Chapter Text
Jim dragged the tines of his plastic fork through the blue frosting, carving a crooked line through the corner of the cake and watching it fold inward around the little groove. Around him the reception spread across the Starfleet grounds in clusters of dark uniforms and quiet voices. People moved between tables with paper plates balanced in their hands while others stood beneath the canopies speaking softly. Even at five, Jim could tell everyone was using their careful voices. Nobody was laughing loudly. Nobody was talking loudly either.
Sam had brought him the cake a few minutes earlier, crouching beside him long enough to put the plate down in front of him and ruffle his hair.
“Happy birthday, Jimmy.”
Jim had looked up at him and nodded because he had not known what else to say, and Sam had smiled at him for a second before disappearing back into the crowd.
Jim looked down at the slice again and dragged the fork through the frosting once more, watching it smear across the paper plate. He stared at it for a few seconds, trying to figure something out.
He was pretty sure cake was for birthdays. Birthdays had cake and candles and people sang songs, at least that was what kids at school said. He had seen pictures too. Cake belonged at parties.
But this was not a party. People did not cry at parties. People did not hug each other and say they were sorry at parties. People definitely did not sit with drinks in their hands and cry the way Mom was crying now while Amanda rubbed her back.
Jim glanced across the lawn toward the table where they sat. Amanda had moved her chair closer to Winona’s at some point. Mom was holding a drink in one hand while Amanda said something quietly beside her. Jim watched his mother laugh for a second and then suddenly bend forward with her face in her hands.
His stomach twisted. Jim looked back down at the cake. Maybe it was memorial cake. But that sounded strange too. Did memorials have cake?
His eyes moved toward the buffet tables again. There had been a whole sheet cake sitting there earlier. He had not thought much about it because there was lots of food, but Sam had cut out a piece and brought it over and said Happy birthday, Jimmy. So maybe it had been birthday cake. Maybe it had been for him.
Jim stared at the blue frosting for a long moment and could not decide if that made him feel happy or sad. Everybody was here because dad was dead, and today was the five year anniversary of the Kelvin Disaster. It’s also his fifth birthday. Maybe wanting birthday cake today was selfish somehow. Maybe it was wrong to feel sad that his birthday never got to feel like birthdays were supposed to feel.
After a few more seconds he pushed the plate away from himself and slid out of the chair. Nobody noticed.
**
Amanda kept her attention on Winona as Spock sat next to them. He knew that his mother had been roommates years ago when they had first attended Starfleet Academy, and they had remained close friends despite their lives taking dramatically different directions after Mother married Father and began accompanying him on diplomatic assignments. Father had intended to attend this afternoon as well, but embassy obligations had intervened unexpectedly that morning, leaving Amanda and Spock to represent the family alone.
He had only been listening distantly to the conversation for the last several minutes. Winona’s behavior had changed steadily throughout the reception. Her speech had become less measured, her movements less coordinated, and her emotional state increasingly difficult to contain. Spock understood enough human behavior to recognize distress when he saw it, and he understood enough of the day’s circumstances to know that this gathering itself was unusual. The reception had followed a memorial service for George Kirk, who had died five years earlier during the evacuation of the Kelvin. Today also happened to be James Kirk’s fifth birthday.
His attention returned to James several tables away. James had remained alone for most of the reception. He had not approached the other children scattered across the grounds, nor had he attempted to pull attention toward himself. Instead he had sat quietly watching people. Spock had noticed him doing it repeatedly throughout the afternoon, his eyes moving around the gathering as though studying it while trying not to appear obvious about it. Earlier he had also noticed James looking toward Winona several times before quickly looking away again.
Then Samuel had brought him cake. Spock had expected that to change something. James had accepted the plate and stared at it for a long time, dragging his fork through the frosting while a small furrow formed between his eyebrows as though he were attempting to solve some problem only he could see. He had not eaten any of it.
Spock watched James slide out of the chair and pause beside it, his hand resting briefly against the back of it while his eyes moved across the reception grounds. He looked first toward Winona, who was still crying into Amanda with a drink in her hand, and then toward the crowd gathered near the buffet tables where Samuel had disappeared several minutes earlier. Spock found himself waiting for someone to notice him, but no one did.
Conversations continued around them uninterrupted while James turned away from the table and started across the lawn toward the trees at the edge of the grounds. Spock watched the smaller boy continue walking for another few seconds before rising quietly from his own chair and following after him.
