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Chapter Text

Spock was halfway through his breakfast when Captain Kirk plopped into the seat beside him. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence; the captain often sought out Spock’s company, even when neither was on shift. What was unusual was the fact that he had joined midway through the meal, rather than at the beginning.

Spock scrutinized the captain’s appearance. He was wearing more concealer than he normally did, especially around his eyes. He was also on his third cup of coffee, when he usually only had two a day.

“Captain, have you been getting an adequate amount of rest?” Spock inquired.

Kirk choked on his coffee. He pulled back and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Spock, give a guy a little warning next time.” He chuckled.

Spock frowned. Which, of course, was practically imperceptible from his resting face. “You have not answered my question.”

Kirk flapped his hand in the space between them. “I’m fine, Spock. Just worried about that distress call.”

Ah, yes. They had received a message from a Vulcan merchant whose ship had gone down and was in need of assistance. Given how uncommon it was for Vulcans to request aid, much less that of another species, their situation must be dire indeed.

“We should arrive at the planet today,” Spock said. “We will be able to aid them in whatever way they require with minimal difficulty.”

“I know, I know. It’s just hard to tell my emotions that.” He leaned back in his chair, studying Spock. “What’s it like, to be in complete control of what you feel? To just, decide not to worry?”

Spock took another bite, pondering the question. What should he say? That he couldn’t control his feelings the way full-blooded Vulcans seemed able to? That he did worry, constantly, that he wasn’t enough? That he worried over the captain, that one day he would fail to achieve the impossible? That he feared, deep down, that Kirk would leave him some day, and he would be unable to control himself?

“It doesn’t feel like anything,” he finally said.

Kirk laughed. “I suppose I should have seen that coming,” he said, his lips soft with a smile. “You truly are a paragon of logic. Your parents must be very proud.”

Spock repressed the sense of shame that rose from that statement. His mother, a human, had died from the complications of his half-Vulcan birth. Such a thing was unheard of with modern medicine, leaving no doubt that it had been his fault. His father had died shortly after from the broken bond.

But telling his captain so would spoil the good mood, so Spock kept quiet.

They finished their breakfast with meaningless chatter, the kind that Spock only let Kirk get away with, and then they were summoned to the Bridge. They had arrived at their destination, and Lt. Uhura had received a message from the stranded Vulcans, requesting to speak with the captain.

“Duty calls,” Kirk said, and so it did.

One turbolift ride later, Spock was settling into his seat at the science station. He looked over their scans of the planet: Class M, similar gravity to that of Vulcan, and with only five Vulcanoid lifesigns, all grouped together.

As he worked, he listened to the exchange between the captain and the Vulcans below.

“We must request that you do not beam us aboard immediately. We have sensitive equipment that requires utmost care.” There was an odd stiffness to their words, as if they were trying too hard not to show feeling.

“Of course,” Kirk said. “We’ll send a landing party down to assist you.”

“And how many of that landing party are humans?”

Kirk glanced around the bridge. “The majority of my crew are human. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

The sneer was potent in the Vulcan’s voice, if not his face. Odd. Usually Vulcans would put more effort into concealing their bigotry. “I would prefer to speak with another race, if possible. Have you any non-humans aboard?”

Kirk glanced over at Spock, who nodded.

“As a matter of fact, my first officer is Vulcan. He can beam down to assist you.”

“Yes,” they said immediately. Too fast. Spock frowned. Something was off, but he couldn’t tell quite what it was. Perhaps the speaker had gone too long without meditation in the wake of the crash. That could explain the unnatural way they spoke.

“We would like to speak to Mr. Spock alone,” they said.

Kirk signaled Uhura to pause the transmission, then looked at Spock. “How do they know your name?”

Spock turned to more fully face the captain. “My station is a matter of public record,” he said. “And you must remember, Vulcans have an eidetic memory.”

Kirk nodded, apparently satisfied. “Are you alright to beam down alone?”

“I see no issue with the arrangement. Our guests are doubtless in a compromised position. It would do them good to be surrounded by Vulcan serenity, rather than human emotionalism.”

Kirk grinned. “Don’t let the good doctor let you hear you say that.”

Spock stood and straightened his uniform. “He has heard the sentiment before, and doubtless he will again.”

Kirk settled things with the Vulcans and arranged for them to send their coordinates. Spock moved to leave, but was blocked by Kirk.

He patted Spock on the back. His hand was warm, and gone too soon. “Stay safe down there. Bring a phaser, just in case. I’ve got a weird feeling.”

“Captain, I am unlikely to be harmed by—”

“I know. Just humor me, would you? There could be wildlife our sensors couldn’t pick up. There could be pirates hiding nearby. Anything could happen.”

Spock acquiesced. It was sometimes best to give in to the captain’s illogic, for the sake of actually getting some work done.

…

In the transporter room, Spock attached his communicator and a phaser to his belt, as instructed.

“We’re all ready for you, Mr. Spock,” Scott said. He stood at the console, calibrating the controls and setting it to the coordinates they’d been given.

“Thank you, Mr. Scott.” Spock took his place on the transporter. “I will message you when the equipment has been properly secured.”

“Don’t work too hard, now.” He winked.

Spock faded away, musing on the odd sayings humans liked to employ. He had a theory that the crew said odd things around him more frequently than they would around other humans. They seemed to find his reactions amusing.

He was reconfigured in front of a small camp on the planet’s surface. A handful of Vulcans stood around messy lean-tos, half of which were close to falling over. There was no mess on the ground, no place for garbage, no bed rolls. It did not look like a place that had been lived in for any length of time.

Spock put a hand on his phaser.

The Vulcan closest to him spread out his arms. “Come now, there’s no need for that.”

