Chapter Text
Traitor.
The word had been bouncing around Spock’s mind for 3.71 days now.
Though the Enterprise’s encounter with the Romulan vessel had long since been reported and supposedly forgotten about, something had shifted in the air of the ship—something that made Spock’s spine stiffen and his hands clutch each other tighter behind his back.
Twice he overheard junior officers gossiping. The first time, in the rec room, he overheard the word ‘traitor’ as he rounded the corner. But as soon as he was in the doorway, the conversation stopped.
The second time was arguably worse. It happened in sickbay. Spock had been down to deliver some samples of viral pathogens collected on a survey mission, but the two nurses in the back had no idea he was in Doctor McCoy’s office.
“I just can’t believe he’s still on this ship!” a lady said.
“Right?” came the reply from the man. “If I was Kirk, I would have spaced him by now. Who knows what kinds of confidential information he’s been leaking to the Romulans?”
McCoy looked up from his computer, jaw clenched in anger. But Spock simply raised his brow, forcing his expression to morph into something akin to surprise.
“Fascinating.”
“No,” the doctor seethed. “I won’t tolerate this behaviour.”
He came around from the desk, storming towards the supply room, but Spock’s hand grabbed his arm to stop him. McCoy tried to wrestle his arm from the Vulcan’s grasp, finding out the hard way that it was no use.
“Doctor,” Spock said quietly. “Words do not have the power to injure someone unless they give them the power to do so.”
McCoy sagged and Spock let him go. He retreated to his desk, working in a begrudging silence while Spock recounted the inventory and left.
Walking back to his quarters, Spock mulled over his own advice. Perhaps words truly did not have any power? But he had already given them weight. And with each further instance, the words filled his lungs like pebbles in a jar. Soon enough, would he even have enough air to breathe?
That night, Spock remained in the bathroom for longer than usual. Most nights he took an average of 8.94 minutes to shower, and if he needed to shave or tend to an injury, it added approximately 7.002 minutes. Tonight, he had been in the room for 17.39 minutes already, and he hadn’t yet stepped foot into the sonic shower.
Somehow, he had found himself leaning on the sink, studying the yellowish-green veins that spread across his forearms.
This is the blood of a traitor, his mind provided, rather unhelpfully.
He traced the pattern for the nth time, applying a slight pressure with his nail. There was no pain, not yet, but he watched the blood vessel depress, only to rise again when he lifted his finger. His thoughts drifted idly back to his time in the academy. In his first few months, his green blood was something he was proud of. Though he would have hesitated to admit it outright, there was a part of him that thought himself stronger and more resilient to the red-blooded humans around him.
This did not last long, however, because soon enough, he realised that whatever strength he carried in his blood was nothing compared to the strength humans found in their camaraderie. Where his training scars healed at twice the efficiency of his classmates’, their study groups and social events sustained them through the semesters in a way his discipline did not. Yes, he was Vulcan. He could analyse the transient emotions of longing and loneliness and the occasional sparks of jealousy, and then he could file them away as data points. But he was also human. And being human meant he could not prevent himself from feeling them.
This brought him back to where he was now. In his bathroom, on a starship, somewhere in deep space near the Neutral Zone. He was Vulcan. He should have been able to analyse the way the word ‘traitor’ made him feel, and then suppress the emotions with sufficient meditation. But after three nights of unsuccessful attempts, he had to admit that this ran deeper.
Just then, the chime rang.
Spock straightened up and exited the bathroom, smoothening the wrinkles in his uniform and scrolling his sleeve back down.
“Enter.”
The door slid open and Jim walked in, dressed in his favourite rendition of the captain’s uniform—the green wrap. He smiled at Spock and rolled his shoulders, loosening his posture from what he held up all day.
“Hey,” he greeted.
“Hello, Captain.”
Jim rolled his eyes jovially. “Jim. Off duty, remember?”
“Right. Hello, Jim.”
For some reason that made the captain smile and he came a little closer, glancing around, eyes lingering on the chess board packed away on a shelf.
“You wanna play a round of chess?”
Spock’s answer wouldn’t have mattered because Jim was already walking up to the shelf and pulling the board down.
“As you wish.”
Jim shot him a sideways glance, and the two senior officers took their seats, each setting up their own pieces—Spock black as always, and Jim white. The captain played his opening and Spock countered.
“How are you?” Jim asked without warning, somewhere between Spock’s eighth and ninth moves.
“I am… adequate,” Spock replied. “What is the reason for your query?”
Jim sighed. His elbow was on the table, jaw was propped up on the palm of his hand, and he moved to lean back in his chair. He rubbed his eyebrows as though dispelling a headache.
“Bones mentioned something happened in sickbay today,” he offered.
Spock’s grip around the pawn in his hand tightened.
Traitor.
Green-blooded, pointy-eared traitor.
“You sure you’re okay?” Jim frowned, leaning forward again. “You look a little pale.”
“As I said, I am adequate.”
“Adequate, huh?” Jim raised his brows.
