Chapter Text
The Enterprise has a crew complement of 1172 consisting primarily of Andorians, Orions, and many, many young, enthusiastic humans.
For a half-Vulcan, freshly shed of his planet and his mother... it is incredibly, indescribably lonely.
Not that said half-Vulcan would ever admit to that, of course. Vulcans did not feel loneliness and did not seek out socialization and interpersonal interaction in the same way that many species did. Spock had Nyota, he had his work. What more could he possibly need?
The first month and a half passes under this assumption. Spock does his duties, studies, and works in the lab when he’s free. On the increasingly rare occasion that Nyota is also available, they have dinner, make music, and primarily discuss work or Nyota’s social life. Contrary to ship’s rumors, they are not officially ‘a thing’ as he has heard it put before, but they maintain the illusion for mutual benefit. Currently, neither desires the distraction of potential suitors, and both appreciate that they have a space they are free to be a little less immaculate, a little more relaxed.
Unfortunately, their availability doesn’t always line up. In fact, it seems to less and less as Nyota forms stronger relationships with other members of the crew, and Spock finds himself holed up more frequently in the science labs. When they do manage to meet up, Nyota is practically glowing, overflowing with tales of language work she’s doing with an ensign, a choir some of the officers are forming, and an increasing amount of off duty encounters with Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott.
Spock is satisfied with his experiments and his duties as first officer. They keep him busy at all hours, and there’s always more that can be done.
At least, this is what he tells himself those first few weeks.
—
In the time leading up to the official launch of Captain Kirk’s Enterprise, Spock spends much of it alone. It’s not so much that he avoids people (not anymore than usual at least) but that at some point, they start avoiding him. When he’d first returned to the Academy, he’d been almost swarmed with well meaning colleagues, students, officers, and strangers, all with a near constant stream of condolences for his mother and his planet. Some offered only their words, others left somewhat inexplicable gifts such as lasagnas, bubble bath, a little heart-shaped dish with a jagged break down the center.
When Spock had reacted as he always did –– polite, professional, unperturbed –– the gestures of sympathy slowed to a stop, as did the casual hallway greetings, the invites to this or that social event, the eye contact during any conversation that drifted too near to Vulcan’s destruction.
Maybe they thought he needed space to grieve, to process, but maybe they did, too. Even those who could look past the loss of a planet likely knew a classmate, relative, or friend who was lost on one of the ships. Grief touched them all, tempered the typically lively and bright interactions, casting Starfleet into a much more reserved, quiet state.
Spock spends his new found silence thinking over his options. He makes a decision, then a different one, then a different one. He tries to find the most logical path forward, tries to settle into his default meditative state and repeatedly fails.
Eventually, he decides to follow his elder’s advice, to remain with the Enterprise. He tells no one, but it seems many already know. Whether they made their own assumptions or Ambassador Spock has been spreading unfounded rumors is unknown.
Shortly before they were scheduled to depart, Sarek gives Spock an envelope, a letter. His father seems almost reluctant to hand it over, and when Spock catches sight of his name on the front in his mother’s handwriting, he thinks he can understand why.
“Your Mother left this for you. I had hoped to not have to share it with you for many more years.”
“What is-”
Sarek cuts him off, the words rushing out slightly faster than Spock knows they typically would, as if he knows no other way to get through what he has to say. “Humans have a tradition. They often write letters to themselves, or letters to others for when they have died. Amanda wrote only one letter, when you were young.”
—
Spock wants to rip into the letter immediately. He also wants to lock it into his desk in his quarters, looking at its sealed form everyday while never breaking that seal, never fully allowing himself to acknowledge what this letter means. But he knows, in the way his heart aches nonstop, that it is something he can’t truly hide from.
He manages to keep this last, flimsy connection to his Mother in one piece for two days after the launch of the Enterprise, only because he works straight through them until Kirk orders him off duty for a day. He’s annoyed when he knows he should not be, and meditation fails him, making the annoyance grow.
When he grabs the letter, fingers shaking, breaking the seal with a caution he doesn’t feel, the annoyance snuffs itself out. If it could only leave emptiness in its wake, but no, something much too strong and painful swirls in its wake as he takes in his mother’s neat script.
—
Spock,
Hello, my love. If you’re reading this, then I’m gone, but I wanted to leave you with something. Illogical, I know, but you must forgive us humans for our eccentricities.
In an ideal life, you will not receive this letter for many, many more years. I will get to see you grow up, to grow into the man your father and I know you can be and beyond. But none of us are guaranteed that. So here is what I see in you.
I see a beautiful, bright boy. The best of myself and my beloved. I see a young man who can find the reasoning in his passions, can out logic even the most well-debated Vulcan to get his way. I see such kindness in you, Spock. A desire to understand all, to do your part to make this universe shine a little brighter each day.
I wish you all the best, my son. I wish you love, whether that is with T’Pring or another. I wish you happiness and pleasure, to the extent that your Vulcan instincts will allow you to seek such. I wish you companionship and fulfillment, success in your academic life, career, and everything else.
