Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

From the outside, the house looks much like every other house on this new world. There are more windows in this house, traditional Vulcan architecture does not include many windows in order to protect against the heat, but this planet is slightly cooler and Spock likes the sunlight. Inside though, the house is strange mixture of Vulcan style things the colony has already started producing, very human things he has had transported from Earth, and things he simply finds appealing. He chooses things for functionality, comfort and beauty in that order. His choice in comfortable human furniture, cushions, and reading lamps had managed to shock the very young tenth cousin of the Commander that the Council sent to him.

He serves the young man tea genetically altered and grown in greenhouses to resemble Vulcan tea, and treats him kindly. He receives the Vulcan Council’s request with the same formality it was given, even though it amuses him greatly. He rejects their offer of a place upon the Council, fully knowing it had not been offered to him as a choice, and also fully aware that they could not in reality bring him to task for the rejection. He did feel a slight pang, however, as he signed and sealed his denial; once he would have sought out such assurance of his place among Vulcans, but he had been younger then.

He accepts the Vulcan Science Academy’s request for him to head up several necessary lines of research, and meditates upon the proper use for the wide expanse of space he has in his office. He tests the soil out behind the house and determines that it is fertile and plants a garden. Most of what he plants are prototypes for possible food sources for the colony; however some are simply flowers, there for no other reason than because he wishes it.   

II.

“Hey, Ambassador.”

They invade his house like it’s a tactical maneuver, meaning Kirk knows exactly what he’s doing and both Spock and McCoy have made some educated guesses on what that might be.

“I brought you a present.” Kirk smiles charmingly up at him holding the ‘present’ at arm’s length.

“It is a cat,” Spock notes.

“Yeah,” Kirk grins like it’s perfectly normal to bring small animals into other people’s houses, “actually it’s a kitten.”

“The Commander here isn’t allergic,” McCoy tells him as Spock takes the very small grey ball of fur away from Kirk, “I did tell Jim, though, that those kind of allergies can develop later in life.”

“I believe I will be fine,” Spock tells him, and watches the way McCoy stands stiffly, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands or whether he’s allowed to sit down.

“Please,” he waves them all into the living room. “Sit, I will make us tea.”

As soon as he puts the kitten down it hides under the couch. When Spock returns from the kitchen the Commander is sitting stiffly in one of the armchairs, Kirk relaxing in the other while McCoy kneels on the floor trying to coax the kitten back out from under the couch.

“He probably doesn’t trust you, Bones,” Kirk points out, “after all the tests you and Spock ran on the poor little guy.”

“It is regulation,” the Commander tells him sternly, accepting his cup of tea from Spock.

“And it’s not like we hurt him,” McCoy adds, still on the floor. “Come on,” he says softly to the kitten, “it’s alright, no one’s going to hurt you, this is your home now.”

Spock sets the Doctor’s cup on the table next the couch. He stands with his own cup, with only one available option open to him, yet he is strangely unwilling to sit on the couch with the Doctor kneeling on the floor beside it.

“Doctor,” he says softly, and McCoy looks up at him, eyes still strange to Spock in being light gold flecked with green instead of blue. McCoy looks at him standing there awkwardly holding his tea, looks at his own tea, looks at the couch and blushes across his throat and both cheeks. He gets off the floor and sits on the couch. Spock settles himself neatly next to the Doctor, only slightly aware that McCoy is fidgeting beside him. Instead he looks at Kirk.

“May I inquire as to the purpose of your gift?”

“I thought you could use the company.” Kirk’s smile is almost sympathetic as he sips his tea.

Spock holds his own cup between the palms of his hand, enjoying the warmth and allowing the liquid to cool a little. He thinks of the scientific unlikelihood that he will be able to return to his own timeline, thinks that there is no one there waiting for him even if he does. Beside him one of the potted ferns rustles as the kitten slowly creeps out from under the couch.

III.

Spock decides that he will collect books and put them in his office to use the extra space he seems to have. When Jim had died Spock had taken his books, among other things, as his own; over the years he had begun collecting them himself, old antique paper copies on every conceivable topic. It lent him character, or so McCoy had claimed. They were all back in his old house now, on the Vulcan that still existed.

He orders bookshelves to wrap around his office walls, and replaces his collection of Dickens first, followed shortly by bound copies of all of Earth’s sacred texts. Religion has always fascinated him, Earth’s religions in particular. He can see many similarities between Vulcans’ reverence of logic and humans’ reverence of God, although he keeps this observation to himself.

He wonders if this Jim Kirk has any interest in books and then mentally scolds himself. He must not draw similarities between this timeline and his own, no matter how tempting; these are different people, with different pasts and different futures. He cannot allow himself to become involved too deeply in what was not meant for him.

The cat eats a lot, more than he expected, and only remains shy of him for a few days, after which it decides that he is in fact there to serve on its every whim. It bounces around the house during the night, lies on top of him while he attempts to sleep until he bans it from the bedroom, bites his hands and ankles if he is not being wary, and crawls into any small space without thinking of the consequence, trusting him to rescue it. It is exuberant, exhausting and very young. He calls it ax’nav, a slightly more obscure Vulcan word for child, but knows that it is not a proper name.  

IV.

The Vulcan Science Academy gives him a team. They are all very young, and very brilliant. They all treat him with the respect his age and standing require and they all do their jobs well. There are food crops to be genetically engineered, and the question of reproduction weighs heavily on everyone’s mind. Defense must also be thought of because New Vulcan is now forced to rely solely on Starfleet for its protection. The Vulcan Council cannot name the dangers they might face unprotected as they now are, but they are prudent enough to realize their position. Spock can name them and their vulnerability troubles him greatly.