**
Jim walked without really knowing where he was going at first, only knowing he wanted to be somewhere quieter. The sounds of the reception followed him for a while through the trees behind him. He could still hear the low hum of conversations and occasional laughter that rose and disappeared again, along with the distant clink of dishes and silverware being gathered from the tables. The farther he walked, the more the sounds blended together until they no longer felt like words anymore and became only soft noise somewhere behind him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked lightly at a pebble in the path. He had noticed the pond earlier during the memorial service while everybody had been standing together listening to speeches. He had spent most of the speeches trying very hard to pay attention because Sam had told him it was important, but his eyes had kept wandering anyway. There had been a break in the trees off to one side where sunlight had glimmered on water, and he remembered thinking there were probably ducks there.
He liked ducks. Ducks never seemed sad. The thought made him frown a little because he was not sure if that was true. Maybe ducks got sad. Maybe they just didn’t look like it. He kept walking.
The trees around him shifted gently in the breeze, leaves whispering overhead while sunlight moved across the ground in bright pieces that slid over the dirt path and tree roots. Jim stepped over one of the roots and ducked around a low branch hanging out across the trail. Little bits of grass and tiny flowers had started growing along the edges where the path widened. Some of them were yellow and some were white and some looked like weeds pretending very hard not to be weeds. A few more steps carried him out from beneath the trees and Jim slowed to a stop.
The pond sat stretched out ahead of him at the far edge of the Starfleet grounds, bigger than he had thought it was from far away. Sunlight reflected across the surface in shifting patterns that made parts of the water look like they were covered in tiny moving stars. Clusters of lilypads floated near the edges, their round green leaves drifting lazily while ducks moved between them and left ripples spreading out behind them. Wildflowers grew in uneven patches along the shore where tall grass leaned and swayed in the wind, little yellow and purple and white blossoms scattered through it.
Jim stared at it for a few seconds. It looked like one of the nature books in his classroom.
No.
It looked better. Books never moved. One of the ducks dipped its head beneath the water and suddenly disappeared almost all the way under before popping back up again a second later. Jim blinked at it.
“…Okay, that’s cool,” he informed the duck quietly.
The duck ignored him completely.
Jim wandered closer to the edge of the pond and dropped down into the grass, pulling his knees up while he watched another duck paddle lazily between the lilypads. His stomach still felt strange and tight inside his chest somewhere, but it felt a little smaller here than it had back at the reception. The pond did not seem to care that today was supposed to be sad. The ducks did not care either. They just kept swimming around like they were having a perfectly normal day.
**
Spock followed at a measured distance through the trees, keeping James in sight while giving him space. James did not seem upset in the way Spock had expected. He was not crying or wiping at his eyes. Instead he wandered through the trees stopping occasionally to look at something on the ground or glance upward through the branches overhead. Eventually the trees opened ahead of them and James slowed near the edge of the pond before settling down in the grass. Spock watched him for a few moments before stepping closer.
“Do not be startled.”
Jim startled violently. He jumped and whipped around so quickly that one hand flew to his chest. “Ah! You scared me!”
Spock blinked. “I apologize. It was my intention to prevent that.”
Jim stared at him. Then his eyes narrowed. “You followed me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Spock sat down beside him with a small space between them. “You are an unaccompanied five year old human, and as I am an eight year old Vulcan, I am an older and stronger individual. I believed it was my responsibility to ensure your safety.”
Jim looked at him for a few seconds. “Okay.”
Spock looked back at him. “…Okay?”
Jim shrugged and picked up a flat little stone from the grass. “That makes sense.”
He held up the little rock toward Spock. “You know how to skip rocks?”
Spock nodded once. “Across sand.”
Jim blinked.
Spock continued, entirely serious. “I have not attempted water, though I believe the fundamental principles should remain largely the same.”
Jim stared at him for another second. “Show me.”
Spock looked at the pond, then at the stone in Jim’s hand. “You wish for a demonstration?”
Jim nodded immediately. “Yeah.”
Spock accepted the stone and rose to his feet while Jim scooted closer through the grass to watch. He cocked his arm back, aimed, and then released the stone. It struck the water once and disappeared beneath the surface.
Jim frowned. “You changed the angle at the end.”
Spock looked over at him.
“When you started, your hand was here.” Jim held his own hand low and flat beside him. Then he lifted it slightly upward. “Then right before you let go you moved.”