Spock stepped back. That wasn’t the voice of someone who simply needed meditation. That was the voice of one who didn’t bother to conceal their emotions. They had to be v’tosh ka’tur. But then why would they request a non-human, when they had to know that the Enterprise had so few?

“Why have you called me here?” Spock asked.

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow and gestured to the camp around them. “We are in need of rescue,” he said.

Another Vulcan came closer on Spock’s other side. This was no rescue; it was a trap. One laid for Spock specifically.

He whipped out his communicator. “Spock to Enterprise,” he said.

He was shoved to the ground, hard. He kept his grip firm on the communicator. “Captain, I need—”

The main speaker stomped on Spock’s hand, making him gasp in pain. The Vulcan pulled the communicator from Spock’s grasp and crushed it, silencing the voice of Uhura on the other side.

Then, he pulled out his own communicator. “Six to beam up,” he said.

Spock struggled, but there were three of them holding him down now. He bit one, tasting copper blood, but they didn’t let go. A hypospray depressed in his neck, spreading something numbing and cold through his veins.

The last thing he felt was the swirling of the transporter, and then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Spock came to in the strangest cell he had ever been in, and he had been in some odd ones over the years.

It didn’t resemble a brig so much as guest quarters, complete with a comfortable bed and a door to a washroom. He left the bed, noting that his boots had been removed. At least his socks were silent as he crept around the room.

There was one exit, locked. A sitting area with soft chairs and round pillows. A chest of drawers filled with clothes that did not resemble Vulcan make. If anything, they were reminiscent of the uniforms he remembered from the sole time he had seen Romulans.

That would explain how their scanners had not picked up on this other ship. It would also explain how they resembled Vulcans so closely, but had the mannerisms all wrong. It did not, however, explain what they wanted with Spock.

One thing the room did not have, unfortunately, was a replicator. Spock was entirely dependent on his captors for his meals.

He attempted to hack the door’s controls, aware that he was likely being monitored and would be stopped if any of his attempts came close to succeeding. He searched every drawer and under every piece of furniture for anything resembling a weapon. He even ran his hands along the bedframe, looking for loose screws. Unfortunately, it had been replicated, so there were no seams or screws to speak of.

Spock looked through the clothes again. He had not been provided with meditation robes, or incense, or even a mat. Which meant his captors either knew little of Vulcans or simply did not care. He settled into position as comfortably as he could and began to meditate. He must have a clear head if he was to escape.

And he would escape, no doubt about that. Even if he couldn’t find the way out, his captain would come looking for him. And when Captain Kirk set his mind to something, everyone else had better pray they weren’t in his way.

…

Praetor Sarek watched the footage constantly. There was a slight delay, given the distance, but it was worth it to see his son again after so long.

He traced his son’s face with his eyes, soaking in the details. There was Sarek’s jaw. There was his nose. There were Amanda’s eyes, still so emotional even when the face was trying so hard not to show it.

His son was alive. He lived, he breathed, he fought. He had been taken from what he was, twisted to act unlike himself, but he was alive.

The child he had loved, and lost, and mourned. Sarek had burned planets, destroyed treaties, and conquered ships, all in his son’s name. A name that son wouldn’t even recognize anymore. Spock. Resembling half of each other’s heart and soul. It was romantic. It was disgusting.

“Sarek.”

He turned to face Amanda, still in her nightclothes. He didn’t explain what he was doing. She understood. She’d spent plenty of time watching alongside him.

“How long has he been doing that?” She leaned in to get a better look. Their son was meditating, a Vulcan habit. Pressing down his emotions and turning himself into a heartless machine.

“Three hours now,” Sarek said. “I’ve half a mind to order the crew to stop him.”

“He’d see it as torture.”

Sarek’s spine stiffened in anger. “The meditation is torture! Look what they’ve done to him, Amanda.”

She wrapped her arms around him. “I’m looking,” she said. “I’m also looking at you. You haven’t slept since we discovered he’s alive.”

“Romulans don’t need as much sleep as humans.”

She buried her face in his neck. “But I’m human,” she said. “And it’s hard to sleep without you.”

He lifted a hand to pet her hair. “You’re playing dirty, my love.”

“Is it working?”

Sarek sighed. “Yes, it is.” He cast one last look at his son’s face and flicked off the screen. “Are his rooms being prepared?”

“Obviously.” She guided him to bed and cuddled up against him. He automatically wrapped his arm around her.

“It’s only two more days,” she assured him. “Then you can see him in real life.”

“Two days,” Sarek whispered. Two days until he could hold his son again. Two days until his family would be whole again.

Two days until he could see everything the Vulcans had done to his son. Two days until he could plan his revenge accordingly.

He fantasized about all the ways he could repay the Vulcans until he fell asleep. He dreamed of home, of hope, and of blood.

…

Spock didn’t know how long he’d been faking slumber before someone entered. He heard the whooshing of the door, smelled the food they had brought, but he did not move from his position sprawled out on the bed. He had even removed his uniform shirt, instead resting in his black undershirt and slacks, to give the impression that he truly was asleep.

There had been sleeping clothes, but given he didn’t know where the cameras were, he had decided against undressing completely. His undershirt would serve him adequately.

Whoever had entered set the food down on the table in the sitting area. Footsteps approached the sleeping nook. Spock kept still, his breathing deliberately even.

They set a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes snapped open. He grabbed their arm and pulled them off-balance, then pinched the junction of their neck and shoulder. They collapsed on top of him.

So the neck pinch did work on Romulans. That gave him an advantage. He lowered the person onto the bed and covered them completely with a blanket. They weren’t quite his body type, but the blanket and the darkness of the room should mask that.

Spock disarmed them and pocketed their phaser, then eyed the tray of food. They’d given him meat and vegetables, all covered in some sort of sauce. He picked out one of the vegetables and gave it a sniff. The sauce was definitely created with a meat stock. Useless to him.

