Chapter Text
STARDATE: 2255
Serenity Canyon City, Planet of Harvis-Artur
Shore leave was important, wasn’t it?
A ridiculous thing to ask now, standing at the back of the brick-walled courtyard, a glass of bitter alcohol sweating in his hand. The crowd rumbled in front of him. His back against a wall, their backs to him, as he preferred it. He watched the faceless way they moved, their arms and body language and clothes the only thing that could define who they were from where he stood.
Both Captain Pike and Number One had said, kindly, privately, that they thought he should take advantage of their current proximity to the planet Harvis-Artur and enjoy what it had to offer. Cafes, concerts, a bustling city life. Art, hotels, even just a walk through the park, Spock. It’s a friendly place, Spock. It’s a fascinating place.
He had checked into the hotel and packed his few day’s worth of clothes into the dresser, appreciated the view of the window with his hands behind his back, and then read in an armchair that was more comfortable than his furniture in the Enterprise but smelled of floral detergent. It was distracting, though admittedly a healthy disruption in what could be considered an unhealthy cycle of repetitive behavior and location.
The nearby starbase meant that the Enterprise was not the only one coughing up shuttles of crewmembers onto the planet’s surface. Other Starfleet wandered the city, recognizable by their posture and the way they found simply walking around in civilian clothes without a tricorder to be novel. There was something more urgent about their little groups than the locals getting groceries or the tourists getting lost. Spock watched all of them from his window or the cafe downstairs.
Had Captain Pike or Number One expected him to join a group? To have friends he’d bring with him, or follow around? He’d felt very self-assured and responsible, finding his hotel and checking into it by myself. And then, standing in the room, he’d felt suddenly unsure of many things.
Around 1900 hours, he’d set down his book and thought, maybe I’m doing this wrong. And he’d researched his options, and taken local transport and then walked a few blocks to a highly-rated bar for people his age, and now he was watching from the back of the room as a woman onstage sang karaoke. Starfleet members and aliens brushed against each other and flirted and shoved and glanced surreptitiously. All apart from him, the alien. He sipped at the drink, desperate to put it down so he could stop thinking about the way it felt like it could slip out of his hands at any moment. Sure, it was one thing to flirt or kiss or even have sex with a stranger, with an alien. But to be alien to one’s self, to already be the result of such a union; it was too inherently complex, too messy to get involved with. That was what he told himself separated him from the mass of his peers, even as he held the thought separate from himself. The logical way to handle one’s own difficulties; from a distance.
The woman onstage was younger than him and–– by the way she switched between languages in the middle of singing to the roaring approval to what part of the crowd was still paying attention– a Starfleet communications officer. She must have turned off the transmitting end of her universal translator so the languages remained intact. Nobody made a move to replace her, although two friends joined her onstage, one drunker than the other. The three of them moved from one song to the next.
A pitch of laughter came out of the crowd, and he turned without thinking towards the source. In the sea of backs he saw a face, half turned, still mid-laugh, talking to someone. The face was framed between the shoulders of the crowd, visible for a moment in a temporary canyon of bodies. Then the sea unparted and the face was swallowed up again.
Something about the song was changing. Spock realized the crowd was picking up the chorus before he realized that he was moving. He didn’t understand where he was going until he murmured an apology to someone’s shoulder as he threaded through the crowd. Something about the face among the faceless– warm, open, inviting. In a way that nothing else ever was. His cup was lighter than he remembered.
He reached the point in the crowd where he should have found the face. He looked around and saw nothing striking, but then heard the rumble of laughter again, and a voice trying to make itself heard but not quite shouting:
“Bones–”
He turned his head, and two people he’d overlooked were clearly the source of laughter. He saw the back of someone’s head, and a man slightly older than the rest of the crowd looking unimpressed. He saw his mouth but couldn’t catch what he muttered to the other person.
Spock walked closer. The older man noticed him just as he thought, maybe this is untoward behavior , and then the owner of the laugh turned around.
It was the face he’d seen through the gap in the crowd, but different now that they were closer. Still warm, open; but now that it was turned on him it was questioning, uncertain, textured with the minutiae of who is this? The face he’d seen before had been reserved for the older man, clearly a friend. The polite face he saw now was for Spock. He’d seen variations of it many times before.
“Hi!”
Loudly, over the crowd. He almost didn’t understand the source of it until he realized the two of them were staring at him, waiting. They looked concerned.
“Hello!” He was forced to project his voice, but they both seemed to relax as soon as he spoke.
“Do I know you?”
“No, I just–” he hated it, the way they had to almost-yell every sentence, “I apologize. I thought maybe I knew you. I was mistaken.”
He could profess that what he admired most about Vulcan culture was its strict adherence to logic and practicality, but deep down he was grateful that it was so widely believed that vulcans were incapable of lying. It made lying easier.