Spock stared at him for a moment.
Jim picked up another stone and rolled it between his fingers while watching the water. “I think if the velocity stays the same but the release angle changes, it puts more force down instead of forward.” He glanced at Spock. “Maybe.”
Spock looked from Jim to the pond and back again. “…You observed that from a single throw?”
Jim shrugged. “You only did one.”
Spock was quiet for a moment. “Your observation regarding velocity, angle, and force sounds advanced for a human child of your age.”
Jim looked up from the stone in his hand. “It is?”
“You appear to possess an understanding of physics concepts uncommon for a five-year-old.”
“Oh.” Jim brightened a little. “We’re learning about thrust and velocity in science at school.”
Spock tilted his head slightly. “At five?”
Jim nodded. “I’m in advanced classes with all the big kids.” Then, after a second, he added more quietly, “I don’t really like it though.”
“You do not enjoy the coursework?” Spock asked. “Is it too difficult for you?”
Jim looked over at him so quickly that Spock almost thought he had said something offensive.
“No.” He frowned. “It’s easy.”
Spock considered that. “Then what is the issue?”
Jim picked up another stone and turned it over in his hands for a few moments before answering.
“The big kids think I’m a baby.” He said it matter-of-factly, though his shoulders pulled in a little as he spoke. “They don’t mean to be mean, I don’t think. They just…” He shrugged. “They already have friends.”
Spock remained quiet.
“And kids my age don’t really like me either.” Jim glanced toward the pond. “They say I’m weird.”
“You do not appear unusual,” Spock said.
Jim gave him a look. “You followed me into the woods because I’m an unaccompanied five-year-old human.”
“That was a reasonable decision.”
Jim's mouth twitched despite himself. “See? That.” He tossed the stone lightly into the grass instead of the water. “You sound like my science books.”
Spock considered this. “I am uncertain whether that was intended as an insult.”
Jim huffed a small laugh. “It wasn’t.”
He looked back toward the ducks, quieter now. “They don’t like me because I know stuff already,” he said after a moment. “Teachers ask questions and I answer too fast.” He shrugged again, trying very hard to make it sound like he did not care. “So mostly I just read at recess.”
Spock was quiet for a moment after that, his attention shifting back toward the pond while one of the ducks paddled lazily.
“I also do not have friends,” he said eventually.
Jim looked over. “You don’t?”
Spock shook his head once.
“Why not?”
Spock hesitated. Not because he did not know the answer, but because he understood instinctively that in his experience most people found it uncomfortable. “I am half human,” he said finally. “Many Vulcan children consider that... undesirable.”
Jim frowned immediately. “What do you mean?”
Spock looked down at the stone still resting in his hand. “I have been told that I am an aberration.”
Jim blinked.
“What’s a abber—”
“An error,” Spock clarified quietly. “Something which should not exist.”
Jim stared at him. For a moment he said absolutely nothing, and then his face twisted into immediate outrage. “That’s stupid.”
Spock looked over.
Jim sat up straighter in the grass, horrified so fully it left no room for confusion. “You’re not supposed to say that to people.” His eyebrows pulled together hard. “That’s mean.”
Spock blinked once.
“It is factually inaccurate too,” Jim continued, now sounding offended on Spock’s behalf. “You obviously exist.”
Spock found himself unexpectedly uncertain how to respond to that.
Jim crossed his arms. “People are dumb.”
Spock tilted his head slightly. “You appear unusually angry regarding this matter.”
Jim looked at him like the answer should be obvious. “Because that’s awful.”
The certainty in his voice made something unfamiliar settle strangely in Spock’s chest.
Jim was quiet for another second before pointing at him decisively. “Well, I’ll be your friend.”
Spock blinked. “You will?”
“Yeah.” Jim shrugged like it was simple. “You followed me so I didn’t get eaten by bears or something.”
“There are no bears on the Starfleet grounds,” Spock insisted.
Jim waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t know that, but you can be my friend if you want.”
Something shifted in Spock's expression then. His posture straightened slightly, and though another human might not have noticed it, Jim had the distinct impression that Spock looked pleased.
“I would like that,” Spock said.
Jim smiled a little. “Okay.”
