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Spock had always felt like an outsider.
Too human.
Too Vulcan.
Never enough.
On the edge- never fully being understood or understanding.
He had learned to control his emotions, but at times, he felt like he had to stifle the more human ones until they broke to the surface. Oftentimes they defied logic in unexpected ways.
Jealousy being one of them.
Jealousy was an emotion that ate and clawed at his insides while twisting like a knife to the gut. In the privacy of his quarters now and in his room growing up on Vulcan, jealousy would sting the corners of his eyes as a low rumble threatened to become a scream wanting to rip itself from his throat.
He found humans fascinating, he studied them, mostly in resigned contentment to watch and to admire, but the distance that would always separate him from them was a pain that worked its way deeper as time passed on the Enterprise.
Childhood rejection from the Vulcans turned to torment as, try as he might, Spock could never crack the code on what could bridge that gap, with Vulcans or humans, and no matter how many times he thought he was finally figuring it out, he felt as if at one turn he was being propelled in the opposite direction of that connection.
Focusing all his will on controlling his emotions after the death of his Mother and his home planet had confounded the humans he served with. They deemed him cold when he was trying to keep from burning from the inside out. It had started to sever those tenuous connections he had worked so hard over the years to form. He always knew they were fragile just like his human side, but he had let his logic slip and replaced it with the hope that maybe he was finding his place. To keep from falling apart, in their place he felt on the precipice of a facade cracking. He was at once more alien and more alienated.
As time went on, a new normal set, Spock came to realize that deep-seated emotions often grow and bubble to the surface. What may start as an easily controlled irritation or annoyance, could become an incessant tug. Recently, that tug surfaced every time he saw one particular person, someone who was both accepted and accepting: Captain James Tiberius Kirk.
After having hastily excused himself from the bridge, Spock stood in his quarters with his fists tightly squeezed to focus his pain and emotions into the sting of nails into flesh, a habit he had developed when meditation could not refocus him. He had to admit that he had felt this way ever since the young captain had cheated on his test back at the academy.
Spock had assessed Kirk as reckless, self serving, illogical, and infuriating, but even then, there had been a wisp of that green circling his logic regarding the now captain and that once insignificant wisp had grown into a monster holding him in a chokehold, rivaling his strength and logic.
Many times his jealousy was channeled at the way that Kirk carried himself, his self assured nature, his effortless charm, the twinkle in his eye that matched the smug smirk he often wore. He was confident in a way that most humans never were at that age, when insecurity often won. Confident in a way Spock would never touch, having only his logic to rely on.
Maybe trying to be a little bit more like the captain had mixed together with his grief to create a gray emotional sludge and had been part of the reason he had done what he had inside that volcano.
But what had him rushing off in such a hurry today in a blaze of emotion that caused the heat in his cheeks to rise and his muscles to tense: simple human jokes, the way Kirk’s eyes sparkled with laughter, and a back slap to Doctor McCoy.
~ ** ~
An hour later, those emotions had started to integrate, going from a rolling boil to a gentle manageable simmer. Spock, having realized his impulsiveness was determined to apologize for letting his emotions control him, to control his decision to leave his duty, the bridge, his captain.
He went back to the bridge to find the captain's chair occupied by Sulu. Captain Kirk should still be here. Their shift had not ended yet.
Sulu turned as if expecting his presence, (and did Spock detect sympathy in the other man’s eyes?) “Captain’s in his quarters.”
Turning on his heel, Spock started to leave without saying a word, but then, for a moment, paused. “Thank you” he responded in almost a whisper. Would the bridge catch the dejection?
Spock had a decision to make: go back to his quarters and wait until tomorrow, or go to the captain in his quarters. Seemingly before logic could make that determination, he found himself standing outside the captain's door.
Logic told him that since he was already there, that he should chime, but the emotions that rose up told him otherwise. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, his internal sense of timing thrown off as he wrestled with the next action to take when the captain's door slid open.
“You know I could practically hear you thinking out there. You want to tell me why you’re here and what the hell was that earlier?” A steady voice called out to him, a siren call as Spock stood on the precipice.
Though he only suspected the nature of the relationship that Ambassador Spock had with the other Captain Kirk, he knew they had been close. He knew they had often played chess in the other Kirk’s quarters and probably had other reasons to be there. He had never been inside his captain’s quarters. Was an apology a good enough reason to visit, or was it an excuse to be here? He didn’t know, and that concerned him more than anything at that moment. It wasn’t logical to fear the unknown because there was no data to be concerned over. But at that moment, Spock found himself afraid. Standing too close to the edge of the cliff to be logical but unwilling to back away even with the potential of falling, he was lured by a closeness that eluded him. A closeness he secretly craved to have with his captain.
“So, what will it be, Mr. Spock, in or out? I was always told never to leave the door open.”
In or out? In or out?
A simple decision or a life-changing one. One that could shatter those threads of connection, fragile like his heart. Or, it could be a strengthening, a forging of their friendship. A way to calm the waters between them while the tornado of green raged in his mind. This was a space where he had never been. Uncertain, Spock did not possess the ability to boldly go in either direction.
Before he could make up his own mind, tanned fingers were wrapping around his arm with a tenderness and irritation that bore its way to the bone. “Come on, sit” he barely heard as he was guided into those quarters and made to sit on the couch. Kirk then leaned back on his desk, arms and legs crossing. Spock could feel himself being scanned. probed. analyzed.
“You’d like to tell me now?” it was more of a demand than a request, but it was still a question, one he was being given permission to answer or not.
Grounding himself in the touch of the fabric beneath him, registering the slightly cooler temperature of the room, and looking forward at some point on the wall, Spock sighed. It was not an answer but a response nonetheless.
Memories of him sitting in his father’s study after getting in fights with the full-blooded Vulcans washed over him. He felt judged. He felt inadequate. He felt like that look could set him on fire, and would he welcome the flames? to burn? to feel?
Kirk picked up on something, Spock didn’t know what as his control and emotions were currently at war inside his mind, and it was still difficult to register that he was in the captain’s quarters with the captain, his captain. But whatever he saw, Spock soon found himself with a hand on his knee as Kirk sat beside him. Too close, yet too far away.
“OK, you don’t need to tell me. I will tell you, you are a valued member of this crew and I want you to be OK.”
“Sorry” was all that escaped Spock’s lips. Was it an admission of responsibility for his earlier actions, for not being the officer or the man that his father wanted or his captain deserved? Was it disbelief for where he found himself? He didn’t know.
Whatever that word carried, it traveled to Kirk as his hand was gently, tenderly, and perhaps absentmindedly massaging his knee. A feeling that was too much, yet not enough.
“Look at me,” Jim said. And, for the first time since he had entered Jim’s quarters, what seemed like only a moment ago yet also an eternity, that voice broke the spell, broke through, and broke him down. Spock looked into those eyes, “I know.”
The next few minutes were a blur. He was overwhelmed, enveloped by a warmth and a roughness that seared into flesh, branded him, and promised to scrub away the pain if only for a moment. He melted into those arms surrounding him, an invitation with each movement to let go and, with those lips on his own, to surrender. This was where he was meant to be, searching those pupils wanting him, calling him like the vastness of space, lost but anchored to the ship, to his captain. A burn that fused together time and space. This was where he belonged. This was his place.
The heat that filled him gave way to a scorching, all-consuming fire as the edges of sleep forced him back from falling completely. Suddenly that fire was replaced by the disappointment and darkness of his own room. A disappointment that left him empty, and that green-eyed monster hungry.