Spock wove through the crowd and out the wrought-iron gate, onto the sidewalk. It was like he’d been repulsed out of the stomach of a mythical beast, and was now free in the quiet, open space of the street. Behind the gate the sounds of singing and talking still carried on without him. He shifted out of view and leaned against the brick wall again, now on the outside, and exhaled. Meditative, restorative, deliberate. Not at all a sign of losing control.
The gate creaked. He turned his head to see the face from before just as it settled on him, a searching glance replaced by satisfaction at finding what it was clearly looking for.
“Hey! You okay?”
Spock was still holding the cup of alcohol. It was less than half empty.
“I am fine.”
The man looked down briefly at his cup, “Are you sure? My friend in there’s a doctor, he can come out–”
“I’m not in need of any assistance. Thank you.”
Something challenging in the stranger’s eyes, but then, “Alright.”
Spock waited, but the man didn’t leave. Instead he sighed, put his hands behind his back, and leaned against the wall on the other side of the gate. They were both hidden from the view of the party inside.
“So. You from Starfleet?”
Spock was surprised by the question. He was wearing civilian clothes; he did not think it would be appropriate to wear a uniform while in a recreational situation. His voice was admirably even. His reason for lying was unclear even to himself.
“No.”
“Sorry. It seems like we’re everywhere. And you know, you had the whole–”
The man gestured to Spock’s entire being, which was strangely stimulating.
“– ‘parade rest’ formality thing going on.”
“You clearly haven’t met many vulcans.”
The man idly bounced himself off of the wall with his crossed hands, “You sure I wouldn’t annoy the hell out of them?”
Spock looked down at his drink, “You are not annoying. I’m sure they would find you intriguing.”
The man laughed– that laugh Spock had seen across the room.
Spock made people laugh all the time. He made people laugh because they understood he was trying to be funny without having to admit it, or because they were laughing at him. They laughed because he was so resolutely distant from them– and laughing was their way of accepting that distance, either in friendship or disdain, and moving on to find people who weren’t so difficult.
The man’s laughter was not followed by him leaving to go back inside, or a parting clap on the shoulder. It was followed only by the man staying against the wall, his hands still moving constantly against the brick, the two of them still separated by the gate, alone together. Spock watched as the man stared up at the moon– there were two visible, but only one resembled the moon of Earth. The other was much smaller, and one would only recognize it was no star if they were paying attention. Spock spoke without thinking.
“Do you miss it?”
The man’s turn to be surprised, and Spock recognized not only the emotion but the attempt to hide it. Not with the discipline of a vulcan, of course, but the brief flash of frustration on the man– at Spock, at himself?– did not go unnoticed. He had seemed so friendly, so open. What did a little surprise matter to him? The man hid the frustration just as quickly, and smiled again.
“I’ve heard that vulcans have empathic abilities, but that’s uncanny.”
“I apologize. I can reassure you that my empathic abilities require physical touch, and that vulcans consider mutual consent absolutely necessary to any kind of telepathy. I merely assumed. The primary moon here is quite similar to Earth’s.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything like that. I guess I– I was just joking.”
“I’ve been told I’m a poor audience for comedy.”
“Oh come on, I don’t believe that. You’re a regular straight man. The two of us should go inside and do an act together.”
“That would require at least one of us be funny,” Spock internally flinched at his own rudeness.
The man tilted his head at him– did he not understand?– and then his eyes traced over Spock’s unmoving expression. There was nothing for him to see, so why was he bothering searching? What was he waiting for? And then, miraculously, the man smiled. Not the friendly smile of a stranger, or the cruel smile of someone who thought they had found a weak spot. Spock only recognized it because he had received the same smile from Michael and his mother, and even occasionally from Number One– the smile of an inside joke shared privately between two people.
The man might as well have cut him open. He only turned away, still smiling. Spock focused on the cold night air. It had only been four minutes and six seconds– no, three minutes and thirty seconds. The physical distance between them had not changed. The karaoke had dipped in quality– someone was singing off-key, to the roaring approval of a small group of what must have been the new singer’s inebriated friends.
“Have you been there? Earth?”
“Several times. I have family there.”
The man looked openly shocked, and pleased this time, “Really?”
“Yes. My maternal side.”
The man waited for further details, and then relented easily when it was clear that Spock’s biography ended there, “I didn’t know there was a vulcan population on Earth. I only lived there for a little while. I don’t suppose you ever visited Iowa?”
“No. A state located in the midwest region of the United States. Named after the Ioway people. Known for agriculture, unglazed ceramic production, and primary North American efforts in the late 21st century towards modern green energy research for planetary needs.”
“I’m flattered you know that much. I guess I don’t miss it, but… No matter how boring home is, and how much I jumped at the chance to leave, there’s always part of me that wonders if I should go back.”
“Will you?”
