Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spock is standing in the hallway of an apartment building on Earth and there is some sticky substance on the floor, some sort of gum perhaps, that he only narrowly avoided stepping in when he got to the top of the stairs. The human boy who drove him here, Spock clinging tight flush against his back on a motorcycle not unlike the one his father owns and does not let him borrow, ever, because he is too young—the human boy is punching a code into the number pad next to door 4A. He is not looking at Spock, and Spock is beginning to wonder if this was a mistake.

“My father would not approve of this,” he says. After he says it, he realizes the remark is somewhat out of place. He and the human haven’t spoken since they pulled into the parking lot outside the building, and even then all the other had said was, “This is it.” Spock had not said anything in reply, because the building was a squat, dingy structure, not particularly pleasing to the eye, even with the bright and beautiful sun skimming the horizon beyond it, and he neither wanted to insult the human’s home, nor lie.

The boy laughs, just a short snort of laughter through his nose, and says, “I guess he wouldn’t.” The code takes, and the door slides open. The boy ushers Spock in first, and Spock can feel eyes on him as he walks in. They both take off their shoes at the door. The apartment has no entryway. It is one large room, kitchen unit to the side, an open doorway leading to what appears to be a bedroom to the far right, a bathroom just to his left. He takes one sweeping glance at it, the dull colors of the furniture, the scattered mess, thick paperbound books in great piles and a few dirty dishes on the table and next to an overflowing sink. Then he turns back to the human. He wants to say something. He cannot find words. He tries to calm himself, and still the thoughts running quite without order in his head.

“He’s an Ambassador, you said? Your father?” the boy asks him, his own stare steady on Spock, almost appraising.

“Affirmative,” Spock answers. “He visits Earth frequently. This is the first time I have accompanied him.”

“And you thought it would be a good opportunity for some teenage rebellion?” the boy says, and then before Spock can answer, continues: “Don’t worry, I’m not judging. I went through that phase.” Then he pauses for a moment and rolls his eyes, a strange gesture, which Spock has never seen before. He tilts his head to watch the human closer. “Who am I kidding? I’m still in that phase.”

Spock and the human, they met quite by accident, three hours and forty-eight minutes ago, when Spock bumped into the boy in the street. He’d been wandering, bored of waiting at the hotel for his father to complete his business, wanting to know, to understand this culture, these people, his mother’s people whom he has never encountered, whom he knows only through his mother herself and his own reading and research. The boy had quite startled him, seeming to come out of nowhere as he rounded a corner, but he hadn’t been upset at their collision. He’d invited Spock for a drink. Spock had declined; the boy had insisted; the bar had been loud and the people obnoxious, but the boy, with his blonde hair and clear blue eyes and startling smile that went straight to Spock’s deepest organs, with his easy laugh and the way he was always leaning in, almost touching but not, so that when he did touch, Spock was set for the thrill of it, waiting despite himself for the thrill of it, toe curling thrill—the boy had been mesmerizing.

“Come back with me,” he’d invited, later. Spock had said yes without thinking, without even asking the boy his name despite their hours together, without ever offering his. They had exchanged ages, though when the boy had said eighteen, Spock had been too afraid, too irrationally but powerfully afraid, to give his real age, so he’d said he was eighteen too. In reality he is fifteen. To lie so boldly and so blatantly is worrisome. Or it would be worrisome, if he had room in his mind to worry. The human is taking up all of the space, every layer of his thoughts.

There are a considerable number of layers to Spock’s thoughts.

And what is this feeling? What are these desires? If he could only examine them, if he could only calm himself and take them apart, see how they work and what they mean.

The silence seems to be making the human a bit uncomfortable—the signs are subtle but Spock thinks he’s picking them up, a bit of twitching, an unsteady gaze—so he saunters a bit closer to Spock and tells him, “You’re the first Vulcan I’ve ever met, you know? I’ve heard you’re about…three times stronger than the average human?” He tilts his head, a bit like Spock had a moment before, and then reaches out one hand so gently, all of Spock’s conceptions of him blur and turn. He doesn’t quite touch, not until after he adds, “Strong—but somehow—delicate.” His palm is against the skin of Spock’s cheek. “I mean that as a compliment, by the way,” he says, and smiles in such a way that Spock believes the human is trying to put him at ease.

The boy moves his hand to Spock’s shoulder, then puts his other hand on Spock’s other shoulder. He looks right into Spock’s eyes, and Spock controls his body carefully, tells himself he cannot look away. “In a moment,” the boy says, voice calm and much quieter than Spock has yet heard it, “in a moment, I am going to kiss you. Step away now if you don’t want me to.”

Spock is vaguely aware of the human custom of kissing, quite different from any kisses he has ever witnessed on Vulcan, but his mind is lagging behind its usual pace by a full 74.8% and so he is still trying to imagine what pressing his mouth against this boy’s mouth would be like when it is happening. His lips are soft. For a moment they don’t move. Then they begin to open against his mouth. The human steps closer, so that their bodies are pressed against each other. He does not stop kissing. Spock opens his mouth, because he thinks this is probably what the human expects him to do. He feels a tongue in his mouth, reaching out to run across his teeth and then seeking his tongue, just pushing against it at first. The most curious of sensations. The boy’s arms are around his body. This sort of physical intimacy with a being not part of his immediate family is shocking. He does not know what to do with his hands. Or with his mouth. He tries to press his tongue back against the human’s. It is wet and disorganized. An activity with no logical purpose except that if he were not controlling his body, barely but still, he would be shaking, and even now his breathing has increased in rate, and he can feel a slight increase in his heart rate as well. Also the strong and undeniable desire to press his body closer to this other body. He does so, even wrapping his arms over the boy’s shoulders, and at this the human pulls away and speaks, directly into Spock’s mouth in a low and rasping voice: “Yeah, that’s it. You got it.”

Spock does not know exactly what it he has, but he imagines his father would not want him to have it, and neither would the Vulcan High Council, or T’Pau, or his mother. He presses his mouth roughly against the boy’s again.

For several moments more they press against each other, increasingly disorganized, and Spock carefully loosens some of his control over his own physical reactions. He pants a little when the boy starts to pull away. He wants to ask what is going on, but the boy smiles, yet again, and as he untangles their arms he takes Spock’s hand, a touch way too strong for his current state and it sets his heart beating the slightest bit faster, and begins to walk backwards ahead of him, carefully keeping eye contact as he leads Spock toward the bedroom he’d seen off to the right when he came in.

Spock follows. He follows without hesitation. His mind is flooded with feeling, drunk with it, drowning in it, feeling for this boy and want for him and need, yes, completely illogical need so strong it defies logic, and he’s never felt this way before in his life. This is dangerous, a tiny voice in his mind says. He pushes it away. The boy pulls him over the threshold. He lets out a command, voice clear and loud and shocking to Spock’s ears, and the lights come on, not full on, but 75% at least. The human catches Spock’s eye and says, quieter now, “I want to be able to see you. You are…” (they’re only touching at the hands now, a light touch, tantalizing, and Spock feels his tongue flick out and run across his lips, notices the boy’s eyes follow the movement)—“You’re gorgeous.”

And then they are kissing again. It is as if the human boy’s hands were everywhere at once, running first up to Spock’s hair, now down his back, touching and teasing and skimming. Spock’s own movements are inadequate in comparison, he thinks somewhere low at the base of his thoughts. He keeps his hands splayed one and then the other on the human’s back, trying for a maximum of contact even through his shirt. He is also not sure what to do with his tongue. He moves with little grace within the hollow of the human’s mouth, feeling the warmth of it, a light human warmth he could never have imagined, first trying not to entangle the other tongue still against his, the tongue pushing insistently into his mouth, then trying to entangle it. The human makes an unexpected noise as they pull a little apart, and Spock would be startled by it, it sounds almost pained, except that at the same moment the boy’s hands move down and one stops at the small of his back and the other grabs his ass. He hears himself, also, exclaim softly at the touch. It is an exclamation of surprise, but the way the human pulls away and catches Spock’s eyes, and shoots him a few seconds’ of gleaming smile, it is clear that he understood it to be a moan of pleasure. Spock feels himself flushing green.

The human takes him by the hand again and pulls him to the bed, where they collapse, half sitting and half lying; Spock supports himself with one hand against the mattress (the bed isn’t made, he’ll remember later; the sheets are rumpled from where the boy slept the night before, a small mountain of blanket at the foot, imprints in the pillows). The human leans close into him, balancing Spock does not know how, one hand on his leg, one wrapped around his body. They kiss mouth against mouth only a moment, then the boy takes his lips away and starts to kiss, small kisses, almost gentle, across Spock’s face and then along his jaw and then down his neck. This skin is more sensitive. Spock can’t stop the noises he’s making, definitely moans now, he tells himself calmly somewhere within his thoughts. It is only logical. I am responding to stimulus.

He only wishes the human were warmer. He craves warmth, needs it, needs the contact that comes from skin touching skin, the comfort of this closeness. He uses one hand to reach a bit nervously, a bit tentatively, under the boy’s shirt.

He seems to sense Spock’s nervousness. Mouth at his ear now, he whispers into the shell of it, “It’s all right. I want you.”

Spock isn’t sure if the two sentences are related. If the second is the explanation for the first. He feels a graze of teeth and his thoughts blank for a moment and when they return all he cares about is the way the boy is pressing him, carefully but unquestionably, backwards onto the bed. He covers the totality of Spock’s body with the totality of his, and for a moment, for a handful of moments, it is perfectly blissful, hungry and a bit rough and completely desperate and driving, but blissful. He’s lost in it. Then the human pulls away, and lifts himself up on two arms so he’s looking at Spock’s face. Spock looks back at him. He notes his red cheeks and his slightly mussed hair and that he is breathing through his mouth. Spock notices each of these hints of arousal, of desire, but he’s still worried, because the human has stopped, and he doesn’t know why.

“I think we’re wearing too many clothes,” he says, after a few seconds’ silence. Before Spock can answer the human is pulling his own shirt over his head. The ease with which he reveals his half naked body is startling, scandalous. Spock does not even consider mimicking the gesture, has not gotten that far in his now considerably slowed thoughts, until the boy says, in a slightly teasing tone, “Now we’re uneven.”

“I—” Spock starts to answer, but he does not know what he is trying to say, what he wants to say. He can see the slightest definition of muscles rippling down the boy’s chest and he’s swamped with a desire he’s never felt before and he’s caught, he has no idea what’s happening. No. That is a lie. He does know what is happening. When the boy smiles down at him again, still a bit teasing, yes, but that is only a thin hint beneath the reassurance baldly displayed in his expression, and moves back to crouch over Spock’s legs, and gestures for him to sit up, he does. He starts to peel off the three layers he’s wearing to protect against the cool chill of Earth weather. Embarrassment floods up to his ears at the appraising look the human is giving him. But before he can say anything the boy pushes him back again, hard this time, the bed jostles beneath them, and covers his body again.

Skin against skin tempts him to let down his defenses, his barriers, and feel the boy’s emotions flow into him. But he does not. He cannot. He must not. Still he runs his hands up and down that back and bites his lip to keep from answering too loudly the sensation of that warm mouth against his burning skin, trailing down his chest. He feels the swipe of a tongue across one nipple and he claws his nails into the boy’s back. He thinks he feels a smile press against one of his ribs.

The boy’s mouth presses against his again, lips open against lips. Their movements are sloppy and undignified, messy and embarrassing. Spock feels them both move to rub their bodies against each other in whatever manner they can. The boy is hard, he notices vaguely, and so is he, and what can he do? What can he do but tilt his head to the side and begin to kiss the human boy’s face and jaw? He hears words mumbled breathlessly: “yes yes good you’re so good you’re so hot fuck oh yes.” These words and other things. They only vaguely register in his thoughts. He himself is silent, except for a few moans he cannot suppress. He tilts his head awkwardly to plant separate, distinct kisses, just a press of the lips and again, against the skin of the boy’s neck.

He shouldn’t be surprised when he feels the boy’s hand struggle between them and touch him, grab him, through the fabric of his trousers. But he gasps so loudly the boy laughs into Spock’s shoulders and mumbles, “My neighbors heard that one.”

He kisses Spock again as he undoes the buttons of his trousers and slips his hand softly inside.

But he feels Spock’s unease and pulls back again, hand where it is, but still, and looks into Spock’s eyes again. “This okay?” he asks breathlessly.

“I…I do not know,” Spock answers, considering. He tries to sort, logically, carefully, one by one, his scattered and shuffled thoughts. This is why the boy took him home, he’s thinking. He does not want to disappoint him. An illogical thought. He owes him nothing. Nothing but this feeling, this swamp of feeling he’s sinking in, this ecstatic pull of emotion he’s flooded with, perfect, beautiful feeling. He does not want it to end. He does not believe it could continue, not at this pace, without escalating. To touch more, to take off more of their clothing, to come eventually to release: this is the logical conclusion of their activities. But to continue these activities would itself be illogical.

“Are you okay?” the boy asks again, this time with more force.

“Yes,” Spock answers quickly, to reassure him.

“I can stop, if you want me to stop.”

This time, Spock hesitates. The boy is still staring at him intently. He is still touching him. Spock is sweating, even though the human’s room is quite cool.

Finally he says, “I am returning to Vulcan tomorrow.”

The human’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, just for a second, then he shakes his head and readjusts his position over Spock and says, “What does that have to do with anything? I’m not talking about tomorrow. I’m talking about right now.” As he speaks he moves his hand from Spock’s crotch and uses it to help support his weight.

Of course, Spock reminds himself, flicking his eyes down for a moment in embarrassment. There are no assumptions of longevity in this relationship—this is merely interaction. There is no bond but only a quick and fleeting lust.

“It would be illogical,” he starts, but the human cuts him off.

“Don’t think about logic.”

“It is against the teachings of my culture to ignore logic.”

The human sighs, perhaps fed up, and Spock imagines he will leave but he does not. He lowers himself down against Spock again and speaks this time low into his ear. “This feels good, right? I feel good on top of you, against you?”

He pauses, lips almost but not quite touching Spock’s skin.

“Affirmative,” Spock whispers.

“And you want me?”

One breath, a second.

“Very much.”

“Then follow your feelings. Just once. This doesn’t change who you are. It doesn’t change what you believe.”

“It would be hypocrisy—”

“You are alive. You have feelings. You have desires. To deny these things would be illogical.”

Spock does not answer this. He thinks the boy expects him to. But he has no answer. He closes his eyes and tries to center himself.

He feels the human sit up. He flickers his eyelids back up, watches as the boy passes the back of his wrist over his forehead almost absently. He’s sitting lightly on Spock’s knees and Spock’s stomach twists up because he’s ruined this now, hasn’t he?

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” the boy says finally. “Just know that I want you. Okay? Terribly. And,” he hesitates. Almost nervously, he avoids looking at Spock’s face as he continues, “and I’ll be careful. Slow. Just—think about it. For a few minutes, or however long and,” he sighs again. “Decide completely. Ask yourself what you want and if it’s worth it. I’ll be in the other room.”

Spock closes his eyes again, and does not open them even when he feels the weight on the bed redistribute and hears the human boy walk out.

He doesn’t know how long he waits there, sprawled without dignity on the boy’s white sheets. Perhaps only a few minutes. He hears a faucet running in the kitchen. He runs his hands down his own chest and draws in a few deep and calming breaths. What does he want? This boy, just that, just him. And is it worth it?

He glances through the doorway, but the human is too far away, invisible to him.

A few minutes more and Spock stands up.

The human is standing by his sink and staring down at the dishes piled in it, hand curled around an empty glass, and when he hears Spock, he lifts his head and looks at him. He isn’t smiling. He doesn’t seem upset, but still, Spock finds himself wishing for some sort of reassurance in that expression, reassurance he knows he shouldn’t need. He hesitates before speaking, and the human asks him, in that tripped up silence, “Do you want me to drive you back to your hotel?”

“Negative,” Spock answers, as quickly as he can. “I wish to remain here. With you. I—trust you.”

At this, the boy’s face breaks into a proper grin, and then he raises his eyebrows a bit mockingly. “Your face is completely green,” he says. Spock does not find this comment helpful. His stomach is all twisted. The boy steps up to him and wraps him in his arms. He kisses almost sweetly against Spock’s lips. Perhaps he feels the hesitation, the displeasing embarrassment, that Spock radiates, that tenses each muscle and keeps him from leaning in properly to the touch, because he quirks up the corners of his lips and adds, “I like green. It’s okay.”

Spock just nods, and drops his eyes away from the human’s face.

He hears a whisper, very light—“Come on”—and he does.

Back in the boy’s room now and he’s starting to fall. He feels his heart beat almost painfully against his side as they each lose the rest of their clothes, and he’s naked with a stranger in a stranger’s bed, and he’s terrified and turned on and desperate for this, shamefully desperate. The human whispers the most obscene and filthy words Spock has ever heard, but in such a soft and quiet voice that they sound almost like endearments. Spock himself says almost nothing. He tries to relax when the human tells him to; he follows what instructions he is given and he answers the questions straightforwardly put to him. “Are you okay?” the boy asks him. “Are you all right?” All right, he wants to say, is so vague that it is meaningless, and how can he be all right, when he is here, carefully directing his muscles to accommodate two fingers inside his body, closing his eyes and slipping his hands over bare skin for the comfort of contact in this hour. How can he be all right? Is he not all right? He is floating and falling. He is utterly aware of his surroundings. He is unable to go on. He must loosen his control. He feels bits of another’s mind flash through his thoughts. Lust and his own lust combining, and a sense of awe too pure to be his own, unmixed with pounding fear and clawing curiosity.

He wants to tell the boy these things. Or show him. Let his emotions flow back across the channel but he can’t, these things would hurt him. So he says he is all right.

“Don’t lie if it’s not all right,” the boy tells him, panting, his fingers still within Spock, so slick and cold as they entered but easier, now, to accept.

“It is acceptable,” Spock assures him, just as breathless.

It seems that this is the wrong answer, though, because the human frowns and says, “It’s supposed to be good, baby.” He shifts and licks down from the point of Spock’s ear, until he can whisper into it, “Here.” Spock feels that touch again on his length. “Now touch me,” the boy directs, and he does. The sensations triple at each of his most sensitive body parts, and he feels the human’s fingers crook inside of him. He moans. The human is repeating a word, “yes,” over and over to him.

“Do you trust me still?” he asks, later, hovering over Spock, about to push in. Spock grabs at his shoulder. He lets himself feel the boy’s emotion, controlling the transfer of it as well as he can, and as he does he bites his lips and closes his eyes and tries to pretend the boy is not staring at him. He feels impatient and a bit nervous, the boy, Spock through the boy, and he’s quite blinded with lust, an almost self destructive lust he’s felt before, and despite their new acquaintance there is a thrill of deep affection, almost familiar affection, thrumming an undertone of feeling. Spock must answer with the truth. He must look the other boy in the eye. And he does. He forces himself to. They are both slick with sweat and he’s scared.

“I trust you,” he says.

The boy nods once.

The human thinks he is hurting Spock, Spock realizes, and that is why he is talking him through this, always asking if he’s okay still, carefully moving more slowly than he wants to, touching Spock wherever he can because he knows somehow it is touch Spock wants. It is logical to conclude from Spock’s own behavior that he is in pain, from how he keeps his eyes shut tight, how he grips at the boy’s back and hip. But he is not in pain. He retains great control of his body, his muscles, even now. But he is scared, scared he is feeling too much, scared he will not return from this, scared that he will lose control. He is stronger than the boy by a great margin and he knows that he is causing pain just by the strength of his grip. He tells the boy to move faster, harder, because he knows he wants to, and lacks only the permission to do so.

It does not last long. The boy orgasms with little warning and with a loud and unrestrained moan, incoherent and wordless. Spock is almost embarrassed to hear it, to see the lost expression on the human’s face. He is himself nowhere near release, or at least he does not believe himself to be, until the human takes him unexpectedly in his hand; after only a few awkward, exhausted strokes Spock feels his body focus and his hips buck and he releases. He groans out a string of Vulcan words, mostly expletives, without truly knowing what he is saying, and when it is over he falls with a thud back onto the bed.

For several moments, he cannot look at the human boy. His eyes are open but they are on the ceiling. He and the boy have parted completely by now; they are no longer even touching each other, and Spock, washed through and sputtering like the almost drowned with only his own feelings, begins to realize just how much he was taking of the human’s emotions, and is embarrassed and guilty. Also he is sure that he looks a complete mess.

He is startled by a light touch at his hand. Then there is the sound of shifting, and he glances over to see the boy about to kiss him. He lets him, kisses back carefully, slowly. It is a closed mouth kiss. The boy holds his gaze for several moments after but he does not say anything, and neither does Spock. Then the human smiles, a thin, forced, smile, which then drops quite as suddenly from his face. The boy sits up with a loud sigh and a groan. He swings his legs over the bed and stares in the direction of the window, which is curtained closed. Safe now from that gaze, Spock stares at his back and the ladder of his vertebrae. He has a desire, out of nowhere it seems, to slide his fingers slowly down those notches, to take his time in exploration. But the realization of this desire comes with another: that he will have no such opportunity, now or ever. That this interaction is over now, only formalities left. A hollow pit settles in his stomach.

“The bathroom’s on the other side of the apartment—I don’t know if you noticed it before,” the boy says finally. His voice is tired and Spock cannot read any emotion in it. “It’s kind of annoying, the placement. You’re welcome to use the shower if you want. There are towels in there and—soap.” His words are a bit stilted, uneven, the voice of someone trying to keep his thoughts on track despite his fatigue.

Spock does not want to get up but he knows the boy’s invitation is more of an order, so he does, awkwardly, unevenly. He walks naked to the bathroom. He turns the water on in the shower as hot as it will go, which is still not very hot, and though usually he takes quite short showers, this time he has the desire to stand under that water for ages. He refrains out of a sense of politeness. He’s sure the human is desperate to get rid of him by now.

It is not, he considers as he dries himself, that his mind is blank. There are thoughts, there are emotions, but he’s been carefully, without realizing even that he is doing it, placing them in boxes and shelving them, regaining his control. There will be time later to meditate upon this encounter. For the moment he has practical matters to concern himself with: returning to the hotel as inconspicuously as possible, explaining his prolonged absence to his father. What is most important is to find his center again, regain his balance, regain his logic. What is important is to be Vulcan, to indulge no longer in desires and temptations that are, as he puts it only now to himself, guiltily, and to hide his guilt, all too human.

When he returns to the boy’s room, embarrassed in his nudity but unwilling to cover what the human has already seen, his clothes are sitting, folded messily, but folded, in a pile at the foot of the bed. The boy is looking through his dresser drawers absently; he is wearing a pair of well worn jeans and no socks. He looks up when he hears Spock enter. “Your communicator’s been beeping,” he says, quite levelly, and then returns to his search.

Spock picks it up. Three messages. Two from his father, one from his mother. He turns it off. “My parents,” he starts to say, and then realizes that explanation is unnecessary, and puts the communicator off to the side so that he can begin to dress.

The boy finds a shirt and pulls it swiftly over his head. “Know what you’re going to tell them yet?” he asks casually.

“I will think of something,” Spock answers. He finishes dressing swiftly and then follows the boy from the room. They put on their shoes at the doorway, neither speaking. Spock finds himself wondering what the human is thinking. But no, such thoughts are useless, such speculation idle and without meaning. He clears his mind.

“Where do you want me to take you?” the boy asks him once they are outside, pressed close again on the seat of the motorcycle. “Your hotel?”

“My father would not appreciate seeing his son arrive in such a manner,” Spock answers. “No. Take me to the library. I will walk back from there.”

He hears the human laugh, just a short snort of it, as he turns the machine on. “The old library excuse—and not even technically a lie—I’m impressed,” he says, then turns them out toward the road.

*

The boy stops his bike, but doesn’t turn it off, just leaves it idling beneath him as Spock climbs off outside of the Riverside Public Library. Spock doesn’t know what to say. He almost wants to say thank you, but such a remark would be illogical, as the human has done him no favors, has sacrificed nothing for him. The pause lasts several moments, confused, unsure, and then the human turns his head to catch Spock’s glance and says, in a calm tone Spock can’t read, “I hope you have a safe trip home.”

“I thank you,” Spock answers, relieved somehow that he’s been given the opportunity to say the words. Having nothing more to say, he nods once formally, and the boy nods in return, just once, and sighs a little a sigh so small Spock doesn’t believe a human ear would notice it. Then the boy takes his feet from the ground, adjusts his hands on the handlebars, and roars off.

Spock waits several moments on the sidewalk, just watching him.

His father is not angry, when Spock finally punches in the code to their rooms and walks in. He is disappointed. He is quietly, evenly, disappointed—looks like he did when Spock got into that fight at school four years ago—and all Spock can think when he looks at him is how much he does not want to talk to his father at this moment. He wants to go to sleep. He is not tired, not physically; if he had to he could stay awake for hours still, but his mind is almost painfully drained. All he wants is sweet unconsciousness and a few hours’ meditation when he awakes.

His father does not say much. He asks where Spock was.

“I was at the library,” he answers. “I was caught up in my research and lost track of time. I did not hear my communicator, as I had turned it off in order to avoid disturbing the other patrons. I apologize.”

Sarek looks at him sternly, silently, and Spock can read in his face clearly enough that he does not believe him.

“It is late,” he says finally. “We will discuss this tomorrow.”

“Yes Father,” Spock answers deferentially, and retreats into his room without saying anything more.

Once the door closes behind him he allows himself a glance in the mirror. Did his father see the same debauchery he sees in his own face? He is overwhelmed suddenly with a burning shame that brings a green flush to his face yet again. No. This paranoia is unreasonable. The human boy is gone. And Spock—tomorrow he will return to Vulcan, to his normal life, to the everyday realities of school and his preparation for his entrance exam for the Vulcan Science Academy. And everything will be just the same as it was.

Chapter Text

His mother questions him at length on his story when he gets home, and his father, though comparatively silent, regards him unflinchingly, that familiar expression of disapproval on his face. Spock knows that neither truly believes him. But he repeats, carefully and patiently, as if he had nothing to hide, the story of his long night in the Riverside library, and eventually they have no choice but to let the matter go. He is their son, after all, and a Vulcan, and he has never lied to them before.

He is surprised, two weeks later, to find his mother sitting at the kitchen table when he gets back from class. At first she does not notice him. She’s too engrossed in the work she has spread out in front of her. He pauses a second in the doorway, then steps forward, and with, a slight clear of his throat, asks, “Mother?”

She looks up quickly, startled, but at the sight of him she smiles. He can see her teeth. She does not often smile at him this way: only when she is particularly, strongly, happy, or when she wants to convince him that she is happier than she is. “Spock,” she says, still smiling, “come. Sit.”

He hesitates first, but as she clears away a space for him on the tabletop, fairly covered in her PADDs, papers, and books, he agrees with a slight nod of his head. He sits down across from her, setting his own things down on the spare chair between them. His mother seems about to speak when a high pitched and unpleasant whistling interrupts, and she gets up hurriedly to turn off the kettle. Spock didn’t even notice it. Another small hint that his concentration is slipping. He would be concerned if this were not so easily explained, his own confusion at this change in a well-worn routine distracting him.

“You are not in your office,” he says, looking more at her unfinished translations than at her, back to him as she pours out steaming water into a large mug.

“Thought it would be nice to work out here for a change,” she answers him carelessly. “Do you want some tea?”

He considers. It is odd, he notices, that she is making tea in this way. It is much easier to replicate it than to use their precious, rare, water for such a luxury. His uneasiness increases. All he says is, “Please.”

She pours a second mug and then, clearing a bit more space on the table, sits down across from Spock again. Again he picks up slight changes in her manner, her posture, her smile. He is…not nervous, but concerned, curious. “Is someone hurt?” he asks.

“What? Spock—no—”

He notices her shock, but continues anyway.

“Has something happened to Father?”

“No,” she insists again, and before he can ask any other question she holds up her hands, tries to smile again, and says, her tone quite obviously lightened, “You’re so suspicious, Spock.”

“I am merely trying to find the most probable explanation for this change in your routine.”

“And it’s not a probable explanation that I just want to talk to my son?” She hangs her head and sighs a heavy sigh. “I must be a horrible mother.”

“On the contrary, you are—”

“Joking, Spock.” She looks up to meet his eyes again, a more sincere quirk to her lips this time, and he realizes his mistake. He takes a sip of his tea, still much too hot for his mother to do more than hold gingerly, to hide his embarrassment. “I was just trying to lighten the mood a little,” she continues.

“If you wish to put me at ease, merely tell me why you have arranged for this conversation,” he answers calmly. He sees the disappointment in his mother’s face at his tone but he pretends he does not. Her roundabout methods of engaging in conversation with him are frustrating, if not as frustrating as his own inability, even after fifteen years of being her son, to read her. If he is honest with himself he is becoming less, not more, adept at interpreting the expressions and tones of his own mother as he trains himself to become more and more Vulcan.

His mother is patient with him as always, though. She hides her disappointment, tests her tea carefully and sets it down again, and then explains quite straightforwardly, “I realized today that it has been a full fifteen days since you and your Father returned from Earth and I still haven’t had a proper conversation with you about it.”

Her tone is quite unemotional but he gathers the evidence and decides that this is for his benefit. She has altered her routine. She has made real tea. She has not been to Earth, her home planet, in over a decade. And now, as he takes another sip of his tea, she is looking at him, expectant and curious. That she misses her first home is an obvious, an inevitable, conclusion. It is also logical to assume that she wishes him to talk about Earth, so that she may better remember the planet, her own experiences there. She wishes to live vicariously through him.

Spock’s mother is looking at him expectantly, softly, and he cannot look at her at all. He stares down into his tea, which is quite a bit weaker than he usually takes it, and thus a percentage less dark. The force of his breath downward sends light ripples across the surface. He was on Earth for three of its weeks; he saw its cities and its countrysides and its crowds; he ate its food; he breathed its air and felt its chill; he was exposed to its media and its politics; he accompanied his father to dinners with some of its most distinguished representatives. But whenever he thinks of that strange, diverse, multicolored planet, the first image that comes to his mind is that of the human boy. He had a wide smile. His teeth were a strong white color. His touch was always purposeful, heavy against Spock’s skin, and warm but the way humans are warm, a subtle and quiet warmth. He had been careful to look into Spock’s eyes at the moment when he—

His mother is waiting for him to speak. She says his name again, “Spock,” and tilts her head to try to catch sight of his face. “Tell me about your trip.”

Sometimes she still speaks to him as if he were a child. They have spoken on the matter in the past, uncomfortable exchanges where he tried to explain that he is growing up, a teenager and just shy of adulthood, and still her son, yes, but not the boy she sometimes seems to see even now. This time he does not comment. He does not quite admit it to himself, but it is because he wishes that she were right, that he was the boy to whom such tones would be appropriate.

“It was…eventful,” he answers after a pause. “I remember many details but do not know which would most interest you. I found your planet a startlingly diverse one, Mother.” He says this last with a bit more confidence, a bit more certainty, and looks up to meet her gaze. “I understand there to be deserts as on Vulcan, but I did not see any. Everything was exceedingly green. There was more vegetation than I have seen anywhere here, even in our greenhouses. In Iowa, we saw large tracts of farmland, and though it had not the appearance of my native landscapes, I…” found it beautiful, the way their sun sunk below the horizon in the harshest red glow, “found it aesthetically pleasing, particularly in the evening.”

“And the people?” his mother asks, smiling rather fondly at his words, incomplete descriptions as they are.

“They are…”

How is he to answer? What can he say? He had met many humans in passing, shook their hands when they offered despite the strangeness of the gesture, nodded at their comments, watched carefully their gestures and the expressions on their faces, but there was too much data, even for his carefully trained mind, to come to any reliable conclusions. They walked quickly into his life and back out, and the most time he spent with any one of them was his night in that book-strewn apartment.

So he looks his mother in the eye and watches her watching him and tells her, “They were what I expected. A wholly illogical race. But also, wholly fascinating.”

His answer is meaningless, the vaguest of any possible response he could give, and his mother, an intelligent woman, sees right through it. But she does not press him. She only sips again at her tea, letting a comfortable silence slip over them. Only after Spock has finished his own tea does she ask, “Do you regret going?”

“That is—”

“An irrelevant question, I know Spock. Humor me.”

“No,” he answers. He pauses before he answers, to make sure that in this, at least, he is telling her the whole and inarguable truth. “I have no regrets concerning the visit.”

He starts to stand up, with the explanation that he has work waiting for him in his own room, but again his mother stops him, just as he is pushing his chair back beneath the table. A bit hesitant, hand still curled around her mug and tapping it lightly, unconsciously, she asks, “And how is your work, Spock?”

He raises one eyebrow. “As usual.”

“I only ask because it seems you’ve been spending more time at it these last couple of weeks.”

This is true and hardly a fact he can deny. His thoughts have been more easily pulled away from his studies than they were before, and it takes him 15.6% longer now to finish his day’s work. Again and again his thoughts drift, sometimes to memories of the boy, he can’t say they don’t, but sometimes to other, inconsequential things: what he will eat for dinner, his latest discussion with his advisor, the Science Academy application he will not be filling out for almost a year, and a myriad of other distractions. He has never experienced such a phenomenon before, but until this moment, he has been able to carefully avoid its existance in his life now. He is still not quite ready to admit it out loud.

“Perhaps this is true,” he says. “Upon consideration, I notice a slight increase in the difficulty of my work in recent weeks, which is perhaps to be expected, given the speed with which I am approaching my final year at the school.”

She accepts his explanation with a nod and he takes his things with him to his room. Then, closing the door behind him, he leans against it with an uncomfortable sigh of relief. How does his mother still trust him, he asks himself, asks himself before he can stop himself from asking, how can she still trust him when he is becoming such an untrustworthy son?

*

Spock wakes up suddenly to the dark of his room, an hour and twenty minutes before he is accustomed to waking. There is a sharp and intense pain in his stomach. His first instinct is to be terrified: he has never felt such sensation before, and though it is centered on his stomach, on some unrest in his organs, his whole body shivers with tremors from it and his legs shake so forcefully he’s not sure he could walk on them if he tried. Not quite awake at first, he wonders if he is dying. No, no—but something has happened—he is dreaming perhaps—no, his room is all too real around him, and the sensations of his body too strong to be imagined—he must be ill. He tries to control his reactions. He tries to calm the unsettled movement of his stomach, the shakiness of his limbs. He is a Vulcan, a Vulcan, he repeats to himself. He will not be beholden to the whims of the body. His mind is powerful; it is the center of him; it has control.

Deep breaths and calm thoughts do not work. Something is happening in him. The fear comes back in a great wave and he clenches his eyes tight against it and for a moment, all he wants is his mother, wants her to sense his distress and come to him as she did when he was a child and haunted by nightmares, wants her to hold him as she has not done in years.

Spock curls himself around his stomach, knees up as far as they will go, and wraps his fist in his sheets. The pain is not going away. He must do something. He regulates his breathing again, with more difficulty, and tries to think through the sensation. Pain is a sign that something is wrong. The body is fighting something or asking for something. Symptoms are clues. They tell you that you are dehydrated, or that you have the flu. What is his body telling him now?

Suddenly, his stomach seizes, and a squeezing sensation ripples up his throat. He gags violently over the side of the bed.

My body is turning inside out, he thinks wildly, illogically, and has to breathe in great gulps of air to calm his fear and regain his balance. Something is trying to leave my body, he says instead to himself. And—and I would rather whatever it is not end up on my floor.

A simple thought, a simple conclusion, wholly accurate based on the evidence at hand, and the only thing to do is control his shaking legs and pull himself out of bed. He walks with unsteady, but quiet, feet, down the hall to the bathroom, commands the lights on and shuts the door behind him. He plans to sit down with as much grace as he can manage in his current state but at that moment his stomach grips tightly against itself again and he falls to his knees. A burning, painful liquid is pushing itself up, quite without warning or permission, from his stomach through his esophagus and then his mouth is filled with it and he spits it out, as much as he can, even after the movement of his insides stops, into the toilet. Completely illogical that a food that tasted so pleasant at dinner should be so foul upon its return through his digestive system. He slumps backward against the side of the tub. His body feels utterly empty, his muscles aching from the effort they so recently exerted, and the taste in his mouth is truly disgusting. He takes deep, lung-filling breaths. He feels unclean. But what is worse, what is almost unbearable, is that the pain in his stomach has not ceased. It is perhaps less strong, but still persistently present within him.

He closes his eyes and waits, almost an impatience he feels now, as the pressure increases and increases, as his body prepares to empty itself again, and he’s only dimly aware of the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Suddenly the feeling grips him again, the feeling of a gripping at his center, and he throws himself forward again. There is a knocking on the door. Timid at first then more insistent; he knows that the sound of his retching must be audible to the person outside, to his mother, but he cannot quiet himself. He cannot stop. He hears his name called, twice, and then the door opens and then somehow there is a strong but loving touch at his shoulders, and his mother is there. She is saying something to him, he doesn’t know what. She is asking if he is all right. He spits the last of it from his mouth, a worse taste this time than even before, the acid of pure bile, and sits back, shaking and breathing harsh and unable to speak.

His mother’s hands are everywhere at once: rubbing his back, smoothing the hair from his face, touching his cheek and forehead, handing him the first thing she can find, a small towel in this case, to wipe his face. When he is slightly more recovered, she helps him lean back against the tub. She is looking at him, he can tell just by a quick flicker of his eyes to her face, with an intent and worried expression. Already flushed from exertion, he feels a slightly stronger blush of embarrassment color his skin. The feeling is illogical. He knows he has done nothing wrong. But the betrayal of his own body against him feels like a treachery committed against his mother as well.

When she sees that he is able to speak, she carefully tilts his head toward her, catches his gaze, and asks in a slow and careful tone, admitting of no lies, “Are you all right, Spock?”

Even under better circumstances he could not answer such a question, phrased in such a way, but even knowing that she means to elicit only the shallowest assurance of his well being, he does not know what to say. “I am not sure,” he answers honestly.

She frowns at him, every muscle of her face contorted by worry. “You’re not sure,” she repeats. “How do you feel, Spock? What’s happened?”

“I am not sure,” he repeats. “I woke up. There was a pain in my stomach. I came here, and…”

His father is standing in the doorway, visible over his mother’s shoulder. From Spock’s position on the floor, Sarek seems even taller than usual. His face is mostly blank, and he seems, in comparison to his wife, quite calm, but Spock thinks there might be a flicker of worry there as well. Spock wonders how long his father has been in the room.

It is the sight of his father, finally, that breaks him. He lowers his head and closes tight his eyes and clenches his fists. He is a mess, he is more baldly scared than he has been in years, and he is lost, no logic to fall back on, no store of knowledge or figures or data to consult. “Mother,” he whispers, “Mother what is happening to me?”

“I,” she starts to answer, and he hears the doubt in her tone and knows she is about to tell him she doesn’t know. Perhaps knowing what it would do to him to hear those words from her, she refrains. Instead she puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder and says his name in her very gentlest voice and tells him, “It will be all right. You’ve—you’ve just thrown up, that’s all.”

He is not familiar with the expression, so it provides none of its intended comfort.

“It’s a common symptom in many human illnesses,” his mother continues softly. This is the voice she used to teach him to read, to explain to him his first math problems, to guide his earliest experiments. “On Earth, it’s usually not anything to worry about—just a stomach flu, maybe, or the result of eating the wrong thing.”

“We are not on Earth,” he reminds her quietly, only now looking up, glancing first at her and then, just as quickly, at his father still silent in the doorway. “And I am not a human.”

She tries to remind him, “You are part human—”

“I have never experienced this before,” he cuts her off. His voice is still strained, an undeniable string of fear through it, but he’s slowly regaining his calm. He looks down at his hand resting on his leg. He is still scared. There is an unpleasant taste in his mouth. His muscles ache with a steady and undeniable ache. Still, he can feel himself recovering, almost capable of conversation now. Getting better, getting better.

His mother smiles, a sad smile, and with a note of apology in the expression that he doesn’t understand. “Actually, you have,” she corrects. “Just not in a very long time. At least in ten years—I think you were four or five the last time you were ill like this. I guess you were too young to remember.”

An unbelievable hypothesis. He has proven himself capable of remembering events from that era of his life, provided they made a strong enough impression, as experiencing such sensations as these certainly would. But he does not argue the point. He almost misses the look his mother shoots to Sarek, a look first question then recognition, the slightest disapproval. Spock does not comment on this either, and Sarek himself, when he speaks, only changes the subject.

“What is important now, is Spock’s health,” he tells his wife, stepping fully now into the room, and then to Spock himself he asks, “Are you ill now, Spock? How do you feel? We can take you to a physician if you believe it necessary.”

“I am not ill,” he answers quickly, but confidently. It is true: his body has recovered and though the recent memory of pain is still with him, it is truly only a memory. He fully believes himself capable of attending classes and completing his day’s work as usual, and he tells his parents as much.

But his mother retains the same pinched, worried expression. “Are you sure? This is a strange symptom for you to have, Spock…”

“I am sure, Mother,” he repeats. “It will not be necessary to seek medical attention. I feel almost fully recovered already. I can only assume this was a…an abnormality, a fluke.” He looks at his mother carefully, steadily, and watches as her worry becomes something more precisely called unease, and he knows that his arguments, as well as his father’s agreement that Spock can most accurately judge his own health, will eventually overcome any of her pleas that he visit a physician anyway, just in case. And he is correct. She gives him one last look, as he stands up steadily on his own feet again, and she and Sarek prepare to leave the room. It is an unsure look, a look that prompts a quick, brief swell of guilty feeling.

*

Sometimes, even the best scientist must admit that some questions cannot be answered. Some unknowns must be accepted as eternal unknowns. Spock tells himself this, but doesn’t really believe it. Deep down he believes in solutions, in answers that come if you ask the right questions and find the right data, if you search long enough. So it bothers him that he does not know what caused his body to react in the way that it did when he awoke. The school day seems to drag on forever. He does not lose himself in his studies as he usually does, but finds himself distracted again and again by a strange feeling of puzzlement that sneaks up on him, a puzzlement directed at his own body. It has betrayed him. He no longer feels it in his control. And it does not help to tell himself that sometimes anomalies must be accepted for anomalies, or that his obsession with this freakish occurrence is illogical, because he has been shaken, more shaken than he would ever admit to being aloud.

Finally, he arrives home. His mother, hearing his footsteps through the house, calls out to him from her office, but when he assures her that he is in perfect health, she does not ask him to repeat his claim. He disappears into his room and closes the door behind him. Then he closes the curtains and clears his desk and sits down on the floor facing the far wall, his back straight against the bed. The room is gloomy and surreal, faint shadows of metal on the wall. The colors are the sort of in-between shades that tend to drift into a closed off room in the later afternoon; it is not truly dark, but there is no specific form of light except for a line of flickering crystals on a shelf next to his desk. Spock sits down on his crossed legs and grips his ankles and closes his eyes. He lets himself slip into meditation slowly, carefully.

He comes to this state with a problem, a question for himself. First he must feel free. Free of burdens and worry. He must become in tune with his physical form so that it becomes one with his mind, as light or as heavy as his thoughts. He must be calm.

Yes. A feeling of weightlessness falls gracefully over him.

He takes an inventory. His heart: it beats at the same steady rate. His lungs take their usual breaths. His temperature is slightly elevated, and has been, he realizes, for several weeks. Throughout his body is the faint but noticable feeling of accumulated fatigue.

And there is something else. Something alien, foreign, about him. He tries to concentrate, but finds himself slipping from his meditative calm as he worries, so he steps back. All he is finding are more questions. He clears his thoughts again.

Quiet. Stillness. He is of one whole. He feels everything. He is utterly aware of himself.

He knows (with a certainty that will leave him when he stands up and draws the curtains and sits down again at his desk) that he is not sick. That he has changed, but that it is not an illness attacking him. A feeling of reassurance follows. For the first time since he returned from Earth, for the first time in a full month, he feels completely at ease.

*

Only later he realizes his question remains unanswered. He sits at his desk working out equations, more tired than he should be, subtle but there. He puts off thoughts that might distract him. He tries to keep his focus. The gnawing sense of worry, once returned, won’t leave. There is a mystery inside of him. It is not enough to assume, as he does, as he must, that his experience of the morning won’t be repeated, that the tension knotting through him will ease, will cease, with time. The unknown in him is a bomb.

Yet to find out the truth terrifies him.

*

The next morning Spock wakes up to the same pain, the same twisting confusion, in his stomach. He drags himself down the hall to the bathroom and is sick, wretchedly sick, for twelve minutes. It feels like twelve hours. He does not notice his mother enter but she’s there, somehow she’s there, whispering soothing nonwords to him. Was this what he felt like as a five year old? Scared and wretched and in pain? Confused and lost? He might be five again, in those moments when he slumps back into his mother’s arms.

“None of your silly arguments this time,” she tells him. “And no class today either. You’re taking the day off and going to see T’Pala.”

Spock does not argue the point. He does not even consider, and not only because to argue with his mother when she uses such a tone is futile and thus, illogical. He does not argue because he is still taking deep breaths, the deepest he can manage, trying to regain control, trying to recover. What is known is less terrifying than what is unknown, he tells himself. And he cannot go on as he is.

Chapter Text

T’Pala’s examination room is as he remembers it: just this side of uncomfortably cool, blank walls painted an off-blue color that reminds him of pictures of the ocean, a series of scanners and hyposprays ranged along a far wall next to the latest computer model. The examination table where he’s sitting is placed directly across from the door. It’s so high he used to need help climbing up to it and even now, when he sits down, his feet dangle above the floor. The sensation is unnerving, disorienting; he feels the wrong size, the wrong age; like a child again, always poked and prodded, carefully examined, measurements and reaction times noted in reports and charts. He thinks about his feet swinging displaced in the air and he lets these thoughts distract him. He waits for T’Pala to come in.

She arrives with an apology a few minutes later, spares him one short look and a nod, and then returns her attention to the PADD in her hand. T’Pala has been his physician since birth. Excepting his father, he knows her better than he knows any other Vulcan; knows how her manner has been altered and softened by years of study on Earth; knows how she pitches her voice differently when she is talking just to him and not to his parents, too; knows her diligence and her curiosity, her precision and her intelligence. If she treats him sometimes like an experiment it is only because she has to. He understands. There is always a hint of apology to her touch at such times. Her own bondmate died unexpectedly before Spock was born, and she has never had children of her own.

She takes a seat across from him, just as she always does. Sets her PADD aside and looks at him. Tilts her head. Then she asks him to explain his symptoms.

He lists them off as completely as he can: “I have been nauseous. That is why I am here, because I—I do not understand this symptom.” It is not easy to admit a lack of understanding, but T’Pala only nods, no judgment in her gesture.

“It is a rare one,” she agrees, “though I would not consider it a cause for worry, given your heritage.”

He does not argue again that he has no other memories of this horrible thing, that it is unusual for him, that it is logical for him to worry. He only continues calmly with the list. “Also I have found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my studies for the past several weeks. I am easily distracted. My body temperature is elevated by an average 3.6 degrees. I have been experiencing unusual fatigue.”

T’Pala stares at him, waiting. “Is that all?”

Listed out loud his symptoms sound insignificant, and he wonders if he’s been overreacting. He scans again his experiences of the past month, then nods. “That is everything.”

T’Pala enters the data silently into her PADD, a light frown line across her forehead, lips tight. She has no ideas, he realizes, no hypotheses. Something unprecedented must be happening to him, perhaps some breakdown of his body; perhaps he is dying; perhaps he is destined to be no more than a warning against procreation by Vulcans and humans. The child will not live. He will not reach adulthood. We do not recommend… That is what they will say, that is how they will warn future Vulcans who try, like his father, to bond outside the race.

He gets lost in the run of his thoughts and does not notice T’Pala swivel to her computer and begin searching databases.

“I have a number of theories,” she says, still typing, eyes on the screen. “Four. None seem feasible, given the facts of your situation. I will run the necessary tests, regardless.”

He nods mutely, trying to bury his nerves. Whatever he is told he will accept, like a Vulcan, like he has been taught. He sits still as she runs one scan, and then another, and a third. Each comes back negative, and by the third apology he hears a bit of sincere emotion behind the formula of words.

“You are frustrated,” he observes quietly as she sits down again across from him. “I am defying expectations yet again. I apologize.” The words are not quite right, not quite appropriate, but what else does he have to say? He has his worry, he has his high temperature, he has his Vulcan heart and Vulcan blood and human stomach; he has his scientific value. It is not much.

T’Pala does not answer him and, after a few moments, he crosses his legs at the ankles, uncrosses them again, clears his throat, and asks, “You had a fourth theory?”

At this, finally, she meets his eyes. “I will be honest with you, Spock.”

He swallows, keeps his gaze steady and emotionless.

“If you had come to me as a bonded adult and presented these symptoms, I would not hesitate in my diagnosis. It would be, even taking into account the complexities of your mixed biology, quite a simple matter. I would tell you that you are pregnant.”

This is the emotionless Vulcan calm, Spock thinks, that his mother disparages at her most aggravated moments, and he is both frustrated by it and grateful for it. How can T’Pala say such things? How can she look him in the eye and tell him such an impossible, such a highly improbable thing, and not show the slightest surprise, confusion, or even judgment in her expression? Her tone asks nothing from him, and he’s glad for that at least. She gives him his time to respond.

In the flood of thoughts that breaks over him at the word “pregnant,” (how human boy no future impossible possible go back undo the Academy his parents a child unthinkable unknown options) he pulls out only one and breathes to it. I would tell you, she said. Not you are. There is nothing conclusive in this, just another theory—another testable, but possibly false, hypothesis. A most probably false hypothesis.

He takes a deep breath and steadies his hands, curling his fingers around his knees. “The odds of such an occurrence are almost impossibly slight,” he reminds her. “Even full-Vulcan men often find it difficult to conceive with their male partners.” He remembers learning this last year, in the unit on Vulcan reproduction. The words of the text, clear and black, seem to be right before him. “As a half-Vulcan, I would expect my chances of conceiving to be even lower. In addition, all of my own research on hybrid beings indicates that they are usually sterile.”

This is the voice he uses when he takes tests: clear and confident and detached. Except that in class, always prepared and sure of his own intelligence, he never has to fake his self-assurance.

“I do not dispute this analysis, Spock,” T’Pala answers, equally level. “By my own calculations, I would say that there is only a 15.8% chance that you could produce children with a female partner, and a smaller percentage, approximately 8.4%, that you could conceive with a male partner. But you understand as well as I do the difference between improbable and impossible. In addition, all of our calculations and hypotheses regarding your biology must be taken as tentative. Before your birth, I predicted that you would be born with red blood, and I was wrong.” Her eyes flicker at this confession, down for a moment and then back up to meet his again securely. “Your organs are arranged as a Vulcan’s; you have, as all male Vulcans have, the ability to bear children. What you do not have the ability to do,” and here, he notices a hint of severity enter her tone. It is not judgmental, not angry. But there is a note of clear, strong, demand there. Listen to me Spock, she’s telling him. She has an ability he knows quite well to brush away numbers, statistics, probabilities, and find the one question that matters, and with it the means to an answer.

“What you cannot do,” she tells him, “is produce children by yourself. That would be truly the definition of impossible.”

He can’t meet her gaze any longer. His eyes stray to the sea blue wall beyond her head.

Do you trust me still?

“Should I run the final scan, Spock?” T’Pala asks him.

Her voice is soft and he hears no accusation in it, though little reassurance either. It’s clear and sure and he can’t hide from it, from that simple question with everything it holds coiled in it, so he nods: “I believe that would be wise.”

The results come back positive but it’s anticlimactic, the feeling that clenches tight across his stomach when he hears the news, when he reads the word written in simple bold on the screen. He asks her to run the scan again. It’s no different the second time. He hardly expected that it would be. The logic of T’Pala’s argument, the way she transformed the all-but-impossible into the probable, held more power than the word itself, the transition of the probable to the certain.

Spock sits with his hands on his knees, his fingers wrapped tight around his knees, his feet dangling down heavy weights at the end of his legs. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. He stares down at the floor. Not at T’Pala, who waits without comment or question. When a long moment passes, and another after it, and still he says nothing, she swings her chair around again to her computer screen. She’s pretending to look something up, but he knows she’s just giving him his space. He’s grateful for that—it’s hard to sort out the rest.

He’s not surprised, and it’s not shock either, this feeling that’s swamping him almost beyond his power to control it. At least—at least it’s an explanation, and can’t he hold on to that? He understands now—not the symptoms, no, those are as mysterious now to him as ever—but—something. He can’t help thinking about that presence, indescribable, small, unnameable (his child), how he’d reached out to it in his meditations, reached out but never quite reached. His heart is beating hard against his side—BUMbum BUMbum BUMbum. The floor seems far away. His vision blurs around the edges, everything swims, and he thinks for a moment he is going to faint but he pulls himself back, blinks and blinks again, and his balance returns.

Reason and logic tell him to accept what cannot be changed and do what must be done. But he’s frozen. He’s numb. He grips his knees so hard he’s sure he’s bruising his own skin. T’Pala is saying his name, turned to watch him again, a furrow between her brows, and “Spock,” she’s saying, “Spock?”

He pulls in a breath and meets her gaze as fearlessly as he can. For a moment she just stares; then she pulls back, and sits up straight in her chair, her own expression more calm; she’s still watching him like he might break at any moment and he feels a tinge of heat at his ear tips. He purses his lips into one thin, straight line. He relaxes his grip on his knees by sheer force of will. “T’Pala,” he says, then clears his throat and cuts himself off from himself, from being fifteen and alone. He can go on. “T’Pala, what should I do now?”

“I cannot tell you that, Spock,” she answers, professional as ever, matter of fact. Still he thinks he sees in the tilt of her head, the expression in her eyes, some hint of sympathy, of regret for him. She is not judging him, such judgment would interfere with her job, but she’s well aware how others will and this alone is enough to cause a great swell of embarrassment up through Spock’s stomach. “I cannot make your decisions for you,” T’Pala is saying. “I can only provide you with information and options.”

“Options, then,” he asks. “Anything.”

She answers him in the same tone as ever, but he senses, still, a new ease about her: this, giving information, laying out plans and possible plans, is familiar and comfortable for her. He tries to follow. He tries to listen as a student, a curious observer.

“Speaking as broadly as possible, you have three options. You can abort—” here, a swift glance at his eyes to gauge his reaction, but he gives nothing away. “You are under no legal obligations to carry this child to term, although I should tell you that you will need the permission of your parents to undergo that particular procedure.” She pauses, but still he can say nothing; he only nods once shortly for her to continue. “If you choose to continue your pregnancy, you can either keep the child, and raise it yourself, or you can give it up for adoption. Again, if you choose this last option I can provide assistance in helping to find a suitable and accepting home.”

Accepting. She means: someone who will take a halfbreed’s child. The floor starts drifting away from him again and he lashes out his hands to grip the edges of the table.

“If you would like to take a few moments alone…” T’Pala offers.

But it’s weakness, nothing but weakness. He shakes his head. “Tell me,” he says, “is it…is it even viable?”

T’Pala sits back reluctantly, back straight against her chair, and sighs before she answers. “I cannot predict future complications, Spock, but the initial scan revealed a healthy pregnancy in its fourth week.”

He nods, as one nods when only half listening. His mind already races onward, a million questions he organizes only painstakingly, separating one from the other, arranging by importance. T’Pala just waits. She’s watching him like she’s only seconds away from ordering him to lie down. Desperate, unsure what to say, he blurts, “The other father,” and T’Pala quirks her head expectantly. “He is human. Will that complicate the situation?”

“It is only one of many complications,” she answers. “Given your age, your own mixed biology, and the mixed biology of your child, if you choose to continue this pregnancy, we will monitor your condition closely.”

Perhaps she is beyond surprise, Spock thinks, beyond showing even the small hints of surprise and confusion that he can read on other Vulcan faces every day. Perhaps it would be more shocking to know that the other father was Vulcan, to know that there exist two Vulcans as stupid and impulsive as he. Behavior such as this is to be expected from humans, after all.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting, silent, his hands still gripping the table edge, when T’Pala speaks again, her voice hard and tough and allowing no argument. He’s ready to sink into the tone. He’s ready to give up and follow any order.

“Spock,” she tells him, “as your physician I have to advise you to lie down, to rest. We will discuss this matter at length later, after you have had a chance to meditate and to begin making your decisions.”

She leads him to a back room, small and half lit, almost empty but for a small bed in the corner. She tells him to take as much time as he needs to himself. Just before she leaves, he asks, “And my parents? My mother is waiting outside now. What will you tell her?”

“Nothing,” she answers, quite simply. She’s standing in the doorway; he’s sitting now at the edge of the bed. “I will assure her that there is no cause for concern and, after you leave my office, you will explain the situation.”

“I understand, T’Pala,” he says, but it’s not quite the truth. It’s just the first thing he thinks of that will convince her to leave, and she does, and he’s alone.

He stretches out long on the bed and closes his eyes. He rests his hands on his lower abdomen, where he imagines his child to be. His child. His and the human boy’s. Illogical as such conjecture is, he finds himself wondering, hypothesizing, what will the child look like? Will it have Spock’s ears? His blood? Will it have the human boy’s clear blue eyes? Will its heart beat, as the boy’s did, against its chest?

He knows, and there is no question in his mind, that he will not terminate this pregnancy. No. It is against everything he has been taught, a violation of the sacred respect for life that was his first lesson as a child.

Neither does he feel himself capable of giving his child away after it is born. There is no one on the planet he could trust. No one who he knows for sure is free of prejudice and derision, who he could be confident would raise his child without a second thought to its genetic heritage. The only being in the galaxy who can begin to understand the prejudice a quarter Vulcan would face is a half Vulcan. He is the only one qualified to care for this child without condition. This realization comes to him with cool, scientific certainty, neither startling nor painful, but in its wake he is enveloped in a chill loneliness, which stops all thought and reason.

For several long minutes he lies still and quiet, his mind blank.

It is decided, then. He will have this child. He will keep this child.

There is something peaceful in this knowledge. Innumerable variables remain, complications building on complications, questions he cannot begin to answer, but at least he can hold on to this.

He tries to concentrate, tries to reach out again to that life inside him, but no matter how still he becomes or how even he makes his breath, his heartbeat, he cannot reach it. He is alone again, or rather he should say he is alone still, and who will help him now? T’Pala will do what she can, but it is only so much. The human boy is…unreachable. Without a name, there is no way to search for him, no way to contact him, and even if the boy could be found he could not be relied upon. Surely he would find a pregnant boy freakish. Surely he would want nothing to do with him, with them—Spock and the child.

He has his parents. But he can’t begin to imagine what they will think. And he is—afraid—a perfectly logical fear in the face of the unknown—to tell them the truth. His father might disown him for this. Sarek is certainly capable of such an uncompromising reaction. Still, Spock cannot imagine such harshness from his mother, a woman who has gone out of her way, as only a human could, to remind him every day of his life how much she loves him. How her love is unconditional.

Yet he’s never tested her like this before.

Even lying down he feels dizzy, and tired, oh so tired, and everything in his body screams at him to rest. Turn off. This isn’t real, can’t be real, except that he can still remember the way the human boy smiled, can still remember It’s okay. I like green. and Are you all right? and the slip of sweat slick skin beneath his fingertips. The affection he’d felt thrum through him. Genuine and true. And from that night there is this child, and oh how could he, how could this happen, how—and now there is this and nothing he can do to stop it or undo it, and the most important thing now is to protect life, a life he created carelessly and with which he can never be careless again.

*

T’Pala wakes him up, he does not know how many minutes later. She asks him if he requires any assistance, but what she means is, is he going to break down? He sits up as quickly as he can, ignores the whirl of his thoughts upon becoming vertical, and says he is fine. He is not ill, not emotional. He starts to apologize, doesn’t get to the part where he says he is weak and that’s why he’s sorry, before she cuts him off.

“Even the best of us,” she tells him, “take a moment now and then.”

But they both decide it’s best to save a long discussion for another time. He wants to tell her he’s made his decision, that there is no question in his mind that he will carry this child, and keep it after it’s born, but in the end it’s easier just to let her lead him from the room, saying as she does that he can come back in three days when he knows what he wants to do next. His mother is waiting for him in the front room. She jumps up right away to ask him the news but he sidesteps giving answers, shrugs off her inquiries, and by the time they return home he’s convinced her that he is well, safe, and will explain the situation more fully later.

He disappears into his room to meditate but instead he falls asleep, and when he wakes up it’s two hours till dinner. He spends the time working on assignments and pretending that what is happening is not really happening.

*

They are clearing the dishes from dinner when his father asks him about his meeting with T’Pala. It’s impossible to tell if he’s worried or just curious. The expression on his mother’s face is clearer, a concern there she doesn’t even try to hide.

“I have something I need to tell you,” he says, quickly, and not looking at either of them as he speaks, just so it’s said and he can’t turn back from it.

He wanders into the next room, trying to look purposeful. His parents follow. He sits down on one of the chairs, barely perched on the end, and his parents take the two across from him. He wants to tell the truth. But it is no simple thing.

“Is it something serious, Spock?” his mother asks into the silence.

He’s about to shake his head, his instinct simply to brush away any cause for concern or worry. But instead he tells the truth. He says, “Yes,” and “something has happened,” and he doesn’t know how his parents react to this because he’s looking down at his knees. They don’t say anything, though, don’t try to press him.

“That is,” he says, “what has happened is…that I am pregnant.”

Still they don’t say anything, and when he looks up he sees that his mother is looking at him with a completely unreadable expression on her face, part confusion and part disbelief and part something else, he’s not sure what, and his father is looking at the floor. “That’s impossible,” his mother says finally. “You’re my son—you can’t—you physically can’t—”

“It is possible for Vulcans,” Sarek interrupts. He’s still not looking at Spock but he does turn his attention to his wife. “For Vulcan men and their partners. It is rare, but possible.”

“Possible,” she repeats. Her voice sounds hollow, too emotionless to be truly human. She does not sound like herself at all, and any hope Spock had that she would hear his news and embrace him, try even in some small way to take away the cold hard nervous pain in his stomach, is gone.

“Possible that my fifteen year old son is pregnant?” she asks, speaking more to Spock’s father than to Spock himself.

“It is a certainty, mother,” Spock tells her, and she turns to look at him again, watching him as if trying to understand who he is. “T’Pala ran the scan twice. Her instruments are quite reliable.”

“I’m aware, Spock.” He draws back instinctively from the restrained anger in her voice. Then he watches her put her hand to her forehead and tilt her face down so he almost can’t tell her eyes are closed. “I just…okay. Start from the beginning. How did this—no, never mind. I know how this happened.” She looks up again, stare focused on his face, trying to read him as he is trying to read her. Her hand slips down to cover her mouth. It is as if she were censoring herself, keeping her words from coming until she has found the exact right ones. Sarek, too, turns his gaze to Spock. Spock himself is afraid to say a word. He’s not used to wishing, such thoughts have long struck him as idle and worthless, but right now he wishes for this interview, barely begun, to be over.

“When did this happen, Spock?” his mother asks, finally. “Just tell us that first.”

“Four weeks ago.” His voice, at least, is confident and level. “When Father and I were on Earth.”

Something—anger, perhaps, or disbelief—pinches his father’s face, and then is gone.

Spock continues, not because he wants to but because no one else is speaking, “When I said that I spent my last evening on that planet at the library, I…was not telling the exact truth.”

“You were not telling the truth at all,” his father answers, and stands. For a moment, Spock is sure he is going to leave the room, leave the house, perhaps never return again, but all he does is move to stand behind his wife’s chair. “You realize, Spock, that after this it will be difficult for either of us to trust you again. Not only did you act recklessly, but you hid your actions from us, and are only revealing them now because you have no choice.”

“I know, Father—I realize that my actions are shameful—”

“I do not believe you do—”

“You cannot determine my own thoughts for me—”

“Spock—”

“Father—”

“Now wait just a minute, both of you,” his mother interrupts his own only half formed defense and at her words, Sarek, about to speak, closes his mouth too. She waits a moment and then, assured they are both listening, turns back properly to Spock. “I need to know,” she says carefully, slowly, “if what happened on Earth was consensual.”

For a few moments, for a few terrible, confused moments, he has no idea what she means. Then, all at once, he does: “You believe that he forced me? That I was a victim?”

“Just tell me,” she answers, and as she speaks Spock only half listens. There’s a hard lump in his throat. He doesn’t know how to sound convincing, even as he insists:

“I can assure you, mother, that I gave my consent to everything that happened. I made a conscious decision to act with dishonor.”

He’s never used the words before but they’re true, sickeningly true, and his father, who has been watching him for several moments now without wavering, suddenly turns his face away. Spock has lied all too many times but he cannot lie about this, because he deserves the shameful reputation he has created, but the human boy does not deserve to be regarded as a criminal, even by those he will never meet.

His mother looks as if she were about to question him further on this point, but something in the look he gives her stops her words. It’s his father who speaks next. His words are cold, not angry, but so distant one would never believe he was speaking to his own son.

“We cannot change the past. If Spock is pregnant, there is nothing any of us can do to change that, short of terminating the pregnancy—”

“Never. I will not even consider such an option, Father.”

Sarek raises one eyebrow at the harsh, combative tone, a surprise even to Spock himself. Spock clasps his hands tightly together on his lap, but does not speak further.

“On this point, at least, we are in agreement. This life, now that it has been created, must be protected. But there remains the question of what to do after the child is born—a question that has, according to my line of reasoning, only one logical answer.”

He pauses, and in that silence, only a second or two long but seeming, to Spock’s mind, to stretch and stretch as he holds his breath, both Spock and his mother turn to Sarek expectantly. His mother already knows, Spock thinks, what her husband will say. She is just glad he is the one to say it. Spock knows by the way she tilts her head in sad resignation when her husband starts to speak.

“You must contact the other father as soon as possible,” he says, “and explain the situation to him. Then you will tell him that you are putting the child up for adoption as soon as it is born. If he wishes to dispute this decision, and care for the child himself, you will still have eight months to determine if he will make a capable and responsible parent.”

Sarek stands with his hands behind his back, showing the same restrained pride he probably wears at the conclusion of some lengthy diplomatic talk, right after he’s gotten his way. Spock looks to his mother first, but she is nodding her head in sad agreement. He has only himself.

“With all respect, Father,” he begins, teeth clenched tight, “I wish to dispute this decision, as it is one you have made, and which you have no right to make.”

“And you believe that you are better suited to make this decision?” his father asks in return, so calm and sure Spock has to bite down the urge to lunge for his throat. He’s never felt emotion like this before, not even when Stonn pushed him, called his father a traitor and his mother a whore; to his wounded pride and his sense of wrong is now added a fierce desire to protect that is blinding. “Spock,” his father is saying, “you are fifteen years old. You are a child yourself. You do not know what it is like to care for and raise another being, what sort of strength is involved. You do not know the responsibility such a task entails. I would question the ability of anyone your age to bear this burden, but you in particular have shown such a grave lack of judgment that it is quite obvious you are not ready to become a parent. In engaging in a sexual relationship with one who is not your bondmate, you have shown a disrespect for our culture that is scandalous. You also put yourself at great risk. If you cannot be trusted to take care of yourself, Spock, how can you be trusted to care for another? In suggesting that you could be capable of raising a child by yourself, without a bondmate, you reveal a great ignorance of the hardships of parenthood. These are hardships any one person would find difficult to face alone, hardships any one person would falter under. You determine to deny your child the resources of two parents, something you could provide by giving up your child to a bonded, adult, couple.”

His father is staring at him unflinchingly, daring him to disagree. Or so Spock takes it, as a dare, a task he must rise to.

He starts as strongly as he can, his voice steady but his words, he realizes even as he says them, too weak: “I will not argue that I made a mistake, that I acted irresponsibly. But I wish to take responsibilty now, not run from my duty. I created this child, so I must raise him or her. That is what is right. Even if I believed there existed the option to put the child up for adoption safely, I would not take it, and I am not sure that this possibility even exists. He or she will be three-fourths human—still Vulcan enough to be rejected by an Earth family, but much too human to be accepted by Vulcan parents.”

A pained expression crosses his mother’s face at these words but he does not falter. If anything he has gained confidence, more adamant than ever that no one attempt to separate him from his child. He keeps talking, the words spilling from him faster than he can control them, only the tight fists of his hands a clue to how nervous he still is.

“Also, I do not understand how giving up my son or daughter restores any of the dignity I have lost, nor how it makes up for the disrespect I have paid to our culture. I can apologize, and I do, but this does not change what has already been done. I will be a parent, Father, whether or not I raise my child, and I am only asking—no, I am only demanding—that I should be given the chance to act as one.”

“Spock, you don’t understand,” his mother says, words right on top of his, exasperated and tired, almost pleading beneath that sharp, stinging disappointment. This is what her anger has become, he sees, and if anything it hits him harder, hurts him more. “Your father and I aren’t trying to be cruel by suggesting adoption. We—admire that you wish to take responsibility, but you absolutely have no idea what you’re suggesting. Your father has already pointed out that you would not be giving your child the best possible life by raising him or her as a single parent. It wouldn’t be fair to him or her, but it also wouldn’t be fair to you. You’re a smart boy and you have any number of opportunities ahead of you, just ready for you to take—the Science Academy not the least of them—but that will all be lost if you have to put your child first. And that child will come first, Spock, always.”

“I understand,” he insists, but she’s already shaking her head.

“You don’t. You can’t.”

“But I will.” There’s a breaking note of pleading in his voice and he tinges green to hear it. Neither of his parents answers. He looks from one to the other, waiting for them to speak, to prolong the argument so that he can jump back with any necessary response. Sarek is watching him as if he were a stranger. This isn’t over, Spock knows, is far from over, and yet there is nothing more, at this moment, to say. There is too much to say and he cannot begin to say it, and neither can they.

The silence stretches, long and tense, and he is starting to feel tired again, the pregnancy perhaps, it must be. He tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that no one can separate him from his son or daughter for eight more months, and that is time enough to change their minds, to prove himself.

For the moment, all he wants is to be alone.

“I cannot stop you from disagreeing with my decision,” he says, eyes fixed at a point on the far wall, “but it is my decision, and I have made it.” He glances over at his father. His face is unreadable, grim. He doesn’t argue. Neither does Spock’s mother. She only suggests, after another moment, and in a quiet voice that hides her thoughts more fully than any silence could, that he get some rest. He nods and stands.

Perhaps they think he was not listening. Perhaps they think he was ignoring their warnings and their logic out of stubbornness or rebellion. The conversation unfolds in his memory and it is as if he were watching three people speak three different languages. He feels sick with it. There’s nothing he can do and nowhere he can go so he closes the door to his room behind him and sits down to his work. He pretends he can concentrate. It takes him twice as long as it should and he stays up late working, determined, irrational. As if solving this math problem would solve all his other problems. As if the whole world were just numbers and symbols, laid out flat and legible before him, only waiting for him to find the one solution, the single perfect answer.