He set the food aside and went for the door. He listened, determined the corridor was clear, and exited.

He’d brought some of the Romulan clothes with him. If he could just find an actually private place to change, no one should notice him.

Voices came from a junction up ahead. He flattened himself against the shadowed wall, phaser at the ready.

The Romulans crossed the hall without even glancing at him. He didn’t show his relief, but he definitely felt it. He crept along the hall, alert for any further sound.

Spock finally found a dark alcove that would suit his purposes adequately. Out of the way, out of direct eyesight from the hallway, and with no cameras. He quickly changed his clothes, noting as he did that they were exactly his size. At least he had proper shoes now.

He didn’t have the colorful checkered wrap that featured as part of the uniform, but that should be simple enough to procure.

He waited in the alcove, listening for anyone who might walk by. When someone finally did, he reached out and nerve pinched them, before dragging them back into the dark alcove. The procedure went off without any issues, and now he had a completed uniform.

Spock left the unconscious Romulan in the alcove. He had a matter of hours before they would awaken and sound the alarm, so he had to move fast. If Romulans built their ships anything like Starfleet did, then their evacuation measures should be—

“Halt!”

Spock froze in place.

“I don’t recognize you.” A Romulan approached from the right, eyeing him with suspicion.

“I am a recent transfer,” he said.

“All transfers go through the Commander,” she said. “Let’s see if she recognizes you, hm?”

Spock nodded and fell into step beside her, then pointed his phaser behind her back and stunned her.

She toppled over, which unfortunately drew the attention of another passing pair. They shouted and aimed their weapons at Spock.

He dove into another hall, back pressed against the wall. This one was a dead end. He could hear the Romulans calling for reinforcements. He closed his eyes. There was no conceivable way that he could get out of this. Perhaps it would be better to turn himself in. They clearly wanted him alive; perhaps they would show him leniency if he cooperated.

He tossed his phaser out into the hall where they could see it. “I’m unarmed,” he announced. He raised his hands above his head and stepped out cautiously.

The Romulans stared at him. “You’re… surrendering?” one said.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Evidently.”

One of the Romulans scoffed and aimed a weapon at him.

The next thing Spock knew, he was experiencing some of the worst agony of his life. He curled up on the floor, with no memory of falling. His nerves felt like they were writhing inside of him. His shields flailed to control the pain, but it was too much, too fast. He kept his mouth shut, refusing to scream the way they no doubt wanted him to.

“Enough!”

The pain stopped. Spock remained in the fetal position, defending his head.

New footsteps approached, clicking against the polished floor. “What is the meaning of this?” the new voice demanded.

“Commander!” The Romulan who had attacked Spock sounded nervous.

The commander knelt beside Spock and rested a hand on his back. He kept himself perfectly still.

“Explain yourself,” she ordered.

Spock prepared to speak, but the Romulans answered before he could. “Commander, he attacked first. He fired at Bevoka and attempted to run. None of us recognized him, so we assumed he was the prisoner. He must have escaped.”

“And are you unaware of who, exactly, the prisoner is?” The commander removed her hand from Spock’s back and stood. He could hear her stalking toward his attackers. “Are you aware of just how angry the Praetor would be if he were to arrive damaged?”

Spock felt a sinking in his gut, along with a shot of surprise. The Praetor himself wanted Spock? There was no good that could come of that. Best case scenario, he was to be a hostage. Worst case, he was to be publicly executed. Either option likely involved a copious amount of torture. He didn’t even know what he had done to get the Romulan praetor’s attention.

He would meditate on it later.

“Report to Macor for punishment,” the commander ordered. The others replied with a chorus of “Yes, sirs,” and scurried away.

The commander knelt beside Spock again. “I apologize,” she said. “I came as soon as I received reports of phaser fire. They shouldn’t even have all those weapons; they’re still in development. I’ll ensure they are punished accordingly.” She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly gentle. “Can you stand?”

Spock uncurled slowly and sat up. He locked eyes with the commander, taking in her harsh brows and cold eyes.

“I believe I can,” he said. He rose to his feet, slightly unsteady. The commander supported his weight. They moved down the hallway, back the way Spock had come. Doubtless back to his glorified cell.

He glanced at the Romulan commander as they walked. She seemed interested in helping him, to an extent. Perhaps he could use this as an opportunity to learn more about the situation he’d found himself in.

“The Praetor himself wants me?” he said.

“Of course he does.” She tightened her grip on him, just slightly. “He’s been on a hair trigger since he discovered you. Everyone will breathe easier once you’ve been delivered safely.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” Spock said. It would work best to speak plainly. “What interest does the Praetor of the Romulan Empire have in me?”

The commander stopped, jolting Spock. She turned her face toward him, incredulous. “You mean no one’s told you?”

Spock shook his head.

The commander began walking again, somewhat faster. “Well, I have some people to demote. I’ll explain everything back in your rooms.”

“That would be agreeable.”

They walked on, taking two turns, before the commander spoke again.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to meet a Vulcan,” she said. “Of course, you’re not really Vulcan, but you act similar enough.”

Spock didn’t tense up, but it was a near thing. Of course she was insulting his human heritage. Even among the Romulans, he couldn’t escape it. The reminders that he was weak, that his mother had been weak, that it had been his fault that she—

He closed his eyes, sorting the emotions back. He had to focus. He was so close to getting answers about all of this.

“I see,” he said.

They arrived back at his quarters, where the unconscious Romulan had been removed. The commander helped him settle on a chaise lounge. She sat in the armchair diagonal to him, hands folded in front of her.

“How much do you know about Praetor Sarek’s second son?” she asked.

Spock thought. “I was unaware that he had more than one child.”

She nodded. “Few are aware. Around thirty-five years ago, Sarek and his consort Amanda had a child, half Romulan and half human, whom they named Vrih. They say that Lady T’Pau of Vulcan petitioned Praetor Sarek to betroth his infant son to a Vulcan woman, to create a near unbreakable treaty with Vulcan.”