The man smiled at him, “No. I think I would start running up the walls if I stayed anywhere more than a few days. But sometimes I wonder if I’ll go my whole life thinking, next time, I’ll visit, I can do it any time…”
“And then you’ll find that you’ve missed all your chances.”
“Exactly. Do you miss Vulcan?”
“No,” perhaps said too quickly, “A planet must be left behind. A culture can be taken anywhere.”
“I’d almost say that sounds like sentiment.”
“I cannot go anywhere that will make me any less from Vulcan. A firm sense of history and beliefs can ground a person against the natural dissonance created from the long-distance travel that space exploration requires.”
It was a shame that his best joke of the night went unappreciated; only Spock knew that he could not go anywhere where he wouldn’t be seen as a vulcan, except Vulcan. He was no Earthling. Dissonance was inevitable. The very culture he used to ground himself was what had rejected him in the first place. Why not float around in space?
“I guess I’m a little envious.”
“Of what?”
“I miss it sometimes– but I don’t know if I find Iowa grounding. I never felt like I fit in even when I was there.”
Spock inhaled; the closest thing to bristling he could allow. The attempt at camaraderie was souring on him. He could imagine the man’s life on Earth; handsome, perhaps too intelligent or restless to be considered a model student, but surely popular and well-liked. Loving parents. A bit of teenage rebellion and angst common in the Earth literature he’d read with Michael and his mother, but ultimately untouched by anything more severe than a slap on the wrist. How could this man assume that he and Spock were equals when it came to being alone in the world?
“I should excuse myself.”
The man pushed himself off the wall, “Oh. I– Alright.”
Spock bowed slightly, and made to leave– but the man reached out a hand.
“Wait, I– Well, I bet I’ll look back on this later and feel a little embarrassed. I’m sorry if I’ve said anything ridiculous. Bones– Doctor McCoy says I do it all the time. But I enjoyed talking to you,” the hand remained extended, “My name is Jim.”
A human gesture that they often forgot or did not realize was rather intimate for vulcans. A common mistake. Spock could ignore it, or correct it. He dismissed both options as inefficient. The man– Jim– might insist on apologizing if Spock ignored this obvious attempt at amending the spoiled conversation, or could be embarrassed and even angry if Spock explained the significance. The option that would allow him to exit the situation as quickly as possible would be to simply complete the gesture. He was on vacation. And he was human– a handshake was just a bit of culture.
He reached out, and saw Jim’s visible relief as his shoulders relaxed. Spock was so pleased to see this relief, despite his annoyance, despite his desire to leave, that by the time their hands were already touching he was unprepared.
Jim’s hand was warm, and rougher than he would have thought. A little sweaty, which amused him and made his own chest warm. Jim grinned, and looked much younger.
They were completely, utterly alone with each other. Spock had never felt so much privacy and safety. He could do anything– feel anything– the bubbling pleasure at Jim’s pleasure, the musical laughter building up inside at the idea that Jim might be nervous, the encouraging hum of energy and affection welling up in the party behind the gate like an audience behind a curtain, the ideas flowering one by one after each other, I feel nervous too. There’s no reason to go. There was no threat or loss of control to these feelings; they simply existed within him. If anything, they made him feel more at peace.
He imagined very clearly the desert of Vulcan outside his father’s home, the red cliffs and the mountains he’d escape into and explore, the single deep blue flower he had found growing several months after heavy rain as he’d listened to the call of a songbird nearby in the canyon. He imagined the bay of San Francisco, the hills that his mother had carried him up and down even though he had felt too old to be carried, and her clear excitement to show people her silly, unsmiling, perfect child, and to show her child her home. Him and Michael sitting on the floor of his father’s study, drawing and very seriously explaining their drawings to each other, while his father worked and pretended that they were not distracting him. For what purpose? Simply so that he could keep his children near him for that afternoon, even though his work would continue better if he had sent them away, as he would so many other times in Spock’s life.
Jim was here, in front of him. There was so much they still had to understand about each other, so much they could understand about each other.
I have been loved. I could be loved again.
It was this thought and the crash of heady want that followed that finally repulsed him. He had dropped the glass he’d been holding. He and Jim had let go of each other’s hands.
“Oh– I’m sure that’s fine, I could go in and ask for a broom–”
Spock managed to curtly get out, “Thank you. I apologize,” and then in a calm rush of words, “I’m staying at the Yearly Blue Wind Hotel,” and then one last and undeniably incriminating detail– “Room 521.”
He walked three blocks in the direction he’d already started off in, making sure that he was out of sight and that Jim had not followed, before he readjusted his course and began walking the several miles towards his hotel.
-
He paced the room, stopping to examine the frame of the painting of a gaseous purple sea sunk before a concrete villa. Maybe a Trill artist, based on the architecture and choice in landscape, which might be foreboding to most. The frame was varnished, but likely local wood rather than replicated, easily sourced and painted over. He had arrived back at the hotel thirty minutes ago. He had showered, and dressed again in simple black clothing. He lingered around the bed and occasionally touched the sheets and then nodded, at nobody, in approval.
