Work Text:
“Nope,” says Jim, backing away. “I absolutely refuse to touch that.”
“Jim,” says Spock, like he’s explaining something to a particularly dense student, “he requires physical stimulation in order to grow.”
“That’s exactly why I’m not touching it!”
Spock exhales in a way that – if not for the fact that Vulcans do not experience the emotion of exasperation – might be interpreted as a sigh. “Although Doctor McCoy had informed me of your paranoia, I admit I nevertheless find it surprising that a man undaunted by torture, danger, and death is afraid of a 2.53-inch-long tribble.”
“Not afraid, Spock! Suspicious!”
“I apologize, Captain,” says Spock blandly. “Suspicious.”
“Hey, I’m not the one being illogical here,” Jim protests, jabbing a finger toward Spock, even as he’s backed himself up against Spock’s door, away from the tiny golden tribble in his First Officer’s hand. “You stole that thing from the animal testing center in medbay! How do you logically justify that?”
“As I explained earlier, it is illogical to conduct potentially perilous experiments on tribbles under the assumption that they are less complex than humans and therefore less valuable. If Vulcans adopted the same rationale, they would be testing their experimental vaccines on humans.”
Jim stares. “So, what, you just took it?”
“I liberated him,” Spock corrects him.
“Uh-huh,” says Jim doubtfully.
“Additionally, his name is Copernicus.”
And Jim just stares some more, while Spock keeps holding the tribble against his chest, keeps running gentle but confident fingers along its spine, keeps coaxing out tiny little noises of pleasure from the animal nuzzling back into Spock’s heat… and no, Jim is not jealous of a breathing pom-pom. He’s not. He’s noooot…
“Don’t you have a cage for it though?” Jim all but whines. “Where does it sleep?”
“A cage would be illogical, as he does not wish to escape. He sleeps in the bed, at my side.”
Is it just Jim or does Copernicus look smug?
Yep. That pom-pom is definitely dead meat.
“It is unfathomable to me,” Spock says quietly, “how thoroughly humans have justified animal testing, to the degree that it is no longer so much as debated.”
“Well…” Jim blinks. “It’s not great, obviously, but it’s better to test medications and procedures on animals before they test ‘em on people, isn’t it?”
“Better?” the Vulcan repeats. “That would imply that the pain of humans is inherently more valuable than the pain of animals. As a human, you are unqualified to make that decision.”
Jim frowns. “I guess that’s true… So what would you prefer we do? Take experimental meds from the lab straight to human testing without any in-between?”
“No. Certainly research has shown that there are species with less sensory awareness than humans, therefore making them the more logical choice as testing subjects. Tribbles, for instance.”
Okay, now Jim is confused. “But…”
“At the same time, I have witnessed the nonchalant attitude with which many human doctors approach their animal testing. This is most likely due to the fact that for many years it was thought that tribbles did not possess awareness of external stimuli. Now, however," Spock continues, his voice growing gradually louder and more vehement, "that theory has been disproven, as it has been confirmed that even minimally evolved species retain a certain amount of consciousness. Logic, then, dictates that deciding to subject a living thing to potentially hazardous substances should always be a difficult decision, with a corresponding degree of gravity.”
The room is left in ringing silence.
Jim gapes.
He actually watches the horror at the outburst dawn on Spock face, and abruptly the Vulcan looks down at Copernicus - or, really, at the floor - as if to avoid his captain’s gaze.
“That’s…” Jim starts, then has to cut himself off and start again. He’s never heard Spock speak so passionately about anything.
Spock is still staring at the carpet as he manages a, “Captain, I apolo—”
“That’s amazing.”
Spock’s head jerks up.
“Yeah, you’ve definitely got the makings of a legislative proposal here,” Jim continues, grinning. “I can think of few things that are more compelling than a Vulcan telling Humans – telling any other species, really – to be more compassionate. How do you feel about presenting exactly what you just said to the science drafting labs? You should put a team together to make some solid, tangible rules and guidelines for animal testing and submit it to the Federation congressional review.”
“I…” says Spock. He still seems vaguely embarrassed by himself. “Perhaps I will.”
“Great,” says Jim. “And I guess in the, uh… in the meantime you don’t have to get rid of…” – he gestures at the furry beast – “it.”
“Copernicus,” says Spock calmly.
Copernicus. The thing is barely the size of a golf ball. “Quite a name,” Jim mutters.
“It is an accommodation. Were I not surrounded by humans I would name it by Vulcan designation, as I did my last pet.” Spock cuts himself off suddenly, like he’s just realized he’s disclosed something he hadn’t intended.
“Your last pet?” Jim wonders. “I didn’t know Vulcans had pets.”
“Many of them do. They teach children responsibility and competency in providing for a dependent.”
“Logical,” says Jim wryly. “What kind of pet did you have?”
Spock hesitates. “A sehlat. Her name was I-Chaya.”
“Was?”
“She passed many years ago.”
Oh. “Oh, geez, I’m so sorry…”
“You had no association with the event,” Spock says, looking kind of confused. “I had not so much as made your acquaintance.”
“I mean I’m sorry that it happened. I grieve with thee. You know.”