That seemed simple enough. For a while they stayed near the pond. Jim showed Spock how to hold the stone flatter between his fingers, explaining that the throw worked better if the rock left your hand sideways instead of straight. Spock listened with complete seriousness and attempted the motion several times, studying the angle of his wrist each time as though the problem required formal investigation. One throw skipped twice before sinking, and Jim immediately declared that counted as success.
Jim had almost stopped thinking about the reception entirely when his stomach growled loudly enough to make his face warm. He immediately looked away toward a duck near the shoreline and watched it with sudden concentration, as though he had become deeply invested in whatever important business ducks might possibly have.
After a moment, Spock said, “I observed that you did not consume your cake.”
Jim shrugged.
“I was under the impression that human children generally enjoy baked confectionaries.”
Jim was quiet for several seconds, pulling absentmindedly at the grass near his shoe.
“I don’t really like birthday cake,” he said eventually.
Spock looked at him. “You do not?”
Jim shook his head once, then corrected himself quietly. “I don’t really like my birthday. Everybody’s always sad,” Jim said after a while, his eyes fixed on the water. “Because my dad died.” He picked at another blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. “Mom cries a lot. People come over and say sorry all day. Sam tries really hard, but...” He shrugged. “It’s weird.”
He frowned toward the pond.
“I think birthdays are supposed to be happy.”
Spock stayed quiet.
“They’re supposed to have happy cake,” Jim continued, sounding faintly frustrated now, as though he had spent a long time trying to solve something that refused to make sense. “And presents and hugs because it’s your birthday, not because everybody feels bad for you.” His nose wrinkled slightly. “Not depressing memorial cake.”
He fell quiet again, then looked down at his hands.
“And I feel bad wanting that,” he admitted softly. “Because Dad’s dead.” He frowned harder. “Like maybe it’s selfish or something.”
After another moment he added, quieter still, “But I think I want a happy birthday.”
Spock considered this carefully. “Vulcans do not generally celebrate birthdays in the same manner humans do,” he said after a moment. “My mother celebrates mine, however, which makes me somewhat unusual among my peers.”
Jim looked over at him, listening.
“I do not believe it is selfish to want a happy birthday,” Spock continued. “Human birthdays appear culturally intended to be positive experiences. Therefore, wanting one to be pleasant seems consistent with expectation.”
Jim frowned toward the pond. “But everybody’s always sad on my birthday. Especially my mom”
“Yes,” Spock said quietly. “Because your father died. However, it is also your birthday.” He considered this for another moment, trying to sort the contradiction into something coherent. “Humans appear capable of experiencing multiple emotional states simultaneously.”
Jim picked at the grass beside him for a moment.
“I think maybe everybody forgot. Or are just too sad to remember.”
Spock found himself uncertain what the appropriate response might be. He had not previously maintained friendships, but James Kirk was now, by Jim’s own declaration, his friend. Furthermore, he was human, and a very young human at that. Humans, according to observation and Amanda’s frequent explanations, generally preferred physical reassurance when distressed. His mother hugged people often. Vulcans expressed care differently, though not entirely without touch. Among family and trusted companions, reassurance often came through closeness, shared presence, and melds.
After considering this for a moment, Spock said, “Would a hug be agreeable?”
Jim looked over, startled enough that Spock briefly worried he had proposed something inappropriate.
“You wanna hug me?”
“If it would improve your emotional state.”
Jim thought about this for approximately one second before scooting closer through the grass.
“Okay.”
The hug itself felt awkward at first, though Spock was not entirely certain why. James was smaller than he expected and warmer too, his shoulders fitting easily beneath Spock’s arm. After a moment, Jim relaxed against him with surprising ease, and when they pulled apart again, the sadness in his expression no longer seemed quite so sharp.
“That helped,” Jim admitted quietly.
Spock nodded once, quietly satisfied.
“There is also a Vulcan equivalent.”
Jim tilted his head.
“A meld,” Spock explained. “Vulcans use them among family and those they trust. It can be reassuring.”
Jim’s expression brightened immediately. “Can we do that?”
The eagerness in the question surprised him.
“If you would like.”
Jim nodded at once.
Spock lifted his hand carefully and rested his fingers lightly against Jim’s temple, reaching the way he had seen done within his own family. He expected only the familiar brush of thought, something gentle and reassuring.
Instead, the moment contact formed, something shifted. The sensation was subtle, warm in a way that did not feel intrusive or alarming. It settled between them with startling ease, fitting somewhere instinctive before Spock fully understood it was happening. He paused for only a second, surprised by the unusual sense of certainty that accompanied it.