At what point did one retreat and admit the day was over? Maybe another hour.
After forty three minutes, he began to rationalize the urge to give up. He had been strange, and his goodbye rude and unclear, and anyways he had mixed feelings about the meeting and the potential second meeting. It would be good to accept the failure rather than walking back and forth on the sensible, generic carpet. It had been an impulse in the first place, all of it, and the truth was he would rather sleep than go any further. There was a knock at the door.
Spock walked over and opened it. Jim was standing in the hall. Spock was relieved to see him.
Some stiff and awkward greetings, and Jim walked in and leaned an arm on top of the dresser. Spock stood next to the bed. The chairs went unused in the corner by the window.
There was an unpleasant silence, and then Jim laughed, a stifled and sighing sound, and scratched his head.
“You enjoying your stay here?”
“It has been a change in routine.”
“Enjoyably?”
“I haven’t disliked my time here.”
Jim leaned his head in his hand, elbow on the dresser, and appraised Spock lightly but with a bit of heat, “Was there anything in particular you wanted to do?”
“I was hoping to travel outside the city and examine the Hell-Inch Cliffs. They are said, despite their name, to be quite beautiful. The wildlife is also supposed to be rather striking based on their adaptions to the landscape, although it’s unlikely I will see anything. I haven’t found the time yet to go.”
Jim’s expression slipped a little– again, that moment of confusion, but this time none of the embarrassment or anger at the slip itself– and then he lifted his head out of his palm.
“The hell-inch sheep is supposed to be pretty small, isn’t it? You might be able to see some mothers and kids this time of year.”
“Relative to the bighorn sheep of Earth, yes. The size of an Earth cat. And this is the best time of year to see the young, but the chance is still quite low. I don’t have high expectations.”
“I was wondering about this– why would a prey animal have such a bright red streak along the sides? Wouldn’t it attract predators?”
“Bright colors are often–”
“And don’t say it has to do with mating, because it’s present in all genders and ages.”
Spock paused. He had been about to routinely mention peacocks, scarlet-blade monolizards, and the Laertian lake-whale. But they were all examples of ostentatious courtship. He regrouped.
“The predator most likely to attack a hell-inch sheep is the plum-toed vulture. It lacks a photoreceptor for the color red. To them, the red streak appears slightly ochre, which actually helps the sheep blend in to the cliff walls. Meanwhile, the radish viper, which is too small to consider the hell-inch sheep prey but may still attack it if it feels suddenly threatened, can easily see the red streak and keep a safe distance.”
“Which saves the radish viper from wasting venom and the sheep from a nasty bite.”
“Yes.”
Spock resisted the urge to adjust his stance. He felt like a student who had just successfully answered a question in front of the class. Jim let him suffer a little longer before he folded his arms.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the Harvis-Artur names for any of them, would you? I know that they’re not actually sheep, or vipers, or vultures. It’s just the closest translation.”
“I unfortunately do not know any of the language. It is famously difficult for aliens to pronounce or understand the necessary sounds without Harvis-Artur physiology, which is why the universal translation often uses familiar words rather than the approximate syllables of the names themselves. The Hell-Inch Cliffs, for example, are a simplified translation. The original name references a tragic myth where a Harvis-Arturian hero descends into the afterlife out of curiosity, but does not perceive how far he’s gone because he reassures himself that he only goes step by step– inch by inch.”
“And the hotel?”
“The name for the hotel is shortened– the original is much more like prose.”
“Do you know it?”
Spock hesitated; it felt dangerously close to reciting poetry, “The cloak that travels a year over the sea is stained blue forever.”
Jim replied quietly, “That’s lovely.”
“But perhaps impractically long, for most languages.”
Jim shrugged, “I guess. But imagine how much gets lost in translation if that’s just the name of a hotel.”
Spock still expected Jim to shrug and smile and laugh and then finally leave, as he had expected outside the bar. Jim would ultimately get bored or impatient during these uncomfortable pauses, and walk out. Instead, Jim stayed, and they looked at each other with mirrored apprehension.
There was of course the implication that Spock himself had given when he’d told a stranger his hotel and room number– and perhaps Jim was set on waiting around to see if it would be delivered.
Spock could not be the perfect vulcan. He had abandoned that ambition, first when he had been born and secondly when he had chosen to join Starfleet. He could meditate, train, memorize, study, walk and love and be loved by the endless and ancestral desert heat– he could not be accepted on Vulcan as a vulcan. There was nowhere he could go that would make it any less true.
Here, in the hotel room, he could be human. Humans did not have so many rules.
