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There were a few things Spock regretted in his life. Not saving his planet, his mother dying due to his mistakes, not being to tell his Jim the breadth of his devotion before he had passed and went to another universe. The biggest, however, was a secret for himself. Not even Jim, his captain, his confidant, knew about him being a transgender girl.
Many an afternoon he would spend in his mother's boudoir when his parents were off planet and his siblings were off causing trouble. He would paw through her silky scarves, her flowy robes that protected against the dust and harsh sun, and pretend that it was him who was sitting at the vanity, powdering his nose and applying makeup to his eyelashes.
The fantasy would always end by nightfall, with him meticulously, painstakingly putting things back in their places. He would crawl out of the closet he had made a hole in, fix his hair and robes, and check the hallway before he made a quiet escape.
He was a quiet little boy; friendless, peerless. His only friend was a sehlat, and sometimes, when his father wasn't breathing down his neck, his mother.
It was because of this childhood he tried suppressing that he recognized the signs in this alternate version of himself. He remembered being a seventeen year old by human standards, gangly and awkward and full of longing.
My mind to your mind.
Your thoughts to my thoughts.
A childhood flittered by, so similar to his yet so remarkably different. Where he had hidden in the closet, this Spock was bolder and chose to sat at the vanity. Where he had walked to the closest city, this Spock had chosen to take the hoverbus. Small, insignificant changes, that added up.
The line between himself and herself, as she privately called herself in her own head, blurred. He saw a flushed, young man with a bloody lip. She saw an old man curled around his life companions tombstone on Earth. Weathered hand layered over young, raspy voice meeting a forcibly girlish voice.
When Spock withdrew, they weren't sure who pulled away first. Between them, there was an electricity buzzing. The weight of unspoken words hung between them. For a brief moment, Spock was Spock, and she was old, and he was young, and they had time and courage in spades.
She blinked, and the moment broke, as fragile as a spun thread.
"I will tell them. I swear it."
"Since my customary farewell would appear oddly self-serving, I shall simply say... Good luck."
A year from now, on the cusp of starting their five year deep space mission, would come a photograph clipping in the mail from an LGBT newspaper.
In it, a young lady stands proudly, back straight and hands tucked behind her. Her hair is to her chin, faint curls inherited from their mother brushing her cheeks. Her cheeks are flushed green from exertion, from exhilaration and exuberance.
There is a noticeable weight lifted off her shoulders from the last time he saw her, and for a brief, sparking moment, he wonders if it is too late for his own final adventure.