Three Things They Wanted to be When They Grew Up

by katiemariie

Summary:

Pam wanted to be a teacher. Oscar wanted to be a chef. Dwight wanted to be Spock. These things happen but with the same set of coworkers.

Chapter 1: When Pam was young she wanted to be a school teacher...

When she was a little girl, she always looked forward to the first day of school. She'd dress up in her new school clothes with her new shoes and stuffed her new backpack with a sixty-four box of crayons with a sharpener in the back.

Now it's something she dreads. The same clothes, the same shoes, the same bag. Another year of stale coffee, stupid meetings, and art supplies older than the students using them.

She thought things would be different. She went into this thinking she would inspire the next generation of Picassos and have plenty of time on the weekends to paint her own masterpieces. She was dead wrong. The kids only take her class because it's an easy A and they need an art class to graduate. She spends so much time grading papers and worksheets that she has no time to create art herself. Not that she's had a lot of inspiration lately.

First day back. She can do this. She can do this. She can't do this. She sets one foot in the teacher's lounge and she wants run back home. They're there. They're always there.

The frigid math department: Angela, Martin, and Kevin. She doesn't dare sit next to them. Angela once tried to convert her, Martin thinks she's an idiot because she doesn't know who Euclid was, and Kevin stares at her boobs.

The insular languages department: Oscar, Andy, and Karen. She could sit there but would end being ignored in Spanish, French, and Italian which they all speak with perfect accents from talking about the other departments behind their backs. Bitches.

The oppressive history department: Stanley, Dwight, and Creed. Stanley ignores her, Dwight challenges her to trivia competitions about the Third Reich, and Creed tells her stories about being in the War. He switches the War every time she talks to him. The last time he was a minuteman fighting the Redcoats.

The mean girls of the English department: Phyllis, Kelly, and Erin. She's slightly afraid that they will try to give her a makeover or kill her and make it look like suicide.

The saddest science department in the world: Toby, Meredith, and Ryan. She would only sit with them if there were no other chairs left in the universe. The science department is social suicide.

The jocks of the phys ed department: Jim, Josh, and Jan. They're super aggressive and they all smell like gym socks. Jim tries to flirt with her sometimes and he's kinda cute with that floppy hair but he smells like the inside of a locker.

So, she sits alone. The lonely little island that is the art department.

"Hey, Beesly," Jim calls from across the room.

"Hey... Halpert." That's another thing with the gym teachers. They call everyone by their last names.

"How was your summer?"

"Good. You?"

"The three of us did a triathlon. Fucking rocked it."

"That's good. Congrats."

Thankfully she's spared any more awkward conversation with the jock strap when Dwight yells out quite loudly, "Sit, Mose. Sit!"

She glances back at the doorway. A guy in his late twenties stands hiding behind the frame.

"Mose, sit!"

"No," he squeaks.

"If you want to be a teacher you're going to hafta sit."

Mose shuffles over to Dwight's table. "No, not over here. You can't sit with us. Go sit with her," Dwight says, pointing at Pam. "She's in your department. Go!"

The man child scuttles over and sits down next to Pam. His helplessness makes her ovaries ache.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Are you new here?"

"Yes."

"What do you teach?"

"Ceramics and sculpture."

"Oh. I didn't know we had any ceramics classes."

"You didn't."

"So, how do you know Dwight?"

"He's my cousin."

"Oh. I'm sorry," she says without thinking.

Mose can't stop giggling for five minutes. When he does he says, "I'm Mose."

"I'm Pam."

"So, you teach two dimensional art classes?"

"Yeah. Most people say I teach drawing and painting but, yeah, that's my official title."

"Is there any other art teachers?"

"Nope. We used to have drama and band but those got cut two years ago. I'm glad you're here now. I had about forty kids per class last year."

"Hello, hello everyone!" Michael shouts as he enters the room. "Welcome back. How was your summer?"

No one answers. The language department stares at Michael for a minute and then resumes whispering in Italian.

"We have a new face with us this year. Let's give a warm, Scranton High welcome to Mose Schrute!"

Pam and Dwight are the only ones to clap. Mose looks like he wants to crawl under the table and never leave.

"Okay. We have a few things to--"

"How long is this gonna take?" Stanley says, peaking over his crossword puzzle. "I've got a first period class I need to prep for."