They did have a certain amount of cues. It was reasonable to assume that Jim was attracted to him. It was night, he had agreed to come up to his room. Hotels implied the kind of fleeting and casual atmosphere that suited sex with strangers. There was an edge to Jim’s attitude that suggested he was anxious, but he hadn’t made an excuse about an early morning or upset stomach so that he could leave. He was anxious because he was waiting for something that could only happen in this hotel room. The only thing that could happen in this hotel room that couldn’t happen in any other hotel room in the quadrant had to involve Spock.
If only Spock could do something, he could settle the whole bizarre tension between them once and for all so they could proceed with their individual lives again. A trial now and then was important for an experienced life.
Jim stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back. He took in a deep breath. The posture could have tipped either way; a mocking imitation of Spock’s own stance, or an attempt to bridge the awkward stalemate between them by mirroring behavior. Nuance suggested the latter, and Spock felt a deeply unfamiliar rush of amused affection as Jim spoke with formality.
“I don’t mean to offend. I hope that you’ll appreciate directness. I am not as familiar with Vulcan social customs as I maybe should be, so I’m unsure if we would understand each other’s more subtle attempts. If anything I say is out of line, feel free to ask me to leave. I–” his only fumble, accompanied by a small, pained smile that he quickly put away, “I came here believing that you were inviting me to be physically intimate with you. I would be happy to stay only for conversation and good company, but if you’re waiting for me to give you a clear sign that I’m willing, well. This is the clearest I can give.”
He loosened his stance by stretching his back, his hands still tucked behind him, and muttered, “If maybe not my most charismatic.”
There was no possibility that Spock could get a hold on the tumbling boulder overtaking him; he could only get ahead of it. He crossed the room and kissed Jim before he could break into a smile. If he spoke he might laugh.
Jim’s hand immediately cupped his cheek loosely, and he returned the kiss just as gently. Why gently? Spock gripped his collar and dragged him close and tight, and Jim smiled against him and the hand left his cheek and scrabbled at the back of Spock’s shirt, to drag it loose so that Jim’s fingers could scratch up his spine.
When it became clear that Jim wouldn’t escalate, Spock pulled away, “You won’t break or offend me.”
Jim’s cheer dimmed in more confusion, “No, it’s just that I– Alright.”
Spock took off his shirt and pants, before glancing up to see Jim watching with a glazed look. He blinked and closed his mouth when he realized he’d been caught staring.
“Right.”
He took off his clothes, with more trepidation than Spock would have guessed. As soon as the shirt was off, Spock bridged the the gap again. His hand on the back of Jim’s neck, and other on the small of Jim’s back. He couldn’t get close enough, not even if he wrapped his arms tight around Jim’s shoulders and hips and pythoned the man in. Jim finally grabbed him by the wrists, and held them up on either side of Spock’s head as he pulled away. Jim looked fond; Spock wondered if he could tell the feeling was shared.
“Relax. I’m not going anywhere. Get on the bed,” the command was easy, pleased, and natural.
-
Spock woke up the next morning horrified that he had fallen asleep. The strategy had been to have sex, and then politely send the stranger back into the universe that had pushed him into Spock’s awareness like a matchmaking aunt. Catharsis done. Life experience checked off. Vacation well-used.
The stranger had not returned to the cosmic dust but was curled, solid and soft, next to him in bed. His arm was thrown out so that his hand rested on Spock’s chest. In his sleep, the constant exchange of smiles and laughter and confusion was replaced by a neutral frown. Spock was tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear, or to stroke the back of his outstretched hand to see if it would ease that slight shard of tension from the man’s face.
He got up. The man’s hand fell limply on the bedsheet, and in a moment of terror Spock wondered if he was dead. He stared at the rise and fall of his chest, confirmed he was breathing normally, and then went back to quietly moving around the room. When he stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, Jim was sitting up.
His hair was a mess. He was still naked, wrapped up loosely around the legs in the sheets. He yawned, and stretched his arms over his head (shifting the sheets dangerously around his waist) before smiling lazily.
Spock was overcome with a wild urge to start making unseemly and disturbing oaths. He might have looked angry from the effort it took to resist. He froze in the doorway as Jim tucked his knees up to his chin, self-conscious in a matter of seconds.
“Sorry. I sleep like a log. Are you heading out?”
“Yes.”
“Are you finally going to see the cliffs?”
Spock could not make sense of this question. He barely remembered that he had a job, and a vague fiancee, and plans of any kind.
“Hey, you okay?”
“I will be gone for the rest of the day,” the catharsis had failed completely, “You may make use of the shower and the room. The door locks automatically.”
“Uh. Okay. Thanks.”
Spock crumbled; he put a hand up to his forehead as if pained. He felt ill. His stomach felt heavy and his head felt light. There was none of the peace of the handshake from the night before. Every possible emotion was boiling out of him, and the morning light at the edges of the room’s curtains seemed hungry and accusing.
“Hey, really. Are you alright?”
He could at least make an excuse for his poor behavior, “Yes. Simply a migraine. I apologize.”
