Chapter Text
She died in his arms. I love you. Take care of them, her voice said through the bond.
Sarek stared at his bondmate in disbelief, her crimson blood soaking his robes, the conference hall in silence around him. How? Why? The sheer illogicality of the situation threatened to implode on him. How? Why? The scene replayed in his mind again and again as the hall spurred into life. The Klingon spy who had fired the blast was now stunned and on the ground, his accomplices subdued.
Reporters surrounded the Vulcan at the podium, his wife in his arms, still warm, cheeks still flushed, as lively as she had ever been. But it was fading. He could feel it. How? Why? He felt the bond weaken, felt her affection, sorrow, concern, love pour through-
He saw it again. The Klingon in disguise stood from the back of the hall, his hood falling back. The Vulcan ambassador had paused in the middle of his speech, a logical stance against trade in the outer sectors, and for a fraction of a second, all was still. The Klingon's weapon moved. Sarek readied himself to meet the blow- he would have no time to dodge it. But Amanda had been by his side, eyes widening, shouting his name in that one fraction. And then she was in front of him, the blow meeting her in the chest.
He saw the blood spring forward. He caught her as she fell, felt the warm blood. The wound was in her chest, too near the human heart, and numb, he had hoped that she would pull through. Amanda's eyes fluttered as she reached for him, choking on blood. Do-not-worry-I-let-my-human-impulses-get-the-best-of-me-I-am-sorry-I-love-you-tell-Spock-
Cameras flashed around him as his own eyes widened. A loss of breath. A grief so immense it doubled him over. Amanda's death reached over the bond, severed it, and in its wake was nothing but white hot, unbearable pain. The Vulcan ambassador collapsed, every noise around him rendered incoherent.
2.797 minutes later, the incident would be on every screen in the Federation, plastered on every news source, a story for years to come. Of how Amanda Grayson had given her life to save her Vulcan husband and how the cold-blooded alien had fainted thereafter. She had died in his arms.
According to one news source, never would there be another event so tragic, so romantic, so utterly beautifully heartbreaking.
Amanda Grayson died a hero when S'chn T'Gai Spock was 2.24 years of age. Then, he had been old enough to feel the grief of the severed bond, the distress of his father, the reason behind his own tears. He had been too young to know why his father was hounded by outsiders thereafter, why the elders frowned on Sarek raising him without a human companion, why tears were not permitted among his people.
His mother's death had been romanticized throughout the years, spoken of, alluded to, parodied, diagnosed, analyzed, all that one could do with such an incident. When he was 7.45 years of age, he discovered feelings of resentment towards his deceased parent- had she not felt the need to throw her life away, then perhaps he would still have someone to confront about these human impulses that were growing more and more difficult to control. He would not have so many peers and outsiders alike ask him why she did it. He did not know.
It was the human side that craved the affection his father could not give. Sarek was rarely with him, if not for reprimands. It wasn't until he examined an image of his mother thoroughly that he figured out why. He had his mother's eyes. And Sarek could not stand to be in the same room as them.
His father was forced to take another wife eventually, his first bondmate, T'Rea, for reasons Spock did not care to know. T'Rea was the picture of Vulcan propriety and she had nothing but disdain for the half-breed second son. Her efforts to correct him seemed personally rooted- she was not fond of Amanda Grayson. And Spock found himself at the receiving end of harsh words and blows when too much emotion was shown.
He didn't know if T'Rea was successfully correcting him or not.
And he did so yearn to be corrected. To be like her, like father, one with the Vulcan people, to have his human blood erased.
It was when Sybok left him that he decided he did not want to be corrected at all.
Sybok was all he had, the illogical half-brother who did not mock his smiles or his tears. Sybok guided him on the lyre, pointed out the stars to him, took him on treks in the desert, wanted him when no one else did. Spock was 10.315 years of age when Sybok was to be banished from Vulcan. His ideas had been too radical, too polluting, and the Council wanted him gone.
This, he found out from T'Rea, too content at the prospect of sending away her failure of a son. "Your face betrays you, Spock," she told him after, "though I have come to expect no less from a human."
He had rushed to see Sybok off. And to his horror, his brother was not unsettled in the least. Instead, Sybok and his followers bore careless grins as they were escorted to the shuttle. He did seem mildly surprised to see Spock.
"Take me with you," the younger Vulcan pleaded. Take me away from here. From them.
Sybok tapped his head lightly and smiled. "No, Spock, that is not your path."
Sybok had always wanted him. So now why was he- he felt tears prick. "Please, Sybok. I cannot function without you."
"You will learn. And your own path will come. But this is mine and I cannot force you onto it."
"Please!"
"Goodbye, Spock. Live long and prosper."
Sybok's last words to him went ignored. Spock was left to his own devices, throat dry. If not Sybok, who did he have in this family? I-chaya the sehlat seemed the only one. These emotions- pain, sadness, betrayal, anger, desolation- should be suppressed. But Spock was sick of the Vulcan way.
He would never be Vulcan, could never be one.
The day after Sybok's departure, he took I-chaya into the desert, hunting for predators. Bruised and scratched, the two of them had been apprehended by the authorities, and Spock had offered the officers a grin from ear to ear. It had unnerved them and pleased him. When he was brought home, cold rage shone in T'Rea's eyes. She left him writhing in agony after a disciplinary mind meld.
T'Rea promised more punishment should he act out again. And silently, Spock accepted the challenge.