The rest of the teachers echo Stanley. The history department actually stands up and starts to walk out.

"Alright. I guess I'll just email you everything."

Mose runs over to Dwight and says, "Vetter, my face hurts."

"It's just razor burn."

"It still hurts. I don't like these clothes. They itch."

"Stop whining and go to your classroom."

Dwight walks off talking to Creed about the Lebensraum. Mose just stands there looking incredibly lost.

"Hey, Mose. Let's walk to class together. Your room is right next to mine."

He agrees glumly. He looks like Linus from Peanuts when he lost his blanket.

Pam's really worried that the kids will eat this boy up. "If you need any help, just ask okay?"

The first bell rings and the throng of chattering teenagers pushes them into their respective classrooms.

Handout the syllabus. Yes, there is a lab fee. No, there isn't a final exam. Please settle down.

And again. Handout the syllabus. Yes, there is a lab fee. No, there isn't a final exam. Please settle down.

Prep. She walks down the hall and looks in on Mose's class. All of the kids are silently molding pinch pots. It's like the Children of the Corn in there.

And again. Handout the syllabus. Yes, there is a lab fee. No, there isn't a final exam. Please settle down.

Lunch. She grabs her usual Caesar salad from the cafeteria and walks back to her room. Sometimes the artsy kids like to hang out in there. No one today though. She goes into Mose's classroom. He sits at his desk eating reddish soup from a thermos.

"Hey, Mose."

"Hello, Pam."

"How's your first day?"

"Good."

"I saw your third period class. They were really quiet."

"Yes. They were."

"How?"

"Pardon?"

"How did you get them to be quiet?"

He looks off dreamily. "I don't know..."

"If you remember could you share your secret with the rest of us?"

"Uh huh."

Bell rings.

And again. Handout the syllabus. Yes, there is a lab fee. No, there isn't a final exam. Please settle down.

And again. Handout the syllabus. Yes, there is a lab fee. No, there isn't a final exam. Please settle down.

When she checks back in after school, he's standing on top of his desk covering a giant piece of chicken wire with paper mache.

"Hey, Mose."

"Hello, Pam."

"What are you doing?"

"A project."

"Fun." She picks up a figurine off his desk. It's a scale replica of the David. "Where'd you get this?"

"I made it. Please don't touch it. I didn't have enough time during my prep to fire it."

She puts it down gently on his desk. "You made that today?"

"Uh huh."

"It's really good."

"Thank you. Pam, will you be my friend?"

"What?"

"Dwight told me that I should make friends. I would like you to be my first friend."

"You've never had any friends before?"

"Dwight is my best friend but he says that doesn't count because we are related and he has to put up with me. Dwight also said it would be advantageous to make friends within the department so we can form an alliance in case they want to get rid of us."

"That's smart."

"So will you be my friend?"

"Yes. I will."

"Good."

"Mose, it's time to go," Dwight says from the doorway. "Hello, Pam. Which Nazi general was born in Prussia? Was it A, General—"

"Pam and I are friends now, Dwight."

"Fantastic! Shall we take her to the farm and show her the slaughterhouse?"

"I think I'll pass on that today."

"Okay. Goodbye, Pam."

"Goodbye, Mose."

She stares a the eight foot tall sculpture. It drips glue on the floor. It makes her strangely happy. She sighs and turns off the lights.

One day down, one hundred and eighty-one to go.

Chapter 2: When Oscar was young he wanted to be a chef...

Summary:

Oscar's knowledge of life as a chef comes from Anthony Bourdain's memoirs, so his possible culinary career is very close to Kitchen Confidential.

If you had told an eighteen year old Oscar Martinez that he'd be waking up hungover for the rest of his life he wouldn't have believed you. That was before he graduated culinary school and became an actual chef. For someone who was so eager to leave the pains of adolescence he sure had a way of prolonging it indefinitely.

He wakes up. Aches. Groans. Takes an aspirin and a shower. Drives to work for what he calls the quiet time. Believe it or not prep is his favorite part of the day. He got into cooking to be an artist which he defined as being so brilliant that you'd never have to talk to another human being again. Nope. He wanted to be a serious, mature professional. Nope. He wanted to be respected. Nope. He wanted to make good money. Oh, hell no.

