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Spock had never been normal.
He’d always been off, somehow. Never quite right. Never what people expected, never what people wanted. Never what he should be. Always the weirdo, always the outcast, always the half-breed sitting alone.
That was kind of a side effect of not being normal--being alone.
So he did his best to fix himself. Built the perfect mask-- Spock, the logical, emotionless Vulcan; Spock, the genius scientist who always had an answer; Spock, who never freaked out or cried or smiled; Spock, the normal.
Spock, the broken.
It was alright. If no one ever saw it, saw him, it was okay if Spock was broken.
He just wished it was easier.
-----
The lights hurt.
He didn’t think that was supposed to happen.
When his shift was over he off the lights in his room and laid in his bed until he could move again. Until he could breathe again, until he could think again.
Surak, why was everything so hard? Why did everything have to be so, so wrong, so awful?
He allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity before locking it up again. Such emotionalism was shameful.
It was time for his next shift.
-----
There were too many people. Too many people, and they kept touching him and he couldn’t avoid it and it was too loud, and he fucking hated it.
He couldn’t leave. If he left the celebration ceremony this planet would probably fucking secede from the federation. And he couldn’t have that.
Later, he could shake and rock and hyperventilate all he wanted alone in his room. But for now, he’d just have to deal with it. Even if he didn’t want to. Even if he couldn’t. Even if it was too much.
It’d be fine.
-----
“Sulu, I am bored,” said Chekov.
“Shh!” Sulu hissed. “Everyone can hear you!”
“Sorry,” he sighed. “We’ve just been floating around here doing nothing for so long I think I might rip my skin off.”
Spock didn’t look up from his PADD, where he was charting stars, a task most of the crew hated. As the science officer, he’d heard many a complaint about how ‘uninteresting’ and ‘monotonous’ and ‘tedious’ it was. He, however, found its repetitive nature rather pleasant. He tapped his pen on the side of the PADD. “Unfortunately, Ensign, ripping one’s skin off produces the unfortunate side effect of pain and death.”
The entire bridge crew burst out laughing. Spock looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I was not attempting to be humorous.”
“You just said it so dryly,” laughed Jim. “‘The unfortunate side effect of pain and death.’ You’re hilarious, Mr. Spock.”
“I was not joking,” Spock insisted. “The act of ripping one’s skin off is not as enjoyable as it sounds.”
Jim looked at him funny. “It sounds enjoyable?”
Ah, shit. He fucked up. “A slip of the tongue,” Spock said, and he looked back down at his PADD, hoping to avoid any further questions.
“I thought slips of the tongue were illogical?” teased Jim. Spock didn’t respond, staring stiffly at his PADD, but he was no longer paying attention to the stars.
“I don’t know why Spock’s ripping his skin off, but I’m just about ready to be naked myself,” Uhura commented wryly. “I know we complain about the lack of breathing time on the ship, but damn is this slow point slow!”
“Yeah,” Jim sighed. “I didn’t become a starship captain to chart stars.”
“Meester Spock enjoys it,” said Chekov. Spock stiffened. His brain hurt.
“Vulcans do not ‘enjoy’ things, Ensign,” he said on reflex, because Spock the normal was not supposed to do emotional things like enjoying star charting.
“If that’s the case, you must live a very sad life, Mister Spock,” joked Sulu.
Spock didn’t have a response.
-----
Deep breaths. In, and out. In, and out. In, and out.
Spock was such a disgrace.
-----
Spock was just so fucking tired.
He hadn’t slept or eaten in way too fucking long and his wrists hurt from pressing buttons for hours and the lights were too bright and the air was too cold and everyone was talking and his skin was buzzing and his brain was buzzing and he needed to leave.
“Excuse me,” he said, and stepped off the bridge.
He controlled himself in the hallway, walking on autopilot to his quarters.
He slumped against the doors the second they closed.
Fuck.
He stumbled over to his bed and curled up into ball. Everything was too much and it was awful.
He tried to breathe. This was illogical. “Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-four, tw- twenty-seven--” He took a shuddering breath. Fuck, his lungs were closing up. “Th-thirty.”
The doors swished open and Spock looked up to see Jim standing in the doorway with an expression he didn’t know how to read.
“Spock? Are you okay?” said Jim tentatively.
“Oh!” Spock said. He uncurled himself, trying to force his expression back into a normal one. He didn’t know when it had changed, but it was all scrunched up, and he couldn’t show Jim that. “Of course, Captain. I am adequate.” He stood up. “Please leave.”
“Are you sure?” Jim said, and he sounded so sincere Spock just fucking broke down. Tears welled up in his eyes and he started shaking and Surak this was so embarrassing. He curled up on the bed again.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.
“No no no, sorry for what?” Jim rushed over to him and sat next to him. Spock shook his head. Jim scooted a little closer. “Can I touch you?”
The fact that he asked that was enough to make Spock want to cry all over again. He buried his head in his knees. “No,” he muttered. “Thank you.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
Spock silently, shamefully, shook his head.
“Okay. Okay, Spock. I’ll stay.”
And he did.
And it was okay.
And after a while Spock slid his hand over to Jim’s, and that was okay too.