Chapter Text

He has the next day off, no classes, no exams, no commitments, and though his body tells him to get all the sleep he can, he doesn’t. He gets up early instead, twisting pain in his stomach waking him up like clockwork—he’ll have to ask T’Pala how long this will last. If she even knows. If she can predict anything about his strange mutant body. No—no—just breathe through it. It’s not so bad yet. He knows already that it will get worse.

When he can’t stand it any longer he drags himself down the hall to the bathroom, only barely sinking to his knees in time.

Twenty minutes later he pulls himself standing again. At least he has this: that when his body is allowed, it regulates itself quickly, and his knees don’t even shake as he washes his hands and face and rinses his mouth.

He does not bother taking a shower, getting dressed, fixing his hair. He lets himself wander, a disheveled mess, into the main area of the house and on to the kitchen. His father is sitting at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that curls steam up past his face, staring out into the distance ahead of him as if he were not really seeing anything. He is dressed, but not in the formal clothes he wears on trips to the Academy or the Embassy. Spock is surprised to see him, can’t help a bit of surprise at this unexpected change in his routine, and he pauses shortly in the doorway. His father looks over at him, briefly, then back down to his tea. Spock makes a decision.

For several minutes neither speaks. Sarek sips at his tea, and Spock moves around the kitchen, going to no effort to muffle the small sounds of his routine. His slippers shuffle, his glass clinks against the counter top, and everything sounds louder than it should, but it is no matter. He replicates himself a large glass of water. He drinks it all, standing with his back to his father. Then he replicates another, and this time he sits with it at the table.

“You are awake particularly early this morning, Spock,” his father comments, finally.

Spock nods. There is no possible answer to this statement that does not draw attention to his situation. He could, he must, choose to emphasize it boldly but first he needs a few moments, just to collect his nerve.

“I have done my research, and I believe the phenomenon is referred to as ‘morning sickness,’ Father. It is quite difficult to sleep through.”

Sarek clears his throat slightly at this, but when Spock asks politely if his mother is still asleep, he answers with equal calm that she already left the house for the morning. Spock stares down into his water and wonders when she left but he’s afraid to ask, afraid to know. Did she hear him, sick and retching, and ignore the sounds? Or did she leave before he awoke, sad perhaps, or guilty, that she could not be there with him? Does he have any right to her presence anymore at all?

She was of a like mind with his father, yesterday. Still tired, the faint echoes of aching pulsing through his body, the whole conversation begins to feel like a dream. He recalls bits and pieces, a word here or a look, the twisting of his mother’s mouth and the raise of his father’s eyebrows. He could pull the whole night together if he wanted to but he can’t stand to so he lets it lie broken. He remembers what’s important. They want him to give his child away. He told them he wouldn’t, he would never, and he’d tried to be firm and in control but he can’t get away from the truth that he’s not an adult yet, and he lives still under their protection, in their house.

His father isn’t looking at him. When Sarek is angry, really angry, he never looks at Spock.

This moment is so quiet, so peaceful and still, and anyone watching them would think they were just any father and son but they aren’t. Spock starts to calculate the odds that the next time his father speaks it will be to tell Spock to leave his house.

But no. No, that could not happen. It would be illogical to punish an unborn child for the sins of its parent, and to kick Spock out, to abandon him, would doom the baby as well. Maybe they will send him away. But where? He has no relatives who would take him, not in this condition. And there are no institutions for Vulcans in his position, because no Vulcan ever is. They can’t send him to the human boy because—

“I have been thinking about our conversation of last night, Spock.”

He’s not surprised, no—he certainly doesn’t jump at the sound of his father’s voice. He still has half a glass of water left but he forces himself not to stare down into but to meet his fate, whatever it may be, with bravery.

“And do you see the situation any differently than you did then?” he asks.

His father raises one eyebrow, a comment on his insolence, but what does Spock have to lose, anymore? He sets his jaw and waits.

“A question that I had planned to ask you,” his father says quietly, and Spock wonders, why can’t he just understand? Why can’t he just take himself out of himself? See that Spock is fifteen and terrified and alone? See that Spock’s knuckles are white against the glass as he grips it?

A long silence stretches. They just watch each other through it. Then Spock realizes his father is expecting an answer so he gives one: “I have not changed my thoughts at all, Father. I have thought through the matter and all logic leads me to one conclusion only, that I must take responsibility for my actions and protect this life. That requires raising the child myself.”

Sarek just sighs, at this, and stands up wearily. He replicates himself a second mug of tea, something he rarely does, only after long nights of negotiations or after he’s kept up with tangled problems of diplomacy, sleepless. Then he sits down again and says, almost lightly, “I had hoped you would come to follow my reasoning in this case.”

“It is not a case, it is my life—”

“There is no need to raise your voice.”

Before his father spoke, Spock had not even realized his voice was raised. He looks up and Sarek’s eyes are asking, who are you? Spock can barely meet them because he doesn’t know. A wave of frustration crests in him, then draws back. He takes a few deep breaths. He considers apologizing but can’t, can’t give an inch, because he doesn’t know what his father would take.

“But I am not surprised,” he finishes, after a pause, a beat, as if Spock had never interrupted. “You have always been a stubborn child, Spock.”

That is something I have inherited from you.

“With that in mind, I have been considering other options. You refuse to give your child to those who could raise him or her in a more traditional environment, but you do not realize how difficult it would be for you to raise him or her by yourself, as a single parent—”

“Others have done so,” Spock interrupts again, and thinks of his classmate T’rin, whose father died in an accident several years before. She lives now with her mother, just the two of them.

“And they are not to be envied,” Sarek says. His voice has the tint of slight correction he used to use when he was first teaching Spock astrophysics, and they would stay up all night on problems until even Spock’s mother insisted it was too late for the boy to still be up. “Do not argue this point with me, Spock; I am a parent and you are not. Quite apart from these obvious practical concerns, there is a question of honor at stake. I will not have my youngest son living as an unbonded parent—”

He seems about to say something more, but then stops, quite suddenly, and takes another sip of his tea. “No,” he continues, slower now and his voice noticeably more quiet. “The first thing we must do is attempt to contact the other father. I realize he is on Earth, and that he has his own life there that this news will certainly disrupt. But this child is as much his as it is yours and he should be made aware of its existence and be given the opportunity to take responsibility for his actions.”

Something in Spock’s stomach twists up at this, and he feels his heart rate increase. Any other topic, he wants to plead, any other. It’s hard to stay calm. He takes a drink of water and pretends he cannot feel himself blushing green. Controlled, still hoping he can force the subject to drop, he says, “He will not want to be involved with the child.”

“You know this? You have already tried to contact him?”

“No. But he is a teenage boy, an Earth boy, who would be slow to believe that another male could even carry a child, and who would not want to give up his life of independence and freedom even if he did believe it.”

It is difficult to argue with this logic but the conversation isn’t over. Spock just tries not to shake. If a moment before he felt like yelling, now he feels like crying, as if his emotions were too strong even for his careful barriers to hold them.

“We must contact him, regardless,” Sarek says, no room for argument in his tone. “You could not have known him well, given the length of your acquaintance. Perhaps he can be convinced—”

“To move to Vulcan? To change his entire way of life? To start a family with a stranger?”

His voice sounds as if it were about to crack.

“He has already started a family with a stranger,” Sarek bites out, but in a moment his voice levels again. “At the very least, he may invite you to live with him on Earth.”

“On Earth?” Spock repeats dumbly.

“All options must remain open,” his father replies, as if this were nothing, but it is quite the opposite, really, it is everything, and there are no options but the one, to enroll in the Science Academy, to become a great scientist. Spock puts one hand, subconsciously, on his lower abdomen. His eyes flutter downwards to stare at the tabletop.

“No,” he says. There is a hint of whine to his voice. He does not care. “No. We are not contacting him, Father. I will…I will do it all myself.”

“You are being unreasonable—”

“It is illogical to argue with one whose mind is made up.”

“It is illogical to deny the possibility of help. This human man may be able to offer assistance.”

Spock can’t look his father in the eye. He curls his fingers against his shirt. He can’t feel the child, not under his hand or in his mind, but somehow the gesture makes him feel more at ease. There’s a shadow of dizziness growing in his mind, not quite a headache, but the echo of faintness. His body cries out to him; he doesn’t know what to do. So he just says, very quietly, but very calmly, “It is illogical to ask of me the impossible, Father. And contacting the other father is impossible.”

“In what manner is it impossible?”

“It is impossible because I do not know his name. I only know the general area where he lives. I have—I have no means of any sort to contact him.”

He glances up to gauge his father’s reaction but his face is set like stone, opaque, the worst reaction Spock can imagine. There’s nothing his father can say to this, that’s what happening, they have reached a total impasse. Finally, Sarek stands and puts away his mug. He starts to walk toward the doorway, then turns, and crosses his arms against his chest. A rare gesture. “I cannot—Spock. I believed that you understood our customs and our way of life, the rules that we live by and why we live by them. Your recklessness has changed the rest of your life. Some day you will understand this better than you do now. Your mother and I can only offer so much assistance. Do you hear what I am saying?”

He wants to say, Yes, I hear, I understand, I am not a child, but this isn’t the time for defense, and he’s trampled anyway, flooded with the feel of his father’s disappointment, and he has no energy, and all he wants is for Sarek to leave. So he only nods.

When he is alone in the kitchen he finishes his water and puts away the glass. He doesn’t know what to do. The conversation has made him feel gutted and empty. After a few minutes, abandoned in the middle of the room, not sure in which direction to turn, he pulls himself together enough to take a shower but halfway through he starts to sob into the spray of water. He can’t remember the last time he cried. It is a base process, breath catching and ugly, and he hates himself for it. It would all be okay if he just weren’t so alone.

*

He told himself, at the boy’s apartment, as he packed away his thoughts and shut himself off from them, that he would pull them out again when he returned to Vulcan, sort through them, work through them to move on. He would evaluate the experience and then walk away from it with whatever lessons it could provide. But he never did. He shoved the thoughts farther and farther away and tried to forget, pretended avoidance was forgetting. After his shower he falls asleep and when he wakes, confused and disoriented—he never naps—he sits down and prepares himself for meditation. He prepares to examine his memories of that night again.

First, all he remembers is the weight of the boy over him. The unknown intimacy of that pressure, skin touching skin, a bridge between them, his mental barriers so flooded they’d almost collapsed around him. Every movement the human boy made was confident. He moved over Spock like he knew what he was doing, he touched like he knew how to touch, and he’d been so abandoned and yet so in control, directing in whispers under his breath. Yeah, yeah there, come on. Spock can still hear his whisper.

He gets lost in the memories, and has to pull his mind back into focus.

The boy was a mistake. There is no question. He should have controlled himself. He should have taken the opportunity to leave when it was offered to him. No—no, he should never have needed the boy to offer him that escape at all. Here now, on Vulcan, in his room, in the safety of his mind where everything is ordered and logical and clear, he can’t understand it, how a few touches, a few human smiles, a certain air of safety and of reassurance, could so much change him that he would abandon all of his principles and his beliefs. There is nothing logical in an air, a random feeling. True, the boy had seemed safe, seemed trustworthy, if also impulsive and reckless. And impulsive and reckless hadn’t seemed so wrong, either, at the time. Hadn’t there been a part of him that had always wanted to be a little more like the human boy?

Yet he cannot deny that his father was right. Vulcans have beliefs, rituals, customs. He should have respected these beliefs. The boy was not his mate. The boy could never be his mate. Such fantasies, whether entertained by his father or by Spock himself, are empty.

He cannot understand what lead him to that decision. He desired the boy. He desires, if he is honest with himself—he desires the boy even now, the memory of him clear and pressing in Spock’s thoughts—but he must control himself. Control the grip of his fingers at his knees, control his breath. He cannot answer the question, that nagging question why. He can only look ahead. He can only say that the past is the past and put it all away again.

But the future?

The only future he has ever imagined for himself is to follow in his father’s footsteps, enter the Academy, and become a scientist. He’s considered, though never for too long, the possibility of leaving Vulcan, after his studies are complete, but more often than not he has told himself that after four years at the planet’s most prestigious school he will have proven himself, finally, to his peers, a true Vulcan as good as any of them. The idea of leaving his home now, of abandoning the Academy, of going to live on Earth—he cannot. He cannot even consider it. What would he do there? What would he study, what use would he put himself to? He would be a stranger, less accepted even than among his own people, a victim of the prejudice of those ignorant beings who cannot distinguish Vulcans from Romulans, who see in their oldest allies their newest enemies. No. He cannot live with humans. He cannot go to Earth.

Yet his father knows the hardships as well as Spock. And he still made the suggestion, he still put the thought in Spock’s mind, where it stubbornly lodges, taunting him.

He knows, he must admit to himself that he knows, that he may not be able to stay on Vulcan any more than he could find a home on Earth. When the news about the child begins to spread he will become yet more ostracized, or worse, the subject of a clawing curiosity, at the mercy of which he will become more lab animal than Vulcan. The half-human boy has no morality, they will say, he is promiscuous and reckless, and soon we will see his bastard spawn, and view its strange ears and its straight brows—

He clenches his hands over his lower abdomen.

No one will say aloud what they are thinking, but they will think it. They will want to cut the child, to see what color it bleeds.

He has the strange idea that perhaps he can keep the child from them, from the whole planet, but he knows this is impossible. Still, it is his job to protect him or her, and right now that means it is his job to hide, to live his life as long as he can without letting anyone see his weakness, his fatigue, his dizziness, without letting anyone find out his secret.

…He cannot help wishing that he could tell the boy. There’s nothing he could say, nothing he could do, and certainly he would find Spock hateful and freakish, yet it seems wrong, deep down wrong, primally wrong, to hide from someone his own child, even if the child is one he never asked for or wanted.

*

His mother is working in the green house, planting the Terran vegetables she carefully helps grow even in the middle of a desert. Her back is to him. She looks up at the sound of his entrance, but doesn’t smile, as she usually does. She asks him quietly how he’s been feeling, and even manages to sound concerned.

“I am well,” he answers, as he sits down carefully on the edge of one of the round pots his mother has filled with soft earth. “I was…ill again this morning, but I am recovered now.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She sounds faintly distracted, and he wonders if she is about to tell him to leave and let her work in peace. She is re-potting an overgrown plant from a small pot to a larger one. Her gloves are covered in clinging dirt and every few moments she reaches back to push a stray hair from her face. Spock clasps his hands in his lap and wishes he knew how to say everything he wants to say. A dozen possible sentences run through his head but none seem right. He wants to express himself straightforwardly and with clarity but the straight truth is that he’s scared, and he wants to know that his mother, at least, is on his side.

“I apologize,” he says finally, “if I was rude to you or to Father during our conversation last night.”

At this, his mother pauses. She sits backwards on her heels and wipes the sweat from her forehead with her wrist, leaving a wide smudge of dirt. He finds that he’s holding his breath, wondering what she will say.

“I think we all spoke in tones we regret, Spock,” she says, almost sadly, and then gives a great sigh. “I’m not upset with you. You know that, right?”

He didn’t, but he nods anyway.

She pauses for another moment, biting her lip as if unsure, and then amends, “Actually, no, I am upset. How can I not be upset? My little boy—no,” she throws up her hands, and lets them fall back into her lap. “It’s just too much. When you tell me something like this, Spock, it just sounds like it must be someone else speaking to me because my Spock, my boy, is careful, and responsible, and prudent.”

He wants to tell her that he isn’t a little boy, hasn’t been for years, but he can’t, because she’s right, she’s all too right. He isn’t the Spock she raised, not anymore.

“I want to be understanding. I’m trying to be understanding. But this will take some getting used to. And you know that I have to worry, too—for you health, for your future—”

“I know there are many uncertainties, Mother,” he interrupts. “I have thought about them myself. But I stand by my decisions. There is no other choice than the one I have made, to keep the child after it is born and to raise it myself.”

“I am not trying to convince you otherwise, Spock.”

“You were yesterday.”

“I was. And I still believe that giving the baby up for adoption is the best option for you, the only one that allows you your own life, your own opportunities. You just don’t understand, Spock, what you’re suggesting, what you’re planning—” She cuts herself off as if in frustration, and he feels the same feeling welling within him, too. He just wants to yell out, then why, why can’t you make me understand? Why can’t you explain it to me, teach me? Like you used to?

“But I cannot stop you, and I know you’re stubborn, and I know you’ll do just exactly what you want no matter what I think. But I’m not happy. I’m—I just wish I could yell and scream about it. But it won’t change anything, yelling. And that’s illogical, isn’t it, to waste energy on that which can affect no change on the situation?”

There is something hard and cold in her voice, and sadly mocking. He looks down at his boots where they sink into the stones that make a gravel path through the green house. He doesn’t know what to say to her. She has every right to be angry with him, and he knows it. He waits a long time, silent, shamed, for her to speak.

“Tell me about the other father, Spock,” she says, finally, calmly. Her plants sit forgotten in front of her, and he notices that her pose mirrors his own.

“What do you wish to know about him?”

“Anything. Everything. His name, his age, what he looked like, how you met him. If he was good to you.”

He is, quite suddenly, terrified that he is about to see his mother cry. He starts talking slowly, but steadily, as if his words could somehow stop both her emotion and his own.

“He was…confident. Almost arrogant, perhaps. But kind beneath that, and patient with me. We met the day before I returned to Vulcan with Father. I collided with him in the street while I was exploring the town. He took me back to his apartment. He—he did not tell me much about himself.”

His mother refuses to look at him and all he can look at, himself, is his hands. He wishes he weren’t talking. He remembers so much about the boy that he can’t describe, can’t put into words, and even if he could he would not want to share those words because these memories, they are his, his and his alone, illogical as that is to admit. He’s afraid to tell his mother how little he knows but if he does not keep talking, she may break.

“He never even told me his name,” he admits, and at the words, something shudders through his mother’s body and she stands.

“You do not know his name?” she asks. The tone is more fitting for a threat than a question.

All he can say is the truth: “No.”

“Spock, you—you cannot be that reckless! Do you know what sort of danger you put yourself in? This man was a stranger to you and you were perfectly aware of this and now—look what’s happened! No—no,” she starts, again, to take deep breaths, and then she closes her eyes and puts her hand up to her temple. “I’m not having this discussion with you right now. I will say something I regret. Maybe…maybe someday you’ll understand where I’m coming from. But right now—I just need to be by myself.”

And even though he thinks that this is his cue to leave the green house, it is his mother who steps over his feet and lets herself out, her work left unfinished behind her.

*

Two days later he is in T’Pala’s office again, explaining his decision to her. She shows no surprise, even nods with understanding, as if she had anticipated his words all along. She gives him a list of exercises to do and another of foods to eat and she tells him she’ll be monitoring him closely for the next eight months and that she wants to see him again in two weeks. He lets his mind open and all of the information seeps into him easily, just more facts, more instructions. She gives him articles and books to read, lists of resources. She outlines the major changes to his body he might expect. She reminds him that even Vulcans struggle with their emotions when in his condition. She says everything evenly, just fact after fact after fact.

Only as he’s leaving does she add, softly, “And Spock? Try not to worry excessively. It is not healthy for you or your child.”

Chapter Text

Spock gathers his school things slowly. He collects several PADDs and all of his notes, the last of which he is putting into his bag when he hears a voice behind him, too loud for the indoors and echoing again and again off the high ceiling.

“What are you doing?”

Spock glances shortly over his shoulder, even though he already knows who it is—the most acknowledgement the other boy will get from him. “Stonn,” he answers, turning his gaze back to his bag. “I could inquire the same of you. You are not eating with the others?”

Stonn doesn’t answer, but Spock can hear him walking steadily, closer and closer to where Spock is standing. He tries to prolong his movements, so that he does not seem to be rushing, tries to look engrossed in his packing, so that he does not appear to be paying as close attention to the other as he truly is. Over the years, most of his bullies have lost interest in him. A few are scared of him. Most of them have simply been distracted by other concerns, by preparation for exams, by plans for the future. But for Stonn the novelty of taunts and teases has not worn off, and when they meet in the hallway or in between classes, he is always ready with a quick insult, sometimes a discreet shove of his shoulder into Spock’s, the movement veiled as an accident.

Stonn doesn’t answer his question. He just keeps walking until he’s almost uncomfortably close to Spock, leaning one shoulder against the wall and tilting his head up just a fraction, just enough to look into Spock’s eyes. “We still have two more classes this afternoon. Or have you finally given up? Realized you will never be worthy of a Vulcan education?”

Spock closes his bag, not daring to give Stonn even a glance; he tries his hardest to infuse the gesture with defiance and finality. “I am merely leaving early today, Stonn,” he manages, each word tense.

“How unfortunate,” Stonn sighs in answer. “I was just allowing myself to hope that perhaps you were leaving us for good.”

“No,” Spock says again, and slings his bag over his shoulder. He turns from Stonn and starts to walk down the hall away from him, but the footsteps follow. He speeds up. Stonn does likewise. Just take deep breaths, Spock tells himself, and do not let him manipulate you.

“You still have not explained, Spock,” Stonn is saying. “Surely you have a good reason for this…temporary disappearance?”

“I do.”

He keeps his eyes forward. The hallway is long and he cannot move any faster without running, but he’s almost to the door.

“And you are not going to share?”

“I see no reason to do so, no.”

“What if I ask politely?”

“No.”

“What if I experiment with the use of force?”

Spock feels a light, purposefully light, shove at his elbow.

“No.”

He’s sure that Stonn will say something more, will take one more jab, will try one more time to cut him. But he isn’t fast enough. Spock reaches the doorway as the other boy is still opening his mouth to retort and he exits the building without once looking back. He has permission to leave early but Stonn has no such authority, and he’s not brave enough, in the end, to risk following him. Spock can feel his annoyance, though, is sure that if he did turn around he would see the other still glaring at him, and the thought disgusts him.

His father is waiting for him behind the school, expression closed off, emotions in check. Spock nods at him and his father nods back.

“Did you have any difficulties in leaving early?” Sarek asks him.

“No, father. None at all.”

*

Two years ago, when they chose specialties, Spock chose biology and linguistics and T’Pring chose chemistry and history and since then, they’ve had little reason to cross paths at school. He sees her on occasion, in the hallway or outside as they are leaving at the end of the day. But he can’t remember the last time he’s spoken to her. He can’t even remember, now, exactly what she looks like and all he can think of is the seven year old girl his parents introduced him to so many years ago, it seems, who sat next to him so quietly and so still as T’Pau explained the ceremonies to them. Spock did not understand, at the time, what it meant to be bonded. But he pretended he did. He tried to sit as still as T’Pring, to look as attentive as she did. When they were left alone, he found he had nothing to say to her.

Her father answers the door, exchanges a few words with Spock’s father, and then lets them in. Spock has never been in T’Pring’s home before. It is smaller than his own, sparsely decorated, with large windows that look out on the downward slope of a hill, several large desert plants. T’Pring’s father directs his guests to the main room, tells them to sit down, and serves them tea. They have arrived early on purpose, while T’Pring is still in class, and Spock is not sure if he is more worried or relieved by this decision. He will have to tell his story twice, it is true, but at least he will not have to face them both at once, T’Pring and her father, he and his embarrassment and his regret, she and her confusion and her curiosity.

Spock drinks his tea silently while his father and T’Pring’s discuss the latest Embassy news. Sarek holds a position that is considerably more importance than that of T’Pring’s father and Spock can sense the deference the other man shows to Sarek. He won’t show any anger when Spock explains his situation to him—to reveal such an emotion would be shameful, as well as inappropriate, disrespectful to Sarek and his family. But he will feel it, anger and disappointment and shame. Spock knows he will.

“But we did not come here on a social visit,” Sarek is saying. Spock still has half a cup of tea left, but he sets down the mug on the table in front of him anyway, and tries to pretend he can’t feel his father’s gaze on him as he turns politely to his son.

Spock’s stomach seizes, a hard ball in the middle of his body, and he feels his heart beating strong against his side, and even though he knew that he would have to do this, has been aware of the inevitability of this meeting for over a week, still he cannot believe that his turn to speak has come so soon. He expected his father to say more, to hint perhaps at what Spock himself must say in no uncertain terms. But there is no introduction. Only his father’s gaze and, at Spock’s nervous silence, his name, spoken in the tone of a parent to his wayward child.

T’Pring’s father is watching him, three fine lines creased between his eyes in unmasked confusion.

“I pray that you will forgive me,” Spock starts. His voice is unsteady, and he clears his throat, and sets his hands on his knees to keep them from shaking. It is necessary to look T’Pring’s father in the face. It is a sign of respect, one that he cannot ignore, but it takes all of his strength. “I am here to tell you that I cannot complete the bonding ceremony with your daughter, nor can I remain in the bond already established.”

He waits for a reaction. For a few moments, there is none: only silence, confused and uncertain. T’Pring’s father sets down his own cup. Then he asks, the question directed to Sarek and as if Spock were not even in the room, “And what has prompted this sudden decision? What has—what has made you believe you have the right to break our agreement in such a way?”

The poor man, Spock thinks. He must control himself, in front of his superior and because all he knows is control, but he does not want to. It is a blow. Spock may be half human but he is from a good family, he is wealthy, he is intelligent, and T’Pring could be proud of a husband such as he. Spock puts one hand discreetly against his lower stomach. It has become a habit for him, a perhaps too common one, but neither his father nor T’Pring’s appears to notice.

“I assure you, Salen, it was not a decision made lightly,” Sarek is saying. “Nor was it one that I wished to make. However, once Spock has explained to you his situation I am sure that you will understand that, in fact, there is no choice to be made. To break the bond has become, unfortunately, necessary.”

Spock looks down at his boots, carefully cleaned this morning, streaked now in sand from the walk up to T’Pring’s family’s door. The silence stretches for a long time.

“Both I and my daughter deserve this explanation,” T’Pring’s father says finally.

“And she will receive it as well, we promise you,” Sarek answers. “We only believed it appropriate to inform you privately first, so that you could decide how best to tell your daughter.” There is an almost imperceptible beat between “best” and “to tell” and Spock hears it, and he’s sure, paranoiacally sure, that Salen did too. Maybe T’Pring’s father will request that she not know the reason behind the broken betrothal. Maybe he will wish to hide this freakish thing from her, hide his own embarrassment at having agreed to such an unsuitable mate—hide, perhaps, the truth from her so that she does not become too fascinated by Spock and what he has done.

“Well,” T’Pring’s father says, and yes he must have noticed, he must have. “I believe you and Spock have kept me in suspense long enough, Sarek.”

“I agree,” Sarek answers, and then they are both looking at Spock, waiting. He swallows twice, tries to tell himself that he must, and just a few words and it will be over, and then he tells Salen’s shoulder, “I have not been—faithful—to your daughter.” A glance to his face and then away. More confusion.

“I do not understand.”

Of course he does not. This is unheard of.

“I—have been with another, and,” before he can be interrupted, before Salen can make excuses, “and I would still request your family’s forgiveness for this act, if its consequences were not so,” irreversible, grave, life changing, “unforgivable.”

“I still do not understand,” he repeats, the same tone, and Spock just wants to yell out the news from the rooftops but he can’t, he must play along with their rules and their rituals, their well used scripts. As he opens his mouth to speak again he starts to wish the script for him was better, was more precise, or rather that it was less so, that there were some ritualistic words, some code, for this as for so many other moments in their lives.

But all he can say, this time to Salen’s chin, is, “I am pregnant.”

There is a moment of shock he can almost feel. He presses his hand a bit close against his stomach. This time, Salen does notice, and he looks away so quickly, and with such an unmistakable tinge of green to his cheeks, that for a moment Spock is more embarrassed for him than for himself.

“And you are certain?” Salen asks, finally, just when Spock feels about to break and there is that slight dizziness in his head again—but the question is directed to Sarek, not to him. They both look at Spock’s father, who only nods solemnly.

“Yes, it is certain. Spock is seven weeks along now and has decided, against my advice and that of my wife, to keep the child.” Spock feels the blood rush to his face at these words. He knows his father is just preempting questions, questions that will certainly come, but he almost cannot believe that he has brought up their family disagreements to this near-stranger. He is, then, more angry than he lets on.

“I see,” is all Salen says, for a very long time.

Spock moves his hands to his knees. He feels like a little boy, no older or more knowledgeable or more mature than the seven year old who once took T’Pring’s hand and closed his eyes as T’Pau said those words—

“If this is as you say—a fantastic story, but surely one that must, if for its very unbelievability alone, be the truth—then I must agree with you. This bond is over. I will contact T’Pau and ask her to make it official as soon as she can.”

“No, Salen,” Sarek answers, “that is a responsibility my family will take. We will be in contact to settle on the date and time.”

Something in his tone or in his gesture signals to the other two that the conversation is, then, quite over, nothing more to say, it’s all agreed—and they all stand. T’Pring’s father, who throughout their meeting had seemed not to notice Spock’s existence, now cannot stop staring at him—or rather, his eyes continually flicker over to Spock, to his young teenage boy’s face, to his slim torso, his still normal body. Each time, embarrassed, he quickly looks away.

Still, Spock almost feels, for a moment, that perhaps this experience has not been so terrible. He realizes that he thinks this only because it is now, effectively, over. From the perspective of this moment it seems a short, almost simple thing, to break his engagement and to sever his half-formed bond. Then he hears the sliding of a door. Of course. He almost forgot—perhaps they all almost forgot, in their hurry to separate—that T’Pring deserves an explanation too. Her appearance in the doorway reminds them.

She stops short, paused mid step in the entrance. But she composes herself quickly. “Ambassador Sarek,” she says, bowing slightly, “what a pleasant surprise to find you in my home. And you as well, Spock,” she adds, nodding to him as well.

For a moment all Spock can think is, She would have been my wife.

She is a beautiful girl, T’Pring, just on the edge of becoming a beautiful woman, and she radiates a cool emotionless calm that Spock has always envied. She stands with perfect straightness; she regards everything around her with a dispassionate eye, and she is careful to keep each movement graceful and controlled. She is ice in the desert. As he watches her, her gaze sliding from one face to the next, he can read the slightest hint of curiosity in her expression, a detached and scientific curiosity that is becoming.

“But if I may ask—”

Both adults open their mouths at once (Spock only bows his head and keeps his hands clasped behind his back), but it is Salen who speaks first, the last thing that Spock expected to hear: “T’Pring, I believe that Spock has something to tell you. You should have this conversation privately, as I have a few matters to discuss with the Ambassador alone. And Spock,” he adds, almost a last minute addition, but no one is fooled, “please give my daughter the whole story.”

A glance at Sarek’s face, quickly composed but, for just a moment, surprised, and Spock knows he is not the only one who was not expecting this request. But of course Salen would not want to hear the story again, and if he does not trust Spock, he does trust T’Pring. Anything less than the whole truth will prompt questions, embarrassing, unwanted questions, from his inquisitive daughter—better to let Spock explain so he does not have to. It is, at heart, a logical request. Still, T’Pring in front of him, her head tilted just so, her deep brown eyes locked onto his face, he can’t help but wish that he were anywhere else on the planet.

He looks once to his father, as if believing he would disagree, but Sarek just nods at him, and before he’s quite aware of the movements of his own feet, he is following T’Pring down a corridor to the back of the house.

He expected she would take him to another public room, a dining room perhaps, or a library, but instead she opens the door to her own private bedroom, and ushers him in. She offers no explanation and he does not ask. T’Pring’s room is smaller than his own, with two windows, one looking out on the road and the other on a small garden of desert plants.He glances at her meditation candles, the crystals she has arranged by her desk, a small miniature lab in the corner, cluttered with test tubes and beakers. On the wall above her bed she has hung a large, old fashioned map of Vulcan. The bed itself is not as tall as Spock’s but twice as wide—big enough, easily, for two.

T’Pring closes the door behind Spock as they enter, and then drags a chair over from her lab, and places it next to her desk chair. She sits down, and gestures for Spock to follow, and only then, after he is seated, does she speak.

“My father said you had something to tell me.”

Spock cannot remember the last time they’ve spoken, and he is sure that T’Pring cannot either, it must have been so long ago, and yet if she feels the same awkwardness that he feels, the same nervousness in the face of something unknown, the same unease at the memory of her father’s voice, she does not show it. She just tilts her head, again, and waits. There is no preamble with her, no polite conversation nor avoidance. He almost wonders if she has somewhere else to be.

“Yes,” he says, “my father and I—we came here to tell you and your family that I…that I cannot marry you, T’Pring. The engagement must be broken.”

The first thing she does is tilt her chin down and to the right, her face slanted away from him; then she closes her eyes. Slowly, he realizes that she is shaking her head, almost imperceptibly. Then quite suddenly she asks him, “Is it Stonn?”

He jerks back, slightly, insignificantly, yet as if she had physically reached out to him. “I—beg your pardon?”

“Did you make this decision because of Stonn? Because of something he said? Did?” She speaks calmly, dispassionately, but when she looks at him again he sees something else in her expression. Her thoughts are far away and they are racing.

So are Spock’s own. He is aware that T’Pring and Stonn are close; at least, he often sees them together. Yet he tries not to dwell on these unfortunate observations—has had to try, for years, to think only the best of T’Pring. She herself has never been rude to him, has never teased him or bullied him, and when she is with Stonn, he keeps his distance from Spock as well. Still, to hear her bring up his name is unsettling. He does not want to think about what Stonn will do when he finds out—or, if he finds out too soon, who he will tell.

“This has nothing to do with Stonn,” he tells her firmly. At first she looks about to argue, but then something, perhaps the expression on his face, perhaps the emotion already creeping into her face, her voice, stops her. She simply sits back. She doesn’t say any more, but she doesn’t have to.

“I—” Again, he must say the words again, but it’s harder this time; he can’t get the image of Stonn’s face out of his mind, the subtle sneer he wears whenever he looks at Spock, the mocking glint in his eyes.

“You must not tell Stonn,” he says, then, almost without meaning to, the words a surprise even to himself.

“Why would I tell Stonn?”

“You were the one who brought his name into this conversation.”

She opens her mouth, stops, concedes, and bows her head. “I will not tell him. I promise you that, Spock.”

A part of him wants to interrogate her further on this point, but he does not. He finds he trusts her, instinctively, if for not other reason than that she was almost his mate. So he takes a breath, steels himself again, puts hands on his knees, and he tells her, “I cannot marry you because I am pregnant,” quickly but distinctly, knowing that once it is said the worst of the conversation will have passed.

He speaks to her nose, but a glance up at her eyes and he sees, right away, her shock. A green tinge of embarrassment flushes across her cheeks, and when she realizes she is staring at him, she looks quickly, pointedly, away. He notices that she is biting her lip, just gently, as if deep in thought. Again, a silence falls over them. There is no answer to news like his, and so he is not surprised she has none to give.

When she does reply, all she says is, “You have decided not to marry me because you are going to form a bond with another?”

“No, T’Pring,” he assures her quickly, his tone more sad than surprised, although he is, that she should jump to this conclusion. “I have decided not to marry you because I am going to keep the child and raise it myself, and it would not be…appropriate, it would not be right, to form a bond with you in such circumstances.” To ask you to raise another’s child, he is thinking, to ask you to live your life with someone who has been unfaithful to you, surrounded by those who see every day the sign of his infidelity.

She only nods. She knows. He expects her to ask about the other father: was he Vulcan? What Vulcan would do such a thing—such a thing with such a thing—though he feels instantly guilty for attributing such thoughts to her, who has shown a cool, but constant, kindness to him all their lives. He waits for her to say something more.

“Only your parents know?” she asks finally, quietly.

“And my physician. And your father. It is not news I wish to be widely known.”

“It is not news you can easily hide.” Her eyes flick up to his and then back down as she says this, fast and almost biting at the end of his words. He flushes a deeper green, and nods.

“The other father does not know?” she asks. This time, the tone is forced carelessness; he can hear what is underneath it, the fierce desire for understanding he has known too many times himself. So she is curious, he thinks—of course she is curious. Spock is a curiosity.

“I met him on Earth. He is a human boy; he would not understand, and I—” He is about to say, “and I do not need him,” but this is a lie, so he only turns his face away, leaves his sentence open and unfinished.

“I understand,” T’Pring says. She doesn’t. When he looks at her again she is studying him, studying his face, his body, studying him as if he were an experiment, a mystery she wants to unravel or decode. He knows a million questions are following each other in circles through her thoughts. He knows she is holding herself back. But all she says, in the end, is, “I will not tell Stonn. You have my word, Spock.”

“I am glad of it.”

She seems, at this moment, about to say something more, when they hear their fathers’ footsteps approaching her door, and Sareks’s voice calling out for Spock to come, it is time to leave.

*

The plans are made quickly. Within a week they have gathered again in the same ceremonial hall where the first bonding, the first tentative step to a full bond, once took place. Sarek is there, and Salen; T’Pau of course; T’Pring’s mother. Spock’s mother does not come, as she did not come to the original ceremony, when he was seven. He remembers that part of his nervousness was knowing she would not be there, that his father would be the only familiar face in that large, open hall—he remembers these same echoing brown stones, the special robes that itched, the pretty girl who was first in their year in chemistry, who had never looked at him, not even after their parents introduced them to each other as future husband and wife, though from that time on he had often looked at her—

T’Pau’s fingers are cool where she touches his temple, the side of his cheek. The bond is weak yet. It is easy to sever. This ceremony, unlike its reverse, is a shameful one, and it does not take long.

He closes his eyes and clears his mind.

At first, he can feel T’Pring’s presence at his side, the slightest ripples of insecurity, of fear, and of shame. He is aware of her breathing, aware of her heartbeat, aware of her stillness. He is aware that she is using her strength to keep herself from trembling. He wants to take her hand. He wants to press his two fingers to her fingers.

Then all of a sudden he feels nothing. It is as if he were standing all alone. It is as if T’Pring had completely disappeared.

“You are shaking,” she tells him. The ceremony is over. He is sitting by the window, waiting for his father to finish talking to T’Pau. He does not see T’Pring’s parents anywhere, yet she is still here, holding a glass of water that he’s sure is for her (how thirsty he is, suddenly) until she hands it to him. He accepts it gratefully with a nod in thanks, and tries not to drink too fast. He feels hot and slightly flushed. “You are not ill?” she asks him.

“I am not ill.”

Something is different. Something is missing. This is not how he expected to feel.

“You are not feeling any adverse effects?” he asks her, cautiously.

“Nothing,” she answers, sitting down gently beside him, and then amends, “Nothing I did not expect.”

“Of course.”

He wants to tell her that he’s in his second month, almost his third, and it’s still early he knows, but every day that he cannot feel his baby he is terrified. He wants to tell her there is no one to talk to. He wants to tell her about the human boy, how he kept old paper books in his apartment and said he was rebellious, how Spock’s mother believed this boy could have forced him, how he was human and weak and yet still, he was strong. He wants to tell T’Pring that every night before he goes to sleep he asks himself if any of this is real; it doesn’t seem real; even with the morning sickness, even with his fatigue, even with the tests T’Pala runs and the pills she gives him to take it doesn’t seem real. Still he thinks it’s just some cruel joke. Or he wants to think it is a joke.

He wants to tell her all of these things but he can’t, and so, for five minutes, ten, in the almost empty hall with the sun setting in red and pink and yellow rays behind them, they sit, just sit together, in silence.

Chapter Text

Every day he wakes up at the same hour, fist of pain in his stomach, and he counts as high as he can and tries to steady his breathing until he can’t stand it anymore. He walks doubled over to the bathroom; he does not try to keep his body straight or to preserve his dignity. He is quietly but violently ill for fifteen, twenty, sometimes thirty minutes. On the mornings when his mother is still in the house she comes to him; no matter how quiet he is or how hard he tries not to disturb her, she knows, and she kneels next to him and holds him and rubs his back to comfort him. He feels like a child. He does not know what is worse, the mornings when she comes to him even though they both know what she thinks of him, or the mornings when she has left the house already, running early errands, taking on new jobs at the Embassy—avoiding him, he’s sure. Without her he is scared and alone. With her he is embarrassed, never sure what to say when the pains cease and he can stand once more.

He eats a large breakfast and he drinks tea to calm his nerves. He uses the extra time to read and to prepare for his classes. He goes to school; he is as quiet and as reserved as always; he fights his fatigue and the occasional dizzy spell. He returns home and meditates for an hour, and then sleeps. He does not wish to but his body all but forces him to unconsciousness. I am tired, it tells him, too tired to go on. He listens despite himself. When he wakes he devotes himself to his work until dinner.

His father keeps up conversation with the latest Embassy news. He never asks Spock how he’s feeling, or acts as if anything is different now than it was three months ago. Yet it is as if there were a wall between them. His mother does not talk about the pregnancy either. Occasionally she will ask Spock how he is doing, but always in the most neutral, the broadest of terms, and he answers accordingly, truthfully but vaguely. His father never looks at him, now, and his mother looks at him too much. Her eyes search his face as if looking for her real son.

Every two weeks she brings him to the hospital, where T’Pala runs the same tests over and over, tells him that the child is healthy and developing normally. She approaches him as a scientist and a professional, and he’s grateful for this at least. He’s grateful for her straightforward attitude, and for her honesty. We need to watch your condition carefully, Spock. This is an unprecedented case, after all.

He is ten weeks pregnant; two months and two weeks; he measures the time as carefully as T’Pala does, on a calendar kept in his room. He arrives home with his mother after his appointment, neither of them much in the mood to talk, and he lingers in the kitchen while she sets about making tea. She uses boiling water instead of the replicator. He doesn’t sit down, but wanders from one corner of the room to the other, awkwardly restless. His mother sets out two mugs without him asking. When the tea is ready she motions for him to sit down across from her.

“Is something wrong, Spock?”

She’s already asked him about his meeting with T’Pala, and he’s told her that he and the child are healthy, nothing new to report. Of course, this is not to say that nothing is wrong. He is pregnant, that is very wrong—any Vulcan would tell him so. He holds his mug of tea in one hand.

“No, Mother. I apologize if I have seemed somewhat distracted this afternoon.”

“It happens to us all.”

He pauses a moment, then shifts slightly in his chair and adds, “I did want to tell you…T’Pala has given me a list of foods: what I should eat, what I should not. I thought perhaps I could send it to you so—”

“Oh, Spock, of course,” she interrupts with relief in her voice. “I just want to keep you healthy.” She uses the singular when she speaks. Spock cannot really blame her. He thinks of himself in the same way, always I, never we, never my child and I. “Did she tell you anything else?”

This is the first time in a month that she has shown any interest in his condition, in his life now; she’s trying, he knows she’s trying, so he tries too. He tells her about the exercises he’s been given to do every day and about the vitamins that T’Pala has prescribed for him and how she’s always reminding him to take care of the child first, to sleep enough and take care of himself and so on. He does not say: as if I did not know this. He says everything quite neutrally, although what he wants is to explain it all at length, his thoughts and his experiences and even his worries. He wants to ask her, did you feel this way? Did you do these things? Was it worth it?

But he is not sure if she will have this sort of conversation with him and anyway he is a Vulcan, and he should know when to keep his feelings to himself, as one must. So he pretends that everything is quite normal. His mother follows his lead, emphasizes the importance of what T’Pala has told him, tells him she’s sure he will remember to do everything as he should. She does not say he is her responsible son. But this is the closest she has come to implying such a thing since before he left for Earth. She used to say it all the time. Now she’s distant, and she cuts off the conversation at the first lull.

She says she has work she must do and he knows it’s what he himself should be doing, but instead he takes a nap, another strange disorienting nap, his body stretched out long on his bed and his hands beneath his head, and in the evening, instead of studying, he sits at his desk and writes out lists of human and Vulcan traits. One column each. The child will be three fourths human, and one fourth Vulcan. But Vulcan genes are dominant, strong even when diluted. He imagines a child with the human’s small round ears, but the dark brown eyes of a Vulcan, like Spock’s own, and thick, dark, slanting eyebrows. A boy with green blood and a heart in his side and his other father’s bright blue eyes, his rounded eyebrows that curve and point down. A girl with tiny pointed ears that curve against her head and the human’s red blood, tiny heart just where his had been in her chest.

But there are too many possibilities, all equally probable, all equally unimaginable. He cannot picture it. He wishes to, tries to close his eyes and see, really see, his little son or daughter. Even the words seem false. He wishes he could believe but it feels more dream than reality, most days. He feels that his body isn’t the same, feels the cringing sickness in the morning, the tiredness that never leaves him, the occasional spells of faintness. Always there are new, small reminders. One day he feels a strange tickling in his nose. He touches his face tentatively, questioningly, and when he draws back his hand there is a touch of green blood at his fingers. He’s sitting in class, just wants to be alone, to figure out what is happening; he feels 20 pairs of eyes on him as he leaves.

T’Pala tells him later that nosebleeds are a common symptom of pregnancy. He has never gotten a nosebleed before.

He is still touching his nose carefully when he gets home that afternoon. The bleeding stopped hours ago—he has already checked his face in the mirror and he’s sure no blood remains—but he’s fascinated by the phenomenon, and he cannot stop himself from checking if it has started again. He is, by this time, more curious than nervous. He is still touching, carefully, that spot of skin beneath his nose, when he opens the door to the kitchen and sees that he is not alone in the house.

His father is not at the Embassy, which is unusual enough, but what is stranger still is that he is not alone. Sitting next to him at the table is a man Spock does not know. He is much younger than the majority of Spock’s father colleagues—Spock would place him in his mid-thirties, certainly no older than 40. His hair is perfectly black, his skin unlined. He is not dressed as the other Ambassadors and Embassy workers, but in the distinctive robes of the professors of the Science Academy. And while it’s true that Spock’s father is on the board of the Academy, this man is a simple professor, and there is no reason, no obvious reason at least, that Sarek should be meeting with him to discuss Academy business.

And certainly not in his home.

Spock has no idea what this man could be doing sitting so formally next to Spock’s father, back straight and hands in front of him on the table, and so he does what he always does when he has no answers: he gathers all of the evidence that he can. He has only a moment, when he walks in the door. But still he notices. He notices that the man is handsome, objectively and noticeably handsome, that his clothes are new, well kept, and yet simple, even by the standards of a professor. He wears nothing extra, nothing excessive, no jewelry or ornamentation. He is sitting as straight as he can, chair pushed close to the table, hands wrapped almost tightly around his mug. The minute Spock walks in the man’s eyes jump to him, a curious expression in them. He knows just who this boy is, Spock is instantly sure, but what is unsettling is the interest he shows in Spock’s presence. His eyes flick down Spock’s body, then back up to his face.

Spock drops his hand to his side.

“Good afternoon,” he says, as politely and as steadily as he can. “Forgive me for interrupting. I did not know you had company, Father.” He looks at the stranger as he speaks, only shifting his gaze to Sarek at the last sentence.

“Do not apologize. We were expecting you,” Sarek answers, and then pulls back the third chair. What he means is, we were waiting especially for you.

Spock still has no idea what is happening. Why an Academy professor would want to speak to him. Applications for his class are not due for over a year, and even then, professors do not make admissions decisions. Perhaps he is here to offer aid—though Spock has never needed assistance before to reach the top of his class.

He takes the proffered chair anyway and sits, despite his instinct. He does not trust this man. Something in his manner, in the way he looks at Spock, seems to set off an alarm in him.

His father is trying to introduce them. “Spock, this is Soval, he is a professor of Physics at the Academy, and the son of one of my colleagues at the Embassy.” He introduces Spock in turn, though all three know it is unnecessary. Spock brings his right hand up into the familiar gesture, and he registers that Soval is doing the same, but his mind is elsewhere, running through theories again.

Does it have to do with the child?

Sarek looks about to speak, but the other man interrupts him before he gets the chance. He looks just at Spock, as if he were the only one in the room. His voice is somber, and there is something distant in his manner, an overcompensation, a desperation. A nervousness. His eyes are restless, examining Spock’s face, constantly surprised by it. By how young it is, perhaps, or how closed. Or at how steadily and neutrally it returns his gaze as Spock waits.

“I wish to be direct, Spock,” he says. “Your father has told me of your—circumstances. Of the child.”

Of course. What else could his circumstances be? He feels his cheeks flush green despite himself, but offers no other, no conscious acknowledgement. Just waits.

Soval takes the hint. “I realize of course that this is an intensely private matter, which is why I feel it is only right to tell you something of myself as well. When I was 25 I was bonded, to a partner of my choice, and we built a stable life together. Unfortunately—” a falter, just a moment, but Spock sees it—his whole body is tense, uncomfortable with this man’s presence, his story, like laying his life bare—this just isn’t done—

“Unfortunately, my bondmate became ill, and passed away two years ago.” The verb he uses is archaic, overly polite: the word one uses when one has not accepted death. The word one uses when one is in mourning. For this man, two years feels like two minutes.

Spock wishes he could ask why this man is telling him these things. But that would be rude, and he cannot.

He waits and does not ask any questions, and he does not show any expression on his face. He wants to be intimidating to this man, who can barely look at him and yet who keeps his gaze steadily on him, and he wants his father to be nervous too, wants to make him scared of how his son will react to whatever plan he has devised now.

“Spock,” Soval says, and leans in toward him across the table. His hands are clasped tight. He is trying very hard, Spock imagines, to pretend Sarek is not there. “Spock, I do not wish to remain unbonded forever. I cannot. And I…well, your father and I, we believe—”

“You believe that I should become your new bondmate,” Spock finishes for him. He cannot believe the words even as he hears his own voice say them. He sounds dull, not simply emotionless, but emotionally dead. He looks to his father, hoping he will correct him, but he only nods in assent.

“It is only logical,” Soval is saying. Spock cannot even look at him. “I need a mate. You, too, will soon need a partner as well. This is a reasonable solution.”

“No it is not,” Spock bites out before he can stop himself, turning sharply to Soval as he speaks. Soval draws back from him visibly, and Sarek’s eyebrows twitch, disapproving. Spock straightens and tries to compose himself. “I apologize,” he adds, “but I disagree. This is not a solution.” They are looking at him as if asking him what, exactly, is wrong with their plan, as if it did not contain a million faults. Spock flicks his eyes from one to the other quickly, back and forth, and tries, the first thing that comes to his mind, “You—you are a stranger.”

“So was T’Pring when you were betrothed to her,” Sarek answers simply, and Spock blushes, both to hear T’Pring’s name spoken in front of this man and at the ease in Sarek’s manner, as if refuting Spock’s arguments is so simple it is not even worth his time to do so. “Arranged marriages are a part of our culture, Spock, or have you forgotten?”

“This is different,” he grits out between his teeth. He looks straight at his father, ignoring as best as he can the man across the table. “You know this is different.”

“Your situation is different” Sarek answers calmly. Quickly, almost imperceptibly, he shoots a look at Soval, an apology. My son is not usually like this.

Spock tries, again, to compose himself, and turns now properly to Soval. “I apologize,” he says once more, “but this…this suggestion comes as somewhat of a surprise. I did not know my father had the intention—”

“Do not apologize. I understand.”

Spock turns his eyes down and grasps his knees under the table. The man does not understand. He is aware that he does not understand. His polite words are meaningless and make Spock ill.

Soval takes Spock’s silence as an invitation to continue. He makes his voice warm, quiet, personal; he speaks to Spock as if they were intimates, and Spock is embarrassed for him, his desperation, his sadness.

“I realize this is unexpected and unorthodox. But I believe if you look at the situation logically, you will appreciate this solution. My bondmate and I never had children, but I would like to be a father, and it will be much easier for you to raise your child if you are not alone.”

“You are aware that he or she will be three-fourths human,” Spock says quietly, still not looking up. He half hopes this information will scare the man away.

“Your father informed me, yes,” he answers. He sounds uncomfortable, his voice a little off. “But that is only a detail. You can still raise him or her as a Vulcan, in our ways.”

“Of course.”

As soon as he says it, he realizes it is true. All along, this is what he had assumed, that he would treat his son or daughter as a Vulcan, as his own parents treated him. He cannot explain why. His society has never accepted him, will probably reject him completely when the child is born. But it is as if no other options existed, in his mind.

He wonders if they will accept him more with a bondmate, a husband who is a man of standing, a respected professor. The thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. It feels like begging for scraps.

“Spock, I am sure if you give the matter some thought you will see just how reasonable the arrangement is,” his father says. He believes this is the end of the argument.

“I do not—I do not wish to have anything arranged.”

When he looks up at Soval again, he seems hurt. He is keeping his face as impressively neutral as one would expect, but something subtle there, in his eyes, in the line of his mouth, makes his feeling clear. This is not how he expected the conversation to go. But what could he have expected? That Spock would be grateful? That he would jump at this chance?

Still, he cannot but feel some sympathy. He is Vulcan, but he is not dead.

“I am sorry,” he says, almost softly, to Soval. “But I cannot—”

“Spock, this is not your decision to make,” Sarek interrupts sharply, and Spock’s gaze snaps immediately to his father. “This is the best thing for you. You act as if your life has not changed but it has. Raising a child on your own, and at your age, is simply impossible. You will need help. Soval can provide that for you.”

At first, all Spock can do is stare. He is gripping his knees so hard he’s sure he’s leaving bruises. His father stares back at him, immovable, unblinking. It is his job to convince others that arguing with him is a futile waste of time. Spock is only fifteen, and his son.

Suddenly, Soval coughs, and both father and son turn to look at him instead. “There is no rush, of course,” he tells Spock. “I would like to begin the ceremonies as soon as possible but the final bonding can wait until you have finished school. You have less than two years left, I believe?”

“Yes,” Spock answers absently. His thoughts are half here, half there, and he can feel the beating of his blood in his ears. This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not really happening, it seems to be saying.

“That is not a problem. I can wait that long.”

Something in the way he says this triggers a realization in Spock’s mind. Why the man needs to remarry. Why he would accept even a halfbreed teenager with an illegitimate child. He is anticipating Pon Farr. Even thinking the words makes Spock blush a deep green, and he ducks his face to hide. The man will not say the words, and neither will Sarek, and neither will Spock himself, but he knows that they are all aware of this, this truth, this background to the story. In a few years Soval will go through Pon Farr and he must have a mate or he will die, and he wishes that Spock should fill this role. An oversimplification, of course, certainly; Soval misses his bondmate, his partner in life, he’s lonely, and he wants a family. But still Spock cannot just ignore—he remembers the human boy, the intimacy between them, the intimacy of that act that his peers do not understand. He does not wish to share that experience with this man, with anyone who is not the boy, the father of his child.

Spock looks up at Soval again. He examines his face, his neck, his shoulders, his hands. He tries to imagine him. He cannot.

Soval stares back at him, almost puzzled.

“Even before the official ceremony, I would be available to provide assistance for the child,” he clarifies, believing that he has read Spock’s worries. “I do not wish to sound as if I would be simply absent for two years and then expect you to form a family with me.”

“I see.”

Spock’s mind is racing through ways out, how to get out, how to stop this right now.

“So you believe that I should continue living with my parents until I finish my degree, and then complete the bonding ceremony with you, so that we may form a household, you and me and my child?”

“Yes. I believe that would be the best thing. Much will change in two years, Spock. The idea seems…unexpected now, but it will come to seem like the most reasonable thing in time.”

Spock nods, but he is barely listening. “And the Academy?” he asks.

Soval falters. “I am not sure I understand.”

“I will be going to the Academy,” Spock insists. “I trust that you have factored this into your plans.”

He sees Soval exchange a look with Spock’s father, quick, but not subtle. Spock looks to one and then the other.

“Your acceptance is hardly assured,” Sarek says, after a pause that stretches several seconds too long. No one’s acceptance is assured, Spock wants to say. What he is really saying is that Spock’s chances are now all but gone. “You must plan your future with that in mind, Spock.”

“And—and if I cannot go to the Academy?”

He hates the way he sounds, whiny but also scared, too emotional. Soval is looking at him as if he cannot understand his logic.

“You will have your child to take care of,” he says. This is quite obvious, his tone says. Clearly you have not been thinking.

For a moment, two, he just sits there, hands curled into fists now underneath the table. He even closes his eyes. He pretends they are not there. Then he slowly lets his eyelids lift again and he says, “Of course,” dully, hollowly. He does not wish to have this discussion. He wishes for it to be over.

“Spock, you do not look well,” his father says, then, and he actually sounds concerned. “You are pale.”

“Your father is right,” Soval adds. “You must rest.”

They must think the conversation really is over. Spock will study for two more years, and then he will bond to this man, and he will be a husband and parent—maybe if he is lucky Soval will instruct him in Physics on the side. This thought makes him more ill than anything else and so he nods, only nods, and stands up slowly. He says a polite goodbye to Soval. He barely hears him say they will talk again later. He keeps telling himself that this is not really over, that he can still find some way out, and it is only this thought that allows him, when he finally reaches his bed, to sleep.

*

You can still raise him or her as a Vulcan, in our ways.

And he will.

He is lying on his back on his bed, hands behind his head, eyes absently scanning the ceiling. It is mid-morning. A hot cup of tea sits on his bedside table, and every now and then, he takes a tentative sip, feels it scald down his sore throat and then soothe his stomach, muscles still aching slightly, almost imperceptibly, from the hour before. He is alone in the house. It is very quiet.

He will raise his son or daughter as a Vulcan because it is all he knows. Because it is the teachings of Surak that have guided him all his life, that have helped him control his anger and his loneliness. Because the child will be part Vulcan, and will know these same overpowering emotions, and he or she will need to know how to master feelings before they become uncontrollable.

But even so—it is not right that the child not know about Earth. He or she will not be able to know the human boy, the other father, will not even know stories of him, because what does Spock have to tell? He was a stranger, confident and fascinating, emotional, open, illogical. Around him I was no longer myself.

Spock sits up properly to drain the last of his tea. No. He must not think like this. The child will know him as a father and that will be sufficient—he does not think of Soval, not now—but he or she must still know about Earth, his or her heritage just as surely as Vulcan is. Spock himself knows very little about Earth. Of course he has been curious about it. All Vulcans are curious about Earth, at least to some degree, though few will admit it. The most readily available information is the least trustworthy, more rumor than fact, tainted by Federation politics. Spock has his mother, of course, and when he was younger he would ask her about Earth, her childhood, the cities and the people and even the seasons, the animals, the plants. The stories she told him then seem like children’s stories now. He cannot be sure what is fact and what is invention, exaggerated truths designed both to satisfy and to spark his curiosity, the sort of half lies one tells with impunity to children.

Eventually, he stopped asking questions, he tried to forget that he was anything less than a true, pure Vulcan. His people talk of solidarity and self-defense. Humans are emotional and illogical; they act before they think and this makes them a subtle, an always-possible threat. Spock is a possible threat. Stonn does not let him forget this. He tries to fit in, he tries to be as Vulcan as his father and his people wish. For years he has been like this, and any knowledge he might once have had of his mother’s people has disappeared.

He has no class today, so he goes to the library instead. He does not know where to begin so he researches the planet’s geography first. He wants a complete picture. He reads about its continents and its oceans, its jungles and deserts, its countrysides and cities. He looks at pictures of its animals. The large cats of the jungle, the lions and tigers and panthers, fascinate him most; they remind him of I-Chaya, but without the fangs. The animals of Earth are more diverse than those of Vulcan: fish of all sizes, insects, elephants, anteaters, bears, small domestic animals that are almost unbelievably small.

He reads about the seasons, and about the different climates, and he finds a list of all the country’s superlatives: the tallest mountain, the largest ocean, the biggest tree, the fastest animal. He starts to read about the different countries, and soon is plunged into millennia of history. He starts from the present and moves backward, skimming through epoques, taking in cultural movements, political battles, groundbreaking discoveries. His mind becomes a sponge. He forgets everything else, forgets where he is or what time it is, even why he began this search in the first place. He continues because he wants to know more.

He spends two hours alone on Earth’s scientific history. It is particularly notable for its space program, not as old as Vulcan’s perhaps, but with a long and impressive history of its own. Earth is also, of course, home to the current center of the Federation’s peacekeeping armada, Starfleet. He brings up pictures of the Headquarter and Academy buildings in San Francisco. Not as beautiful as the Vulcan Science Academy buildings, perhaps, these large blocky Starfleet buildings with their sweeping green lawns in front and their view of the ocean, but hardly displeasing to the eye.

He reads an article on Earth’s First Contact. It refers to Vulcans as a “pacifistic race, followers of a religion founded on logic, and completely lacking in emotion.”

He realizes only then how late it is. He has lost track of time, barely eaten all day, and he must return home for dinner.

He expects his parents to be already in the dining room, preparing to eat, but they are not. Both the dining room and the kitchen are empty. His stomach is telling him he should eat, and though he could control his hunger if need be, he thinks of the child, and he replicates himself a small bowl of soup. Just as he takes the first bite he notices the voices. He is not alone in the house after all. He can hear his parents, voices faint but still audible. They are arguing again.

This is nothing new. They have argued all his life, more or less successfully hiding their disagreements from him, it’s true, but still he is aware that on many issues they have violently opposing views. Often on questions relating to Spock himself. He takes his soup with him and he walks down the hall, as carefully and as quietly as he can, so noiselessly not even his father could hear him, and he stops outside the door to their bedroom. Yes, they are inside. He hears his mother’s voice first.

“This is—this is unacceptable, Sarek!”

“Amanda—”

“No. Listen to me. You cannot just marry our son off to a stranger—”

“You did not object like this when I suggested the betrothal with T’Pring.”

Sarek’s voice is low and calm, and it is this, as much as anything, that is infuriating Spock’s mother. Spock takes a tiny step closer to the door, even though he can hear perfectly well where he is.

“That was different. No, I wasn’t fond of that situation either, but it was my choice to live here, to take up your ways, Sarek, and I know that. You gave me good reasons—”

“There are ‘good reasons’ here as well.”

“Stop interrupting me. This is not the same. T’Pring is Spock’s age, and I knew they’d have their whole lives to strengthen their bond, to become used to one another, years and years before they even had to consider the bonding ceremony. But this man—he is over twice Spock’s age, Sarek. They can never be equals. Spock will never have a real life with him. He will be like…like a toy, something to use!”

“It will not be like that, Amanda. I know this young man. He and his family are trustworthy.”

“This is archaic!”

“This is logical.”

Spock tries to eat his soup as quietly as he can. He can barely breathe. For the first time since he saw Soval sitting at his kitchen table he feels hopeful, hopeful that with his mother’s support he will be able to convince his father that this is a bad idea, that he cannot form a life with this strange man, that he cannot share his child with him.

When he hears his mother say, “This conversation isn’t over,” he jumps quickly away from the door, and ducks back down the hall and into the kitchen. He has just barely sat down, and arranged himself as best as he can to show that of course he has been sitting here the whole time, when his mother bursts in.

“Spock! When did you get in?”

“Seven minutes ago,” he answers, and stirs his soup absently. “I am sorry I was late.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, harried, absent, and sets about searching for silverware. “I am the one who’s late. Set the table, Spock, please. Your father has work at the Embassy tonight, so it’s just the two of us for dinner.”

Just as she says this, Sarek himself shows up to corroborate her story. He is gone as quickly, just a short word to Spock before he leaves to make sure that he is eating as he should. He does not say more than a curt goodbye to his wife, barely looks at her as he leaves. Spock knows there is no Embassy work. But he doesn’t say anything and neither does his mother, and while they eat they talk about Spock’s latest linguistics reading, as if nothing were wrong.

*

It takes him four days to work up the courage. Even then, he is not sure Soval will even come, not sure if he will consider it appropriate to speak to Spock without his father present. But he’s there at the appointed time, outside the library an hour after Spock’s last class, a look of concern on his face, concern and curiosity.

“Spock,” he says, letting his hand drop again after their gesture of greeting.

“Soval. I trust you do not mind that I have called you here.”

“No, though I admit I do not understand. Does your father know you are here?”

Spock shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He gestures that they should walk, and Soval falls into step beside him. Spock holds his hands behind his back. He looks straight ahead—decided that they should walk for just this reason, so that he would not be forced to look at Soval as he speaks—and starts the speech he had practiced so carefully in his head the night before.

“My father tells me that the decision is already made, that you and I should be bonded. But it would be complicated—illogically so—to perform the ceremony before I have finished my studies, and in two years I will be seventeen, the age of majority. My father will not be able to make decisions for me.”

He glances, just for a moment, at Soval; his eyebrows are meeting over his nose, and he seems about to speak, so Spock raises his voice—just the tiniest bit, but it is enough. “You and my father can attempt to move the date of the bonding forward, so that I cannot contest the decision, but I would not suggest it. Not everyone in my family is in favor of this arrangement, and even if I cannot legally leave you, I have the right to physically separate myself from you and live independently. Furthermore, because you are not the biological parent of my child you will have no right over him or her.” The words are falling from his mouth almost faster than he can control them, angrier perhaps than he’d meant them, more biting and more threatening, but Soval isn’t making any move to interrupt. He has rearranged his face into the most neutral of expressions. If he is hurt he makes no sign. He walks with his hands behind his back, too. He looks straight ahead.

“You believe that this arrangement is beneficial to us both, but Soval—” here he stops. They are behind the library now, in a deserted spot just at the entrance to the library gardens. Spock turns and faces Soval, and looks him straight in the eye as he finishes. Truly, he does not wish to hurt him. He wants him to know this. “Soval, you do not want to be my mate. Surely you are aware that I am…looked down upon…in our community.”

“You exaggerate—”

“Surely you are aware,” Spock speaks right over him, “what other Vulcans think of me. When the child is born my situation will become only more unpleasant. As my bondmate, you will be subject to the same criticism, the same…distasteful looks and hidden remarks. You know this as well as I do. I wish to spare you this.”

For a moment, Soval just stares at him. His expression is unreadable. He is processing, thinking. He is coming, slowly and perhaps painfully, to realize that Spock is right. Still, Spock feels like he is holding his breath and he is only at ease again when Soval says, voice level and clear, “I will tell Sarek tomorrow that I cannot continue with our plans.”

“I thank you,” Spock answers, and bows his head.

“Do not.”

And then there is nothing more to say. They walk back to the road in silence. Spock can tell that Soval is watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Before they part ways, Soval tells him, almost warmly, and in such a way that Spock can almost, for a moment, imagine being his husband someday, “If you ever need my assistance, Spock—apparently you know how to find me.” He raises his eyebrow once almost in amusement, and lifts his hand, fingers splayed. “Live long and prosper.”

Spock mirrors the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Soval.”

Chapter Text

Writing to you is illogical. I know this. Even if I write down all the words I wish to say to you in person, you will never read them. I cannot send you this message and even if I could... You would not want to hear from me.

So why am I writing? What use is this exercise to me?

I am writing to you because I cannot stop thinking about you, even though I know I should stop. I am writing because I cannot control my thoughts when they relate to you and this is disconcerting.

Just seeing these words on the screen makes me almost believe, on some level, that I am in contact with you. I am being illogical again. I am allowing myself a fantasy that cannot help me, that is allowing me to hide from the reality of my current situation, and yet, I think I will continue. I will view this letter as another form of meditation, a way of working through my thoughts.

What would I tell you if I knew you would one day read these words? I would ask you if you still remembered me. I would ask you if you ever thought about what happened between us. I would tell you that I am pregnant. It is curious, but I find that it is easier to write these words to you than it was to say them to my parents or to T’Pring (but is this simply because I know I am only really writing to myself?).

The chances that you would believe me are small. But if I convinced you that I truly am carrying your child, how would you react? Would you be angry? Would you wish that we had never met? Would you tell me never to contact you again? Or would you be curious? Would you want to see what a part alien child would look like? How it would sound? How it would act? Would you be disgusted with me? Would you blame me?

Is there any chance that you would want to raise this child as your own? With me?

I do not have sufficient data to make these calculations. Human beings are emotional and unpredictable, constantly surprising. Sometimes I believe that Vulcans are this way also. That it is in the nature of all living things to surprise.

In barely more than six months I will have a son or a daughter. I do not believe I have ever thought those words so precisely before; I have never seen them written so straightforwardly in front of me. It sounds very simple. I will be a father, and you, somewhere on Earth, will be a father as well. But you will not know it. Your life will be easier, not knowing; it is better for you that you do not know. I take comfort in knowing that I am protecting you from this.

At the same time I know that I am denying you experiences that are rightfully yours: the sight of your child, the weight of him or her in your arms, watching him or her grow. For the first weeks of my pregnancy I never thought of these things. The idea of something growing inside me was repulsive. I did not wish to admit this. I did not wish to admit it even to myself. It was shameful to me that my own child should be like a parasite, a being inside of me sapping my energy and causing me pain, changing my body in ways I could not understand or predict, threatening my health and my future. I protected it out of instinct. But when I tried to feel it, tried to connect to it, tried to conceive of it as a living being inside me, I could not.

I believed there was something wrong with me. I believed that I was incapable of being a parent.

How can I admit this to you, and with such ease, when I cannot admit it to my own mother? I could barely express my concerns to T’Pala. I was in her office yesterday, for the usual battery of tests, the same ones she performs every two weeks and to which I have already become quite accustomed. She told me that the baby was healthy, and that everything was progressing normally. I do not know what this means, “normally.” I suppose she intends to say, “as every Vulcan pregnancy progresses,” and yet I am not just any Vulcan. All male pregnancies are more dangerous, and I am too young to carry a child safely, and my body remains such a mystery that no one can say what is normal, for me, and what is not. But T’Pala knows these things. She is only trying to be reassuring. She sees, like no one else sees, like I wish no one to see, that I am scared.

That is difficult to write.

Every time I visit her I expect her to tell me that something has gone wrong. I expect her to tell me that I am wrong, somehow; that I am unfit for this. I do not wish her to tell me this, yet I am always certain she will, and I wait for it as I waited for her to show me the test results that told me I was pregnant. Yesterday when she told me that all was as it should be, I asked her if she was sure. She gave me a confused look. I had been just about to leave. Then she asked me what I meant. I explained that I had not been able to feel the child, that I had not been able to make any sort of contact with it during any of my meditations. It is a living being inside of me, a part of me. Yet I cannot reach it. I tried to explain these things to her—this logic that leads me always to this conclusion that something is wrong—without seeming too worried or too concerned. But T’Pala is discerning; she saw what I did not wish to say.

She told me that this was nothing unusual. She said that the child is still too small, still too undeveloped, for me to make contact with him or her. She said that this is not unusual for this stage of the pregnancy. I could not help but be relieved; of course I was relieved; yet the news also saddened me, and I could not bring myself to ask how long I might have to wait.

If I were not writing these words down, to you, I do not believe I would ever say them, not even to myself.

That night, I left my studies earlier than usual and devoted an extra hour to meditation. I wanted to calm myself and clear my thoughts. These last weeks, I have felt weighted with worry; I would almost call it a physical weight that I carry with me. Meditation helps with these emotions. It helps me feel centered again, grounded by logic and the teachings of my childhood. I followed my routine as I usually do. I sat on the floor in my customary position and I let my thoughts wander, uncontrolled at first, wherever they wished. They were scattered, confused, worried thoughts. I collected them and sorted them one by one. I organized my mind as one might organize a shelf.

And when I felt calm again, I let go.

That is when I felt the presence for the first time. I did not know what it was at first. It was not like the feeling I get when I touch another being, and their feelings seem to slip in through my skin. It came from me. But it was not me. There were no thoughts, nothing so specific as an emotion, as happiness or fear. But there was life. That is what I can tell you. I felt life. I felt a life that we created.