He's a damn good chef. He knows that. But in high school he was also a damn good mathematician, a damn good figure skater, and a damn good tutor. That's where the confusion set in. He simply had too many options. His father would look at him and say, "Why are you complaining? When I came to this country the only option I had was to get a job or starve." Oscar never brought up that his dad came to America because he was transferred from his branch in Mexico City to the one in Carbondale.

He's never sure if he made the right choice. He thinks about what his life would be like if he was a teacher or a show skater or, heaven forbid, an accountant. He dreams of forty hour work weeks and weekends off. He salivates at the idea of working alone in a little cubicle all day where no one bothers him.

But reality comes crashing down. And it does that on a daily basis. Like today. It's a Thursday so fish delivery's coming in. Or should be. The Vance Fishery truck doesn't show up. He waits until ten and then call Bob Vance, Vance Fisheries himself.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Bob. It's Oscar."

"Hi, Oscar."

"Today I was think about cooking food. It's a hobby of mine. I do it every now and then. Thinking about making a salmon salad for lunch. So I go into the freezer and there's no salmon. I'm surprised because it's Thursday and I have tons of salmon in there on Thursdays. Then I remember I was supposed to get a delivery BUT THE FUCKING TRUCK NEVER SHOWED UP."

"It will be there right away."

"Thank you."

Sea Monster, one of his runners, stares at him.

"What?"

"You are ridiculously scary when you yell."

"Thank you."

Angela arrives first for lunch service. Angela is always first.

He kind of hates her. Thinks she wants his job.

He kind of likes her. She's mildly sane.

Her pastry corner is the quietest area in the entire restaurant. She doesn't allow her underlings to swear and if anyone outside that corner touched one of her "babies" she will kill him.

Angela opens up the freezer.

"Kevin!"

"What?"

"He forgot to feed the baby! How am I going to make--"

Oscar dimly recalls a phone call at four in the morning, right after he staggered into bed.

"You have to feed it."

"What?"

"You have to feed the baby."

"Kevin?"

"I forgot to feed it. She'll kill me if she finds out."

He hangs and goes back to sleep.

"He is always doing this! I give him one simple task..."

Schrute comes in. He always enters exactly five minutes after Angela. Oscar doesn't like to think about why.

The rest filter in gradually and they all prep for service.

He has a meeting with the owners. They're trying to be "proactive" which really means "pain in the ass" in restaurant terms. He feeds them samples of the day's specials along with the wait staff.

"So we were thinking about changing the theme."

"No."

"Come on, Oscar. You haven't even heard--"

"Michael, no."

"Holly, tell him what it is."

"The films of Mel Brooks!"

"Holly, no."

"It would be awesome!" Holly yells just a bit too loudly.

"Please! Pretty please with a jalapeno pepper on top..."

"No. When restaurants change themes or menus it makes the public think that the restaurant is failing. It gives the stench of death."

"You never let us have any fun," Michael pouts.

"Whoever told you that restaurant business was fun is a liar."

He gets up and walks away thinking he made an excellent final statement and an especially dramatic exit when Stanley accosts him.

"Artichokes!"

"What?"

"The lunch special is riddled with artichokes! How the hell am I supposed to find a complementary wine for goddamn artichokes in two hours? Did you wake up today think how to ruin my life? 'Maybe I'll put the most difficult food to pair with wine on the menu today.' Are you stupid?"

Stanley is always difficult when upset. The man is keenly aware that he's the best (possibly the only) sommelier in Scranton. Oscar can't afford to fire him or make him angry enough to quit. Still, he can't let a goddamn sommelier challenge his authority in front of his staff.

"Stanley, sit down before your heart explodes. The only reason artichokes are on the menu is because we needed to use them all before they went bad. I'm sorry this had to happen. I'll understand if you'll need to sample more wine than usual today. You might need to sample an entire bottle of Merlot. Who knows."

He used to think he was above bribery. He also used to think he was above snorting coke in a public bathroom but then the eighties happened.

Speaking of that... "Where the fuck is my fucking tournant?"

Most of the cooks have no idea who Escoffier was let alone how to pronounce his name so Oscar gets a bunch of blank stares as a response. Their poissonnier, Andy, the only other person to go to culinary school, charitably translates, "He means where's Ryan?"

"You mean the biggest jerk in the entire world?" Kelly, the hostess asks. "I haven't seen him since Monday."

"Damn it, Jim!" Dwight yells from across the room.

