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It was like a disaster waiting to happen. Tribbles were bad enough when they were not infused with the blood of a crazed uber-being. Now...
Now a person could not walk a step in Starfleet HQ without tripping over one, or having one launch itself at his back (it turned out they greatly enjoyed riding around on people’s shoulders). And though Spock normally had no distaste for the bodily functions of biological beings, the tribbles’ excrement was particularly pungent and oddly colored, and the robo-custodians could not keep up.
What was worse, the pacifying effect tribbles normally had was magnified, so everywhere Spock looked, people were sitting with blissful but vacant expressions on their faces, petting purring tribbles. Operations had ground to a halt, including the rebuild of the Enterprise. This would not do. At all.
~
And yet, Spock reflected as he obtained his own complement of tribbles and their vibrations provided pleasurable stimulus, there was no real need to hurry in dealing with them. Later would be fine. A sense of relaxation permeated him.
A sense of relaxation that was brusquely interrupted by his Captain. Jim seemed completely immune to the tribbles’ charm. “Hey, Spock, nice look, but not quite your thing,” he said, carefully removing three tribbles from Spock’s person. “Now, now, you cuties need to find someone else to purr to, he’s mine.” Jim grinned the way he did when he’d made an especially amusing comment.
“I fail to see,” Spock began, gratified at the return of the normal sharpness of his thoughts, but Jim interrupted him.
“Figure of speech,” he said breezily. “Now come on, let’s make some super serum tribble tranquilizer, whaddya say? It’ll be fun!”
~
Needless to say, Jim Kirk with an entire laboratory at his disposal was another disaster waiting to happen. Still, fourteen hours and a few explosions later, they had managed to concoct something to counteract the effects of the tribbles and knock them out long enough for transport to a far-off quadrant.
However, the “something” they concocted seemed to have the effect of dramatically -- though fortunately temporarily -- lowering the inhibitions of humanoids.
“Now Spock,” Jim said as he stalked up to him with a predatory gleam in his eye. “You know I’m a walking disaster.”
“Fortunately,” Spock said with as much dignity as he could muster while lifting his Captain against the nearest wall, “I have grown somewhat inured to disaster in recent months.”
Jim groaned and arched in a most gratifying manner. “Is that what we’re calling it? Inured to disaster?”
Spock’s response was non-verbal in nature.