I believe that this is the real reason I have decided to write this to you.

I held on to this link with my child as long as I could, feeling it pulse and glow, it seemed, until it slipped from my grasp, and I opened my eyes as if waking from a long sleep. This is always the feeling I get after a particularly long and intense meditation. It is not unpleasant. For the first time since T’Pala first told me I was to have a child, I felt truly at peace and at ease.

*

The qualifying exam for the Vulcan Science Academy is in two weeks. He spends every spare minute studying or preparing. His mother tells him to slow down. His father reminds him that there are other, more effective, ways to ready himself. Still, the idea that he might not make it, that he might not even qualify, is tormenting. All he can think about is Soval, sitting there next to his father and telling him he’ll make a nice young husband, but his dreams of being a scientist are over.

One night he falls asleep at his desk, in front of his computer, and the next day he decides to take some time off.

When he returns from class he allows himself a particularly long nap, and when he awakes, he asks himself, what do you really want to do?

For the rest of the evening, he devotes himself to research, a slow but steady search. T’Pala has already told him all of the essentials, but he’s found in the past that the more he knows about a certain subject, the more at ease he feels with it—the more he knows about a problem, the more confident he has that he will find it’s solution. He sits at his desk, one hand rubbing lazy circles against his lower abdomen as he flips through articles and clicks on links.

One source tells him that his child is, at this stage, capable of hearing sounds. “Some sounds,” it says. It does not give any more specifics. Still, the idea is intriguing. Now, or soon, the child might be able to pick out the sound of his voice. It will be a new sensation for this small being. Hearing from inside his body must not be the same as hearing the way Spock understands the word. The article only says that it will “start” to pick up sounds. It does not say what types of sounds are most likely to be heard by those small half-formed ears. But all the same, if there is any chance at all that the child can hear him, he should try to speak to it. He imagines his son or daughter becoming, slowly, accustomed to the sound of his voice, just as he or she is probably becoming accustomed to the feel of his movements—perhaps even, eventually, to the feel of his mind as he reaches out during his meditations.

His child has a face now, the article tells him, or will within the month; it even has tiny little ears. He or she can make expressions. He or she can sense a difference between light and dark, even though, beyond this, he or she is still blind.

Spock turns off his computer and makes himself dinner. Both of his parents are gone this evening, and he is alone in the house. As he eats, he lets his mind wander. He tries to imagine the child as it must look now. He tries to imagine what sensations it feels, what its world is like, what it experiences, when all it knows is the inside of his own body.

“These thoughts are quite ridiculous,” he finds himself saying out loud. But he doesn’t quite believe it.

He clears the table and returns to his room. He closes the door behind him, and then, without consciously deciding to do so, he takes his lyre off its shelf and sits with it on his bed. It has been months since he’s played—since before his trip to Earth, if he remembers. Still, as soon as he feels the familiar weight on his knee and touches the strings again with his fingertips, he feels at ease. Music has always helped him to relax. Of course, he will teach his son or daughter how to play, just as his father taught him. Perhaps the child will be even more talented than Sarek himself, more talented than any full Vulcan. He tries to remember his first lessons, how his father explained how the instrument worked before he let him touch it, how he told Spock its history as he taught him the notes. He remembers how proud he felt, at the first songs he played correctly all the way through.

He doesn’t realize at first that he has started to play; his fingers move on their own across the strings. He closes his eyes as he plays. This music, the ancient music of Vulcan, is what he wants his child to know. He wants these songs to be among the first sounds he or she ever hears.

He plays for over an hour without stopping.

When he finally puts the lyre away, he feels lost in the silence of his room. It is dark out by now, and the light in his room is insufficient, creating more shadows than it dispels. He turns it on 100% and lies back. “Of course,” he says quietly to the ceiling, “I wish for you to know my voice as well.”

The idea of lying alone on his bed and simply talking, finding whatever random words he can to say, seems too strange even for his mostly decidedly abnormal situation, so instead he finds one of his favorite books from when he was a child—a real paper bound Earth classic that his mother used to read to him before he was even old enough to read himself. He settles back into his pillows with it. The sound of his voice speaking to no one is unsettling at first. He is not in the habit of reading aloud. Yet he tries to remind himself that he is not truly alone, not truly reading to thin air, and that the child can hear him even now.

He half hopes that this act will make him feel finally, at least slightly, like a father. But it does not. Still, the rhythm of reading is soothing, and so he continues until he hears the sound of his father’s motorcycle outside—then he puts the book away, paranoid that his father will hear his voice and wonder what he is doing. He would probably find such an action irrational. Reading to an unborn child. Spock wraps his arms around his middle and wonders if his father ever read to him before he was born. What sort of hopes did he have for him, his experiment of a son? What sort of fears? What did he expect? He must have known that no one can predict, with hybrids. No one can predict, with anyone.

Chapter Text

He has done the calculations. Three months and eight days. Thirteen weeks. His fourth month.

There is only one full length mirror in their house; his mother keeps it in her study, but he carries it out to his room after his parents leave the house for the afternoon. He sets it in the corner, closes all the window blinds, and turns on all the lights on full.

Staring at himself full on, he looks the same. Perfectly normal. A fifteen year old Vulcan male, black hair in the traditional cut, clean shaven, taller than the average but not excessively so, dressed in the uniform of his school. The clothes are not form-fitting. Even from the side, no one could possibly tell.

He faces forward again and strips off his shirt. Perhaps, if one looked closely enough, if one knew what to look for, he could detect a slight roundness to Spock’s lower stomach. But he is unsure. Perhaps he is imagining things. He turns to the side once more. First to the left, then to the right. Yes. From this angle it is a visible. A subtle curve, just above the waistline of his trousers. The child. He places his hand on the bump. He is suddenly terrified.

The Academy exam is in five days.

*

“Spock!”

If he pretends he doesn’t hear him, perhaps he will go away.

“Spock! It is rude to ignore someone who is speaking to you.”

Still he doesn’t turn around. He is almost to the middle of the school courtyard. He picks up his pace, almost imperceptibly, but he knows Stonn and his lackeys have increased their speed to a greater degree, and will inevitably catch up to him.

“Spock! Is there something wrong with your hybrid hearing?” He can hear in Stonn’s voice that he thinks he’s being funny. “Do you think he is half deaf like the humans?” he stage-whispers to his friends. Spock can feel himself flushing green, but he holds his PADD tight against his body and tries to keep walking as if he doesn’t notice.

Then he feels a hand on his shoulder. There’s a hint of real annoyance in Stonn’s voice now, as he says, “Hey. I am talking to you,” and jerks Spock back as if to turn him around. There is no avoiding this encounter now. He turns properly to face Stonn, body still shielded.

“You wish to speak to me?” he asks as calmly as he can.

“I just wanted to show my concern,” Stonn answers. His tone is snide, mocking, bitter. His goons stand behind him rigidly, silently glaring. Spock lets his eyes flicker over them, and then back to Stonn. His whole body is tense but he doesn’t say anything. He stares at Stonn with a neutral expression because he’s learned well enough by now that nothing bothers Stonn more.

“I heard you getting your test score today,” he continues. “Only 93 percent of your answers were correct. And last week, it was only 95 percent. You seem to be slipping, Spock.”

Stonn is not incorrect. The satisfaction he hides so badly is, Spock will admit, infuriating, but the truth is that Stonn is right. He is slipping. For years he would rarely get anything below 100 percent on his tests, and he prided himself on this, a rare achievement even among the brightest of his class. Recently, though, he has been blanking on answers. He has been guessing. He has been hearing questions that sound as if they were phrased in an unknown language, they make so little sense to his ears. He could almost say that getting 93 percent of his answers right is only his good luck. He could not have worse timing, either, to start to lose his edge, and Stonn is quite ready to point this out.

“The Academy exam is in only three days, you know,” he adds, as if this thought had only just then occurred to him. “If your current trend continues, and factoring in the added degree of difficulty of the qualifying exam over our normal school exams…well, a place in the Academy is hardly assured.”

“A place in the Academy is hardly assured for any student,” Spock reminds him coldly.

“And yet…you have always assumed you have one waiting for you, haven’t you? With your father on the board…”

This is the first time that Stonn has ever made a comment of this sort, and though it is false—the nagging doubt has always been in his mind, telling him over and over, maybe you really aren’t good enough—it is enlightening to hear such an accusation. Stonn is not stupid, but nor is he the type of student who can walk into the Academy with ease. And none of his family members hold positions like Spock’s father.

Spock does not know how to answer him.

“All any of us can do is our best on the exam—” he starts to say, stupid meaningless platitude, but Stonn cuts him off.

“Not even your father can help you with this, Spock. The Academy has standards. Perhaps they would have considered you before, with your grades the way they were.” He admits the last only grudgingly, a sneer to the edge of his words that makes even this acceptance of Spock’s intelligence an insult. “But the first slip up and—” He takes a half step closer and snaps his fingers in Spock’s face. “You will be out. They will not need any excuse to reject a hybrid bastard like you.”

That is not the correct usage of the word ‘bastard,’ Spock wants to tell him. But all he does is stare down at Stonn’s shoes. His face is blushing a furious green, he can feel it, but there is nothing to be done—nothing except reach out and strangle Stonn with his bare hands, but that would be both inappropriate and dangerous. The last thing he can allow himself is a fist fight with a strong opponent.

“You do not have any response?” Stonn goads. He pushes Spock’s shoulder roughly—not as roughly as he could but Spock can feel all the power he is not using, hidden in the gesture. “Not even when I—”

Three things happen very quickly. Stonn grabs for Spock’s PADD, which he’s noticed Spock is using as a shield. Spock steps back instinctively, afraid of Stonn for just a moment like he has never been afraid of him before. And finally, before Stonn can reach him, a voice calls out Stonn’s name, sharply, from the other end of the courtyard.

T’Pring doesn’t run toward them, but she walks quickly, and the whole group of them are too stunned to move until she reaches them.

“What are you doing?” she asks Stonn harshly. She looks directly at him, as if Spock were not even there. He takes the opportunity to compose himself.

“Spock and I were just having a conversation,” Stonn answers, a bit defensively, the slightest hint of embarrassment in his tone. He’s not paying any attention to Spock either, anymore. Spock has the vague idea that he should just slip away, but he’s too curious—this interaction is terribly fascinating.

“Do not insult my intelligence, Stonn. That was no conversation. I know what that was—”

“Then you should not have asked.”

“I know what that was,” she repeats, speaking right over him but her voice as controlled as always. “And you must stop. I cannot associate with someone who uses violence. We are above that, Stonn.”

For a moment he looks about to argue. Then he closes his mouth again. I cannot associate with, she had said. Spock’s eyes flick back and forth from his face to hers.

“You do not have to defend him,” Stonn says finally. “He is not your fiancé anymore.”

He wants the words to hurt, and they do; for a moment Spock feels a sharp sting of betrayal, all the worse for the way T’Pring looks at him with apology in her eyes. Then she looks away. Stonn’s lackeys are staring at him in something like surprise, and it is all he can do not to return their look, not to give them that satisfaction. But of course, there is no reason to feel wronged. Of course she would tell Stonn of the breaking of the bond. That is not a secret. Perhaps she even thought that, knowing Spock was no longer T’Pring’s intended, Stonn would no longer feel the need to bother him. Perhaps she believed she was helping him.

Still, Spock is uneasy, nervous that all she has done is spark Stonn’s curiosity.

“You do not understand,” she is saying, and Spock takes a step back, ready to back all the way out of the courtyard before Stonn turns his attention back to him. Stonn looks ready to burst, it’s there right beneath the surface, and Spock knows this isn’t just about him. “You will leave him alone. This is not a debate.”

And before Stonn can say another word she steps past him and continues on her way, steps right past Spock too without a glance, and disappears through an arcade into the far hallway. Spock doesn’t dare look at Stonn or his friends. He walks after T’Pring as quickly as he can without appearing to hurry too much. He can hear the others walking in the other direction.

He wants to thank her, but is not sure how to approach her, or if she even cares to hear the words from him. The hallway is cooler and darker than the courtyard, the walkway and the walls a dark gray stone, the high windows half curtained at this hour from the harsh desert sun. T’Pring has slowed her pace. He increases his, until they are walking side by side. They do not look at each other. He is still deciding how to phrase his thanks when she says, “I apologize for Stonn’s behavior.”

“It is not your responsibility to apologize for the actions of another.”

He thinks he sees her nod out of the corner of his eye.

“You have been preparing for the Academy exam?” she asks, after a pause, just when he thinks they have said all there is to say.

“It is in three days,” he answers. “Preparation for the exam has become my first priority.”

“Mine as well. I find that it is often helpful to study with another. One can learn from the other’s expertise.”

She looks at him, briefly, not even long enough to turn her head in his direction. But he catches the glance.

“For example,” she continues, “I would appreciate being able to discuss the physics portion of the exam with someone.”

“And I find history to be a challenging subject,” he responds. He’s dropped his hands to his sides by now, and he can feel the tension slip away from his body as if he were meditating. When T’Pring invites him to her house to study after their last class, he says yes without even thinking.

*

T’Pring’s house is as he remembers it, though it seems like it has been many months since the last time he visited her. When they arrive, no one is home; she leads him to her room and closes the door behind them. She pulls two chairs up to her desk and they spread out their things, all their PADDs and notes, and spend two hours quizzing each other, debating answers and methods, explaining theories and processes. Later, their conversation becomes less rigid. They each admit to nervousness, though neither quite uses the word, and each offers the other encouragement. They speculate on their classmates’ respective chances of success on the exam, and wonder aloud what life at the Academy will be like, if they are each finally offered a space there. Sometimes, it almost feels as if they are friends.

Spock did not realize, before this afternoon, just how lonely he was.

Neither mentions Stonn, or the fight, or the child. Not even once. He leaves only reluctantly, in order to make it back to his own home in time for dinner. T’Pring implies that perhaps, some day, he will stop by again.

*

The night before the exam he can hardly sleep, despite his best efforts. He’s been sleeping badly for days now, eating badly too. He’s been pretending that he’s fine and that he can handle this, but lying awake in his dark room at night, he’s not so sure.

After this, he tells himself, it will be easier. You can concentrate on the child.

The thought does not make him less nervous.

He’s up early, drinking tea to soothe his stomach, when his father walks in. They greet each other simply, each of them a bit cool, perhaps, but not excessively so. Sarek looks about to replicate himself breakfast, when he stops and takes another look at Spock’s face. Spock is glad enough for this; he suspects that the smell of his father’s customary breakfast would be enough to send him rushing to the bathroom again.

“You are pale,” Sarek declares. “Are you ill?”

“No more so than I have been every morning for over three months now, Father,” he answers coldly, and goes back to his tea. He can still see his father out of the corner of his eye. He looks about to speak again but he does not, nor does he make himself breakfast. Instead, he turns around and leaves the kitchen, stopping only briefly in the doorway to remind Spock that they must leave for the Academy in thirty minutes.

“I assume you are prepared for the exam?” he asks.

Spock grips his mug tightly between his hands and makes sure to look his father directly in the eye. “Of course. I am perfectly confident in my ability.”

“As am I,” Sarek answers. But he makes it sound more like a dare than like assurance.

*

The Academy grounds are as he remembers them from his previous visits with his Father. They are large and open, a series of courtyards decorated with stone benches and twisted desert plants surrounded by tall buildings that loom over him, as intimidating now as when he was a child. There are no classes today, and though he sees a few Vulcans who are almost certainly Academy students, sitting alone or in small groups studying or talking, most of the others he encounters are his own classmates. None of them seem outwardly nervous, but he wonders if, perhaps, they are a little too put together. If perhaps they are, like he, putting on the best act they can.

Eventually, he finds himself in a small group of Vulcan students outside the doors of the Academy’s main auditorium. The test starts in exactly twenty minutes. The doors will open in ten.

Spock positions himself on the edge of the group, shuts out the light murmuring noise of his classmates’ conversations, and runs through formulas in his head.

“The exam starts in fourteen minutes,” Stonn’s voice says from behind him.

“I am aware.”

He doesn’t look back.

“If you are not prepared now, you will never be prepared.”

“I am aware.”

He can feel Stonn behind him, waiting for Spock to acknowledge him, or perhaps just waiting for Spock to break. He must be nervous, as well, Spock reasons, or he would not be here trying to calm himself with his favorite past time.

“If you are not accepted to the Academy—”

This one he doesn’t finish. Spock isn’t sure why until he looks up and sees T’Pring approaching. Of course, around her Stonn would not dare to be seen tormenting Spock. She leads him away with some excuse about quizzing each other on astrophysics, and Spock wishes he could show her his gratitude.

They are let into the auditorium in one surprisingly disorganized rush. Spock finds a seat in the back as quickly as he can, and watches his classmates sort themselves into the rows below him. T’Pring and Stonn sit on opposite sides of the same row; neither looks at him or at the other. Like the rest of the students, they are finding their own space, preparing to block out everyone and everything around them as they work. This exam will not be like the tests they take at school, standing and reciting answers to the computer; it is to be done silently, on the PADDs that have been left at each desk, all the candidates together in the room. Spock imagines that this bizarre format is meant to disarm. He listens carefully to everything the Academy professor says, before she sits down and tells them to begin.

At first the exam is surprisingly simple, and he feels confident. Even as the difficulty progresses, he can tell that he is prepared, and the worries that he can admit have been plaguing him seem unwarranted. When he has answered 60 percent of the questions, however, he starts to notice a change. It is subtle at first. He finds it harder to concentrate. He feels tired. He tells himself that the exam is simply long and challenging, that is all. That he must continue to work through the problems and ignore that bit of dizziness in his head.

He realizes he is shivering, even though the room is being kept at an optimal temperature.

He has answered 85 percent of the questions. He is almost finished. But he is also quite aware that his condition is becoming worse, not better. He starts to feel a series of sharp pains in his lower abdomen, and at the first one, he sets down his pen and clenches his hands into fists. It is not that it is so very painful. It is that it surprises him. It is that the pain is coming from where the baby is.

He takes a deep breath and takes up his stylus again. This is nothing. He can go on.

The pains do not get worse but they do not stop either. This is not the nausea of his early mornings, nothing that makes him think he will vomit over the desk, and yet somehow he thinks these sensations might be worse. He hates the sharp pinch of them, the sensation of a fist forming inside him. They are intermittent, and a part of him hopes against all logic that the most recent will be the last. Yet they stubbornly continue. He tries to work quickly in between them. He cannot let this stop him, even though he’s starting to shake, even though he has started to sweat through his chills.

Finally it is over. Six minutes left before their time is up. He has answered every question. There is no point in reviewing his answers; he is sure of most of them, and the questions that eluded him will not be any easier now that the pains are starting to get worse. He tries to lean over the table discreetly, curling his body as much as he can without attracting attention.

His classmates leave in a rush when the exam is over. Spock moves more slowly, but no one bothers him, each too caught up in his or her own thoughts to notice his bad posture or the slight twitch to his face as he controls himself. He is not panicking. No. There is no reason to panic.

He knows something is wrong. Something is wrong with the child. He’s freezing in the desert and his limbs feel like water, and those pains, they’re worse now, and he barely knows where he’s going, and all he can think is, what if this is my fault, what if the child is hurt because of me? He does not let himself think of the possibility of losing it. No. That would be impossible. That cannot be.

His mother is waiting for him, and right away, she knows that something is wrong. Perhaps he is not keeping himself together as well as he thought. Or perhaps she simply knows him that well. She takes him by the shoulders and tries to look into his face, though he has turned it resolutely toward the ground. He hears her voice as if far away, “Spock? Spock what’s wrong? You’re pale. You’re shaking. What happened?”

He feels that the only reason he is still standing is because her grip on his upper arms is so tight. It is surprisingly difficult to speak and his vision is blurring. “The child,” he manages. “My baby.”

Even his voice sounds strange to his ears and he’s dimly aware, at that moment, of falling to his knees, the force of his body dropping down too much for his human mother to hold but he’s sure that she drops right after him to wrap her arms around him—he is sure of this, and nothing else.

*

He wakes up in a biobed in a private room in the hospital where T’Pala works. He is familiar with the room, though, for the briefest of moments, he is not sure why he is there. Then it comes back, every second of the exam, the breaking down of his body, the pain. He does not feel pain any longer. He feels almost nothing, and this is perhaps more upsetting. He struggles to sit up and then places his hands on his lower abdomen. He is alone in the room. He lifts his shirt carefully, partly, up, and rubs his bare skin. The slight protrusion. The slight bump. What has happened?

The door opens suddenly and his mother and T’Pala enter. He composes himself as quickly as he can; he fixes his clothing and his expression. He wishes to convey nothing but his curiosity, and perhaps some of his concern, as his eyes flick quickly from one woman to the other. He looks for some sort of clue in their expressions, but T’Pala is as professional as always, inscrutable, and his mother just seems relieved to see him awake. She moves immediately to his side and puts her hand on his arm. “Spock,” she says. “You’re up.” There is a genuine smile on her face.

“I am,” he acknowledges. His gaze lingers on her a moment, wondering—what must she think of him? What did she feel when he lost consciousness? Worry? Fear? Now that she sees he is all right, will she be angry?

He shakes these abstract questions from his mind with some effort, and turns instead to T’Pala. “What has happened?” he asks her sharply. “Something is wrong with the child. What is it?”

“Calm yourself, Spock,” T’Pala says, as if this were easy. She can detect the hint of panic in his otherwise level voice. “The child is safe.”

“You are sure?”

“I am positive. You must not let yourself get emotional.”

It is my son or daughter, he wants to remind her. If there were ever a time to express emotion, this is such a time. Still, he holds back. He tries to breathe. “What has happened?” he repeats, instead.

T’Pala pulls over a tall stool and sits down at the side of his bed. Spock’s mother remains standing, her two hands resting possessively on Spock’s arm, her gaze steady on his face. She seems to be only half aware of T’Pala and her explanation—though of course, Spock knows, she must have heard all this before.

“Spock, there has been a complication,” T’Pala is saying.

“A complication?”

“Yes.” She pronounces a word, sinister sounding and almost grossly clinical. He is not familiar. She continues, “Sit back, Spock. Your pregnancy has been progressing surprisingly smoothly, considering your age and your hybrid biology, and I am not shocked that you are experiencing some difficulties now.”

“Difficulty?”

He can’t stop himself from interrupting, but T’Pala just nods patiently.

“This is a common complication among Vulcan male pregnancies,” she tells him. “Your bodies have only relatively recently become capable of carrying children, and you are not completely adapted.” She goes on to explain in more detail the origins of his symptoms, what exactly was happening to him as he struggled through the last sections of the exam. “Not every male experiences this particular complication, of course. Some are more prone to it than others, and there are certain known triggers. The most common is stress. Your body is undeniably stressed, Spock: my scans indicated that you have not been getting the nutrition you need and I would hypothesize that you have not been resting as you should, either.”

“I have been studying for the Academy exam,” he tries to explain, but his mother shushes him with a low, soothing sound, and runs one hand through his hair to calm him as she did when he was a child.

“I understand that this is a stressful time for you in many ways,” T’Pala says, “but,” and her voice becomes stern, “you must place a higher priority on the health of the child, Spock. No lasting damage was done, this time, but you must remain vigilant for the rest of your pregnancy. I am prescribing a week of bed rest—strict bed rest. The Vulcan body is surprisingly self-regulating, Spock.” She begins to sound, then, a bit more reassuring. “If you let it rest it will find its balance again. But you absolutely must give it this opportunity.”

“I understand.”

He feels a deep flood of shame, wonders if it is visible on his face.

“Do you have any questions?”

“One,” he admits. In truth he has many, but he does not wish to untangle them all now. “How much danger was the child in? Could—could I have lost it?”

Her hesitation is enough, so when she answers, he is not surprised. “Yes. I was concerned when you were brought in Spock, and I considered that a possibility. My hypothesis is that this complication has been developing for some time, but that it has accelerated rapidly in the two weeks since your last visit here. With the added pressure on your body from your exam yesterday, it is not surprising that you reacted as you did.”

He shakes his head in confusion. “It was that advanced?” he insists. “I—I believed I was stronger than that. I have not been eating or sleeping as I should, and I have been perhaps overly concerned with the Academy entrance exam, but I am not starving, or dehydrated, or tortured…”

Am I that weak?

T’Pala pats his knee gently. “Being pregnant changes all the rules, Spock,” she says, rather tenderly he thinks, and bows her head in the way that a human would smile. “Especially for a young person in your position. You have to be careful. If you think you are being paranoid with your health, you are probably being just careful enough. Do you understand?”

This time he nods, his eyes more on his knees than on her. “Yes, T’Pala. I thank you.”

In the half-pause that follows his mother says suddenly, a bit loudly, “You’re finally awake and I haven’t even told your father yet. I’m sure he’s worried.”

“My father…” Spock mumbles absently, and a whole new set of thoughts floods his brain. What must his father be thinking now? That this teenager surely will never be able to care for a child when he himself still behaves as one. Perhaps he is at this very moment contacting Soval again and asking him to reconsider the bond. Spock will be more amenable to the arrangement now, I am certain…

“Yes,” his mother says. “I’ll go get him now, and tell him you’re doing okay.”

Spock hardly feels that he is “doing okay,” but he does not argue. He exchanges a few final words with T’Pala, and then watches as she follows his mother out. Then he settles himself down more comfortably on his pillows. At least the child is safe. That is the most important thing.

He is rubbing his hands absently back and forth against his stomach when his parents come in. His father’s face is set and expressionless, but Spock has become adept at seeing his anger no matter how hidden, and he cannot see even a hint of it now.

“Father,” he says shortly, and nods. “I apologize for causing you worry.”

“Do not apologize, Spock,” Sarek answers, coming to stand close to him by the side of the bed. His mother is already there, her hands on his arm again protectively. “All that concerns me is your own health, and knowing you are safe. T’Pala tells us that you are out of danger.”

Spock catches his father’s eyes slip down briefly to where his hands still rest over his stomach—then quickly back up to Spock’s face. Just say it, Spock thinks. Stop pretending I am not pregnant. Stop pretending this is just any illness.

“Yes,” he says instead, in answer. “The child and I are both doing well.”

He sees a slight twitch at Sarek’s eye. “Yes. I admit I was concerned but now there seems to be no need.”

“Oh, why are my boys always so formal,” Spock’s mother interrupts their stilted exchange—they both turn to as if they had forgotten she was even there. There’s a bit of laughter to her voice, not entirely natural, nor entirely forced. “We were both very worried, Spock, but seeing you awake—it’s wonderful.”

She smiles her warm human smile at him again, and the thought flashes involuntarily through his mind: will my child be able to smile like that?

*

T’Pala releases him from the hospital that evening. He was asleep for almost 24 hours, but is only slightly disoriented. His mother fusses over dinner and keeps up an overly cheerful conversation all through the meal, then accompanies Spock to his room even though he insists that assistance is not necessary. She lingers in the doorway even after they have discussed all the practical questions of his enforced bed rest. He considers asking her what else she wishes to say, but he’s tired again, and he wishes to be alone. So he lets it go, and in the end, all she tells him is goodnight and to sleep well.

*

His mother agrees that he can arrange to have his schoolwork sent to him each day but only if he paces himself and does the bare minimum of work required for each assignment. He is more grateful than he can express, because the truth is that bed rest is boring, and un-stimulating, and if he had to go a week simply staring at his wall he would probably go insane before even three days were up.

He has been confined for 56 hours when he hears the front door opening and footsteps moving back and forth in the kitchen. His mother. She usually returns at this time, so he is not surprised to hear her, nor is he surprised when she comes into his room with a bowl of soup on a tray. He thanks her; she asks about his day; he tells her there is little to say and then asks about hers; she answers, but he can see that her mind is elsewhere.

“Is there something you wish to discuss with me, Mother?” he asks, finally, when she does not respond to a question about the latest debates surrounding the Temple renovations.

She seems to snap out of her thoughts at this and turns to smile at him apologetically. “Yes, Spock—something I should have said days ago,” she admits, and as he watches the smile fades from her face and it becomes all too serious again. He moves the tray with the now empty bowl aside and gives her his complete attention, as she is clearly giving him hers.

She takes one of his hands and covers it with both of hers, sitting down on the edge of his bed as she does. She seems unsure where to begin.

Finally she says, “I think you’re aware by now, Spock, that even parents can make mistakes. Sometimes we even make glaring, ugly mistakes. And I know that I have acted wrongly toward you.”

“I do not understand,” he says, although this is not completely the truth.

His mother bites her lip, eyes skimming across his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life than when I saw you walking towards with me that expression of fear and pain on your face. And the whole time you were in the hospital, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it was my fault.”

“No,” he corrects her quickly. “I was the one who was not taking care of myself. I—”

“You were trying to do everything alone. Of course it overwhelmed you. And there was no need—no need for you to be so alone when I was right here the whole time. I let my anger and my—frustration—with the situation blind me to what should have been the most important thing: taking care of my little boy.”

He shakes his head and turns his gaze away. “I am not your ‘little boy,’ Mother.” Not anymore.

“You’ll understand better when your own son or daughter starts growing up, but for now, you’ll just have to trust me, Spock,” she answers, more warmth in her voice now, and moves his hand between hers to bring his attention back to her face. She is smiling. “You will never stop being my little boy.”

“Even when I am a parent myself?”

“Even when you are a parent yourself,” she says reassuringly, and for a moment they are both silent as Spock considers his mother’s words. He does not think he should feel as comforted, as safe, as he does at the thought of being her little boy. But still it fills him with a feeling of serenity he cannot help but find pleasing.

“I know you are not really a child anymore,” she continues gently, after a pause. “But you will always be my child, and it is my instinct to protect you, and to wish all the best for you in your life. When I thought about all the ways your life would become more complicated because of this child, all the hardships you’d face and everything you would have to give up—well, I was just so angry, and so disappointed—in myself and in the whole circumstance, not in you,” she adds, as he drops his head in shame. “I see now that I did the worst thing I could have done under the circumstances: I abandoned you, and I tried to pretend the situation didn’t exist. That was immature and…unforgivable of me, Spock, and I am truly sorry.”

He is looking down at her hands clasped over his on the bedspread. He does not know what to tell her. He was never angry with her. He’d only thought she was angry with him, and that he deserved it.

“It is not unforgivable,” he says finally.

A second’s pause, and then, “Oh Spock,” and he can feel the smile in her voice. She understands what he is really saying, and she does not ask him to say any more.

*

Fifteen weeks. He is back at T’Pala’s office—his mother at his side this time, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck soothingly as T’Pala runs the usual scans. They both pretend they do not notice, but Spock is secretly grateful for her presence and her touch.

“Your condition has stabilized,” T’Pala announces. “You and the child are both healthy, Spock.”

“I am relieved,” he answers. It is an understatement.

“Before you go,” T’Pala says, reaching behind her for something Spock cannot see, “the child is big enough now for us to pick up a heartbeat. You may listen if you wish.” She turns back to them and offers Spock a headset device. It is attached to a rectangular blue box.

He hesitates before he accepts it, both women’s eyes on him. A heartbeat. A real life—the life he felt in his meditation. He is curious, fascinated, by the idea, and yet still he pauses before he puts the headset to his ear. T’Pala places the blue box against his skin. Yes. There it is. Bum-bum, bum-bum. He listens for several long moments. Just listens.

“It is so slow,” he says finally. Slow—and yet the rhythm is familiar. “It…it is beating like a human heart.”

He hands the headset to his mother and watches her face as she listens, the small smile on her face. She seems pleased by the sound. “Yes,” she agrees. “Much too slow for a Vulcan heart.”

She seems to know how important it is to Spock to get the headset back, and hands it to him without further comment. Neither she nor T’Pala rushes him. He sits for a long time, listening to the beat, thinking about the human boy, how he should be here, how this is the echo of his heart that Spock is hearing.

Chapter Text

“Spock. I was starting to wonder if you had left our school permanently.”

Stonn is standing in his way again, this time blocking the door to the chemistry lab.

“As I am here now, it is clear that your hypothesis has proven itself incorrect.”

He moves to his right. Stonn moves to his left.

“What happened? Were you too ashamed after your poor performance on the Academy exam to show your face here?”

Spock grips his PADD closer against his chest.

“On the contrary, Stonn. I spent the week celebrating. Now if you do not mind, you are in my way.”

He pushes past as neatly as he can. Stonn glares after him but does not follow. T’Pring is sitting in the front of the room, running through formulas, or pretending to, and as Spock passes her she whispers, “If you do not have plans, my parents will both be absent all afternoon.”

*

The morning sickness disappears as suddenly as it started, toward the beginning of his fifth month. One morning he wakes up and his body is calm; he feels no pain, no nausea, and he has gotten an extra hour of sleep.

When he realizes just how long it has been since he had a restful morning, he turns over on his side and sleeps for an extra twenty minutes.

He can feel the changes in his body, how his dizziness and even his fatigue have lessened, how he feels more in control again. His mother has become almost paranoid about his health, asking every time she sees him what he has eaten and how much he has eaten and if he is tired, how much work he has done and how much he plans to do and if he is feeling worried. The questions are grating but he understands their intent. And it is preferable to the awkward silences that have dominated their relationship for the last quarter year.

His lifestyle becomes healthier, both because of his mother’s constant attentions and because of his own heightened concern for his child. It will be weeks before he hears back from the Academy. He does his work as well as he can, good and productive student as always, but it becomes a second priority.

The baby is growing. He buys his clothes in a bigger size and he wears baggy sweaters, even though he knows he’s not large enough for anyone to be able to notice quite yet. When he is alone, he puts his hands on his stomach and feels the small, but definite, bump that has formed, how his once awkwardly skinny body has become round. He runs his hands over it gently. No matter how many times he does this, he never ceases to feel a sense of awe.

*

When Spock was younger, he would watch his mother eat and ask her questions about her food: obsessive, minute questions that she answered with, he realizes now, amazing patience. The Terran food she ate was unknown on Vulcan, and he found these strange concoctions an endless source of fascination. Sometimes he would even ask to try something off her plate. More often than not, however, he found the small bite she gave him rather disgusting, and after enough failed experiments, he finally learned to contain his curiosity.

So he’s surprised when he walks into the kitchen one afternoon to find his mother sitting at the table, eating something that smells absolutely delicious. It is not her sandwich, her favorite kind, which Spock knows from previous experience is quite unappetizing. It’s something else, and as soon as he smells it he feels that he has never in his entire life been hungrier for anything than he is right now for this one food, and he absolutely must have some. He sits down so abruptly next to his mother that he startles her.

“Spock! I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“I apologize for scaring you,” he answers perfunctorily, not even looking at her as he speaks. Rather, he’s leaning in toward a glass jar that is sitting next to her plate, on the side closer to him. “May I ask what you are eating?”

It is very strange, whatever it is inside the jar: a collection of long, thin, green vegetables, or he thinks they are vegetables, covered in small bumps and swimming in a clear green liquid. He can’t stop staring at them.

“Just a sandwich and some pickles. I don’t suppose you’d like to try one?” she asks the last question teasingly, quite sure that he will decline as he always does.

But he surprises her by answering, “Please,” in a serious tone, and continuing to stare intently at the contents of the jar.

She hands him her fork and is about to get a plate when she sees him pick up the entire jar, spear one of the pickles, and take an experimental bite. It is as he imagined. Crunchy and sharp and exactly what he was craving—he has never used the word ‘perfect’ to describe food before, but this seems like it could be the time to start. He eats one and is eying a second when he remembers his mother is there and watching his every movement.

“Do you mind…?”

“Oh, no, Spock, go ahead,” she answers, smiling. If he weren’t distracted, he might question her smile. It is fond, human, mothering; the smile she gives him when she thinks he is being overly logical. He thinks she might be making fun of him. He jams the fork into a second pickle and takes a gigantic bite.

“This is…quite fascinating,” he says, once he has swallowed. “I have never found anything appealing in your Terran food before, but these are delicious. I think they could be improved, however, if they were dipped in…” He tilts his head, considering. “What is it that you eat with your toast at breakfast? It is blue.”

His mother looks confused for a moment, then asks, “Blueberry jam?”

“Yes, I think that is it,” he answers, staring more at the jar of pickles than at her, and not really noticing the surprise in her voice. “Do we have any of that?”

“Um—I can replicate some.”

Spock starts to nibble on the second half of the pickle. He wonders aloud, “Why have I never tried these before?”

“You probably wouldn’t have found them very appealing a couple of months ago,” his mother answers. She sets a jar of blueberry jam next to him and sits down again in her chair.

“I do not understand.”

He doesn’t; this is true; but he doesn’t particularly care, either, at the moment. The combination is, as he imagined, delicious.

“Spock,” his mother smiles, “it’s your pregnancy. Having cravings for unexpected foods is a possible side effect. I used to ask your father for the strangest combinations of things when I was pregnant…it was the first time in our marriage I’d ever been interested in Vulcan food and I wasn’t even aware that what I was asking for was unusual.” She shakes her head, still smiling, lost in the memory that Spock is only vaguely listening to as he finishes the jar. “Your father tried to hide his surprise, but I think he must have been convinced that I was losing my mind….or perhaps just that all humans had such illogical tastes.”

Spock sets the empty jar down and, for the first time, gives his mother his proper attention. He feels almost as if he has woken from a trance, and he is only now able to interact with the world again. He’s surprised to see he’s eaten a full half of his mother’s lunch. “I apologize,” he tells her. “I did not mean to eat quite so much.”

“Don’t apologize, Spock,” she waves his concern off lightly. “You’re allowed. If this is what your body wants, listen to it.”

“Even if, in the future, I desire some particularly odd food? For example—” he tries to think of the strangest combination of food that he can, but his mother interrupts him.

“Pickles and blueberry jam? It’s not a very common Terran lunch, Spock.”

He considers this for a moment. It is curious—he will have to take his mother’s word for this even though it seems strange that no one before him has discovered this particular delicious combination. Then he puts his hand gently against the swell of his abdomen and says, face tilted downward even though he’s addressing his mother still, “Perhaps the child simply has unusual tastes.”

“Maybe. But then,” and here his mother touches his arm lightly across the table, “so did you at that age.”

He looks up at her again and can’t help but feel embarrassed, and not least because he has just devoured her food in a quite undignified manner. What is worse is that, while he is no longer ravenous, he is still faintly hungry. “I do not suppose that we could make cheese and tomato sandwiches?” he asks. “Perhaps with…mustard?”

*

He and T’Pring are careful to be discreet. He is not sure if he or she is the more paranoid, but they both agree it is absolutely necessary that Stonn not find out about their afternoons together, and so they follow their ritual with precision. When they pass in the hall she taps him on the arm and he knows; they do not even make eye contact. He stays ten extra minutes in the library at the end of the day. She leaves quickly after their last class. He takes the long way to her house, so that it appears that he is returning to his own home. She lets him in by the back door. He leaves before her parents return, and gets back home, most days, before either of his parents. Sometimes his mother comes home early and is there to greet him; he tells her he has been studying, which is the truth, or most of it, and she makes him tea and orders him to rest before dinner.

On his fourth visit, T’Pring invites him to make himself comfortable on her bed. Spock accepts as if he were not surprised, although he is; this is the first time that she has not simply pulled up two chairs to her desk and motioned for him to sit. Still, it’s true that her bed is more comfortable than the desk chairs, and the pillows he arranges behind him feel better than the hard chair back. He is grateful, he realizes, for the offer. She sits down next to him and they spread out their PADDs and other school things in front of them. For a while, an hour or more, they talk about their classes and assignments. Now that the Academy qualifying exam is over, nothing seems as urgent as before, but still anyone with a hope of getting a final interview can’t let himself slack or fall behind now.

They are reviewing physics when T’Pring brings up an article she’s read about a new discovery from Earth, and they find themselves in a debate without quite realizing that it has happened. Spock is just about to counter one of T’Pring’s points when he feels a sharp pain in his lower back, which makes him stop mid-sentence. Slowly, tentatively, he lowers his body back against the pillows. The pain recedes quickly. It was nothing, just a random seizing of his muscles, but T’Pring is watching him intently—she is curious, but also worried, he thinks as he glances over at her.

“I apologize,” he says, to break the silence.

She acts as if she did not even hear him, and asks, “Is something wrong?”

“No. I am fine.”

She stares at him as if she does not believe him. He stares back. He begins to feel that she is accusing him, and he shifts slightly against the pillows, unsure what to do or say. T’Pring is unflinching, back straight, eyes on him; she is clearly coming to some conclusion, though he cannot begin to guess what that conclusion could be.

“Does your back hurt often?” she asks him finally. Her question sounds almost like a command and he cannot read her intention.

“No,” he answers honestly. “I was simply not taking enough care to sit properly. But it is not a cause for concern.”

She does not look entirely convinced, but she nods anyway, considering. T’Pring is not one to hesitate. But she is now. He does not press her or question her even as he sees that her eyes are drifting down his body, to the bump she cannot see but which she knows is there, the part of his body she has steadfastly ignored throughout his visits to her home. They never speak about the baby. Sometimes, with her, he almost forgets.

He pretends he does not see where she is looking.

“Are you in good health, Spock?”

“Why do you ask?”

Her question comes suddenly, his answer just on top of it, and afterwards, there is a pause too long to be comfortable.

“Only because you were absent from school for a week after the exam,” she says finally. She is staring at him, still, unembarrassed and challenging, so he meets her gaze in return.

“I was,” he admits, “absent for health reasons. But I am recovered now. It is not worth discussing.”

Still she insists, “You and your child are safe?” and he realizes at once two things. First, that she is adamant that they should discuss his pregnancy now. And second, that she was truly worried for him during the week of his absence.

“We are,” he answers, and tries to put all the reassurance that he can into his tone.

“I could not imagine having to concern myself with a pregnancy, as well as with school and preparation for the Academy,” she continues, this time dropping her gaze and settling herself more comfortably again against the second set of pillows. “It must be a challenge.”

“Of course. But I only do what I have to do.”

He is not sure he wants this conversation to continue. A part of him is grateful for her interest, her concern, the opportunity to speak about this topic that is so forbidden—and yet T’Pring is still the woman he was to marry, still a near stranger outside of their academic discussions—and she is a responsible Vulcan, intelligent and disciplined and everything he has failed to be himself. He cannot help but wonder if she is judging him. He cannot help but fear that she is.

“Stonn has no idea what is happening,” she is saying. “He has his theories, but none are close to the truth. I will keep your secret of course, but,” and she pauses, glances over to him and again to his stomach, “you cannot hide it forever.”

“I am aware.” He is, much too aware, and for a moment he does not even notice that he has used with her the same tone that he uses often with Stonn, an icy and closed tone of dismissal. He amends, “My body is already changing. My clothing hides much, but…I am aware.” This time the words are almost a sigh. He rests his hands over his lower abdomen and doesn’t even care that T’Pring is watching him.

The silence stretches such a long time that he considers changing the subject to something else. But before he can quite get together the words T’Pring surprises him once again.

“May I see?” she asks.

He turns to her, startled, and almost asks her to repeat herself when she amends, “I apologize. That was forward and inappropriate.” She is blushing—faintly, but he can see a hint of green on her cheeks. T’Pring rarely blushes. Her eyes dart uncomfortably back and forth across the wall behind him. She’s right. Her request is intensely inappropriate. But he understands her curiosity, and he realizes, as he considers her request, that he is not actually offended.

He looks at her but she will not meet his eyes. “You may,” he says, and stands up before he has time to reconsider. He strips off his sweater. The shirt he wears underneath fits closer to his body, and the small bump in his middle is visible now. T’Pring shifts over to the side of the bed where Spock was sitting a moment before. She is silent, but he can tell by the way she bites the corner of her lip that she has something she wishes to say. He doesn’t ask.

She reaches out a hand without thinking, then pulls it quickly back.

Spock’s heart is beating unnaturally fast in his side. No one has ever looked at him quite like T’Pring is looking at him: he is curious to her, but not freakish; fascinating, but not as an experiment or an attraction. She is intensely focused. Yet he does not feel uncomfortable beneath her gaze. At first, he does not know why. He does not know what there is to this gaze that he cannot pin down. Then he sees. There is a clear and unembarrassed awe in T’Pring’s gaze, and beneath it, he thinks, a genuine affection. It is so startling that he reaches out for her hand almost by instinct, stopping just before his fingers touch her skin.

“May I?” he asks.

She blinks up at him. “I should be asking you.”

He hesitates; she says nothing more; carefully he takes her hand and brings it up to his stomach. He places her hand against the small curve above his waistline.

“It is small, still,” she says. She is looking at her hand, how it rests against him, as if she does not quite believe what she is seeing.

“It is,” he agrees. “He or she will be born in approximately four and a half months. There is…time.”

T’Pring nods, almost absently. Her touch is gentle, tentative; he can see that she is nervous and this is fascinating, incredible that T’Pring should let her control slip in such a way. No one but T’Pala has ever touched him there, and the sensation is quite incomparable; T’Pala’s touch is professional and distant, T’Pring’s personal, intimate.

She seems to realize suddenly just how unorthodox their position truly is, and she pulls her hand away as if frightened. “I should not…” she murmurs, and stares down at the floor.

The spell, whatever it was, and if Spock believed in spells and sometimes he does, is broken, and Spock can feel his own cheeks flushing green. He scrambles, undignified, for his sweater. “Perhaps I should go,” he starts, as he pulls his arms through the sleeves.

“Only if you wish,” T’Pring answers, her voice as calm now as ever. Spock envies her ability to reassemble her reserve with such speed. “But do not feel obligated. My parents will not return for at least another half an hour.”

He adjusts his clothing, hesitates, sits back down on the bed. He had expected her to all but push him out the door. But her invitation that he stay sounds genuine. “You are sure?” he asks.

“They always return at the same hour,” she answers. But she is only pretending not to understand.

For a few minutes, there is silence, T’Pring gazing out the window, Spock’s eyes focused on his own hands.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I hate that I look like this.”

Immediately after he says it he wishes he hadn’t. But it’s too late, and he and T’Pring have already shared too much. In one simple gesture, they shared too much.

“I do not understand,” she says quietly.

“I am misshapen,” he answers. “I am…large—”

“You are not.”

“I will become large.” His voice is suddenly too loud. He glances at T’Pring, and, perhaps feeling his gaze on her, she looks up again. “And others will see. And it will be shameful.”

There is nothing for T’Pring to say in reply, and he wishes that he hadn’t said anything at all. “I apologize,” he mutters.

“Do not,” she answers, but offers no reassurance. She knows he is right; there is nothing she can say but agree and to agree, to repeat what he has already said, would be unnecessarily hurtful.

He pulls himself together, straightens his back, and pulls his PADD toward him. “I did not have the opportunity to reply properly to your last point about the latest Terran physics advances,” he says. “What I wished to say was that I believe you are underestimating Stevenson’s prior achievements…”

*

T’Pala has hooked him up to a large and complicated machine. This is not the first time in his life that he has found himself in such a position, but it is the first time he has been subjected to this particular test. It has been a long day, and a longer than usual exam, and he is ready to go home. His mother is not with him today. She is at an unexpected meeting at the Embassy and it is Spock’s father that is waiting for him, now, probably impatiently, in the main waiting room.

Spock is only half listening as T’Pala explains that she is going to project an image of the unborn child onto a large computer screen, currently turned away from him. She tells him that he does not have to look at the image if he does not want to. “It is your choice,” she insists. “If you wish, we can also determine the sex of the child at this stage.”

It is only the word gender that brings his undivided attention back to T’Pala, and away from the four other topics he’d been considering while she spoke. “The sex?” he repeats. “You will be able to see if it is a boy or a girl?”

“Yes,” she answers, patient as always, and lets him consider this idea at his own pace. A boy or a girl. A son or a daughter.

Does he even want to know?

It will be all the more real, knowing. His vague conjectures as to his child’s features, which human and which Vulcan traits he or she will have, will take on more definition. But he does not know if this is something that he wants. Even the thought of seeing the child, a small curled body inside his body, is disconcerting.

Still, his curiosity is certainly piqued; a part of him wants nothing more than to use this opportunity to gain all the information that he can.

But he is also—he is scared. He is irrationally scared. He cannot decide.

“You can always choose to regard the images at a later time,” T’Pala reminds him, but he shakes his head.

“I would like to see,” he says, and it is only as he hears himself say the words that he realizes his decision is made. It will be like hearing the heartbeat, he tells himself: a reminder of that life that brings him, at least sometimes, some small comfort. “However—” he hesitates, unsure of his own compromise—“if it is possible, I would prefer not to know the gender. I would like to wait until the child is born.”

T’Pala nods. “That is possible. If you are sure you would like to see the first image…” She begins to flip switches here and there, the screen still turned from Spock’s view.

“I am sure,” he says. He isn’t, really. But his voice sounds convincing to his own ears. He waits as T’Pala angles the screen so that he can see.

For a second, he just stares. Then he says, quietly, just under his breath, “Oh.”

It is not quite what he expected. The image is faintly blue, fuzzy in details and yet—he knows what he is seeing. It is recognizable. A very small child, with very small limbs and a rather large head, and a curved bean of a body. He cannot make out any more details.

He almost cannot believe that this being is inside his body. That he carries him or her with him every day. That this is half him, half the human boy.

For a moment, one intense moment, he is flooded with feeling, an unbelievably strong desire that the child should be born, that he should have the opportunity to meet him or her. To hold him or her in his arms. To touch his or her skin, to count fingers and toes, bury his nose in the child’s hair, smell its scent.

The moment passes and is replaced by a chill fear. Almost a panic. The room swims like it did when he first found out he was pregnant and he feels dizzy, lost, and shaky. He closes his eyes and tries to steady himself. He brings up every barrier he has. He walls himself in. He reminds himself over and over that he is a Vulcan, that he is in control.

When he opens his eyes, T’Pala has turned the screen away. She is staring more at the image than at him.

“You can determine the gender from such an image?” he asks, after a moment, but only because he does not like the tense silence that has fallen between them. There is something off about his voice, and when he swipes his hand across his eyes he finds that he has been crying. He coughs as if to clear his throat and looks at the wall resolutely.

T’Pala pretends she does not hear the rough edge to his voice. “I can,” she says. “And if you wish I can show you but—”

“No,” he insists. “I believe I would prefer to wait.”

“I understand,” T’Pala answers.

He waits patiently as she finishes the tests, regaining his calm slowly. He is embarrassed, of course, at such a display, but he has broken down at less during his pregnancy. The slight pain of a stubbed toe, the annoyance of a temporary glitch in his PADD, the few extra seconds it takes to remember a particularly complex formula—all have taken him to the brink of tears, sometimes over. His mother tells him it is just hormones. He does not find this explanation convincing. A proper Vulcan should be able to handle any potential outburst of emotion. That is what it means to have control.

He remembers the vague blue image on the screen. In a few months, he thinks, I will really be a father.

He feels faint again at the idea, and quickly diverts his thoughts.

*

“Did you wish for a son or a daughter, before I was born?” he asks his mother suddenly that evening. They are sitting next to each other on the couch in the living room, he reading his History assignment, she reviewing the latest sketches for the restoration of the Temple.

“Why do you ask?” she replies lightly, glancing up from her work. He considers dropping the conversation and allowing her to go back to her previous activity, but she holds his gaze steadily, head tilted in question.

“I saw the image of my child today,” he tells her. He tries to make it sound as if this were nothing, an ordinary occurrence, but his mother’s face lights up right away.

“I’m sorry I missed such an occasion,” she says. Then her smile falters as she sees that Spock remains as neutral as ever. He turns his gaze down to his hands, but he can hear his mother slowly set her things aside and move to sit a bit closer next to him. Her enthusiasm over his child is so unadulterated now, after his scare, that sometimes he does not trust it. He certainly cannot match it.

“Are you nervous?” she asks him gently, and touches his arm.

He does not wish to talk about himself and so instead asks her quickly, “Were you?”

His mother sighs in answer, long and tired—it is not a frustrated sigh, exactly, but rather the sort of sigh she used to give when he asked a particularly complex question at a particularly young age. He knows she will be honest with him. She takes her hand from his arm and sits back against the couch cushions. “Yes,” she says. “Of course. I was an alien on a strange planet, expecting a child who I was told might not even live…that on top of the usual worries,” she waves her hand vaguely, “like, will I be a good mother? Will I be able to care for this child? But I had your father. I wasn’t completely alone and neither are you, Spock. You remember that.”

“I do,” he says, and does not point out that a parent is not quite the same as a partner. Then, because he finds something lacking in the silence, because he feels that he must speak and here it is safe for him to speak, he adds, “But I still ask myself many questions, regarding my ability to be a parent.”

She nods. “Every parent asks him- or herself those questions. But I know my son, and he accomplishes whatever he sets out to accomplish.”

“You had your doubts before,” he reminds her.

“Because you’re still so young, Spock. But you have me, and you’ll take it just one day at a time…” She pats his leg resolutely. “It will be fine.”

He hates the word fine but doesn’t comment, just shift back on the couch and slightly away. He does not wish to talk about himself. Finally he says, “You did not answer my earlier question. Were you expecting a son or a daughter, before my birth?”

“I had no preference,” she answers. “I remember…just being excited to meet my baby, to see you grow and learn…I did not even need to know the gender. It was your father that insisted we find out.”

Spock turns sharply at this last sentence, startled despite himself. “My father?” he repeats.

“Yes. He was intensely curious as to whether he was going to have a son or a daughter. I think…” she pauses, remembering. “I think he was nervous, not that he would ever admit it, and when your father is nervous he tends to collect as much information as he can on the situation. I think it makes him feel more in control.” A new thought comes to her suddenly and she smiles widely. “Oh but he was happy to hear he was having a son. I remember the way he said ‘a boy,’ as if he had been secretly hoping for a son all along. He even smiled a little at the news.”

Spock cannot imagine his father smiling.

“And you?” his mother asks, then, touching his arm to bring his attention back. “Did you find out the gender? Is that what brought this topic up?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “T’Pala asked me if I wished to know but I told her I did not. I—” he is about to attempt to explain exactly why he had made the decision he did, but before he can find the words he feels a sudden, and strange, sensation in his side. He stops, and his whole body stiffens.

“What happened?” his mother asks, and in her voice he hears all the worry he himself cannot express.

“I do not know. Something—with the child. Right here.” He puts his hand gently against his stomach, just to the right and above the waistline of his trousers. “It felt…”

He struggles for the right word and in the silence his mother seems to come to a realization. “Like a kick?” she asks.

He looks at her in confusion, eyebrows leaning to meet over his nose.

“Here,” she says, and puts her hand next to his on his stomach. “Tell me if you feel it again.”

They wait several long moments, each watching the same spot on Spock’s body expectantly. Then suddenly he feels it again. Something like—yes, as if he were being kicked from the inside. “It’s the baby,” his mother tells him, softly, as if this were a secret. “He or she is awake and moving.”

His mother seems quite pleased with this development, almost excited, but Spock would not say that he feels any emotion quite so pure. Rather, he is at a loss for a reaction. It is beyond what he knows. He breathes out, a bit shakily perhaps, one breath, and in that breath his only observation: “Fascinating.”

Chapter Text

The baby won’t be still. Spock has been trying to read the same paragraph for twenty minutes now but there is an uncomfortable ache right above his liver and every few minutes he feels another badly placed kick. They are not really painful but they are…distracting. He pushes back gently at the spot where he last felt movement. “Please go to sleep,” he whispers, and immediately feels ridiculous. But this constant discomfort is truly beginning to grate on his nerves.

He is in his sixth month now: almost the end of his second trimester, almost half a year since he met the human boy. He is carrying just enough weight now to give him a subtle, almost constant back pain, especially when he does not take proper care of his posture, and on occasion he feels sudden, sharp pains in his legs. Sometimes he cannot wait to have his body back. More often, he is terrified at the thought of what will happen when his little boy or girl is finally born.

He feels another kick, this time to his pancreas. He sets his PADD aside in frustration and stands up, starts to walk around the room in the hope that the movement will calm the child and allow him the peace to work again.

He is on his second lap around the living room when he hears the door open and looks up to see his father standing in the doorway. “Good afternoon, Spock,” he nods.

Spock stops where he is, hands behind his back according to his instinct. “Good afternoon Father,” he answers. He knows Sarek is itching to ask what he is doing. But he does not because he is sure the answer will have something to do with the child and it has become Sarek’s strict policy to ignore his son’s pregnancy as if it does not exist. Spock isn’t sure if he has simply put himself in a state of denial or if this is some sort of passive aggressive punishment for rejecting Sarek’s attempts to fix the situation. Neither would surprise him. But he hopes it is more the first than the second because at least this response he can understand.

“You are not ill?” his father asks him.

“No,” he answers. “I am not ill.” He feels another flutter of movement at his side and instinctively puts his hand against the spot. He watches his father’s eyes follow the movement. “Your grandchild is kicking,” he announces, then, and he hopes that his father can hear the challenge in his voice. “Do you wish to feel?”

Sarek hesitates. For a short moment Spock almost believes he will accept. But then he shakes his head. “No, I do not believe I should,” he says. “Excuse me.”

He passes right by Spock on his way to the back of the house, and in his wake the room seems strangely quiet. Spock stares after him. Then he stares down at his stomach. He thinks that he really should go back to his work, after all.

*

He does not talk with T’Pring about his pregnancy, but only because he does not wish to think about it any more than is necessary. The image of the child haunts him, and he has found that the only way to handle the conflicting emotions the memory elicits is to wall them away, to live as if they did not exist, to forget. He is partially successful. But it is a delicate balance he must keep all the time.

T’Pring seems to sense his unease around the topic and does not press. She does ask after his health at every meeting, though, and he can tell that she has other questions that she must hold herself back from asking. Sometimes, he wishes she would ask them. He is more comfortable with her than he has ever been with another Vulcan, and she seems comfortable with him as well. It is only the taboo subject of his pregnancy, and the constant shadow of Stonn, that stands between them. His shame and avoidance is enough to inspire her silence.

A heat wave hits at the beginning of his twenty-fourth week. T’Pring turns on the cooling system in her room but it is still unusually hot and Spock sweats uncomfortably in his sweater. He finally asks T’Pring if she would mind if he took it off and she says that of course she does not; he stands and pulls it over his head.

He knows she is looking at the bump of his stomach. Even with the sweater, it is possible to see the unusual shape his body has taken, if one is looking carefully enough, and every day he worries that one of his classmates will notice and jump to the logical conclusion. His secret is only safe because no one would expect a Vulcan teen to be in such a position. No one sees because no one would ever think to look.

T’Pring looks away quickly, aware that she is staring. Spock settles back down against the pillows at the head of her bed. He pulls his PADD towards him as if ready to start work again but he can feel her gaze still on him.

“I hope you feel that you can ask me anything you wish, T’Pring,” he says finally. His voice is quite neutral but neither the full implication of his invitation, nor how radical it truly is, are lost on her. She nods simply. But her mind is running at full speed.

Her silence makes him nervous, and still he sits impassively, waiting, knowing she will pull her thoughts together soon. She does after only a few moments, and when she does, she speaks without preamble. She does not seek further permission or apologize for her curiosity. Instead she looks at him and asks, “Did you ever tell the other father about your pregnancy?”

This was not what he was expecting, but he hides his surprise. He makes his voice cool and unaffected. “No. I am not in contact with him at all.”

“I do not understand.”

She tilts her head in curiosity, and he considers all the different ways he might deflect this line of questioning. He comes up with twenty-four different routes, but none are satisfactory.

“I met him on Earth when I was visiting with my Father,” he tries to explain. He hopes she will not ask for too many details; he does not wish to recount the story of his own scandalous affair, his utter lack of judgement, how he abandoned all reason and logic at such little provocation. He tries to keep his story vague. “There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he would welcome becoming a parent at this time in his life. Also, his life is on Earth and mine is on Vulcan; I do not wish to relocate and do not feel that it would be right to request such a thing of him.”

T’Pring gives him a hard and appraising stare. He knows she does not believe him, or rather, that she is aware that he is hiding the rest of the story behind his formal speech. He wonders if she will question him further—if she will challenge him to offer a better explanation, to fill in the obvious holes in his answer.

Or perhaps she can fill them in herself.

“You could not have known him long,” she says. It is more observation than question, and he hears little accusation in her tone. Still he’s tense. He is not sure where she wishes to lead the conversation, and she is giving him no hints.

“I did not,” he admits.

They are sitting side by side, both facing the far wall across from them more than each other. Still he knows T’Pring is watching him, and he cannot stop watching her in return from the corner of his eye, trying to read the expression on her face. She is biting her lip again, the only gesture she allows herself that does not fit her perfect mask of Vulcan calm.

“When you first told me that you were to have a child,” she says, her words slow and carefully formed, “I almost did not believe you. I did not see how such a thing were possible. You are young, unbonded—” at the word, he flicks his eyes sharply to hers, but there is no remorse or bitterness there. “Children are born to adult couples…” Her voice trails off, a bit embarrassed. He begins to understand why she has brought up the subject of the human boy. He sits up a little straighter, arranges his hands on his lap below his stomach. He waits, already curious how she will phrase the rest of her inquiry.

“Of course,” she is saying, “I do know how children are born. I do not wish to sound naïve…”

She trails off, uncertain, and he thinks that this is the first time he has ever seen T’Pring at such a loss for words. He looks away. He does not know if he does so because he is embarrassed, or simply out of respect for her and her own unease.

Still he told her she could ask him anything. And he should have known she would be curious about this aspect of his situation, about exactly how he came to carry the human boy’s child. He feels a blush creeping up his skin at the memory; he ignores it as much as he can but that night is always with him, how the boy kept the lights on (I want to be able to see you. You are…You’re gorgeous), how he ran his hands up and down Spock’s skin, how he murmured endearments and vulgarities and pleas, all in the same breathless tone. He remembers the boy’s smile and the exact shade of the color of his eyes and he remembers how, after it was over, he kissed Spock once almost chastely, like a first kiss, and then turned away.

T’Pring has never known these things.

“I made a completely illogical decision,” he says. T’Pring is utterly still, utterly silent, watching him and waiting. “That is, I made a decision that was not based on logic, but on emotion. I do not wish to admit it but…there is no other way to explain. I did not believe the consequences would be quite what they are.”

He runs his hands up his stomach, waits for T’Pring to break the silence this time.

When she does it is to ask, bluntly, “Is that to say that you loved the human man?”

She’s caught him off guard and he struggles to keep his face expressionless. There is no answer. He does not know. The emotion he spoke of was more desire than love—lust, if he is being truly honest with himself—and yet there was affection there. He likes to think he would not have done what he did had there been no affection.

Out loud he says only, “How can you expect me to answer such a question?”

“I apologize,” T’Pring answers.

Her words are simply rote ones, an acknowledgement that, if Spock wishes, they may go back to their studied roles and all the formalities that come with them. Yet he does not wish. He does not want to be just another student to her, but he does not know what to give her, what will satisfy her curiosity. Even though they were once destined to bond as man and wife, to share not only their bodies but their very thoughts, that half-bond is broken now and anything he could say would be a breaking of the rules. He has broken so many, yet he believes in them still. They are his protection, and he needs them.

He thinks for a long time.

“I cannot tell you about him,” he says, finally. This is his decision, his compromise, and T’Pring hears it in his voice and tilts her head, ready to listen to whatever strange new rules he is about to put in place. “He is not my mate, but I owe him a certain loyalty and I—”

“I understand.”

He glances at her, then clears his throat and starts again. “I cannot tell you about him—but if you wish to ask other questions about my experience…you may.”

There: the door is open, and it is her decision to make now. If her curiosity is stronger than her propriety, he will not deny her. He knows her struggle because it is the struggle they all face, every day.

For a moment, as she says coolly, “I should not,” he thinks that she has chosen her propriety. And he is surprised—he has already observed that her curiosity is as insatiable as his own, and he believes that it is one reason why they get along as well as they do. But then she pauses, considering each side carefully but quickly, and the length of her internal debate alone is enough to tell Spock that, eventually, she will give in. He steels himself for her inevitable questions.

“I should not,” she starts, “but”—and he knew she would say this, even before the word left her mouth—“but I am curious.”

“Ask what you wish,” he insists. He can see she is still hesitant. She is embarrassed and unsure and that is why when she speaks she uses the same detached tone that she uses to discuss their school experiments or their problem sets. She holds her body rigid. She pretends she is talking of something else.

In this way, she asks him, “Is it true that humans kiss with their mouths?”

Spock lets out a long-held breath and hopes she does not notice. It is not such a hard question, then, this first one. Nor is it surprising. He knows the same rumors that she knows, the same speculations, the same bizarre stories about that strange and foreign race. He remembers thinking about them even as the human boy leaned in—

“It is true,” he answers. He glances at her face to see her reaction but all she does is nod. “They use their hands as well but…the nature of the movement is exploratory, not ritualistic.”

He speaks with much more confidence than he has any right to, he who has never experienced a physical relationship with another Vulcan, whose experience with the boy was too random and fleeting to be trustworthy scientific evidence. But T’Pring answers, “I see,” and does not question his knowledge—that he has more than she on this matter is all too apparent.

Her gaze slides to him and he knows she is warming to this interview. He feels a flutter of nerves, but he’s excited as well, strangely thrilled to talk about this most secret thing. He feels important. He has knowledge that no other Vulcan his age has. He keeps secrets that he shares only according to his own whim.

“What else do you wish to know?” he asks.

“How it feels.” Her answer comes quickly on top of his question and she shies from it, hesitant again. He keeps his manner calm in return; he pretends that this conversation is quite an ordinary one.

“The custom of kissing with the mouth is a strange one,” he admits. “It is…wet, messy, disorganized…there is no pattern to it that I could detect. I had no instinct for it.” He feels his skin heat and he’s sure he has admitted too much. But how to describe the sensation, the insistent push of the boy’s tongue into his mouth, the subtle warmth of his breath, the taste of him? Should he even describe it? Or is this deep secret better kept hidden? He rubs his hand back and forth against the fabric of his shirt absently and says, “It was intimate, that is all.”

T’Pring is staring at him quite intently now and quite suddenly he realizes, as if it was the clearest thing in the world, that she was not asking him simply about human kisses.

Before she can repeat her question, and suddenly he cannot stand the thought that she should, and make it more explicit in the re-asking, he stands up. He has no intention of leaving, it is not that. He simply wishes to move, to pace. He puts his hands behind his back and walks until he finds himself at the window. He realizes too late that when he stands in profile, the gross shape of his body is all the more visible. T’Pring asks him if he is all right but he waves off her concern.

“The rest…” he says lightly, to show that she has not scared him away yet. Then he does not know how to finish. “The rest. I cannot. I do not know.” He hears her moving on the bed behind him but he stares resolutely at the gnarled branch of a tree outside the window.

“It was a closeness we do not allow ourselves,” he says quietly. He is only half aware of the words, barely remembers at all that T’Pring is still listening. “Something vulgar and animalistic in it, frightening, uncontrollable…but not only that…we were not simply bodies…”

He shakes his head as if waking himself from a trance or a dream, and he turns to T’Pring once more. “I apologize,” he says. “I am not being precise. I am not answering your questions.”

“I am the one who must apologize,” T’Pring answers, “for asking impossible questions.”

She is sitting now on the edge of the bed, her fingers curled over the side, and she’s running over his words in her head. She’s trying to turn the vague sensations he’s described into quantifiable facts, into numbers and figures, anything she can analyze. Or that is what he believes she is doing. He finds he cannot stop watching her, the wondering expression on her face, the way she watches him and does not watch him at once. She is quite beautiful.

“It was not dangerous?” she asks. “Not violent?”

He is not sure if she is thinking about the vague stories they have both heard about Pon Farr, or about the even more vague rumors that sometimes circulate about humans and other aliens. Either way, this question is much easier, and he comes to sit down next to her again, all the tension drained out of his body and only a slight residual fatigue left behind. “No,” he says. “Not in my experience.”

“Painful?” she asks.

“No.”

This is not the complete truth, not the real answer to her question, but she does not want to hear about that terrifying abandon, the feeling that he would never be the same, a certain pain there that he did not truly feel until the boy pulled away and let his body rest next to Spock’s on the unmade bed. She is not asking about this.

“Pleasurable?”

It’s supposed to be good, baby.

He wants to tell her he does not know. He’s not sure he does, and he’s tired of these half truths that are all he can give. But when he opens his mouth to answer, what he finds himself saying is simply, “Yes.” Just that, just yes, and there is nothing else to say.

*

A week passes with no opportunity for them to meet. He takes care not to look at her, not to allow any hint of their friendly relationship to escape. He is tense all the time, tense with this secret and with all of his secrets; he carries his things in front of him as he walks down the hall, and scans every face he meets for some hint of suspicion. He is on guard all the time.

One afternoon T’Pring gives him the signal, and he shakes his head in return. He hopes she understands: it is not that he does not wish to see her, it is that he cannot.

Instead he returns home, where his mother is home early and waiting for him. She gives him a hug, as she rarely does—as he lets her only on occasions such as these. Then she pulls away and touches their fingers together gently, the affectionate touch of a parent and child. She smiles at him, takes him by the arms and looks at him carefully, as if examining him. “Happy Birthday, Spock,” she says, then. Somehow, she manages to sound as proud as she does every year. As if he has accomplished something great by simply becoming one year older.

When his father comes home they sit down together to dinner: a much larger and more formal dinner than they usually share, and made up of all of Spock’s favorite foods. It is the usual tradition, though this year the atmosphere is tainted by the tense, awkward, silences that not even his mother can completely dispel. She does try. Spock tries as well, for her more than for himself. This tradition is, after all, one that she created and has preserved in a way Spock and his father never would. This custom of celebrating one’s birth is a Terran one, not a Vulcan one.

In the past, and especially as a young child, Spock enjoyed the attention the day brought him, the large dinner, the feeling that he was special that his mother never failed to convey to him with particular insistence. This year is more difficult. He does not want to be reminded of his age. Only sixteen and he’s ruined everything already.

He’s sure his mother has reminded his father to hold his tongue today, to say nothing about the baby or Spock’s future, or any of those dangerous topics. She would have done better to warn Spock himself because Sarek has not mentioned Spock’s pregnancy once on his own accord, not since their last fight over Soval. Spock had never seen Sarek so angry; he’d seemed just short of disowning his son completely, had left the room without even letting Spock finish his explanation. And since then they have been civil, teethgratingly civil. Spock hates it. But there is nothing he can do: his father understands none of his hints, takes none of the opportunities that Spock gives him to talk openly about the child again.

They used to talk about Spock’s classes, and about Sarek’s work at the Embassy; they’d debate current events and share science articles they’d found. They had been close. Spock did not realize how close.

His mother keeps up conversation as well as she can, but sometimes a too-long pause falls among them, just the clinking of utensils and the other small sounds of a family at dinner, and into one of these silences, Sarek speaks up. “I was called to the Academy today,” he says quite simply. But something in his tone makes Spock’s head snap up and his attention focus. “It was a trifling matter but while I was there I learned the results of the entrance examinations.”