“It’s fine” Jim got up and started dressing, which Spock avoided watching, “I had a good time.”
“Good.”
“Did you, uh. Enjoy yourself?”
“Yes. It went well.”
Jim pulled a sock on as his eyebrows lifted at the phrase, and grinned at the floor as if he had a wry reply, but said nothing.
If Spock could just minimize the emotions rather than try to drown them all out completely– his guilt at being rude could be forgiven as a headache, his almost-anger at feeling so emotional was simply annoyance, lust was just a primal urge with biological factors. And the alarming happiness he had felt within reach from the intimacy of sharing a bed, with a man he felt he could sit and talk with at length about many things and not grow bored with each other–
He picked up his bag by the door, “Goodbye.”
“Hey– hold on,” Jim was still pulling on his pants.
Spock let go of the doorknob. For a second his thoughts were quiet, in order to better hear Jim speak.
“I like you. Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?”
A simple and painful question. Spock answered quietly.
“I like you too, Jim. But I can’t imagine why we would. Goodbye.”
“Wait, I don’t even know–” but the door had already shut.
-
A month later and the cinching tug in his gut had not left.
He walked through the ship, the bridge, the mess hall, the hallways, hurtling through space and time along with everyone else, and would end the day in his room, alone with the feeling.
It was not debilitating. It was not even that distracting. Sometimes it seemed to wait behind him, as if it was patient, and sometimes it seemed ahead of him, as if it was leading. He consulted Doctor M’Benga, making sure to come by his office in the medbay when nobody else was present.
M’Benga was the leading Starfleet physician in vulcan biology. He had been allowed to study on Vulcan, and while he and Spock had never discussed the extent of his knowledge, Spock trusted that M’Benga knew certain biological truths that otherwise could not be pulled out of most vulcans under threat of death.
M’Benga took a routine reading and then looked dreadfully concerned during Spock’s explanation of abdominal tightness. He nodded. He exhaled audibly. He brought his hand to his mouth and stared at his desk. Then he only broke a little when he asked:
“Has something been on your mind?”
Spock clenched his jaw, “What do you mean?”
M’Benga let a smile show, “I mean, sometimes a physical feeling manifests from a thought or–” a feeling was the obvious end to the sentence, but instead he shrugged.
“My efficiency and productivity has not changed in quality.”
M’Benga tilted his head, “Nurse Chapel did mention that you incorrectly calculated the milliliters of benzine necessary to extract from the planet in order to jumpstart the shuttle the other day–”
She’s in so much trouble, he thought, oddly enough in Michael’s voice, “I erred for a moment and then corrected myself.”
The doctor waited. Less playfully than before he folded his hands and leaned forward.
“Spock. If there’s something bothering you, you may tell me. I may understand more than anyone present on the ship. I shouldn’t tease. Normally I would consider a physical illness, but your readings were all excellent. So I assume that it’s either a psychological cause, or a very rare physical one that we must diagnose through unconventional means. Either way, if you are suffering from something, I want to help you. It would simply be easier to rule out the psychological first.”
Spock felt ice in his veins, and willed his hands to unclench and relax before he said, “I had an encounter on our last shore leave.”
Something about the context of shore leave explained what was left unsaid. M’Benga raised an eyebrow and then quickly tried to hide it by nodding and pretending to look for something on his desk.
“I see.”
“I have been–”
Thinking about it wasn’t quite right. It was not always present as anything so concrete as a thought. It was merely a physical feeling he could trace throughout his body, something small and persistent, and when he gave it attention he would suddenly remember the small pale scar on one of Jim’s knuckles, or the feeling of his hair when Spock had brushed a hand over it, or the fact that he could not remember Jim’s face unless he had a moment of complete solitude and could focus. He could remember with an ache in his stomach Jim’s voice, and their small and meaningless conversation, and then the tug would feel almost painful.
“I have been considering it.”
“Was it a positive encounter?” Asked delicately.
“Yes,” said immediately.
M’Benga smiled widely, and for a moment Spock felt like a child. The doctor was clearly happy for him. He cared about him. It was almost wounding to recognize it so plainly. Then M’Benga covered the smile, and tried to be more serious, as he must have understood Spock would want.
“I think the feeling will go away over time. Certain encounters can affect a person for some time. For a vulcan, the effect can actually be greater. Not necessarily because of biology, but simply because culturally these encounters do not occur often,” again, an almost fatherly smile, “It will go away, Spock.”
What if I don’t want it to?
M’Benga might have sensed the unspoken thought, or Spock might have let his body language slip. The doctor, after so much time with vulcans, had a keen eye.
“Did you telepathically link with the person?”
“No!” Spock almost covered his mouth after such an outburst, “No. Of course not.”
“Alright. I didn’t think so, but a telepathic link would be more difficult to break,” the doctor’s gaze slid slightly to the right of Spock’s shoulder, “I know things did not end well with T’Pring, but…”
“We are still betrothed. Our lives are separate for now, but I would not forge another bond.”