He had long since given up on the pretence of chess, and Spock now realised that setting up the board provided a physical barrier that gave them both something to look at other than each other. Which meant the game was also a simple ruse to get him comfortable enough to speak.
“Yes. I am adequate.”
“What does adequate mean, Spock?” Jim asked, suddenly taking on a more serious tone. “Because when you tell me you’re functional, that could be anywhere from peak performance, to your kidneys about to fail but holding on by a thread.”
Spock swallowed, suddenly wishing he had declined the chess game.
“Adequate means that I am operating at a reasonable capacity to discharge my duties to the ship and crew.”
Jim wiped his hand down his face. “See, that tells me nothing.”
Somewhere under the table, Spock had started running his thumb over his wrist. He said nothing and remained as still as possible.
“Bones said that some nurses were saying something nasty about you. I just wanted to check if you were okay.” The captain’s voice had softened, and Spock could see the genuine concern in his hazel eyes. But the man was rubbing his temples, clearly exhausted and looking forward to a well-deserved rest.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Captain. However, as I explained to the doctor, words have no power unless a person chooses to give them power. The nurses’ comments have not had any bearing on me.”
Spock could hear the blood rushing around through his body. He had just lied, and to Jim of all people. His thumb pressed down harder on his wrist, grounding him in hopes of preventing a further slip up.
His lies must have served their purpose, though, because Jim’s lips quirked up in a smile and he blinked slowly. “I’m glad to know that.”
Spock inclined his head.
“Well, Mr Spock,” Jim rocked back on the chair and patted his lap. He stood and stretched. “Let’s pause this game here and keep playing tomorrow. I for one, need a nice sonic shower and a good night’s sleep.”
“As you wish, Jim.”
Spock watched his captain leave, his hands still pressed together under the table. More pebbles filled his lungs, weighing him down until the entire concept of rising to bathe seemed insurmountable. Nonetheless, Spock was Vulcan. He forced himself up and back to the bathroom.
Once in the shower stall, he stood still as the machine whirred around him. Head bowed low, heart beating somewhere in his side, he pictured the green liquid circulating around his body. It inhabited every inch—from the tips of his fingers to the furthest points on his toes. It was that green liquid which differentiated him from his colleagues—from those he called his friends. It was that traitorous blood which ensured he would never belong.
The shower stopped humming and beeped, signalling he was cleansed. But he did not feel cleansed. His skin crawled with something he could not simply wipe off. His insides pulsed in time with his green heart, each beat pushing the liquid out to the different corners of his body.
Spock had little experience with the feeling of disgust, but if it existed in his mind, this was exactly what it would be. A complete repulsion. The desire to scrub himself clean of whatever lay beneath his skin—to purge himself of his own impurities.
The machine beeped again, and the Vulcan stepped out, coming face to face with himself in the mirror. He studied the angle of his brows, his high cheekbones, his pointed ears. All features he once prided himself on. But since that day, when he saw himself in the Romulans on the viewscreen, nothing had been the same.
Spock sat to meditate, lighting his candles and burning his incense. The scent of home reined his thoughts in, bringing some necessary order to the chaos inside him. He began by recalling Surak’s teachings, the principles of logic.
His race bearing any physical similarity to the Romulans was a mere evolutionary biproduct. This was logical. Any changes in the crew’s behaviour toward him was a result of their human emotions and biases. This too was logical. If Spock did not have pointed ears, angled eyebrows, or green blood, they would not look at him that way. That was also a logical conclusion.
Spock thought, abstractly, of the human artist who, centuries ago, cut off his ear in a period of mental anguish. Of course, he would never do such a thing. But logically, he could understand how a person pushed to the brink could end up in such a situation.
He breathed in deeply, allowing the scent of the incense to travel from his nostrils, down into his lungs, weaving between the heavy weights that sat inside him. Slowly, the tension seeped from his shoulders, and he let himself relax. Though his mind struggled to remain still, his body required rest. He had no choice but to succumb to the darkness of a restorative trance.
Ship’s morning was far from a welcome sight in Spock’s quarters. The lights began to brighten, simulating an Earthly sunrise, pulling him unceremoniously from his trance. His body felt functional enough to move, but the heaviness inside him seemed only to have worsened. For a few wasted moments, he sat where he was, blinking slowly, mentally running through his day’s schedule.
Breakfast at 0600, a meeting with the captain at 0630, and the transition to alpha shift at 0700.
The chronometer read 0531.
He unfolded his legs and stood, disposing of the ashes left by the burnt-through incense. Walking to the bathroom, he avoided observing the mirror too closely while he brushed his teeth. However, he could only postpone the inevitable for so long.
As he combed his hair, he considered whether the stubble dotting his cheeks was acceptable for a Starfleet officer, or if it was best to shave before alpha shift. Pulling taut the skin of his cheek, he leaned into the mirror to study it up close. His schedule required shaving every second morning, which would mean today was the correct day. It was illogical to question the routine which had served him well for over a decade.