Of course he did. The information would not be readily available but Sarek would never pass up the opportunity to inquire in just the right places, especially if he were already on the grounds. Spock hasn’t checked his messages yet that day and he says as much, waiting for his father to give him the news instead. He has a cold feeling in his stomach, waiting. He’s sure he already knows. He’d tried his best but the exam is designed to be difficult even for the best, most prepared, and most focused students, and his focus had been elsewhere. Of course it had been elsewhere. He had almost lost his child—

“You passed, Spock,” his father is saying. “Barely, with one of the lowest qualifying scores, and of course you must still submit a final application and attend the interview, but you did pass.”

At first he does not know what to say. His mother is already congratulating him but all he can do is stare at his father and wonder what he is thinking. His face gives nothing away.

“Thank you for informing me,” he says finally. He does not want either of his parents to see how amazed he is. The Academy is a real possibility, still, despite everything, and he begins to see for the first time how much he had doubted it, how much he had come to believe that all of his plans were as ruined as Soval had said they were.

“Of course,” Sarek answers. Then, Spock almost does not see him hesitate, he is paying so little attention, he adds, “I am proud of you, my son.”

*

That night, he can’t sleep. He can still sleep on his side if he finds just the right position but his body is becoming more awkward, and he is not sure what to do with it anymore. Also, the baby is surprisingly active and no position he tries seems to suit its particular taste. He rolls over onto his back and looks at the ceiling. Then he turns his attention back to the round bump at his middle. “Are you still celebrating?” he asks. “It is time to stop.”

Lying in bed if he is not going to sleep is surely an activity without a purpose, so he hauls himself up and quietly slips out of his room. He has an idea that he will replicate himself a glass of water and perhaps some olives. And strawberry sauce. Or at least the olives.

But as he passes his parents’ room he hears voices, and he immediately stills. His father might be able to hear his footsteps. He has to be careful, especially if he wants to find out what his mother and father are discussing in such loud tones. He flattens himself against the wall and concentrates.

“I am trying,” he hears Sarek insist. “You have noticed that we are no longer arguing—”

“I have noticed you are no longer speaking,” Spock’s mother interrupts sharply. “It’s not right, Sarek. You need to accept this situation for what it is and move on.”

At first Sarek doesn’t answer, and Spock waits, not wanting to move but prepared to rush back to his room at the slightest hint of movement on the other side of the door, his own eyes closed and one hand against the wall.

“There are consequences to Spock’s actions,” Sarek tries to say, but again his wife cuts him off.

“Yes. Many. And Spock is aware of them, or will be soon. We can’t do anything about most of them, but we can at least be there for him, as his parents. That baby is your grandchild. Do you really want Spock to take him or her and leave and never come back here again? That’s what you’re driving him to do.”

“Spock has never given any indication that he wishes to leave Vulcan. In fact, he reacted strongly against the idea when I brought it up four months ago.” Spock listens to his father’s voice and wonders if he is as confident in his argument as he sounds.

“Yes, four months ago,” Spock’s mother agrees, “because it was a shock. But he may yet come to change his mind. Is that what you want, Sarek? For him to cut us out of his life?”

“Of course not.”

“Then stop being so unreasonable. Accept this. Everyone makes mistakes. He’s still your boy.”

“And yet when he told me he was to have a child I did not recognize him.”

Spock does not want to listen to the rest of this conversation, so he slips by his parents’ door quietly and retreats into the kitchen. Eating makes him feel better, and he can almost imagine falling asleep, somehow, now. He does not wish to think about his father, or about Earth, or about what will happen after his baby is born. But he cannot stop.

It should be quite simple. Vulcan is his home. Earth is far away, hostile, strange, and if he has few allies on Vulcan, he has none at all there. And yet—not even his own father can do more than pretend to accept his child, and his mother is already anticipating his escape. The only conclusion he can come to is that, if he does not somehow find a way to gain the respect of his own people, at least enough to guarantee his safety and his son or daughter’s as well, then he will have no choice but to leave them.

Chapter Text

Tomorrow is a holiday and at the end of the day, the school empties quickly. Spock retreats into the library anyway, taking a table at the back to himself and pretending to read until he is quite sure it is safe to start on his way to T’Pring’s. It has been another long day and he’s exhausted and achy. Still he’s looking forward to the rest of the afternoon: T’Pring, too, passed the Academy exam and he wants very much to congratulate her as he is not allowed to do in public.

It is only as he is crossing the courtyard that he realizes he is not as alone as he thought. There is still one other student left on the grounds, lurking in the shadow against one of the walls, half hidden and yet still perfectly recognizable by his posture, his above average height, the broad set of his shoulders. Spock sees him and his muscles tense. He knows Stonn is watching him. He knows Stonn is waiting there just for him. He prepares himself for the encounter but does not let his pace slow or falter, does not give the sullen figure more than a half-second’s glance.

“You are not even going to say hello?” Stonn calls out, just as Spock reaches him. “That is not very polite, Spock.”

“I apologize, but I am in a hurry.”

“No, you are not.”

Stonn steps in front of him abruptly, and Spock is forced to stop, to look up from his feet and meet Stonn’s gaze. He could try to step away but Stonn would follow him. He would match his every movement and he would be faster—stronger too if it came to that, and Spock cannot let it come to that. He is not sure what to do but he knows he cannot simply run.

“Was there something you wished to say to me?” he asks instead. He takes on a superior and condescending tone, hoping to show Stonn he’s not afraid of him, but immediately regrets it. The last thing he wants is for Stonn to think he is being challenged, and that is exactly what he seems to think now, the way his eyes narrow and his hands twitch into fists in anticipation. He takes a half-step back and runs his gaze up and down Spock’s body, sizing him up. Spock is immediately embarrassed at this attention, and keeps his neutral posture only with difficulty—he is itching to curl his arms around his stomach, to hide it and protect it.

“There’s something not right about you,” Stonn declares finally, as if he had just that moment come to some amazing discovery. “I do not know what it is yet, but it is something. I have been watching you, Spock. You have been acting strangely, avoiding the rest of us more than is your habit. Are you self-conscious because you have gained so much weight? Do not think I have not noticed,” he adds, perhaps at some twitch of surprise in Spock’s expression. “Everyone has noticed.” He examines Spock’s body again, gaze mocking this time, and cruel. Spock feels himself flush under the scrutiny and knows that Stonn notices this, too.

“You look even less like a Vulcan now,” he says.

Spock tries to not listen. He tries to run through formulas, arithmetic problems, the periodic table of elements on Earth, anything he can think of so that he is not hearing Stonn’s voice. But it still gets through. He has managed to avoid wondering what his classmates have been saying behind his back, has convinced himself that perhaps they really do not notice his disappearances or his changing shape—that he does not matter enough to them to be worth the effort of speculation. But at the very least he means something to Stonn. Stonn has been wondering, has been turning over this problem in his mind.

“You have been trying to hide it,” he is saying, “wearing sweaters even though it is too warm for them.” He reaches out and tugs at the side of Spock’s sweater, and Spock steps back involuntarily at even this semblance of a touch. Stonn pulls his hand back but gives Spock a dark look. He continues, “I have noticed. But it does not make any difference. Your size is still quite visible. I do not think you should worry though,” he adds, “it is not possible that you could become any uglier than you already were.”

Spock has heard worse. He’s sure he’s heard worse. He tries to pack up all of Stonn’s words, his unimaginative insults, and put them away where he does not feel them. Still he’s not sure how much more he can listen to.

“Is there anything else you wish to say to me?” he asks. “Or have you exhausted your insults?”

“We are not finished,” Stonn insists, though Spock knows he’s searching for something more he can say, something truly cutting that will finally make Spock break. In the pause that follows, Spock tries to step to the side, but Stonn blocks his way just as Spock knew he would.

“Do not think you can outrun me,” he says. “Not looking like that.” The way he says that, it is as if Spock were nothing more than a lowly and disgusting bug. Still he’s right that there is no escape. Spock feels an edge of panic slip past his defenses.

“I do not wish to run,” Spock corrects him. “I only wish to return home, as I do not believe that there is any reason to continue this conversation.”

“This conversation will continue until I am satisfied. Why are you still at this school, Spock? You are not a real Vulcan. You cannot ever hope to succeed here. You could not even take the Academy exam without having to leave school for a week afterward.”

“It is not your concern if I had personal reasons for taking time off,” he answers, and despite his efforts his voice is already growing louder, his words fast on top of Stonn’s. “Nor is it your concern if I have gained weight, or if I choose to spend time by myself.”

“I have made it my concern—”

“Why? I pose no threat to you. I can give you nothing. I have nothing you want. I am not even bonded to T’Pring any longer—”

He regrets the words even as he says them. He had not meant to bring T’Pring into this argument, and not only because, at the mention of her name, Stonn’s anger flares, and he steps closer into Spock’s space.

“Do not say her name. Do not even think about her. This is not about her.”

He is right and Spock sees it now, sees it clearly like he should have long before. Stonn’s jealousy over Spock’s bond with T’Pring might have been the cause of his long-standing hatred, but it is no longer the factor it was. Stonn hates Spock because Spock is different, because Spock is part human, because, quite simply, he is used to hating Spock. He knows nothing else.

But it is too late. Stonn’s breath is flaring out through his nostrils and his eyes are locked threateningly on Spock’s. He is daring him. “This is not about her. Do you understand me?” he repeats, and shoves Spock’s shoulder roughly. Spock feels something in him start to crack at the touch.

“Do not touch me,” he warns, and Stonn hears him, hears that warning in Spock’s voice, but he does not listen. This is what he wanted: to bring Spock to the edge. To prove that he has emotions, that he can be controlled through them, even if in the process Stonn must reveal the same of himself.

“Do not tell me what to do,” he answers, and shoves at Spock again, harder this time and with two hands, and at the unexpected force Spock loses his balance and falls to the ground.

He is not really hurt. He does not think he is really hurt. He did not fall hard. But he cannot be sure; he can’t help but be afraid. Something in him snaps, fear and anger and desperation exploding, heartbeat pounding in his ears and his breathing fast and flaring, and he does not who he is anymore or where he is or anything except that he must eliminate this threat. He pulls himself up with some difficulty and takes advantage of Stonn’s hesitation to shove him back and pin him against the wall. He puts his arm against Stonn’s throat to hold him still, not enough pressure to choke off his supply of air but enough to threaten, enough to show him just how much power Spock holds in this moment. He has him. He could kill him, if he wanted to.

He does not want to. But it is several long moments before his breathing slows and his heart rate returns to normal and he is again capable of reminding himself: he does not want to. Still, he has never been this angry in his life. Even as he feels his calm return he still vows that if anything, anything at all is wrong with his child he will hunt Stonn down, and there will be no hesitation then.

Stonn stares at him with wide eyes, too frightened, for the moment, to speak.

“You will not touch me,” Spock repeats. His voice is so low, so angry, that he does not even recognize it as his own. “I will not warn you again.”

He’s kept Stonn pinned too long, though, and even as he watches, the other begins to regain some of his composure, at least enough to reason that Spock would not dare do him serious harm. “Or what?” he spits out.

“You are in no position to argue with me,” Spock reminds him.

“Aren’t I? You are not going to kill me. Eventually you will let me go. And you know that if we were to have a fair fight you would not win.” He looks at Spock steadily. “By this reasoning I see that I am still in control.”

Spock meets his gaze with equal strength but he knows that, despite his current position, he is beaten. He cannot fight Stonn. But now that he has threatened him so violently, now that he has come this far, Stonn will expect or even force a fight and nothing will convince him to let Spock leave quietly and continue home unharmed. He does not know what he can do. He only knows that his first priority must be to protect the child, at whatever cost.

“I will not fight you,” he insists.

“You will not have a choice.”

“I will not fight you,” he says yet again, ignoring Stonn’s words, speaking almost over them, “and you will not attack me. You may think that I have wronged you and that you have the right to respond with violence against me but,” and he’d hoped he would not hesitate here, but he does, the slightest half-second that Stonn’s sharp ears pick up, “but my child has done nothing against you and it would be against every law of our society that you should harm it by harming me.”

He does not let go of his hold against Stonn’s neck. He is afraid of Stonn’s response; he must be in control until he knows what the other will say.

His first reaction is simply one of stupid incomprehension, and though Spock had expected this, it lasts much longer than he might have predicted.

“What child?” Stonn asks finally.

“The child I am carrying,” Spock answers with every shred of fake calm he can manage, and finally steps back from Stonn, who rolls his shoulders and stretches his back now that he is no longer pinned against the hard wall.

“I do not believe you. What you are telling me is completely impossible.”

“The difference between ‘improbable’ and ‘impossible’ is a central one. I believed you to understand that difference and apologize if I was mistaken,” he quips in return. Beneath, he is barely holding back his shaking. There is no going back from his confession—bad enough that he had to say it once, now he must work to convince Stonn that it is really true.

Stonn’s eyes narrow but he has no comeback. He can only demand, “Prove it,” in a hard and daring tone.

He seems to think that Spock hesitates because he is being caught in his lie, and he takes a step closer again. He is too close, and Spock feels the beginnings of violence stirring in him again. Not knowing what else he can say, he blurts, “Why do you think I am so large? I am not simply gaining weight, Stonn.”

“You will never be a proper scientist if you consider such a statement to be proof,” Stonn answers, even as he looks up and down Spock’s figure once more. Spock has never felt more ugly, more disgusting, than when Stonn looks at him in this manner.

He knows he has no choice. Not if he wants to end this interview, not if he wants Stonn to leave him alone, not if he wants this threat to his child to finally be out of his life. “I can—show you,” he says finally, more reluctantly than he would wish.

Stonn tilts his head. “I suggest you do so.”

Spock feels his cheeks burn a dark green and his heart beat hard, painfully hard, in his side. He does not wish to. He is scared and ashamed. He feels that he is betraying his son or daughter even as he is trying to save him or her. Still, slowly, carefully, he lifts his sweater, so that the shape of his round, protruding stomach is fully visible to Stonn’s eyes. This is not the shape of a body that is merely gaining weight, and Stonn knows it as well as he does. He stares in lurid fascination for several long moments.

“Do you believe me now?” Spock asks, pulling his sweater back down into place.

“You seem to be telling the truth,” Stonn admits, and Spock takes a small, if temporary, pleasure in this pained assent that he, Stonn, was wrong after all. He no longer seems ready to fight; he does not even appear to be angry, shocked out of all of his previous emotions. Yet if Spock hoped he could make a quick retreat once he diffused the impending fight, he was mistaken. Stonn’s face is lit up by curiosity, and he will not be letting Spock leave any time soon.

“I cannot argue with the evidence you have presented,” Stonn says, “but I cannot help but retain a certain amount of disbelief.” He crosses his arms against his chest and paces to one side of Spock and then the other, his manner scientific but exaggerated, grossly mocking. Spock stands still where he is. He stands perfectly, perfectly still. “After all,” Stonn continues, now stopping on Spock’s other side and tilting his head to meet Spock’s eyes, “there must be another father, and who would want to touch a hybrid freak like you?”

Spock holds his hands clasped tight together behind his back. He cannot believe that Stonn would be this direct, this crude; perhaps he merely believes he has nothing to lose, now that he has pushed Spock to the ground, now that he has felt Spock’s arm against his throat; or perhaps he feels that this is an opportunity that he will never get again and one that he must seize.

“The other father is human,” Spock admits quietly.

“I should have known,” Stonn answers, his tone mocking but disgusted. “That explains much. Humans have unexplainable taste.” He takes a step back and looks Spock over again, gaze lingering first on his middle, then on his face. “Or perhaps he simply found you exotic. Perhaps you were an experiment to him. Yes…he must have found you quite curious. Some sort of sideshow attraction.”

Do not listen to him, Spock tells himself. He does not know what he is talking about. He is simply jealous. He is trying to make you angry. He is trying to play with your emotions because it makes him feel important and better about himself and his failings, but you are in control, and you will not let him bother you. You are above this.

But he does not quite believe himself. A small voice is saying that maybe Stonn is right. Maybe he was naïve to ever believe in the human boy’s affections, naïve to think that he had any interest in Spock beyond his ears and his eyebrows and the green tint to his skin.

Your face is completely green…I like green, it’s okay.

It’s true the boy had said he wanted him. Wanted. That was the very word that he had used. But perhaps he was lying, or exaggerating, or perhaps the word in Standard does not carry the same weight as its Vulcan equivalent. Perhaps it was a shallow, passing, interest, a curiosity, that the human was alluding to, and nothing more.

Stonn is still talking. “And of course once he showed any interest in you, you would respond. You knew that no self-respecting Vulcan would ever willingly have you. But this human…you were enough for him. You must be quite desperate for attention, though,” he adds, a fake, forced, contemplative tone to his voice, “to let someone like him touch you.”

“You do not know him,” Spock bites out.

“I do not need to.”

“Why are you so interested in this, Stonn? It is nothing to you.”

Stonn shakes his head. “On the contrary. This is the business of any true Vulcan with pride in his civilization. You are just as much a traitor as your father, Spock—more so. Bad enough that he took a human woman as his wife and brought her to our planet. At least he followed our conventions. At least he did not dishonor his family by creating a child with an alien without first establishing a bond. How do you expect anyone to regard you as a true Vulcan if you do not even behave as one?”

His anger bubbles within him once more at the old slur against his father but he controls himself, not least with the realization, sobering and dull, that Stonn’s accusations against him are none other than the ones his father leveled against him when he first revealed his pregnancy.

All he says out loud is, “Your obsession with me might once have been harmless, even interesting, but it is now excessive and gives you no honor. I request that you step aside and allow me to return home.”

“I am not obsessed with you,” Stonn sneers, but his defense is too quick, and to distract from it he continues, “Not like the others will be when they find out.”

Spock’s eyes widen involuntarily at this, and this time he does take his hands from behind his back and wrap them around his stomach. He realizes only now that he has simply replaced one threat with another, and that he is not any safer than he was when Stonn pushed him to the ground. He is cold with this knowledge, and can’t help but ask stupidly, “You intend to share this news?”

“Of course. How could I keep it to myself? That would not be right.” Stonn shakes his head, and steps closer into Spock’s space again. “I want everyone to know what I know about you.”

He does not say any more, just stares, and Spock runs through every possible bargain he could make to stop Stonn from saying a word. There are not many. He was correct when he said that he has nothing Stonn wants. He has nothing to offer.

“How can I convince you to change your mind?” he asks finally, reluctantly. His voice is rasping and unsteady.

Stonn tilts his head, making a show of considering. “You cannot,” he decides after a moment, “because there is nothing I would enjoy more than announcing your happy news to our classmates.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Think. Anything.”

Spock is sure Stonn will simply refuse again and he has given up hope, already shamed that he has been brought so easily to beg. He will not do so again. It is not worth this ugly feeling of worthlessness already spreading through him.

The same pleading tone to his voice that so disgusts him has caught Stonn’s attention, and this time he really does seem to be considering Spock’s offer. He comes to a decision abruptly. “I will not tell them. But only if you show me.”

His first thought is simple confusion, and he reminds Stonn slowly that he has already shown him. The round bump in his middle was perfectly visible to Stonn’s eyes, and there is really nothing more to show. But Stonn just stares back with his cold and mocking stare and pretends he does not hear the condescending tone Spock has managed to infuse into his voice. “No,” he answers. “Show me.”

He reaches boldly for Spock’s face but Spock hits his hand away, roughly, instinctively. He understands, now. He understands, and it’s sick. It is an invasion of his privacy, a violation of his very person—he cannot believe that even Stonn would ask such a thing of him.

“You do not know what you are asking,” he says, and his voice sounds like a threat.

“I do.”

He tries to sound confident, but Spock can hear clearly enough that he is already uneasy with his own suggestion. But he can’t back down from it now. These are the terms he gave and Spock must accept or reject them, and if he rejects, if he calls Stonn’s bluff, he will have no one but himself to blame for his secret becoming public knowledge.

He cannot do it. He never even considers it. The idea of his pregnancy becoming known no longer seems so terrible; it is not a secret he can hide forever anyway: even if he is lucky enough to conceal his growing size until the birth, the child itself will be impossible to hide and an explanation must be given. No. The damage Stonn can do is limited, but if Spock lets him sift through those most private memories, he will not be able to live with himself any longer.

He takes a step back, bows his head in concession. You win. “I do not accept your offer,” he says. “I have tried to keep my pregnancy as secret as I can but I knew it would inevitably become known. If you will spare me the trouble of having to announce it myself,” and here, at the last, he looks up and meets Stonn’s gaze, sees the look of part defeat, part relief on his face, “then I can only thank you.”

*

The encounter with Stonn leaves him rattled for much longer than he would like to admit. He goes to see T’Pala that afternoon and explains what happened in the vaguest terms he can, but she declares that the baby remains in good health. Even with this knowledge he cannot truly relax. He came too close. He came too close to failing, yet again, to protect his child. And he came close to something else too: if Stonn had not regretted his own request, if he had been more insistent, if he had forced Spock—he feels a twist in his stomach every time he thinks about it.

He’s walking through the library gardens, wandering aimlessly down one path and then the next, hoping to inspire the baby to shifts its position to one less uncomfortable, when he sees her. She is sitting quietly on one of the benches, doing nothing, thinking. It is just after noon and the hottest part of the day. She’s the first one he’s seen since he left the cool indoors ten minutes before. They hadn’t intended to meet and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit next to her, though he wants to, but when he dares to meet her eyes T’Pring gives him the smallest of nods.

When they speak, they do not look at each other.

“Stonn told me what happened,” she says. “I pretended I did not know anything of the matter.”

“Thank you.”

“I could hardly act differently. As far as I am aware, he has not told anyone else.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” she nods once, subtly, in agreement. “You should not have told him.”

“I had no choice.”

In her silence, he reads her disbelief. He does not know what Stonn has told her, the whole truth or a part truth or mostly a lie, but he has no desire to give his own account of the events of that afternoon. He will let her believe whatever she wishes.

When she sees that he is not going to defend himself on this point, she continues, “He did not cause you any harm?”

“No.”

His denial, quick and insistent, a bit too loud, seems to satisfy her, and she does not press him further.

“I do not defend his actions,” she tells him. “The way that he acted toward you was quite inappropriate. His bullying is childish and tiresome, and completely unacceptable.”

“It should be,” Spock agrees. “And yet he finds much more acceptance among our people than I do.”

There follows a tense and uncomfortable silence, but he does not regret his words. He wants T’Pring to hear this, wants to hear her admit it too.

“Not with me,” she says, and then excuses herself perfunctorily, and leaves.

*

Spock does not tell his parents about Stonn, his threats, or his decision. He does not tell anyone. He keeps his secrets to himself but he waits for the day when they are no longer secrets.

Three days after his encounter with Stonn, he goes to see T’Lin. Classes are over for the day but she stays several hours later, and he knows he will find her in her office when he knocks on her door. She tells him to come in and, though she was not expecting him, she shows no surprise. T’Lin never shows surprise. Or any other emotion.

Spock has put off talking to her about his situation, as she will later refer to it, for months, though he has known it was inevitable—just as he knows that it is inevitable that one day his child will be born, inevitable that the other Vulcans will see it and wonder about it, inevitable that he will become responsible for the care of a new, living, being. There is no need to think of such things.

He sits down and tells her that he must speak to her, and she nods and signals for him to continue.

“Perhaps you have noticed,” he begins, “that I have not been keeping up with my studies as well as I once did. I have taken leaves of absence, my test scores are decreasing, and I am no longer at the head of my class.”

“There are always students that fall behind,” she answers, as if there were nothing unusual in Spock’s situation—perhaps, as if she expected no better from him. Still she tilts her head slightly to the right, inquisitive as to his meaning.

He keeps his voice and manner businesslike as he responds, as close to her own tone as he can, and as if his announcement were a relatively ordinary one. “I only wish to explain myself by informing you, as I realize I should have done months ago, of my particular circumstances. They are unusual—”

“Please be direct, Spock.”

“I am pregnant.”

He cannot meet her gaze after he says it. He looks down at his hands and wonders if she has let, at last, some expression onto her face.

“I do not understand,” she says finally, as if he had merely spoken too quickly or too quietly.

“I am carrying a child,” he repeats. “I have had to take time off for medical reasons relating to my pregnancy, and I have been finding it difficult to keep up with my studies while also enduring the constant mental and physical strain of this condition.” This time he is speaking quite fast, but T’Lin picks up every word. He knows she does, because she does not ask him to repeat, only sits and takes her time in finding a proper response.

He knows that she has the right to expel him, if she so wishes. There is no precedent, and there is no rule. But it is within her power to choose that he not degrade the name of her institution by continuing to study there even when his personal disgrace is known. Still he hopes that she will be lenient, especially as he has come to her himself, and told her the news before it could reach her through other channels.

She does not ask him to explain the circumstances of his situation, nor does she offer any disbelief. He looks up just in time to see her gaze linger at his middle, and this is quite enough evidence to dispel any doubts she might have had about his truthfulness. The only question she asks him is when he is due.

“In thirteen weeks,” he answers. When there is no immediate answer, he tries to add, “I apologize for not informing the school earlier—”

“I understand,” she interrupts. “Your situation is a private one. Under normal circumstances you would be under no obligation to inform anyone but your own family. However I do believe it was best that you informed me. You will not be able to attend the final weeks of class this year but if you believe you will able to make up the work over the break, you may return next year and finish your studies here.”

She does not sound as if she really believes him capable of completing his studies now, but as she has not said so aloud he cannot defend himself, and he only nods and thanks her for her time and for the opportunity she has given him.

“I realize my situation is unusual,” he ventures, just before he leaves.

“It is,” she answers, already turning back to her work. She sounds bored with him, he thinks, he is almost convinced, until she looks up at him again and adds, “And I do not approve of it. I cannot. But you are one of our best, Spock. You must continue.”

Chapter Text

He enters his last trimester constantly on edge. T’Pala warns him about the effects of high stress on his body; his mother lectures him; even T’Pring questions him and tells him he is looking pale. Most days he is quite certain Stonn has not told. But sometimes he is not sure. He scans every face he sees and keeps his ears open for whispers or rumors. For a week he hears nothing. He considers the possibility that his story is too fantastic, that even if Stonn does let his secret slip no one will believe him.

One day he drops the stylus to his PADD and has to struggle to pick it up. Another boy grabs it for him, and as he returns it he gazes at Spock’s face several moments too long and then says, low, still loud enough for his friends behind him to hear, “So it is true.” And from then on Spock knows. Stonn has told. Any disbelief that may have attended his story will soon be put aside. They will watch Spock, his size, his clumsiness, his absences from school, and they will see quite plainly for themselves. He cannot hide.

Everywhere he goes, they gaze at him. He hears bits and pieces of whispered stories, pretends he does not hear them, then asks T’Pring for the rest despite himself. They know the child is more human than Vulcan. They wonder about the other father. They say he must be an older man. They say humans must be very…insatiable. And incautious. Perhaps partly wild. They add that Spock must be likewise. Some of them think that humans also go through a type of Pon Farr, and there is a certain disgusting sympathy in the thought that Spock might have been its victim. They wonder when the human will come to claim his child, or if Spock will go to him, and they speculate that perhaps, given Spock’s family, the inevitable bonding ceremony may be a public one—though this is more hope than assumption. A few continue to believe that the story is an elaborate hoax, so difficult is it to believe that any one of their age, even the strange hybrid one, should find himself in such a predicament.

Some of them follow him. Their eyes shine with curiosity. He pretends he does not notice them, hopes none would ever dare to touch him, numbs his mind almost constantly so that he does not snap at them. Only a few are rude. One says darkly to him, as they are leaving class, “Too good for a Vulcan mate, are you?” and then pushes roughly past before Spock can reply.

“I understand your classmates have come to know of your condition,” his father says to him one afternoon. For a moment, Spock is quite startled, and has to take a drink of his tea to give himself time to recover.

“My condition,” he repeats. He did not think his father would ever mention it again. “Yes. They know. After all, it is quite obvious.”

Sarek pretends he does not hear the way Spock bites out his last word, only continues calmly, “I only mention it because it seems that some of your classmates have been asking questions of their parents—my colleagues. The subject was brought up to me today at work and I was quite unprepared for it.”

“You have had half a year to prepare yourself for it,” Spock answers. “You knew that eventually my condition, as you refer to it, would become known. There is no reason to be shocked by the inevitable.” He’s waiting for his father to snap at him, to say something pointed about respect or controlling his tongue. But he seems to have resigned himself to Spock’s defiant attitude, and he has already decided to ignore it.

“Two colleagues asked me today, on two separate occasions, if the rumor was true,” he goes on. “I believe they were waiting for me to explain that the story was a falsehood, which of course I could not. I had to explain that it was not merely a rumor: that my son was expecting a child, that his former partner was human, and that he had no plans to bond or to give up his son or daughter. They did not approve. The situation has cast doubt not only on you, but on me as well, and on my ability to control even my own family.”

“You should have explained that your son is quite old enough to make his own decisions and mistakes and that it is not your job to ‘control’ him as if he were a child.”

“But you are a child.”

Yes, there it is; Spock hides the look of satisfaction on his face by staring down into his tea. His father’s voice has barely risen in pitch but it is enough, enough to show he still feels, enough to show he still thinks about Spock’s pregnancy perhaps as much as Spock does himself. He does not say anything in reply. He lets his father think, perhaps, that he is too ashamed to speak.

Finally, Sarek calms, and continues, “I do not think you understand what reactions you will face when your child is born, Spock. Your classmates are curious, probably confused, and they know as little as you do about becoming a parent or starting a family. But the adults of our community are not as naïve.”

Spock finds, when he looks up, that he cannot read his father’s face at all. “I do not understand your argument,” he says at last. “You are correct that I cannot predict what will happen after the birth of my son or daughter but if you hope, by reminding me of this, to somehow change the decisions I have made about my future, you will find yourself again unsuccessful. I will not give this child up and I will not bond to someone I do not know. I—” he hesitates for a half-second, then adds defiantly, impulsively, “I will not bond ever.”

There is no one who could take the place of the human boy. There is no one, not even the boy, whom he could ever trust enough to bond with.

“Your desire to disagree with me at all costs has robbed you of your logic.”

“As it has robbed you of yours. It is illogical to continue to bring up the same argument to one who has made up his mind as completely as I have made up mine. And yet you continue to do so. I do not understand.”

Sarek gets up abruptly and puts away his empty mug. “I was under the impression that you and your mother wanted me to speak more on this topic,” he says, back still to Spock.

“It is unnatural that you should never acknowledge the impending birth of your own grandchild,” Spock answers calmly. His hands are wrapped around his own almost empty mug, even though the last of his tea has long gone cold. “But if you have nothing more to say on the subject than to bring up old arguments that I, at least, would rather not waste my energy on, then perhaps it is better that you keep your silence.”

Sarek does not answer, does not even move, and Spock is almost convinced that he will do just that. Finally, he hazards to ask, much quieter now and much more uncertain, “Tell me candidly, Father, is there no part of you that wishes to meet your grandson or granddaughter?”

Spock must wait a long time for his answer. He finishes his tea, focuses on the loud clink of his mug as he sets it back down on the table, stares at his father’s back and wonders what he is thinking.

“A part of me,” Sarek says finally, “yes. But I cannot simply put aside my reservations, as your mother has. Someone must represent reason in this family.”

Spock does not know what to say. His fingers are trembling. He has never hated his own father before but at this moment he almost does, and though he tries to reason with his emotion, tries to tell himself it is more hormones than anything else, that he must exert more control now than ever if he wishes to stay calm, still he cannot help a wave of it from welling up in his chest.

“You do not make a compelling case for reason, Father,” he says finally, and hopes the choked sound of his voice is not too obvious. If it is, his father pretends not to hear it. “I only hope that we are not at a permanent impasse.”

“On that point,” Sarek answers, “we are in agreement.”

*
Usually, T’Pala makes every effort to see him as soon as possible, but today she is caught up in other business and he finds himself waiting for some time in the common room in front of her office. Usually he would not mind, except that the wait gives him entirely too much time to think, to play his recent conversation with his father over and over again in his mind, and to speculate on what, exactly, Sarek’s colleagues at the Embassy said about him and the pregnancy. Something hurtful—something they would never say to his face and not least because he is so young. Already he knows he is becoming news, and not merely among his own peers, whose gossip, though sometimes difficult to bear, is mostly harmless. To Sarek’s colleagues, he is not only scandalous but dangerous, and he is sure they are speaking badly of him to their children even this moment, reminding them over and over and in the vaguest terms they can find, of the consequences of such reckless actions as Spock’s.

What T’Pring’s parents would think if they knew of some of Spock’s conversations with their daughter, he does not even want to speculate.

He is interrupted in his thoughts by the arrival of a woman, another patient, into the common room. There is nothing of particular note about her and under different circumstances Spock might not have noticed her at all. There is nothing of note—except that she is carrying an infant in a sling against her chest. Spock’s eyes are drawn to the child instantly. The woman sits down directly across from him. Spock tries to stare without looking like he is staring, but she is too preoccupied with the child to give him much notice. He watches as the woman regards her baby so intensely and with such focus that he is sure the most fantastic events could take place all around her and she would not give them a glance.

Will his own child hold such power over him?

It is very small, the baby. That is the first thing he notices. He can barely see from where he is sitting but he thinks that its eyes are closed; probably, then, it is asleep. He wonders if it is male or female, how long ago it was born, what its parents have named it. He wonders if is his own boy or girl will look like that, as small and as round, with tiny little pointed ears, and cheeks flushed the same faint green. The feeling is much the same as the one he experienced when T’Pala showed him the image of his own growing child: a mixture of anticipation and strong, overpowering fear. The baby looks so fragile; he would be afraid even to touch it, let alone hold it, or be responsible for its safety. He could not possibly be expected—he has no idea what he will do.

He is startled when he hears his name called. The mother does not even look up.

*

He is hoping his mother will relieve him of all of his doubts by speaking of instinct, by telling him that he will simply know what to do. But she does not. She only reminds him that he will have her, after all, and all the benefits of her own experience. He finds this is small assurance. He begins to spend his free time in research, trying to learn everything he can—in a purely theoretical fashion—about the practicalities of being a parent, while he still has the time to do so. The information alternately puts him at ease and sends him into a near panic.

At some point he realizes that not only is he personally unprepared for this change in his life, he is also materially unprepared. He draws up a list, then shows it to his mother and asks if she will accompany him on a shopping trip. “I would go by myself,” he says, “but I am sure I would forget something quite obvious and important.”

His mother tells him she believes his list is quite complete, but that she will of course accompany him, if for no other reason than that, “no one in their seventh month should be allowed to carry such things.”

He is quite in agreement with her on this point, especially by the time they return home. He sinks down into one of the living room chairs and immediately puts his feet up on the arm of the next, and he does not care that this is quite inappropriate, and neither does his mother. His feet are swollen and aching beyond all reason and the pain in his back is intense. “We should have done this earlier,” he announces.

His mother agrees and, he is glad, refrains from mentioning that this is not even everything. In one way he is grateful that he has put off buying anything for his child for so long: he is so exhausted and in such discomfort that he can easily ignore any panic that might otherwise set in at the thought of all of those small clothes, or the crib they will have to set up, or any of the other things that are now sitting in a heap in the middle of the room.

His mother is already sorting them into piles; she sets the clothes on the table within Spock’s reach, and he absently picks up an impossibly small blue one piece suit. His mother had asked him, when he picked it out, if he thought he was going to have a boy, then laughed at his confusion and explained that it was an old Terran tradition to dress new sons in blue, new daughters in pink. He’d picked it merely because he found the color pleasing.

“The child will need play things,” he says, after a few moments, still looking at the tiny little suit. “We forgot.”

“I think we’ll save that trip for another day,” his mother answers, laughing a little as she pushes the box containing the crib into the hallway. “Your father will have to assemble that. I’m no good at that sort of thing and you’re certainly in no shape to.”

“I doubt Father will want to help,” Spock answers lightly, and hauls himself up with some difficulty into a more upright position. Not that he wishes to talk about Sarek. He changes the subject quickly. “There is still much to be done in preparation.”

“We’ll work a little each day and it will get done,” his mother says, encouraging, insistent. “Don’t worry yourself Spock.”

But he is not worried, not really, not at the moment. The thought of a concrete list of things to do is oddly calming. He will approach it all logically, with a sense of organization, and perhaps, as he sees a place grow for his child in his home, he will be able to more easily imagine a place growing in his life to accommodate him or her as well. Maybe this strange feeling that he is living in a dream will pass. Maybe he will start to feel like a parent at last.

*

His relationship with T’Pring has gone through such a transition over the last several months that he is neither surprised, nor scandalized, by her offer to help relieve some of the strain that carrying the child has put on his back. He agrees readily to her offer, which seems to please her, and she motions for him to make room. He pulls himself forward on the bed and she slips in behind him. He does not know how she learned this but her hands as they massage the muscles in his shoulders and back feel wonderful. He closes his eyes and leans into the movements. He lets himself relax. For several minutes, they are both silent.

“Are you feeling more at ease?” T’Pring asks, then.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “I must thank you, T’Pring. Not simply for this but for—everything.” He wishes to elaborate further but is not sure quite how to do so, and in the pause that follows she begins to speak again.

“Do not thank me, Spock. If one of us is to use such words, it should be I.” He hears the sincerity in her voice, strong enough that he does not question her further, though he has no idea what he has given her or what she could thank him for. He sighs out a long breath as her hands unknot his muscles

“Stonn continues to try to speak with me,” T’Pring informs him, after a silence. Spock is quite aware of the split between them, and though in the past his satisfaction might have been tempered by fear for his own safety, without T’Pring’s constant intervention and calming influence, he is now at least able to give his undivided approval. “I have told him that I no longer wish our acquaintance to continue but I do not think he is willing to believe that I am serious.”

“Perhaps he is only in shock that he should have lost his place in your esteem,” Spock suggests lightly. “It must be difficult.”

He wishes with this statement only to compliment T’Pring, as openly and as straightforwardly as he can, and in a way he never would if they were sitting face to face. But at his words her hands stop their movements. For a moment he is afraid he has said something wrong.

But the pause is only a short one.

“Stonn is stubborn,” she says, bringing her hands once more to his shoulders and continuing as if she had never paused at all. “I have long known this about him. He is among my oldest acquaintances.”

“I have never understood your friendship,” Spock admits boldly in answer, forgetting himself, arching into a particularly powerful touch. “You and he seem to have nothing in common.”

“You know only one side of him,” T’Pring reminds him. “There is more to him...there is much that you have not seen.”

Spock isn’t convinced that there is anything in Stonn worth seeing, but he does not say so. He concentrates on the feel of T’Pring’s hands on him. Relaxed as he is, less stressed than he has been in weeks, it is no effort to keep up all of his defenses, to secure himself carefully from her feelings and thoughts. Still he does not need his telepathy, or hers, to know something of her tangled emotions.

“You miss him?” he asks. He did not really mean to ask this question aloud but T’Pring does not flinch to hear it. She has made much more personal inquiries of him and knows it.

“Sometimes,” she admits.

Then he feels her hands still in their movements. They are resting now in the middle of his back. It is very deliberate, he thinks, how she lets them drop down into her lap at that moment, before she speaks again.

“I have often thought about what you told me, regarding your experiences on Earth,” she says.

Spock opens his eyes. He does not turn or look at her but he does bring himself back, cease the vague drifting of his thoughts, and ground himself again in the present. He stares at the far wall. He knows what she will say before she says it. He follows, in his own thoughts, the path hers must have taken, the jump in association she made.

“I have often wondered what it would be to experience such things with Stonn,” she says. “Even before our discussion—but I need not tell you these things.”

It is illogical to have the reaction that he has, nothing less than a fierce spark of jealousy in him, only a moment but enough to make him clench his hands into fists. Of course. He should not be surprised at all. Even as she asked him her questions, that day, she must have been thinking of him. He has only himself to blame for refusing so steadfastly to acknowledge the relationship between Stonn and T’Pring, of which he has always been aware.

“I agree that it is quite unnecessary,” he replies. There is a stiff formality in his voice that he has not used with T’Pring in many weeks. She hears it, and hesitates as she brings her hands to his shoulders.

“Your muscles are still stiff,” she says.

They fall into silence again, less comfortable than before, and Spock lets his eyes fall shut. He does not understand why T’Pring wishes to speak to him about such matters. But he supposes it is not worth examining in too much detail. Perhaps she has only become accustomed, as he has, to being able to speak on any subject when in his presence. T’Pring has other friends but they are all as proper and controlled as she, and Spock cannot imagine such an open honesty existing between them as exists between T’Pring and himself.

He is deep in his own thoughts when T’Pring speaks once more and snaps him completely out of them. “I often used to think about Stonn,” she says, “but now I find myself thinking most often of you.”

He pauses, and chances half a glance back at her. She is studying the back of his head and does not meet his gaze. “I must admit I do not understand,” Spock tells her.

This is not the truth. But it is an acceptable lie, for the sake of their propriety.

T’Pring’s hands on his shoulders move forward, fingers resting against his chest, and she pulls herself forward so that she is pressed, lightly but enough, against his back. She lets one hand fall down, trail down his arm, until her fingertips just barely touch the back of his hand. She runs her fingers down his fingers. He presses his eyes shut tight. A low thrum of desire in him, present and steady for longer than he can even say, starts to drum harder in his blood. He takes a deep breath, and another, but does not speak.

“Show me how the humans kiss, Spock,” she says quietly. Her voice is right at his ear. “I am very curious.”

He takes a deep breath, two, waits for her to change her mind, waits to make up his own. When he does move, he is slow: slow as he twists his hand palm up beneath hers and presses his fingers up against hers, slow as he turns around to face her, slow as he allows himself to open his eyes and look at her. He knows even as he runs the fingers of his free hand across her lips that this is wrong. He should not allow himself this. He is carrying another’s child. He cannot do this. But he does not want to stop.

T’Pring is watching him carefully, watching the way he touches her and the way he looks at her. He cannot tell if she is as scared as he is.

She lets him direct her, push her back so that she is leaning against the headboard of the bed, and he is next to her, as close as he can position himself and still not quite touch. Only one of his hands touches her hand now. He sees her gaze falter. He’s sure she wants to back out. She is disgusted by him now that they are face to face. Or she is scared of him, and the way he stares at her, something intense and almost dominating in that stare; he knows it’s there because he feels it, ancient Vulcan desire filling him. He drops his eyes down to stare at their hands linked together, the way she runs her fingers down between his fingers sending a thrill right through him.

“Will you show me?” she asks. Her voice is a whisper. She still wants him, even if he makes her nervous, even if what she is asking makes her nervous—she still wants him. He hopes she knows just how exactly his feelings mirror her own.

“Come here,” he whispers back, and leans in until they are nose to nose. He puts his free hand to her chin and directs her with two fingers, just lightly, and he hopes she does not know how confused he is, how he does not know at all what he is doing.

He tries to remember what the boy did.

He tilts his head, leans in that one more inch between them, and presses his lips against hers. She does nothing at first. He stares at her cheek, too close now to see anything more than a distorted image of her skin. He tries to remember what to do. His heart is pounding. Slowly, he feels T’Pring kiss back. They are awkward and unsure with each other, with this act for which they have no instinct, but he doesn’t stop and neither does she. He tries to move a little closer—feels, quite suddenly and without warning, T’Pring’s arm wrap around his waist and pull him against her, as close as she can with the swell of his stomach still between them. When he opens his mouth, she is quick to open hers as well.

They pull back for breath. He keeps his fingers still twined close with T’Pring’s. He can’t hide that he’s still nervous but he tries to send every reassurance he can through the link of his skin touching her skin. He tries to read the expression on her face. She is controlled as always except that her breath is coming too fast and she cannot keep her gaze from straying to his lips.

“It is curious,” she says. “But not disagreeable.”

“I am quite in agreement,” he answers. He does not even ask if she wishes to try again.

Each hesitates, but only because their position is, at the moment, quite uncomfortable. Spock is unsteady and must use his free hand just to keep himself upright, and each must strain their neck to meet the other. “There must be a better arrangement,” T’Pring says. She has the same determined expression on her face that he knows from their afternoons working out long chemistry formulas or deciphering difficult physics problems.

“Lie back,” she directs, then, and he does as she asks without question. He understands. He uses the link of their hands to pull her down, her body angled so that her chest presses against his chest but the rest of her lies sideways on the bed away from him. He can feel her fingers slip tentatively through his hair. He touches her just as carefully, running his hand down to the middle of her back, afraid to move any further, holding her against him.

They are more confident, now, as they kiss again; it’s slow like the last time, sloppy and confused, but somehow still he finds her mouth open against his, and he allows himself to slip his tongue against hers. It is not like kissing the boy. He tells himself not to compare. He tells himself to be in this moment, to be with T’Pring, to feel her light, slim body over his and her thin fingers exploring his and her warm breath mixing with his—there is no part of her he does not want to touch. She makes him forget that he is freakish. She runs her tongue along his teeth, around his tongue, all thrilling curiosity and wonder, and their awkwardness transforms itself somehow into awe.

He thinks that he would like to kiss her neck, her shoulders, her fingers, her stomach; he cannot stop these thoughts; he knows she is picking them up, something of them, feeding them into her own thoughts, the ones she cannot help but send to him and which both embarrass him and thrill him. She does want him. Her desire is honest. It must be. It has to be.

Yet he knows she is as confused as he. He feels her doubts; she feels his hesitation. She pulls back and he cannot look at her, though he knows she is staring at him, waiting. It was not like this with him. He cannot stop thinking of him. The way humans kiss, the way they touch—these were the things he taught him. Spock lets his hand slip from T’Pring’s back and fall down again on his stomach, and he says, “I cannot do this,” before he quite makes the decision to say it, before he realizes he is speaking at all.

T’Pring doesn’t answer.

Their hands are still entwined, her body still pressed against his. He cannot tell what she is thinking anymore or what she feels; she has set up her defenses again perfectly. She has walled up her emotions flawlessly in that way he has always envied. Then she picks herself up as quickly, and with as little warning, as she once wrapped her arm around him, and his breath catches at the feeling of her absence. He doesn’t bother to move.

“I apologize,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“This was a mistake. We are—”

He watches her, her back to him, staring out the slightly parted curtain of her window.

“We are Vulcans,” she finishes decisively. Then repeats, “This was a mistake.”

“I know,” he answers, but so quietly he is not sure if she hears him.

He is ashamed that she must help him to sit up and then to stand. She does not have to ask him to leave. He knows that this is what she wants, and it is what he wants as well, the thought of staying one more moment in that house twisting his stomach. He knows that when he leaves, he may never be invited within it again. But he does not care. He has crossed a line, and he knows it.

T’Pring walks him to the door but her coolness is a frigidity and he knows that her polite goodbye is nothing more than a rote phrase, meaningless. He matches her tone in his answer. He wishes it were not like this.

*

Last night I had the most curious dream. Perhaps if you were my mate it would be appropriate for me to tell you of it. But if I believed there were ever a chance that you should read this letter, I would not attempt to describe it at all. As it is, I can feel secure in at least a general description.

I dreamt that I was in my room and sitting on my bed, just as I could in real life except that, in my dream, my body had become more round, the child I carry so big that one would imagine it only days from being born. It was active and restless, I would say almost uneasy with the same unease that I often feel myself, and I was so preoccupied with these sensations that at first I did not even notice your presence in the room.

Even now, it is all quite vivid in my memory. I remember how you approached me and came to sit by my side, and how you were smiling. I remember how, when you placed your hand on my shoulder, I could feel it almost as if it were a real hand, not simply a figment of my unconscious thoughts. Your smile was quite a subtle one, a small and reassuring smile, as if to show me that in your view our situation was more a cause for celebration than distress.

You put your hand on my stomach and asked, “Boy or girl?” I had forgotten just how clear the sound of your voice still is in my mind. My subconscious duplicated it quite easily, just as it did your smile and your touch.

I told you quite seriously that I did not know and you laughed in answer. Then you said that “we will find out soon,” and wrapped your arm around my shoulders. The touch was, within the world of the dream, quite expected and natural, and I leaned into it, glad for it. I could feel nothing but warm feelings, compassion and hope, from you.

I do not write this with the idea that this dream was anything more than simply that: a dream, a stray bit of my imagination indulged in during sleep. In actuality, you are a young man with a life on Earth that is quite complete without me; perhaps you do not even remember me any more. At most, I am probably a vague memory to you. Perhaps you would rather forget, than dwell long on our brief, awkward, unsatisfying encounter. Perhaps I really was no more than an experiment for you, as Stonn would suggest.

The you of my dream knew my name, and whispered it to me as he pushed me back down onto my bed. You kissed me as Vulcans kiss, with your fingers on my fingers and my neck and my lips, and as humans kiss, as you taught me how humans kiss. This part of the dream I remember in much less detail. It blurs in a way that the memory of our night together does not. You said my name over and over, and you touched me with the confidence and understanding of a mate. I felt that I had control of my own body again. At times, I was no longer pregnant at all. At other times, it was our child that drew your attention. But you always returned to me.

I was not simply passive. I touched you in return: your arms, your back, your legs. I let you feel all of my nervousness and fear, and felt in turn all of your anticipation and excitement.

I should not be writing all of this down in this manner. The chances of this being found, however small, are enough to convince me that I should stop before I explain any more. I am reminded yet again of the complete uselessness of this exercise. I do not help myself in any way by pretending, however briefly, that there rests any connection between us. I am sure it is better to forget you as much as I possibly can.

I do regret, however that I never learned your name. It was when I asked you this question, in my dream, that I woke up.

Chapter Text

interlude one: back in Iowa…

*

If he moves his body all the way to the far side of his bed, he can avoid the sun that is coming in at just the perfect angle to burn his eyes and heat up his skin. He doesn’t want to get up. The sun is telling him to get up. But as long as there is even one sliver of shadow left on his bed, he will find it. He will not be forced awake before at least noon by anyone or anything. Not on his day off.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Except maybe that.

Jim buries his head under his pillows. It doesn’t help. The buzzing alternates with equally loud and almost violent knocking. He’s pretty sure he knows who it is. There aren’t many people who would be this desperate to talk to him. Still, a sense of stubborn, misplaced pride makes him hold out as long as he can.

When he knows there’s no chance of him ever getting back to sleep, he hauls himself up. His clock says 9:25 AM. He groans. It is freakishly early.

He stands up anyway, grabs a pair of pants and pulls them on, wanders into the living room and then to the door. And he takes his sweet time about it too. The person on the other side of the door is leaning heavily on the buzzer.

Jim punches in the code to release his locks and pulls open the door, saying as he does, “Shut up, will you? The neighbors are going to start filing complaints.”

“Is that any way to greet your brother when he comes bearing nothing but love, goodwill, and birthday wishes?” Sam answers cheerily—and loudly, unnaturally loudly—as he pushes his way inside. Jim’s left standing, still half asleep, in the doorway. He hears Sam opening and closing cupboards behind him. After a few moments, he pulls himself together, shuts the door, and follows his brother into the kitchen.

“What are you talking about?” he asks as he rubs his hand over his eyes, leaning one shoulder against the door frame.

“Do you not have any food anywhere in your apartment?” Sam answers lightly, clearly not listening.

Jim closes his eyes and tries counting to ten.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting company,” he mumbles. Then he gathers all of his early morning energy and tries one last time, “What are you doing invading my kitchen at this ungodly hour, Sam?”

He hears the last cupboard shut with a decisive slam, and when he opens his eyes, Sam is actually looking at him properly. “I’m here to wish you a happy birthday, you ungrateful child.”

Jim just stares at him, for a moment, with uncomprehending eyes. Then he snaps back to himself, pulls out a chair from the table with a loud scrape, sits himself down, and says, “Well then wish me and leave so I can go back to sleep.”

“You forgot what day it was, didn’t you?” Sam asks, pulling out the second chair for himself as he speaks. No intention of leaving, then.

He shrugs—“Maybe”—and looks down at his hands.

“Well you only turn 18 once, you know. You can’t just sleep through the whole day.”

“Watch me. I don’t understand what the big deal is anyway. I mean,” he shrugs again, and raps his knuckles against the table absently, “I’ve basically been telling people I’m 18 ever since I got this place…Feels anticlimactic to celebrate now.”

Sam snorts once, his version of a short laugh, and shakes his head. “Why am I not surprised? And how’s that been working out for you? Helping you lure lots of innocent young women into your bed?”

“And lots of innocent young men,” Jim corrects, and smiles his best devilish grin, even though his eyes are still bleary and his hair is sticking up in odd patches on his head. Something, in the grin or in Sam’s reaction to it—a sort of shaking of the head, neither approving nor disapproving—breaks whatever tension was between them, and Jim laughs. Then he stands up. “I think I still have some coffee here somewhere,” he says. “Want some?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” Sam answers, and leans back lazily in his chair.

Then they’re silent. Jim takes down the coffee, finds there’s just enough for a pot, turns on the machine.

“I don’t suppose you have big plans, then?” Sam asks, finally.

“Clearly not.”

The coffee pot makes a loud bubbling noise and Jim switches it off. He has to do the dishes too—he uses his last two mugs, sets one in front of Sam and leaves the other for himself. “I’m assuming you do? Since you’re here?” he asks as he sits down again.

“Naw.” Sam lifts one shoulder and lets it fall again. Jim has the sudden urge to hit him, just once, right in the face (you woke me up for this) but it passes. He’s pretty much awake now anyway. “You know this town,” Sam is saying. “Never anything to do here.”

x

They end up in the park, eating cheap sandwiches and passing a drink between them. “Some exciting birthday,” Jim says.

Sam doesn’t answer, just gestures for him to pass the bottle.

“I mean, I feel like I’m 78, not 18. What am I doing with my life, anyway? What am I doing here? Answer me that, Sam.”

Sam is chewing. Jim isn’t looking for an answer anyway.

“I live in a shit apartment. I work a shit job. I graduated high school early for what? To be more bored than I’ve ever been. I am way too friendly with every bartender in the tri-county area, and the only thing that’s keeping me here is—”

He stops. Glances over at Sam. There’s a long pause.

“Well I’m going to guess that the rest of that sentence isn’t ‘my dear brother Sam,’” he says, and raises one eyebrow as he hands Jim back the bottle.

“Actually, I was going to say my employee discount on pre-packaged sandwiches,” he lies.

They each smile briefly, half-heartedly, then return to watching the joggers and the women pushing strollers. Sam slumps down on the bench.

“Look, you don’t think I haven’t thought all that stuff already? You don’t think I haven’t been thinking it since I was thirteen?” He shakes his head. “This town is like glue, Jimmy. You’re stuck here.”

*

“So,” Sam says. “You have one hour left in your birthday. How do you want to spend it?”

They’ve parked Sam’s truck on the shoulder of the highway facing a cornfield, and they’ve stretched themselves out on the hood side by side. There’s an endless expanse of sky above them.

Jim sighs heavily and drums his fingers against his stomach. “Hmmmm…well, I guess it’s probably too late for a road trip to Vegas, huh?” he says finally.

“Sorry. Should have said something earlier, I guess.”

“Damn.” He matches Sam’s light, inconsequential tone. But his voice is a bit softer as he adds, “Why do all the good ideas come to me when it’s too late to do anything about them?”

When Sam doesn’t answer, Jim starts mapping out constellations silently.

His voice sounds much too loud when he speaks again. “So not that I don’t appreciate your company, dearest brother of mine, but where was mom today?” He tries to sound like he doesn’t really care, like he’s just asking out of some mild curiosity. But he knows Sam sees through him and that’s how it should be, that’s what he really wants anyway.

Sam’s voice has the long-suffering tone of someone who’s tired of repeating the same dead end conversation over and over; he has no more patience for Jim or for this story, these bitternesses. “You know where she is, Jim,” he says. “At his grave. Same as every year.”

Yeah. Of course, Jim thinks, and wraps his arms tight around his chest. It’s funny how close all of the stars seem to be, even though they’re light years away. Light years away and dead.

“It’s not a grave,” he says suddenly—he sounds angrier than he feels or than he thought he was. “A grave’s where you put a body. His body’s space dust.”

He waits for Sam to prompt him on, but he’s met with silence. He shifts awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard steel hood. Then he adds, “She’s visiting his tombstone.”

“You do realize you’re the only person on Earth who makes that distinction,” Sam mutters, reluctantly, in that same quietly fed-up tone.

“I just don’t see the point,” Jim insists. “Of going all the way out there, I mean. There’s nothing there. No body. No ashes. Just a piece of stone with his name on it.”

“It’s supposed to be symbolic.” Sam sounds half-bored. He’s humoring Jim, a last minute birthday gift of a sort, but he’s heard all this before.

“It’s a waste of a drive,” Jim snaps.

But he can’t keep up his anger. That’s not really how he feels; he’s not really as full of useless anger as he’s pretending he is, as he lies there, a small mortal speck in the Iowa night, a nobody going nowhere. He fills his lungs all the way up with the night air. Then lets go. He listens to the vague sounds of rustling corn stalks and faraway traffic.

“I mean I don’t have to haul my ass all the way out there to remember him,” he says quietly. One last stab. “I can do that just fine right here.”

He’s almost forgotten Sam’s even there, when he feels a light touch at his shoulder. “I know, Jimmy,” his brother’s voice comes slipping through the darkness. “I know. Me too.”

*

When he gets home he checks his messages. Two. The first is from Bill down at the store. Craig has to change his shift, come in early tomorrow. The other is from Cassandra. Happy birthday, baby. We need to talk.

He ignores the tick of worry in his stomach at the last bit, and instead just thinks to himself, “I guess she didn’t forget after all.”

*

He ends up working overtime, Craig’s usual shift and part of his own on top of it, stacking shelves and directing customers through the labyrinth of aisles. Too many hours of fake smiling and he doesn’t have much of a real one left for Cassandra when he finally meets her. She’s sitting on a bench in Riverside Park trying to look like she’s not waiting for him.

He flops down next to her and asks, “Why don’t I quit, again?”

She reminds him that “you need the credits,” just like she reminds him every time he asks this question, her voice bored but humoring. There’s something reassuring about the exchange. He breaks out a weary smile and takes her hand.

“Haven’t seen you in a week, Cassie. Where have you been?”

She looks at him properly this time but that’s all that she does, doesn’t return his smile, doesn’t acknowledge the squeeze of his hand against hers. He keeps his manner cheerful anyway, as long as he can. He won’t let himself admit that she looks solemn and serious, like she’s about to give him some sort of horrible news.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she says.

He tries to laugh, or smile at least, something, but it falls flat. “Something tells me I’m not going to like this conversation.”

“Probably not,” she agrees.

She turns to sit sideways on the bench and pulls up her legs to cross underneath her. They are still holding hands. He stares at the corner of her mouth and holds his breath. She’s breaking up with him. She’s moving away. She’s found someone else. She’s talked to one of his ex’s and she’s decided he’s actually a jerk. His stomach does little flips and his mouth feels dry as he runs through the possibilities.

“Look, Jim, there’s really no easy way to tell you this,” she says. “So I’m just going to say it.”

Still after she’s said this there’s a long pause, as she fidgets, and he sits unnaturally still, waiting.

“All right, then just say it,” he snaps.

She tilts her head and half-smiles, just for a moment—“Yeah, I know”—and then looks up at him again. And she tells him, “There’s a possibility—I’m not sure but I think—that I might be pregnant. And, if I am, it’s yours.”

*

They met three months ago, at one of the skeezy Riverside bars that Sam frequents, one of those dives that’s below even Jim’s standards but which he lets Sam drag him to sometimes anyway, when Sam’s other friends are busy or he’s gotten it into his head that they need to have more brother bonding time. Jim hadn’t been very impressed with the place. The drinks were cheap but disgusting, the music repetitive and obnoxious, and the bartender spent the whole night given him weird looks, as if trying to place him.

But then he’d seen her: a tall woman with impossibly black hair falling all around her face, sitting at a booth in the back with two friends and tipping back shots like Jim thought only he could. He found a place at the bar where he could watch her with ease, and he kept his eyes on her for every second of the half an hour it took to find the courage to approach her.

She wasn’t the first person to catch his eye in his life, and this was no love at first sight story, true. But she was pretty and confident and she had a great laugh, and he felt drawn to her like he hadn’t been drawn to anyone in a long while. As soon as her friends gave her a few moments to herself he slid into the booth next to her. As if it were nothing. As if it were all a game and he already knew he’d win. She rolled her eyes at all his lines but made sure to smile too, to encourage him; she put her hand on his knee under the table and he didn’t miss the look she shot her friends when they seemed about to join the booth again. That’s when he knew she’d take him home.

She told him all about herself over pancakes that she helped him make the old fashioned way at four in the morning, wearing one of his shirts and almost nothing else. He noticed that her toenails were painted red.

She explained that she was an archeology student, living with two roommates in the smallest apartment in the known universe—or so she had to imagine, as she’d never been beyond Riverside in her life. All that was going to change as soon as she got her degree. She was going to get on the first shuttle out, maybe even leave the whole planet behind. She asked him if he had any plans for the future, but he was vague about it; he said he wanted to hear her talk, and it was, for once, the truth.

It wasn’t supposed to be more than one night, and they both knew it. They’ve admitted it to each other several times since. But when he first told her his name he saw the recognition flash over her face, and yet she never said a word about it, not a single George or Kelvin or oh I’ve heard about you, and how could he part with someone like that?

*

Pregnant. He hears the word echo and echo and echo in his mind and he can’t say anything. It’s just like he’s frozen. He thinks it so many times that he forgets what they’re talking about. He forgets what the word even means. Pregnant.

“You mean with a baby?” he asks finally. He sounds stupid even to himself.

“One would assume,” Cassandra answers dully. He’s much too preoccupied with himself to notice anything about her, too caught up in his own increasingly panicked thoughts to see that, beneath her air of tired disappointment, there is a deep sadness about her.

Jim can’t stop gaping like a fish. He has honestly forgotten how to close his mouth.

“And you’re sure it’s mine?” he asks.

“I’m glad to know you trust me so much,” she says; her voice is low and her words muttered and he doesn’t think she’s angry so much as fed up with him, but he apologizes quickly and waves his hands around and closes and opens his eyes a few times as if trying to restart himself completely.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. You shouldn’t even have had to spell it out the first time—fuck. We’re having a kid. How did that happen?”

“Would you like diagrams?”

“Stop it. Don’t be like that. You’ve had time to digest this a little—don’t tell me you didn’t freak out too when you found out—when did you find out, anyway?”

He sees her trying to regain herself, gather her energy for this conversation she so clearly wishes she were not having at all. She sighs heavily, and relaxes her entire body, hands in her lap and slight slump to her shoulders. “I started suspecting about three weeks ago,” she admits. “Took me that long to get up the courage to buy a home test…took it yesterday and it came back positive.” She rushes through the last bit and then shrugs, like an apology. “I only took one. I’m still hoping it might have been a false positive.”

“But you don’t really think it is,” he finishes. It is too much to hope, to let himself believe that this is all a mistake, that this isn’t really happening. Those tests can be pretty accurate. He doesn’t say it aloud but he doesn’t need to. She knows. She knows, and because she knows, she doesn’t answer.

He stares at her, Cassandra, and tries to remember the first time he saw her, or the way she looked brushing her teeth at his sink, or how he felt when she told him, didn’t even ask, just told him, they were going on a real date okay? She’d paid and hadn’t listened to any argument about it. He thought he knew her pretty well. Now, trying to think of her as the mother of his child, he feels like he doesn’t know her at all.

Cassandra sighs again, and looks down at her hands twisted together in her lap. “I don’t know what sort of reaction I was hoping for,” she says, “but it wasn’t quite this one.”

“Sorry I can’t be more enthusiastic,” he mutters, and he sounds as bitter as she did, just wants to be mad at her but all he’s got is anger at himself that he’s doing this wrong too. He slumps down low on the bench and hides his face behind his hands. “Fuck, what are we going to do?”

He wonders if this is the panic setting in. It doesn’t feel like panic. More like defeat. Maybe yesterday he still sort of believed he’d get out of Riverside eventually, do something, make something of himself, but he doesn’t believe it anymore. Glue doesn’t get any stronger than this.

Cassandra doesn’t say anything but when he finally dares himself to look at her again, to let his hands fall down and his gaze swing over to her, she’s staring at him, and he knows that stare. Walled off and distant. Cold. “Options are open,” she says.

It isn’t what he wants to hear, and yet it is. A part of him had been hoping she’d say it.

He fumbles awkwardly for her hand, not letting his eyes look anywhere but her eyes, but when he finds it he wraps his fingers over hers and squeezes tight. He just hopes she doesn’t take it for any sort of promise. It’s blind reassurance he’s offering, the comfort of a moment only because it’s what he has.

He doesn’t realize until he’s back home, alone, and staring up at his ceiling, that they never really talked about it. They came to no conclusions. They made no plans, not even tentative ones. They elaborated nothing. She told him, saw he felt as confused and as sick as she did, and that he wasn’t going to be optimistic or excited or even helpful, and then she took the first opportunity she could to get out of his sight. And he’d been relieved when she left.

There’s no way he can do this. There’s no way. He can’t be a father. He doesn’t know anything about fathers. Or children. Or being a real adult. He can’t be expected to care for another living being when he can barely care for himself. He doesn’t have the resources to be any sort of financial support—not unless he wants to go back to his mother and beg, and that has to be a last resort—and he doesn’t know how he could give any sort of emotional support when even the thought of being a parent gives him the shakes.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that nothing he felt while sitting with Cassandra was panic. What he is feeling now is panic, and everything that came before was simply denial.

it will be different once it’s born, he tells himself. Maybe when you see it you’ll love it.

Yeah, maybe. But something tells him he shouldn’t count on it.

x

He keeps waiting for it to get better, for the sick feeling in his stomach to subside, for some sort of excitement to set in. But he’s eighteen. Parenthood sounds like a prison sentence for life.

He goes to work and he feels like a zombie. He can’t stop thinking about it, and yet he knows he’s not really thinking about it. He’s in some sort of weird denial, can’t think anything but this can’t be happening and how do I get out?

That evening Sam comes over and though usually, under circumstances such as these, Jim wouldn’t bother to do more than yell through the door for him to go away, he can see through the peephole that Sam’s carrying an extra large pizza box from that nice place downtown, and there’s no way he can say no to that. He lets him in.

“Either you did something, or you want something,” he says, later, as he takes that first bite of extra cheese and extra pepperoni, before Sam’s even pulled his own slice out of the box. “Tell me now which one it is now.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sam answers flippantly, more engrossed with untangling strings of cheese than paying attention to Jim. “Where were you raised, in a barn?”

There’s a pause, Sam meets Jim’s eyes, and then Jim raises his eyebrows and says, as if this were quite obvious, “Yeah. I was. Now why are you here again?”

“I don’t know what I ever did to make you so suspicious of me,” Sam shakes his head sadly. “I want to see my little brother. That’s it.”

“Honestly it?”

“Honestly it.”

“Ok,” Jim nods, but he doesn’t apologize. He’s not been too successful in his life but Sam’s been worse: he can’t hold down a job, drinks too much; he’s paralyzed by his bitterness and still obsesses over Frank and their shitty childhood even though they’re both adults now and the divorce was finalized three years ago. He lives in the past. He doesn’t see that it’s completely in his power to lift himself up. Underneath his joking there is an acid that Jim feels eating at him every time they’re together.

He tries to imagine what Sam would tell him if he knew about Cassandra. Probably something like, how do you ever expect to raise a kid right, after a childhood like ours? What the fuck do you think you’re even doing?

While they eat, Sam tells him about his new job at the Riverside space docks, and how he’s actually feeling pretty optimistic about it, and Jim nods because he wants to believe him, but he’s heard it before. Still, Sam doesn’t call him on his own distraction and he’s grateful for that.

He’s standing at the counter with his back to his brother, crushing the pizza boxes to fit them down the recycling chute, when he smells that certain, familiar smell begin to roll through his kitchen. He doesn’t pause or think or even wonder at his reaction, only turns around sharply and says, “What are you doing? You can’t smoke in here,” as he grabs the joint from between Sam’s thumb and fingers and puts it out in the sink.

“Hey, what did you do that for?” Sam grumbles in return. “What do you mean ‘can’t smoke here’? Since when?”

“Since—” he starts out strong on the first word and then falters. Sam is staring at him accusingly, and Jim knows he won’t let this go. They’ve spent too many evenings getting quietly high together in one or the other’s apartment, and Sam knows well enough that Jim has his own stash in the back of his sock drawer, just as if he still lived with his disapproving mother. He’s not exactly in the position to be playing amateur police officer.

“Since when?” Sam asks again, louder this time and still confused.

Jim’s shoulders slump, and he leans against the counter, arms behind him and fingers curled around the sink edge, eyes on the floor. “Since Cassandra told me she’s having a kid,” he says. His voice is quiet and low, and he’s almost sure Sam will ask him to repeat. But he doesn’t. He slumps down too and crosses his arms, and spends several long moments just staring, like he’s trying to decide if he should be amused or shocked, disapproving or disbelieving.

Finally he settles on the last. “Cassandra is pregnant?” he asks. He’s smiling in a completely inappropriate way, like he’s waiting on the edge of his seat for the whole joke to be revealed. “Are you bullshitting me?”

“Afraid not. She told me two days ago,” Jim answers and takes his seat again across from Sam. Then he puts on a big, fake smile, worse than Sam’s, and adds, “Congratulate me, I’m going to be a dad!”

Sam’s not smiling anymore, though, only shaking his head as he says, “I can’t believe you’re serious. You stubbed out my joint out of some weird misplaced paternal instinct—the kid’s not even born yet, Jim. I’m sure the smoke will dissipate by the end of nine months. Anyway, it’s not like I’m turning your apartment into some sort of drug den.”

“Are you seriously sitting here and talking about your drugs when I’ve just told you that I’m going to be a father?”

“I’m just confused about your priorities, here,” Sam shrugs. “Any particular reason you’re sitting here wasting time with me and not with your girlfriend?”

“Oh, so now that I’ve knocked her up I’m not allowed to leave her side, ever?” He sounds unreasonably angry but he doesn’t particularly want Sam asking too many questions on this track; he’s not up for explaining that Cassandra isn’t even returning his calls—not that there have been many calls.

Sam shrugs again. “Okay, so what are you going to do, then? Now that you’re…expecting?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that,” he admits, muttering. He raps his knuckles against the tabletop absently. He takes much too long to answer. But because it’s Sam, and Sam knows him much better than Jim would ever admit, and because he needs to say this to someone, somehow, he tells the truth. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t exactly get the answer he was expecting.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Sam snaps. He sounds so actually, legitimately angry that Jim’s head jerks up to look at him. “What you’re going to do is you’re going to go to your girl and grovel at her feet and tell her you’re sorry for this piss-poor attitude you’ve got, and then you’re going to promise to be the best father in the universe to that little bastard child you’ve created. That’s what you’re going to do.”