“May I ask what drew you to this person in the first place?”
“... He was kind, and intelligent.”
“Are you worried you will never meet a kind and intelligent stranger ever again?”
Spock felt the tug lessen, “No. That would be highly unlikely.”
“He was special though.”
“Yes. How did you–”
“There are many people in the quadrant. And many are kind and smart. And some of them are kind and smart and something very specific.”
“Yes.”
“But it can happen again,” M’Benga waved his hand, as if it all wasn’t so important in the first place, “Most things do. You’re still very young.”
Spock blinked, and raised his head higher, “Yes,” he stood up and folded his hands behind his back, “Thank you, Doctor.”
M’Benga smiled again, “Of course. Go get some rest, Spock.”
-
STARDATE: 2256
Alpha Quadrant, Melissa Bow Research Station
“Oh come on, Spock, aren’t you a little excited to meet George’s little brother?”
Memories of Michael, now banned from history and reality, and then you’ll find you’ve missed all your chances, went through his mind, and he calmly replied, “No. It is not relevant to me.”
Ensign Uhura practically skipped by his side. He rarely played along with her banter, and he was glad she had never shrugged and given up. Like a chess player, she had simply noted what worked and narrowed down her strategies. She had succeeded in making him smile twice, and he’d returned her banter under plausible deniability at least seven times. He was reserving the fact that the first time he had seen her was not during her formal first day of service on the Enterprise, but performing karaoke on Harvis-Artur several months before her assignment. He planned to drop the fact unceremoniously on her birthday. He predicted that the chance for her to react in mock-outrage would delight her. He hoped she understood this was his way of returning her friendship.
She yawned; her shift had ended several minutes ago, “Yeah, me neither. But it will be something new after the last month of open space.”
“Were you not excited to see the Jasmine-Kolskov Nebula?”
She gave him a tired glance, “Spock, there was nothing to see.”
“I disagree. I thought the readings were very interesting. It appeared to be a star-forming nebula, and enough excess material should create planets. It could be a future solar system.”
“In 600,000 years.”
“A relatively short time for the creation of worlds.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, “Sometimes I wonder if you think you’re being poetic or just funny.”
“I’m merely stating facts in the most efficient use of words.”
She put her nose in the air, feigning grandeur, “Efficient. I can’t hear such a professional word during my free time. I have to leave you.”
They stopped at her door, and Spock kept his hands folded behind his back as she opened it and stepped inside, “A shame. I’ve offended you. Hopefully you’ll forgive me.”
She opened her mouth as if to volley– and then laughed, and smiled innocently back at him. He couldn’t help it– he smiled back, if not so radiantly. He felt like they were two children giggling after pretending to be adults.
“Good luck on your shift, Spock.”
“Goodnight, Ensign.”
Spock walked to the transporter room. He wanted to arrive several minutes before the arrival of the station’s delegates. He would have time to double-check the configurations. The admittedly boring peace of the last month had given him time and energy for pursuing his experiments on genetic chain structuring in bacteria using kal-toh theory, and learning the Ursalan orchestral suite on the ka’athyra. A transporter incident would be an unwelcome distraction.
Pike and Number One were already talking with Chief Kyle. Pike turned at the sound of the door opening.
“Spock! Here early to double-check everything’s in place, I’m sure.”
“I did not want our guests to be delayed.”
“Number One already beat you to it. Between the two of you there’s never anything left for me to do but smile and shake hands.”
Number One tilted her head innocently, “But you’re so good at it, Captain.”
Pike beamed. Chief Kyle looked understandably annoyed that everyone was showing up to poke around his transporter room. He examined something on the grid screen.
“Captain, three guests ready for transport.”
“Open the gates, Chief Kyle.”
The transporter pad glowed, and the silhouettes of reassembling matter began to clarify. Captain Garrovick, Commander Wendell, and Lieutenant Kirk.
The energy materialized into full matter. Spock began to cough uncontrollably. Pike was so concerned that he forgot to greet the other captain entirely, instead turning to stare and speak under his breath as Number One took his place and stepped forward towards the transporter pad.
“Spock. Are you okay?”
He was absolutely mortified, but he was physically alright. In admirable Vulcan fashion, Lieutenant Kirk had only raised an eyebrow at seeing him, before turning politely to shake hands with Number One.
-
Someone knocked at his door. He considered ignoring it. He continued meditating.
There was a second knock. No more urgent than the first, but firm. The knock would not be ignored. Spock sighed and stood up. He straightened his shirt. He opened the door.
Lieutenant Kirk’s expression was too twisted around the mouth to be considered polite or casual.
“May I come in?”
Spock extended an arm towards the room, and Jim entered. The door closed. Jim glanced at the decor. He wheeled around.
“You said you weren’t in Starfleet.”
“Excuse me?”