Curious. Perhaps this was simply how human friendships felt? When Spock finally withdrew, Jim blinked once and touched his forehead thoughtfully.
“That felt weird,” he said.
Spock tilted his head slightly. “Unpleasant?”
Jim shook his head immediately. “No.” He smiled slowly, still touching his forehead. “Good weird.” He thought about it for another second, then his face brightened. “Like I got a hug in my brain.” He smiled, and then with complete certainty, he continued. “I really liked that. I can still feel it, though. How long is it supposed to last?”
Spock hesitated. That part, at least, was unusual. A meld should not ordinarily linger in the way James appeared to be describing. The sense of contact generally faded after separation, leaving behind little more than calm or reassurance, yet James was looking at him with complete sincerity, still seeming faintly delighted by whatever sensation remained.
“I am unsure,” Spock admitted after a moment. “Typically, melds do not persist for an extended period.”
Jim frowned briefly, though not unhappily, and touched his forehead again as though checking to see whether it remained there. “Oh.” He was quiet for a second, watching the water while ducks drifted swam lazily through the water. “I hope it stays a while.”
Spock did not entirely know what to make of that. He still felt faintly uncertain about the unusual ease with which the meld had settled into place, and James continuing to feel it afterward was not, to his knowledge, typical. Still, James no longer looked sad, and for the moment that seemed more important than understanding precisely why.
They remained by the pond for a while longer after that. Jim seemed content simply sitting in the grass now, tracing idle patterns through the dirt with the edge of a stone while occasionally touching his forehead as though checking whether the strange warmth still lingered there. The sadness that had clung to him earlier seemed quieter somehow, softened around the edges.
Spock was still considering the unusual persistence of the meld when he heard his name faintly through the trees.
“Spock?”
He hears his mother calling his name. He turned slightly toward the sound.
“Spock,” she called again. Her voice sounded closer this time.
“I am here,” he called back.
There was a brief pause followed by the sound of footsteps moving quickly through the trees.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Amanda called, relief already threading through her voice. “Spock, have you seen James Kirk? We’re unable to locate him.”
Beside him, Jim went abruptly still.
“James Kirk is with me,” Spock replied.
A moment later Amanda stepped through the trees and stopped short when she saw them sitting together near the edge of the pond.
Her expression shifted quickly from concern to visible relief. “Oh,” she said softly. “There you both are.”
She approached slowly. “James,” she said gently, “your mother is looking for you.”
The change in Jim was immediate. The small warmth that had settled into his expression disappeared and something quieter folded in on itself instead. He looked down at the grass.
“Has she stopped crying yet?” he asked after a moment.
Amanda hesitated.
“She’s had a difficult day,” she said carefully.
Jim picked at the edge of his sleeve.
“But is she still drunk?”
The question landed hard enough that Amanda visibly paused. Spock looked toward Jim.
Amanda crouched down a little so she was closer to his eye level. “Your mother loves you very much.”
Jim shrugged. “She didn’t even say happy birthday today.”
Something in Amanda’s expression softened. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“She never does,” Jim continued quietly, still looking at the ground. “Not really.” He pulled absently at a blade of grass. “I think she doesn’t like me very much.”
Amanda frowned immediately. “James—”
“It’s okay,” Jim said quickly, though the words sounded practiced in a way that felt strange coming from someone so young. “I look like my dad.” He shrugged again without looking up. “Sam says so.” His fingers tightened slightly around the grass in his hand. “I think it makes her sad to look at me.”
The quiet that followed felt heavier than before. Amanda’s face changed in a way Spock did not entirely understand.
“Oh, James,” she said softly. “That is not true.”
Jim did not look convinced. “She’s always sad,” he said after a moment, still staring hard at the grass. “And drunk.”
Amanda hesitated. “James…”
“No, she is.” His fingers twisted tighter around a handful of grass. “She gets sad and then she drinks so she doesn’t have to think about stuff.” He shrugged, though the motion looked practiced somehow. “Mostly Dad.”
Something shifted sharply at the edge of Spock’s awareness. The quiet sense of contentment that had lingered faintly since the meld, so subtle he had scarcely noticed it before, vanished abruptly. In its place came something heavier that settled unexpectedly against him. Hurt arrived first, tangled tightly with frustration and a sadness so deep it seemed tired, worn smooth by repetition in a way that made him uneasy. Spock went very still.