Jim can’t remember the last time he’s seen Sam this passionate about anything. His eyes have actually lit up, cliché or no, and he’s staring Jim down, just daring him to break eye contact first. And he does. He folds. Then he pushes his chair back so it scrapes on the tile floor and starts to pace back and forth across the kitchen. “Fuck Sam…why’d you bother to ask if you had an answer all laid out already?” he grumbles. Then he adds, louder but an afterthought, “And don’t call my kid a bastard.”

“Good start,” Sam answers, a bite to his voice still but his calm already returning. Then he leans back, almost relaxed, in his chair. “Now channel all that defensiveness into learning how to be a proper parent.”

“Proper parent,” Jim scoffs. “I don’t even know what that means.”

He sneaks a side glance at Sam, as if hoping somehow he’d have the answer to that particular problem, but his brother just rolls his shoulders up and then down lazily. “Don’t ask me. I didn’t sleep through class the day they taught us about birth control.”

“That’s really funny. Are you going to help me out here or no?”

“Help you out how?” He sounds, at first, derisive, the sharp biting tone that they both know hides affection, even if it hides it well. But at the open look of confusion and fear on his little brother’s face, his own expression softens. “Come on, Jim. There are no big decisions to make here. Only facts to face up to.”

“Yeah, and my whole life to rearrange. It’s over, Sam—any chance I ever had to make something of myself is gone.” He lets all the air out of his lungs in one long, defeated sigh, and leans back against the wall, eyes lowered and his whole body slumped.

“Well it’s not like you were doing much of anything to improve yourself before,” Sam reminds him. Jim would be angry at this, except that he knows it’s true, and just as much for Sam as for him. Anyway the anger’s blown out of him by now. Sam’s right and he knows it. There’s still a little voice in him telling him to leave, telling him this is only his problem if he makes it his problem, but he’ll stomp that voice out, he will. Somehow.

He sits back down in his chair.

“So I’m having a kid,” he says.

“So you’re having a kid.”

He looks up, and Sam is looking back at him, that awkward half smile on his face again.

“You want to go get a drink?” he asks.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

*

“You have reached Cassandra Jacobson. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”

“Cassandra, it’s Jim. I know you’re there. Pick up. I want to talk to you.”

He’s not sure she will. He waits as long as he can stand it and is just about to hang up himself when he hears her voice. She sounds like she’s barely slept. She sounds like he’s the last person she wants to talk to.

“I’m listening.”

He lets go of a deep held breath and hears it crackle over the line.

“Look, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, okay? And I want to be there. For you and this kid. I hope that we can—have it and raise it together.”

There’s no answer for a long time, just a dead silence, and his palms itch with sweat. He leans back against the wall and bangs his head back so hard he thinks she probably hears the thud.

“You sound so sincere, Jim,” she says finally.

“Hey, I’m trying okay!”

“I know—I know. But I don’t want you doing this just because you feel you have to. I don’t want to raise any kid with someone who’s just going to be half-there, building up bitterness and resentment and anger. That’s no solution.”

He doesn’t know what to tell her. She’s right. But he has nothing else to offer.

“So what do you want from me?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I just…need space. I need some time alone.”

He knows he shouldn’t feel as suddenly, as irrationally angry as he does. It feels like she gave him this news and shook up his life just to leave him after she’s decided that nothing he can offer is good enough, but he knows that isn’t fair. Still, he can’t stop himself, and he snaps, “Take as much time as you want,” before hanging up.

*

For a while he doesn’t hear from her. Sam tells him he’s not groveling hard enough, and he gets tired of explaining that she never gave him the chance to grovel. Again and again he runs his thoughts into circles, always giving up and just wishing he could screw it and run, never quite getting the courage to do so. A week passes slowly, and by the end of it, he’s begun to wonder if she hasn’t already made his decision for him.

Then he comes back to his apartment from a late shift at work, and she’s there.

He stops right where he is the moment he sees her, right where he is in the middle of the hallway, and he doesn’t know what to say and neither does she. Nothing seems right, not even “hello.” She tries to smile but he doesn’t want to see that, so he snaps out of his trance, turns away from her, and walks right past her to his door as if she weren’t there. He doesn’t have the patience. Nor the energy. But his stomach is downright acrobatic and his heartbeat is running at twice normal speed, so once the code’s keyed in and the door slid open, he motions for her to go in first.

“I guess you’ve come to a decision, then,” he says dully, and commands the lights on in the kitchen. Looking at her, he feels almost sick. It’s not fair. He feels certain, somehow, completely, weirdly, certain that he knows what she’s going to say. She’s not keeping it. She’s not even having it. Something about her face, the expression on it, the way she looks at him full of apology and sadness—and he just knows.

“Sit down,” he tells her, and does the same.

They sit directly across from each other, the whole table between them, and even though he could easily reach his hands across and grab hers, he won’t. He keeps his hands in his lap, shoulders rounded and body limp. Cassandra still hasn’t said a word. He watches her, waiting.

“I—I’m making this much too hard, I think,” she says, and laughs a forced little laugh he doesn’t pick up. “I came here to tell you something, Jim, and I guess I should have just said it straight off but I didn’t and now it’s…it’s probably going to seem rather anticlimactic.”

“I doubt it,” he mutters.

She pretends she doesn’t hear him. She leans in over the table, clasps her hands in front of her—like a schoolgirl, he thinks, and wants to turn away—and says, “I went to my doctor yesterday, to see—well, to see. And she…she told me that I’m not pregnant.”

She looks almost more nervous now, he thinks absently, than she did that day at the park.

“Not pregnant?” he repeats. His voice holds no disbelief, no emotion of any sort. He sounds dull, altogether absent.

She shakes her head. “No.”

He’s tried to prepare himself for everything: for being a father, for hearing that she’s giving the baby away, for the guilt he knew he’d feel if he ran, for every possibility he could imagine, but he is utterly unprepared for this. It’s an odd sort of betrayal he feels. All of this was for nothing.

Then something breaks over him and he feels it, relief, pure and clear relief seeping into him. He closes his eyes and bows his head with it.

“You were never pregnant?” he asks, only half aware that he’s speaking.

“I guess not,” Cassandra answers. She sounds like maybe she’s trying to smile, but her voice is hollow. He can’t help thinking that to her, it might almost feel like losing a child. For so long now she’s been getting to used to this idea, slowly accepting that there is a new life growing inside her, and to hear that this is not true—but he can’t say that he knows how she feels, or even that he can imagine it. All he knows is that he can breathe again.

“It’s better this way, you know,” he reminds her gently, pulling his chair up a bit closer and daring to look at her face. His hands twitch, almost reaching out, and not even he knows why he doesn’t. Unless it is that she seems so alien now, so strange, that he’s not sure he still knows how to touch her.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she answers. “Look—Jim—I’m not just here to tell you that you can stop worrying about this whole fiasco of a scare. I’m here…I’m also here to tell you that it’s been rather a wake up call for me. I can’t stay in Riverside. I can’t waste my life here anymore. And don’t give me that look because I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about my rat-hole of an apartment and my tiny little college classes and all the time I waste on just dreaming, and not doing. I thought I was stuck here for life and it terrified me. And I can’t—well what I’m saying is that I’m leaving. I’m getting on a shuttle the day after tomorrow and I’m going to New York, and from there to who-knows-where. But before I go I wanted to say goodbye.”

Her words flow right over him and he only half hears them. It’s all turned upside down now because for a while he was toying with the idea that maybe she was the one, that maybe a one existed and she was it, and then she told him about the kid and it was like destiny turned into some electric-grid cage, and now suddenly there is no kid and no destiny and no relationship either, nothing really at all. He’s free and adrift.

“Well,” he says, and clears his throat. “I hope you’ll keep in touch.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“That tone. Don’t use that stupid, sarcastic, bitter tone with me. I—I have to do this. And you know you would have left me anyway, after…”

She’s probably right. He’s not angry anyway. He sighs and apologizes and actually sounds mostly sincere, and then he really does take her hands in his and squeeze them tight. “You’ll do great out there,” he tells her quietly.

“So will you,” she answers. “When you finally venture out. Trust me, Jim. I used to know you pretty well, you know.”

*

They both know she should leave, but she doesn’t. Goodbyes are too hard. He asks her what they are doing; she says she doesn’t know and they continue. It took so little to show them how weak they are, and he wants to let go, to forget, but he’s never been good at these things. He can’t stop.

“We’re not very intelligent people, are we?” he asks her, even as she’s pushing his pants down his hips. He’s smiling, laughing at himself maybe, out of breath. She smiles back.

“Guess not.”

But it’s okay because they’re saying goodbye.

*

He does not expect, nor want, to feel as free as he does, later when he’s sprawling out over the sheets and catching his breath. It is the strangest relief. It is as if, he thinks, he were the one about to start over.

*

He’s half convinced himself she’s going to run now, first chance she gets, but somehow she ends up staying all night, sprawled out next to him, and they have the sort of conversations they never thought to have before. She asks him about the others. He says, “What others?” without thinking and she tells him there’s no need for anything but honesty anymore, so don’t bother. “I’m serious,” she says. “I want to know. I know I’m not the first person you’ve charmed off her feet.”

She’s trailing her fingers up and down his chest, smiling, teasing, and he doesn’t know either why she is asking this question, or why she is looking at him in this false, distant way. He takes her hand in his just to stop its movement and he looks her in the eye, and he asks bluntly, “Do you want some sort of list? I don’t want to talk about them, Cassie. What good would it do anyway?”

“No good or evil,” she answers, twisting her fingers out of his grasp and lacing them properly with his. She pulls his hand, trapped in her hand, to the far corner of the bed, and rests her body over his. They are nose to nose. She is not joking anymore. “There were people before me, and there will be people after me. And there will be people after you, for me.”

“I know.”

He takes his hand from hers, runs his fingers down her arm, rests his hand against her back.

“I know,” he whispers. “You don’t need to convince me of anything, Cassie. I’m not angry. I understand.”

She says “Okay,” and he thinks that that’s it. He’s about to change the subject, but then she goes on, a certain tilt to her head and half smile quirked at her lips so he knows she won’t let this go, now that she has this intriguing idea in her head. She insists, “So just tell me about one. The…the strangest, or the loudest, or the boldest. The most beautiful, maybe.”

“Well the most beautiful is you,” he replies. In this moment it’s the truth but he says it half-smiling, still half-hoping she’ll drop the subject if he says the right thing. “No contest.”

“Excluding me. That’s just too obvious. You should have to think about this one.”

He makes a great show of thinking even though the answer comes to him pretty quick. Cassandra slips off of him, her body still close next to his and her arm draped casually, still possessively, over his chest. She tells him to take his time, and he stares up at the ceiling and makes many “hmmm” noises and maybe even scratches his head once, inviting jokes about his own slutty behavior, his own line of tramps. The whole time he’s thinking of the same face; the same tall, slim body; the same cautious touch.

“There was someone,” he admits finally.

His tone isn’t light enough, when he finally says it, so she tickles the skin of his side and asks, “Some really gorgeous broad? I bet she was leggy.”

“You could say so,” he says, and smiles a little, then glances at her sideways as he adds, “It was a he, though.”

She raises her eyebrows but her surprise is more of an act than anything. He’s neither hidden nor flaunted his attractions, from her or from anyone. “Well, now you have me even more intrigued, Jim Kirk. Tell me about him. Tell me all the details.”

He laughs a little, at her and at her self-satisfied smile, the curious look on her face. It’s a strange game they’re playing, he thinks. She moves to rest her head on his chest, and he starts to run his hands through her hair, not quite aware of his own movements. He’s wondering how he could possibly describe that boy, how much he even wants to say about him, that alien boy he’s spoken of to no one.

“Well you were right about the legs,” he says, first. The words come out in one long breath that’s almost a sigh. Then he picks himself up, and just says the first things that come to mind, words falling unevenly from his lips. “He was at least 50% leg. And so skinny. And he always kept his back completely straight…I kept on waiting for him to loosen up a little, but I guess he didn’t really know how. I remember he had impossibly black hair, and really long fingers, and this…nervous but proud air about him, as if he would never admit he didn’t know what he was doing. He said it was his first time on Earth though, so I guess I can understand it.”

“He was an alien?” Cassandra asks, tilting back her head to glance at him, and her surprise rather surprises him.

“Yeah. Does it matter?”

“No. I just didn’t realize.” He feels her shrug, and settle down comfortably against him again, and then he hears the teasing note return to her voice as she adds, “I should have known you were going to work your way across the galaxy with your conquests. Where was he from anyway?”

“It’s not like that,” he insists, a bit too harsh—he doesn’t even know where the emotion came from. It’s just wrong, somehow, to call that boy a conquest. But she doesn’t reply and he can’t explain himself, so he just sighs, and tries to swallow that sudden stab of annoyance and answer her question. “From Vulcan. He was a Vulcan.”

This is much more shocking than he thought it would be, and at the word ‘Vulcan,’ Cassandra pulls herself up and leans on one elbow just so she can look him properly in the eye—as if she thought maybe he was lying, or playing some elaborate joke, and this was the way to catch him.

“Vulcan?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “What about it?”

“Jim Kirk, you did not seduce a Vulcan. That’s just not done. Not even by you.”

He just shrugs again, and then tugs at her arm as if he could get her to return to her spot against his chest. “Who said anything about seducing? I met him, we spent some time together…”

“Slept together?”

“Yeah.” He says it in an of course sort of way, enough to make her roll her eyes, but he just pretends not to notice. He wants to say, well of course, we were talking about lovers weren’t we, but instead he just lets her read, well of course, like I meet anyone I won’t sleep with his statement just as she wants to. He stares her down. Then he adds, “Just the once,” just as casually. “He had to leave to return to his planet the next day.”

“I can’t believe you,” she says, and sits up properly, barely touching him now as she sits back against the pillows on the other end of the bed. He’s not sure if she’s disgusted or disappointed or just surprised. “You can’t just…Vulcans don’t do one-night stands, Jim.”

“This one did,” he answers. He’s holding himself back from shrugging again, just keeps his voice neutral as Cassandra stares at him like he’s got sand for brains. For a while she doesn’t say anything at all.

Finally, it’s just, again, “Vulcans don’t have casual sex, Jim. It’s not part of their culture at all…how old was this guy anyway?”

He has to think a moment, not because he doesn’t remember, but because he’s not sure, when it comes right down to it, that the Vulcan boy was telling the truth. It was pretty clear he was dependent on his parents: how they’d called his communicator, how concerned he’d been that his father not see him pull up on the back of a motorcycle. But after a few moments he says, voice still light, only that the guy was eighteen.

“Eighteen?” Cassandra crosses her arms against her chest. “Okay.” He’s not sure if she believes him but he doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t press. She’s running through all the things she could say next in her head, and he just watches, patient and curious. He doesn’t think she’s angry at him; he’s seen her angry, and this is hardly it. But her surprise is so deep it’s like shock and it infuses her completely, her posture and her voice, the way she looks at him. Maybe she’s waiting for him to admit he’s lying. Or maybe she’s thinking that he must have used that Vulcan boy, might have been using her too, this whole time.

It’s not like that and he knows it.

“You were probably his first, you know,” she tells him, after a moment.

His first instinct is to argue with her—but he can’t quite because he’d certainly thought it himself, at the time. He remembers how awkward the Vulcan boy had been, how hesitant, kissing and touching like he’d never kissed or touched before. The soft sweep of his fingers across the skin of Jim’s back, the hot press of his tongue, licking, testing, trying to mimic—it had been endearing and maddening both, and he’d had to hold himself back, keep some reasonable pace. Still he hadn’t thought too much about it. He’d tried to be careful and slow and let the boy make decisions too, but he’d never actually asked about his experience, never let himself form the words even in his own mind.

“You think so?” he asks now, aloud, and his voice is more unsure than he’d intended.

“You said it was his first visit to Earth,” she reminds him, though after, perhaps at the look on his face when she turns to him again, she sighs and adds, “Look, I obviously can’t know, Jim, but it seems more likely than not, given their culture.”

“Didn’t know you were such an expert on Vulcans,” he mutters absently.

“There are a lot of things about me you don’t know.”

She’s watching him very carefully. He stares back, no expression on his face now because his thoughts are that many miles away, but somehow he still knows enough to clutch at her hand. She squeezes back.

“You’re something else, Jim,” she says, and it’s not the first time she’s said it, and he doesn’t like to think that it’s probably the last.

“I didn’t just find some poor defenseless alien boy and deflower him, you know,” he insists, voice too loud into the soft silence that’s around them now. Cassandra lets go of his hand and rolls her eyes at him, then shakes her head. A part of him is perfectly aware that she would drop the subject, right now, if only he would let it go too. Still he keeps talking, trying to convince one or the other of them, he never stops to ask himself which, that he is an innocent here. “It was all completely consensual. And I mean—if he had wanted to leave, he could have.”

“I didn’t say that it wasn’t consensual,” she answers lightly.

“It was a random encounter, sure, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t meaningful in some way. I wasn’t lying when I said he was—but it wasn’t just looks. There was something else about him too, he was—”

“Jim, it’s okay! Really.” She forces a smile and then climbs over him, sitting on his thighs, both hands placed against his chest and forcing him back down from the half-sitting position he’d slipped into while they spoke. “I am not judging you. Okay? I am not accusing you of anything. Maybe you were that boy’s first but maybe that isn’t a horrible thing. There are worse people out there, for somebody to have as their first. You’re a thoughtful, caring person, beneath these facades. I know that that heart of yours is deep.” She puts her hand, as she speaks, on his chest just over his heart, and he wonders if she can feel it beating beneath her fingertips. He looks up at her. He wonders how she can say the things she is saying, when she knows what kind of person he is and what he would stoop to do. Her kindness is painful.

“That heart of yours is deep,” she repeats softly. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know it, but I do. And I just hope someday you’ll see it.”

*

For a while, after she leaves, there is a hole in his life. It fills slowly.

*

He’s a couple miles out on the old highway, just after sunset. It’s not the deep black of the middle of the night yet, nothing as picturesque as that, and everything he sees is just darker shadow on lighter, masses of barely differentiated gray. He wants to say he’s done with Iowa. But really he thinks he’s probably just beginning. Eighteen means you have your whole life ahead of you. He should be just waking up. But he feels trapped in sleep.

He stops his bike by the edge of the road. There aren’t any cars, no signs of life at all. It’s that sort of hour, and that sort of town. He’s on the edge of a cornfield. He knows better than to go off exploring in someone else’s property—you never know who still has an old fashioned rifle sitting in their closet, or worse, a military-grade phaser that they wouldn’t even think of setting on stun—so he sits where he is and just looks out instead. It’s a long way to the horizon. A lot of the same, the same, the same.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about space. He had his daydreams, like any kid: he wanted to be a Starfleet Captain, like his father, or maybe something less official, more dramatic, a space pirate exploring beyond the law. He’d find new galaxies and he’d discover new life, and he’d be better than Riverside and Frank and a police record going back to middle school. He’d show them.

Eventually he grew up, and put aside daydreams.

They’ve been coming back to him recently, though. They do that sometimes, on the anniversary of his father’s death, and all the stronger now that he can’t seem to get that alien boy out of his head. A Vulcan. Bill at the store, he calls them Vulcanians, and he argues with Harvey, and with old Mrs. Pattenson, when they call them just “educated Romulans” and start rallying for a Terran takeover of the Federation. Jim doesn’t pay attention to all that political stuff. He finds something else to do whenever Mrs. Pattenson tries to get him involved, tries to bring up George and what “they” did to him, as if there were only one “they” in the universe and she were the expert in just who made up their ranks. He doesn’t need to hear it. He directs his anger where it’s warranted and no further—he’s not about to hate the Vulcans for nothing more than how they look.

In truth he’d never thought about them much at all, one way or the other.

Then he’d bumped into one, like nothing, late Friday afternoon on Main Street just past AJ’s diner: a boy about his age with sharp pointy ears and strong slanting eyebrows. He’d just gotten off a long shift at the store and he’d been low. He’d been thinking about escape: about turning right around, getting back on his bike, and going. Just going. Then he literally ran into this strange alien kid and, for a moment at least, Riverside didn’t seem so dull. He couldn’t let the opportunity slide. He’d asked the boy to get a drink, and he’d seen right away that though he was reserved, even shy, he was interested. It hadn’t been too hard to convince him.

It didn’t hurt that the boy was so—handsome, he should say, though beautiful seems a more exact, a clearer descriptor. He was something to look at, no matter how you chose to put it. His eyes were never still; he was always looking at everything, everyone, ready to examine and clearly holding back a million questions, and it had been all Jim could do to keep the boy’s attention on him. He was deliberate. He pulled every trick he knew, carefully controlled touches and glances and just the right inflection to his voice—he’d flirted to seduce, conscious of his goal every second.

You were probably his first, Cassandra had said.

Probably. He feels guilty about that now. He’d seen something he’d wanted and he’d taken it. He hadn’t really been thinking.

Still, when he’d said “Come back with me. Come back to my place,” the boy had been quick enough to accept his invitation. And when Jim had volunteered to take him home, later, before anything happened between them, the boy had insisted that he wanted to stay. He’d been nervous, clearly, hesitant and unsure, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want—

Jim passes his hand roughly over his face and sighs out. What is he doing? That boy is long gone by now, probably enjoying his life, if Vulcans enjoy things, not even thinking about Earth or Jim or any of it.

It’s weird, how thinking about him again makes Jim almost miss that Vulcan stranger. He’s had some experience with one night stands. But none quite like that one. The way the boy looked at him, he wasn’t looking at someone he knew he’d never see again, didn’t care if he’d ever see again—he looked at Jim with some strange combination of trust and uncertainty, desire and guilt. He’s heard people say that Vulcans don’t have feelings, and that they certainly wouldn’t show them if they did, but somehow he’d known, he’d just known, that the boy felt these things.

The sex itself had been more awkward than amazing: not terrible, but somehow dissatisfying. The boy was gorgeous, and so hot, his skin actually burning, and just looking at him, touching him, kissing him, made Jim half-lose his mind with plain animal want—and somehow he’d been so sure that the boy wanted him too, in the same way. But there had been a reserve there. The Vulcan had been holding back.

Maybe that shouldn’t surprise him. His first time—probably. A first experiment in casual sex. A first experiment in rebellion of any sort. Probably, he’s the sort who always knows what he’s doing, and with Jim, he hadn’t known, he’d been lost. He’d been so terribly shy, gasping when Jim touched him, embarrassed to even look at Jim’s naked body, speaking in nothing but understatements. He’d called something “acceptable,” Jim remembers vaguely. Acceptable. What does that even mean, in such a context?

Maybe that sense of discomfort he remembers was really just coming from the Vulcan kid. He hadn’t been able to let go. He was a closed fist, right through. When Jim pushed into him, he’d gripped at his hips and his back and shut his eyes tight, and Jim remembers this fist of fear right in his gut—I’m hurting him. He’d tried to go slow. He’d asked the boy about a million times if he was sure he was okay, but the Vulcan didn’t admit that he was anything less than perfectly all right. He couldn’t even trust Jim enough to say be careful.

But it’s all in the past now. He should just get that boy out of his head. He’s far away now, all the way on the other side of those stars.

The memory’s still sharp in Jim’s mind, though. How it had ended. He’d come hard, and sudden, barely knew his orgasm was coming until it was on him. He hadn’t even had time to pull out like he’d meant to. In the moments after he came back to himself he’d barely been able to think—he remembers that he wanted the boy to come too, but hadn’t been capable of much more than a sloppy hand job that still got the other off so fast that Jim hadn’t even had the pleasure of seeing his face when he slid over the edge. He’d been vaguely aware of that slim body arching up and then falling back down, of some strange sounds made all up of v’s and long rolling r’s, and then after that just the silence of his room and their loud out-of-sync breaths.

That was the most frustrating part, the after. It’s always the worst, though, those moments, that echoing in his head, what have I done, what have I done? Who is this next to me?

The boy was so silent, so still, just lying there next to him with his eyes on the ceiling. Jim had wanted to be reassuring. He’d wanted to tell him, it’s okay; he’d felt somehow by instinct that that was what this strange Vulcan needed, really needed—to feel reassured—no matter how often he and his race might profess to feel nothing, how often they professed to control their feelings to the point of nothing.

And he’d wanted that reassurance for himself, too.

It’s getting properly dark now, and he knows he should be heading home. It’s a long way back, and he might not see a single soul the whole way. He doesn’t want to think about how he didn’t manage it, the words, or even a proper smile. He’d just touched the boy’s hand lightly, then leaned over and given him a kiss—a chaste, closed mouth, first date, waiting-on-daddy’s-front-porch type kiss. The Vulcan had kissed back, sure, but there was nothing to the kiss, and nothing to his expression when he looked at Jim after, and it was like lying in bed next to a stone, or a cardboard cutout. He’d felt nothing but fatigue, then. Whatever he’d wanted, he’d gotten it. And if he wanted anything more, too bad—it was over, and the boy clearly knew it, and it was time for him to know it too.

He’d had to sit on the edge of his bed, back to the boy, just staring at the curtains of his window, for several moments before he could compose himself. Later, he’d stood in the middle of the room and listened to the echo of the water running through the pipes to the boy’s shower. Then he’d picked up his clothes where they’d thrown them, and folded them absently as if out of habit.

He closes his eyes now and tries to remember the feel of the Vulcan boy’s arms around him as he’d clung to Jim’s back, sitting just behind him on this same bike. It’s not really big enough for two people. They’d had to sit terribly close, all the long way from Jim’s apartment to the library in silence.

When he opens his eyes he’s alone, still, and in Iowa, still, and there’s nothing to see but shadows and highway and the black pinpointed sky. He can’t stand it. He turns his bike around slowly, a wide and quiet u-turn on the empty road, and then he heads home, and he tells himself not to think about any of that stuff anymore, the Vulcan or that night or any of it. It’s useless, he knows, to dwell on stuff like that, stuff that’s over and done, stuff that belongs in the past.

Chapter Text

He feels T’Pring’s absence in a way he did not expect. He does not even dare to look at her anymore; he builds up all of his self-control just to keep himself from glancing at her to see if she is glancing at him. Every morning he wakes up dreading the day ahead of him, how his classmates stare and whisper, how Stonn shows him exaggerated politeness because he can no longer show him shadowed violence, how there is nowhere to go when it is over but back to his own house and his own room. He builds up walls and tries to purge himself of feeling. He meditates for hours every night.

He was attracted to T’Pring. He can admit it now. Her intelligence, her beauty, her elegance, all fascinate and intrigue him. He knows that in a few years she will perfect the teachings of their culture more than he ever will and he feels no jealousy, only pride. In another life, she could have been his mate. When he touched her, he felt all of that almost bond, that broken bond between them. He felt all of what they could have been.

Or he imagined he did. He knows that T’Pau’s mastery of their arts is unparalleled. She left nothing of the connection between Spock and T’Pring intact when she severed their bond. Everything he felt, he must have felt because he has come to know her, and to care for her in her own right.

He’d wanted her, wanted nothing more than the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, the press of her lips against his, the slick touch of her tongue. For a few moments, he had believed that perhaps she could still be his mate as she was once meant to be. He sees now that this was foolish. Even if he and T’Pring could sustain a physical relationship for a short time, it must inevitably end. Her parents would never consent to her forming a bond with him now: not even his family’s status or his own achievements could ever make up for the disgrace of giving birth to an illegitimate child. Perhaps for a widower like Soval, he would be an acceptable mate. For a young woman of T’Pring’s status, he could never hope to be anything more than an experiment.

He likes to think she would politely deny this, but even if she did she would still know, at last, that it was true. She must by now have come to these same conclusions.

Inevitably, he starts to ask himself if even a temporary relationship might have been enviable. Perhaps it is not wrong to make choices based on emotion, in situations where emotion cannot help but play a part.

The problem is that this is the same reasoning the boy gave him seven months ago, and he does not know if he really believes it, or if he only returns to it to try to justify his own past mistakes. Truly he would not be a proper scientist if he continued to make the same errors, again and again, and never learn from them. At the same time, that he is reverting to the human’s argument only serves as a sharp reminder that his child’s father is still constantly on his mind. He thinks about him every day. He wonders which of his features he will see in their baby, and if the human boy would choose to help raise it if he could, and if he ever thinks of Spock or even remembers him. Perhaps someday, he will be ready to let go of those memories as he should have months ago, but now they are still too present in him, pressing too strongly at the forefront of his thoughts. His feelings for the boy are conflicted. They are messy and illogical and shamefully strong.

He cannot stop himself from thinking about how they have created this life, this pulsing presence of life he feels in his meditations, the tiny curled body he saw on T’Pala’s screen, and that to be with another is a betrayal of everything that brought this unborn child into existence. Sometimes he even comes to the conclusion that he will never be able to share such a physical relationship with another again, that what he told his father was more true than he then realized: he will never bond, he will never be capable of bonding. He will never be worthy of bonding.

Neither is T’Pring herself free from other attachments. Minutes before she kissed him she was speaking of Stonn. Even knowing the worst side of him, how he acts toward Spock and what he has done to him, she cannot master her feelings for him. T’Pring, who can master her feelings better than any other Vulcan their age that he knows, is a victim of this attachment even now. If he were to indulge in his feelings perhaps he would be angry with her for this, or perhaps he would pity her. Or perhaps he would simply sympathize.

Many times, he considers trying to contact her again. He holds no ill feelings. He has worked out the situation in a satisfactory way: they were confused, and curious, and attracted to each other, and it is not at all unexpected that such an event might have occurred. But it would be quite impossible to sustain any relationship but that of friendship. It is so simple.

But when he passes her in the hall or in the courtyard, or sees her in class, it does not feel simple. He thinks about the way she said “a mistake,” and he wonders if she has come to the same conclusions he has, or completely different ones—if perhaps it is the entirety of their friendship that seems illogical to her, and not simply the events of that afternoon. He wonders if she is disgusted by him, the way that he looks, the stares that he gets. He wonders if she misses him at all. He dares not ask.

He tells himself he cannot be distracted by this. He must go on. It is still almost a full two months before he is due, but he already feels like the baby is too large, is taking up more space than his body has room to give. His mother tells him that he is relatively small for being in his eighth month, and though he has no reason to believe she is lying, he cannot see how this is true. He can feel it pressing on his ribs. It is heavy. His back and legs ache; his ankles swell. He starts to feel small seizes of pain in his lower abdomen, like those he felt during the Academy exam, though not as strong or as distracting. He tries to ignore them. He does not tell his mother about them.

His body is telling him in every way that it can that soon the child will be ready to be born, and he knows that his first priority must be preparing for this event, and for his future afterwards. He studies. He goes over and over the list of things he will need for the child’s room. He plans out what classes he will take in his final year at school, and even researches Academy classes, his hope that he will be accepted there still strong. He starts to make a list of potential names.

This task is more difficult than he had anticipated. A name is such a powerful thing. It almost does not feel right, to him, that he should be in a position to bestow one on another. What if he chooses one that his child later finds disagreeable? What if he chooses one now and, on seeing his child, holding him or her, observing him or her, he comes to the conclusion that the name is somehow unsuitable?

He makes four lists: two of female names, one column Vulcan, the other Terran, and the same two categories for male names. He has no intention of giving his child a Terran name. He or she would be mocked terribly, and would find acceptance among their people that much more difficult. These lists are more speculation than anything else, a shamefully idle wondering. What would the boy suggest, if Spock were to ask him for advice on this matter? He has little evidence to consider. He knows nothing of the boy’s heritage, or his personal tastes—does not even know what name his own parents gave him. He makes a few unscientific guesses anyway. He researches Terran names, particularly those common to the boy’s part of the planet, and notes those that he finds the most pleasing. He adds various names that he has read in his favorite Terran books, and the few names of his mother’s Earth family that she has mentioned to him in passing. But when he reconsiders the list (Tabitha, Tania, Sylvia, Margarita, Talia; Simon, Stephen, Zachary, James, Sydney), he finds that he cannot seriously consider giving any of these names to his own son or daughter, a being that he pictures, still, and despite his or her three quarters’ human heritage, as a Vulcan in appearance and nature.

Ultimately, it is the two lists of Vulcan names that he spends the most time considering, reconsidering, and revising. He adds the names of famous reformers, scientists, artists, explorers—he wants his child’s name, like his own, to have meaning and significance. He says each name out loud, by itself and paired with his own family name, and when he’s exhausted the list he repeats the process. He feels like he is getting nowhere. No name will seem like the right one unless he can start to view his child as a real, living, being. He is not quite there.

This is not a comfortable conclusion to come to. He sets his PADD down on the table and stretches out where he is lying on the living room couch. The fatigue that he felt in his first trimester is back, and worse, and he knows he could fight it but he worries that any such attempt would hurt the child. Listen to your body, T’Pala tells him, and right now his body wants to rest.

He is just adjusting his position when he hears the door open and footsteps start to pace around the kitchen. His father, most likely. Spock makes no effort to get up, either to greet Sarek or to retreat into his own room and avoid him. It is up to his father to decide what their relationship should be, he has decided. He will neither start a fight nor run away from one.

When Sarek does walk into the living room and sees Spock, he stops. Spock looks up at him lazily—insolently, he knows his father would say. He’s propped his sockfeet up on the arm of the couch and if his father says a word about it, he’ll tell him he can talk when his ankles have swollen to twice their normal size.

But Sarek does not say a word about Spock’s feet, or where they are. He sits down in a nearby chair, and he asks how Spock is feeling.

“I am lacking in my customary energy,” he admits. He is going to add that he is, aside from this, quite well, except that it is not quite the truth and he does not wish to lie simply to soothe his father’s feelings. Instead, into the awkward, unsure silence that falls over them, he asks, “When did you and mother decide on my name?”

The question clearly catches Sarek off guard, but after a slight hesitation, he answers, “We did not discuss the matter prior to your birth. However, I did devote a certain amount of thought to the question, myself.”

Spock nods. Of course, he has always known that it was his father who gave him his name. But he has never had reason to attempt to imagine the process by which that name was chosen: if it was difficult and time consuming, or quite simple and clear. The way his father said “a certain amount of thought,” how his mother described Sarek’s reaction to the news that he was to have a son—Spock rather believes his father has known the same troubles that he knows now, as he attempts to make his own decisions.

“I only ask,” he says, “because soon I will have to decide on a name for my son or daughter.”

“You have time, yet,” Sarek answers. He looks uncomfortable, like he would rather this topic be avoided according to his own habit.

“Seven weeks,” Spock reminds him. “You will agree that that is not much time at all.”

Sarek only makes a vague noise in answer, though Spock catches him glancing at his now-large stomach.

Several long moments pass, Spock waiting for his father to speak, wondering at first with great curiosity, than no more than idle interest, what his father has come here to say. He is surprised when he hears the words at last.

“It is my job,” Sarek says, looking now for the first time directly at Spock’s face, “to negotiate with representatives from other planets. I must know how they think and reason, what is important to them, and how to speak to them. I must understand them, no matter how alien or how different from myself. I believe I am good at what I do, Spock. But I cannot understand you. I cannot understand your rebellion.”

Spock would argue with his father’s choice of words but he stops himself at the expression on Sarek’s face, the tone of his voice. He is trying. Beneath his Vulcan calm he is, Spock would say, almost sad.

“It is not,” Sarek adds, “anything like my own.” When Spock looks up at him properly, he sees that he has raised one eyebrow slightly.

His father is not who Spock usually thinks of, when he thinks of one who rebels.

He raises one eyebrow back.

“I hope that you do not believe I have made my decisions merely out of some misplaced need to rebel,” Spock answers lightly, no anger in his voice but only tentative, half-formed forgiveness.

“No,” Sarek admits, matching Spock’s tone like only his father could. “But there has certainly been rebellion in your attitude toward me in recent months.”

He would not, himself, classify his attitude as a rebellion—rather a reaction, or a defense. But he has no desire to argue in this manner, over what is, at heart, merely a question of words and categorizations. This is his father making an effort. He sees that, and appreciates it.

“I do not always understand my own actions,” he says, then. He looks up and he’s sure that his father understands, both everything he is saying and all that lies behind. “I only wish to take responsibility for them, and for their consequences.”

“I know,” Sarek nods. “I realize I have not made this clear, these last months, but I assure you, Spock—I know. We are none of us infallible creatures. I have made my mistakes, too.”

When Spock was young, he used to think his father truly was infallible, and he realizes only now that a part of him has held this to be true ever since. It is not without some emotion that he puts away this incorrect and illogical belief. But he is used to these spikes of feeling by now. He blames it on the hormones. He puts it away.

He looks at Sarek, and his father is staring back at him.

Spock puts his hands gently on top of his stomach, and says, “When I first found out that I was pregnant, I thought I could do everything on my own, if I had to. I see now that you were right: I must have help if I am to take care of my child.”

“You must,” Sarek agrees, “but that is why one has family. It is the responsibility of each member of the unit to care for every other member. That is our way, and as Vulcans we must follow it. It is the only proper thing to do.”

*

That weekend, he and his mother clear out the spare room next to Spock’s and begin to transform it into a suitable bedroom for the child. Spock’s mother does most of the work, and whenever he tries to help in any significant way, she tells him to sit down and rest, or reminds him yet again not to strain himself. He gets bored just sitting. He busies himself folding clothes and putting them in the dresser, and arranging books on a bookshelf. He had insisted on these old paper-bound things, insisted because he remembered the human boy’s bookshelves and scattered texts, and he likes to think that the boy would want his son or daughter to have such things as well.

His mother is hanging curtains, and he is assembling a rather brightly colored mobile, when he observes, “I do not understand how such an object can be as fascinating as you say it is, even to a small child.”

His mother turns back to look at him and raises one eyebrow. She cannot do it very well, but he humors her. “Really?” she answers. “It certainly fascinated you.”

He has just opened his mouth to give a proper response when he’s startled by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and when he turns, his father is in the doorway. “Sarek,” his mother says, at the same moment that Spock himself says, “Father.”

“I thought you were going to be at the Embassy all morning,” Spock’s mother says, and steps down from her stool.

“The meeting finished early.” He glances around the room, curious, appraising, and when his gaze falls on the still unassembled crib he says, “I believe my assistance is needed here.”

“It would be much appreciated,” Spock answers, his own hands resting now idly on the half-put-together mobile. He hadn’t really thought his father would help. He’d imagined he and his mother would fix up everything themselves, awkwardly at times perhaps, and with unnecessary difficulty, but without help from Sarek. Perhaps his father has become more willing to accept the child, and Spock’s own choices, but Spock could not help but assume that there were limits and conditions to this acceptance.

“This will do well for this room,” Sarek is saying. He’s crossed to the window by now and is already observing the various parts of the crib. He is not looking at either his son or his wife. Then quite suddenly he turns to Spock and adds, trying to make it seem like an afterthought, “We still have yours, Spock. It is much smaller than this—more suitable for a newborn, perhaps. I can bring it out and put it in your room.”

Spock isn’t sure what to say. He can’t stop himself from wondering why his father would store such a thing. He never expected to have another child. Spock knows this because, when he was a boy, he asked his mother if he would ever have any brothers or sisters, and she told him that it was impossible. Eventually, as he grew older, he came to understand what she meant: that another pregnancy would be too great a risk, and she would never attempt it.

When Spock doesn’t answer, his mother does for him, kindly accepting Sarek’s offer and planning aloud the best possible arrangement of the room.

The work takes much longer than Spock had anticipated, and of course it is not done in a day. Still it looks much better than when they started. Spock can almost imagine bringing his son or daughter home to such a place—or at least, he can imagine bringing a child here, though the idea that that child should be his is still difficult to fathom. There is the crib in the corner, fully assembled though still missing blankets and sheets, the mobile above it, a dresser of clothes, a changing table, a small bookshelf, a new rug on the floor, and even his mother’s old rocking chair in the corner, the one she brought all the way from Earth. She’d insisted. The movement will be soothing, she’d said, though she hadn’t specified for whom. Spock stands by the door and looks over it all. He realizes that he has still not found the time to buy his baby any proper toys. Perhaps next week, after his visit to T’Pala’s office.

Even as he is thinking this, something in the room catches his eye. Something in the crib. His parents have left by now, his father to return to the Embassy, his mother to attend to her own business in her office, and he is the only one in the room. He walks up to it slowly. In the far corner of the crib there is…some sort of stuffed toy. He picks it up to see more exactly. It is a small, brown, stuffed sehlat. It is quite an exact replica of the real creature, right down to its small white tusks. The toy is very soft. For a few minutes, Spock just stands there, petting it absently.

The toy was most certainly not in the room this morning, and neither he nor his mother left the room all afternoon. Only his father was in and out, answering calls on his communicator or replicating water in the kitchen; Spock was hardly keeping careful track of his movements; he wasn’t paying attention to when his father left and when he returned. It must have been he, then, who brought the toy. Spock wonders how long he has had it, how long he has been waiting to give it to Spock, for his child. He wonders if perhaps Sarek meant to do it face to face but could not bring himself to. It does not matter. He knows what it is like to have something that he cannot say, no matter how much he may want to.

He places the sehlat back in the corner of the crib, arranging it in a more pleasing, more realistic position. It will make, he thinks, in time, a most suitable toy for the child.

*

Somehow, his eighth month slides into his ninth, and he counts the time left in his pregnancy in mere weeks, and then in days. The nausea returns, not simply in the morning anymore but in unexpected waves at diverse points in his day. He rushes out of class and to the bathroom to vomit as quietly as he can into the toilet, hoping even as the harsh bile burns his throat that none of his classmates will pick that moment to come in. When he returns, no one asks any questions (they already know, all of them), but he can feel the stares on him, even the instructor distracted by the paleness of Spock’s face, his unspoken and unhidden secret. This public thing he still calls a secret.

He has found that there is no longer any comfortable position for his body, no way that he can sit or lie that will quiet the ache in his back or the pressure on his lungs or let him truly relax. He can barely sleep. He lies on his back and he tries to calm his body and let go, but even when he is successful at this, he cannot still his mind. His thoughts are frantic and jumpy. He asks himself the same questions over and over. He runs over the same lists, what’s been done, what needs to be done, and he asks himself again and again, Am I ready? Am I prepared?

The answer is no, always no, and he does not know how he could be. He has everything in place, the child’s room ready, and the school informed of his coming absence. His parents have both changed their work schedules so that he will not be alone in the first weeks after the birth. He has done everything he has been told to do. But he is not ready. He is not ready to bring a tiny little being home, a small and helpless boy or girl who will look to him for everything.

His emotions become almost impossible to control. He makes it through each day at school only by putting every last bit of his energy into keeping up his defenses. When he gets home he does not even bother. He cries over his tea and his physics reading, and he breaks out in vulgarities when he drops a stylus or a glass—he is always dropping something or running into something; he is constantly clumsy and awkward. His mother tells him these are just his hormones and holds him through it. She tells him it will get better.

What’s worst is that Stonn was right; he is not a real Vulcan at all. Real Vulcans are not like this.

Two weeks before the baby is due, he returns to T’Pala’s office for his last appointment. His mother asks him exactly eighteen times if he is sure he does not want her to come with him, and another four times if he is sure he does not want his father to come with him, even though Spock is sure Sarek would never volunteer his presence on his own. He tells her that he is quite certain. He does not wish to inconvenience either of his parents any more than he has already, and he is quite at ease speaking with T’Pala. He is not nervous at all, he tells her. Repeatedly.

None of this is a lie. But neither is it the whole truth. He knows that he and T’Pala will be discussing the birth, and he does not wish to have such a private conversation in front of either of his parents. It would be embarrassing, even shameful; he looks at his body and he is disgusted by it, and the thought of discussing it in detail is repellent.

Still he goes, and when T’Pala asks him how his pregnancy is progressing, he tells her about the worst of his symptoms, trying his best to hide how difficult each day truly is. He is ashamed of his emotional outbursts and his weakness. He tries to pretend he is quite all right. Still he can tell by the way T’Pala looks at him that she knows he is not well. She runs her tests almost gravely, and he feels a knot of fear form in his stomach, the fear that something serious is wrong. He asks her, tentatively, if the child is still healthy.

“I have some concerns,” she admits, and pulls up her chair to sit next to him. “Your body is under tremendous strain, Spock. This is the time when you should be conserving your strength—both in preparation for the birth and for the time when you bring your son or daughter home. I have been telling you since your fourth month that you must be particularly alert, and make an effort to reduce the stress in your life and to take care of your body. I understand,” she interrupts him just as he opens his mouth to explain, “that you have been busy preparing for the birth, as well as with finishing your year at school. This is not an easy time. But I would prefer to be cautious. I recommend that you stay on bed rest for the remainder of your pregnancy.”

It’s his instinct to protest this. It will be dull, sitting in his room all day, and he will be unable to keep his mind from following the same distressing circles over and over as it has been doing now for weeks. But he knows that arguing would be useless. T’Pala will simply remind him that the health of his child is at risk: that he is sixteen and half human and not made for this, and that it is best not to take any risks. He is taking on too much at once and needs to slow down. He knows this. So he nods in quiet acceptance.

“It will not be a complete bed rest,” she continues. “In fact, I recommend that you spend some time each day moving, walking around your house or outside. But I do not want you attending classes or doing any strenuous work, of either a physical or a mental sort. That is a strict order, Spock.”

He looks up properly at her last sentence, and sees that she is staring at him intently, waiting for him to promise that he will behave and do just as she orders in the last days of his pregnancy. He nods again and assures her, “I understand, T’Pala. I will of course do whatever I can to keep the child safe.”

“Two weeks is not a very long time, Spock,” she reminds him, her tone as professional as ever but a certain softness, now, to her expression. “I am sure you will find that it will pass quite rapidly.”

“Yes,” he answers, rather absently, and drops his gaze down to his hands where they rest on the large bump at his middle. He adds a bit of volume and, he hopes, a bit of confidence, to his voice as he adds, “That is my concern. I am not sure I am prepared—”

“We should of course discuss the birth,” T’Pala says, straightening her back and taking on the most professional of tones, and he knows she heard his uncertainty and even his fear and that she does not want to have an emotional discussion. He blinks it all back. He holds himself calm. He must sit through this discussion as if it concerned another, as if it had nothing to do with him, his body, his future at all.

“The procedure is a fairly simple one,” T’Pala is saying, and he turns his attention completely back to her. “You will check into the hospital on the morning of the fourteenth. The surgery will take less than an hour, and you will remain conscious. You will not be able to feel the incisions, of course,” she adds quickly, perhaps at a twitch of uncertainty in his expression, “but you will not be under any general anesthesia. I’d like to keep both you and the child here for a few days after the surgery, to monitor your recovery, and when you return home you should of course rest as much as possible. If your parents—”

“I have already spoken to my mother on the matter and she has assured me that she has taken the necessary time off,” he says quickly.

T’Pala speaks of these matters completely straightforwardly, neutrally, professionally, and he tries to match her tone and attitude, even though he can feel his heart rate increase at the thought of the surgery. T’Pala says it is quite simple. But her body is not being sliced open. The thought of surgery has always been somewhat, however illogically, distasteful to him, and no less so now that it is a child that is to be taken from his body. He knows his anxiety is quite unnecessary. There is very little danger; the chances of complications are low; T’Pala and her colleagues are careful and capable. Yet not even logic can erase the sense of unease he feels.

He knows that he is lucky. The mutation that allows males of his species to carry children is imperfect; they cannot give birth, and those early men who also found themselves in Spock’s situation had to risk a dangerous, ugly, proto-surgery, or die as if their own child were a parasite destroying them from the inside. He should be grateful for this modern technology. And he is.

Furthermore, he does not think the alternative would truly be preferable. He has read about both human and Vulcan labor: long and painful processes, during which even Vulcan women will allow themselves to show emotion. He does not particularly desire to experience such a thing.

T’Pala explains the procedure in detail, carefully and precisely, and he welcomes the information much more than he thought he would. It makes the situation more real but it also puts him in control. He asks questions. She answers them patiently. He keeps his hands over his swollen middle and rubs absently at the sides, not even aware of his movements. He just wants to relax. Soon it will be over. Soon he’ll be able to hold his little boy or girl in his arms.

Finally she asks him if there is anything else he wishes to know and he hesitates, and bites his lip, and finally says that there is.

“I have been having…pains,” he admits. “They are similar to those I felt before I was taken to the hospital, the day I took the Science Academy qualifying exam. I would describe the pain as—sharp. But it does not last long. It is intermittent, and stops altogether after five, sometimes ten or fifteen minutes.”

He does not add that he has half-convinced himself these are warning signs, signals of another complication perhaps—and for that reason he has not yet been able to bring himself to speak of them to anyone. But T’Pala does not seem concerned.

“They are false contractions,” she says. “They are your body’s way of preparing for labor.”

“But I will not be experiencing labor,” he reminds her. “It is impossible.”

He rather hopes she does not hear that desperation in his voice, that overcompensation, that fear that maybe there is some mistake and he, in his freakishness—

“It is simply an anomaly,” she assures him. “It is not uncommon even in male pregnancies to experience such contractions; your body believes it will be giving birth and is preparing accordingly. The contractions are not dangerous, and they will eventually stop. Do not worry about them.”

“I do not worry,” Spock answers, but his response is automatic and not particularly impassioned, and he is paying more attention to his own body than to T’Pala. He is so large. His child has been growing for so long. And his body is ready for this pregnancy to end. He does not like the idea of false contractions, of crossed wires, of anomalies, of imperfection and confusion within him. But T’Pala tells him it is nothing and she speaks with such confidence that it is not hard, in the end, to trust her.

*

Bed rest is as dull as he remembered it but he makes the most of it. He does his homework, though he is under doctor’s orders to devote no more than an hour or two a day to strenuous mental work. This strikes him as completely irrational but he does as he’s told just in case. He makes lists. He assures himself that everything is ready in the child’s room. He and his mother discuss what will happen when he returns home after surgery. He revises and reviews his list of names.

When he wishes to forget all of these practical concerns, he reads, and the hours slip by quickly when he loses himself in books. He rereads all of his favorite Vulcan books, and then begins to make his way through the Terran classics. He picks the titles almost at random, reading haphazardly through thick Russian dramas and tales of the old American West, the collected Sherlock Holmes stories and anthologies of metaphysical poets. He reads Shakespeare and Joyce, Melville and Milton.

He is reading sonnets when he hears a knock on his door and his father’s voice asking if he can come in. Spock calls back that he can. He’s not sure what his father could possibly want but it’s the middle of the afternoon and the sun is coming in hazily through his window and he has nine days of bed rest left; he welcomes any distraction that is offered to him. His father steps into the room and Spock sets his reading aside. But Sarek is only there to tell him that he has a visitor. “Do you wish to see her?”

Spock’s eyebrows lean in over his nose and he frowns slightly. This is most unexpected. “Who is it?”

“T’Pring,” his father answers, as if this were quite obvious.

Perhaps under different circumstances Spock would wonder just how discreet he was in his friendship with T’Pring, if his father questions so little her presence at their door, but as it he has other things on his mind. What business could she possibly have with him? They have not spoken since his last visit to her home. She has made no attempt to contact him, nor has he made an effort to catch her attention in return. He has missed her. He has thought about her. He has tried not to think about her and has failed to keep her from his thoughts. But he did not believe that they would ever speak again.

“Do you wish to see her?” Sarek repeats.

He thinks that he should say no, but he doesn’t. He just nods, and tells his father that T’Pring can come in.

He’s hardly expecting Sarek to leave them alone as easily as he does, but he makes no argument, only shows T’Pring in and says that he will be in the main room if he is needed. Spock pays more attention to his father than he does to T’Pring, at first, barely looking at her as she enters and stands, hands in front of her, by the door next to Sarek. When they are alone, he looks at her properly. She seems ill at ease. Most others might not even notice this slight awkwardness about her but he sees it, and he tries to keep his own body and his own voice under control, hoping that he does not reveal a similar discomfort to her.

He tells her to sit down and she does, and though he’d meant on the bed, she pulls his desk chair up to the bedside and sits there instead. He does not try to sound rude but he knows his tone is much too cold, for what they were.

For several moments, she just sits there, silently, looking at her hands or at the blankets on his bed, and he wonders if he is supposed to be the one to speak and what she could possibly expect him to say. It seems so stupid to him, so illogical, that they should allow this awkwardness between them. Aren’t they supposed to be above this? Aren’t they supposed to be above letting their emotions, their base sense of discomfort at one small event, control them in this way?

He is about to say something to this effect but just as he opens his mouth, she speaks. She says, “I was concerned. That is why I am here, Spock—I hope you do not mind the intrusion.”

“You are always welcome in my home, T’Pring,” he answers, and though he wishes to sound reassuring, his voice is cold even to his own ears.

She ducks her head. “You have not been in school for four days. Our classmates have been talking. They say that your child has been born, and you have left school to care for it. Some think that you have left Vulcan completely to live with the other father on Earth. I knew better than to believe them. And yet,” she looks up slightly, and he sees something like guilt on her face, for doubting him, perhaps, or for some larger reason, “yet I knew that you would have no reason to inform me, if any of these events had come to pass. I had to see for myself to be sure.”

He does not know what to answer. He had not even thought, he had not let himself think, of what his classmates must be saying about him. Bed rest, boring as it may sometimes be, had at least that advantage: he no longer had to go to school, or face his classmates, or their whispers or their rumors. In his complacence, he never once wondered what T’Pring might think of him, having only unreliable stories as news.

“Clearly,” he says, as lightly as he can, “those rumors were as reliable as such stories usually are. My child will not be born for another week, I have not spoken to the other father in nine months, and I have no plans to leave Vulcan, either to live with him or by myself.”

He has the sense that there is something, an almost physical something, between them, frozen and cold like the ice they have on Earth, and he wants it to break. He wants to act toward her like he acted before. He wants to be honest, as honest as Vulcans allow themselves to be, and open, and clear. But he cannot, not until she ceases to act with such stiffness toward him; he will not be the first to crack. He treats her with the polite distance of an acquaintance. He forms mental shields but also defenses of a more subtle type: a tone of voice, a quirk to the mouth or the eyebrow, a certain way of staring.

Maybe there is a part of him that wants to make her uncomfortable, that wants to show her that here, in his house, where she is allowed only by his permission, he is in control.

She shifts where she is sitting, and rearranges her hands in her lap.

“Will you tell me why you are not in school?” she asks.

“I was prescribed bed rest,” he answers, as if this were nothing at all. Then he adds, because he does not wish her to worry, and even though it is not strictly true, “It is more a precaution than a necessity.”

T’Pring nods. She does not question him further. Still she’s holding something back. He watches her watching him.

“I am relieved to hear that you are not in danger,” she says then, slowly, meditatively, and he hears in her voice the thaw that he so wanted. “I have been thinking of you often, Spock.”

The way she says this, how she does not hide from his gaze as she speaks, how she leans forward as if it were a secret between them that he must know, shameful as it is for her to tell it, and he feels that he would forget anything, any mistake, any error on either her part or his own.

“Nor have you been absent from my thoughts,” he answers. His voice is much quieter than he intended. He reaches out his hand, but not close enough to touch hers, and he does not know if she even notices the movement.

He wants to tell her that he is sorry but she beats him to it, drawing a deep breath and letting out the words in a rushed and ungraceful way that does not suit her. “I should not have acted the way that I did at our last meeting,” she announces. “I should not have hurried you from my home, and I should not have been as forward as I was in the first place. It was inappropriate.”

“Much of what we have shared would be considered inappropriate,” Spock answers. “But I do not regret it, any of our time together. Only…at our last meeting…I know that I acted indecently as well. That is why I did not let us continue. It could not have ended—”

“I know. I was not thinking—”

“I stopped, not because I did not want—”

“I am only ashamed that it was not I—”

“You must know, T’Pring that I did want—”

“Spock.”

He has lost track of himself. Perhaps they both have. But at the sound of his name he closes his mouth and just looks at her, and he sees, in the second before she controls her expression and resettles her calm, that she’s scared. She was irrationally scared that he should finish his sentence. He feels a green blush creep up his cheeks.

“I apologize,” he mutters.

T’Pring shakes her head. She does not correct him, only says, “You are not like the rest of us, Spock.” It is his instinct to recoil from this, surely an insult as it has always been before, but there is no malice in her voice, and no accusation. “Perhaps you will be better than the rest of us,” she says. “I do not know. But you—you are of two worlds.”

“You speak as if this were an asset,” he says, a bit bitterly. He does not tell her that this is what he’s been running from since he was eleven years old, or that if he were better, he would be a Vulcan as surely as she is, as his own father is.

She answers with more confidence than he had expected, and much more honesty. “I am beginning to think that it is,” she tells him.

A deep thrill of affection runs through him, and for a moment he thinks of the way he touched her and the way she kissed him and the pang of emptiness he’d felt when T’Pau severed the bond between them, and he’s filled with a mix of desire and regret. He buries this deep. Such emotions are useless and they weaken him.

He is staring at his hands, folded on top of the large bump of his middle, when he realizes that she is speaking again.

“I lost control of myself, Spock. I did not think through my actions. I acted on feeling rather than on logic. When you said that you could not continue, I was ashamed that I had not been the one to say we must stop, and I cut myself off from you because I was sure that I had shared too much—more than one should ever share with anyone who is not a bondmate. I…perhaps you will not understand, but I did not know myself, for a moment.”

The human reaction, he thinks, would be to laugh. That is what his mother would do. He only looks at her and raises one eyebrow. “T’Pring,” he reminds her, and moves his hands against his middle to draw her attention there once more, “I understand.”

She looks at his stomach and then once more at his face, and he sees her relax, and a hint of amusement crosses her face. “Of course,” she answers. “So I need not explain.”

“No,” he assures her. “You need not explain.”

For a few moments, then, there is only a silence between them, more comfortable than not, and he feels a burden ease from him that he did not know he carried. He sees that T’Pring is staring now at the round swell of him, and he says, as lightly as he can, “If you wish, I can send you a message to tell you when the child is born.”

“I would appreciate such a gesture, thank you,” she answers, and she matches his tone, just as inconsequential, and she makes him feel, for a moment, quite normal. She asks, “Are you expecting a son or a daughter?”

“I do not know. I decided to wait until the birth to find out. Either…it does not matter.” He looks at her and tries to gauge if she understands, but she is impenetrable. She looks at him with compassion, and he thinks that she wishes to comprehend, but his situation is alien to her. She cannot imagine.

“Either,” he says again, just one more try, one more attempt to convey something of his thoughts, “he or she will be mine—a being I created, and my responsibility. I will watch him or her grow up, and learn, and become independent. I will—”

“Be a parent?”

When he looks up he sees that T’Pring has raised one eyebrow at him.

“To put it succinctly,” he says, “yes.”

Chapter Text

The ship was ready and the crew equipped to take off on the most ambitious space flight in Vulcan’s history. Only a week before the scheduled departure of the ship, however, their plans fell apart. A last minute inspection revealed grave imperfections in the ship’s design, which would take months to fix properly, if they could be corrected at all. The takeoff was delayed. Months of work revealed a ship shamefully ill equipped for the long term exploratory journey for which it had been designated, and it was only when engineer Sevin Xrresvi began work on the vessel that true improvements were made. Within fourteen weeks, Xrresvi successfully redesigned large portions of the ship, making it possible for the crew to begin their long-delayed journey. It was this journey that would eventually lead Vulcan to discover a new planet, Earth—

Earth. A curious planet indeed, Spock thinks vaguely, and sets his reading aside. His baby will be born in three days. He’s been sleeping as much as he can, reading when he’s awake, setting all his schoolwork to the side and wishing he could do the same with his worries. Right now concentration is intensely difficult. There are curling fists of pain low in his abdomen, those same familiar pains, and they have been growing steadily more intense for the last hour. They are most uncomfortable.

He twists his body around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, and reminds himself again that T’Pala told him they were nothing, the pains. False contractions. A mistake. A confusion in his body, but not dangerous, and nothing to concern himself with. They will go away eventually, she’d said. Just wait them out, she’d said.

Unfortunately, he thinks, as he pushes his pillows aside and settles flat on his back, she did not mention how long he should have to wait. The pains he has felt in the past have never lasted this long. He draws his legs up. He tries to remember his training. Be aware of the pain. Do not be distracted by it. Put it far from yourself.

If he concentrates, he almost doesn’t feel it.

He is alone in the house. His father is at work, and his mother has gone out on errands. She was reluctant to leave him, but he’d insisted he would be okay for a few hours, might even sleep through them altogether and hardly notice her absence at all. Now a small voice in his head is wondering if he should have insisted she stay. The pains are not like the ones he experienced before. They are not stopping. They are appearing much more regularly and coming closer together. And they are becoming stronger. He tries everything he can not to think of them; he recites tables and timelines and formulas; he tries to imagine the human boy with him, hand on his shoulder or in his hair (I should have found him somehow found him maybe he’d), and when the pains get worse still and he starts to panic because they are supposed to go away, they are supposed to be nothing, and what if he is miscarrying, what if he’s about to lose his baby, what if something is terribly wrong inside his freakish, hybrid body—when the pains get worse and he cannot stand it anymore he starts to swear. He goes through every vulgarity he knows. He whispers them under his breath: first Vulcan, then Standard, English, Romulan, Russian, Andorian… He fists his hands in the sheets and tries to breathe.

“Spock,” he hears, then. The voice is faint, coming from all the way down the hall—the living room perhaps, or maybe the kitchen. “Spock,” it calls out again. “I’m sorry I’m late! How are you?”

He makes no answer, only drags a pillow toward him and buries his face in it. He can hear her footsteps coming, at a quick if not rapid pace, down the hall. He hears a knocking at his door and then his mother calling his name again but he can’t quite bring himself to speak. She is frantic, he thinks, before she even knows what is happening. She is at his side in seconds, smoothing back his hair—he feels her touch only vaguely—and asking him if he is all right.

“No,” he answers, and just then another pain hits. He should be able to master this. He should, but he is too distracted by worry, by sheer panic that the child is in danger. “Something is wrong. Something is wrong with the baby. Call T’Pala.”

He sees that she wants to question him further but she doesn’t, does not waste any time at all and soon he can hear her in the hallway, telling T’Pala to hurry. He has told her almost nothing and so she has almost nothing to tell, but he does not wish to waste his time on storytelling. He just wants help, and now.

His mother sits by his side as they wait, and even though it is not long, each second drags out an eternity. She holds a cool washcloth against his brow. She tells him that she has called his father too, that Sarek and T’Pala will arrive soon, and that he should not worry and that everything will be fine.

“How can you say that?” he asks, as another band of pain wraps around him. “What if—”

“Shhh,” she interrupts him, and tries to smile. “Don’t worry. That’s the doorbell. T’Pala’s here. Everything will be fine.”

Everything is a blur and he is only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He sees T’Pala enter his room, and somehow his father is there too, and later he will wonder just how many rules Sarek broke or how many favors he called in to get to Spock as quickly as he did. His room feels very crowded and even in the intervals between contractions all he can do is breathe deep and try to hold on to whatever shreds of calm he has left. T’Pala is by his side. She is asking him questions. What do the pains feel like? How long has he felt them? How many minutes does he wait between pains? He is only half aware of his own answers. He closes his eyes so that he does not have to see his parents waiting gravely just behind T’Pala, listening to every word.

“Spock, I want you to listen to me,” T’Pala is saying. Her voice seems unnaturally loud and he wonders how long she has been trying to get his attention. He turns to stare at her and tells her with as much sincerity as he can that he is listening, and he wants to know what is wrong with him, right now.

“You are going into labor,” she tells him, quite seriously and firmly and as if this were the sort of thing one heard everyday.

“No, I am not,” he answers, and shakes his head vaguely. He is now in one of the lulls between contractions but he feels exhausted with pain and with worry and it has not been very long yet at all, but he can’t keep up his defenses and he needs it to stop, stop right now. He moves his head back and forth against the pillow. “I cannot go into labor, T’Pala. We have discussed this…”

“I know,” she says. “There is no way that you can deliver this baby naturally, but your body is trying anyway. It is not an unknown complication to male pregnancy, though it is rare. I admit I was not expecting it myself, but—”

“I do not care!”

He knows she is about to launch into a speech and under other circumstances he would listen, but just then another, sharper pain seizes him and he yells out with it. He does not care if he has surprised T’Pala or startled his parents. He cannot listen to this. They cannot waste time.

“Just fix it,” he pants. “I do not want this anymore. Make it stop.”

“T’Pala,” he hears Sarek say, and he does not sound embarrassed or angry at his son’s outburst, only desperate and worried and perhaps close to an outburst of his own, “is there anything that can be done for him?”

Someone is touching his arm. He has his eyes squeezed tight shut and even the voices around him seem to blur. “We will have to bring him into surgery now,” T’Pala is saying. “He absolutely cannot wait.”

*

Later, he will remember very little. He will remember using all of his energy to block out the pain, and wondering in an almost vague and disconnected way if he is about to miscarry, if he will get to surgery in time, if both he and the child will survive this. He will remember his mother next to him, almost to the last minute, and his father too, touching his hands and his face, sending positive thoughts, sending a feeling of calm Spock knows he could never have found on his own. He won’t remember how he got to the hospital, or the minutes before he went into surgery. He will look and look for these things in his memory but will get, for his troubles, only a few hazy images, sounds, thoughts, and then nothing.

*

He is awake. For a moment, that is all he knows. He is awake but his eyes are closed, and his body is completely still, and there is light coming in from some unknown source. He can feel it on his eyelids. He does not try to move, at first, wary of what he might feel if he does. He is sore. His middle, his lower abdomen, is aching with a dull and study ache, as if he had been battered by something very large and unrelenting, and now he has been left to recover slowly. He feels exhausted and weak.

It comes back to him slowly: the unexpected labor, the surgery. His brain feels like mush; all of his usual quick reflexes and alert reasoning have been turned off and he is groggy and sluggish. But when he does remember something switches on in him. It is a small but bright light of a thought and it becomes his center. Nothing else matters. He just wants to know what happened. What has happened to his baby.

He tries to take a deep breath but even this hurts. He attempts no other movement but he gathers his strength to sit up. It is a strange realization that he has come to, as bizarre and as unavoidable as those bold black letters spelling out the results of T’Pala’s scan almost nine months ago. His pregnancy is over. His baby is either born, or—

He will not think it. Instead he opens his eyes and tries, vaguely and ineptly, to push himself into a proper sitting position.

His actions alert two figures in the corner of the room, and before he can quite tell what is happening, his mother is by his side. She is smiling. She looks as weary and as exhausted as he feels but she is smiling. “You’re awake,” she says softly, and slows his almost frantic movements with a hand to his arm. “Sit up slowly. You’ve just woken up from emergency surgery, you need to be careful.”

He is only half listening to her. “Where is—?” he asks, scanning his gaze across the hospital room from one corner to the other, straining forward despite the ache of it and even though his mother is still pushing him back against the pillows.

“It’s okay, Spock,” she tells him. “He’s fine.”

“He?”

He ceases, quite suddenly, any attempt to move, and directs his full attention to his mother again. She takes the opportunity to help him sit up completely, slowly and carefully arranging his sore body against the pillows; he’s hardly aware of any of this, just stares at her face and lets her words repeat slowly, over and over, in his mind. He’s fine.

“I have a son?” he asks her, tentatively.

She nods, and pushes his hair back from his face.

“You do.”

He feels so stunned that he cannot even ask to see him, but as he is still trying to form the words his mother turns from him, and quietly addresses the other woman in the room. They talk briefly, and then Spock’s mother is back at his side, a small bundle of white cloth in her arms. He reaches out for it instinctively, not even aware what he is doing.

“Here,” his mother is saying, “you should hold him.” He nods but does not say anything in response, does not say of course or I must, does not try at all to put into words the unformed half thoughts that are drifting through his head.

His mother helps him to arrange the small, delicate, being in his arms; at first he is awkward and unsure but in only a few short moments he is holding it correctly against him. Finally he can look down into his son’s face. He is so tiny, this little baby boy, much smaller than Spock had ever thought even a child could be, and yet it is amazing to think that only a few hours ago he was carrying this person inside him. The boy is flushed all over a dark pink and his face and body are scrunched together like a half-unwound ball. His eyes are closed and he is calm, quiet. Spock had wondered if he would cry but he seems comfortable already in his father’s arms. His tiny hands are formed into fists and Spock counts his fingers only with difficulty: four fingers and a thumb on each little hand. His head is covered in soft, dark-colored hair, and it’s too soon to tell what color it will be when he grows but Spock hopes it will be black like his own. Hesitantly, nervous to loosen his grip even the slightest on this little body, he reaches out to touch his son’s ears, first the far ear and then, gently, the second. He watches them unfurl into tiny points. He has Vulcan ears.

It is unreal. How could he really have created this tiny creature? He feels a great awe, and a strong possessiveness, a need to protect, a desire that he should never let his boy go, never let anything harm him or scare him. He wants the universe for him. He wants him to know peace, contentment, and order. He wants him to always feel safe and accepted, and if he can find that feeling nowhere else he wants him to find it with his father, in their home.

He notices, so absently it is as if his body belonged to another, that his face is wet. He passes the back of his wrist roughly beneath his eyes and sniffs, and hopes his mother won’t make any comments about this display of emotion. She doesn’t. He knows he looks a mess and he feels worse, aching and exhausted, and scared, honestly scared beneath everything else, but none of this matters. He has a son. He is a father.

As he watches, his child opens his eyes and looks up at him. He starts to wave his little fists, perhaps in confusion, or in excitement, and Spock watches the movement carefully, almost afraid to touch. He already knows that this little creature will fascinate him for years and years.

He runs his gaze across that perfect face again and this time he catches on the eyes, and he stops. They are a sharp, intense blue, a color he remembers perfectly—an exact copy of the human boy’s clear blue eyes. No Vulcan has eyes this color. Spock finds them intensely aesthetically pleasing.

He looks up at his mother, then, sees that she’s watching him carefully and with that same fond smile on her face. She is relieved, he thinks. She asks him how he’s feeling.

“I am,” he starts, but there’s no answer to this, no way to put the truth into words, so he stops, glances down at the child again, looks back at his mother and says, “He is not what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?” his mother asks, a hint of amusement, barely perceptible, in her tone.

“I do not know,” he admits, and looks down at the child again. “He is quite pleasing.”

“He is beautiful,” his mother agrees.

“His eyes look like his other father’s,” Spock tells her, gaze still stuck on the boy’s face, and his attention so absorbed he does not truly notice that he is speaking aloud. His mother does not seem to have anything to say in response to this comment but he is not bothered by her silence. He does not even see the slight stiffening of her posture at his mention of the human boy. He looks back up at her properly, though, when she says, her voice louder than it has yet been, “Your father is waiting outside. I told him I would call him in when you woke up.”

Spock nods vaguely and watches as his mother leaves the room, then turns his attention back to his son. “You will always have me,” he whispers. “I can already see that you are amazing. You will do so much, and you will have so much. I know this. But no matter what you must know that I am here. You have me.”

He would say more—he knows the boy can’t understand him but he wants him to hear his voice—when his door opens again and his parents enter together. He looks up and meet Sarek’s gaze. It is unreadable, but he thinks might notice some small hint, there, of emotion: perhaps curiosity, and nothing more, or perhaps pride, or perhaps something else altogether.

“Father,” he says carefully. “Would you like to meet your grandson?”