Oscar feels a migraine coming on. "What's wrong, Dwight?"

"He put my squeeze bottle in Jell-o again!"

The rest of the staff grows quiet. To mess with someone else's mise-en-place was a mortal sin. Especially to fuck with a saucier's squeeze bottle. There were about fifty other squeeze bottles in the kitchen but Schrute only uses the ones he brought from home. He claims that it was steeped with the flavors of the Old Country. (Oscar's not exactly sure what the Old Country is but he humors him.)

"How do you know it was me?"

"It's always you!" Dwight picks up a santoku knife menacingly. "If you touch my stuff ever again I swear to God I will kill you!"

Jim looks adequately frightened so Oscar doesn't take him aside as he usually would. He gives a half-assed, "Settle down, boys," before going out to the bar.

"No," the bartender says as soon as she sees him.

"What?"

"No. It's not even lunch service yet."

"Schrute almost gutted Jim over a squeeze bottle."

"That's not my problem."

"Please. Pam, please. I just saved your boyfriend's life."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Sure." He makes his best puppy dog eyes at her.

"Fine."

He gulps down a Red Bull and vodka. "Thank you."

Service starts. Ryan's nowhere to be found. He has to expedite along with running from station to station helping out. The steady stream trickles out around three. Time to prep for dinner. Stations are cleaned. Towels are hoarded. People go missing to do whatever it is they do.

Oscar runs to the dry goods closet for his stash of cigarettes. He opens the door to find Angela and Schrute copulating on a sack of quinoa. He rinses his eyes out in the bathroom sink.

Ryan strolls in. He looks like shit. Oscar takes him outside to talk. He scared because he looks at Ryan and sees himself years ago.

"Ryan, I'm suspending you."

"What? You can't suspend me! Do chefs even get suspended? I'm not a fucking cop!"

"Okay. You're fired then."

"This is ridiculous!"

"Watch your fucking mouth, kid. I'm giving you six months to clean up. If you come back clean, you can have your job back."

"Whatever, man." Ryan walks off.

The kid'll never get hired in Pennsylvania again. Oscar will make sure of that. He'll end up slinging burgers at some fast food place that doesn't require a drug test. Hopefully that will be his rock bottom. There's really nothing else he can do.

"Come on!" Andy shouts.

Oscar runs back inside. "What happened?"

"All my towels are gone. I went to the bathroom and they disappeared. How the hell am I supposed put out clean plates without any fucking towels?"

"Did you look around?"

"I looked everywhere!"

He can see Jim smirking. Halpert has a bulge in his pants. Oscar's the kind of guy who notices bulges and Jim definitely did not have that yesterday.

"Jim, take off your pants."

"What?"

"Take off your pants."

His pants drop to the floor along with the missing towels.

"Jim, what's the most important rule in the kitchen?"

"I don't know. Always wash your hands after jerking off?"

"It's 'if it not yours, don't touch it.' Can you say that, Jim? Say it."

"If it's not yours, don't touch it."

"Good boy. What a good boy. Who's a good boy? Oh, Jim's a good boy," he deadpans. Oscar finds that treating people like developmentally delayed kindergartners or Labrador Retrievers is quite an effective punishment. He winks at Andy before taking another cigarette break.

Creed, the ancient rôtisseur, joins him on the loading dock. Oscar readies himself to hear one of Creed's ridiculous claims like, "I used to peal potatoes for Escoffier," or "Eric Ripert's my godson," or "I'm Rasputin." Instead Oscar breathes in a sour, earthy smell.

"Is that weed?"

"It could be if you wanted it to."

He walks back inside.

Dinner is, as always, a giant blur.

Jim's bitchy because someone sent soup back for being cold. As soon as he starts to whine, Phyllis tells him maybe he shouldn't have let it sit in the window for five minutes. He's not that much of a baby to yell at a waitress who knows more than he does so he lets thing slide.

Andy has to descale fish as they're ordered because Vance didn't drop them off until ten minutes before service. By the end of the night he has more scales on his face than the Billy the Big Mouther Bass hanging in the dining room. (Oscar hates that fucking thing. He secretly replaces the working batteries with dead ones every time Michael or Holly notices that it's not on.)

A sauté pan falls on Meredith's head. She takes a shot of vodka and then she's fine. Schrute's pissed because the pan has Meredith's "filthy red hair smell" all over it and is positive that it won't come out in the wash. He's incredibly persnickety when it comes to odors.

