantle were portraits of him … one was a large black and white one and the other was a small colored one. In both pictures he was nude from the waist up.

"OHMIGOD!" he turned to see a short plump brown woman looking at him with wide eyes. In her hand was a communicator. Her eyes were as big as saucers behind her glasses. She was coming out of the room on his right, which was obviously a bedroom. She started to turn back to call out to someone, but stopped. Ronda and Cheree were both asleep on the bed. It had been a long drive for each of them from their respective homes; one from the Gulf Coast and one from near Dallas. She hesitated to wake them up, but then, if this is what she *thought* it was…

"What the heck's going on here, Maria?" Cheryl came out of the second bedroom, sounding a bit irritated. She had just been getting ready to lie down for a few minutes. It was four in the afternoon and she felt that she could use a nap after the excitement of checking in and seeing her old friends and fellow list mates. So she was not happy to hear Maria's screech. Maria pointed, and Cheryl looked.

Maria had to admire the calm cool way Cheryl accepted the stranger's presence. But then, Cheryl was no stranger to meeting celebrities … she walked up to him and looked him up and down.

"Nice makeup," she commented. "Did Maria let you in?"

Maria shook her head violently. Her mind was still reeling, but she calmed down once she heard Cheryl's comment about the makeup. Of course, she thought. That *had* to be the logical explanation.

"Madam," the man said in cool Vulcan dignity. "I assure you this is *not* makeup."

"You mean, you're really Mr. Spock?" Maria squeaked. He nodded. She fainted.

By the time Maria came to, Spock had been introduced to the other ladies of the Spock and Christine mailing list. He was highly flattered when Ronda and Cheree, the "list moms" explained to him that their list was primarily a fan fiction list that centered around him and Nurse Christine Chapel. He was also highly intrigued. He recalled seeing some top secret historical files about a twentieth century movement known as the "Star Trek" phenomenon based on a television series of the same name. The fact that the characters and the starship of that series were the same as his and the crew of the Enterprise had been a subject of debate among leading historians for years … even though Star Fleet's temporal police denied that any such movement had ever existed.

He had readily accepted their invitation to stay with them until he could contact his ship. He had found it an intriguing experience to say the least. Returning back to the present moment, however, he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I need to use your facilities," he told Ronda, who promptly withdrew so that he could get out of bed. When he finished his morning ablutions, he walked into the main room to find the ladies involved in their favorite past time … plotting out stories to get him together with Nurse Chapel. He did not have the heart to tell them the truth … that he and the lady in question had become bond mates after years of just being friends. It had happened so gradually that no one on the ship was surprised when they had announced their engagement: they had been an item for years on board the Enterprise.

As he walked into the kitchen, Polly handed him a mug of hot tea. He smiled slightly at her and she blushed. He sipped his tea and allowed the events of the past day to run through his mind…

The ladies of the Spock and Christine mailing list had had mixed feelings about having one of their characters in their midst. In fact, they were downright embarrassed. He put them at ease, however, when he assured them that he was not offended that they wrote about his fictional counterpart … especially after he had read one or two stories that were on the list … in a way, he told them, he felt as if he were able to live vicariously through their stories, since his actual day-to-day existence aboard the Enterprise was rather mundane for the most part.

He eagerly watched the Star Trek episodes that they put on the television for his entertainment and enjoyed watching the biography of Leonard Nimoy, the actor who portrayed him. He also read some of the literature that they referred to as "fanzines" and had all he could do to keep from laughing aloud at some of the stories concerning his two friends, The Captain and The Doctor. He smiled tenderly as he read the stories concerning him and his beloved Christine …ah, the angst! The drama! The comedy! He suddenly found himself fighting the desire to write his own story … and he found two co-conspirators when Ronda and Maria started talking about a particular episode called "Plato's Stepchildren" which they had just finished watching. They were in one of the bedrooms talking, since the others were watching something else.

"I can't believe the show's writers let them get away with that," Polly grumbled. "I'd sure like to see Christine and Uhura get even."

Maria grinned. "Well, you know, we could always write a story about it,"

Spock cleared his throat. "Ahem … as a matter of fact, that is precisely what happened."

"What do you mean?" the two women demanded.

"Lt. Uhura and Nurse Chapel did get even," he said.

"How?" they chorused, and then, Ronda said, "Wait! Don't tell us! Come downstairs to the executive center and help us write it!"

They snuck down into the computer room and amid much laughter from the ladies and amused comment from Spock began to write the first part of their story. Ronda typed up the story, while Maria took notes so that they could finish the story after he was gone.

By the time they came back up, the other women were polishing off a bottle of wine. They offered Spock a small glass along with some chocolates that some member of the group had brought. He did not know whether it was the chocolates or the wine … it must have been the chocolates. He found himself singing an old Vulcan folksong to the list ladies. It was Pre-Reform so it was rather emotional … a mating song, in fact. If the ladies had been able to translate the lyrics, they would have blushed indeed, especially as he went around singing to each of them … they had to talk him out of posting a love poem onto the List, by reminding him that there weren't any Vulcan keys on their keyboard, and anyway, he didn't know how to type. They almost lost him when he walked out the door, but got him back to the room again before he discovered the elevator.

"I think we'd better put him to bed and let him sleep it off," Jackie suggested as Cheree, Polly, Ronda and Cheryl guided him back to the room.

"That's a good idea," Cheryl said.

"I'll give him some tea, "Polly suggested. "Maybe that'll sober him up."

The women dragged him into one of the bedrooms and put him on the bed. They took off his boots and pants, and tunic, leaving him in his black t-shirt and regulation black boxers. Ronda resisted the urge to take his picture; but only because she was afraid she would wake him up if she did.

* * *

The heated argument that had been going on had subsided somewhat at his appearance.

"Character motivation! You've got to have good character motivation here," Maria scowled, waggling her fingers at Cheryl. "You haven't shown us *why* Mr. Spock would wear a fedora and *how* that would impress Christine! Credibility is the key!"

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Maria, dry up!" Cheryl glared at her. "You and your character motivation … wanna know what you can do with it?"

"Now, now, ladies," Spock began, when suddenly, his communicator began to beep. Everyone suddenly shut up. Even Jackie looked up from her computer where she had been reading the latest responses on the list.

"Spock here," Spock intoned into his communicator.

"Mr. Spock, where have you been? We've been trying to reach you for two hours."

"Ohmygod, it's The Captain!" Cheree breathed. The other ladies nodded, wide-eyed.

"I have been … engaging in historical research, Captain." Spock said. Two hours? He had been gone twenty-four by his reckoning. Hmmm … temporal distortion, no doubt.

"I see," The Captain's voice replied. "Well, I trust you're ready to come home now?"

"One moment, if you please Captain," Spock said. Carefully not shutting off his communicator, he went to each of the list ladies and gently stroked her cheek. As he did, each lady got a sense of well being and affection for her as he sent each the following thought: //I thank thee for thy hospitality. May you live long and prosper.//

"One to beam up, Captain."

They stood still for a long while after the beams of the transporter died away. Had it happened? Was it real? No one wanted to say anything to break the spell … but at last, Cheree said, "Well, it's getting late and I need to be on the road. Anybody want the last piece of chocolate?"

And with that, the ladies of the Labor Day Retreat began to disband.