“It would be an honor,” Sarek answers, and comes to stand by the side of Spock’s bed. He is trying to hide it, but his voice comes out choked. Spock arranges the blankets around the child so that his face is more clearly visible, then looks up to his father for his reaction.

It’s hard to tell, but the expression on Sarek’s face might be something close to awe.

“Do you wish to hold him?” Spock asks.

“Very much.”

His attention, as he speaks, is trained completely on Spock. There is much he wishes to say that he never will, that he does not know how to say, and Spock understands this, he does, and not least because he feels exactly the same way. Perhaps it is best that they say little. Perhaps there is nothing, in this moment, to say.

Spock gives up the baby with some reluctance, watching his face intently as he transfers the small bundle to Sarek’s arms. But the child does not seem bothered to be leaving his father’s care, only settles equally comfortably against Sarek and looks up at him with the same bright, nearsighted eyes that so startled Spock when he first gazed at them. He wonders what his father is thinking. Is he looking at the child’s pointed ears, or his bright blue eyes, or the curious expression on his face? Is he wondering how Vulcan he is, or how human, running through statistics and percentages? Or are his thoughts far from such scientific questions, bordering perhaps on the emotional: remembering Spock’s own birth, or the first time he held his son in his arms?

He will never know. Sarek’s expression is as opaque as always, and yet Spock sees a softness there that is rare, that Sarek only lets slip when he is flooded with some particularly strong emotion, like pride or compassion, or love.

Spock is staring at him fixedly, ready to meet his gaze when he looks up. For a moment, his father seems rather speechless.

“Here,” he says finally, and carefully transfers the small boy back to Spock. “I—am quite proud of you, my son.”

The little boy is waving his arms again, one small fist hitting gently against Spock’s arm and drawing his attention back down once more. He gets the feeling it won’t be anywhere else for a while.

“Have you decided,” Sarek asks him, and Spock is sure that he’s looking down at the child’s face too, “what you will name him?”

He hasn’t. He’d told himself he’d have a few more days to make a final decision, but perhaps he’d always known he would not be able to choose a name until he saw his baby looking up at him at last. He tilts his head to one side, then the other. He considers. Then, quite suddenly, he knows.

He takes one of those little fists in his and waves it back and forth gently. “His name,” he announces quietly, “is Sevin.”

Chapter Text

I gave birth to our son three weeks ago. Even though he was born only three days early, he is unusually small for his age. I am told he is healthy. Despite all of the dangers of my pregnancy, all of the ways that I failed to protect him then, he has survived and survived well. He is stronger than he appears. He has my hair and my ears, but your blood and your heart. His skin has the same pink tint as yours, and he has your distinctive blue eyes. I am not prone to exaggeration, and yet it does not seem inaccurate to say that he is the center of everything for me. No one and nothing is as important as he.

Sometimes, I simply sit and hold him and look down at his face. I have found that I can do this for long periods of time, and hardly even feel that time passing. I look for the beginnings of his personality, and cannot help wondering what he will grow to be. He seems to have my curiosity, but perhaps all babies are like this. Everything is new to him. Yet he is not scared of any of it. When he is in my arms, I can feel a sense of contentment, and of security, coming from him. My mother says that he is a happy child. He is more vocal than most Vulcan babies are. I am trying to learn his sounds, to interpret the slight variations in them, as if his language were a completely new one, of his invention, that I must become fluent in.

It would be better if I could write that I have been so preoccupied with my son that I have not thought of you at all. This is not true. You are often in my thoughts.

Sevin is precious to me. My feelings for him are stronger than anything I have ever known. There is something primal in them, something ancient, impossible to master completely. He is my child, my son, my heir. I have no words for the emotion he inspires in me. Sometimes this feeling is unnerving and I must work to control it, but still I would never choose to give it up, or pick a life that did not include him in it. When I consider this, I cannot help but remember that Sevin is just as much your son as mine, and yet you will never have the privilege of meeting him. You will never hold him, or look into his eyes, or touch his hands. I am keeping him from you.

I know that not all men want to be in their children’s lives. Yet I do not wish to believe that you would be such a man.

I cannot justify this decision. Sometimes I believe that I should try, somehow, to find you. But I cannot bring myself to. You would be angry with me, perhaps, for hiding my pregnancy from you. You might reject Sevin. You might find us both disgusting. You might not believe me at all, that I could have carried Sevin, or that he is really your son.

It is not simple, caring for a child, and especially one so young. Though I once needed little sleep, my body seems to require as much rest now as it did when I was pregnant, and yet Sevin is constantly waking me with his cries, even in the middle of the night. I have no time for myself. I missed the last month of the school year, but I have not been able to spare more than a few minutes’ thought to how I will complete all the work I have missed. I have only meditated once since Sevin’s birth, on the day after I returned home from the hospital, and only because my mother insisted she would take responsibility for Sevin during that time. My body has not fully recovered; I feel worn down; I do not exist for myself anymore; my life feels unbalanced. I do not understand why this is so difficult. I have been taught my whole life how to balance multiple tasks and multiple ideas. Yet at times this seems a challenge beyond me.

During the first days of my son’s life, I was almost incapable of caring for him. I was taught how to hold him and how to feed him, and I spent as much time with him as I could. But I was weak from the surgery and could not give him everything he needed. I relied on my parents. It was not right, it was shameful, that I should have needed them as much as I did. It should have been my mate by my side, assisting me when I needed it, helping me when it was necessary. I know this. Yet I can blame no one but myself for this situation. It is only my decisions that have led me here.

My parents are the only ones, with the exception of my physician and the other hospital workers, who have seen Sevin. My mother seems almost as intrigued by him as I am. She tells me she is a proud grandmother, and she smiles and laughs and plays with Sevin as any human would with the newest addition to her family. She is as supportive now as she has been with me for months, helpful and encouraging, and reminding me of the positive when I cannot see it myself. I do not know if she still retains the anger or the disappointment that she exhibited when I first told her of my pregnancy. She has an impressive control of her emotions, for an Earth woman, and if she wished to hide her disapproval from me, she would be able to do so. And yet I believe her joy to be genuine. Even though I have disappointed her greatly, she still insists on taking an optimistic view of my situation.

My father still finds it difficult to consider me a parent. When he first held Sevin, I believed him to be as in awe of the child as I was myself, and perhaps in that moment he was. But since our return from the hospital, he has been distant. He helps to care for Sevin, just as my mother does, and for this I am grateful. Yet I see that he avoids me as much as he can, and when he looks at Sevin, it is as if he were looking at an alien child, and not his own grandson. Some days are better than others. Sometimes I can detect affection in his manner to my son. I believe he is making an effort, and I know that it must be a challenge for him, to listen every day to his colleagues at the Embassy speaking badly about him and his family. I have not left my parents’ property since Sevin’s birth, and my mother works in an insulated part of the Embassy, protected from the worst of the gossip and the negative talk, so it is only my father who is surrounded by these disparaging comments. Furthermore, he knows there is reason behind the accusations against me. My indiscretion was serious, and perhaps I deserve the disapproval of my society. However, I do not know that I deserve the disapproval of my father.

I must not continue to write to you in this way. Upon reflection, I believe that this letter is taking the place of the meditation I have been unable to fit into my schedule these last weeks. I must take advantage of quiet moments. Sevin is asleep now, in a cradle by my bed because I do not wish to leave him even on the other side of a wall from me, but I do not know how long I have until he wakes.

*

“Mother,” Spock says, as politely but as forcefully as he can, “you need not worry. I know how to care for my own son. Furthermore, you and Father will only be absent a few hours. If I need assistance, I know how to contact you or T’Pala, and you can contact me if you feel it necessary. Sevin will go to sleep soon, and I do not foresee any difficulties.”

He can tell that his mother wants to argue with him again, and give some new excuse that would allow her to stay home, instead of going to the dinner for the Terran Ambassadors with her husband. There is no question that she must go and she knows it, just as Sarek and Spock do. For his wife to be absent at such an important event would be quite unacceptable, and would force Sarek to answer unnecessary, awkward inquiries. The event promises to be uncomfortable enough. Sevin was born six weeks ago, but Spock’s illegitimate son remains a popular topic of conversation in the city, and the whole family knows it will be the unspoken subject on everyone’s mind at the dinner.

Finally, though, she just asks one more time, “Are you sure, Spock?”

“He is my son,” he repeats, shifting his baby in his arms, “and eventually I will have to care for him entirely on my own. I value your help, mother, but it is not unreasonable that I should spend an evening alone with my own child.”

“Of course it isn’t,” his mother admits, with only slight reluctance, and in that moment she seems to force herself into a decision. “Okay. Your father will be ready in a few moments and then we’ll go. You will have to forgive me, Spock,” she adds, with a small smile, “for being overprotective. Parents get that way sometimes.”

Spock feels Sevin reach out vaguely to tug on his shirt, and he unconsciously holds on a little tighter. “I know,” he answers.

Before either he or his mother can say anything more, his father appears in the kitchen doorway, dressed in his official robes and already eyeing the door. “Are you ready, Amanda?” he asks. “If we do not leave now, we will be late.”

“Then we should not waste any time,” she answers, and turns to give Spock and Sevin one last goodbye. Sarek pauses only long enough to remind Spock when they will be back, and then he is out the door after his wife and the house is empty.

“What do you wish to do, Sevin,” Spock asks, “now that we have this evening to ourselves?”

Answers are not forthcoming from his six-week-old son, so he carries him back to the living room and lies him down once more on the blanket he had arranged earlier on the floor. He picks up the keys that he was showing to Sevin earlier that day and holds them again in front of them. “Look,” he directs, and shakes the keys gently so that they make noise. “These are the keys to your grandfather’s motorcycle.” Sevin turns his attention to where Spock is looking, and soon is caught up in amazement at the keys.

Over the last month, Spock has found that the entire world is endlessly fascinating to Sevin, and in turn Sevin is endlessly fascinating to Spock himself. Simple, everyday objects—a utensil, a plant—will attract Sevin’s attention as if they were the newest, strangest inventions on the planet, and seeing Sevin stare with such interest, or reach out blindly but insistently toward some new shape or texture, never ceases to enthrall Spock. The whole world is new to this little boy. Everything is a discovery.

Not fifteen minutes after the door closes behind Spock’s parents, he hears his communicator begin to beep insistently from the side table. He sets the keys aside. “Your grandmother,” he tells Sevin, blocking out his frustration as he reaches for the device, then lies down next to Sevin on the floor, “is human, and thus cannot stop herself from worrying.”

Someday Sevin will be able to answer when Spock speaks to him, and he looks forward to it, but that day will not come for many months yet, and so Sevin just lies there passively as his father presses a button on the communicator and says hello. He does not even check who is calling him, he is so sure it is his mother, and so it is somewhat of a surprise when he hears T’Pring’s voice on the other end.

“Spock,” she says. “I hope that you are doing well.”

He does not answer right away. He wishes to, but he is finding it rather difficult to find the correct words. They have not spoken since her visit to Spock’s home almost two months ago, the most contact between them the message of Sevin’s birth that Spock had remembered to send her, as promised. She had not sent any message back. In his few spare moments, he had thought of her, wondered what she was doing or thinking, if perhaps some mistake had kept her from receiving his note, if she was still waiting for word of him. It was not a pleasant thought, to consider that she might have heard the news of his son’s arrival from a stray rumor, rather than directly from him. But in the end it was easy enough to block these worries. He had had many other concerns on his mind.

T’Pring does not wait long for him to speak, only continues talking into the silence; her voice is steady, formal, and distant. “I should not have waited this long to respond to your message,” she is saying. “That was rude of me. I do wish to congratulate you, Spock, on the arrival of your son.”

“I thank you,” he manages in reply.

She does not say anything to this, perhaps waiting for him to say something more, and in the pause that follows Sevin bores of his father’s inattention, and starts to reach out his small arms for the communicator. Spock gives Sevin his hand to play with instead and prepares to tell T’Pring that he must go, when she asks if, perhaps, she might be permitted to visit one day.

Spock looks down at his boy. He is old enough, now. Spock cannot continue to hide him away forever.

“Are you available this evening?” he asks.

She is, and it is not long before he hears the ring of his doorbell and knows she has arrived. He picks up Sevin. He feels unaccountably nervous but he swallows the feeling down. It is only T’Pring. He knows she will not judge him or speak badly of Sevin, and yet the thought of allowing him to be seen by one outside of his own family is difficult to fathom. What will she think of him? Will she see in him everything that Spock sees?

He commands open the door a bit awkwardly, and steps back for her to come in.

At first, T’Pring looks only at his face, but he knows she is using all of her self-control not to gaze at the small child he’s holding. For a few moments, at least, Sevin will remain the unspoken, if obvious, topic between them. She greets Spock politely and asks after his health.

“I am well,” he answers, as he leads her into the living room. “I met with my physician yesterday. She says that I am recovering from the surgery faster than expected.” He sits down on the couch and motions for her to sit, too. Then he adds, “Sevin is healthy, as well.”

He hopes that she will take this, and his slight nod down, as permission to stare as much as she wants, and she does. For a few moments, it is as if he were not even in the room. He does not blame T’Pring by how absorbed she seems, watching Sevin as he watches her, because it does not begin to compare to his own obsession. Still, her reaction is difficult to read. She seems more curious than anything, a scientist simply observing, collecting data, saving her judgment for a later time and utterly unswayed by emotion or sentiment. That anyone could be so unswayed while staring at Sevin is a difficult proposition to believe. Perhaps she is merely holding back.

Finally, she looks up at Spock again, and he is ready to meet her gaze. “He is a pleasing child,” she says. This is clearly an understatement, but then propriety does not allow for anything else. “He resembles you. Except,” she adds, “that he is very pink.”

“He is red-blooded,” Spock explains, not without some embarrassment, as if this chance inheritance were some sort of defect or genetic mistake. “He has human blood like his other father.”

“I see.” There is a rare hint of awkwardness in her manner in return, and her gaze slips back to Sevin. She pretends that her question is quite innocent and commonplace as she asks, “He does not know about the birth?”

“No.” Unconsciously, he shifts his body into a more protective, defensive position. “We are not in contact.” His voice is closed off and admits of no further conversation on this topic, and though he knows that T’Pring wishes to know more, she keeps her silence. She bites her lip, once, and her eyes run over his face as if she were running through some complicated equation in her mind, and then she composes herself and becomes unreadable once more.

“His name is Sevin?” she asks lightly.

“Yes.”

T’Pring tilts her head and for a moment, she seems to be examining them both again, and thinking. “You are different, Spock. I can already see it. But I cannot…quantify the change.”

He is not surprised to hear her say this; he understands better than she herself does what she is trying to say. He wants to tell her that the change she perceives simply is not quantifiable, and never will be, no matter how much of her sharp mind she devotes to the task. He wants to tell her, I have a son, and hope she will accept this as the best explanation she will receive. But he doesn’t.

Instead he looks down at the child and he says, “Sevin,” as if he really expected this to catch his boy’s constantly wandering attention. “This is T’Pring. She is your father’s friend.” Then he takes her wrist gently and brings it forward so that Sevin can touch.

He looks up at T’Pring, hoping that he appears more confident in this gesture than he feels, but she is staring intently, again, at the baby, who is examining her skin now as one more new, foreign, interesting thing. “What do you think he will be,” she asks Spock, without turning her gaze to him, “when he grows up?”

“Whatever he wishes,” Spock answers. It is puzzling to him that T’Pring should ask this, it is so obvious.

She stays while Spock feeds Sevin and watches, later, when he puts his son to bed. She is silent as they leave the room, seeming to walk with particular care, as if she were afraid that the slightest hint of noise would wake the little boy. “He sleeps longer than he used to,” Spock informs her when they are back in the hallway, not because she had asked but because he is not sure what else to say to her now that they are alone. “He used to wake up every two or three hours, even in the middle of the night.” He looks down at the monitor he holds in his hands. The device is more precaution than anything. He can feel through the parental bond whenever Sevin wakes up.

“Perhaps I should leave,” T’Pring suggests. They are still standing in the hallway, just outside the closed door of Sevin’s room. “I have taken up enough of your evening already.”

“I value your company as much as ever, T’Pring,” he answers. His voice is somewhat quieter than he had intended it to be, and he is suddenly aware of the dim light of the hallway, of how closely they are standing, of how T’Pring is keeping her gaze steadily at his collar, and never meeting his eyes.

He doesn’t know what the moment is becoming but he breaks it, sliding past her and into the well lit living room, and asking, this time in a louder, more neutral voice, if she is hungry.

“I have not eaten since this morning,” she admits, following him as he continues into the kitchen.

“Neither have I.” He answers this over his shoulder because he is already replicating a large dinner for two. T’Pring stands in the doorway watching him, an unreadable expression on her face.

“I assume you were quite busy with your schoolwork,” Spock says, later, after they have arranged themselves on opposite ends of the kitchen table, plates of food between them.

“The end of the year is always busy,” T’Pring agrees lightly.

“I know I missed much,” he goes on, and looks down more at his food than at T’Pring. “I have only glanced through the work I was given by the school. I have not had time to devote myself to completing any of it.”

“Your son is your priority now,” T’Pring answers. “It is understandable that your other concerns are no longer as important.”

Spock pushes a bean from one end of his plate to the other and thinks that she does not understand at all. He does not wish to explain to her that his other concerns, as she calls them, are still important. He still wants to return to school. He still wants to do well. He still wants to attend the Academy and become a scientist. Sometimes he tells himself that he must succeed for Sevin, and that he cannot care for and provide for his son if he does not finish his education and find a career for himself. In other moments, he simply admits to himself that he is selfish. He wants the Academy for himself. Becoming a father has not changed his dreams, dreams he has held for so long he cannot remember a time in his life when he did not feel himself reaching for them. Before his pregnancy, they seemed so concrete, the path toward them so simple and straightforward, that he was naïve enough to call them plans.

To T’Pring, he says only, calmly, “Do you believe I should return to school next year?”

The question, despite his neutral tone in asking it, seems to surprise her. She looks up sharply, and the next minute tries to pretend she felt no shock. “You are considering leaving?” she asks. She holds her fork awkwardly in midair above her plate.

“No. I was only curious as to your opinion. I have a child now; perhaps, as you said, I should…rearrange my priorities.”

“That does not mean giving up. You have worked hard on your studies for years, and cannot simply abandon them now,” she answers adamantly, and he feels more gladdened than he should, to hear her say so. She thinks as he does. He is not, perhaps, as self-centered and irrational as he thought.

For a few moments, they eat in silence. Then Spock says, quietly, to T’Pring’s glass of water, “I am not prepared to return next year. I have time to complete my work from the weeks I missed, but,” he pauses, and leans forward over the table unconsciously, “I will need assistance.”

T’Pring looks up, and he cannot read her expression at all. He has the quite unreasonable feeling that the request he is making of her is larger than it is.

“Of course, Spock,” she says finally. “I am sure you will master the material quickly, if we devote time to it together.”

*

He has been standing next to Sevin’s crib for 16 minutes and 38 seconds, completely still and completely silent so that he does not disturb the child’s sleep. He does not know how much longer he will stand like this. He knows he should leave, and return to his own room only one door over, and prepare for tomorrow. He has time to meditate, if he chooses. He can go to sleep early. But all he wants to do is stare at his son, as if tomorrow they will be separated forever, instead of for only a few hours.

He hears the door open quietly behind him, and glances once over his shoulder to see who is there. Even in the dim light of the room he can see that it is his mother. She comes to stand next to him and asks him how he is doing.

“I am well,” he answers.

“Nervous about school tomorrow?” she asks. She has asked this same question, in this same tone, on the day before the start of each new school year, for his entire academic life. It has a slightly different meaning, this year. Still he answers as he always has, even using the same tone of quietly pointed dismissal that he picked up at the start of adolescence.

“Of course not, Mother. I am never nervous.”

She laughs a little at this, but quietly, softly, and this is part of the ritual, too. He keeps his eyes turned down, his stare on his boy just like before. He changes the subject, though he knows, because he knows his mother, that she will change it back despite his efforts.

“He can roll over on his own, now,” he says. “I would not have thought it possible that such a simple action should be so…fascinating.”

“Just wait until he begins to walk,” his mother answers. “He’ll be out of your control, then.”

He glances at her, not sure if this is an attempt at humor, but she is looking down at Sevin and her profile gives nothing away. He chooses not to reply to this comment. In truth, some days it seems that Sevin is growing incredibly quickly, and no matter how often T’Pala assures him that he is developing normally, he finds it difficult to believe that it was only a few months ago that he was bringing this small being home. Other days, he is struck by how helpless his baby still is, how much he needs Spock all the time. The thought of him walking is oddly disconcerting. Already he feels that his child’s independence, even in the smallest form, will be a double edged sword.

“You know that you will have to find a caregiver for him, soon,” his mother reminds him, and though her voice is gentle, he knows that she will not let him avoid this conversation topic any longer, and will focus on it insistently until he makes a decision. “I cannot keep working odd hours indefinitely, and now that you are returning to school—”

“I know. I must find someone I trust to care for him.”

“I understand your concerns, Spock,” his mother sighs, and something in her voice makes him wonder if she felt his same anxieties herself after he was born. “It is difficult enough to be a new parent considering leaving your child in someone else’s care, but to have to wonder if that person will accept that child… But not everyone is judgmental and cruel. There are many responsible, gentle, accepting people who will treat Sevin just as they would any other child. Perhaps eventually you would even consider leaving him in a daycare facility, so he could interact with other children—”

“I would not have him be the object of ridicule,” Spock cuts her off, his voice sharper than he had intended, and his hands grip the side of the crib tightly. He looks down at Sevin. He is so small, now, only three months old, and for a while he may be able to play peacefully with other children of his age, but Spock knows well how early cruelty can appear, and that all too soon his son’s peers will judge and scorn him, if they are allowed to socialize together.

His mother lets a moment or two pass before she replies, to let him find his balance again. Then she says, her calm voice a definite contrast to the slip of emotion he had let into his own, “The planet is going through a phase, Spock. That’s what this is, a political and cultural phase, and it will fall out of fashion as phases do. There was a time when Vulcans were willing to, even actively in favor of, interacting with the people of other planets and forming alliances with them.”

She is talking about the time of her marriage, Spock is thinking. She is talking about before the Kelvin disaster, and the discovery of the genetic link between Vulcans and Romulans, and the start of the debates over Vulcan’s place in the Federation. But that was before Spock was even born. He does not remember a time when it was not like this, and cannot easily hypothesize a time when it will be different.

“We should talk about this another time,” he says, his voice hard and admitting of no argument, and his mother, though she sighs in frustration, attempts none. It is not necessary. He knows what she would say, if their discussion continued. She would remind him that eventually he will have to send Sevin to school. Eventually, he will have to watch him grow up, and interact with his classmates, and face whatever names they might have for him, whatever taunts they might devise. Eventually. But not yet, and for the moment he must concern himself with immediate problems.

“I’m surprised we haven’t woken him up,” his mother says, after a moment, and puts a hand on Spock’s arm to signal that they should leave.

But he doesn’t move. He just looks down at the closed eyes and small hands and gently moving chest, rising and falling with breath. “I do not wish to leave him,” he admits. Then he looks up at his mother and clarifies, “I do not wish to leave him tomorrow. Though it is the same number of hours as before, my school day seems, oddly, much longer than it did last year.”

“It will be tough to leave him,” his mother agrees, “but it will be good for you, too. You are only sixteen, Spock, and it is important for you to live your own life. You cannot be with Sevin every second of the day. No parent can.”

“I do spend some time by myself,” Spock answers, but it is not much of an argument. Twenty minutes here or a half hour there are not the same, and he knows it. “On occasion,” he admits, “I miss having time alone. I wish to have my own life again.” It does not feel good to say. He looks down at his son and he feels a low stab of guilt, illogical, strong nonetheless, that he should ever regret the boy’s presence in his life in this way.

“You are allowed to feel that way, Spock,” his mother reassures him. He shrinks away from her touch, and from the word ‘feel.’ Sometimes, he wishes that she did not read him as well as she does. Since Sevin’s birth he has been more aware than ever of his feelings, of the pure, hard, cold fact that he has feelings and he cannot always control them, and this shames him. His classmates cannot understand this. Tomorrow, when he rejoins them, this will be only one more barrier between them. He does not wish to think about it.

“Perhaps I should go to bed,” he says quietly.

He thinks his mother will say something more, but she steps back. She agrees—“That is a good idea”—but when she leaves she does not expect Spock to follow her right away. For another minute and 48 seconds he stands watching Sevin sleep. Then he turns around and leaves as quietly as he can, and slips into his own room to meditate.

*

He believed himself to be accustomed to the staring, but it still hits him, when he arrives at the school the next morning, to see the way his classmates look at him. Some try to be discreet. Others do not bother. Most stare at his body but few will look at his face. He passes groups of them and thinks he hears them whispering.

He tells himself that he is being irrational, even paranoid. On the first day of school, a student has many concerns of his or her own, too many to be so interested in him. He is not so fascinating. He almost blends in. His body, though not its former shape, is no longer as noticeably large as it was, and his son is at home, and if one did not know his past, he would never be able to guess. But Spock knows his classmates have not forgotten.

He goes to his classes and tries not to draw attention to himself. He answers every question put to him correctly, sure that his instructors are targeting him, testing him. Most students who have missed as many days as he has would not be able to return as prepared as he is, but he feels no pride in the accomplishment. All day, he finds his thoughts wondering without his permission back to Sevin, wondering what he is doing or if he is okay. These are unreasonable thoughts. They have been separated mere hours. But school is not the same knowing that his boy is at home waiting for him.

There is something comforting, relaxing, in the routine, true. Caring for Sevin can be frustrating. He has no intuition for the task, and he relies on his mother’s advice and instruction more than he believes he should. Sevin cries and Spock does not know why. He laughs, and the noise is just as puzzling, if less upsetting. Sevin is too young to have any control over his emotions and Spock, who has never seen such naked displays of feeling in his life, is at a loss how to respond.

At school, at least he feels in control. He knows the routine. The academic world is familiar and he tries to concentrate on it, to lose himself in it, and to forget that to his peers he is something freakish and weird. He learned long ago how to ignore them. It is harder now that he has become an example, a lesson, a warning. But he does his best.

During his free hour, he sits in a back corner of the courtyard, reading. A group of his classmates, five or six students in their final year, sit down on the benches in front of him. They do not see him, but he sits further back in the shadow, just in case. He is prepared to block out their conversation entirely, when he catches his name almost by accident, and immediately his whole body stiffens. He sits as still as possible and looks down, unseeing, at the text in his hands, ears carefully tuned to the group in front of him.

“Has anyone seen it?” one boy asks. There is something lewd about his curiosity, something dirty in it, and Spock feels strangely as if he is being accused.

“No,” a girl next to him answers shortly. “But I have heard it looks like a human.”

“I saw them walking once,” a third says, and all quickly turn their attention to him. He is proud of his spotlight, Spock thinks darkly, and tightens the fingers of one hand into a fist. “I could not see much but I do believe that the child has our ears.”

This is nothing but a guess, and Spock knows it. He would never let one such as this boy get close enough to Sevin to see his ears. Better for him if he had professed, however inaccurately, the opposite, because his announcement is not what the group wants to hear and he loses their attention quickly.

“My father says that he is not to be married,” the first girl says. “He works at the Embassy. He says that Ambassador Sarek has confirmed it. There are no plans for Spock to be bonded.”

“That means that no one will have him,” another girl says confidently. “Not even the father of his child.”

“One would think,” one of the boys says lightly at this, as if he were merely wondering idly at some unimportant problem, “that someone would. His family has much prestige, and considerable wealth.”

“Perhaps you should propose,” another suggests, and at this, Spock decides that he cannot listen to the conversation a second longer. The girl is not serious, and the slow disdainful raise of the eyebrow that the boy gives her in return shows that he acknowledges as much. Spock knows them both. They are engaged, betrothed as children just as he and T’Pring were, though unlike he and T’Pring they have grown up constantly in each other’s company, constantly bringing out the worst in each other until he would find it impossible to choose which is the more snobbish and condescending of the pair.

The conversation is cut off shortly afterwards when the group disperses to their respective classes. Spock makes his way to Chemistry. Just as last year, he has this class with T’Pring, but though he enters the room expecting to make his way to his customary seat, rows from hers, she catches his eye right away and nods to the empty seat beside her. He sits down next to her as if this were the usual routine. They have some time, still, before the class officially starts, and Spock starts to say, “I must thank you, T’Pring for—”

“Do not,” she cuts him off shortly, and stares carefully ahead.

These are the rules, then, he thinks. He cannot blame her. She gets her share of attention, too, and would even if she kept a much greater distance from Spock than she does. Some fashion her as a victim, the intended wife who was pushed aside when Spock had a child with someone else; others think she is lucky, free now to make her own choices. Her preference for many years was no secret.

When Stonn walks into the room he looks darkly at Spock, then at T’Pring, but it is only Spock who meets his eyes in return.

After classes end he meets T’Pring in the library, and they find a place by a cluster of old-model computers where students rarely go. “Are you able to come to my house this afternoon?” she asks him. “My parents will both be out until late this evening.”

“I cannot,” he answers. “I must go home to Sevin. My mother has stayed with him all day but she must work this afternoon.”

“Your father cannot care for him?”

“No.” He shakes his head, and does not add that he tries purposefully to bother his father with Sevin as little as possible. “He is my responsibility first.”

“I understand,” T’Pring says, perhaps, he thinks, a bit embarrassed that he should have to remind her of this quite simple and quite obvious truth. But he cannot blame her for this, either. It is a strange concept. Neither of them has ever known another of their age in his position.

“Perhaps another day?” he asks, knowing that there is little they can say to each other here, when each cannot stop wondering if someone will happen by them, and when Spock has to return home as quickly as he can to his son. Still, he wishes to draw out their conversation a little longer. T’Pring nods and agrees, another day, but she is already closing herself off. He can see it. Even though they are not touching, he almost seems to feel it. He says he will see her tomorrow in class and she takes her leave of him.

He stays a few minutes longer so that they will not be seen leaving the building together. He is convinced he will see Stonn waiting for him outside when he does start on his way home, but this is only his paranoia again. There is no one.

It takes almost a week for Stonn to approach him, but he does; eventually, inevitably, he does. He finds Spock in the library, reading this time far away from the hurtful gossip of his classmates. Spock barely glances up when Stonn slides into the seat next to his. “Do you want something?” he asks, his tone disinterested, bordering on dismissive.

“Only to congratulate you,” Stonn answers smoothly. “I understand your baby has been born. A boy,” he continues, and then pauses, and his eyes flick up and down Spock’s body grossly. “Or so I have heard.”

“I have a son,” Spock confirms. He keeps his voice as level as he can and he tries to stare down at his reading. He will not give Stonn a chance to elicit any sort of gratifying response from him. He will be like a wild animal: he will play dead, and when Stonn gets bored of him he will leave.

Stonn does not give up right away. “It is selfish of you to keep him hidden,” he is saying. “The newest member of your father’s prestigious house should be admired.”

“I go out with him on occasion,” Spock corrects, and tries to pretend he does not feel a slight sting at Stonn’s words. If the circumstances had been different, if his son had been born later, and into a proper family, Spock and his spouse as parents, the situation would be another one entirely. Sevin would be admired. He would be given the attention, all the positive attention, that Spock knows he deserves. Sometimes he looks at him, and thinks this—that he is a perfect thing, and no one will ever acknowledge this, because of what his father has done.

This is only his parental bias, he reminds himself. But it does not lessen the unfairness of Sevin’s situation, how he is punished for the circumstances of his existence when only Spock should be so chastised.

“Must I come to your house to pay my respects to this new prince?” Stonn is asking, and the way he says the last word, it sounds like an insult, and the way he leans in close to Spock, as he says it, makes all of Spock’s muscles tense.

“You are not welcome in my home, Stonn.”

“Only T’Pring is granted this great privilege then?”

Spock’s body is rigid, painfully so; he can hardly breathe. He glances at Stonn. He has relaxed his own posture but it’s an act, and the ugly expression on his face declares this clearly enough.

Spock turns back to his reading pointedly. “Let me be,” he says. “I am nothing to you: no threat, no competition. You are wasting your time here.”

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Stonn’s hands are rolled into his fists, an unnecessary show of emotion, the sign of one who cannot keep his feelings controlled as he should. He would pity Stonn, if he were capable of such an emotion. He pretends to read but all he is doing is waiting, breath held and he barely realizes it, waiting for Stonn to do something or say something or maybe, he can still hope, simply to leave. The moments drag on much longer than they should. Finally Stonn stands. The confrontation seems to be over.

Four paces from Spock’s table he turns, and Spock looks up at him involuntarily, wishing he hadn’t. “We have nothing to say to each other, Stonn,” he tries to convince him. This isn’t strictly true and even he knows it, but he must believe it, he must speak the words as if he knew them to be true. Stonn just stares at him.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks. His voice is hard but beneath it, Spock thinks, there is a genuine curiosity.

“Prepare for the final Science Academy interview,” he answers.

“You believe you still have a chance?” Stonn lifts one eyebrow.

Spock counters, “Do you believe that you do? Your entrance exam scores—”

“Were higher than yours. Furthermore, I will be able to make preparing for the final interview my priority this year. Where will your priorities be, Spock?”

Spock opens his mouth to answer but he is not quick about it, or at least not quick enough, and before he quite knows it Stonn has disappeared around a corner and he is alone. But this is better. He did not have an answer, anyway.

*

“He enjoys music too,” Sarek says, as if by explanation, when Spock walks in on him holding Sevin and singing. Spock pauses in the doorway. Then he nods absently. He walks past his father without another look and sinks down into a chair until he feels boneless; he closes his eyes. “He is like you, at that age,” his father is saying. “Perhaps he will also grow up to be a musician.”

“Perhaps,” Spock answers, but doesn’t open his eyes.

He hears his father’s footsteps come closer to his chair, and feels a small body being transferred into his arms. He sits up sharply and opens his eyes and arranges Sevin carefully, forcing back the fatigue as much as he can. “Singing was the only thing that would quiet him,” Sarek continues. “Your child is making it very difficult for me to work, Spock.”

“He often makes it difficult for me to work,” Spock mutters. His father pretends not to hear. He adds, louder this time, “I am unusually tired, Father.”

“You have a four month old. There is no such thing as unusually tired,” Sarek corrects.

Spock does not wish to concede this, though he should, his father is right as he is always right, so he ignores Sarek and looks down at Sevin instead. His son is staring at him, seemingly expectant. He is wondering what happened to the music, Spock thinks.

“Does it matter to him,” he asks, gaze still down-tilted, words addressed to his father, “that he spends most of his time in this house or on this property?”

“Do you wish to take him out more often?” Sarek asks in return.

“I do not know.” He pauses and sits back a bit more comfortably in the chair. It is difficult to put into words what he wishes to say. He is not sure his father wants to hear these things, either, but he is there, a convenient audience, and he is not leaving or making excuses or giving any signal that he is not willing to wait for Spock to find words. He tries, “When we go out, those we meet look at me strangely. I think sometimes they talk about me to each other.”

“Perhaps you are simply assuming animosity where there is none, because it is what you fear,” Sarek suggests.

Spock looks up at his father, and tilts his head in such a way to convey his disbelief. He knows Sarek does not believe his own words. He has spent too many months telling Spock that he could expect no less than a near universal scorn from their people for his decision to be a teenage parent. It is not credible that he should suggest anything else now. Sarek straightens and turns his gaze away. Spock knows that a part of him still regrets the situation, still considers all the ifs, all the possible turns that could have saved them this disgrace. If he had not brought Spock to Earth. If he had forced him to give up his baby after its birth. If he had, even, sent Spock away during his pregnancy. If no one had ever found out.

“You cannot undo what has been done, Spock,” he says now. “Nor can you change the opinions of those around you, especially those opinions that have been formed from centuries of tradition. Your only choice is how you will respond to those who judge you. You can avoid them, confront them, or ignore them.”

“You advocate the third option?” Spock asks, staring up at his father and the unreadable expression of his face.

“I believe it to be, at the moment, the wisest choice.”

Spock has, throughout their conversation, been bouncing Sevin gently, trying to keep him amused though his attention is mostly, he knows, elsewhere. He is only half-aware of his actions. Quite suddenly, then, just as he is about to respond to his father, he is cut off by a loud, hiccuping, staccato crying. Sevin’s face is already starting to redden with his crying, and Spock lets out an involuntary sigh to see, and hear, him so suddenly upset. He looks up to his father, but Sarek only raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head. He has work to do. And he would appreciate quiet as he does it, of course.

Spock tries various methods of soothing Sevin, each as ineffective as the last, and is finally successful only by resorting to his father’s method and singing to him. He goes through four songs before Sevin falls asleep, and even then he knows he does not have much time to do his homework before his son wakes again, hungry as he always is at that hour. He shakes his head. Sometimes he finds children quite illogical. Other times he merely finds them frustrating.

Chapter Text

The house is blissfully quiet.  Spock’s mother is working late.  His father is stuck in negotiations with a visiting party of aliens and may be gone all night.  Sevin, unusually active all day and requiring even more of Spock’s attention and energy than usual, is finally asleep.  Now no one is demanding his time or attracting his notice or asking him questions; nothing is required of him.  He is alone.  This time is for himself.

He goes to the kitchen and replicates himself a large salad.  Then a mug of tea.  He drinks it slowly, clearing his thoughts.  He closes his eyes.  He relaxes his whole body, lets every bit of him rest.  Outside it’s early evening and he’s opened the curtains to let the distant colors of the early sunset bleed into the room.

He gives himself half an hour to himself, and then clears the table and arranges, in place of his dishes, his various notes and PADDs and other school supplies.  He has finished half of his biology report, but if he does not work at twice his former pace he will not be able to hand the paper in on time, and to be late with it would be a disgrace.

The pink and yellow lights of sunset have all but disappeared when he hears the buzzer on the front door sound.  Strange.  He wasn’t expecting anyone.  He checks his communicator for missed calls but finds none, and he knows T’Pring would not visit him unannounced unless she faced some type of emergency.  Most likely, then, it is someone coming to ask after one of his parents.  He stands up just as the buzzer rings again and peers out of the peephole to see who is there.

It is Soval.  He hesitates, composes himself—stands straight, controls his expression—and then he opens the door.

He greets Soval politely before he can say a word, and tells him that Sarek is not at home.

“I know,” Soval answers.  “He is busy at the negotiations.  So is my father.  I came here to see you, Spock, if I may.”

He looks straight at Spock as he says this, his hands clasped behind his back, his words so perfectly pronounced and set to such an exact rhythm that Spock is almost convinced that he has rehearsed them, and when he is finished he waits patiently for an answer.  It is Spock’s first instinct to ask Soval to leave, that he is busy and cannot be disturbed, but he pauses too long and finally hears himself say, almost as if another were saying the words, “Come in.  I apologize for the mess.”

Soval’s eyes only glance at the clutter on the kitchen table before his gaze rests again on Spock’s face.  “I hope I am not disturbing you from you work,” he says.

He is, but instead of saying so, Spock just asks him, “Why are you here?”  The question sounds more blunt, more rude, than he had intended, and a slight blush rises to his cheeks at his own impropriety.  He has not seen Soval for months, not since their last conversation by the library, not since Spock convinced him that a marriage between them would benefit neither.  There have been moments, short and fleeting moments and yet he’s had them, when he has regretted this decision, when he has wished that he had a partner with whom he could share the responsibility of caring for Sevin.  Having his parents’ assistance is not the same.  They are doing him favors.  A partner would be like a parent to Sevin, and care for him for the same reasons that Spock does, and with the same dedication.

Always, though, inevitably, the feeling passes and he considers it only a moment of weakness, representative of nothing but his own frustration and fatigue.

“I heard that you had given birth to a son,” Soval says, equally bluntly, “and I wished to offer my congratulations.”

“You could have sent a message,” Spock says neutrally.  All of his defenses are up.  He is still unsure, unable to read Soval, and he does not want to let down his guard before he knows what is happening.

“I preferred to come in person,” Soval answers.  He tilts his head, as if considering.  Then he adds, “I admire you, Spock.  Not everyone could do what you are doing now: finishing school, caring for a young child—”

“I am not looking for assistance,” he interrupts, and even though they both know this is a lie, Soval holds up his hands and says:

“I know.  I do not wish to agitate you.  Your father did not send me.  I am not here to force anything.”

They are still standing awkwardly, adrift, in the middle of the kitchen.  Something in Spock tells him not to invite Soval further into the house.  He knows he should not trust him.  And yet he knows that it was his father, and not this man, who devised the potential marriage.  It was Sarek who forced the idea.  If Spock was manipulated, so was Soval.  Standing there, across from Spock, thinner than Spock remembered him, in his simple and unadorned clothing, he does not seem at all a threat.

Spock directs him to the living room and invites him to sit down.

“I must tell you,” Soval says, as Spock takes a seat as far away from him on the couch as he can, and in a tone that seems to imply that he had not meant to say these things at all, “I did not realize you would be as against your father’s plans as you were.  I thought you would see the logic of it soon enough.  I believed such an arrangement would be best for us both. "

There is the slightest hint of sadness to his voice, and one of his hands seems to drift, unsure, as if looking for someone long by his side who is no longer there.  He has not found a new mate, Spock thinks.  Nor has he found acceptance, nor peace.  He remains as adrift as he was when his bondmate died three years ago.

He knows it is not his place to be thinking these things.  He tries to keep the thoughts down, to put them aside for another time.

“I hold no ill will,” he says calmly, “either to you or to my father.  That is in the past.”

“And now?” Soval asks, eyebrows raised.  “How is your life now, with your son?”

There is no simple answer to this question, and Spock does not know either what Soval wants, nor what he deserves, to know.  He hesitates, then says, finally, “I manage.  My parents provide much assistance.  I am still in school, and I still hope to attend the Science Academy next year.”  He feels himself blush again at this, remembering how quickly both his father and Soval dismissed these dreams months ago.  But Soval says nothing about them now.  He continues levelly, “Sevin—my son—is healthy.  He is beginning to make sounds now, imitating speech.”  He hears the pride and excitement in his own voice and tries to push them down.  “He has my ears and my hair and my eyebrows.  He is asleep now.”

He adds the last to pre-empt what he is sure Soval will ask next, if he may see him, and at the information Soval nods, and shifts in his seat, and seems on the verge of saying something that he cannot quite say.

“You must be proud of him,” he says at last.

“I am.”

Suddenly, Soval stands, and paces to the other side of the room, behind the couch.  Spock twists his body around to watch him.  He paces for a few moments, silent, his hands clasped behind his back.  The stillness of the house comes to take on a different tone.

Watching him, Spock is more sure than before that he has lost weight, and color, and he is somehow sure as well that Soval has become more introverted, that he has been hiding himself away.  Spock can sympathize.

“I have been thinking about your situation, Spock,” Soval says finally.  He has turned his face away, so that only a part of his profile is visible.  “And about my own.  I have devoted much more time than is proper to these thoughts.  Perhaps you did not fully comprehend our respective circumstances when you made your decision last year.  I did not wish to argue with you at the time because I had been having doubts, myself.”  He shakes his head slightly, at this, as if he hates to admit such doubts but cannot help it.  “You told me that I would not wish to have a bondmate who was so ostracized from our society.  But you overestimated my use for our society.”

He stops his pacing, here, and faces Spock properly again.  “Vulcan is my home, of course,” he says.  “I do not wish to imply that I dislike our culture or disrespect it, that I do not live by our teachings or follow our customs.  But I am a solitary man.  It is more important to me to have a comfortable home than to feel comfortable when I go out in the street.  I believe we could make a comfortable home together.  I believe that I could give you this, even if I cannot change how others stare at you or how they talk about you.”

He takes a step closer to the couch, eyes actively searching Spock’s face now.  Spock gives nothing away.  He sits, back straight, expression blank, and listens.  He makes his mind a blank slate so that he may listen to Soval’s speech with as much neutrality as possible.  He owes him, somehow, at least this.

“I could help you to care for your son, and take responsibility of him as if he were my own.  I know I am not his biological father, Spock, but I am here, and that man is not.  If you are able to attend the Academy next year, your life will only be made easier by having a husband to help you with your son while you take classes and design experiments.  And if you are not able to attend, you will still have me, and my income, and my resources, while you decide on an alternate path for your life.”

Spock flicks his gaze down to his hands, resting dully in his lap.  He can feel Soval staring at him expectantly.

“And what will you have?” he asks finally.  The question is half a stall, half a dare.  He knows the answer but he wants to hear Soval say it, and while he waits for Soval to give his response he tries to think.  His thoughts race by too fast to be put into words.  He calculates and considers.  He has no instinctual response, none at all, and this alone sinks heavily upon him.  He knew right away, then, that he had to run.  Now he knows nothing at all.

“I will have a family,” Soval tells him.  “I am ready for one, at this time in my life.  I will have a husband, an intelligent, talented, and dedicated husband, and a stepson who I am sure will grow up to be all of these things and more.”

“There is no need to flatter me, Soval,” Spock answers, still not looking up.

The problem is that he can almost imagine it.  If he tries, he can see himself coming home to Soval, eating dinner with him, forming a public life as his partner and bondmate.  With time, perhaps he could even learn to sleep next to him and to wake up in his bed, and he could train himself to let Soval touch him the way the boy did.  For the benefits of such a union, he could come to accept its drawbacks.  He could compromise.

What holds him back is the thought of Sevin.  Soval would be a great help, it’s true, but the idea that his son could come to view this man as a parent, a father just as surely as Spock is, is difficult to bear.  His stomach twists up.  He grips his hands tight together and wonders what he could possibly say now.

“I am only trying,” Soval is saying, “to make a logical argument.  It is very clear to me, Spock, how easily we could help each other.”

Spock forces himself to look up and meet Soval’s eyes.  His expression is not what Spock expected.  He has lowered some barriers, and taken a great risk in doing so, and even without touching him Spock can feel the great sadness he carries with him, and the slight hope he is allowing himself now.  He opens his mouth to speak but Soval cuts him off.

“Do not answer me now.  My offer is open.”

Spock nods and considers thanking him, but the words would be too out of place, and somehow too emotional, and he does not want to give any hint that he has emotion.  He is in control.  He is completely in control.  He feels that they are both on the edge of something, an outburst or an admission.  He’s scared of it.  He cannot lose his power over himself.

“Please sit,” he says levelly, after a few moments.

Soval hesitates, glances back at the door, as if he’s about to suggest that perhaps he should leave, instead, and Spock thinks that perhaps he should and he was not wise to suggest otherwise, but before he has quite made up his mind, he feels a sharp and painful tugging at his thoughts.  A second later, they both hear a sharp crying coming from the monitor Spock left in the kitchen next to his half-finished biology report.

“Excuse me,” he says hurriedly, and slips away down the hallway toward his son’s room.

For several minutes, Spock forgets that Soval is in his house.  His thoughts center entirely on Sevin, on testing every theory, trying to determine what is wrong, what has upset him so.  But this is one of those times when there is no answer.  His is not hungry, not wet, and just asleep so surely not tired.  He runs his hands up and down Sevin’s back and makes low, soothing sounds, and he tries to read through his skin what he’s feeling. 

“What do you want, little one?” he whispers.

No answer is forthcoming and he is ready to start counting down the days until Sevin can express himself with words, when he realizes the loud jag of his crying has stopped.  Spock doesn’t know what he’s done but he won’t question it.  He just sighs and sets Sevin down in his crib again.  But he hasn’t even turned his back before he hears a hitching whimpering sound and then the start of more distressing noises.  “No, no, no,” he murmurs.  “Sevin, your father has company.  Please be good.”

Still, there isn’t anything else that he can do except pick the boy up again and hold him as before, close against him and over his shoulder so that he can rub circles against his back.  “I have you,” he says quietly.  “You are safe.  Whatever you were dreaming, it is not real.  You need not be scared.”

He leans one shoulder against a wall and closes his eyes.  Sevin is quiet now but Spock knows what will happen if he attempts to return him to his bed, and he cannot hide here indefinitely in this room, waiting for Sevin to drift safely to sleep, while Soval waits just down the hall wondering what has happened.  He thinks for a few long moments.  But he doesn’t particularly see a choice.

He twists his head awkwardly but all he can see is the side of Sevin’s head and his small, pointed ear.  He is proud of this boy.  He has gotten so used to hiding him as a way of protecting him, of keeping him sheltered out of fear, that he has almost forgotten just how proud he is.  He would have the whole planet see him and admire him, if he could.  Little as he likes the idea of bringing him out to Soval, who might look at him as if appraising him, curious about his potential son—unappealing as these thoughts are, he must admit there is nothing logical in his nervousness.  Nothing at all.

He shifts Sevin against him so that his weight is resting at Spock’s hip and his head is resting against Spock’s chest, and then he carries him down the hall and back to the living room, still making quiet noises as he goes in case his boy starts to feel again, even while in his father’s arms, whatever nameless fear so overwhelmed and upset him minutes before.

Soval is still waiting patiently next to the couch when Spock steps into the room.  He hasn’t even sat down.  Perhaps he was merely waiting for Spock to announce that he must leave, but whatever his intention he looks awkward, out of place, standing there in the middle of the room with only one hand on the back of the couch to anchor him to the scene. 

“I apologize,” Spock says, as he steps forward.  “I could find no other method of quieting him.  If I set him down he will merely become agitated again.  It is quite illogical.”

“It is not,” Soval disagrees.  “He needs his father’s touch.”

He starts to take a half step forward, then stops, hesitant.  Spock is standing to one side of a chair, Soval on the other, between the chair and the couch.  He is trying not to look at Sevin, who, Spock notices, makes no effort to hide his own interest in the stranger who has come into his house.  Spock isn’t sure what to do.  He just stands.

“May I?” Soval asks, then, and gestures vaguely in their direction.  He himself probably does not know exactly what he is asking, but Spock nods anyway, and steps closer as Soval steps closer; they meet halfway.  It is rather what Spock was expecting.  Sevin becomes the center of Soval’s attention, while Spock divides his between his son and his visitor, gauging the reaction of each to other.  His whole body feels stiff, more like that of a mannequin than a living being.  He has nothing to do but wait.

He notices that Soval is keeping his hands carefully behind his back, as if he’s afraid that, without the right control, he might reach out and touch this child that is not his.  He stands and he looks; he tilts his head to one side and then the other; his expression is one of great curiosity and great interest, but also of fondness.  He does not say anything.

Sevin stares back with unmixed, unadulterated curiosity.  After a few moments, when he sees that this new person poses him no threat, he reaches out one of his hands and tries to touch him.  Spock sees Soval go rigid, slightly but perceptibly.  Spock catches his eye and nods.  It is acceptable.  They are standing just close enough for Sevin, with his short and pudgy arms, to touch Soval’s arm, trying in his way to grasp it.  Spock shifts him in his arms and then steps closer, so that his son does not need to reach so far.

“He has your ears,” Soval says, finally.  His voice is very quiet, and he’s looking down, still, intently, at the little boy Spock is holding.

“And my hair,” Spock answers.  “But his other father’s eyes and blood.”  He already knows he will get tired of reciting this litany of traits to every person who meets his son, but he will continue to do so, especially to those who wish to focus on Sevin’s Vulcan traits, and pretend they do not see the human blue of his eyes, the alien pink tint of his skin.

He looks up and he sees that, at last, Soval has shifted his attention to him.  There is something awkward and uneasy about him; he wasn’t expecting Spock to mention the human boy, and it has rattled him.  Someone in Spock’s position is supposed to be more ashamed, he’s thinking, and part of that shame should include keeping his silence.  But whatever dishonor Spock may feel, he was also taught to be honest.  He did not create this child alone.  To pretend otherwise is simply false.

All Soval says, finally, is, “I have never been to Earth.  I have never even left Vulcan.”  He looks down at Sevin, whose attention has wandered by now, his head against Spock’s chest and his gaze only returning every now and again to Soval’s face.  “I have never seen an Earth person.  Only in pictures.”

Spock does not know how to answer this, and he does not know how to meet Soval’s eyes either, and he feels all of a sudden that they are standing much too close.  His heart rate is starting to increase.  Soval is more handsome than he remembered, and he is brave, Spock thinks, to be so open with someone he barely knows.  He is brave, or perhaps he is simply unwise.

It feels like they stand in this manner for a very long time, even though Spock knows well that barely a minute of silence has passed.  He forces his gaze away from Soval.  He can feel Sevin growing sleepy and limp in his arms.  “He will be asleep soon,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Soval murmurs in answer, and then, a bit louder: “Perhaps I should leave.”

“I believe that would be wise,” Spock answers.

They pause again at the door, Spock ready to close the door behind this unexpected visitor and set Sevin down in his crib again to sleep.  Perhaps he can still complete a page or two of his report before he goes to bed himself.  But Soval hesitates once more on the threshold.

“It must be difficult,” he says, a bit too quickly, “to care for him and go to school at the same time.”

“It is,” Spock answers, a bit warily.  His words are slow but his mind races.  He wishes to get married now.  He wishes to bond right away.

“Who watches him when you are at school?”

“My mother.”  He shifts Sevin against him again, aware, even as he watches Soval carefully, that his boy is moments away from unconsciousness.  “She has rearranged her work schedule, but it is only temporary.”

“And when she can no longer stay here during the day?”

Spock can feel himself blushing, lightly but surely, and he considers pulling up all of his barriers again, hiding behind them and telling Soval to please leave.  He does not want to admit that he does not know.

He waits too long to answer and somewhere in the drawn out pause he hears Soval sigh, a quiet and almost unintelligible sound.  “I only ask because I know a woman who may be of assistance.  She no longer works, though in her younger years she was a biologist who lived and worked on various planets, including Earth.  She has a great respect for the cultures of other societies and a great compassion for children.  She is a friend of my family’s and cared for my sister’s child when he was young.  If you would like, I could give you her contact information.”

It takes Spock a moment to collect himself.  The offer is unexpected and unexpectedly moving.  He answers politely, but he knows that some of his emotion has slipped through and he does not regret it.  It is acceptable that Soval should hear his gratitude and even his relief.  It is acceptable that he should sound sincere as he thanks him and says that perhaps they will speak together again in the future.

*

It’s too late in the day for lunch, properly speaking, but he hasn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before and he can no longer ignore the persistent grumble of hunger from his stomach.  He gives Sevin a final glance, to be sure that he is still safe in his playpen, and then goes to the kitchen to replicate himself a sandwich.  He never used to like sandwiches.  They are not a common food on Vulcan, but somehow the craving for them that he developed during his pregnancy has survived the birth of his son.  Also they are convenient, which he appreciates.

He can still see the little figure through the open doorway, stacking oversized blocks together into random shapes with great intensity.  Spock doesn’t pay much attention to his food, too caught up in watching his son, and the machine, finished with its work, beeps at him repeatedly before he snaps back to what he was doing.  He takes the plate and returns to the living room, settling into a chair to eat and enjoy a few moments’ rest.

He knows Sevin’s habits well by now, five months into his life, and he knows that in an hour or so he will lose all of his energy and be ready to nap.  Spock already anticipates the meditation he will be able to slip into then.  He needs it sorely.  He barely slept last night.

But at least it is over.  The final Academy application is turned in.  There is still a last interview, of course, but everyone knows that the student’s appearance before the Academy board is merely a formality, having little bearing on a decision that has by then already been made.  He still has many months of waiting before that meeting.  The most important thing he can do in that time is think as little as possible about the Academy, and focus instead on his son and his schoolwork.  He has done, after all, the best he can and now it is out of his control.

Somehow it’s worse, to think that it is out of his control.

He can’t shake the thought that the effort he has made might not be enough.  His exam scores were low.  His grades are still not as high as they were before he got pregnant.  He is half human, and the father of an illegitimate, three quarters human child.  He is a qualified applicant, and he knows it—no one could argue it, even now—but perhaps he is not an acceptable applicant.  The real possibility of rejection seems to loom over him.

He looks down blankly at his empty plate.  If he does not get into the Academy, what will he do?  What other options does he have?

There is Soval.  To bond with him would at least be a step forward, of a sort, out of his parents’ house, into the life of an adult.  Between his family’s money and Soval’s, he would not have to worry about his income.  Sevin would have a stable home.  In time he might be able to study and experiment independently.  Eventually, perhaps, other options would arise.

He thinks these things and it is as if his father’s voice were in his head, his father’s voice of last year, telling him over and over that the life he’d planned for himself is gone, ruined before it could even start.  He could be content with Soval.  He could learn to be at peace with such a life.  But it feels like giving up and something in him revolts at this idea.  He can’t help but believe that there is always another possibility.

He must also admit that bonding to Soval would mean living on Vulcan indefinitely, perhaps for the rest of his life.  Even studying at the Academy would commit him to four years, at least, of residence on the planet.  There was a time when this prospect would have been nothing—would have been, if anything, only a positive thought.  For most of his life he would never have considered leaving his home and everything he knew.  Whatever its faults, at least he is safe on Vulcan; on other planets, even Federation planets, Vulcans are treated as outsiders, distrusted and looked down on out of ignorance and fear.  Or so he has been told.  But he questions these blind assumptions now.

He looks to Sevin again, caught up in his own world and ignorant of all these things.  What is most important is protecting him, at any cost.  Maybe he can find somewhere that will accept them.  Maybe he will find somewhere where they can start again.

*

He passes four assistants, two translators, and an Ambassador on the way to his father’s office, and they all stare at him and pretend they are not staring.  Even the Ambassador, who does not know who Spock is or why he is of such interest to the others, glances at him non-discreetly as he walks by.  He can feel his ears burning.  Still, he tries not to walk too fast, or reveal in any way that he is embarrassed or uneasy.  No one would dare say a word to him.  And as long as they say nothing, he tells himself, they can think whatever they wish.

When he gets to his father’s office, he leans his shoulder against the appropriate button and watches the door slide open.  He doesn’t bother to knock.  Nor does Sarek, when he looks up to see his son standing in his doorway, bother to greet him.

“What is Sevin doing here?” he asks instead.

“Good afternoon to you too, Father,” Spock answers, and takes a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his father’s desk.  He’d been carrying Sevin strapped to his chest, but now he sets about undoing what he still considers somewhat of a strange contraption, setting it aside, and letting Sevin sit on his knee instead.  He waits for his father to sit down before he says anything more.  When he does, Spock explains, “T’Lana had a last minute emergency.  She could not take care of him this afternoon, as arranged.”

Sarek raises his eyebrows.  It is not that he distrusts T’Lana, or that he expects her to cancel her commitment at the last moment; Sarek met her at the same time that Spock did, and knows that she has been a great help to them, and faultlessly reliable.  Everyone has last minute emergencies.  They both know this.  He is not questioning the babysitter at all—only Spock, and his decision not to change his own plans at this unexpected complication.

“You should have taken him home,” he says.  He uses the stiff, impenetrable voice he brings out when he does not wish to have a discussion.

“I wished to speak to you,” Spock answers.  “You told me that we could have this conversation today.”  He is whining and he knows it, but at least his voice is calm; at least his tone, if not his words, belong to a sixteen year old instead of a six year old.

“That was before your plans changed,” Sarek reminds him.  “We can talk in the evening.”

“I will be at T’Pring’s, finishing our project.”

“Tomorrow evening, then.”

“You will be packing for your trip.”

Sarek pauses at this, and then sits back in his chair.  He is looking more at Sevin than at Spock.  “He will be bored,” he says finally.

Spock looks down and sees his boy pulling himself forward by the edge of Sarek’s desk, already starting to examine and explore.  He does not seem bored.  But he does seem like he might upset, perhaps drastically, the perfect order of his grandfather’s desk, which is really what worries Sarek.  Spock gently pulls his son back.

“I am already here,” he says, “and our conversation need not be a long one.”

There isn’t much of an argument to be had, and even if the thought of Spock parading his child through the halls of Sarek’s workplace is embarrassing, it has already been done.  It cannot be changed.  Spock wants to tell him that it is difficult for him, too, but that he is tired of half-started discussions and unfinished tea.  It should not be so hard, he thinks, to have a simple discussion with his own father.

“I do have some time available,” Sarek answers, after a moment.  “What did you wish to discuss?”

“Starfleet,” Spock answers simply.

“Starfleet?”

“Yes.”  He grabs Sevin’s hands gently to keep him from reaching for Sarek’s things, and watches his father, waiting to see if he will say anything more.  When he doesn’t, Spock continues, “I am considering applying.  As you mentioned yourself, I cannot be assured of a place at the Science Academy next year, and I felt that it would be wise to pursue other options as well.”

“And you feel that these options should include a military academy based on Earth?”

This is the closest he has ever heard his father come to sounding incredulous.  He knows that he must guard his calm carefully in response.  He knew Sarek would have trouble accepting this idea and he is prepared.  Or he thinks he is prepared.

“Which characteristic bothers you more, Father, that it is a military organization or that it is not located on Vulcan?  To the second objection I can only remind you that you yourself suggested I consider a life on Earth, after I told you I was having a child.”

“I suggested that you consider living with that child’s father, even if that meant moving to Earth.  What you are suggesting now is hardly the same.  Starfleet is the military, pock.  They use weapons; they fight in wars; you could be called upon to kill for them.”

“You are oversimplifying the situation, Father,” Spock insists, and resettles Sevin on his lap again, farther from the desk whose contents still fascinate him.  “Yes, if I were to join Starfleet, they would teach me to use a phaser, and I would carry one, and use it if necessary.  But it need not be a deadly weapon.  It is not as dangerous as some of our own weapons, the ones I was trained how to use in my youth.  I already know—”  His voice, strong through this speech, suddenly falters, and he looks down at his son.  Then he finishes, quieter now, “I already know how to kill a man.”

“Your view of the situation is a naïve one, Spock, if you think the situations are comparable.  Starfleet is not a place of ritual and tradition, where actions are primarily symbolic.  In a battle situation, you would be aiming a phaser set to kill."

Something about his father’s voice chills him, and he wraps his arms around Sevin without thinking.  The boy understands nothing of their conversation, and only squirms and reaches out as far as he can for Sarek’s desk again.  Spock hears himself making small, soothing noises, trying vaguely to calm his son, but really he is thinking that he has not heard this tone to his father’s voice in a long time.  It is a low, almost threatening sound.  In negotiations, his opponents hear that voice and begin, almost immediately, to back down.

“Perhaps my view is naïve,” he answers, after several moments, and his own voice slow and quiet, too.  “But yours is incomplete and biased.  Starfleet officers do fight, when it is necessary.  They also bring aid, they negotiate, they keep peace, and they explore.  Members of Starfleet’s science division have been responsible for some of the most important discoveries of recent decades.  The service offers opportunities for study that I could not find elsewhere.  You must admit this.”

Sarek doesn’t say anything in reply.  He just sits there, leaning back in his chair, eyes on Spock’s face.  His expression is appraising.  He is not deciding what he will say, only how he will say it, and Spock knows he won’t like the sentiment, no matter what words his father chooses for it.  He hasn’t won.  He hasn’t convinced Sarek at all.

He isn’t even sure, anymore, why he has to.  In 5 months he will be seventeen, a legal adult on their planet.  He could go anywhere and do anything and no one could stop him.  He only hesitates because he doesn’t know that he can break those bonds just yet.

He clears his throat lightly and adds, “You know that Starfleet can be a positive force, Father.  You have worked with them yourself.  That is why we were in Iowa, last year.”

Sarek’s expression sours at this reference, and it takes him a moment to control his gaze again.  Spock feels a strange spike of emotion, of fear, in his stomach, and he grabs Sevin’s hands just before they can grasp onto the stylus for Sarek’s PADD where it sits just within reach at the edge of the desk.

“Is this really what you want, Spock?” his father asks, at last.  Spock is surprised at him: the question is clear and unfettered, a pure inquiry and nothing more.

“Yes,” he answers, then amends, “The Academy is still my first choice, of course.  But we both know I cannot assume admission there.  I must be prepared to pursue other options, as well.”

“That is wise,” Sarek admits, somewhat grudgingly, but says no more.  Spock watches his gaze wandering, and follows it all the way to Sevin’s hands, one of which is now grasping the elusive stylus in a clenched fist.  When Spock reaches for it, he moves it away.  The possibility that he will start to cry if Spock does take it from is distinct.  So is the possibility that he will start to chew on it.

Sarek is staring at him, waiting.

Spock just sighs and reaches awkwardly for the bag he’s left on the floor.  He roots around in it one handed until he finds, shoved into a corner beneath his school things, the yellow plastic ring that still manages to distract Sevin from even the most fascinating new objects.  It is, apparently, quite a satisfying thing to chew.  Chewing is one of Sevin’s favorite activities.

It takes a few moments to distract Sevin from his new discovery and to make him interested once more in the trusty ring, but he does, and when Spock’s accomplished that task, he looks up to see his father still staring at him.

“Did you consider your son,” he asks, “when you were making these alternative plans?”

“Of course,” Spock answers, and how could his father even ask him this question, how could his father ever doubt that Sevin means everything to him?  “He will never be accepted on Vulcan.  If I move to Earth to study, I may make his life easier.”

“And will his life be easier if his father, the only parent he has, were to be killed?”

Spock isn’t sure if he is more shocked by Sarek’s words, or by the cold, biting, anger of his voice.  He wants to put his hands over Sevin’s ears.  He wants to protect him from hearing such things, even if he does not understand them.  Surely he can hear the irritation in his grandfather’s voice, or feel the way his father stiffens, feel how tense he is even by his touch.  The situation might upset him.  Spock almost uses this as an excuse to leave right there.  He doesn’t, only because Sarek is staring him down, like a challenge or a test, and he can’t fail.

“You think Starfleet is a death sentence?” he asks quietly.

“It is a dangerous profession, Spock,” his father warns.  “Perhaps you find something thrilling or romantic in the idea of voyaging into the unknown, but it is simply not a suitable life for one in your position.  You would have to leave behind your son to spend years in space, where you could encounter hostile people or creatures, or incurable space diseases.  You could be called to fight in a war.  You and your ship could be declared expendable.  It is one thing to take on such a responsibility when you live for yourself, but when you have a child, who needs you and depends on you, you must consider the situation in a completely different way.”

For a long time, Spock doesn’t know how to answer.  To retort would be easier if he were not holding Sevin in his arms.  It does not matter that he knew his father would say these things.  It does not matter that he had these concerns, too, or that he asked himself if he could really balance the life of an officer with the life of a father.  The problem was scientific to him.  It was difficult but clear, flat.  His father, despite his logic and his control, has infused the question with emotion.  It is crippling.

“Starfleet has positions on Earth,” he says slowly.  He doesn’t realize he has closed his eyes, or that Sevin has dropped his toy and is growing restless in Spock’s tight grip.  “Even for those in the science division, it is possible to take a job in San Francisco or on another outpost.  I could work in a lab, or be a professor.  I would not be the only officer with a child.  Starfleet knows how to make allowances.”

It’s a sound argument.  All the response he gets from Sarek is a cold stare.

“I think you may find,” he tells Spock, “that the situation is more complicated in practice than in theory.”

*

Four days later his father leaves for a three week visit to Earth, and Spock considers the subjects of Starfleet officially dropped for the indefinite future.  He does not wish to discuss it.  It is constantly on his thoughts.  The pictures of San Francisco are filled with greens and blues; it’s just the kind of place one would expect to find on Earth after viewing an image of the planet taken from space.  Everything green and blue.  It’s right on the water.  Probably very wet.

He’s up late, sitting at the kitchen table next to an empty plate and empty mug, staring at his physics reading but not absorbing a word, when his mother comes in and jumps at the sight of him.

“Spock,” she says, taking her hand from her chest.  “You startled me.  What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I could not sleep,” he admits.  She walks past him and begins to make tea: real tea with real water, which means that she is upset, or suffering from insomnia, or that she thinks he is upset, and they should discuss the matter.  He pushes his reading away and sits back in his chair.

“Something on your mind?” she asks.

“The expression is accurate,” he says, and then pauses.  Her back is still to him.  He continues, as neutrally as he can, “I have been considering applying to Starfleet Academy.”

He watches his mother very carefully for signs of a reaction but, her face turned from him, it is difficult to find one, except for perhaps a slight stiffening of her posture where she stands.

“Have you spoken to your father about this?”

“Yes.  He is against the idea.  He believes that a career in Starfleet is too dangerous.”

“It is dangerous,” his mother agrees, but before she can say more, the water starts to boil and the kettle lets out a loud, high pitched whistle.  Spock watches her pour a large mug.  It smells strongly of mint.  She asks him if he would like some, too, but he declines.

“Do you really wish to study at Starfleet, Spock?” she asks him, when she is sitting across from him at the table, hiding the worried expression on her face with difficulty beneath the bright glow of the kitchen lights.

“I wish to know your opinion on the matter,” he answers neutrally.  He has been raised from childhood to do what she still cannot: to hide to his emotion, to affect objectivity, and he is glad for these skills now.

His mother taps her nails against the side of her mug and looks down at the tabletop.  “Earth is very far away,” she says, finally.

“It is less than a day’s journey, on a fast ship,” Spock answers.

His mother smiles in that small, reluctant way that used to confuse him when he was young.  I smile when I’m happy, she’d told him, but this smile, this upturning of the lips, is not for happiness.  It seems to convey the opposite feeling.  “I know how far away Earth is, Spock,” she says.  “You know yourself that this is more than a simple question of lightyears or hours.”

The building was not pleasing to the eye at all.  It was old and in need of repairs, square and boxy and gray.  But the colors of the sunset blended together in the background, distracting him from everything except their beauty, and the feel of the human boy’s body as he wrapped his arms around it, waiting for him to stop his motorcycle’s engine and lead Spock in.

“I know,” he answers.  “However, it might be wise for me to leave Vulcan.  I have heard that Earth is an intolerant place, but Starfleet Academy attracts students from many different planets, and perhaps amid that diverse population, I—Sevin and I—could find acceptance.”

“You realize you would be on your own?  There is very little that your father and I could offer, as far as day-to-day assistance, if you were to live on Earth.”

“I know.”

He watches his mother wrap her hands around her mug, and the way she does not look at him.  She seems very tired.  It was a mistake to bring up the subject now.

She sighs.

It would be easier if his mother told him not to apply, or if she told him in certain terms that she hated the idea, or if she forbade it.  Anything would be easier than to hear her tell him, “It would be difficult to see you leave, Spock,” in just that tone of resignation, sad and tired, almost of goodbye, as if he were already gone.

Chapter Text

“In English,” Spock tells Sevin, “one would say that I am your father.” 

Sevin makes a few unintelligible sounds in response, no more than Spock expected, really, but he repeats the word anyway.  This is as much for his own benefit as for his son’s.  It is a foreign sound on his tongue. 

“I am your father.  But a more informal word for the same concept, that of a male parent, is dad.  You have two fathers.  That will become confusing, when you grow up and start to ask questions about your human parent.  It would be easier if you, and I, and your grandparents, referred to this man as your dad.”