“On Harvis-Artur. You said you weren’t in Starfleet. I knew that the Enterprise had a lieutenant in their science division who was Vulcan, named Spock. But I didn’t think it would be you.”
“Just because I’m in Starfleet now does not mean I always have been.”
Jim’s smile was combative, entirely different from the last time they’d seen each other. Had the friendly man from before become an ambitious officer, insecure at every offense, teeth bared at every neck? Something about the idea calmed Spock. He could not be nervous around someone he did not respect.
“Except there’s only ever been one vulcan commissioned in Starfleet. And he’s been in service for several years.”
“I assume you’ve done some research.”
From the transporter room, they had escorted Captain Garrovick and his officers to the engineering room to discuss the warp engine upgrades with Chief Engineer Hemmer, and then to the med-bay to meet Doctor M’Benga. A quick tour of the bridge– and then their guests were escorted to their rooms and given free reign of the ship until dinner. Spock had mercifully missed this meal, as he was on duty commanding the bridge in Pike’s absence. It would have given Jim plenty of time to look up Spock’s history.
“I spoke to my brother.”
“What did he have to say?”
Jim’s fierceness crumbled unexpectedly into resignation, “That you’re an excellent lieutenant. If at times irritating.”
Spock was actually flattered. He hadn’t expected much esteem from George. Jim had settled down, and was now inspecting one of the only non-Vulcan decorations in the room; a small, paper postcard of a painting of some cliffs at dusk. Jim tilted his head.
“Is this Prometheus?”
Spock stepped forward, “Yes. Are you familiar with the painting?”
“Only the myth,” Kirk continued staring at the small figure chained to the cliffside, almost unnoticeable in the landscape, “Does the story hold some significance for you?”
“Not particularly,” Spock picked up the card– it was itself a kind of an archaic gift on Earth, for those still charmed by handwritten letters, “My mother liked the painting. She made sure to see it every time she visited the museum. She said the cliffs reminded her of Vulcan.”
“Was she homesick?”
Spock did not feel like explaining that his mother was human, and that she was in fact quite homesick– but for two planets at once. He set the card back on the shelf.
“Yes.”
“So the card reminds you of your mother.”
Spock turned to Jim, who seemed vaguely smug again, “You’ve accused me of lying. Did you have something else you needed to speak to me about?”
“I came in a little hot. I apologize.”
“You’re forgiven.”
“That was quick. Can I sit down?”
Jim was almost bouncing on his toes. Spock resisted grimacing.
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Jim sat in the stiff loveseat set into the wall, and leaned his elbow comfortably on the armrest, “Why would you lie about being in Starfleet?”
Spock remained standing, “I’m not sure what my intentions were.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. It was a long time ago.”
“It was less than a year. Am I bothering you?” Jim made no move to stand up and leave; the question was posed amiably.
“No,” Spock lied.
Jim crossed his legs, and swung one for a bit, waiting for Spock to elaborate. He finally shrugged.
“I was caught off guard seeing you. I’ve only recently earned my rank and I’m already nervous about being selected for missions with the Captain. I took out that anxiety on you. You don’t owe me anything, and you didn’t owe a stranger outside a bar anything either. I really am sorry.”
Spock considered this, and felt his own nerves returning, “... Thank you.”
“It’s awkward for humans to unexpectedly see people they’ve been intimate with. Especially at work.”
“I’m aware.”
Jim's eyes remained clear and trained on Spock’s, “Do you like the Enterprise?”
“The ship, crew, and mission are all admirable.”
“And my brother?”
“He is a remarkable naturalist, and a resourceful surveyor.”
“I think he might be annoyed I’m trailing around after him in Starfleet.”
“He has talked about you many times. One can infer that he is annoyed by you, and also exceptionally proud of your accomplishments.”
He could have said more, but he trailed off. He had only said what was true– but again the image of Michael had come to mind. He had imagined the book of maps she had bought for his birthday, including fantastical maps of places like Atlantis. He had recently requested the book from his mother, pulled out of some dusty but safe drawer in her office, and now kept wrapped in black canvas in the trunk by his bed. Michael’s teenage signature was still scrawled on the inside cover, dedicated to her little shadow. They had been able to annoy each other with singular speed and accuracy, and if he thought of her pride in him, or his still at-times childish reverence of her, he had to close his eyes against tears.
Jim finally looked off-kilter. He had stopped smiling and looked a little stunned. His leg was still. Spock swallowed.
“Have I said something offensive?”
“No. No. The opposite,” Jim clapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, “I should actually go spend more time with him while we’re in the same solar system. Thank you.”
Spock watched Jim walk past him towards the door, “For what?”
Jim smiled, and he was still the same young man from almost a year ago, “For letting me bother you. I’m glad you’re in Starfleet. It means we might see each other more often.”
He gave a short wave, and left. Spock stared at the door. He had the sense that something massive had passed by him without his notice.
-