“He refused, I assume.”

“You’re right to do so. He was quite angry about the offer, according to rumor. T’Pau said she’d respect Sarek’s wishes, but three months later, assassins broke into the palace and took the young prince. They could never tie it to T’Pau, but Sarek was positive that it had been her. They all assumed the young prince dead.

“Until one of our spies dug a little deeper into Federation files. They found a half Vulcan, half human, whose parents had no files save a death certificate. One whose facial features and DNA were a perfect match to Praetor Sarek and Lady Amanda.”

Spock could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Are you implying that I am the son of your Praetor?”

The commander smiled. “I’m not implying it; I’m outright saying it. There isn’t any doubt.”

“I see.” Spock lay back in his seat. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t be a Romulan. He had telepathy. That was rare in Romulans, was it not?

Rare, but not unheard of. Not impossible. Especially considering the telepathic training he’d received on Vulcan.

He had never known his parents. He had never been able to find information on them.

If she was right, his parents were still alive.

He could meet them.

“How do I know you are telling the truth?” he asked.

To his surprise, the commander held out her hand. “You can look for yourself,” she said. “They say you have the gift. Feel my mind. You will know I am not lying.”

Spock hesitated, then stretched out his hand. His fingertips brushed hers, cool and calloused. He couldn’t help thinking that he preferred Kirk’s.

Still, he reached out and felt her mind. It was hard, but also sweet, like a candy one could suck on for hours without lessening the flavor. He pushed that thought aside and focused on what he needed to know.

He saw the evidence she had witnessed, the orders that had come from the top. He saw the DNA tests and the double- and triple-checks. She wasn’t lying.

Spock was Romulan.

He drew back, eyes downcast. If he was Romulan, then everything he had believed— everything he had been raised to believe— was wrong. Wrong for him, at least. He wasn’t Vulcan. He hadn’t killed his parents. He wasn’t a failure for not sufficiently controlling his emotions.

He was a traitor. He was a member of a race that praised violence. He was everything he had been raised to hate. He was Vrih, son of Sarek and Amanda.

“It makes no difference,” he said, forcing down his gut reaction. “Captain Kirk will come for me, Vulcan or Romulan.”

The commander set her hand on his knee as if to reassure. “You need not fear,” she said. “One man cannot stand against the might of the entire Romulan Empire.”

“He could,” Spock murmured. “You misunderstand. I am not afraid of my captain. He will come for me because he needs me, as I need him.”

She nodded, but her face still said she didn’t understand. Few did, when it came to Kirk and Spock. “I need to make a call,” she said. “You have an intercom on the wall, so call me if you need anything.” She half bowed, and left.

Spock didn’t move. He just stared after her. He wasn’t sure what precisely had thrown her off, but he got the feeling he would be hearing about this conversation again later.

Such a human sentiment, that was. He must be taking after Kirk and McCoy. Wouldn’t they be proud to hear it.

…

“He is very attached to his former crew, which could be a good sign for when he leads a ship of his own. And, of course, the fact that he joined a militaristic organization against T’Pau’s wishes speaks for itself.”

Commander Charvanek laced her fingers together under the table. She kept her report succinct and to the point, just the way Praetor Sarek preferred them.

“I am concerned about Vrih’s belief that his former captain will come for him, however. Despite my reminding him it is an impossibility, he remained convinced that he would be found. He portrayed a number of concerning behaviors that make me concerned as to the possibility that he may have been brainwashed, or something similar. The Vulcans may have done something to his mind.”

Praetor Sarek closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he reopened them, there was hate printed on his face. “Thank you for sharing your concerns, Commander. Keep me updated.”

She saluted. “Yes, sir.”

…

Back on the Enterprise, Uhura caught the tail end of a very interesting transmission in their area. She inserted a data chip and pressed record.

The captain would want to hear this, but he was finally sleeping. She wasn’t about to risk McCoy’s wrath by waking him up for something that might not even be relevant.

But, well. This “Vrih” the Romulans spoke of in the transmission sure had a lot of qualities in common with one Mr. Spock.

Chapter Text

McCoy slipped into Jim’s quarters, tray in one hand and hypospray in the other. The idiot hadn’t been eating, and that was no way to get anything done. Not to mention how hard he’d been working himself before this whole mess started.

“Go away.”

“I don’t think so.” McCoy set the tray down in front of Jim, brushing aside the PADDs he was poring over.

“Hey! I need those!”

“Not right now you don’t. You’ll be no good to Spock if you collapse before you can even find him.”

“If we ever find him.” Jim ran his hands over his face, forming a tent over his nose as if in prayer. If anything could make a religious man out of him, this would. “It’s been days, Bones. He could be anywhere by now.”

McCoy sat across from Jim’s desk and handed him a sandwich. Jim sighed, but took it.

“Let’s go over the facts,” McCoy said. “Someone kidnapped Spock.”

“Most likely Romulans,” Jim interjected. “What with the cloaking device and looking-like-Vulcans schtick.” He took a morose bite of sandwich.

At least he was eating. “Right. They were careful to take him alive, which means they most likely want to keep him that way.”

“You heard his last transmission. They hurt Spock. Bad enough that he actually gasped in pain. Anyone who can hurt Spock like that is not to be trusted.”

“So we need to move fast,” McCoy said.

“Yes, which I would be doing right now if you hadn’t interrupted me.”

“You weren’t getting anywhere, and you know it.” McCoy crossed his arms. “We have two weeks before we need to move on. You have time to take a break.”

Jim looked up, meeting McCoy’s eyes properly. “We have more than two weeks,” he said.

McCoy rested his arms on the desk. “Starfleet command isn’t going to let us stay out here forever,” he said. “Sooner or later, they’ll make us continue on our actual mission.”