Spock has been considering this linguistic question for several weeks, preferring this issue to the others that often try to invade his thoughts.  The solution is a satisfying one, in his opinion.  He explains it out loud only out of habit, and with the vague hope that the more Sevin hears language, the faster he will pick it up himself.  He waits with great impatience for the day when his son will be able to speak back to him.

Spock sits back against the side of the couch and folds his legs under him.  He watches Sevin carefully.

“If your dad were here, I believe he would be surprised by how much you have grown in half a year.  And also by how fast you can move.  Even on your hands and knees.”

He did not expect to find this—Sevin’s first small movements of independence, his newest attempts at exploration—as fascinating as he does, but his attention is utterly captured by his boy.  He feels a great pride in him.  Sometimes he forgets this.  Sometimes he finds him only irritating.  He interrupts Spock when he is working or trying to sleep; he forces Spock to rearrange his whole schedule for him.  He refuses to come second, ever.

He notices, then, Sevin about to disappear around the corner of the couch, and he gets up quickly to follow him, picking him up before he can find his way into the kitchen.  “Not safe, little one,” Spock tells him, even as he starts to cry.  He brings him back to the living room and sits down with him on the floor, making what soothing noises he can, but he knows there’s nothing he can really do but let the fit pass.  He is thinking that Sevin is not so little anymore.  There is no avoiding that he is six months old.  There is no avoiding that Spock gave birth a half year ago and still doesn’t look or feel like his old self.  He still carries extra weight.  He hasn’t exercised in any intensive way since early in his pregnancy.  By human standards he is still strong and agile but by Vulcan standards he is a mess.

By Starfleet standards he is simply unacceptable.

Hours later, after Sevin is safely asleep, he takes out his communicator and starts to make some calls.

He starts to train three times a week, after class, in the fitness center on the north side of the city.  He works with a man who lived, briefly, on Earth.  He says he knows what Starfleet will look for.  He says that even if Spock is not accepted, he can use these skills for the rest of his life.  Fighting in a controlled environment lets out aggression.  Being physical is a release.  It is necessary at times to work with the body, instead of the mind.

Syken leads him through stretches; he feels his body contract and relax and his thoughts seem to leave him.  His mind feels blank.  Nothing exists but his body.

Sometimes he runs or lifts weights.  Sometimes he and Syken spar.  He learns how to box.  He hates the way his hands feel in the big, oversized gloves, but finds something bizarrely calming about the way his fists hit the punching bag.  He knows Vulcans don’t fight this way.  There are times when he wonders if the human boy knows how to do this.  Mostly, though, he wonders nothing, he thinks nothing, he turns off a part of him and then later, as he meditates, he draws himself back.  He starts to look forward to these hours as some of the best of his week.

At the end of two months he looks in the mirror and sees muscles he could never see before.

He is changing back into his school clothes at the end of a long session, and his body, his self, feels for once like his own, when he hears the slide of the door opening behind him and turns out of instinct.  The center isn’t busy at this time of day.  Often, he is the only one there by the time he leaves.

When he sees who it is, he turns away again.  He reaches for his shirt but he’s too slow, reaches to the wrong side first and before he can correct his movement, Stonn is next to hm.  He’s holding Spock’s shirt away from his body, as if it disgusted him.

For a moment, Spock just looks at him, running through everything he could say or do now.  He has to remind himself of his calm.  The mere sight of Stonn rattles him.  Stonn stares back, equally silent.

Without warning, Spock jumps forward, grabbing for his shirt, but even now Stonn is too fast for him.  He jumps back, keeping both his body and Spock’s shirt out of reach.  His back is against the wall.  Spock is afraid to move.  Half an hour ago, he was sparring, and he thought he’d found his release for the time, thought he was done.  But he could do it again.  Stonn is much too close, or perhaps he is the one who is too close.  He does not even notice that Stonn has flung his shirt aside.  He has his hands up on the wall to either side of Stonn’s head and tells himself it is to keep his balance.

Stonn lets his gaze run down Spock’s body, a slow, appraising stare that makes Spock feel sick.

“What did that human ever see in you?” he asks, voice low and ugly.

“What are you doing here?” Spock snaps in return.

“You are so arrogant, Spock.  You act as if you—or your father—owned the whole planet.  I am allowed to use these facilities if I wish.”

He is completely, terribly, infuriatingly calm as he speaks, face expressionless as Spock stares at him, and suddenly he understands.  This is nothing new.  This is only Stonn trying to elicit an emotional response, just as he was been trying to do since they were children.

Spock takes his hands from the wall and backs away.  He walks to the corner and picks up his shirt, then puts it on.  “Do not let me stop you,” he says.  “I was just about to leave.”

His mother is waiting outside, wondering, he’s sure, what has delayed him.  They will be late picking up Sevin at T’Lana’s.  If he has slept he will be awake and active for hours.  If he hasn’t, he will be irritable now.  Spock thinks about these things, and not about Stonn, promises himself that he will learn to ignore him, reminds himself that he must ignore him, if he wishes to follow his culture’s teachings properly.  He must be impenetrable.

Stonn follows him out.

“I have changed my mind,” he says, as if explaining his presence, even though Spock hadn’t asked.

He keeps walking as if he were alone and stops, pauses just for a moment but it’s enough, when he sees his mother.  She has Sevin with her.  He can tell from a distance that the boy is full of energy: he’s grabbing at his grandmother’s veil and trying vainly to wiggle from her arms.  Spock shifts his bag more comfortably on his shoulder.  He tries to tell himself that Stonn isn’t still following him, and then that it is acceptable to lie to oneself in such situations, even though it doesn’t matter: he doesn’t believe himself anyway.

“Mother,” he says, taking Sevin from her as he speaks, “I apologize.  I was late.”

“Don’t worry, Spock.  I wasn’t waiting long.  My meeting finished early, so I picked up Sevin before I came over—I thought it would save you some time.”

“Thank you.”  He wishes to steer her away quickly, knowing he has only a moment, but he isn’t fast enough.  Stonn is there at his side.  He is introducing himself to Spock’s mother, voice and manner utterly polite—Spock finds himself holding Sevin close to his body and turned away, out of instinct.  He feels again that flare of possessiveness, so primal it is almost animal, the deep and unreasonable fear that his child is in danger.  Sevin feels his father’s unease and is close to tears himself before Stonn even looks at him.

“This is your son?” Stonn asks, maneuvering himself subtly, precisely, closer to Spock, angling himself carefully to see as much of Sevin as he can.

“Yes.”  There’s a tight coil of threat in his voice and it makes him sound choked.  “His name is Sevin.”

“Sevin?” Stonn raises his eyebrows.  “An old fashioned name.”

Even as he says this, Sevin is staring at him, and Spock feels his son’s wariness through his skin.  Stonn moves a half step closer, tries to lean in, but in doing so he crosses a line that not even Spock can see, and Sevin lets out a piercing cry.  Stonn steps back, a sour look on his face.

“You should not have upset him,” Spock informs Stonn lightly.

“I did nothing.”

“You invaded his space.”

“He is emotional like a human.”

“He is emotional like an eight month old child.”

Stonn opens his mouth to retort, but before he can, Spock’s mother is between them.  “Spock,” she says.  “We must be going.  Here,” she takes Sevin from Spock once more, rubbing his back and trying to soothe him.  “Shhh baby,” she whispers.  “It’s okay.”  But even as she says these things she’s looking at her son, and he recognizes that gaze.  It is a warning.

“I will see you in class, Stonn,” Spock says, and takes his leave.

“Sometimes I forget,” his mother says later, “how violent Vulcans once were.  You must keep your calm with him, Spock.”

“I did, Mother,” he insists.

“Yes, and so did he,” she answers.  Her voice is wary, something of warning there.  “But I saw what was beneath that calm, and it was much closer than you, or your classmate, or your father, would ever wish to admit.”

The encounter with Stonn stays with him longer than he would wish.  He anticipates another meeting, at school or at the fitness center, somewhere, but Stonn avoids him almost entirely, offering no more than his usual disgusted stare when they meet in the hallways or in the courtyard.  Spock doesn’t question the change.  Perhaps Sevin surprised him, or scared him.  Perhaps his curiosity was disappointed, and the strange part human child was not what he expected.

With time, Spock stops waiting for Stonn around every corner.  He goes back to his routine, he goes to class, he trains with Syken.  His mother has to remind him, one day that seems to him quite like every day before it, that it is his birthday and he is seventeen.  The event means little to him, and he is distracted all through dinner by the thought of his Starfleet application.  It is due in only a few days.  He hasn’t spoken with either of his parents on the topic in months.

The day after he sends it in, he’s on his communicator and talking to Syken, in the middle of a conversation that is much longer and more frustrating than he believes it should be.  They are both very careful with their voices; neither raises his volume for a moment, but Spock privately thinks the interaction would be more satisfying, on some gross level, if he could yell.

“As I told you, Syken, I cannot meet you with today,” he insists.  “It is impossible.”

“Do not be imprecise, Spock.  You are making a decision not to come in today.”

“And it is not a difficult one.  My son is ill.  I must stay with him and care for him.”

“Perhaps you should find someone else to stay with him.”

“I cannot.  He is my responsibility.  He is my son and I cannot explain this in simpler terms.”

“Spock.  You told me that you had filled out the Starfleet application.  But the process is not over.  You must continue to train if you wish—”

“I know.  I am not finished training.  I am only telling you that I cannot meet you today.  Perhaps the day after tomorrow.  I have been told that my son should recover in two or three days.”

The silence, after he says this, lasts much too long.  Syken does not have children, and he and Spock never discuss, never even mention, Sevin.  Spock knows Syken would rather forget that the boy exists at all, and he also knows that pretending to forget is the only reason Syken retains any respect for Spock at all.  In some ways he is progressive, even rebellious by the standards of his society.  In other ways, he is one of its most conservative members.

Finally, Syken says, “Contact me when you wish to return to serious study,” and ends the communication.

Spock puts his communicator down, and, for a moment, he just stands next to his desk, thinking.  Then he returns to Sevin’s room, where his mother is waiting for him to return.  T’Pala says it is nothing serious, only a minor illness of a type common among infants, but it is still painful, almost physically painful for him to see his son so miserable.  He stays with him all day and into the night, watching his restless sleep.  He takes the next day off from school.  In the afternoon he sends a message to Soval: I apologize, but I cannot meet with you today.  Perhaps we can reschedule for next week.

Sevin stands unsteadily on his feet, gripping the side of a chair with one fist.  He moves neither forward nor back, just sways lightly where he is, and looks around the room as if measuring his options.  Spock kneels in front of him, maybe a dozen paces away, by the opposite chair, and tries to be patient.  He knows that this is a great task for Sevin.  It is perhaps the most difficult task, even, of his young life so far, and Spock must be encouraging, but offer no undue pressure.

T’Pring sits to the side, on the couch halfway between Spock and his son.  “Has he ever walked before?” she asks.

“No,” Spock shakes his head.  “He can stand if he holds on to something, and take a few steps that way, but he has never successfully walked without aid before.”  He turns his attention back to Sevin as he speaks, and tries to regain his attention.  He says his name gently, “Sevin.  Sevin.  Come here.  Walk to me, walk to your father.”

Still Sevin hesitates, but only for a moment, and then Spock watches him release his hold on the side of the chair, balance, pause, and then step forward on his unsteady feet.  He takes one step, and then a second.  Spock has to remind himself not to hold his breath.  He keeps saying Sevin’s name just in case it might help.

His boy falls after three forward steps and lands in an undignified pile on the floor.  He does not take the failure well and in a moment Spock’s gathered him in his arms, making soft noises and quieting his hiccuping tears.  It takes only a few moments, but even after Sevin is, mostly, calm, he still smooths his hair and whispers to him.  He forgets T’Pring’s presence completely until he hears her, suddenly, behind him.

“You are quite…demonstrative, with him” she says.

There is nothing accusing in her tone, only simple observation, and yet he feels embarrassed.  His eyes flick to his son and then back to T’Pring, and he tries to straighten his posture and compose himself properly without making Sevin feel uncomfortable too.  “He is a child,” he explains.  “He will learn control later…” 

He realizes that he has been playing unconsciously with Sevin’s hands and lets go.  He stares down at the top of his son’s head, his downy black hair and the just-visible tops of his pointed ears.

“Did you know he is exactly a year old today?”  He asks the question with his gaze tilted down, then looks up again at T’Pring, waiting for her answer.

“I did not realize, no,” she answers.  “That is an important day for you both.”

“Yes.”

He cannot explain out loud, not even to T’Pring, how true this is.  A year ago he was still waiting for his child to be born and he was terrified, more terrified than he could ever admit, of being a parent, of the very day to day life that he leads now.  A year ago, if he had tried to imagine this, he would have failed.  Now he finds that his imagination is not strong enough to devise a life without Sevin, without this little boy who is always on his mind.

He feels his son growing restless in his arms, and takes this opportunity to break the long, almost uncomfortable pause that has settled on them.  “You will try again?” he asks gently.  He helps Sevin to his feet again and positions him in the same spot he was before, then takes his own place next to the opposite chair.  As before, he focuses his attention on Sevin, and he’s barely aware of T’Pring until she starts to ask him questions.

The first is, “Did you apply to Starfleet?” and it breaks his concentration so that he does not see Sevin take his first step forward on his second attempt to walk.  Spock had mentioned Starfleet to her only briefly, and only once; he had tried to make it seem like a vague possibility, a safety net of a plan, and nothing of great importance.  She had not questioned him, at the time.  He thinks that this is rather an inconvenient time to start.

“Yes,” he answers briefly, and then turns quickly back to his son.  “Come here, Sevin.  Come here.”

He is a fast learner, Spock’s son; he walks three steps and keeps going; Spock counts them silently to himself as he watches.  Sevin’s movements are uneven and awkward, but he keeps himself upright, and walks ten steps before he falls, more surprised than upset this time, just short of where his father is waiting for him.  Spock is proud of him and says so.  He hopes Sevin understands his tone or the feel of his touch, if not his words, and knows how pleased he is with him.

“Does it make you uncomfortable, that I am open with him?” he asks T’Pring, after a few moments, and just as Sevin is wriggling away from him again.  Walking does not seem to interest him at the moment; he sets out on all fours, and Spock follows him with his gaze even as he listens for T’Pring’s answer.

“No,” she tells him.  “But eventually he must learn control.  Emotions are not to be shown so freely.  If you move with him to Earth, he may never learn our ways completely.”

“I am not moving to Earth,” he corrects.

“You have applied to Starfleet.”

“But I have not been accepted.  Nor have I been accepted to or rejected from the Science Academy.  I applied to Starfleet only to cultivate other options.  I believed it the logical thing to do.”  He says all of this quite levelly, quite neutrally, all the while watching Sevin as he starts to play with an old fashioned, oversized toy car that they left out that morning.

“There are other schools on Vulcan,” T’Pring reminds him.

“Yes,” he says, and turns this time to look at her.  “But they are inferior institutions.”

He stares at her for a moment, and she stares back, but says nothing, and when he’s sure she won’t he turns back to check on Sevin again.  He need not offer further explanation.  If anyone but T’Pring had spoken to him in this way, he would not have offered even those few words.

“I have never been to Earth,” she says now, slowly, and even though Spock is watching his son, T’Pring has captured almost all of his attention.  He pretends this is not true.  He keeps his face turned away but he’s listening carefully, curious.  “But,” she continues, “I have read much about it.  I have heard what others say about it.  It is a strange place, Spock.  The people let their emotions control them.  Their lives are disorganized and they are unaware of themselves.  They are not like us.”

“No, they are not,” he agrees, and tilts his gaze down this time to his own hands, where he has clasped them over his ankles.  “I have been to Earth, T’Pring, or have you forgotten?”  He glances up, once, at the question, but her face is impassive.  “To live there would be difficult, but, I believe, no more difficult than to continue to live on Vulcan.  And it would be, perhaps, worth the difficulty.  As a scientist, I am to value discovery and seek the unknown, and yet you suggest that I should avoid Earth simply because it is different, and its people unlike ours.  Starfleet would be a great opportunity for any scientist.  This is undeniable.”

He looks up, searching her face for a reaction, and finds her staring at him quite intently.  Then he watches as her attention shifts to Sevin.

“If you attend Starfleet, and move to Earth, will you find Sevin’s father?”

The question startles him, more than he wishes to admit and more than it should, but after a moment he recovers, and simply shakes his head.  “No.  When I met him, he lived in Iowa, but I do not know where he is now.  He might not even live on Earth any longer.  The likelihood that he and I will ever meet again is almost incalculably small.”

This should be the end of the discussion, and at first he thinks it is.  Then he hears T’Pring ask him quietly, “If you were to find him again, would you wish to bond with him?”

Her question is irrelevant, after his last response, and he knows only a great curiosity would prompt her to ask it.  He glances at her, and sees that she is still watching Sevin carefully.  Perhaps she is thinking that it is wrong for Spock to attempt to raise him without a bondmate, or that it is unfair to him to do so.  Perhaps this is a judgement.  Or perhaps it is mere disbelief.  He has told her repeatedly that he has not heard from, nor contacted, the human boy since their one night together, but even after all this time, the idea seems to shock and confuse her still.

“I have no intention of bonding with Sevin’s other father, or with anyone.  I did not apply to Starfleet with the hope of finding a mate on Earth.”

His voice, which he had intended to infuse with a sharp quality, enough to end this discussion and assure they will not have it again, comes out only dull and tired.  T’Pring does not answer him for several long moments, and when she does it is simply to change the subject.  They talk about the latest Federation news, and even as a light debate starts between them, Spock keeps his eyes on Sevin.  He will be walking properly soon.  He is growing fast.  He feels a great surge of pride, pride he does not let show on his face or become audible in his voice, but still a strong wave of it, within him.  He is irrationally proud, illogically proud, proud though no Vulcan would believe he has the right to the feeling, proud of this beautiful little boy.

Chapter Text

It is late afternoon, and the sun slants in through the windows, creating unexpected shadows in the broad, arching corridor.  He is wearing his best school clothes.  His stomach feels as tense and twisted as it did during the early weeks of his pregnancy, and he wonders in a distant, disinterested way if he is about to be ill.  He does not think so.  He paces back and forth at the far end of the hallway, hands clasped tight behind his back, his posture stiff and perfect, and tries to control himself.

“Spock,” his mother calls him, and reaches out her hand as if to draw him toward her.  “Come here, let us see you.”

She is sitting on the windowseat with Sevin, holding his wrist as he stares at his father with obvious worry, his large, round eyes reflecting the anxiety he can feel from Spock.  He’d told them they didn’t need to come.  But his mother had insisted, and so had Sevin in his way, toddling after Spock and asking, “up, up,” crying whenever Spock tried to set him down again.

“No,” he tells her now, and hangs back, hesitant, at the far end of the corridor.  He is uncertain, still nervous.  But when his mother calls him again, just his name again, “Spock,” and only the barest hint of an order in her tone, he follows her voice as if unable to do otherwise, and comes to sit awkwardly, stiffly, next to his son. 

His mother reaches out and tries to smooth down the edge of his sweater’s collar, but he pushes her hand away.  His action isn’t rough but it is dismissive.  He cannot even look at her.  “There’s no need to be anxious,” she insists.  “You’ll do fine.”

“I am hardly anxious, Mother,” he answers, trying to dismiss this idea as easily as he had waved away her hand, but he does not convince even himself.  “And ‘fine’ has variable definitions, fine is…unacceptable.”

He watches as she takes in a small breath, then lets it out quietly, a soft, “Okay.”  She smiles at him.  She is trying to reassure him.  But she cannot because he has been working for this too long, planning his life around this moment for too many years, and if in an hour he steps from those doors and he has nothing but rejection to show for this effort he does not know what he will do.  His thoughts are confused and unsteady and no amount of logic or reason will still them.

“Fa,” Sevin says.  “Fa-tha.”  He is grabbing at Spock’s sleeve.

“What is it?” Spock asks gently in return, and looks down to return Sevin’s gaze.  Sevin’s language skills are at their most rudimentary stages.  But when he puts his hand on the back of Spock’s hand, Spock can feel his emotion, and he knows that his son is worried.

“I am upsetting him,” Spock tells his mother.  “He should not have come.”  As he speaks, he pulls Sevin onto his lap.  He knows his action is inappropriate; he does not wish to disarray his clothing, and if anyone should pass by and see them, he would stare at Spock strangely, wondering where he has learned his manners.  But with his arms around Sevin he can keep himself calm with more ease.  He must be calm, for his son.  There is no alternative.

Spock can feel his thoughts quiet, straighten, and his body relax.  He has strength.

“Mother,” he says finally, staring down at the top of Sevin’s head as he speaks.  “May I ask a personal query?”

“Anything.”

Sevin’s hair is a deep, shining black, the same color as his own.  He can just see the tops of his pointed ears.

“Would you accept any decision I were to make, if it were what was necessary to provide for Sevin?”

He allows himself to glance at her, and sees her hesitation.  Of course.  He is her untrustworthy son.  She does not know what he is thinking, what plans have come to his mind, this unknowable son with an unknown man’s child on his knee.  He turns his gaze away.

“Fa-tha,” Sevin says again, and pulls at his arm, and Spock answers, “Shhh,” and “Be patient.”  His mother puts her hand on his shoulder to regain his attention.

“Spock, as always, whatever you choose to do, you will have a proud mother.”

He nods but cannot answer, not sure he believes her, not sure he can, and then he hears his name called to approach and the opportunity for explanation is gone.

The room is impossibly grand, its ceiling high and threatening to echo, vaulting over him, and the council sitting so far above him he has to strain his neck back to see them.  He stands up straight, composes himself.  He will be their model candidate.  It does not matter.  They have already decided.  It does not matter.  He will show them anyway that he is ready, serious, prepared.  He slows down his heart rate and steadies his gaze

He does not look at his father.  He looks at the others, watches the few short, almost impossibly quick glances between them, wonders if they are wondering about him.  They know who he is, of course, Sarek’s son, and that he has a son—but perhaps they are not thinking of this.  Perhaps his work, his accomplishments, speak louder and distract from his mistakes.

They speak of his record.  They summarize his schoolwork, the years of work he has done, and they speak highly of him, they do.  He tries not to hold his breath, waiting.

“You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors,” the first of them says finally, a conclusion, a summing up, a moment leading up to a moment.  Spock holds his hands behind his back.  “Your final academic record is flawless.  It is truly remarkable that you have achieved so much, Spock, despite your disadvantage.”

He clenches his hands into fists behind his back.  He knows what they will say now.  He does not believe it yet but he knows.  When he speaks, his voice sounds icy, hard.

“If you would clarify minister, to what disadvantage are you referring?”

The minister raises his eyebrows, surprised by Spock’s question perhaps, if he ever allowed himself to feel surprise, to admit surprise, and says quite simply, “Your child.”

Spock glances at Sarek, but his face is a blank.

“I assure you, Minister, that I am fully capable of caring for my son and devoting myself to my studies at the Academy—”

“Spock.”  He sees, thinks he sees, a hint of almost-pity in that expression even as the minister interrupts him.  “You should be proud that you have completed your education thus far.  But you would surely find the life of a student here to be incompatible with the life of a young father.  We cannot accept you to this Academy.”

He wants to argue, his instinct is to argue, to explain—it does not feel right that the rejection should come so simply, so quickly—but he knows he must retain his dignity.  Anyway, it does not matter.  No argument will be effective.  The decision is made.

He thanks the ministers for their time and exits swiftly.

He walks to the Academy library first, and sits on a bench by the front doors. This is not what he thought it would be either. He feels nothing. The aliens, they say that Vulcans never feel anything. Sometimes his people say this among themselves, too. They know this is not really true. This numbness is unnatural. He is not in control of his emotions, but rather, devoid of them.

He sits for a long time, watching the students pass him on their way in and out through the doors.

He will never be one of them.

Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes later, he stands up. He walks across the campus, a route he does not know well but which he makes up as he goes, winding through buildings, taking his time. He feels no sense of urgency. Eventually, he finds the familiar building, classrooms on the ground floor, and offices above. He takes the lift to the third floor.

He has been here only once before. They were meeting for lunch, Sevin with Spock's mother for the afternoon, and he guilty the whole time, wondering after his son and barely touching his food. Still, he remembers well enough where to go, and anyway the path is straightforward, just one long hallway in front of him and a series of doors, small signs next to them announcing each professor's name.

Soval's is the third from the end. Spock doesn't even know if he is in, at this hour. He knocks anyway.

“Who is it?” a voice asks, after several moments.

“It is Spock. May I come in?”

Everything he feared that the Academy Committee would hear, every bit of nervousness and disappointment, that ugly whine of injustice felt too hard, comes out in his voice now when he speaks these simple words. There is another pause, and he wonders if he will be turned away and what he will do then.  What is left?

Before he can decide, the door opens. “I was not expecting you,” Soval says, and the mere fact of him saying this, and not something else, something more sensible, because of course he was not expecting Spock, Spock has never come to him, Spock has never come to his office without pretext, without warning, and this is so obvious it need not be said—that he remarks in this way at this moment is enough to show Spock that he is rattled.   

“I apologize if my presence here is inappropriate,” he says. He is looking at Soval's chest, at his shoulder, and not at his face. He does not know what expression Soval might have let slip across his features.

“It is not,” Soval insists, finally, belatedly.  Spock does not believe him.  He should not be here, he is thinking.  This is not how it is supposed to be.

Soval tells him to come in and steps back so there is room, and Spock tells himself that the Academy has made their decision and he has made his, and that there is no other option—only the barest hope of Starfleet, on which he would be foolish to depend—and if he is to make a life for his son it must be this life.  He will be calm with this decision; he will carry it through calmly, as Vulcans do.

Do not answer me now, he had said.  My offer is open.

Spock takes a deep breath.

He is standing, without anchor, just inside the door, as if ready to make a quick escape.  Soval's office is small, crowded, and even as he walks to stand behind his desk, on the other side of the room, he is not very far away.  Spock feels his heart beating in his side.  "I apologize again for the intrusion," he says, a stall, and then he goes on, because there is no other choice, "but I have come here to ask if you would marry me."

For a moment, he sees the surprise on Soval's face, a clear and unhidden emotion.  He steps around his desk, closer to Spock once more.  He tilts his head.  He seems not even aware of his action, as if he were trying to judge Spock's sincerity, or discern his motive.

“I was under the impression that you did not wish to bond with anyone,” he answers finally.  Spock feels his body begin to betray him again, stomach twisting and blush rising to his cheeks.  He holds his hands behind his back, his whole posture stiff and almost defensive.

“My circumstances have changed,” he admits.  “And I have changed my mind in accordance.  If you no longer wish to be my bondmate, please tell me now.”

Soval opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again.  He sits down in the chair in front of his desk, the smaller chair reserved for students and other visitors.  He looks thin in his official robes.  Perhaps he did not really want this.  Perhaps he only thought he did.  Spock takes a step backwards toward the door.  This was a mistake, he's thinking.  Yes, just another mistake.

“You are not being fair, Spock,” Soval says quietly.  “I gave you time to think, when I asked this same question of you.”

“You are correct,” Spock admits.  “I can wait.”

He does not want to wait.  Was this what Soval felt, when he first came to visit Spock after Sevin's birth?  Did he have this sick sensation too?  Did he wonder if his choice was the right one, the logical one?

“I take your proposal to mean that you were not accepted by this Academy?” Soval asks, after a moment.

“I was not.”

“I do not wish to speak ill of my colleagues,” Soval says, as he looks down at his hands, “but their decision was clearly ill thought out.  I have many students who do not deserve their place here as much as you do, Spock.”

He holds his hands tightly against each other, behind his back.  “I did not ask for you sympathy, Soval.  The decision has been made, and neither you nor I can change it.”

His voice sounds so cold, even to his own ears.

Soval does not look up and again Spock feels, almost physically feels, even, the sadness that comes from him.  He is not sure Soval himself is aware of it anymore.  It is a part of him, perhaps will always be a part of him, like his ears or his skin or his nails.  If he could, he would take it from him.  He would purge that emotion from him.  He would empty it from him.

Slowly, Spock comes to sit beside him in the second empty chair beside the desk.

“I must be honest with you, Soval,” he says, his voice determined now but no longer cold, no longer angry or defensive.  “I am proposing this marriage only because it is logical.  You yourself outlined the benefits of such a union to us both.  At the time I was…” he hesitates, searches out the word.  “Idealistic.  Naïve.”

He is telling Soval that he is Spock’s last choice.  Even as he says these things, he hopes Soval will understand, will not fault him for this, will take this compromise for what it is and accept it even as he accepts Spock and his son.

He looks up and sees that Soval is watching him carefully.  He catches Spock’s gaze, and holds it unblinking.  “I accept your proposal, Spock,” he says, his voice quiet and calm.

So it is that simple.  So he is engaged.  So he will bond with Soval.  He will live with him and feel his thoughts and they will raise Sevin together, and they will live on Vulcan.  The possibilities of his life close down and fold away along with the uncertainties.  It is anticlimactic, like the bold black word on T’Pala’s scan (pregnant), like the final dismissal from the vaulting Academy chamber.  Soval holds up two fingers, and Spock presses his two fingers back lightly, an unofficial agreement, sealed secretly between them.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but then, instead of pulling away, Spock deepens their kiss.  He slides his fingers down the side of Soval’s fingers and then up once more.  He runs his fingertips to his palm and touches his thumb, his wrist, slips around his wrist.  He does not know what he is doing.  He has never kissed anyone this way.  He has an instinct for it that he did not have with the boy, but still it is pure experimentation, a guess, his best guess but nothing more.  He’s sure his face is a deep shade of green.  He keeps his eyes on Soval’s eyes.

Is his heart beating fast, as Spock’s is?

He watches Soval’s eyes close, feels his fingers start to explore across Spock’s hand in answer.

Soval pulls away first and immediately Spock is apologizing, is letting words run from his mouth in a disorganized rush—he barely sounds like himself.  “Go home,” Soval tells him.  “Do not apologize.  Go home.  We will make more detailed plans later.”

“Yes,” Spock agrees, and hesitates, as if there were something else to say, though there isn’t.  He knows there isn’t.  He turns to the door.  He slips out once more without saying goodbye.

He does not tell his parents about his engagement.  As long as it is his secret, he can pretend it is not real.  He can separate himself from it as he separates himself from dreams after waking.  This union is not about feelings, he tells himself, or desire; it is about doing what is practical, and what is necessary.  There was a time when this was all he wanted from his life: to be practical, reasonable—logical.  He never expected his spouse to be someone he could…to be someone who could excite emotion in him.  He never wished for such a thing.  Now he remembers the human boy and that swell of feeling he had inspired, and he is ill.  He has buried these feelings but he has not destroyed them, and though they knew each other only one night, and that night so many months ago now, still he feels like he knew that man for a lifetime, and his touch is imprinted on Spock’s skin.

Chapter Text

Spock has not had an uninterrupted night’s sleep in a week and he’s tired, but Sevin is wide awake, and quite uninterested in Spock’s attempts to calm him.  At the moment, they are sitting together on the couch, and Spock is reading to him from one of the paperbound books he bought before Sevin’s birth.  Sevin is not doing a good job of listening.  He reaches out to turn the pages faster, and when the last page is turned he cries out, “Walk!” and Spock thumps his head back on the couch.  Sevin’s vocabulary is small and consists almost entirely of orders.

“Where do you get your energy, small one?” he asks.

“Walk!” Sevin insists.

Spock cannot blame him: the weather is beautiful, the changing of their seasons, the temperature dropping and the burned red of the desert flowers blooming.  Today in particular is the sort of day one should spend entirely outside.  The streets are full of students, Spock’s former classmates on vacation, enjoying their last weeks before the academic year begins again in 3 weeks.  Soval wishes to hold the bonding ceremony before classes begin.  Spock holds him off, making excuses, stalling; he still hasn’t told his parents and the information weighs on him, heavy, a burden he can almost feel.

He shifts Sevin off of his lap and onto the couch cushions.  “Ok,” he concedes.  “Walk.  In a moment.”

First he must replicate himself a glass of water; his throat is dry from reading, and outside, it will be warm.  He stands at the kitchen counter and drinks it down, and he is just beginning to feel better when he hears a dull thud behind him and he turns back and runs into the living room in alarm.  His moment of panic subsides quickly.  Sevin is not hurt.  He is standing on the couch cushions looking down at Spock’s PADD, which he’d left on a side table and which Sevin, in his attempts to grab it for his own, had inadvertently shoved to the floor.  Spock sighs.  Then he steps forward, kneels, and picks the PADD up—no damage done, as far as he can tell.

“Do not stand on the couch,” he tells Sevin.  “Your grandmother will be unhappy if she catches you.”

But his voice has no force behind it because, even as he comes to sit down again and pulls Sevin back on his lap, he is looking at the PADD.  He has a new message.

Starfleet Academy to Spock—

“What is this?” he asks Sevin, pointing to the words, simple and unassuming, on the screen.  Starfleet has many applicants.  It is probably a form rejection letter.  It is probably the same letter that any number of inadequate applicants receive every year.  Sevin looks at the PADD, then at his father again.  Then he tries to wriggle out of his grasp and to the floor, but Spock holds him tight.  He cannot let him wander off now, not when Spock’s attention is so wholly absorbed somewhere else.

He opens the message.

Starfleet Academy congratulates Mr. Spock…..offers him a place in this year’s incoming class…classes begin on…..please move in by….more information available….

Congratulates.  Offers him a place.

Spock sets the PADD aside, thoughts rushing so fast he cannot hold them.  Choices, possible decisions, unfurl in front of him.  Possibilities exist again.  He sorts them out in neat lists in his mind, steps back from himself, tells himself to breathe.  He already knows.  He will spend the day pretending he does not know, but he knows.  The choice is clear.

He has wanted this far longer than he can admit.

He will set out to places that no one has ever been.

“I have been accepted to Starfleet and I plan to attend their Academy next year,” Spock announces firmly, and then waits, unsure, for his parents’ reactions.  He tells himself they cannot stop him.  Still, he would rather leave without argument or unseemly emotion on either side.

He sees his father’s back straighten, almost imperceptibly, and he counts the half second’s pause before Sarek takes his plate from the replicator.  He turns and walks the two steps to the table without looking at his son.  Spock’s mother is staring down at her food, only one finger moving slightly up and down against her glass.  Neither seems inclined to speak.  Spock sets Sevin down, because it seems they may have to wait, he may not be able to leave the house as quickly and as easily as he’d thought, and takes his son’s wrist to keep him from roaming.  The boy senses the mood of the room and is appropriately grave and quiet.  Spock’s mother speaks first.

“When did you make this decision?” she asks.

“When I received my acceptance letter yesterday afternoon.”

“And you are sure of your plan?” his father asks.  Spock tries to gauge from his voice what sort of opposition he will provide.  “You have thought it through?  You know the risks?”

“It is not an ideal situation, Father, but the ideal situation does not exist.  The benefits of a career in Starfleet outweigh the drawbacks.  I have made up my mind completely.”  He sounds stilted and awkward, a speech too well rehearsed, too monotone and known too well.  Sevin starts swinging his hand back and forth.  It seems to be the only movement in the room.

“You know my opinion on the matter, Spock,” his father continues.  Spock feels like he’s holding his breath even though he can tell, he can already tell from Sarek’s voice that there will be no scene.  There will be no attempt to change his stubborn nature.

“And you know mine.”

“Yes.  I assume you will be expecting your mother and me to care for Sevin in your absence?”  Sarek raises his head as he speaks, and lifts one eyebrow in interrogation.  His question is unexpected but Spock swallows down his surprise.

“I will be taking him with me to San Francisco.”

“You believe that is a wise decision?  You believe that you will able to care for him all by yourself, on a strange planet?”

The question stings and Spock takes a moment to answer, his own gaze now on the legs of the kitchen table, barely aware of how his mother still hasn’t looked up from her plate, of how silent she is, of how this silence says more to him than any words could.  He tells the table edge, “I will do whatever I have to do.  I cannot give up Starfleet, and I cannot give up my son.”

“Even now you have not learned to compromise.”

“Even now I have not learned to give up.”

“Boys.”

They turn at once to look at her, Spock’s mother, who has finally looked up and now flicks her eyes back and forth between her husband and her son.  “There is no need to argue.  If Spock wishes to attend Starfleet Academy and to take Sevin with him, there is nothing we can do to stop him.  He is an adult now, and this is an adult decision he has made.  Excuse me.”

Before either can answer she has gotten up and swept from the room, her untouched food still on her plate before her place at the table.  “Grandma….?” Sevin asks, quiet and confused, and Spock picks him up again abruptly.  He runs a hand through his hair and makes soothing noises, though it’s himself he’s trying to soothe.  He doesn’t look at his father, but he’s sure that his father is looking at him.

“When do you leave?” Sarek asks, finally.

“Classes start in 3 months.  I should leave early in order to have time to move in and settle myself,” Spock answers, his voice just as calm, just as devoid of feeling.  In this moment, he really does feel nothing.  It is an empty sensation.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sarek nodding.

“Excuse me,” he continues, and starts to wind his way to the other end of the kitchen, toward the front door.  “Sevin and I have somewhere we must be.  I will be back in a few hours.”

His father doesn’t try to stop him, and this does not surprise him because nothing would surprise him, and he’s sure he could have walked right out the door without hindrance, except that he himself stops in the doorway and turns back.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

Sarek is staring down at his hands on the table top.

“Am I still a part of this family?”

His father looks up, his expression more honestly, clearly, puzzled than Spock has ever seen it.  It is rattling

“Spock, you will always be a part of this family.  Do not ever ask such an illogical question again.”

Halfway to the Academy he takes out his communicator and calls Soval.  He’d been walking without thinking where he was going, letting his feet carry him as they wished, his thoughts precise and indefinite both, replaying again and again the scene with his parents and then wondering aimlessly about San Francisco, Starfleet Academy, space.  Soval answers immediately.

“We must talk,” Spock tells him.  “Are you at home?”

He is, and it is not long before Spock is at his door.  Soval lives in an apartment building in the center of the city, on the seventh floor.  He has told Spock he will move after they bond; he has only one bedroom, and he wants Sevin to have a room for himself.  He does not mention aloud the children they will have together, but the implication is there, Spock thinks: a big house, a growing family.  These are things Soval wants, dreams Spock still barely understands.  He pushes Sevin’s stroller ahead of him as he walks through the door.

Soval is waiting for them, and though Spock catches the look he gives, can see his curiosity, they do not break from their new and still tentative routine.  Soval touches his two fingers to Spock’s, and greets him, and then he bends to Sevin.  He speaks to him in a gentle voice Spock has never heard him use to speak to anybody else.  He asks permission, still, before he picks the boy up.

Spock wonders if his son will miss this man, and for a moment his decision seems like a mistake, and he falters.  Maybe there is room for compromise here.  Maybe there is a way to make this work.

They sit down in the kitchen, and Spock takes Sevin back and lets him sit on his lap.  He takes out a toy for him to play with, to distract him while, as he explains to him, his father has a serious discussion.  “We are having a serious discussion?” Soval asks, at this, and raises his eyebrows.  Spock looks down at the floor.

“Speak your mind, Spock.”

“I have received,” he says, quickly, before he has time to stop the words coming from his mouth, “a message of acceptance from Starfleet Academy.  I have not yet responded, but—”

“It is an opportunity you cannot ignore,” Soval finishes.  Spock looks up.  He is not sure if this is sadness in Soval’s tone, or merely placid acceptance.  He knows that, either way, there will be no argument—he almost wishes for one, the chance to defend himself and his decision, the chance to justify his decision to himself.  He would feel secure in the presence of an opposition.  But he always knew Soval would never be that opposition for him.

“I understand,” he is saying.  “You deserve this chance, Spock, as you deserved the Science Academy.  I will not hold you back.”

Spock holds his arms loosely around Sevin, resists the urge to draw him close, to share his emotion through his skin.  Sevin is not worried.  He is off in a world of his own, as he often is, and he is carefree there.  Spock looks down at the shine of his hair and the small points of his ears and wonders again if this is the right choice, or if he is being selfish, tearing Sevin away from his family, denying him a family.

“If you wish,” he says quietly, “we could still marry.  I made a promise to you, Soval, that I do not believe I should break—that I do not wish to break.”

Sevin has been reaching out to fly his toy spaceship farther and farther away, reaching out closer and closer to Soval and now if he reaches any further he will fall off Spock’s lap entirely and to the floor.  Spock draws him closer again.  But Sevin has grabbed Soval’s attention, as was perhaps his aim, and Soval looks with unmistakable fondness at the boy, a fondness so sincere it is visible even through his usual calm, reserved, Vulcan expression.  He lets Sevin take his hands, and use them as a landing strip for his aircraft.

“Sevin, do not be rude,” Spock warns him, but Soval shakes his head.

“I do not mind.  Spock, I cannot marry you,” he keeps speaking, as if to Sevin, as if he cannot even meet Spock’s eyes.  “You made it clear when you proposed this arrangement that it was a practical one, and no more.  If the arrangement is no longer practical, then there is no reason to continue it.  I cannot move to Earth with you, and if you join Starfleet, you may not return to Vulcan for many years.  A marriage under such circumstances would be beneficial to neither one of us.”

Everything seems suddenly quite clear, when he says these words, when he forms them and puts them in order, and it is as if all of Spock’s thoughts, his winding and sometimes circular reasoning, has been unknotted and untied and laid before him, unquestionable.  He has known since he received his acceptance everything that Soval has just told him.  But he needed to hear it spoken aloud.

“I hope that we will remain in contact with one another,” he says quietly.  Deep down, where he feels sadness, he feels a sharper stab of it than he had expected he would.

“We shall,” Soval assures him.  “I am sure we shall.”

“Fascinating,” Spock says, and flips to another section of T’Pring’s first year physics book.  “You must tell me in depth about each of your classes as they progress this year.  I have read of this professor’s latest research, and I hear that he is becoming well known in the Federation.  You are fortunate that you have this opportunity to learn from him directly.”

T’Pring is sitting next to him, barely looking at him.  He is aware that she is, most likely, not even listening to him.  “Do you know what classes you will be taking at Starfleet?” she asks, as if he had not spoken at all.

“New cadets register for their classes after they arrive in San Francisco,” he answers.  His eyes skim down the page but he does not read it.  “I have already enrolled in the science track.  My first year, I will have little choice but to take classes that fulfill requirements or prerequisites.”

“It is the same at the Science Academy,” T’Pring says.  She could be speaking to an acquaintance, even a stranger, her voice sounds so distant.  He forces himself to look at her.  He knows they won’t see each other again, not for a long time after today, and he does not wish their last encounter to be like this.  It is dishonest.

“You know that I have no reason to stay on Vulcan,” he tells her.  “My future is on Earth now.”

“And you will not miss—” she says before she can stop herself, and then halts, looking at him now for the first time since he walked in her door.  She bites her lip.  But she doesn’t say any more.

“I will miss you,” he says quietly.

She turns away from him, stands up, and walks to her window.  Her back is to him, so he watches her without embarrassment.  She is a beautiful woman.  He is sure he will never find anyone, at Starfleet or on any of the planets he may one day visit, with whom he will be able to speak as he speaks with her.

“How did Sevin react, when you told him you were moving to Earth?” she asks, the question as unexpected as so many of T’Pring’s words are, but not unsettling.  He leans back into the pillows of the bed.

“I am not sure he understands what such a change means.  After all, Vulcan is all he knows.  I have shown him pictures of Earth and of San Francisco, and have tried to explain that we will be living there in the future, but—”

“He is still young, Spock.  He could forget Vulcan entirely, if he grows up on Earth.”

“We will visit.”

She turns to look at him again.  Perhaps she will accuse him of something, perhaps show some rare streak of anger or emotion, and he feels that he could listen to anything and simply stare back impassively, controlled.  But what she tells him is, “You are much braver than I.  I know that you consider Vulcan your home, just as much as I consider it mine.  I know that Earth is foreign to you, and that you will have to care for your son by yourself there.  But you act as if these challenges were nothing.”

“You insult me, T’Pring,” he answers lightly.  “I am a Vulcan.  My reaction to these newest turns in my life is the only reaction allowed me.  I am quite ordinary.”

“You are far from ordinary,” she says, but does not add that she will miss him, nor does she say goodbye, later, when he leaves.  It is as if they were going to see each other in a few days.  He leaves for Starfleet in 72 hours.

Starfleet requests that its new recruits pack light.  He can bring a few items of clothing—more often than not, he will be wearing a Starfleet uniform—and a few personal possessions.  He takes as much as he can for Sevin.  It still does not feel true to him, that in two days he will be in San Francisco.  Now, all but alone in his room, only Sevin on Spock’s bed where he can watch him, playing with his stuffed sehlat, he allows himself to feel all of the nervousness, all of the fear, that he does not allow himself to show in front of others.  He must be confident in front of his family, in front of T’Pring.  He must convince them that he feels no doubts.  He must seem unbreakably sure.

It is easier, when he is with them.  In convincing them that he is confident, he almost convinces himself.

His bag is almost packed now, his house quiet and still.  There are indefinite variables.  He will have to balance his classes, his son, his new environment; probably, he will be lonely.  But at least he will also be busy.

Slowly, he puts his bag down on the floor, and sits down lightly on the edge of the bed, next to Sevin.  “Hello, little one,” he says quietly, as Sevin glances up at him, but he is not enough to keep his son’s interest.  The stuffed toy is much more fascinating.

Sevin is a quiet child, still learning to play with language, and still cautious with it.  He uses the few words of his vocabulary sparingly.  He does not say a word now, though what Spock wants more than he could ever admit is to speak with his son, both for the comfort of conversation, and for reassurance.  When they arrive in San Francisco, he will have no one but Sevin, and Sevin will have no one but him.  But the boy is too young to understand this, despite Spock’s attempts at simple explanation, and he plays, oblivious, ignoring his father almost completely.

Spock’s mother would say, like father, like son.  He takes after you.  You do not know how frustrating you could be as a child, Spock.

“It is late,” he says now, so tired that he lets his fatigue be heard in his voice.  “It is time to sleep, Sevin.  We must wake early tomorrow; it will be a long day.”

Sevin just shakes his head.

“Come here,” Spock says, starting to reach for him, but Sevin pulls away, still shaking his head.

“No,” he insists, when Spock reaches for him again.  Though Spock tries to be gentle, tries not to upset him, tries not to bring out emotion to which he knows he will have no response, Sevin remains uncooperative, and his protests grow louder and louder.  He starts to shout and kick.  He struggles away from his father’s touch, yelling hoarsely, pawing at Spock’s hands.  His little body is easy to pick up and carry, despite Sevin’s protests, but Spock does not have the heart to force Sevin to bed.  He can wait out this tantrum, wait for his boy’s energy to run out, wait patiently and impassively, but nothing has ever hurt him in quite the way the sound of Sevin’s cries hurt him.

He tries to make soothing sounds, tries to sound calm and in control, but this burst of emotion is as unsettling as all such displays are, and he does not know how to respond.

Finally, he just waits silently.  He holds Sevin close to him and waits for his energy to dissipate, for him to get tired and still.

“Are you ready to sleep, Sevin?” he asks gently, and for answer, Sevin borrows closer against Spock’s body.

He takes him next door and puts him to bed.

“He senses that you’re uneasy,” his mother tells him later, and hands him a hot mug of tea.  It’s late.  He can’t sleep.  The light is on bright in the kitchen, off in the rest of the house, and everything feels eerily still, much too still.

“He appeared quite calm earlier,” Spock answers.  “He has never reacted in such a manner before.  I have seen him upset in the past, but he has never acted with such anger and violence toward me.”

“It was a tantrum,” his mother says.  She sits down across from him, tired but calm, and Spock can’t help but think that she seems more in control on the outside than he feels on the inside.  She tells him that it was nothing, just something that children do.  “Sevin is well behaved most of the time.  You’re lucky—not every parent can say that about their son or daughter.”

Spock makes a vague noise of agreement, looking mostly down into his tea.

“Spock, we both know that this is a stressful time for you.  You try not to let it show, and I know that, but it does, in subtle ways you probably don’t even realize.  And Sevin sees that.  He knows there’s some sort of big change coming, but he doesn’t know what it is, and that’s scary for him.”

Spock nods but doesn’t answer, and his mother doesn’t say anything more.  He watches her as she sips her tea carefully.  He hasn’t tasted his yet; he just keeps his hands tight around the mug, feeling the heat of it against his skin.

“What if he does not like Earth?” he asks finally, quietly.  “What if it is a mistake to take him there?”

He can’t read the expression on his mother’s face.  It is not quite sadness, not quite regret, and he knows she has no answer for him—only the truth, which will not comfort him.  He used to hope, when he was pregnant, that he would start to feel like an adult after his child was born.  He used to hope that the act of becoming a parent would so transform him.  It didn’t.  Most days, still, he feels like that same fifteen year old who sat in T’Pala’s office two years ago, scared and sure the very room he sat in was about to spin away from him.  He feels just as overwhelmed and incomplete, just as incompetent.

“If it were my choice, Spock, you wouldn’t leave,” his mother is saying.  “You know that.  But I would never try to stop you from going to Starfleet.  You’ve made that decision.  And you’ll stick with it, because you’re stubborn and determined, and because you know this is a good opportunity for you, an amazing opportunity.  Sevin is young.  He’ll adapt.  And so will you, in time.”

He wants to prove to her, to all of them, to himself, that this is not a mistake.  He does not say anything, turned in on himself.

“I know you will adapt,” she is saying.  Her voice is so low and so quiet, Spock is not sure she even realizes she is speaking aloud.  “I am very proud of you, Spock, and everything you’ve already done."

The words hardly mean anything to him when she says them.  He already feels far away.  He cannot even thank her.  But later they will come back to him, later as he boards the shuttle, later as he watches Vulcan fade away behind him, and he’ll know it’s not the last time he’ll see it but it will feel final, definitive, anyway, and he’ll wonder at just what moment it was that he said goodbye.

It is the middle of the night now.  He still cannot sleep.  He stands outside in the cool desert night, back against the side of his family’s house, and stares up.

“You should rest, Spock, and conserve your energy,” he hears his father’s voice say, then, from the doorway, and he turns.

He answers politely, respectfully, but does not move.

“I thank you for your advice, Father.”

“You are ready to leave tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Then there is silence, a long pause.  Spock leans back properly against the wall again.  He cannot count the number of stars he sees.  No, he could.  If he tried, he could.  He does not wish to.

He knows that Sarek is here to say goodbye, a proper goodbye that he will not manage tomorrow, in the hurry that is leaving—a proper goodbye that cannot be said at the last minute.  He wants to tell him that there is no need for farewells; this is not an end.  He wants to tell him that a proper farewell is impossible, for one who is going as far away as he is going.  But he is not sure of his own convictions and all he wants, at the minute, is to be alone.

“I will come inside in a moment,” he says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Sarek shake his head.  “My stubborn son,” he says.  Spock can barely hear his voice, but it is audible enough; Sarek knows Spock can make out his words.  Perhaps a human would smile at this moment.  He does not.

His father disappears from the doorway, and he’s alone again.  The last time he visited Earth, he was fifteen, much younger, much more a child, than he even knew—naïve, perhaps, he can almost admit it now, and innocent.  He does not blame the human boy for anything.  In his youth, in his inexperience, he acted without thinking, he did what he wanted without considering the consequences.  What he wanted at the time was that boy.  What he still wants, in his most quiet and most honest moments, is that boy.  He wants to tell him of their son.  He wants to tell him, we created something wonderful together.

The chances they will ever meet again are so small as to be, essentially, nonexistent.  But then Spock knows that improbable is not impossible.  A scientist leaving home to explore a vast unknown must keep his mind clear of preconceptions.  He must be ready to accept anything.

Maybe, somewhere out there among those infinite stars, the human boy is waiting for him.

end part one

Chapter Text

Jim Kirk leaves his xenolinguistics class at 15:00 and declares San Francisco the most amazing city on Earth.  The weather is beautiful.  The people are gorgeous.  He hears a dozen different languages on any given day.  There’s never a dull moment.  He feels like he’s been asleep for years and now, now for maybe the first time in his entire life, he’s awake.

It is exhilarating.

Today is no day to study in some overly quiet library, or some stuffy shared dorm room, so he walks out to the park just beyond the main campus of Academy buildings, hoping for some semi-secluded spot where he can get his reading done.  Unsurprisingly, it seems like half the Academy, and maybe a quarter of the city in general, has had the same idea.  Every spot of shade is taken and most of the seats in the sun as well.  There isn’t a spare bench in sight.  Students lie on blankets spread out on the grass, tapping lazily at their PADDs as they skim their reading.  He sees a group of small children playing in a particularly bright patch of sun: two of them are human, one Vulcan, and one Andorian, and they seem to be involved in some modified game of tag that includes a fair amount of gratuitous wrestling.

He takes another sweeping look at the park, not willing to give up on his brilliant, if popular, idea quite yet, and this time he sees not only a free place but the perfect free place.  Empty half bench next to pretty girl, twelve o’clock.  Jackpot.

He walks over casually and sits in the free space by her side, motioning only briefly first, a quick “May I?” followed by her nodded permission.  He does not sit too close, not wanting to invade her space, but he does not crowd himself on to the far edge either.  He took her in before; he does not need to look at her now.  He turns on his PADD, finds his linguistics textbook, and starts flipping to the appropriate chapter.

She’s in her early 20s, he’d say, about his age, with killer legs and black hair down to her waist.  Dressed simply, no jewelry, flat shoes—though he thinks she’s probably tall, when she stands, even without heels—and when she nodded for him to sit, she’d smiled at him, just the slightest, almost shy, smile.  He’s almost positive, now, that she’s looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

But he takes his time.  Only a part of her attention is on him, so he keeps only part of his on her.  Otherwise, he notes, she’s watching the group of kids he’d noticed earlier, keeping a casual but constant eye on them.  He flips forward in his book, sure he’ll get no reading done this afternoon but willing to put on a good show of it, skimming through the paragraphs and waiting.

After a few minutes, he realizes they are sitting closer than they were before.  He looks up and she’s staring at him boldly, outright, another smile on her face this time and it’s a little bit less shy.  “What are you reading?” she asks him.

“Introduction to Xenolinguistics,” he answers.  “Though I’m finding it rather hard to concentrate.”

“I imagine,” she smiles back.  “It’s a beautiful day.  I bet all this sunshine and warm weather is really distracting you.”

“Among other things.”

He smiles a little wider now, really lets his grin take over his face, and he sees her move a bit closer to him on the bench.  Her eyes flick down and back up, and meet his gaze so he knows she’s not shy, really.

“I’m Jim, by the way,” he says, and extends his hand.

She takes it in hers and answers, “I’m Margaret,” but before he can tell her what a beautiful name that is, or something else complimentary and transparent that she’ll buy because she likes the way he looks at her, one of the boys from the modified game of tag runs over to them—runs, in fact, right into Margaret’s leg, which he wraps his arms around protectively—and interrupts them.  It’s the Vulcan boy.  He was the smallest of the four, Jim had noticed vaguely, whether because he was the youngest or just naturally small he couldn’t tell—a slight boy with hair even darker than Margaret’s and big, disconcerting eyes.  For a moment, he just stares at Jim, and Jim stares back.  The kid is obviously shy.  He hides himself unsubtly behind Margaret’s body.  But he’s also curious, staring at Jim with his wide eyes as if observing him for some experiment, wondering who he is and why he’s here, what he might do next.  The kid doesn’t say a word.  He just stares.

There’s something unusually unsettling about his gaze, the out of place color of his eyes, perhaps, or maybe it’s just how unblinkingly he’s staring that twists Jim’s stomach up somehow.  For a moment, he can’t speak.

Margaret’s voice breaks him out of his trance.

“Sevin, it’s not polite to stare,” she’s saying to the boy.  “Come here, sit.”  She pats the bench for him to sit between her and Jim, but he pulls himself up on her other side instead, keeping her body safely between him and the stranger.  “He’s a bit shy,” Margaret says, as if apologetically.

“I can tell,” Jim answers, directing his answer more to the boy—Sevin—than to Margaret.  He tries to hide his own strange feeling of unease, and sound as friendly as possible.  He doesn’t really know anything about kids…but he doesn’t want to scare anyone off.  Either of them.

“So your name’s Sevin, huh?” he tries, and hopes he’s getting the pronunciation right.  “My name is Jim.”  He’s not sure what sort of gesture is appropriate here.  Hold out his hand?  Pat the kid on the head?  So he keeps his hands where they are.

“I am pleased to meet you,” the kid answers, and Jim wants to laugh at how formal he sounds, those out of place grown up words coming out in his little-kid voice.  But he controls his face into a smile and tells him, in return, “Pleased to meet you too, Sevin.”

When he looks up at Margaret again, she seems pleased—looks like he’s passing the test, then.  He glances at her hand, protectively placed on the back of Sevin’s neck, and then at her hair, and the human set of Sevin’s eyes, and says, “He’s cute, your son.”

She bursts out laughing at this, and even Sevin cracks a smile.  “Margaret’s not my mother!” he corrects, as if this were the silliest thing in the world for Jim to think.  “She just takes care of me when Father is in class.  I don’t have a mother.”

Jim’s a bit taken aback by this last declaration, and for a moment he can’t hide it, pure shock on his face at the simple fact spoken so easily, so emotionlessly.  Then he rearranges his expression, pulls back the feeling.  He used to say stuff like that too, when he was a little kid, not embarrassed or even sad about George Kirk’s death—he’d never known him anyway, and he was too young to know what it meant, death, absence, loss, the idea that someone you loved without even knowing him could be gone forever.  He doesn’t like to think about how that sadness will come, eventually, to this little boy.

But then that’s years yet.  So now he smiles.  “My mistake.”

Still, it seems the ice is broken, and though Sevin still hangs back, safe, on the far side of his babysitter, he does not hide that he is watching Jim carefully now, does not seem as embarrassed or shy as he follows the adult conversation going on next to him.  Jim asks after Margaret’s interests.  He learns that she is a student at a local university, that she is pursuing a degree in education, that she has a second job as a waitress and in her free time, of which there is not much, she paints.  “Not very well,” she clarifies with a shrug, and he assures her that he is sure she has more talent than she gives herself credit for.  She thanks him and denies and thanks him anyway again, and even touches his arm.  It’s going well, he thinks.

He’d rather keep the conversation on her—it’s better to be a good listener than a good speaker—but just as he’s about to ask after her family, Sevin bursts suddenly into the conversation.  He speaks as if he had been long building up the need to speak, and at that very moment he’d decided he simply couldn’t hold in his words any longer.  He speaks as if bursting with words.  “Are you in Starfleet?  My father is in Starfleet.  He’s a scientist.”

The last sentence is spoken in a tone of hushed excitement, almost as if the kid were trying to convey a secret.  Jim doesn’t usually like kids, but this one is pretty adorable.  Margaret says something obligatory about not interrupting and being polite, but Jim waves this off—don’t punish the kid for being curious, he wants to say.

“Yeah, I’m in Starfleet.  I’ve got the uniform and everything, see?” he adds, and pulls at his collar a little.  “I’m just a cadet, though, not like your dad.”

“He’s my father,” Sevin answers, “and he’s a cadet too.  He’s in his last year.  Next year he’s going to go into space, I think.  I want to come too but he says he doesn’t think I’ll be allowed so I’ll probably go back to Vulcan to live with my grandparents I think.”  After he’s babbled out these words he falls suddenly silent, and even slips backward on the bench as if embarrassed that he’d leaned as far as he had over Margaret’s lap, into Jim’s space.  It takes Jim a moment to process this information properly.  He’s a bit surprised at first, that a fourth year cadet would have a son this age, but then he figures it’s probably an older guy like Bones, married and divorced or a widower and starting his life again.  It happens a lot.  Starfleet is his do-over too.

“That’s exciting for your father, I’m sure,” he answers, as casually as he can, after a brief moment’s pause to collect his thoughts.  He’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say.  Do Vulcans get excited?  Probably not, but what else can he say?  It sounds like this kid and his dad are close.  And a year is a long time, perhaps longer than Sevin even realizes, can understand at this age.  “A whole year in space—that’s a big deal.”

Sevin nods excitedly.  “That’s why I want to go too!  I like space.  Father likes to show me pictures of all the planets and diagrams of the stars and stuff.  He tells me all about what he learns in class.  He’s really smart.”

“This one’s pretty smart, too,” Margaret says, and looks down at him fondly.  “I don’t understand half of what his father tells me about his Starfleet classes, even when he simplifies it, but Sevin just absorbs it all.”

“I’m impressed,” Jim smiles.  “How old are you, Sevin?”

“I’m four!” he answers, as if this were in itself a great achievement, and again there’s that pure excitement in his voice like every small fact of the world intrigues him.  “How old are you?”

He laughs a bit, the question so obvious and yet so unexpected.  “I’m 22.  I’m only in my first year in Starfleet but eventually I’ll be going up into space too, like your father.  Do you think you want to go into space too, when you grow up?”

He expects the boy to answer quickly, in that excited tone of his, each word tripping over the other like he just can’t form them fast enough.  But he gets pensive instead.  He hums and looks down at his hands and fidgets, and finally says, “I don’t know.  Maybe.  I really like space.  But father says I’m too young to say I want to be in Starfleet too.  He says I need to grow up first.”

“That’s very wise of him,” Jim answers.

“He says four years old is too young to know what I want to do.”

Jim nods.  He’s trying to imagine Sevin’s father, probably some distinguished looking older Vulcan, handsome in a stately way, utterly stern and unreadable in that Vulcan way they have, but soft with his son, showing him maps of the galaxy and teaching him quantum physics at four.

“That’s true,” Jim says now, slowly.  “But it isn’t too young to start dreaming.”

He can see Sevin thinking this over, but Margaret is smiling at him, approving, already taken in by his optimism and the sure shine of it through his voice.  It won’t be a problem to get her number.  He lets his gaze slide up, meets her eyes, doesn’t quite smile but almost—yeah, he has reason for optimism here.

Unfortunately, just when he’s about to ask, just casually and as if it were nothing, of course, if she might like to get together again sometime, talk more, have dinner—just when he’s about to slide right into this line of exchange, her communicator starts beeping.  She smiles apologetically, pulls it out, and flips it open.  It’s an old model device, and the voice on the other end of the line is crackly, almost impossible to understand.  Still, Sevin jumps up right away, even stands on the bench so that Margaret has to carefully, but firmly, pull him down again.  Jim can hear bits and pieces of conversation.  Something about class letting out early, about stopping by the store and does she or Sevin want something, about maybe they should meet him there, and all through the conversation Sevin has his ear close to the communicator, trying to hear.  He is clearly of the opinion that he and Margaret should leave to meet his father as soon as possible, and no one could refuse such excitement as his.  So as quickly as the encounter started it seems to be ending.

Jim’s sure to smile and say a cheery goodbye to them both, even patting Sevin on the shoulder when he gets up to leave, but still he feels a strange emptiness after they disappear.  He doesn’t think he’ll get any reading done this afternoon.  It’s not just disappointment about Margaret—she seemed friendly enough, and he would have genuinely enjoyed her company for an evening, but there will be other women.  It was something about the boy, maybe.  Something unplacable about him.  The strange combination of his Vulcan appearance, his human child demeanor, an alien socialized on Earth.  Or maybe it was something else.  Maybe (Jim thinks about them, their strange light color, the striking blue of them, the way they stared)—maybe it was his eyes.

Chapter Text

Part Two

Three years later…

It is 8:23 in the morning, and the dishes are all washed, laundry picked up from downstairs, apartment a complete mess but no visitors expected for the day, and he has enough food for dinner, if not for lunch—but he can eat out.  They’ve already eaten breakfast.  He’s already taken a shower.  He’s teaching three classes tomorrow but none today, because it’s Wednesday.  He shoots another look around, first around the kitchen, and then through the doorway into the living room.  Then he takes a deep breath and lets it go.

The shuttle leaves at 9:30, 67 minutes from now, plenty of time to get to the space docks but only if they leave now, so there isn’t time to waste.  Sevin is still in his room.  Under normal circumstances, Spock wouldn’t be concerned; his son is organized and punctual for his age, but he’s been slow and disorganized throughout this entire process, quite open about his distaste for his current trip.

“Sevin!” Spock calls now, as he crosses the living room and walks down the short hallway to his son’s closed door.  He stops outside and raps his knuckles against it.  “Sevin, are you ready to leave?”

“Almost, Father!” comes the answer, after an unusually long pause, and Spock checks the time again.

“We must leave now if we are to make the shuttle in time,” Spock reminds him.  “Have you finished packing the rest of your bags?”

“Yes,” Sevin answers, but still doesn’t open the door, and after another short pause, he adds, again, “Almost.  But we don’t need an hour to get to the space docks!”

Spock crosses his arms and looks down at the floor.  From where did the boy learn such defiance?  Spock can only assume he inherited it from his human dad.  All he says out loud is, “We are leaving in five minutes and I know you will be ready by that time,” and then he returns to the living room.

Four minutes and thirty seconds later he is sitting on the couch, and Sevin is walking up to him, dragging behind him an oversized suitcase, much too large for his small body.  It is not the suitcase Spock helped him to pack the night before, the one he’d told him to add a few last items to in the morning.  Spock looks at his son, his round and innocent face whose eyes refuse to meet Spock’s, and then back at the suitcase, and then back at Sevin one more time.  “This is why you were late this morning?” he asks, his tone more suited to a statement than a question.  He, of course, already knows the answer.

“I’m not late!” Sevin tries to insist, but Spock cuts him off again curtly.

“This is what has taken you so long this morning?  Sevin, whatever is in this suitcase, you do not need it.  Your grandparents have almost everything you will need at their home, and you know this.”

“You’ve let me take extra things before,” his boy whines, still looking down at the floor, his little fingers still gripping the handle of the too big suitcase.

“Yes, and in the past I was able to travel with you, and take on the extra weight myself.  But you know this time is different.”  Even as he says these words, he feels himself start to soften, feels a deep sympathy for the little boy take him over.  He is still so small, and so young.  And Spock does not want to see him step into that shuttle any more than Sevin himself wants to step into it.  He pauses.  Then he reaches out and takes Sevin by the shoulders, and with a slight tug brings him to Spock’s side.  Sevin still does not look up at him.

“You know it is different this time,” Spock repeats, but softer, gentler.  “You will be traveling to Vulcan all by yourself.”

“I know,” Sevin answers quietly, to Spock’s shoes.

“I will not be there to help you carry your belongings.”

“I know.”

“You must be responsible for yourself, at least for a short time.”

“I know.”

Sevin knows well how to pull at Spock’s emotions, how to make him feel, and act upon his feelings, when no other Vulcan, human, or alien ever could.  Spock is not completely unaware of Sevin’s tactics now, how quiet he makes his voice, how small he makes himself look.  But Spock knows there is true emotion in his boy as well.  He, too, feels nervous and unsure, just as Spock himself does.  He sighs, then reaches out to tussle Sevin’s hair.

“Do not worry, little one,” he says, and though Sevin is old enough already to squirm at the term of endearment, Spock pretends he does not notice.  “I will be with you until you get on the shuttle, and it will take you directly to the ship.  Commander Shore will meet you as soon as your shuttle arrives, and he will take care of you until you reach Vulcan.  Your grandparents will be there when you arrive, and in two weeks, I will join you.  It—”

“—is very simple,” Sevin finishes, the words well recited by now, his tone now more bored than worried.  “I know.  So, Father?”

“Yes?”

“Why can’t Commander Shore help me carry my suitcase?”

Spock lets out a long breath and stands up.  “Because he is a Commander, not your personal valet,” he answers shortly, and picks up Sevin’s oversized suitcase with one hand as he grabs his son’s wrist with the other.  “Now, come.  You cannot drag this all the way to Vulcan.  If we repack quickly we will not be late for the shuttle.”

Even though he says ‘we,’ he repacks his son’s bag alone, efficiently and swiftly, as Sevin sits on his bed and asks his father question after question, arguing now and then over this item or that, but never with much hope of getting his way.  Soon, his questions give way to his own rambling speech, as he wonders aloud if his room at his grandparents’ house still looks the same (Spock assures him it will), if his grandfather will let him visit the Embassy again, if his friends will forget him over the summer (Spock assures him they will not), if his grandmother will bring him to the library gardens like she did the last time.  The talking at least relaxes him, and he is in a better mood by the time they leave the apartment, 42 minutes before the shuttle leaves.  Spock does not let himself think.  He has been separated from Sevin before, and two weeks is not a very long time; he will be busy during that time, he knows, teaching his last classes of the semester and grading his students’ final papers, and soon the school year will end and he himself will be on a shuttle on his way back to Vulcan, his parents’ house, and the room he grew up in until he was seventeen years old.

“You will contact me as soon as you arrive,” he reminds Sevin, later, kneeling down in front of him as the last of the shuttle crew and passengers board.  They are all Starfleet officials, Sevin the only civilian and the only child, and it is only because Spock has the connections he does that he could pull the strings necessary to get Sevin passage on such a fast ship.  But he does not have such power, recent graduate and young Lieutenant that he is, to delay the shuttle’s departure and so in a minute they must say goodbye.  Sevin knows this too.

“I will, I promise,” he says, and then leans forward to give his father a last hug.  Though still a little boy, he has something of his father’s strength, and it is all Spock can do not to return the hug with equal force.

“I’ll miss you, father,” Sevin whispers.

“And I will miss you, too Sevin,” Spock answers quietly, and then forces himself, finally, to let go.

He watches the shuttle leave and then, seeing the morning stretch in front of him with no commitments and no meetings and no classes, he walks the long way across the city to the Starfleet Academy computer labs.  It is not too early, he decides, to start interpreting the data from this year’s Kobayashi Maru tests.  It is true that there are a still a few third year cadets who must schedule their exams, but he can start to examine now the results that have already been collected.  Only two years ago he himself was sitting on that bridge, in that false captain’s chair, trying his best to find a solution that did not exist, to win a battle that could not be won.  He had not let it rattle him.  He had gone on, and he had failed, as he must inevitably fail, and afterward, he had considered and he had realized and he had understood why the test had been as it had been.

The next three nights he had dreamed of dying in space.

He had not expected, last fall, to be asked to take over the programming of the Kobayashi Maru.  The former programmer had retired; the test was old; a few students had come close to cracking the code—they needed someone new to take an eye to it, they’d said, and Spock had shown great aptitude for computer science, for coming up with new ideas.  He had graduated from the Academy only three months before.  It was—he knew and his mother repeated to him, so proud when he told her—a great honor.

He arrives now at the labs, greets the techs and the other staff members, and finds his usual corner computer.  He pulls up the data on this year’s Kobayashi Maru.  But before he can start to analyze it in any significant way, a sudden voice behind him startles him—one of the lab interns, a cadet in one of Spock’s classes the previous semester, who addresses him with some surprise, “Professor Spock?  Are you planning to revise the Kobayashi Maru again?”

“Cadet Johnson,” Spock replies, turning halfway in his chair to look up at the intern.  “Good morning.  No, I am not revising the exam just at this minute, but I did think I would start to examine some of this year’s results.”