Lastly, I leave you with this advice. Allow yourself to feel, Spock. Even Sarek, if pressed, will admit to you that Vulcan’s do not deny themselves feelings, only control how they reveal those feelings, the extent to which they allow themselves to be influenced by them.
Find love. Take risks. Make friends, Spock. There are people out there who will love and appreciate you just as you are. When you find them, hold them close and never let go.
I love you, Spock. And I wish you the strength to love yourself, and to love those who wish to love you back.
XOXO
Mother
—
Spock takes his lunches alone.
Nyota is on shift, and most days he prefers to simply grab something from the nearest replicator and continue his work in the lab, on the bridge, in his quarters.
He’s not certain what it is that makes him come to the mess area. It definitely has nothing to do with the letter from his mother, not a thing. Crew are clustered around tables, sitting, standing, chatting with one another. Some drift between groups, and there is more laughter in the air than there was only a few weeks ago. Humans adjust quickly to new circumstances, overcome losses with a special resilience.
Only a single two person table remains unclaimed, and Spock takes a seat there.
He makes it maybe fifteen minutes, peacefully enjoying the murmur of the crowd, thinking this is a good enough start and that he needn’t directly interact with the crew to enjoy their camaraderie, before being interrupted.
The clatter of a tray slamming down across from him startles him out of his reverie. A sharp stab of annoyance pierces through him, but he pushes it down, face carefully blank as he meets the eyes of the intruder. Doctor McCoy stares down at him, and the growing annoyance becomes harder to ignore.
“Mind if I sit here?”
As he scans across the room, taking in the full tables, the lack of available seats, a number of responses run through his mind. Everything from You have nowhere better to be? to a simple You may not. to a startling You WANT to? flit through his mind and nearly dance across his tongue.
What he actually says is “If you must.”
McCoy correctly interprets this as the warmest welcome he’s going to get from his reluctant table mate and settles into the seat opposite Spock, already biting into his sandwich before he’s even fully sat down.
Make friends, Spock. Polite conversation, right.
“Unusual that you are here.”
McCoy eyes him, expression stuck somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “Is that a commentary on the seating arrangement, or my existence overall?”
Spock blinks, meeting McCoy’s gaze head-on. “I merely did not expect to see you outside of medbay. You spend much of your time there.”
“Yeah, well. Chapel kicked me out. Can you imagine? Kicked out of my own damn domain!”
“Surely you could have overridden her request.”
He shakes his head. “Not wise on several fronts.”
The conversation could naturally die there. Instead, Spock probes, “Oh?”
“Best to keep your head nurse happy, especially when I think she’s scheming with M’Benga. Man’s too sensible for his own good, and they’re both too sneaky for anyone else’s. And I can hardly ride on Jim if-”
McCoy cuts off suddenly, face going hard. “Sorry, Commander. Forgot who I was talking to.”
With that, he shoves his chair back, grabs his now mostly empty tray, and stalks off.
—
The next day, McCoy had already claimed the same small corner table. Spock takes a chance, sliding into the unoccupied seat. They eat in silence for a while, not tense or awkward, but it’s clear that McCoy is holding something back.
Whatever it is, it does not get voiced that day. After twenty or so minutes, they part ways with an amicable nod.
—
It becomes a pattern over the next week. Spock or McCoy will claim an open table, scaring off other potential seatmates through blank stares, grumpy looks, and chilling auras. Sometimes they eat in silence, appreciating that the other doesn’t require a conversation partner on top of a lunch companion. Sometimes they talk, a little stilted and halting at first, but quickly shifting into something more open and friendly.
Also, much, much more snarky.
“Perhaps, Doctor, if you had a more pleasant bedside manner…”
“What would you know about bedside manners, you green-blooded hobgoblin?” Leonard nearly shouts, pointing his spoon at Spock. “Obviously you Vulcans never went to manners school.”
“Not only do Vulcans have a different idea of approachability than humans, we do not require a separate school to instill this quality in us,” Spock replies coolly.
An ensign at a neighboring table shoots them a side-eye, scooting her chair a little bit closer to her friends as if she fears their bickering may become physical. She doesn’t see the warmth in their gazes, somehow doesn’t feel the tendrils of friendship being extended with each barb, accepted and returned with each sarcastic reply.
—
Eventually, the Captain comes up again, and Spock and McCoy discover that they do have something in common: a frustration over Kirk’s lack of self-preservation skills.
“He just throws himself at a problem like he’s goddamn invincible! It’s-”
“It would be beneficial were he to consider-”
“That he might break his damn smug face!” Leonard finishes for him, barely pausing to take a breath before continuing sharply, “And who has to patch that up, huh? Me, Spock! Me!”
“And it is I who must fill out the reports, Doctor.” Spock adds in, though this earns him a surprisingly heated glare in response.
“Oh reports, paperwork. Who cares! Annoying, yes, but..”
“..but the basis of your complaint is that of a friend concerned for the Captain’s wellbeing.”
“Exactly!” McCoy pauses, eyes Spock like he’s not sure he’s going to like what he’s going to say next. “You know, I wasn’t sure about you at first.”