Toby starts weeping while plating a Caesar salad. Everyone does their best to ignore him.

Kevin gets his hand stuck in a jar. Again.

Jim accidentally goes over the line that separates his and Schrute's workspace. It takes three men to disarm Schrute and one tiny blonde to get his blood pressure back to normal.

Meredith's hair catches on fire. Somewhere, Schrute's sauté pan smirks in satisfaction.

Oscar catches Creed trying to steal an entire tuna by shoving it down his pants. Jim remarks that Andy's stuff is getting in more pants than Andy is. There's a big laugh and Jim is redeemed.

Someone unseen grabs Oscar's ass while he's reading off a ticket. He has no time to wonder who that was or what that means.

Creed walks up ten minutes later and smacks Oscar on the butt.

"What are you doing?"

"Tapping you on the be-hind."

"Why?"

"I saw Andy do it. I thought it was a new thing we were doing."

"It's not!"

"Oh. Sorry about that."

Creed toddles back to his station, while Oscar locks eyes with the poissonnier and raises an eyebrow.

It's late enough that only desserts are coming out of the kitchen. "Jim, take over for me."

If he had one smell to remember Andy by it would be the mixture of fish and quinoa.

"Awesome."

When they crawl out out of the storage closet and into the kitchen, they get knowing looks and he swears he can hear Jim and Schrute whispering about teacher's pets. He flips everyone the bird because apparently that's how he communicates now.

Last ticket of the night comes in. Cheesecake. Toby plates it quickly putting some English on there as he slides it into the window. Obviously, Toby's more rapid cycling than usual today.

He sends everyone home which really means, "What bar are we going to tonight?"

They're stuck at Poor Richard's because Andy and Schrute are banned from that place in Wilkes-Barre for breaking a pool stick while pretending to fight with light sabers. He's tired but his adrenaline is pumping from serving a hundred orders tonight. He sits in a booth next to Andy, puts his head on his shoulder and his hand on his thigh. Andy whispers something French in his ear that Oscar can't understand because it has nothing to with cooking. To him, French has always sounded like Spanish spoken by someone who's just got done getting a root canal yet Andy makes it sound appealing.

"¿Quieres ir a mi casa?"

"What?"

"You don't speak Spanish? You work in a kitchen how can you not speak Spanish? That was baby Spanish for chrissakes!"

"You don't speak French. How did they let you graduate culinary school without learning French?"

"I'm actually a good cook so I didn't need that."

"Oh, buuuurrrrn."

Andy might be the only person in the world to say that when he himself is getting burned. Oscar finds that oddly endearing. "Do you want to get out of here?"

--

He wakes up. Andy's asleep on his chest. He strokes his hair until he awakens.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Are you on lunch today?"

"No. You?"

"No."

They drift off.

Chapter 3: When Dwight was young he wanted to be the Chief Science Officer of the Starship Enterprise...

He respects authority. It's logical to do so. There's a reason why authority go to be authority in the first place. Also, sometimes authority locks you in a shed for not saving vegetables for stock.

He always deferred to the authority of his previous captains. But this idiot Jim Halpert is not an authority worth respecting.

He is loud and brash and demonstrative and his hair is two inches longer than regulation allows. Something has to be done.

--

"Lt. Beesly, you work rather closely with the captain..."

"He sits like two feet away from me. That's pretty close."

"Have you noticed anything different about the captain?"

"Different?"

Is that the wrong term in English? Connotations elude him. "Special, perhaps? Something that made you notice him?"

"No. What? I don't notice the Captain. We're just friends... colleagues. I don't sit at my station wondering what the captain's doing. I don't. Did he say anything about me?"

"No. Thank you for your time."

--

"The Captain? Oh, he's a great guy."

"Yes. Have you observed any peculiar behaviors practiced by the Captain?"

"Yeah. He's always hanging around on the bridge with this guy with pointy ears name o' Shrut."

"Schrute."

"Yeah, that's the guy."

"I am Schrute."

"Hi, I'm Creed. Nice to meet you."

He almost sighs but that would be an inefficient evacuation of air. He is compelled to wonder how Lt. Commander Bratton has every mile of Jefferies tubes memorized but still does not know any of the name of anyone on the ship.