Spock wet the bottom of his face and squeezed out a lump of shaving cream from the tube he kept under the sink. Rubbing it on his face, he watched it form the familiar lather. Next, he unsheathed his razor, wetting it too before applying it to his skin. Jim had teased him once, when they had to share a room on a distant planet, for using a manual razor. The captain preferred the electronic device that he could hold to his skin which would do the job for him. Spock did not explain it back then, but he valued the control of the manual blade.
He continued the downward motions across his other cheek, tapping the handle of the razor against the sink to remove excess foam and hair. He scraped the underside of his chin, and along his jawline. It appeared complete, but he had been fooled before. He turned his head in the mirror to ensure he hadn’t missed anything.
One spot.
Returning to the part of his jaw close to his ear, he tilted his head to the side to get a better vantage point as he targeted the remaining hairs.
Suddenly, a sharp, stinging pain erupted in the vicinity of the blade, and pulling back, Spock could see a trickle of green blood sliding down his neck. Dropping the razor beside the sink, he splashed water on his face, washing away the remnants of foam and with it blood. The cut was small, he observed, barely more than a centimetre. He should have moved on.
Instead, some sort of morbid fascination took over his fingers as they pressed against the skin beside the wound, eyes watching the green drops beginning to pool. Soon, the small dots merged into a larger droplet, the tension holding it in place beginning to wane. It dripped onto the tip of his finger.
Spock brought the finger into the light, fixated on the green liquid staining its surface.
You are different.
You do not belong.
He blinked, coming to the sudden, unwelcome realisation that he was staring at his own blood when he should have been getting dressed for his shift. His hand was shaking. Minute as the tremor was, it was also undeniable. Spock’s breath hitched. His hands did not shake. His hands never shook. His hands were steady.
There was no way they would cause a gash across his skin of their own volition.
That last thought was not something he wished to sit with. Immediately, he opened the tap, cleaned his jaw and his finger and dabbed the wound dry with a towel. Vulcan blood clotted fast. The cut would likely be healed by the end of the day.
That was acceptable.
It would heal, and no one would notice. No one would ask questions, and no one would care.
Spock dressed in silence and departed for his meeting with Jim. He had already wasted too much time to attend breakfast.
The captain was in the briefing room when Spock arrived, reading something on his PADD, biting down absently on his knuckle as he pondered the words on the screen. The sound of the door hissing shut drew his gaze from the device and to the Vulcan now standing across the conference table from him.
“You weren’t at breakfast, Spock.” Jim put the PADD down and laced his fingers, elbows on the table, sharp hazel eyes scrutinising him.
The cut on his jaw stung in time with his pulse. He held himself still, preparing a statement that was less of a lie and more of a distortion of the truth. “I elected to meditate for an extra period this morning, Captain.”
“Alright,” Jim said. He didn’t look entirely satisfied with the answer, but was intelligent enough to know this was the only answer he would receive. “Make sure you grab something to eat before alpha shift, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jim extended his hand to motion to the chair beside him, a silent instruction for Spock to sit, which he followed without question. Being so close to the captain made Spock’s heart lurch. The side of his face sporting the cut was exposed to Jim. If he noticed…
Spock clenched his fists under the table, stopping his hands from trembling again.
Luckily for him, Jim was absorbed with the mission briefing on his PADD. He read through it, pausing here and there to get Spock’s input.
Who should they allocate to the landing part?
Jim had already decided the two of them were going, along with McCoy, despite Spock’s logical protest. Spock suggested Sulu and Lieutenant Jakobson from xenobotany. Jim agreed and the matter was closed.
Next, they moved on to discussing the results of Lieutenant Sarju’s spectral analysis on a red dwarf star they passed a few days before the Romulan incident. The report had been sitting at the top of Jim’s to do list for a while and now was the best time to tell his science officer to transmit the findings back to Starfleet Command to alert them of the excess radiation emitted by the star. Spock agreed, though he privately wished they could have spent some more time there to study the phenomenon.
Jim then signed off on a stack of forms Spock had waiting for him.
Spock watched the captain’s hands move, dragging the stylus deftly across the screen, painting on his signature. There was something quite elegant about the horizontal line Jim drew atop his ‘J’ and his ‘T’.
“Spock.” Jim’s voice caught him off guard and the Vulcan looked up to meet his eyes.
Jim had finished signing the last document, but Spock had still been looking at his hand.
“Your face,” Jim gestured to the cut. “What happened?”
“Ah,” Spock replied with a calmness he did not truly possess. “A simple shaving error.”
Jim frowned for a second, then the corners of his lips tilted up in a teasing smile. “I thought Vulcans don’t make mistakes like that.”
“To err is not solely a human characteristic, Captain,” Spock said sagely. “It is endemic to all sentient beings.”
“Right as always,” Jim smiled wider. He patted Spock’s shoulder and stood. “Get something to eat. The bridge’ll be there when you get back.”
Spock nodded.
He watched Jim leave.
He was not hungry.