The Vulcan inclines his head. “Thank you,” he says, after a moment. “But I hope you will forgive me if I find your sympathy difficult to acknowledge when you seem to want to shoot Copernicus from an airlock.”
“Oh, screw you,” says Jim. “That’s totally different!”
Spock doesn’t reply. But there’s eyebrow-ness. Just, so much judgy eyebrow-ness.
“I’m not afraid of it,” Jim insists for the third time that day. “I could touch it if I wanted to.”
“Could you?” Spock comments mildly. Challenging him. Daring him.
And oh hell no is James Tiberius Kirk running away from a dare.
So Jim bites his lip, and inches forward, and bravely pets the vicious thing.
…
It’s warm.
And fluffy.
“I guess it isn’t too bad,” Jim admits, resentfully.
Spock just nods, but in that just-slightly-too-polite way that Jim has learned to read as I told you so.
“Since liberating him from the medical bay I have enacted a strict diet and exercise regiment,” Spock explains, “as well as a daily schedule of stimulating activities such as music and various calming aromas. During the time Copernicus has received this proper care, his energy levels, signs of awareness, and vital statistics have improved significantly.” Never once does his petting falter from its perfect, meticulous rhythm, and is that…pride in his voice?
Since the moment he’d found out that Spock was half-Human Jim had wondered what it must have been like growing up unable to express emotion. Was nine-year-old Spock allowed to get a hug when there was nobody to play with? Was five-year-old Spock allowed to climb into his mother’s bed when he had a nightmare? Was three-year-old Spock allowed to cry when he fell down and scraped his chin? Has he ever celebrated a holiday? A birthday? Did he ever get a break from the control, control, control—even more control than a typical Vulcan—because any kind of slip was attributed to his being a “half-breed”?
He must’ve been…incredibly lonely.
It’s no wonder that I-Chaya – the only thing he could love and care for without judgment – was so precious to him.
It’s probably still lonely, even now; the only difference is that on his old home, he’d always been forced to prove himself Vulcan enough; on his new home, he’s always been forced to prove himself Human enough. He’s had to grapple with the social and cultural differences inherent in being surrounded by an alien species, as well as the crew’s subtle (and not-so-subtle) xenophobia, even as Jim tries his darnedest to stomp it into nonexistence.
Even here, on the Enterprise, Spock probably feels safest in the company of animals.
It’s an almost physical ache in his chest, watching how gently Spock treats the tiny thing.
“Maybe…” Jim finds himself saying, before he can stop the words, “maybe we can get you another sehlat.”
Spock looks at him.
“I mean, no sehlat could replace I-Chaya, of course, but it would be nice to have a pet—a real pet, not one of these devious fluff-monsters.”
“I am sure you are aware that pets are not allowed aboard Federation-issue vessels.”
“Well, yeah, unless we hack it the same way you’re hacking it with Copernicus right now; we’ll just file it as an animal testing subject and then keep it in your room. Nobody has to know it’s not being injected with stuff.”
Spock inclines his head, just slightly. “An interesting proposal,” he murmurs eventually. (The offer must be really tempting if it makes Spock even consider fudging the rules.) “However, a sehlat may not be a good fit for starship habitation.”
“Why not?” Jim asks.
“It is rather hairy and long-toothed—it possesses what you might refer to as fangs—and its size is similar to that of that Earth-native woolly mammoth.”
Jesus Bartholomew Christ on a pogo stick— “Okay, no, not a sehlat then. Maybe a smaller Vulcan animal?”
Spock thinks about that for a while. “An a’lazb would certainly be smaller.”
“Yeah?” Jim asks, leaning forward. “What’s that?”
“It is a Vulcan-native insect species. Similar to Terran spiders; dissimilar in that it is extremely small, and nearly transparent. Only the most trained Human eyes can perceive an a’lazb.”
The sound Jim makes is definitely not a shriek. More like – a manly bellow. A manly bellow two octaves higher than his usual voice.
“Noooo, let’s not do that. In fact, let’s do anything else but that,” because seriously, spiders? And invisible ones to boot! What if they escaped? They could end up anywhere and Jim would never even know… They could end up in his shower! In his food! In his bed—Jim shudders.
“Perhaps a domesticated norsehlat would be more appropriate,” Spock concedes.
“What’s that in Earth terms?” Jim asks, apprehensive.
“It is comparable to a tamed version of the Terran wolf.”
He pauses, mulling that over. “You mean like a dog? I… I think we could do that. Yeah, we can totally do that.”
The Vulcan’s expression doesn’t change, but suddenly there is something bright and warm in his eyes, and before he knows it Jim is smiling back despite himself. “It’s settled, then. Next time we’re on Vulcan we’ll have to pick up our new pet.”
Spock tilts his head “’Our’?”
“Your,” Jim corrects himself quickly. “Your new pet.”
“I see,” says Spock. Then, after a pause, “That would be…agreeable.”
“You’ll have to return the tribble to medbay though.”
“Absolutely not,” says Spock.
“Fine,” Jim sighs, petting Copernicus absently. Not that he likes it. Because he doesn’t. He’s still gonna kill the thing.
…Tomorrow.