--

"Lt. Martinez, your door was-- Ensign Bernard, I did not expect to see you in Lt. Martinez's quarters."

"No. You wouldn't. 'Cause why would I be here?"

"I must ask, why are you both missing your clothing?"

"Ummm..."

"We were checking each other for ticks," the Lieutenant says, throwing the Ensign his pants.

"Yes. That is what we were doing."

"Good. I understand that ticks are an irritating parasite from Earth. A tick outbreak would be very damaging to crew morale."

"Why are you here, Schrute?"

"Lieutenant, I do not have time for any of your philosophical queries. I need to question you about the Captain."

Bernard makes what the humans call a "glare" in Martinez's direction.

"What," Martinez stutters, "what about the Captain?"

"Yeah, what about the Captain?"

"Have either of you detected any abnormality about the Captain?"

"No. He's pretty average."

"Average or... bigger than average, Oscar?"

Martinez coughs and his face flushes. "Well... um..."

Schrute isn't certain what the Ensign is getting at but he tries to facilitate. "Sometimes it helps to compare people in terms of letter grades. What grade would the Captain receive and what grade would you give me?"

"He doesn't know how to grade you. Right, Oscar?"

"Yes. I wouldn't know where to start."

"Then compare the Captain and Ensign Bernard."

Schrute could hear Martinez gulp. "Uh. I guess the Captain would get a C and Ensign Bernard would get a B plus."

An expression called a "smirk" appeared on Bernard's face.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Carry on."

--

"Yeoman Howard, have you seen any inappropriate behavior being perpetrated by the officers of this ship?"

"Yes! Oh my god. I thought no one else had noticed. He keeps giving me these looks like he wants to... I don't know what."

"The Captain is making lascivious eye movements?"

"No! No. Dr. Scott. It freaks me out. I'm so glad you--"

"That is all, Yeoman."

--

"Oh, watch out, Nurse Martin, it's the jolly green giant."

"Dr. Scott, I have told you several times that I am half-Vulcan and half-human, not any race of giants."

"But your blood is green and you're tall. It's funny."

"I fail to see the humor."

"Why do you have to ruin everything, Schrute? No wonder your mom and dad never visit; you're no fun."

He suppresses a whimper. Mutter...

"What do you want?"

"Have you detected any abnormalities in Captain Halpert that would make him unfit for command?"

"What are you trying to do? Jim is my friend. No, Jim is my best friend. I'm not gonna say anything that you can use to hurt him. Go away, you-- you leprechaun!"

Nurse Martin chases after him when he leaves the sick bay.

"Commander Schrute."

"Nurse Martin."

"I have noticed several abnormalities in Captain Halpert."

"Continue."

"He spends an inordinate amount of time staring at you when you're bent over the science station on the bridge."

"Fascinating. Thank you, Nurse."

The woman leans in closer to him. He steps backs. "I have seen other things. We could discuss them in my quarters."

"No. I have all the information I require. I need to see the Captain."

---

"Captain? It is Commander Schrute."

"Come on in."

The door opens. The Captain is waiting right behind it.

"Hey, Schrute. I was just looking to talk to you."

"I suspected you were."

"The crew's been telling me you're asking questions about me all day."

"False. I have not been asking questions about you all day. I took a break to eat lunch."

"Do you wanna sit down?"

"Yes. Sitting is a much more comfortable position than standing."

"Okay. Do you want anything to drink?"

"No."

"Really? I've got Saurian brandy, Scotch, beer..."

"No. I know that you are attempting to poison me."

"What? Why would I poison you?"

"Because you want to kill me and poisoning me would kill me."

"Schrute, I don't want to kill you."

"Fact: You do not like me. Fact: You do not like Vulcans. Quote: 'Captain Halpert spends an inordinate amount of time staring at you when you're bent over the science station in the bridge.' Conclusion: You want to kill me."

"That's a ridiculously illogical conclusion. I don't hate you and I certainly don't hate Vulcans."

"But you are quote 'best friends' with Dr. Scott who is prejudiced against Vulcans."

"I am not 'quote best friends' with Dr. Scott."

"Yet he said you were."

"Sometimes humans lie."

"Why?"

"Because sometimes humans want to appear more impressive than they actually are."

"But why do they not simply become more impressive? Then they would not have to lie. To lie is--"

"Illogical. I know."

"Yet you continue to lie to me about your desire to murder me."