Jim gestured at the stack of PADDs. “I just got a message from Starfleet command. Finding Spock is our mission right now. Top priority. If we fail, they’ll send backup out here to help.”

“What? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have more time to search. But why do they want Spock found so badly?”

Jim shook his head, slow and helpless. He’d always hated being helpless. “I have no idea. And that almost worries me more than the Romulans.”

They sat in silence for a minute, both musing over that little revelation. Well, at least McCoy was musing over it. He never knew what was going through Kirk’s head when he got like this.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” McCoy finally said. He slapped Jim on the shoulder. “For now, that just means you have all the time in the world to get some rest.”

Jim protested, as expected. “Bones, I can’t just leave all this!”

“Sure you can. Spock wouldn’t want you to destroy yourself over him.”

“He’s destroyed himself over me plenty of times,” Jim muttered.

McCoy reached out and squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “We’ll find him, Jim. But right now, you need to rest. I’ll look this stuff over while you get some shuteye.”

Jim held back a yawn. “You sure? It’s awfully dry, and none of it useful.”

“If it means you’ll actually take care of yourself for once? Why, I’d learn to fly.”

Jim nodded his thanks, finishing off his meal. He got up to dispose of the tray, and McCoy took his place at the desk. He waited until Jim vanished into his sleeping nook before looking down at the reports.

“Alright, hobgoblin,” he muttered. “Let’s pull off another miracle.”

…

“I think we should go with more of a dusky red,” Amanda said. She tapped her lips, looking over the final decor choices for Vrih’s new rooms. They were at least twice the size of his usual ones, if the fragmented blueprints of Federation ships they had were accurate. A sitting room, bathroom with a real water tub, bed large enough for four grown humanoids, and faux-windows to prevent anyone breaking in— it was perfect. Best of all, it was right next to Amanda and Sarek’s rooms, so they’d be right there in case of an emergency. Their door guards could also team up with his, thereby doubling the amount of protection that both suites had.

All that was left was to make it comfortable. Most of the Romulans she knew would favor blacks and greens. The effect, to them, was much the same as if Amanda decorated in blood red. Somehow, she thought that someone raised by pacifists would favor more soothing colors.

Hence, red curtains, sheets, and rugs. She couldn’t find any calming tapestries, but she’d made sure the ones in his room were of discoveries and celebrations rather than battles and hunts. She wanted Vrih to feel safe here, to ease him into what would be a massive culture shock. Which reminded her of something important.

She gestured to her attendant. “Make a note to adjust Vrih’s diet slowly. His body won’t be used to digesting meat, and we don’t want to hurt him.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Amanda turned back to the options for the curtains around the bed. These were especially important to get right, as Vrih would need to be comfortable to sleep. She was leaning more towards a deep red, almost black, to block out light. Though there was also this nice crimson that kept catching her eye. Maybe she could incorporate that someplace else.

“My wife.”

Amanda beamed and spun to face Sarek. He stood in the doorway, eyes roving over the scene. Admittedly, Amanda had neglected to clean up any of the discarded fabric, and it all lay scattered about without rhyme or reason.

She extended her hand and Sarek clasped it without hesitation. “Do you like what I’ve done so far?”

He looked it over. “It is very… red.”

“It is.”

Sarek raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said the rooms were already prepared.”

Amanda pouted. “They are! I just thought Vrih might appreciate some familiarity.”

“I believe the whole point is to make Vrih familiar with Romulan culture, not Vulcan.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Amanda said. “The transition’s going to be rough enough as is. We ought to give him a safe space.”

“In more ways than one, considering there is only one entrance and it will be guarded at all times.”

Amanda smiled. “Exactly!”

He sighed and ran his fingers over hers. “I suppose you are the expert on adjusting to Romulus,” he acknowledged.

She elbowed him playfully. “And don’t you forget it. Now, help me put up these bed hangings.”

Sarek stepped back. “I did actually have a purpose in coming here,” he said. “We have received a message from Commander Charvanek regarding Prince Vrih.”

Amanda immediately abandoned the hangings. “What did she say?”

Sarek’s expression was stone. “He seems to believe that his old ties to Starfleet will find him, regardless of how impossible it may be. He also demonstrated a worrying level of subservience toward his Starfleet captain, even saying that his only place was at said captain’s side. The commander—” He cut off, voice choked.

Amanda set her hand on his arm. “What is it?”

Sarek steadied himself. “The commander is worried that Vrih may have been brainwashed.”

Amanda covered her mouth.

“His subservience, his unwavering belief in an impossibility, his adamant statement that he doesn’t want to command— it strikes me as odd. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say brainwashed, but there may be something more happening here.” He took both her hands in his. “I wanted you to be prepared in case our son is worse off than we thought.”

Amanda pulled herself together. She could worry over this later; she could tell that Sarek was even more perturbed about the idea than she was.

“It’ll be okay, Sarek.” She smoothed her thumbs across the backs of his hands. “He’s still alive. He’s still here. We can handle all the rest.”

Sarek’s eyes drifted shut, and contentment smoothed the worry lines between his brows. “You’re right. He lives. And his ship is arriving this afternoon.”

“Hey. We can do this.” Amanda beamed at him. “But first, help me clean up so he doesn’t come home to a pile of fabric in place of a bed.”

Sarek opened his eyes and gave her a most unamused look. “We have servants,” he pointed out, “for a reason.”

…

Spock stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the foreign hands dressing him. Apparently it wouldn’t do to present him to the Praetor in regular clothing, and apparently royalty required a team to get them bathed, dressed, and made up.

“Close your eyes,” the commander (he still had not gotten her name) approached his face with a brush dusted with dark green-black eyeshadow. He obeyed, not wanting to get the powder in his eyes. The tickling of the brush on his eyelids was familiar, though nothing else was.