Jim kept going before Amanda could answer. “She says she should’ve been allowed to die with him.” His voice had gone quieter now, flat in the way children sometimes repeated things they had heard too many times. “That she was supposed to be there with Dad, but instead she had to have me in a shuttle while he was dying.”
Amanda had gone ashen. Jim finally looked up, and for the first time since Amanda arrived there was something openly upset in his expression.
“She says she wishes I was never born.”
The hurt that followed struck Spock hard enough that he almost looked at James in surprise, because the sadness tangled through it felt old somehow, not like a new wound but one returned to repeatedly. James seemed to expect it.
Jim looked back down at the grass again. “So everybody keeps saying she loves me,” he muttered quietly. “But nobody ever believes me when I tell them stuff.”
Amanda looked stricken. “Oh, James…”
Jim was quiet for a few moments after that, staring at the ground while Amanda struggled for words. Eventually he pushed himself to his feet and brushed the grass from his pants. The movement felt oddly matter-of-fact, as though something inside him had simply decided the conversation was over.
“I guess I should go back,” he said quietly, and then he turned toward Spock. “Come with me?”He held out his hand.
Amanda blinked. “Oh,” she said gently, glancing between them, “sweetheart, Vulcans usually do not like to be tou—”
Spock reached forward and took Jim’s hand. Amanda stopped mid-sentence and watched as Jim’s fingers closed around Spock’s immediately, and something softened in his expression. He gave Spock’s hand a tiny tug, already turning back toward the trees.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”
**
The reception grounds grew louder as they stepped back through the trees, voices carrying softly across the lawn beneath the late afternoon sun while small groups lingered near folding tables balancing paper plates and drinks. Jim slowed as they approached the crowd but did not let go of Spock’s hand, and Spock found himself unexpectedly relieved by that. The quiet sense of warmth lingering faintly at the edge of his awareness remained difficult to understand, softer now than it had been near the pond but still present, enough that he noticed each small shift in it when James glanced toward the gathering.
Winona Kirk spotted them almost immediately “James Tiberius Kirk.”
The full name carried sharply across the lawn, loud enough that Jim slowed before he even turned. His hand tightened around Spock’s at once, and the quiet warmth lingering faintly at the edge of Spock’s awareness shifted uneasily.
Winona Kirk crossed the distance toward them quickly, drink still in one hand, mascara faintly smudged beneath reddened eyes. She looked tired, and there was irritation sharpened into something Jim seemed to recognize immediately.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded as soon as she reached them. “You cannot just wander off like that.”
“I just went to the pond,” Jim said quietly. “Spock was with me.”
“You just disappeared.” Her voice tightened immediately. “Jim, you are five years old. You know better than this.”
Jim looked down at the grass.
“You don’t get to walk away because you are upset and then make everybody stop what they’re doing to come find you,” she continued, rubbing at her forehead with visible frustration. “Amanda has been looking for you. Sam has been looking for you. I have enough to deal with today without worrying about where you’ve gone.”
The uneasy feeling at the edge of Spock’s awareness dimmed further, warmth giving way to something heavier that settled uncomfortably against his thoughts. Hurt came first, followed by embarrassment and something so familiar to James that the certainty of it unsettled Spock. James had expected this. There was no surprise in him, only quiet acceptance, and Spock found himself looking down at the smaller hand still wrapped around his while an uncomfortable tightness settled in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Jim said softly.
“No.” Winona shook her head immediately. “No, Jim. Sorry doesn’t fix things. You are old enough to know how to stay where people can see you. I should not have to explain to you that disappearing is irresponsible.” She gestured vaguely with the hand still holding her drink. “You have to start taking some responsibility for yourself. I cannot constantly stop what I’m doing to manage where you are.”
Spock looked at Jim, who had gone very quiet beside him, shoulders pulling inward in a way Spock had already begun to recognize. James was five years old. James had been alone. James had left because no one had been observing him, and somehow James was apologizing for it.
“He is five,” Spock said, his voice firmer than usual.
Winona blinked at him.
Spock found himself tightening his hold on Jim’s hand without intending to. “Independent self-supervision does not appear developmentally appropriate for a human child of James’s age,” he said carefully, keeping his voice level even though something in the situation felt profoundly unreasonable. “He removed himself from an emotionally distressing situation while unattended. That appears consistent with expected human child behavior.”