"I don't want to murder you!"

"Then why do you stare at me as if you wanted to devour me?"

"I... like you. I'd like to--"

"Eat me? I have heard stories of humans who resort to cannibalism when faced with starvation but you have plenty of--"

"I don't want to eat you. I want to... get to know you better."

"I am Commander Schrute, the chief science officer of the USS Enterprise. My mother is human. My father is Vulcan. I was educated on Vulcan. I am lactose intolerant. My blood type--"

"Not like that. I want to spend time with you... as a friend."

"Why?"

"Frankly, I don't know why."

"Then you should probably not do so. To do something without knowing the reason is--"

"Illogical. And only a fool rides a horse named Illogic."

"I have never understand why humans name racing horses so strangely. It is a barbaric sport in and of itself without the ridiculous names."

"It's an expression. It means that only an idiot would act illogically."

"So, in your own estimation you are an idiot."

"I will be in a minute."

"What do you mean? Why are you putting your lips on mine? Do you have poison on your—mmmph. Oh. What do you call that?"

"A thimble."

"A thimble? That is a very odd--"

"No... That was a joke."

"A joke? But you said it was a thimble!"

"No. Saying that it was a thimble was a joke."

"So what was it?"

"That, Mr. Schrute, was a kiss."

"How very strange. Is that customary of your people?"

"Yeah. It's sign of affection. Didn't your mother ever kiss your father?"

"No. I have yet to see them in the same room together with the exception of pon farr."

"Pon farr?"

"It is the Vulcan mating period that occurs every seven years."

"So... um... when are you going to... pon farr?"

"The blood fever will begin in about three months."

"Do you have, like, an exact date?"

"Captain, why are you getting out your calendar?"

"No reason."

"You do many things without knowing the reason. Sometimes you have appear to have no reason at all. This--"

"Is illogical, I know."

"I going to say, this makes you an idiot but illogical works as well."

"Why were asking the crew about me?"

"I find that you are a very... unconventional leader. I was simply surveying the crew to see if any shared my opinion."

"I can understand that you'd be angry that I got the job instead of you when Dunder retired but you can't go around damaging morale by questioning my authority."

"I am not angry that you are leading the ship instead of me. I am a Vulcan. I don't get angry. And I have never wanted to be the captain."

"Come on, you were always kissing Dunder's ass!"

"I did no such thing! He did not even own a donkey!"

"You are an adorable little Vulcan, you know that?"

"Adorable? Is there a dual meaning of which I am unaware?"

"Schrute, for someone so smart you have a terrible grasp of the English language."

"I find that I speak English remarkably well."

"Half the time you have no idea what I'm saying. How do you and your mom communicate?"

"We speak in German and sometimes in Vulcan."

"Where'd you learn English then?"

"I took a class before I entered the academy."

"A class? One class?"

"Yes. Should I have taken more?"

"No. It's just I wouldn't be able to learn Vulcan from taking one class."

"It was a very long class. We were there for almost four Earth hours."

"You make me sick!"

"I should leave then. You could be allergic to my fabric softener."

"You use fabric softener?"

"Vulcans are touch telepaths and thus have very sensitive skin."

"So, if I touched your fingertips like this..."

"Oh."

"You're very warm."

"Vulcans have a higher body temperature that humans."

"That could be interesting."

"Would you object if we did a kiss again?"

"No. I don't think I would."

--

"I was unaware that that could happen outside of pon farr. How interesting. I shall have to contact my brothers about this development."

"You have siblings?"

"Yes. I have three brothers."

"Let me guess. You were all born seven years apart?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Are you the oldest?"

"No, I am the youngest."

"So, you're the rebel, huh?"

"I am aware of the Earth theory that birth order has a psychological impact and, yes, I would be considered the rebel. My brothers all joined the Vulcan Science Academy as per family tradition. I chose a different path."

"Is that why you never visit your parents?"

"Yes."

"You're the black sheep... the outcast. I'm sorry."

"Why did you have a kiss on me? I estimate that neither of us will be able to copulate again for at least fifteen minutes."

"Sometimes, humans kiss because they want to comfort someone or just because they like them. It doesn't always have to be about sex."

"Oh. You can continue to kiss me as long as we will copulate again later."

"Sure."

"I think Lt. Martinez's grade of you was a bit harsh. You deserve more than a C."

"What?!"