She also insisted on applying Spock’s eyeliner, despite his assurances that he could do it himself. It seemed they wanted him done up entirely in a Romulan style, even down to his too-human eyes.

One of the assistants wheeled in a full-body mirror— how impractical, to keep a thing like that around on a starship— and positioned it in front of him.

He didn’t look like Spock. His robes consisted of silver panels in geometric designs, with pointed shoulders and a studded ribbon in the shape of a V across his chest. His ears were covered in cuffs and jewelry, all sparkling with rare gems and metals. His makeup was dark from lips to eyes, contoured to draw attention to his upswept brows. The whole ensemble must have cost a fortune.

He would gladly give one to have his science blues back. His uniform had vanished when he had removed it, and he knew it would not be returned.

“You’re perfect,” the commander said.

Spock disagreed.

The trip to the transporter room took longer than it should have. Every Romulan they passed stopped to salute when they saw their party walk past. Spock recognized one from his failed escape attempt, clearly on some form of cleaning duty. He snapped out a salute just as readily as the rest of them did.

Spock took his place on the pad. None of this felt real. Perhaps there had been hallucinogenic substances on that planet he had beamed down to, and all of this was fake. Maybe he’d wake up to find he’d humiliated himself in front of Doctor McCoy and his medical vultures. Spock would be a laughingstock of the Enterprise, but at least he wouldn’t be here.

They beamed down onto the royal family’s personal transporter pad. It was outdoors, in some form of courtyard lined with red flowers and carved walkways. In any other circumstances, he might have called it beautiful.

The Romulans around him began to salute, and he turned to see his parents for the first time. He had to suppress a shiver of excitement at the thought of seeing them.

Praetor Sarek, from first appearances, was harsh. He radiated disapproval and anger as his dark eyes swept up and down Spock. Those eyes ran across every part of him, evaluating. They stopped on his face, meeting his son’s eyes with a depth of feeling Spock was only beginning to understand.

Amanda, on the other hand, was soft. Her eyes, filled with tears, refused to leave Spock’s. She stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid Spock might bolt. When she came close enough, she gasped out a sob and hugged him around the middle.

Spock remained frozen for 2.6 seconds, then raised his arms to hug her back. He didn’t squeeze like she did, only rested his hands on her back, but it made her cry harder.

“Vrih,” she whispered. “Oh, Vrih. You’re alive.”

Spock gently drew back. He looked his mother in her soft, human eyes— the same as his— and broke her heart.

“I am Spock,” he said.

Sarek stepped up beside his wife and rested a hand on her back. “You do not believe you’re our son?” he asked.

Spock shook his head slowly. “I am,” he said, “but I am not Vrih. Not anymore.”

His parents (alive, real, and Romulan) exchanged a glance. “Alright then, Spock,” his mother said. “How about you come inside, then we can all get to know each other?”

Spock nodded. “That would be agreeable.” In truth, he was very eager to speak with them. They were here. They were alive. Their deaths weren’t his fault. His separation from them wasn’t his fault.

Sarek turned to the commander. “You are dismissed. Return to your ship.” He spun on his heel and stalked into the building ahead of Spock and Amanda.

Spock hesitated. He could hear the barely-restrained anger in Sarek’s voice, and knew that it was because of him. Aside from the obvious reasons to want to avoid an angry Romulan, Spock felt something hollow inside. Even through all of the fear and the kidnapping and the world-view altering, the one bright spot in this dim situation had been that his parents were alive. He had the chance to meet them, to get to know them, to have some version of the family young Spock had craved to the point of tears.

But his father was angry at him. His father disapproved of him. Even the apparent miracle of Spock being alive wasn’t enough to overshadow the fact that he was a disappointment.

Amanda set her hand on his shoulder. “It’s not you,” she said. “I promise.”

Spock just looked at her.

Her lips quirked up into a half-smile. “Let’s just go inside. We can talk about this in the lounge.”

Spock hesitated, but followed Amanda’s lead. She kept her hand on his arm the whole way, as if to reassure herself that he was still there.

Chapter Text

Spock settled on a sofa beside Amanda, with Sarek seated opposite in an armchair. Sarek looked over Spock again, that same disdainful look on his face. Spock kept his back straight and his face blank. An attendant poured them drinks— Romulan ale, judging by the color— and backed out of the room. Spock wished he could do the same.

Amanda spoke first. “V–Spock, why don’t you tell us about your interests? Let’s get to know each other a bit, hmm?”

“Very well,” Spock said. “I have an interest in science, particularly astronomy and xenobiology. I have also been studying Terran culture as of late.”

Amanda squeezed his arm. She still had yet to let go of him, and he could feel her love even through his sleeve. “That’s interesting,” she said. “What parts of Terran culture?”

“Primarily their uses of language and the works of literature they consider to be ‘classics.’” Never mind the fact that half of the pieces of old media Kirk and McCoy recommended to him seemed unrelated to classic works. He was convinced that Kirk was lying to him when he said that Frankenstein and Hamlet had less cultural effect than The Muppets’ Christmas Carol or Cars 18.

Amanda took Spock’s pause as a sign to move on. “That’s interesting. Have you been to Earth before?”

Spock nodded. “Multiple times. Starfleet Academy is located on Earth, so I lived there for several years.” As he said it, he suddenly realized that the Romulans possibly hadn’t known that. Was he spilling Federation secrets to one of their biggest enemies?

Sarek spoke, his voice a detached calm. “I’m surprised that T’Pau allowed you to pursue a career in Starfleet. From what I know of her, she is a very traditional woman, not to mention the tactical disadvantages of allowing the Romulan prince too far from her sight.”

Spock resisted the urge to fidget. “T’Pau did not grant me permission. I ran away.”

Amanda choked on her drink.