Number One silently downed the rest of her drink, an Andorian cocktail, as she watched the scene play out. It was amusing, to say the least. The group of Orions had effectively beaten the living daylights out of the Vulcan, and in their defense, he had been the one to make a pass at the Orion girl ("Would you care to learn about pon farr?") and insult the leader ("You remind me of the vegetable chutes found in plomeek soup." "Is that an insult, Vulcan?" "Perhaps... 'plomeek.'"). Number One considered stepping in to help the young man, but decided against it.
It wouldn't be logical for her, an outsider, to intrude on his affairs. Christopher always hated that about her.
When the beating stopped, the Orions spat on their victim before exiting the bar. Number One kept her gaze on the Vulcan. He was lying on the table, one eye swollen and his face a mess of green blood, hair falling over the other eye. She made her way over to him. He eyed her warily.
"Now, that was an interesting development," she commented.
"State your business," he demanded, looking quite comical with the blood leaving his nose.
He sat up and she put a hand on his arm. "I just think you look like you need some help."
"I decline."
"I don't think you're in any position to, Spock."
He raised a brow. "How do you know my name?"
"I don't know many Vulcans who frequent Andorian bars. That, and you wear your hair far too long for a Vulcan. I almost mistook you for a human. Even dress like one. But that's to be expected; Amanda was human after all."
He seemed taken aback by her casual use of the name. So the rumors were true- this one was particularly bad at controlling emotions. "Have a drink with me," she said, inviting him to a nearby table.
Spock said nothing, merely followed her to the table. They sat and she ordered two glasses of Romulan ale.
"Who are you?" he asked at last, pointlessly wiping at the blood on his white shirt.
"Starfleet. Would you care to guess?"
"Judging from your age and demeanor, you hold a high position within."
"First officer aboard the USS Enterprise, been serving for fourteen years and counting. They call me Number One- that's all you need to know."
He leaned back, regarding her cautiously. "And what do you want with me?"
"As illogical as it sounds, Spock, I think you have potential. You may be just as volatile as they say, as hot blooded and untrustworthy. But I believe you should have a chance. Simply put, I've read your papers from school, monitored your reports- you're every bit as brilliant as they come. I think that could be a valuable asset for Starfleet."
"I could care less for Starfleet."
"I don't think the VSA will be wanting you any time soon. Unlike you, they prioritize behavior."
He looked away, taking to drinking the ale before him. Number One offered a rare smile. "Your mother admired Starfleet. I lived off campus during my time in the academy- Amanda was my roommate."
That piqued his interest. The Vulcan had abandoned trying to feign disinterest. She had his attention.
"She was a brilliant woman and I am proud to call her friend. She was amazing in the purest sense of the word- I feel you should know that."
"Seeing as I have little recollection of my mother, where I stand on the issue is a moot point."
Half human or not, this was definitely a half Vulcan. No wonder Pike had his reservations. But Number One was not him and she had a confident outlook on how this would turn out. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a miniature plastic replica of the Enterprise. She placed it on the table.
"Courtesy of Captain Pike. Think on it, Spock. It would please me greatly if you enrolled."
He picked the model up and held it in the light. "I fail to see how this figurine will entice me."
"That's exactly what I said. But the captain doesn't think like us."
"Hm."
She left money on the table for the drinks and turned back to him. Spock looked small, confused, and so much like Amanda in a moment of contemplation. Number One prepared to take her leave.
"Captain Pike thinks you're a lost cause- he wanted me to find a full-blooded human instead. But I would very much like to prove him wrong."
Spock watched her in silence. Before leaving him, she made one last statement.
"Your mother was a schoolteacher. Your father was a diplomat. And you, Spock? What's the logical choice?"
Spock noted that the majority of occupants on the shuttle were human. It was logical, seeing as they were bound for Earth. San Francisco, Starfleet Academy to be exact. He suspected, most of them, like him, had taken a shuttle from another planet first before transferring at this particular outpost. He believed he was the only one hailing from Vulcan.
He had never been among this many humans before and it unsettled him slightly. His hair, however, was just long enough to cover the tips of his ears. At first glance, they would not notice his differing traits. He straightened his jacket and continued moving through the shuttle, sack of carry-on belongings swung over one shoulder.
When he arrived at his seat, he quickly settled in. The human male beside him was muttering to himself, hugging a bottle of scotch. Upon sensing his arrival, the man immediately greeted him, cheeks flushed.
He was a middle-aged male, head in a hat, and breath smelling of alcohol.
"Oh, sorry. Didn' see you there, laddie- ah, you're Vulcan!"
"That is the case."
"Dinae mean to offend. Jus an observation, is all." The man thrust out a hand. "Montgomery Scott. Almost have nothin' left and trying to curb the scotch. If I'm gonna start again somewhere, might as well do it in space, eh?"
Spock stared at the hand. Montgomery knew nothing about Vulcan culture, then. And Spock admitted he himself did not care for Vulcan culture. He shook it.
"I am Spock. You are a most interesting human, Mr. Scott."
Montgomery laughed. "Oh trust me, Spock. You'll learn many interestin' things 'bout me soon 'nough. That's assuming this engine doesn't combust on us- used to be an engineer you know, and this shuttle. Well, it's not safe at all. We'll be lucky if we make it out o' this alive!"
The man looked like he was caught between crying, laughing, or cursing. Spock realized it was too late to find another seat.
"This is unsafe, you hear me!" Montgomery called to the attendant, "unsafe! If I get my hands on your engineer, why, I'll ring his neck!"
"Mr. Scott, are you sure you have curbed your scotch?"
"Key word's 'trying,' laddie."
"I see."
The shuttle prepared for takeoff and somewhere in the next few hours, Montgomery, in a drunken stupor, told the Vulcan to call him "Scotty." Spock didn't see why not.