When he arrives home from the Science Academy the kitten bounces to meet him at the door crying piteously to be fed, despite the fact that Spock can easily remember feeding it that morning. He makes himself some tea, changes into more comfortable robes, meditates, and works in the garden.

He is growing roses because his mother had loved them. He cuts them back carefully, charts the growth of the prototype plants, and finds himself thinking of McCoy. He is by now well accustomed to the slow, dull pain that rises up within him when he thinks about the man he knew; he is not accustomed to thinking of the other one, however. The taller, broader shouldered man, with big hands and golden eyes, who smiles exactly the way Spock remembers, talks with a soft sweet accent and prefers to remain quiet unless he has something to say. This is not the man Spock remembers, and these are not thoughts he wishes to have about a man younger than him by more than a hundred years. He kneels on the ground and weeds around his rose bushes and tries not to think about what this McCoy’s skin would taste like bare and warm, with grass stains across it.

When he comes back into the house he finds the kitten sulking behind one of the ferns in the living room. Evidently it is mad at him for failing to be taken in by its scheme to be fed again.

V.

His entire wardrobe consists of three outfits, all in black or grey, and there comes a point when this is no longer practical or sufficient. He orders others and makes an effort to pick out a few shirts - to wear with his Vulcan robes and human suits - that are other colors, blues and dark greens, some deep reds. Mostly he does so because he recalls a fight he once had with McCoy about his tendency to only wear black when he was not in uniform. He has no illusions about his body, or the way he looks at his age; he does not wish to make any sort of impression, he does make sure his wardrobe is not entirely black, though.

He thinks of the future too much. If not for Nero’s attack and the destruction of Vulcan he wonders how long this galaxy and the Federation would have known peace. He wonders how long they will remain at peace now, whether they will be able to avoid a war with the Klingons or the Romulans. Whether the Federation will go to war with the Cardassians, or the Borg. He wonders whether he will live to witness it again, whether he will be able to bear it if he does.

When he was last on Vulcan he had been working through the Old Testament of the human Bible. He acquires an old paper copy, heavily bound and  beautiful, begins to read it again. He thinks about the future, about the Federation and Starfleet, the things it has stood for, the things it is, with its mistakes, errors and arrogance. He thinks about the generations of people he has known who have lived and died for those ideals. He thinks about sacrificing his own life in the line of duty. He thinks about justice and redemption, and how he’s never going home, never going back to the timeline where he belongs.

He thinks about this Jim Kirk, made a Captain on the battlefield long before the man he knew ever sat in a Captain’s chair. He thinks about the pain behind his younger self’s eyes, about the Commander Spock living and coming into himself without a planet or a mother. He thinks about this McCoy who is strong, strangely quiet, except when someone makes the mistake of provoking him. He thinks he might be glad that he’s staying.

VI.     

Somehow Spock is not surprised when the afternoon the Enterprise comes into orbit around New Vulcan, Doctor McCoy shows up at his doorstep. The kitten attacks him as soon as McCoy steps into the house, latching onto McCoy’s ankle with all his teeth plus four paws’ worth of tiny claws.  McCoy swears and makes it to the couch before pulling the tiny creature off.

“Does he have a name yet?” he asks, as the kitten bites him on the wrist for his trouble.

“Daniel.” Spock moves into the kitchen to make them tea.

“That’s very human.” McCoy blinks at him as Spock sets the tray down, “Very Biblical.”

“It means ‘God is my judge’,” Spock tells him, and sits down next to him on the couch, taking the small creature away from McCoy. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”

McCoy’s brows draw together and his eyes drop away from Spock’s. A tightness settles over the other man that Spock recognizes from the other times McCoy has been in his house, and McCoy moves his hands as if not quite sure where to put them.

“I brought you something,” McCoy says so softly that if Spock were not Vulcan he would have missed it.

Spock blinks and takes the little box, and opens it to find a set of antique reading glasses, which seems practical and almost shockingly out of place. He blinks for several moments, looks at McCoy, who is not looking at him, and then blinks again and fights the feeling of deja vu, followed quickly by the strong sense of falling. Yes, very shocking.

“Doctor?” Spock says more gently this time and McCoy looks up at him, eyes gone surprisingly grey, flecked still with green, and Spock knows that look, knows the way it answers the pain in his own chest. He is suddenly very tired of waiting, very tired of being careful, of being the man out of time, or worrying about repeating his past and their future. He puts Daniel down on the floor and the glasses carefully aside.

McCoy appears to be holding his breath and his hands rise, then come back down without any real resting point, rise again, and settle awkwardly against Spock’s own, tangling a little in the heavy cloth of his robes. McCoy’s fingers fumble with the cloth a little, blindly seeking out Spock’s hands. McCoy’s eyes are the color of Earth’s sky before it rains and suddenly Spock is finished waiting. He leans forward carefully and kisses McCoy because that is what they both wish. This is the only life he has now, and he has run out of things to prove.

McCoy fits into his arms awkwardly, kisses with a shyness Spock did not expect but can appreciate. When they break apart McCoy runs his fingers through is own hair and watches Spock like he’s afraid this isn’t real.

“Your um . . .” He touches the cloth that covers Spock’s throat. “Your shirt is blue.”

“Indeed.”

“I thought you only wore black.”

“Sometimes,” Spock tells him, “But sometimes, Leonard, I wear other colors too.”

Slowly McCoy smiles and leans forward to kiss Spock again; Spock is glad.