Spock blinks, thrown by the seeming change in topic. “While it is true that the human crewmembers prefer to keep to-”
“No, Spock.” McCoy says, rubbing at his forehead like it’s causing him pain. “I wasn’t sure about you. Around Jim.”
There are only so many reasons that could be, though they number more than Spock can say he preferred there to be. He doubted McCoy would hold a grudge over the Kobayashi Maru hearing considering Kirk received a commendation when the trial concluded after Nero. Which leaves the most likely candidate to be related to their altercation after… after Spock briefly gained command. “This is because of what occurred on the bridge.”
“No, actually.” McCoy says slowly, and Spock blinks again. “You’re not the first person Jim has pissed off to the point of violence.”
“Then what-”
“Delta Vega.”
Oh. Spock nods once, accepting Leonard’s answer but seeking clarification. “You do not consider that to be part of the same incident.”
“It’s one thing to go at someone when they’re right in front of you and have insulted your dead mother. It’s another to strand another person on an ice planet full of large monsters.”
“That was never my intention, Doctor McCoy.” But even as he says it, he knows it’s not fully accurate. “While I was aware of a Starfleet base located within travel distance of the approximate landing area of the pod, I did not take the appropriate time to consider the.. hospitality of the journey.”
“In other words, grief and anger got in the way of that logical brain of yours.”
Spock stirs his replicated plomeek, not avoiding McCoy’s gaze, but not attempting to keep the sharpness out of his voice. “I was emotionally compromised.”
“I know. I know how several humans would react in a similar situation, and it ain’t pretty. Add in Vulcan intensity...” he sighs, swirling a spoon through his own soup. “Don’t do it again,” he says gruffly.
“I don’t intend to.”
“Well, good.” There’s another loaded pause, and this time McCoy lays down his spoon, something startlingly earnest in his eyes. He clears his throat once, twice, and asks “by the way, how are you doing with that?”
Spock doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about, nor does he entirely deflect. “It’s not something I expected to experience. Not so soon.”
“Yeah, I know that feeling. My Dad-” he cuts off, staring intensely at his lap. Spock does not know what happened to Leonard’s father, but he can surmise enough by their topic to find only one response appropriate.
“Tushah nash-veh k’du.”
The doctor’s head bobs up, looking at Spock with a small frown. “What’s that?”
“I grieve with thee.”
For a moment, they simply stare at one another. Then something in Leonard’s eyes softens. “I like that. Not all hollow and pitying.”
McCoy holds out his lemonade in a toast, and Spock doesn’t hesitate to clink his water glass against it.
—
The next week, the barbs fly fast and hard enough that the two tables closest to them evacuate, abandoning their lunches early, moving in tight groups swiftly towards the door or redistributing amongst the tables further away. They’ve gotten on the topic of invasive species migration on Frintria VII, voices raising in a way none of the observing parties can quite tell if is in vehement opposition or enthusiastic agreeance.
It feels good to test his wit, stretch the limits of his sarcasm, push the buttons of someone equally eager to push his back. Spock has had his share of verbal disagreements over the years, ranging from structured debates in his studies to personal attacks primarily in his youth. There’s a level of comfort and enjoyment in his squabbles with McCoy that he greatly appreciates. The discussions aren’t scripted, but neither of them truly means any harm, either. Teasing comments are just that, and beneath them lies a growing understanding. The two of them are not necessarily alike, but perhaps they are not quite as different as Spock once believed.
Maybe, the whole making friends thing isn’t as hard as he once believed, either. Not here, at least, among those who’ve chosen a life drifting through the stars.
—
Nearly another month passes before the unexpected happens. Spock and McCoy are in the middle of another increasingly heated discussion, the tables around them full as the crew has come to learn that, as long as they remain uninterrupted, their bark in this instance has no bite. There’s a bit of a ruckus around the door, and then in walks Captain Kirk, tucked in his own conversation with Sulu and Chekov. His eyes scan the room as he walks, surveying his ship, his people, until they land on the pair in the corner. He slows to a halt, bringing the gazes of his companions to look their way as McCoy catches sight of what’s distracted Spock. He groans, glaring at the man he considers close enough a friend to drag illegally onto an emergency mission.
Seeing the two of them together, Jim smiles bright as the sun, causing a warm satisfaction to swirl through Spock. He waves, then pinches his fingers together, mimes two hands kissing. McCoy flips him the bird, Spock raises a brow, and the Captain laughs, the sound echoing across the busy mess.
Spock has not forgotten any of McCoy’s little slips, the moments where he’s revealed a little more of Jim than he intends to. He’s seen a bit more of that man recently, but not as much as his counterpart implied he would, not as much as he’d like to. It still feels as though they’re on somewhat shaky ground with one another, still sizing each other up.
If Spock can make progress with McCoy, Kirk should be no challenge at all.
—
Sitting down, Spock writes the first of what will become a series of letters. This one is short, and he feels a little ridiculous writing it, but he does anyway. Inscribing the letters on paper, tucking the page into an envelope, addressing it to his older self - his future self - as his alternate elder has no reason to ever read it.
We may consider Doctor McCoy an ally and, more importantly, a friend.
Next objective: The Captain.