Amanda had only just reached them and slowed abruptly.
“Spock,” she said quietly.
But the hurt remained there at the edge of his awareness, quiet and heavy enough that he found himself unable to stop.
“Monitoring him would seem to be the responsibility of the supervising adult,” Spock finished.
Silence settled briefly over the small group. Winona looked caught somewhere between startled and irritated. Amanda looked uncertain what to say.
Jim squeezed Spock’s hand. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, looking up at him instead of his mother. “You don’t gotta be upset.”
Spock frowned faintly. “The situation remains unreasonable.”
That startled the smallest laugh out of Jim, brief enough that it disappeared almost immediately.
“You’re weird,” he said softly, though the warmth returning faintly at the edge of Spock’s awareness made it clear he meant something kind by it.
Winona rubbed harder at her face and let out a tired breath. “Come on, Jim,” she said. “We’re leaving.”
Jim looked disappointed for only a second before turning back toward Spock. He carefully slipped his hand free, then stepped closer and wrapped both arms around him in a quick hug, entirely certain Spock would allow it.
“You were helping,” Jim said softly. “Thanks for being mad for me.”
Spock stood very still, uncertain what to do with the strange tightness in his chest or the quiet warmth still lingering faintly at the edge of his awareness.
Jim pulled back just enough to look up at him. “You’re my best friend now,” he said with complete certainty, as though there were no room for argument. “Okay?”
Behind him, Winona had already started walking toward the shuttle path.
“I gotta go,” Jim said quietly, glancing back toward her before looking at Spock again. His expression softened in that same practiced way Spock had already begun to notice whenever adults around him seemed upset. “But it’s okay. You don’t gotta worry about me.”
Then he hugged Spock one more time, quick and tight.
“Bye, Spock.” Jim turned and hurried after his mother.
**
Spock remained where he was long after James disappeared down the shuttle path.
The reception broke up around them in the quiet, uneven rhythm grief seemed to create, adults drifting back into conversation while paper plates were gathered and folding chairs were folded softly across the grass. None of it held Spock’s attention for very long. The strange sensation lingering faintly at the edge of his awareness remained difficult to ignore now that he recognized it for what it likely was. A bond was the most reasonable explanation, though Spock had no prior experience with one forming outside family. James had named him best friend, and Spock had accepted the designation. Therefore, if the connection persisted after the meld, it was logical to conclude it was a friendship bond. Its strength was unusual, but that too had an explanation. Best friends were, by definition, a more significant category than ordinary friends.
The warmth had dulled after the goodbye, softened by distance, but it had not disappeared. Beneath it sat the same sadness Spock had felt near the pond and again during the confrontation with Winona, quieter now but still present in a way that left him unexpectedly unsettled. James had said he was okay. The feeling suggested otherwise.
Amanda approached slowly and rested a hand lightly against his shoulder. “Are you alright?” she asked gently.
Spock considered the question. “No,” he said honestly.
Amanda blinked once.
He looked down the path where James had disappeared. “When may I see James again?”
The question seemed to catch her slightly off guard.
“Oh.” Amanda glanced toward the shuttle area. “I am not entirely sure.” She hesitated. “I do not know if Winona is planning to leave for Riverside immediately or stay overnight.” Her expression softened. “I can message her and ask.”
Spock nodded.
“I will do my best to arrange something,” Amanda added after a moment.
He remained quiet.
Amanda tilted her head slightly. “May I ask why?”
Spock frowned faintly, uncertain why the answer was not immediately obvious. “James is my best friend,” he said simply. “And I am his.”
Something unexpectedly warm crossed Amanda’s face.
Spock continued before she could interrupt. “He appears emotionally unstable,” he said with complete seriousness. “And currently lacks appropriate companionship.” The strange feeling at the edge of his awareness shifted faintly again, quiet sadness brushing unexpectedly against his thoughts. “Based upon my current understanding of friendship, particularly a best friend, it would seem to be my responsibility to ensure his emotional stability and provide companionship where possible.”
Amanda went very still. “Spock…” she said softly.
He looked up at her.
“He is sad,” Spock said after a moment, lowering his voice slightly as though uncertain how to explain something he did not entirely understand himself. “I can still feel it.”
Amanda’s expression changed then, concern flickering briefly beneath surprise. “What do you mean,” she asked carefully, “you can still feel it?”