Sarek made a considering face. “What prompted you to do so?”

What indeed? Had it been the pressures of being half-human? Had it been the way his peers looked down on him? The way T’Pau never bothered to put a stop to the bullying despite supposedly following the IDIC ideal?

Had a part of him known, even then, that he did not belong on Vulcan?

“I suppose I was… stifled by the expectations placed upon me. I did not believe that joining Starfleet would make me any less of a Vulcan.” He hesitated. “I am afraid that it does make me less of a Romulan.” Not to mention he had yet to unpack his feelings regarding that revelation.

“Oh, no, Spock.” Amanda wrapped an arm around him. “It’s a bit unprecedented, sure, but you’re still Romulan. You’re still our son.”

“And I am still First Officer on the Enterprise,” Spock said. “I am pleased to meet the two of you, but I have no desire to give up my career.”

“We can make it work,” Amanda said. She cast a threatening look at Sarek. “Right?”

Sarek looked distinctly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “It could be an advantage in diplomatic relations with the Federation,” he admitted. “Though I don’t think it will outweigh the effects of the war.”

Spock jolted. “War?”

Amanda got a very strained smile on her face. “It is our way,” she said.

“War should not have to be anyone’s way,” Spock protested.

“Nonetheless, it is ours.” Sarek fixed Spock with a long stare. “The Vulcans have kidnapped and hurt the son of the Praetor. We must seek vengeance.”

“If you attack Vulcan, the entire Federation will join their side.”

Sarek shrugged. “Then we declare war on the entire Federation. It would hardly be the first time.” He took a sip of his drink. His nonchalance felt deliberate.

Spock kept his face perfectly calm. “You would go back to a period of intergalactic war over a minor grievance?"

Sarek thunked the glass onto a side table so hard the liquid splashed out. “You,” he hissed, “are not a minor grievance. You are my son.”

“I am not even the heir. If I recall correctly, I have an elder half brother.”

Amanda jumped in. “Oh yes, Sybok. He’ll love to meet you once he’s back from patrol.”

Sarek didn’t permit the change of topic. “This is not about Sybok. This is about the greatest disgrace ever wrought upon my clan.” He wiped up the spill with a napkin, letting the liquor slowly soak through the cloth. “Operatives from a race so far beneath ours broke past our defenses, stole our prince, and raised him to believe he was one of them. Such a shame cannot go unaddressed.”

“The whole planet is not responsible for that,” Spock argued.

“It matters not. They broke the treaty. They crossed into our space. They took our prince. They have called for war.”

“You cannot—”

“Vrih,” Sarek interrupted, “you will be granted leniency due to being raised by outsiders. But dissension is not permitted in any form. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course.” Spock made direct eye contact, as if he could dredge genuine feeling out of his father if he just looked deep enough. There was plenty of feeling there, but none of it was anything Spock could connect to.

Sarek stood and stepped up to Spock. He gestured for Spock to rise, and he complied. The next moment, Spock found himself held in a crushing hug.

Spock felt lost. One moment Sarek was cold and threatening, and the next he was warm and welcoming. Spock didn’t know how to reconcile these two different sides of the same man.

“Oh, Vrih,” Sarek murmured into his hair. “You don’t have to worry about the war, or about your ship, or about anything. You’re here now. You’re safe now.”

Spock felt the weight of his father’s emotions crashing through their touch. He felt the swirling anger at those who took Spock, the joy at his return, the fear that they would come to take him away again. Above all, he felt a protective love that breathed of home.

But Spock was not home. Home was blinking lights at stations and murmurs of passing crew. Home was human laughter and bright smiles. Home was playing the lyre together and joking insults and chess matches.

He wished, illogically, that he had never learned that his parents lived.

Sarek pulled back, eventually. He held Spock by the shoulders, scrutinizing his face. Spock looked back, not backing down.

Sarek brushed Spock’s bangs aside, disrupting his perfect symmetry. “Don’t be afraid, my son. The transition will be hard. But our house is strong, and its people stronger. You’ll be a proper Romulan by year’s end.”

Spock could do nothing to diminish the rush of fear that ran through him.

…

Afterwards, Sarek lay awake in bed. Amanda breathed deeply beside him, lost in slumber. He stared up at the ceiling, consumed by his thoughts.

He’d have to make a public announcement, both about Vrih’s return and about the Vulcans’ betrayal. He would spin it to be a matter of national pride, stoke their anger at the Vulcans for daring to corrupt one of their own.

They ought to have some sort of celebration as well. The people could rally around Vrih, and be driven to succeed. The only problem was Vrih’s unwillingness to be a part of it.

Disliking war was not, in itself, a bad thing. Many preferred planned takeovers and coups as opposed to full-scale battle. Sarek himself had always worked better behind the scenes. But to defend a people that had taken him from his family, from his rightful place? To forgive his own people for failing him so horrendously? It was unthinkable.

Vrih could not mean it. He had to be reacting the way he had been raised to, the way those Vulcan scum had trained him to. Be obedient, be peaceful, be emotionless. Sarek had to show him that it wouldn’t be like that here. He could feel as much as he wanted here.

Sarek had expected Vrih to curse him. To demand to know how Sarek could have failed him so tremendously. To beg for justice to be done. To make Sarek prove he cared, that he would do his son right this time.

What had happened was worse. Not a single muscle had twitched if Vrih hadn’t decided it should. The faintest of feelings had shone through his eyes, but Sarek didn’t know him well enough to say what they were. He had argued on behalf of his former captors, had begged for Sarek to show them mercy.

What had they done to him? What had turned Vrih into Spock? What had made him dance like a perfect puppet, face cold as wood?

What could Sarek do to fix it?

…

In his own rooms, Spock knelt on the softest patch of carpet he could find. He had still not been given any tools to aid meditation. He got the sense that they would not give them to him if he asked. They all wanted him to be Romulan, and Romulans did not meditate. They did not value that control over their emotions the way Vulcans did.

Spock was reminded of a very old saying that Kirk said from time to time. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Fitting, considering the name similarity. But if he abandoned who he was, then what did he have left? He had maintained his sense of self through a sea of humans who did not understand him, but could he manage it this time? The humans, after all, had not been seeking to erase his culture.

But it wasn’t his culture, was it? One could be adopted into the Vulcan ways, of course, but his had hardly been a typical adoption. He had been kidnapped and forced into Vulcan ways. How could he still defend them? How could he not? He had spent his whole life with them. They had been his only real family.

But they were not his family. He was not Vulcan. He was Romulan, an enemy of the world he had grown up in, a traitor to those he most cared about. If Starfleet knew, would they remove him from his post? If his captain knew, would he still want to be Spock’s friend?

Would Spock be all alone again, even if he made it off Romulus? Would he never have a home again?

Spock had never expected to meet his parents. He had been told all his life that his birth had killed his mother and the broken bond had killed his father. He had been raised to believe it was his fault he was alone.

But it wasn’t. It never had been. But then whose? Was it his parents, for not keeping him from being taken? Was it T’Pau, for valuing an alliance over one half-human’s feelings?

Was it Spock after all, for going against T’Pau’s wishes and enrolling in Starfleet behind her back? For holding so tightly to the Vulcan way even as it was swept out from under him? For still clinging to Jim Kirk in hopes of getting out of here, regardless of his true parents’ wishes? Was he destined to be torn from place to place by his own decisions and those of others, never able to form a proper family?

He had too many questions, and no way to find answers. Spock gave up on meditation and climbed into bed. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was on Vulcan. He would rise at precisely the same time every morning and go upstairs for breakfast. His guardian, T’Shur, had rarely spoken. She had been preparing to undergo Kolinahr, and so wished to avoid forming too great of a bond with him. She did her duties as a guardian, nothing more.

When he had joined Starfleet, he had been startled by all the touching his classmates did. He had been even more startled to learn that he enjoyed it. Every brush in the hallways had set something alight in him that he hadn’t dared to examine. When he got older, he had diagnosed himself as touch-starved. He was half-human, and humans required touch in order to be healthy. More than that, they required love.

He had never truly experienced it until he had met Jim Kirk. The captain was irritating, brash, reckless, loud— everything a Vulcan was not. Spock welcomed it, for Kirk was also caring, emotional, clever, and curious. He teased, but he also accepted Spock for all he was and all he wanted to be.

Prior to today, Kirk had been the only one who had ever given Spock a proper hug. The captain had been sitting on the observation deck after a rough mission, watching the stars. When Spock entered, Kirk had smiled.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Spock said.

“No, no, not at all.” Kirk patted the seat beside him. “Come join me.”

Spock complied, eyeing his captain. They had lost three crewmen that day, and Jim had taken it especially hard. Spock wanted to make sure he was alright.

“I keep looking for the constellations,” Jim blurted out.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Which ones?”

“The ones from Earth. The ones I could see from home, anyway.” He leaned forward, eyes reflecting the scene before them so they appeared to be full of stars. “Some of them have disappeared, but not all of them. I could still see traces of the Big Dipper.”

Spock looked out the window. None of the stars had any patterns to them. They glided past at a leisurely pace as the Enterprise traveled between them.

“It’s stupid, I know,” Jim said. “But I can’t help it. I see the stars, and I look for the Big Dipper. My mom always said that if I was ever lost, I could use the North Star to guide me home.” He ducked his head. “Foolish, of course. If I’d gotten lost, I’d have just talked to anyone with a computer. We don’t have need for stars anymore.”

Spock recognized that melancholy tone and immediately searched for a way to put a stop to it. “It is my understanding that the constellations came about as myths.”

Jim shot him a tiny smile. It was as radiant as his large ones. “Yes, most planets have some sort of story for how the stars got their shapes. Lots of stories, actually. On Earth, the most commonly known ones are the Ancient Greek and Roman myths, but plenty of cultures had something to say about the stars.”

“And here we are sailing among them.”

They were silent for a while, both watching the stars drift past. It looked no different from any other time spent on the observation deck, but it felt different in some incalculable way.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you all,” Jim said, “out of the blue,” as McCoy would say. He was likely thinking of the mission again.

“Likely, you would have a highly successful team composed of other individuals.”

Jim nudged him. “Don’t be a smartass. I need you, Spock. I need all of you. I’m responsible for all of you. What kind of a captain can’t keep his own crew out of danger?”

In a moment of daring, Spock set his hand atop Jim’s. It was warm, especially on board a ship that was always set just a bit too low for Spock’s tastes. “Jim, you are an excellent captain. Those deaths were not your fault.”

“But if I had just—”

“If I had been on the landing party in place of you, would you be blaming me for losing them?”

Jim huffed. “All right, I see your point. Between you and Bones, it’s a miracle I can get any self-loathing done.” He patted Spock’s hand, unaware of the ripple of contentment he sent sweeping through Spock. “I’d best get off to bed.”

He didn’t move.

“Jim?”

Jim turned and wrapped his arms around Spock. Spock froze for 0.3 seconds before relaxing into his captain’s gentle hold. It was warm, and felt illogically safe.

Jim drew back. “Thanks for looking out for me,” he said.

Spock’s lips felt dry. “Always, captain.”

Jim’s smile was broken by a yawn. “Well then. See you on the bridge tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, Jim.”

Spock had watched his captain go, illogically wishing he would stay just a while longer.

Now, looking back on that night, all he wanted was that warm touch and that warm smile to light him up inside again. These rooms on Romulus were far warmer than anywhere Spock had been in years, but they felt so much colder in the absence of Jim.