“Oh,” the intern answers; he’s a nervous young man who seems strangely, incredibly relieved to hear Spock’s explanation of his activities.  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Professor.  I was only wondering, because we still have six more students who have signed up to take the exam before the end of the semester.  There will still be more data coming in.”

Spock is about to turn back to his work but at the word ‘six’ he turns straight to Cadet Johnson again.  “I believed there were only five more students taking the exam this year.”

“N-no, there are six,” Johnson answers, his voice weighed down by the nervousness that must come over him as he tries to contradict a superior, still supported beneath by his conviction that he is correct.  “A Cadet Kirk signed up this morning to re-take his exam.”

“Cadet Kirk?”  Spock raises one eyebrow in confusion.  “He has already taken the exam twice, and failed each attempt.”

“I-I know, sir,” the intern says.  “But there is no rule that limits the number of times a cadet can attempt the exam in a semester, and Cadet Kirk has signed up to take the exam again.”

Spock finds this information more rattling than he would like to admit.  He thanks the intern and dismisses him quickly, then tries to return to the work he’d barely started.  But it seems unimportant.  This is only work that he had been planning to undertake to pass time, to fill up his morning before his after lunch meeting.  Now, however, another task has appeared on which he can spend his morning hours.  He leaves the computer lab before he can over think.

One Cadet Kirk.  No student at Starfleet has ever decided to take the Kobayashi Maru more than once; Spock had noticed this particular cadet’s name when it showed up on the exam roster the second time, but had not allowed the matter too much thought.  But to sign up a third time after two failures—two humiliating failures, if this cadet is the obsessive, over-achieving type (and he must be if he still believes he can beat Spock’s exam)—is more than unprecedented.  It is noteworthy.  It is deserving of further research.

He must think he is very smart, this Cadet Kirk.  He must succeed at every task he tries, and he must take any failure, too, quite personally—emotionally, as humans do.  Intelligent as Spock must assume he is, his emotions are blinding him.  All he can see in the Kobayashi Maru is his inability to win.  It is a game to him, and he is the loser; all he wants is to become the winner, and in imagining his future success he does not even begin to wonder what can be learned in failure.  What an arrogant man he must be.

Spock enters the Academy libraries by a side door, and takes a computer at the end of a long bank in the south wing.  He brings up the Academy student records and searches for this Cadet Kirk; the files come up right away.  Cadet James Tiberius Kirk.  Twenty-five years old.  Third year student at Starfleet Academy, command track.  Hometown Riverside, Iowa, United States, Earth.  No picture available.

The information, now that it is here in front of him, is quite meaningless.  It tells him nothing, much less than the mere fact of Cadet Kirk’s name on the exam roster three times in one semester tells him.  Cadet Kirk is twenty-five years old, two years older than Spock himself, but still young, and sure of himself, and proud; he does not believe, Spock knows, Spock is sure, that he will ever die.  In his own eyes he is an immortal.  Not even the Kobayashi Maru can rattle him.  He will have to go into space, face death and loss and tragedy, before he believes it, may go to his death still believing until the very last moment that somehow he will still make it through even this.

Spock closes the file but something still bothers him, some stray thought he cannot quite yet identify.  He stares at the computer screen, waiting to remember.

It is the name.  Kirk.

How could he have forgotten, even for a moment?  This is a name he has known all of his life.  He has known about the U.S.S. Kelvin, about the Romulan ship that attacked it, about the horrible tragedy of it and the heroic bravery of the temporary Captain George Kirk, ever since he was a little boy.  The incident is not spoken of on Vulcan the way he imagines it is spoken of on Earth.  It is more complicated for Spock’s people.  George Kirk is still a hero, true, and the Romulans still the enemy, but there is bitterness, too, unspoken but ever-present, at how difficult the rest of the Federation seems to find it to distinguish between two races with the same pointed ears, the same slanted eyebrows.  The racism is often subtle, still too difficult to ignore, and it has created Vulcans like Stonn and his parents, isolationists out of anger and fear.

Spock begins another search through the records.  What he finds does not surprise him.  James Tiberius Kirk, second son of George and Winona Kirk, born the same day his father died.

He should know better, Spock thinks, about death and tragedy and sacrifice.  He should know that some battles cannot be won.

Spock shuts the computer down with a few short commands, and leaves the library through the same door he entered.  He has another connection to George Kirk, a more direct, though, he supposes, a still tenuous one.  He cannot help thinking of it now.  It was in honor of George Kirk that the Starfleet base was built in Riverside, Iowa, the base that Spock’s father had been visiting when he brought Spock to Earth for the first time eight years ago.  And so by this strange chain of events Spock had met the human boy, and conceived Sevin.  It is a strange coincidence, Spock concludes, as he makes his way back to the center of the Academy campus.  Perhaps this Cadet Kirk even knew Sevin’s dad, went to school with him, worked the same part time job with him.  It is not an impossible thought.

Spock makes up his mind to observe the Cadet’s Kobayashi Maru when he takes the exam again in three days.

“Lieutenant Spock,” Captain Pike’s voice calls through his office door.  “Please, come in.”

“You asked to speak with me, Captain?” Spock answers, his tone polite and professional, as the door slides shut behind him.

“Yes.  Sit.”

Pike is straightforward as ever.  His tone is not quite friendly, not quite welcoming or easy, but one might call it familiar, and it is certainly not the tone Spock expects from a senior military officer speaking to his inferior.  For this reason alone he has always found his interactions with Pike somewhat stressful.  Despite his straightforward approach to conversation, still Spock finds Pike hard to read, completely unlike his colleagues and prone to challenging Spock in ways that none of his other superiors have.

Spock takes a seat across from Pike and waits.  Pike doesn’t speak right away.  At first he just sits, leaning back in his chair, watching Spock intently and as if thinking, and Spock tries to sit as straight as he can, running through possibility after possibility in his head.  He doesn’t know what this meeting is about.

“The Enterprise takes off on her maiden voyage the first week of September,” Pike starts, announcing this fact as if it were a close kept secret he was just now able to reveal.

“I am aware, Captain Pike,” Spock answers politely.  “I have seen her at the space docks; she is a beautiful ship.”

“And I’m lucky enough to have the privilege of captaining her.  But there’s a problem, Spock, and it’s a pretty big one.  She needs a crew.  We have the summer to collect that crew but I’m going to insist on the very best and the brightest—the most talented and the most able men and women to man Starfleet’s newest flagship.  So I’ll be upfront with you, Spock: you may be one of our newer graduates but you are also one of our best.  And I would like you to be my Science Officer on the Enterprise when she takes off in three months.”

At first he cannot speak, not even to thank Captain Pike even though, by human standards, he’s aware that this is the proper thing to do.  He just sits, completely still and as if frozen, wondering what he could possibly say.  Such an appointment is completely unprecedented.  A ship’s Science Officer is one of its most senior officers, and Spock has all of six years’ experience at Starfleet, four as a mere student; he has only spent one year in space, on a simple training mission.  He sputters out something about not being qualified.

Pike does not comment on his sudden lack of coherence, this fissure in his reserve that came too quickly at Pike’s unexpected question.  Instead, he just smiles and says, “Spock, believe me.  If I thought you weren’t qualified for this position, I would never offer it to you.  I’m not asking you to answer yet,” he adds, perhaps reading on Spock’s face, despite his attempts to control his expression properly, his hurried thoughts and indecision, “just to think about it.”

Spock tilts his head, then pulls himself forward slightly in his chair, closer to Pike.  “It is an amazing opportunity, Captain Pike,” he says.

“I know,” Pike answers, and smiles, and waits for the inevitable however.

“However—I will be on Vulcan all summer.  I have already made plans with my family.”

Pike shrugs.  “That shouldn’t be a problem.  No doubt you had already arranged to return to San Francisco for the start of the school year in September, so you’ll be here before we take off.  And though it would be preferable to have all senior officers involved in the final plans for the big send off, we can communicate with you easily through video conversations.  It isn’t ideal, but,” and for a half moment, so quickly that even Spock almost misses it, he pauses, and shoots Spock a look, eye to eye.  “But we can work around these issues.”

Spock feels the tips of his ears burn green, and he ducks his head to stare down at his knees.  But he keeps this posture only for a moment.  He had been wondering, at the back of his thoughts, when the conversation would take this turn.

“Can Starfleet—and the Enterprise—‘work around’ my son?” he asks quietly, forcing himself to look up as he speaks and meet Pike’s gaze.

Pike isn’t intimidated, though, not in the way Spock’s students often are, or even in the way some of his professors were.  He stares back unflinchingly, leaning back in his chair almost casually, not moving except for his hand; he holds the stylus from a PADD and taps the end of it slowly against his desk.  He doesn’t answer right away.  He’s thinking, perhaps.  He is trying to decide what Spock is asking, exactly, and how, just as precisely, to answer him.

Finally, he says, “Every Starfleet officer makes sacrifices, Spock.  Especially those who choose to go on long-term missions like this one.”

Spock grips his knees with both hands.  “I understand that the Enterprise would not be a suitable environment for a boy Sevin’s age,” he answers slowly.  “It was not built for children, there will be no one else his age, and the mission will often be a dangerous one.  But, Captain Pike, five years is a long time.  He is only seven years old now, and he will be twelve when I return.”

Spock knows that Captain Pike doesn’t have children of his own, and so he knows before Pike replies that he does not understand, that he cannot answer.  He will pretend that he knows the choice is a difficult one—“I can’t make this one for you, Spock”—but for him it is quite simple.  Any position on a Starfleet flagship about to set off on a five year exploratory mission is an honor, especially for a recent graduate like Spock.  The opportunity for discovery and invention is without price.  It cannot be weighed even against those five years of his son’s life, for someone like Pike, whose life is his career, who faces no conflict between his home and his profession.

Spock does not know what to say.

“Like I said,” Pike shrugs, “I can’t hold the position forever but you do have some time to think about it.  And I would advise you to give the matter some serious thought.”

Spock arches an eyebrow.  “Captain,” he says, “I believe you know me well enough by now to know that I give every question serious thought.”

That night he makes a dinner for one and eats it slowly beneath the too bright kitchen light.  He has a book open in front of him, but even as he reads it he cannot quiet the other levels of his brain; he cannot stop thinking about how quiet his apartment sounds, how empty it feels.  It is not that he has never spent an evening alone, without his son.  But such occasions are rare and the sharp change in his routine hits him hard.  He is used to Sevin’s chatter over dinner as he tells his father about his day.  He pauses just long enough to ask Spock questions about his own experiences, but rarely listens for the answers; it is only later that Spock gets his turn to talk, as he gives Sevin his evening lessons, and then, eventually, inevitably, slips into storytelling of his own.

He puts his book away after dinner, unable to continue to feign interest.  Instead, he returns to his room and sits down at his desk, and pulls up on his computer the last of the reports he has to grade for his Ethics class.  He promised his students he would return their work by the end of the week, and more importantly he knows that he must do something with his mind now.  He cannot simply let himself think, or worry.

Sevin will not arrive on Vulcan until 10am San Francisco time tomorrow.  He is, at the moment, still in transit, in a small private room in the officers’ quarters, perhaps already asleep—though, if Spock knows his son, he is still awake and maybe even with Commander Shore, asking questions, exploring, taking advantage of the older man’s endless patience to learn whatever he can about the spaceship and all of its infinitely fascinating technology.

Before he goes to bed he calls his mother, and goes over the details of Sevin’s arrival with her again.  She only smiles and tells him not to worry: she and his father will be there to meet Sevin when he steps off the shuttle, and they will contact Spock as soon as they get back to the house.

“It may have been a few years since we’ve had a seven year old in this house, but I don’t think we’ve quite forgotten the routine yet.  You don’t need to worry about anything, Spock.  It will be fine.”

He doesn’t even tell her that he is a Vulcan, and thus does not worry.  She would not believe him.

He considers calling Sevin, too, but by the time he and his mother have finished their conversation, and he has spoken to his father, and gone over once more the plan for the following day, it is late, and he does not wish to disturb Sevin’s sleep if he is already in bed.  He goes to take a shower.  When he returns to his room he sees that he has missed a call on his communicator from only five minutes before.

“Sevin?  Why are you still awake?”

“I can’t sleep.  Commander Shore showed me the whole ship.  It was really fun.  But now I have to go to bed and I’m not sleepy.”

“I know.  I am sure all of the excitement must make it difficult to fall asleep, but at least attempt to rest.  If you are tired tomorrow, you can sleep when you arrive at your grandparents’ house.”

“They won’t mind?  It won’t be too busy?”

“They will not mind,” Spock reassures him.  He lies on his back on his bed, over the covers, his eyes closed.  “You should rest now, Sevin.  Do not worry about sleeping.  Perhaps you will fall asleep much quicker than you think, when you are no longer trying so hard.  You will just drift off, as if you were at home.”

The Cadet taking the Kobayashi Maru sits in a Captain’s chair, in the center of a constructed bridge on the first floor of the largest academic building on campus.  He is told that he is taking an exam to test his command skills, his ability to make quick decisions, and to maintain control of himself and his crew in the face of a possible disaster.  He is under the impression that he is facing a challenge of logic.  This challenge is notoriously difficult but not, the Cadet believes, the Cadet is told, impossible.

Some break down when they lose.  Some cry.  Others are stoic.  From the second floor, their superior officers watch the false Captain and his false crew through a two way mirror, observing and taking notes as necessary.  They mark down each reaction and try to predict, as well as they can, which students will become leaders and which will not.

Spock arrives at Cadet Kirk’s third Kobayashi Maru a minute after the test officially begins.  He comes up the back staircase so as not to disturb the test on the first floor, and slips into position in the observation room next to Cadet Kirk’s advisor.  He’s standing with his arms crossed, already frustrated though the test has barely begun—probably tired, Spock imagines, of watching his student fail again and again and still stubbornly return.

Cadet Uhura is explaining the situation, one both she and Cadet Kirk know well, as Spock steps up to the glass.  “The ship has lost power and is stranded.  Starfleet command has ordered us to rescue them,” she is saying.  The Cadet has twisted his Captain’s chair around to watch her, so all Spock can see from this angle is the back of Kirk’s head.  He’s wearing the same blue jumpsuit as the rest of the cadets taking part in the simulation, and he keeps his blond hair cropped short, but for a moment, this is all Spock knows of him.

“Starfleet command has ordered us to rescue them….Captain,” he corrects, then, as he turns, and for the space of 2.3 seconds, Spock has no breath.  He barely hears the voice, its nonchalance that borders on arrogance, and he does not notice the second Cadet who is speaking now, updating Kirk on the arrival of several Klingon warships into the scenario.  Spock files away these details for later, carefully set away in the back of his mind, but for the moment he simply looks at that face.

In a moment, I am going to kiss you.  Step away now if you don’t want me to.

He has not seen the human boy in eight years, but he remembers him.  He cannot help but remember him.

This feels good, right?  I feel good on top of you, against you?

He feels his heart beat faster, loud to his own ears, and his palms prick as if with sweat.  He stands as still as he can, worried that, somehow, the other officers in the room might notice something wrong, something unusual about him.  Quietly, he curls his fingers in, then straightens them again.  This Cadet, this James Tiberius Kirk, is Sevin’s dad.

Spock remembers his face, handsome and open, thinner now with the accumulation of years but still boyish.  He is as confident as ever, as self-assured and ready as he faces his Klingon warships as when he first ran a hand down Spock’s side or slid that first slick finger into him.  Suddenly his confidence then becomes arrogance, his careful touch and his low voice and his comforting words only the methods of a calculated seduction, and Spock wonders, a fleeting thought he does not let himself catch, how many people this Cadet Kirk has brought home to his bed.

He does not know that Spock is watching him.  He does not know that the father of his son is staring at him.

No, he is not ruffled.  He is not bothered by anything.  Spock takes an involuntary step closer to the glass, lets his eyes run again over that face and that figure, that mouth that once kissed him, those hands that once touched him.  He has not been able to get this boy, this man, out of his thoughts for eight years.  He thought about him when he felt their baby kicking inside him, when he first held their son in his arms, when he watched Sevin take his first steps and speak his first words.  He used to wonder what he would say if he found the human boy again.  But he squashed those thoughts too soon each time, deeming them illogical, unreasonable thoughts, and now he does not know.  He is speechless.

Spock is broken out of this reverie only by the cessation of the alarm signals.  Before his eyes the whole simulation stops, the power broken, the lights off, the screens of the false ship fizzing into incoherency, then into darkness.  He has no idea what is going on.

No, this isn’t quite true.

He curls his fingers into fists, then relaxes them again: his only movement.  Otherwise, he is utterly still.  Cadet Kirk is reclining easily in his Captain’s chair, and as the power returns and he calls for them to fire and his fellow Cadets question his orders, confused, he retains his calm.  He knows what’s going on; he knows what Spock knows, and what everyone else will come to know soon enough.

Spock watches as the simulated Klingon ships explode in bursts of orange and yellow.  Cadet Kirk makes his hand into the shape of a gun and pretends to fire at them.

“So,” Kirk concludes, standing as the lights return to their full brightness, and his tone is the most self-satisfied, the most infuriating of all human tones Spock has ever listened to, and he cannot stop listening, nor stop watching, nor stop remembering, “we’ve managed to eliminate all enemy ships, no one on board was injured,” he pauses in his slow pace, his walk of glory, to slap one of his fellow Cadets on the shoulder, “and the successful rescue of the Kobayashi Maru crew is…under way.”

He has brought an apple with him into the testing room and now, in his triumph, he takes a large, loud bite.  Then he turns, quite deliberately, to face the two way mirror through which he knows his instructors are watching him.  He does not grin, but his stare is one of such smug superiority, that Spock almost feels ill.  He does not feel such base human emotions as anger, so he settles instead for strong disdain.

One of the programmers, the man who assigned Spock this task, turns and asks him sharply, “How the hell did that kid beat your test?”

Spock clenches his teeth.  It is impossible.  The Cadet did not beat his test and he wishes to say so, but he cannot, no more than he could have admitted their affair, or the truth of his son’s origins.  All he says, all he is able to grit out is simply, “I do not know.”

Chapter Text

Nyota is already sitting at their usual table when he arrives, five minutes late, and slips into the chair across from her.  “I apologize,” he says, before he even greets her, “my class ran late.”

“You mean you kept your class late so you could finish your thought,” Nyota smiles.  “It’s okay; I understand.  That’s your power as a professor.”

Spock can hardly argue Nyota’s reading of the situation, but he is saved from giving any answer at all by the arrival of a waitress.  She hands him a menu that he already knows by heart: he and Nyota have been having lunch here every Friday for years.  It is a suitable establishment, not far from the Academy’s Xenolinguistics building, with a menu that is almost entirely vegetarian, and among its beverages a highly caffeinated ice drink that, for some strange reason, Nyota swears she cannot live without.  He notices that she already has one, half empty, in front of her.  Spock catches her gaze and raises an eyebrow.

“What?  Don’t give me that look.  I was early,” she answers, and though she attempts to put annoyance in her voice, even Spock can hear that she is faking.  There is still a smile on her face.

She orders another before the waitress leaves, then explains that she will not be sleeping that night anyway, not with the end of the semester so quickly approaching and her first final project due on Monday.

“But you remember how that is.  It isn’t worth talking about.”  She takes another sip from her glass.  He knows she’s waiting to ask him, waiting just a few more moments in case he brings up the topic himself.  But he doesn’t.  She uncrosses and recrosses her legs beneath the table, clears her throat.  “You had that meeting with Pike Wednesday, right?”

“I did.”

“And?  Come on Spock, I know that whatever it was, it was big news.  Is it about the Enterprise?”

Nyota likes to joke—Spock is almost sure she is joking—that she is more in love with the Enterprise than she was with her last boyfriend.  She’s been looking up the latest pictures of it for years, as it grows, ever more impressive, in the Riverside shipyard, and she even joined Starfleet in the hope of one day serving on that vessel.  She can recite every statistic, every measurement, every detail of its new technology, without even being asked.  Spock watches her eyes gleam with excitement as he confirms her suspicion.

“Yes.  He called me to his office to ask me if I would serve as his Science Officer on the five year mission.”

Nyota, usually so composed and quiet, elegant and well spoken, immediately lets out a sound that can only be described as a shriek.  Several heads turn.  Spock feels his ears go green.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, and gathers herself together quickly, straightens her posture and leans forward as far as she can across the table toward Spock.  “I knew he would ask you to serve with him but Science Officer—Spock, that’s amazing.  Most officers serve for a decade before they’re even considered for that type of position.  This has to be a first.”

“Perhaps,” Spock answers.  He looks down at the table, unsure what else to say.  He does not often wish to feel emotion in the way that humans do, so strongly and so close to the surface, so uncontrollably.  He is usually quite proud of the barriers he keeps up so well, day by day.  But right now he almost envies Nyota her unadulterated happiness, the excitement that she feels for him.

Before she can say any more, their waitress reappears with their lunches, another iced drink for Nyota and a water for Spock.  He immediately sets to poking at his salad, spearing lettuce leaves and tomatoes.  The silence stretches many moments too long.

“Well, it’s not like I was expecting you to jump up and down for joy,” Nyota says, finally.  She’s barely looked at her own food, her gaze instead steadily on Spock.

He looks up at her, a moment’s look, as if questioning, and then puts down his fork.  “Of course I am honored that Captain Pike would offer me this position.  The opportunity to explore space and to meet new peoples is invaluable—it is the sort of opportunity I envisioned taking when I first applied to the Academy.”

Nyota isn’t impressed by his speech and in answer, only sighs and sits back in her chair.  “Come on, Spock,” she says.  “You don’t have to be diplomatic with me.”

“I am not being, as you say, diplomatic, Nyota—I am only reacting to Captain Pike’s offer logically.”

“And you think the logical reaction is to turn him down?”

He’s said no such thing; he has not made a decision, not officially, not even to himself.  But he does not argue with her.  He cannot, after he looks up at her again and sees the expression on her face: knowing and sure, and something of a challenge there, too, unspoken but clear.

“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, Spock,” she says.

“And if Sevin were older I would not hesitate to accept it,” he finishes.  “But it is a five year mission.  I cannot bring him with me and I cannot abandon him for that long.  Nyota,” he adds, watching the unmoving, unmoved expression of her face, “if I were to die, on this mission, what would happen to my son?  I am his only parent.”

For a few moments more, she is unflinching.  Then she breaks her pose quite suddenly and picks up her fork again.  She starts picking at her food, avoiding his gaze.  “I know I can’t understand what it is to be a parent, Spock,” she says, after a moment.  “But—don’t just say no to Pike without thinking about it, okay?”  She glances up at him, serious and quiet.  “This is an unbelievable opportunity you have.  It isn’t the sort of thing you just throw away, just like that.  Don’t assume there’s no compromise possible here, either.  You compromised when you came to Starfleet, didn’t you?  When Sevin wasn’t even two?”

“That was a different situation—” he starts, but she silences him with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t tell me that no one on Vulcan told you it was impossible,” she says.  “I know they did.  But you showed them then and you’ll show everyone now too.”

He watches her as she returns to her food, barely looking at him.  He does not wish to argue.  She is naïve, perhaps—but when he remembers himself at seventeen, determined and stubborn, he knows he has no right to dispute her optimism, her easy refusal to acknowledge any obstacle.  He stepped on that shuttle five years ago with his bag on one shoulder and his boy at his opposite hip and he’d never looked back, even on his worst days, even on those days he thought he could not go on by himself a second longer.  He was optimistic then, too.

Across from him, Nyota sighs.  “Let’s change the subject,” she declares.  “You’ve heard about that Cadet, who actually passed the Kobayashi Maru on his third try?”

“Cadet Kirk, I believe is his name,” Spock answers lightly, and takes a larger bite of his salad.  This topic of conversation will not be a particularly pleasant one, but if he is careful, Nyota will not notice the strain of it on him, and they can talk through it quickly.  He controls his voice carefully.  He wants her to think that this event is no more than a curiosity to him.  “I was watching the exam from the observation deck.”

“Yeah?  And what did you think?” she prods.  “I know how hard you worked on that test, Spock.  There’s no way he could have actually beat it.”

“Of course not,” he answers, a bit too quickly, a bit too reflexively.  He calms his tone and starts again.  “Certainly, Nyota, he did not pass the Kobayashi Maru fairly.  He must have altered the program in some way—”

“He must have cheated.”

He looks up at her, not sure if her tone is question or declaration, and even though she seems quite confident in her assessment, he nods.  “Yes.  I believe so.”

Nyota smiles, satisfied as if at a victory, and leans back in her chair.  She crosses her arms across her chest and waits for Spock to say something more.  When he doesn’t, she asks, “So what are you going to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Spock, I know this guy,” she tells him.  “I met him three years ago, just before he enlisted, and I see him around a lot.  He’s…he’s a sleaze, okay?  All he thinks about is sex.  He hits on me every chances he gets; he’s seduced my roommate—she’s so completely taken with him, it’s unbelievable—and who knows how many people on this campus he’s slept with.”

Spock takes a long drink of his water and hopes that the tips of his ears are not turning green.  It is an embarrassing reaction he has not quite learned to suppress.  The information is not shocking, not unexpected, but difficult to hear, nonetheless.  Of course he could guess he was not the human boy’s first sexual partner, and he would be truly naïve to believe Sevin’s dad had remained celibate after their encounter eight years ago.  Still, he feels like just one conquest among many.  He is a statistic; he is a body used and cast aside.

He clears his throat and reminds Nyota that “one’s intelligence and academic capabilities should not be measured by one’s sexual life.”

“No,” she admits, a bit reluctantly, “I suppose not.  And he’s not stupid, I know that.  But he never seems to do any work; he coasts by on his charm and his confidence; everyone falls completely in love with him and then he gets his way, no matter what it is.  Like this Kobayashi Maru thing: he’s sitting around all proud of himself and smug, and why?  Just because he succeeded in completely missing the point.  But that doesn’t matter, because he did what no one else could do, so everyone should bask in his glory.”

She’s breathing a bit hard after this speech, her nostrils flaring in and out slightly.  But what he has admired about Nyota since they met is her control, and in a moment she has returned to her lunch as if she had not spoken at all.  Spock waits a moment before he answers.

“Were you ever attracted to him, Nyota?” he asks, as casually as he can.

She laughs in response, and he’s not sure if it is a forced laugh, or quite involuntary.  “Of course not,” she says.  Then she pauses, leans forward, and makes a show of examining Spock’s face.  He knows his expression is neutral.  He knows she can see nothing in his eyes, in the tilt of his head.  Still he grips his fork tight.

“Are you?” she asks.

“No,” he answers quickly, and then tries to pretend that this suggestion is quite ridiculous.  If he were human, he would laugh.

“Oh come on Spock,” Nyota insists.  “I know your type.  Tall, blond, blue-eyed…”  She tilts her head, trying to catch his down-turned gaze.  “Do you know him at all?”

“No, I do not believe that I do,” he answers curtly.  “From what you tell me, it is better that I do not.  He and I would have nothing in common.”

Nyota shrugs, then sits back and takes a long drink from her glass.  “You wouldn’t.  That doesn’t mean you can’t be attracted to him.  You haven’t been on a date in how many months?  Or are we measuring in years now?”

Spock feels his eyebrows meet over his nose, and a slight frown marring his face.  “You know as well as I do that it is not necessary to have a romantic partner to live a full and meaningful life."

“Of course it’s not necessary,” she agrees, her eyes widening at the last word for emphasis.  “It’s also not ‘necessary’ that I become Communications Officer on the Enterprise.  I won’t die if that doesn’t happen.  But my life will be a lot better if it does.  Anyway,” she waves her hand as if to dismiss his objection entirely, “I’m the last person who will tell you to go out and seduce Jim Kirk, of all people.  You could do better.”  She pauses, looks at him, pretends she isn’t looking at him, and then turns her gaze up again to stare at him straight on.  “But don’t tell me you’re not at least a little into him,” she finishes.

He stares back as if uncomprehending.  “I do not understand your Terran terminology,” he says.  It is code for I do not wish to discuss this.

Nyota smiles, and shakes her head back and forth at him as if she found him quite amusing.  Perhaps she was only joking before; perhaps her comments meant nothing.  She often takes the opportunity, when she sees it, to comment on his romantic life, and she is fond of joking and teasing in a way that often confuses him still.  He has never spoken to her of Sevin’s dad.  She asked a few tentative questions in the early days of their friendship, but he insisted that there was nothing to say.  He only told her that the other father was not in their lives anymore and that—the smallest of lies, perhaps not even a lie—that Sevin’s dad had chosen not to see his son.

“So what are you going to do?” she asks again, now.

Spock sits back in his chair.  So the subject of his love life is dropped, which is a relief, but this topic is almost as uncomfortable.  He does not know.  He has kept the problem constantly revolving in the back of his mind for the last two days, but still he does not know.

“I have not decided,” he admits.

“What’s there to decide?” Nyota responds, and he notes the confusion on her face.  “He cheated, Spock.  If you let him get away with it, it’s like saying that kind of thing is okay.  Now everyone will be looking for a way to beat it, instead of thinking about what it means to lose.”

“I have considered these points, Nyota,” he says.  He spears a few more leaves of his salad, trying to think more of it than of his lunch companion, or their conversation.

“So you will bring him to the disciplinary board.”  Her hears the note of conclusion in her voice, and looks up in response, a quick but uncompromising catch of her eyes.

“I do not know,” he repeats, and turns his eyes downward again.  “Perhaps I shall not.  Perhaps I should devote my time and energy to other endeavours, rather than waste my time reprimanding rebellious, immature Cadets.”

Nyota has no answer to this, and for several long moments the only sounds between them are the tapping of their silverware, the crunching of croutons, the clink of Nyota’s glass as she sets it down.

“I see,” she says quietly.

“I apologize for speaking sharply,” he answers, head dipped, fingers tight around his fork.

“Don’t.  Something has you rattled about this Cadet Kirk thing, Spock.  I wish I knew what it was, but I don’t expect you to tell me.”  She sighs, and finishes the last of her drink.  “It wouldn’t be right if he got away with it, and you know that.  So why are you hesitating?”

That night he meditates, and in the quiet of his room, the quiet of his apartment, the quiet of his mind, he considers Nyota’s question.  Why does he hesitate?

He tries to picture Cadet Kirk again, waits for the first image to surface slowly in his mind.  It is not the sight of the good looking young man he met in Riverside that comes to him, that human boy with the gentle touch and the concerned voice, the first person to kiss him or to touch him with such purpose, such desire.  No, it is the image of the Cadet in the testing room that he imagines.  Jim Kirk leaning back in that fake Captain’s chair as if he owned it.  He gloried in being the center, the most important one.  He is a man who thinks only of himself, who would not know how to expand his life for a child, who would not want to.  He could never put another being first.

Any illusions Spock might have held, as a teenager, scared and alone, he sees now were no better than fantasies.

You must confront him, he thinks.

Images of the disciplinary board hearing flash through his mind.  Yes, he would deserve it.

But it takes him a moment, a millisecond too long, to remember that it is for cheating that Cadet Kirk deserves to be reprimanded.

Neither Kirk, nor the cadets who will come after him, will be helped if he is not brought up on charges of academic dishonesty.  Nyota is right when she reminds him of this.  And perhaps he would not hesitate at all if he were not so wary to face that man again.

It is no excuse.

He completes his meditation decided, but uneasy.  This sense, of thoughts not quite thought through, of a process left unfinished, does not leave him even as he makes dinner, fills out paperwork for his summer leave of absence, takes a shower.  He keeps repeating to himself, do not hesitate.  Just that.  Simple.  Why should he falter?  He need not even stand at the hearing, he need not ever make himself known.  Is it the mere idea of seeing the human boy again?  Is he that easily shaken, that easily pulled off of his path?  Or is he just not convinced, somehow, that what he is doing is right?

The academic year is fast ending, and soon, quite soon in fact, he will be on a ship back to Vulcan, not free of worry or disturbance certainly but surrounded, at least, by a different scene.  He will gain something from this change of place.

The disciplinary board meets once a month, and rarely agrees to hear cases outside of its set meeting times.  Spock has convinced them to make an exception.  Academic integrity is a core value of this institution, and it is necessary to maintain it, if the Academy is to continue to produce officers prepared to do Starfleet’s important work.  If the board does not hold a special meeting for this case, the Cadet will not be tried until the next academic year, the last formal board meeting of the semester having passed, and by that time it will be more difficult to treat the case with the seriousness it deserves, too many months having passed since the offense occurred.

The whole school assembles, confused, curious, restless in their seats.  Spock sits on the aisle with the other professors, a few gray suits at the edges of a vast land of red.  He sits perfectly still and does his best not to turn his head or shift his gaze.  Cadet Kirk is sitting to his right, in the next section of seats over, two rows down.

“This session has been called to resolve a troubling matter,” Admiral Barnett announces, and Spock sets his hands carefully on his knees.  “James T. Kirk, step forward.”

The purpose of the board hearing has not been announced ahead of time, and he’s sure that Cadet Kirk was not expecting to be called to the floor.  Spock watches despite himself as Kirk glances slightly to his right and left, hoping perhaps it was a mistake, and then stands, warily.  He’s still glancing behind him, around him, as Barnett reads the charge brought against him.  Spock’s fingers grip his knees, and he focuses on controlling his body, the temperature of his skin, the dryness of his mouth.  This man is just a Cadet, he tells himself, and no more connected to Spock than he is to any of his other partners, any of his brief affairs.  He does not know about Sevin.  And he need not ever know.

“Is there anything you care to say before we begin?” Barnett is asking, and Spock stiffens, and straightens, as Cadet Kirk answers, “Yes.”

“I believe I have the right to face my accuser directly,” he says.  In the tense pause that follows, Barnett’s gaze shifts to Spock, and he feels himself stand even though he did not will his body to stand.  It is as if he were completely shut off, automatic, emotionless; more than a perfect Vulcan, he feels like a perfect machine.

He pulls down his uniform shirt stiffly.  His back is perfectly straight, and his steps, perfectly measured.  Cadet Kirk is watching him.  Surely, though, he does not remember; surely Spock’s face has changed; surely all Vulcans look alike to him, as Spock’s race often does to humans.  Surely there is no more than a slight curious expression on James Kirk’s face, as he wonders who this professor is who so callously turned him in.

Spock takes his place at the podium on the opposite side of the aisle from Kirk’s as Barnett introduces him.  He and the Cadet exchange another glance.  For a moment he cannot help but wonder if his mind is playing tricks with him, if this is not the same boy he met in Iowa those years ago.  But of course it is.  This is the closest he has been to him since he stepped off of his motorcycle eight years ago, and from here, he can just see the color of his eyes, the same subtle shade of light blue that he sees when he looks into his son’s face.

The Admiral calls on him to begin, and he does, hands behind his back and voice level, and if anyone asked him in this moment if he’d met the Cadet before he would say no, without a twinge of guilt.

“Cadet Kirk, you somehow managed to install and activate a subroutine in the program, thereby changing the conditions of the test,” he announces.

“Your point being?”

“In academic vernacular,” Barnett clarifies, “you cheated.”

Kirk is standing straight too, his own hands clasped behind his back, listening to the accusations against him and his own mind whirring in response.  Spock thinks of all the old paper books piled around the human boy’s apartment; he thinks of the piles of dishes left in the sink.

“Let me ask you something, I think we all know the answer to,” he says, and then turns just the slightest part-turn to Spock, “the test itself is a cheat, isn’t it?  You programmed it to be unwinnable.”

“Your argument precludes the possibility of a no-win scenario,” Spock answers.

“I don’t believe in no-win scenarios,” the Cadet smiles.  Spock wonders how many people have been seduced by that smile.

“Then not only did you violate the rules,” he says aloud, “but you also failed to understand the principle lesson.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

Spock feels his whole body stiffen, just slightly, too slightly for anyone to notice, but he feels it the way he feels his heart beat or his lungs move with total, complete awareness.  The Cadet’s tone would be infuriating, if he were one to get infuriated.  Perhaps in a different mood, or if his history with Cadet Kirk were not what it is, he would not say what he says in return, but Spock does not waste his time with thoughts of alternate universes.

“You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk,” he tells him, “that a Captain cannot cheat death.”

Kirk just stares at him, his expression utterly blank, utterly unreadable.  Then he turns away again, and lowers his gaze.  “I of all people?” he asks.  His tone suggests fatigue.

But Spock cannot back down.  He keeps his eyes on the Cadet even as Kirk lowers his gaze again, shakes his head so slightly one almost wouldn’t notice, as if he can’t believe he’s hearing this, as if he isn’t letting himself hear a word.

“Your father, Lieutenant George Kirk, assumed command of his vessel before being killed in action, did he not?”

“I don’t think you like the fact that I beat your test.”

“Furthermore,” Spock continues, speaking almost over Kirk, not thinking either, feeling his heart beat the tiniest bit faster, “you have failed to divine the purpose of the test.”

“Enlighten me again.”

“The purpose is to experience fear, fear in the face of certain death.  To accept that fear, and to maintain control of one’s self and one’s crew: this is a quality expected in every Starfleet Captain.”

His father had asked him once, and what if you die, Spock, on a ship out in space, lightyears away from your son who has no other parent, who knows no other father but you?  That was the fear that Spock faced in that testing room.  Such a fear is unknown to this Cadet James Kirk.

There is a pause after he speaks, when no one speaks, when Cadet Kirk does not even look at him, and then before Kirk can answer a Lieutenant comes jogging into the room and hands a message to the Admiral.  A few whispers run through the room but there’s hardly time to wonder before Barnett announces, “We’ve received a distress call from Vulcan.”

Immediately, the board is dismissed.  The Cadets are directed to Hangar One.  Professors and students alike walk quickly, orderly out, but Spock is already gone, gone the second the Admiral announces they are dismissed.  A distress signal from Vulcan.  A distress signal sent to Starfleet, a disaster the planet cannot cope with on its own.  No more details are given but the mere fact of this is enough, enough to set Spock’s heart racing and to cloud his mind, erasing even logic and reason from his thoughts.  He has only one thought left.  Sevin is on Vulcan.  Spock must get to him.

Chapter Text

After the destruction of Vulcan, most of the survivors come to Earth.  Spock sees them everywhere he goes in San Francisco, his people in their mourning clothes in Terran styles, quiet and lost, searching, or afraid to admit they must stop searching.  Perhaps inevitably, the city has become a Vulcan lost and found, where all of the broken pieces of that planet’s families have come, hoping to reform themselves where they can.  The Federation has never known a tragedy of this scope.  It has no resources, no plan.

Spock has been on Earth for 48 hours and in that time, he has not slept.  His father is staying with him; officially, he sleeps on the couch, but mostly he lives in Sevin’s room, sitting, sometimes meditating, on that too-small child’s bed.  At the moment, he is drinking tea.  Spock sits across from him, hands wrapped around his mug, and waiting.  “I do not understand why it is so difficult,” he says.  “If he is in San Francisco—”

“We do not know that he is,” Sarek interrupts calmly.  They have had this conversation before.

Sevin was not with his grandparents when Nero’s ship arrived.  He was in a child care facility in the center of Spock’s hometown, the planet’s capital city.  His chances of survival, given the resources of his city of residence, and the priority the planet would inevitably put on saving its youngest citizens, are high.  But if the shuttle carrying him and his peers away from the destruction did not come to Earth, the possibility that he would encounter another set of dangers increases highly.  So, too, does the possibility for confusion.  Space has never seemed so vast.

“It would not be sensible to take the children to another planet,” Spock says.  But his voice sounds half-hearted even to his own ears.  The ship could have been forced off course.  It could have arrived at Earth, but landed instead in the port of another city.

He has gone over the possibilities thousands of times.

Sarek takes a sip from his mug.  Spock has yet to touch his.  It’s growing cold in his hands.

And when he finds his son, what will he tell him, about Vulcan, about his grandmother—?

“I should not have abandoned him on Vulcan,” Spock says, and he could break this mug, he could smash it into pieces or throw it into a wall or crush it under his boot.  “What will he say when he sees me?  How will he ever trust me again?”

“You had no choice,” his father answers.  When humans hear Vulcans speak like this, in such a tone as Sarek’s now, they convince themselves again that this race has no heart.  “If you had not come to alert the High Council, our entire civilization would have been lost.  To our people, Spock, you are a hero.”

He looks up and his father is watching him.  He is not a hero to his father.  He could not even save his mother, Sarek’s wife.  And suddenly his anger comes boiling up in him, savage, uncontrollable, and he throws his mug of tea to the floor.  It shatters, and the hot liquid pours out at their feet.  Sarek does not even glance down.  He keeps his gaze straight on Spock, who is breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“You were thinking like an Officer,” Sarek says, “and you cannot fault yourself for that.”

“I should have been thinking like a father,” Spock shouts, and pushes back his chair in anger.  He’s not sure where he’s going, why he’s standing, but he feels sick, a cold and dark feeling in the pit of his stomach as if he knew, knew somehow already that his child is dead.

In the silence that follows, Sarek staring at him mutely, his communicator starts beeping.  He lets it beep and beep as if he were frozen, unable to move, and he doesn’t understand why it doesn’t just stop, and finally he answers so that the noise will end.

“Spock here.”

“Mr. Spock?  This is Ensign Sendhen at Starfleet’s San Francisco headquarters.  We brought in a Vulcan Escape Shuttle today.  One of the children on the ship says he is your son, Sevin—”

“You have Sevin?” he interrupts sharply and behind him, he hears the brusque scrape of his father’s chair being pushed back.  “My son is in San Francisco?”

“Yes.  We’ve brought all of the survivors from the ship to Auditorium One, if you wish to—”

Spock hangs up before she can finish, and he tells his father the news in a voice that trembles because it takes all the strength that he has to keep his emotions in check.  They go together to the main Academy campus, Spock leading the way, confident and sure in a city his father barely knows, and not thinking any thought more coherent or more intelligible than, my son is safe, my son is alive and he is safe.

Finally he is through the doors of the auditorium, the same one where he faced Cadet Kirk just a few days ago.  It is like moving through water.  The room seems larger now, empty except for a few groups of Vulcan adults and children among the seats, and a handful of Starfleet officials moving between them.  Sevin is easy to spot.  He is sitting in Admiral Barnett’s place at the front of the room, twisting and turning back and forth in the chair, his gaze sweeping across every detail of the room as if searching.  He and Spock see each other at the same moment.  Without hesitation, Sevin jumps from his perch with a yell—“Father!”—and runs across the auditorium stage and up the steps to where Spock is standing, halfway down.  He jumps into his father’s arms.  Spock holds him back, so tightly he will wonder later how he did not hurt that small body, did not crush it with his grip.  “Father, Father,” Sevin is saying.  “It’s really you.  You’re okay.”

“Yes.  And you have survived uninjured as well, my son,” he whispers back.  His voice is calm but he does not let his boy go for several long moments, and when he remembers their meeting, later, he will realize just how clear his emotion must have been to all in the room.  But he has no regrets.

When he has at last convinced himself that Sevin is truly safe and unhurt, he sets him down on the ground again, and takes the opportunity to look at him properly from head to toe.  He has changed, in the short time since they said goodbye outside the shuttle.  Spock cannot pinpoint the change but it is clearly there, a thinness perhaps or a certain look in his eye, and he knows in that space of his mind beyond even logic itself that something has been lost, for this person, for this child, that can never be regained.

Sevin’s brow furrows, perhaps in reaction to some small change in Spock’s own expression, and he asks, his voice so small he sounds younger than he is, “Father, what happened?”

He hesitates, and then all he manages to say is his son’s name.  Then he drops to his knees.  He puts his hands on Sevin’s shoulders, and looks him bravely in the eye.  “Sevin,” he says again, “There has been a terrible tragedy.  Vulcan is gone.”

“Gone?” Sevin repeats, his voice as confused as if Spock were speaking to him in a different language.

Spock nods, and he grips Sevin’s shoulders more tightly than he means to.  “The planet has been destroyed.  I…I will explain more when we are at home,” he stutters around the words as he watches his son’s eyes fill with tears.  Sevin is too young to have to hear these things, but Spock knows of nothing else he can do except to tell him, to end the horrible uncertainty he has been feeling, to let him start to heal.

If Spock were honest with himself, he would admit that he does not feel that he will ever heal.

Sevin’s gaze shifts, perhaps by accident or perhaps with purpose, beyond Spock’s shoulder to where Sarek is still standing, waiting and watching.  “Grandfather!” Sevin exclaims, and rushes to embrace him, too.  Sarek seems, at first, baffled and shocked by the feel of those young arms around him, but as Spock watches, he recovers, and kneels to hug his grandson in return.  Sevin is asking his grandfather about Grandmother, and where is she, and is she all right, and Spock feels his eyes close as if of their own accord.

Spock has had, in his years in Starfleet, very few occasions to wear his dress uniform, and never has he put on these clothes for an occasion as solemn, as sad, as this one.  He stands in front of the mirror and carefully straightens the collar.  His room is quiet, and the light that filters in through the windows is gray.  The morning is overcast and looking to rain.  He’s startled to hear a small voice behind him ask, “Father?  Where are you going?”

Sevin is bleary eyed, still dressed in his pajamas, and his voice sounds sleepy and confused.  Spock turns to look at him properly.  “I am going to the memorial service,” he reminds his son gently.

“Oh yeah,” Sevin nods.  “I forgot that was today.”  He thinks for a minute, examining his father in his fancy clothes, and then asks, “May I come too?”

Spock hesitates.  He explained to Sevin several days ago what the ceremony entailed, whom it was for, why Spock himself was going, and he had offered him the opportunity to accompany his father.  Sevin had declined.  He had thought about the matter first, considered like a small Vulcan would, and decided finally that he did not wish to attend.  Spock asks him now if he is sure he has changed his mind, and why.

Sevin nods.  “I’m sure.  I was thinking about what you said, before,” he admits.  “How you’re going to ‘honor your friends’ and ‘put them to rest.’  I want to do that too.  Can I?”

Spock hesitates, not because he does not wish his son to join him but out of a worry, an irrational worry he would never admit, that the ceremony will upset Sevin.  He has not been taught to control his emotions in the precise way that Spock was.  He knows the basic methods of walling away his mind, and his feelings, and of keeping himself in balance, but he has grown up on Earth, inevitably influenced by Terran ways.  Though often serene he has been displaying, in the weeks he has been home, frequent bouts of emotion, from the tantrums of a small child to fearsome crying jags.

“Yes,” Spock says after a moment.  “If you can be ready to leave in half an hour, you may accompany your grandfather and me to the ceremony.”  He cannot deny Sevin this; ceremony is important, central to their lives as Vulcans, necessary to mark the major events of one’s life, and it is unarguable that this event is important not just in the history of Starfleet, or of the Vulcan race, but in Sevin’s own personal life, too.

The ceremony takes place outside, in Starfleet’s outdoor amphitheater.  Spock sees familiar faces from the Academy, and he recognizes other Starfleet personnel from their uniforms, as clean and pressed as his own.  Many of the attendees are the family members of the deceased; they sit in the seats closest to the stage and bow their heads.  Spock and his family have seats reserved for them in the front and just off to the side, a place of secondary honor, there not simply to watch but to be watched: the Enterprise crew, the heroes, the survivors.  Spock can’t shake a feeling of guilt.

Jim Kirk is already sitting in a chair at the end of the first reserved row.  He catches Spock’s eye as he approaches, and gives him the slightest of nods, then motions for Spock and his family to sit in the seats next to his.  Kirk’s face is grave, solemn, but not expressionless, something undefinable there that might be sadness, or regret—Spock cannot say.  Spock sees his eyes flick first to Sarek, then down to Sevin.  He betrays no surprise and no confusion.  He assumes, perhaps, that Sevin is Spock’s brother, or some other young relative, or maybe even the son of a family friend whose parents or caregivers were killed.

Spock sits with Sevin on his left, Kirk on his right.  Not long ago, he boarded a Romulan ship with this man; he trusted him with his life.  He sunk into another’s mind while Kirk stood guard behind him.  And when he almost flew to his own death, when he got into that tiny jellyfish half-sure he would never step out of it again, he had almost told him Jim, you should know— before he found he had no tongue to form the words.  Now they sit next to each other, both very still, and only occasionally, when he allows himself a glance to the side, does he notice that Kirk is staring at him, subtly but insistently, out of the corner of his eye, as if trying to gauge him or decipher him.

“Father,” Sevin interrupts his thoughts, speaking to him, as he often does when they are alone, in Vulcan, “when will it start?”

“Soon, Sevin,” he reassures him.  When he glances back at Kirk, he is staring straight ahead.

Within a few minutes, he is proven correct, and the ceremony begins.  Several admirals speak, recalling the bravery and the promise of the deceased; they are followed by their more lowly colleagues, closer peers of the young fallen, who recall them in more personal terms.  Never has Starfleet faced such a loss: this is the theme that repeats and repeats.  So many young soldiers, talented and bright, their careers barely begun, their lives barely lived, lost to that vast, terrifying space in which many of their comrades still make their home.  Spock feels Sevin take his wrist and hold it tight.  But, despite his three fourths human blood and his Terran upbringing, he is still Vulcan enough to show no more emotion than this.

There are no bodies to bury, nor any ashes to scatter, so that this part of the ceremony is replaced by a long moment of silence.  Sevin grips his wrist tighter.  His other hand hangs free at his side.  He closes his eyes.  He knows of no other tribute to pay than to clear his mind as fully as he can, and to devote these few moments to the memory of the men and women they have gathered to honor.  At first he does not even notice the presence of another hand in his hand, not from his left, where Sevin stands, but from his right.  He feels a tight squeeze and then, before he can give the matter proper thought, it is gone.

He does not wish to stay and socialize after the ceremony is over—curious as he is about the strange incident, the unexpected grasp of Kirk’s hand in his, he expects no answers from him, nor even an acknowledgement—and he tries to hurry away with his father and son at the first opportunity.  But Kirk calls after him, “Spock!  Do you have a minute?” before he has taken more than a dozen steps.       

He pauses, does not turn at once, then tells his father to take Sevin home and he will follow shortly.  Sarek knows that this Kirk was the acting captain of the Enterprise; he saw his son almost strangle him to death, then waited on the ship as they beamed onto the Narada in accordance with their desperate, brilliant, desperate plan.  He does not know that this is the human man with whom his son once so horribly disgraced himself, the other father of his grandson, Spock’s unexpected one night stand.  Spock is in no hurry to explain.

“I will follow you and Grandfather shortly,” he tells Sevin, and then they part ways, Sarek and Sevin up toward the exit, Spock back down to the now empty row of chairs.  It isn’t raining yet but it could start at any moment, and the air is unnaturally chill for July.  The other attendees are swiftly departing, and even the other Enterprise crewmembers have left.  He had been planning on finding Nyota after the ceremony and perhaps inviting her to eat lunch at his apartment, but she is gone, and soon it is only Spock and Kirk, who has wandered to the edge of the stage and jumped up to sit on its ledge.

“You wanted to speak to me, Cadet?” Spock asks lightly.  He is standing as straight as he can, hands formally behind his back, and as unaware of this careful posture as he is of the cold sound of his voice.

“Yeah, Spock I did,” Kirk answers, but then purses his lips, as if thinking, considering, and doesn’t say any more.  The silence stretches awkward and long and Spock is just about to prompt him again to speak when he adds, “I haven’t seen you around.”

“And why should you ‘see me around,’ as you say?”

Kirk shrugs.  He isn’t making eye contact, sometimes staring out into the middle distance beyond Spock’s shoulder, sometimes tilting his head down so he’s staring mostly at his dangling feet, or at the ground.  He is ill at ease.  It does not suit him well and he is trying to pretend he is perfectly comfortable, but Spock does not need his heightened senses to see that this is a lie.  Kirk rubs the back of his neck as if working out a kink, and says, “If you remember, we did save Earth together—”

“Which makes us no more than colleagues to each other,” Spock finishes, “and I have had, as of late, little reason to involve myself with Starfleet business.”

Kirk’s gaze narrows, and he lifts his head to watch Spock properly for the first time.  He tests him, scrutinizes him.

“Vulcans have a reputation for being cold,” he says finally.  “And unfeeling.  Are the rumors correct, Spock?  Or do you just want me think that they are?”

Spock clenches his fists behind his back, and then releases them.  Kirk has already proven that he knows how to bait him.  He will not take it this time.  “Is there a specific reason you wished to talk to me, Cadet Kirk?” he asks, instead, his voice and body both equally tense.

Kirk shakes his head.  “No.  I suppose I didn’t realize we were so little to each other.”  His voice sounds steely, too, and no warmer than Spock’s own beneath the thin veneer of friendliness Kirk applies.  “I thought you might want to talk about what happened.”

“About my planet’s destruction and my mother’s death?  No, these are subjects about which I would prefer not to speak.”

He looks up and Kirk is staring at him, as if daring him, challenging him.  What does he want, really?  Does he even know?  Does he suspect something he can’t name?  Or is his concern genuine, and his overture of friendship, or something like it, true?

Spock breaks the gaze.  If he had been given this opportunity at sixteen, pregnant and confused and writing letters he could not send to a partner he barely knew, he would have taken it.  A part of him is telling him he cannot afford to lose it now, when he knows how fragile life is, and how easily lost.  But he is not ready to let Kirk in, not even a little; a door opened a crack may be barged through, especially by one such as this human man.  So long a fantasy, he has become too real.  He is a man, with his own history and his own emotions and his own reasoning; he lived for years before he met Spock and continued living after, oblivious to his son but concerned with a million other matters equally unknown to Spock himself.  Still more difficult, he is not as easy to understand, and his actions not as easy to predict, as a Vulcan’s are, and the strength of the feelings he will allow himself to show is disconcerting.

“You are so completely impenetrable,” Kirk says, finally, into the silence.  He sounds almost amazed.  “I know there are emotions in there, Spock.  I’m just trying—”  He breaks off.  “I’m not sure what I’m trying to do, actually.”  He shakes his head as if clearing it, or coming to a decision.  “So we’re just colleagues.  That’s fine.”  He jumps down again off the stage.  Spock doesn’t say a word as Kirk starts to pass by him.  He considers it.  But anything he could say now would have to come as an exclamation, a sharp attempt to stop this natural ending of their interaction, and somehow he conceives of this as losing, as showing too much of himself too soon.  So he stays, silent, in his place.

He doesn’t turn around, but he hears the steps behind him stop.

“You’re still an Officer, you know,” Kirk says.  “Starfleet still needs you.  Those people who served with you on the Enterprise—we still need you.”

Spock turns but doesn’t answer and even then the only sight he sees is Kirk’s back, retreating as he climbs the stairs to the exit.

“Spock.”

The voice, as it greets him, is more animated, he might even say happier, than Spock has heard it since before the Enterprise took off.  Perhaps this is to be expected.  Admiral Pike, newly promoted, was only released from Starfleet’s Military Hospital last week.  Back in his office, he seems much more at ease, more at home; the picture of the slightly disorganized desk, the walls hung with a collection of uncategorized art, the shelves stacked with souvenirs from old missions, is only slightly altered by the shining silver wheelchair that Pike now sits in.

He wheels himself over from behind his desk to greet Spock as he comes in.  “I wasn’t expecting you today,” he says, but he’s smiling, evidently not bothered, and gestures for Spock to sit down.  He does, ill at ease, trying not to show it.  “What brings you here?”

“Cadet Uhura informed me that you had returned to work.  I wished to congratulate you upon your recovery.”

“I’m hardly recovered,” Pike corrects, and taps at the large right wheel of his chair with the palm of one hand.  “But thank you for the sentiment, Spock.  If it weren’t for you and Cadet Kirk, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

Spock ducks his head and shrugs off, in his way, the thanks.  “We were only doing our duty,” he insists, and hopes Pike will not press the subject.  He knows Spock well enough, and doesn’t.  For a short moment, though, he seems lost as to what to say next, and when he recovers himself it is only by affecting a false note of cheer.

“So my quiet return to business as usual has been noticed, has it?” he smiles.  “And yours, Spock?  I’ve heard you’ve been giving Starfleet a wide berth recently.”

“I have been on personal leave these last weeks,” Spock reminds him quietly.  He folds his hands carefully on his lap and adjusts his posture, wondering how he can change the topic of this discussion as quickly and painlessly as possible.

“The rumor at the Academy is that you won’t be returning at all.”  Pike makes no apologies but his voice takes on a more businesslike tone, with below it a certain tinge, a hint, of accusation.  Spock looks up at him again.

“It is my personal policy never to listen to rumors,” he answers.

“A wise one, I’m sure,” Pike replies.  He pauses, and Spock half wonders if Pike will dismiss him with no more said, he holds his stare so long and seems so fitfully undecided, behind his outward veteran’s calm.  Instead, suddenly and disquietingly, he jumps out with his question: “Is it true, Spock?  Are you leaving the service?”

He has talked about this only with his father and Nyota.  Not even Sevin knows of his sleepless nights, his indecisive meditations.  Still, his absence from the Academy and from the arena of what some are already calling ‘Enterprise politics’ must have set off a chain of suspicion and gossip, and, along the way, there have sprung up those who think they have discerned or predicted Spock’s decision before he himself can even make it.  He does not know what to tell Pike now, how to summarize his chain of thought and inner debate.

“It is not true,” he says, slowly and as if unsure of what he himself is saying.

“It’s not true?” Pike asks.  “Or it’s not certain?”

“Not certain,” Spock admits.  His voice is quiet, almost the small tone of a chastised son.  He feels guilty in Pike’s presence.  He is not being interrogated; there is no outright accusation here.  Still he feels just on the edge of Pike’s displeasure, and he wonders if he will be asked to defend himself, defend a decision he has not even made.

“Spock, I can’t know what you’re going through right now, and I know that,” Pike tells him.  “I also know that you never make decisions rashly.  But I would still urge you to give this one particular thought.  You are an exceptional Officer and a talented scientist, and Starfleet needs people like you more than ever.  And I know, I know,” he holds up his hands and cuts off Spock’s protest, still only part formed, “you don’t need me to tell you this.  You don’t need my recruiting speech.  And you don’t need another person telling you that you’re a hero or any of those other things like that, even if they’re true.  I picked my crew well, Spock, when I was putting together the Enterprise team.”  There is a strange quality to his voice, defiance, or maybe even simple anger, a type of regret.  “I’m not in the position I was to make you Science Officer anymore, but I’m sure that another position will be offered to you when the new Captain starts putting together his crew.”

He knew, of course, that the new Admiral would not be flying the ship he had been promised years ago, the newest flagship.  He cannot.  His promotion was in part a well deserved reward for his valor, in part a consolation prize, a promotion into a desk, awarded out of necessity.  Still there is something of a shock to Pike’s words.  Spock nods lightly, no answer, but a place holder.  “Has a new Captain been appointed?” he asks, less because he wishes to know than to fill the silence.

“Not officially,” Pike admits.  “But I’ve recommended that Cadet Kirk be given the ship as soon as he officially completes his course of study.”

Spock’s only outward reaction is to move backward, slightly, in his chair, not a backward reel but a small lean, a minor show of surprise and no more.  “Cadet to Captain is not a common leap in rank,” he observes.

“Most people don’t spend their first day on the job saving planets,” Pike counters.  “He did good work, there’s no denying that.  He has a lot of bravado about him, but underneath that, he truly cares about his crewmembers, and he’s smart, works well under pressure, has a mind that thinks outside the box.  He’ll come to love that ship as much as I do, in time.”

“You have great confidence in him.”  Even he hears a slight tinge of criticism in his voice.  He knows all too well Jim Kirk’s talents, and if he were honest he would admit that he can think of no better candidate to take Pike’s place in the Captain’s chair.  Where, then, does this bitter sting come from?  It is like the sting of abandonment, of being left behind.

“I do.  And he has great confidence in you.”  Pike crosses his arms against his chest and tilts his head, gives Spock that look he remembers all too well from the year’s training mission he took under Pike’s command.  He’s a mystery to most humans and he knows it, but Pike at least seems to be always trying to understand him.  “He’ll want you to serve with him, Spock.”

“I marooned him on an ice planet and tried to strangle him on the bridge.”

Pike smiles.  “He doesn’t seem to hold it against you.”

“And I was under the impression that humans were quite capable of holding long grudges.”

“Capable,” Pike agrees lightly.  “But capable of letting go of them, too.  Kirk is.”  Spock expects Pike to ask if he, himself, is holding on to old bitterness, but he doesn’t, either because the thought doesn’t occur to him or because he knows Spock well enough by now to know he’ll get no such admission from him.

After he leaves Pike’s office he lets his feet take him where they will; his father has Sevin for the afternoon and this time is his own.  Officially, he is to spend it on Starfleet business, but he has no intention of returning to his office, or of speaking with any other officer or colleague.  He wanders into Hangar One almost by accident.  It is not as busy as it was on the day Starfleet received Vulcan’s distress signal, but it is still active, Cadets in red and Professors in gray marching hurriedly on their way to important meetings, steam from the various pieces of equipment occasionally obscuring the view.  Spock moves more slowly than the others, merely wandering.  The ceiling arches above him.

What he told Pike was the truth; he is as yet undecided as to his future in Starfleet.  Never has adventuring in space seemed to him less romantic, less glorious; the cold black of the galaxy, the airless nothingness into which his planet vanished, seems repulsive.  He chose this work blindly, naively, with no thought to the danger it puts him in or to the consequences for his son.  At the same time, he hears the clear call of his people to him.  Scattered and scared, they will need a new home—and new children, if they are not to die out completely.

He stops at this thought, though it is hardly the first time it has entered his mind.  The possibility of extinction is real, and the necessity of unbonded Vulcans to choose mates and have children, more urgent than he wishes to admit.  He is young, healthy, and though himself a hybrid, not incapable of reproducing.  He is sure his father will urge him to take a wife—or perhaps a husband.  Those capable and willing to carry children will be particularly needed.

And is he willing?

He remembers the future he had envisioned himself creating with Soval: an everyday life, tied to his household, his husband, his children.  At first it had seemed like a bad dream, a disintegration of all of his carefully made plans and expectations; later it had become more imaginable, more palatable, more possible.  He tries to imagine it now.  Another pregnancy, another baby, a large family perhaps someday.  Another man in his bed and at his breakfast table.  He could still work.  This new Vulcan will need people to plan, to organize, to build.  Exploring space will be a luxury the planet will not be able to afford but there will be no shortage of tasks for the young, the healthy, and the intelligent, vital and meaningful tasks that will give his life structure and importance.  There should be no shame in going where he is needed, and in doing what he can do for a people he has already failed to save, and yet something twists in his stomach at the thought.  Earth feels like a home, a second, chosen home, where he has raised his son, where he has formed an independent life for himself when no one thought he could.  He cannot abandon it so easily.

He starts to pace again, wandering slowly down the middle of the hangar.  He has no illusions as to what it would be to expand his family, to undergo again the strains of pregnancy and birth and the challenges of caring for a small child.  Yes, he will have a partner, an unknown man, impossible to picture now, or to gain any comfort from, but that man will be busy; he may see caring for the children as Spock’s responsibility.  His mother, who, he realizes now in a way that he never realized before, was his constant help, is gone.

He is furrowing his brow at this thought, unsettling and distressing, when he turns a corner around one of the unused shuttles and stops short.  An older, gray haired Vulcan man is walking in front of him, hands clasped behind his back, and Spock can think of no one he could be but Sarek—mysteriously, without Sevin.  He takes another step and calls, confused, curious, “Father?”

The Vulcan turns and he sees he has made a mistake; the man is familiar, somehow, but unknown, and he is looking at Spock with an expression that is almost neutral.  Almost.  Perhaps a bit inquisitive, perhaps a bit pleased.  “I am not our father,” he announces.

For a second, Spock feels complete confusion at this riddle, but then, just as quickly, it becomes clear, the satisfying shifting of the pieces of a puzzle into place.  The blackhole that brought Nero from the future.  The Vulcan ship that knew his name.  This is himself, from another universe, another time.  He starts to step forward, just as his counterpart also closes the distance between them.  “There are so few Vulcans left,” the other man says.  “We cannot afford to ignore each other.”

His mind now overflows with questions, some reasonable, some merely fantastic, and completely illogical.  This is what he will look like in the future, or at least, what he may come to look like.  His counterpart has aged well.  He has, now, an easy air about him, comfortable and secure; Spock gets the impression that he is amused by this most recent turn of events, this meeting of himself.  He wants to ask questions that this man cannot answer.  He wants to ask about Sevin, how he grows, what he looks like, is there one universe at least in which he grows up content and safe.  He wants to ask about Kirk, impossible, undignified questions, questions that, no matter what their answer, would cause him inappropriate pangs of emotion.

He swallows these questions down, and asks instead only practical ones: why this other Spock would send Kirk back to the Enterprise alone, instead of accompanying him and explaining the situation to Spock himself.  He asks how Kirk was convinced to keep the secret, and he is surprised when his counterpart admits that he lied.

“Aaw,” he answers, and if he were a human, he would have smiled—Spock almost sees the twitch of one on his lips.  “I…I implied.”

He finds this funny, and even a human would see this emotion in him, but Spock cannot match it.  The answers his counterpart gives are cryptic, almost infuriating, messages from another time and another life.  He cannot help but be jealous of this Spock, who found such meaning in his relationship with the father of his child: he uses the word ‘friendship,’ a friendship that will define them, but Spock is tempted to interpret the word as something more.  They are speaking in Standard.  If they were speaking in Vulcan perhaps he could glean more from the word, some further hint, some further knowledge.  But still he bites back his questions.

All he says aloud is, “A gamble.”  His voice is touched with awe.

“An act of faith,” his counterpart corrects.  “One I hope you will repeat in the future in Starfleet.”

Spock hesitates.  This man shares his name and his past, shares something else unnameable in the center of him, and yet he is different.  Perhaps it is just a difference of years.  Perhaps he simply has seen more, knows more.  “In the face of extinction,” he begins, and then stops.  He considers.  His counterpart watches him, waiting and patient.  “I feel it is only logical I resign my Starfleet commission and help rebuild our race,” Spock finishes.  It was what he had been meaning to say, a half truth he expects the man to see through.

“And yet,” he offers in counter-argument, “you can be at two places at once.  I urge you to remain in Starfleet.  I have already located a suitable planet on which to establish a Vulcan colony.  Spock, in this case, do yourself a favor.  Put aside logic.  Do what feels right.”

It should be a relief.  A burden released.  This man, here, to fulfill his responsibility to his people, to take a partner for him, to have the children he does not know he can have himself, to do the work he should be doing.  His counterpart is offering him a gift, and he knows it.  But the last words strike a strange chord in him, and he hears himself saying, quite before he even realizes he is speaking, “I do not know what feels right."

His counterpart lifts his eyebrows in surprise.  “You do not wish to continue to serve in Starfleet?” he asks.

“I do not know,” Spock insists.  “It is a dangerous profession—”

“And you feel fear?”  He sounds almost stunned.  Spock stiffens, insulted.

“For my son, I do.”

The man takes a step back, slight, but noticeable, so completely shocked is he by this news.  “You…have a son?”

Spock furrows his brow and tilts his head.  “Sevin,” he reminds the other man.  “He is seven years old.  Surely, you could not have forgotten the existence of your own child.”

“I do not have any children,” his counterpart answers, and underneath his Vulcan calm he has let a strange mix of emotions show through.  Spock hears his shock still reverberating out, and perhaps underneath a tinge of regret.  “Do I take this to mean,” he continues, in a voice filled with as much awe as Spock’s own had been earlier, “that you are bonded?”

Spock himself was a bit taken aback by the knowledge that this man, himself, exists in a universe without Sevin.  Images flash through his mind of such a life: an easier one, surely, but also lonelier.  The thought of losing Sevin is devastating.  What would it mean to never have known him at all?

He almost forgets to answer the other man’s question, and he shakes his head slightly, as if startled out of a reverie.  “No,” he answers, “no, I am not bonded.  Sevin—”  He stops himself, swallowing back his words.  He is tempted to tell this man, this stranger, the whole long history of his affair, his pregnancy, his son’s childhood.  But this would be foolish, and improper.  By now his counterpart has had more than enough time to calculate Spock’s age, to compare it to his son’s.  He makes no comment on his findings and so Spock, too, must remain quiet.  These things are best left unspoken.  What he says, then, is, “Sevin’s other father and I are not in contact.”

The other man nods as if he understood, as if this were quite normal, but Spock can tell that his counterpart is considering, thinking, imagining.  “This universe is more different than I imagined,” he comments.  “It is…quite fascinating.  Someday, perhaps, I may have the privilege of meeting this child.  Until then, Spock, I urge you to reconsider Starfleet.  It was,” he glances down, pauses, and Spock starts to feel the slight uncomfortable desire to turn away that he feels when a human shares too much with him, seems to bare himself too much to him.  “It was the center of my life, its single most defining feature.  Do not deny yourself that."

He need not tell his counterpart that their lives have already diverged, that he will never have the life this other remembers.  So he is silent, lowering his head only slightly in the learned habit of deference to an elder.

His counterpart turns to go and then, just before he leaves, he adds, “Since my customary farewell would appear oddly self-serving, I shall simply say, good luck.” He holds up his hand, a v formed between his middle two fingers, and Spock repeats the gesture.  He watches the older man go.  He feels no less confused, sees his path no more clearly, than he did upon the start of his day.  What has this vision of another life shown him but that something has been lost, and something has been gained, and he must forge his path now, unguided, for himself?

Chapter Text

Sevin is a quick learner.  After only two weeks of study, he is already beginning to gain true skill at the game of chess, and an insight not usually seen in children his age, or in such new players.  Spock could still easily beat him, of course, but he doesn’t.  He lets Sevin win, and takes pleasure from the joy on his son’s face as he sees the way to victory.

“Can we play again, Father?” Sevin asks, afterwards.  Spock does not know what to say.  In the past, he would have had to tell his son that, unfortunately, he had work to do and he could not put it off any longer, and perhaps promise him another game later in the evening.  But recently he has been bombarded again and again with his own free time: hardly bored, his hours filled with the necessary tasks of parenthood, but his time no longer filled to overflowing as it had been as a student, or as a first year professor.  Sometimes he forgets that he does not have still a dozen tasks left to do before the day ends.

“I like that you’re around more,” Sevin says now, casually, as he picks up one of the pawns from the side of the board and twists it idly between his fingers.  “Like, I don’t have to worry about interrupting you so much.  And you can teach me chess, and read books with me.  And that sort of thing,” he adds the last awkwardly, unsure of his confession, and Spock starts setting up the board again, moving the pieces back to the starting level silently.

“When are you going back to work?” Sevin asks.  Spock knows his son is watching him with his clear blue eyes.

“I am not sure,” Spock responds.  “I am officially on leave of absence until the end of the summer, and then I will have to make an important decision.”

Sevin nods, and hands his father the pawn he was holding.  “I like living in San Francisco,” he says.  Spock knows this is no random statement, but a carefully placed argument, its meaning clear even if easily denied.

“Your grandfather often comments on its weather,” Spock answers.  “I believe he finds it too humid, and its rains too frequent.”

“I know,” Sevin smiles, “he’s always complaining about it.  It’s funny how he tries to pretend he’s not whining.  Father,” he continues after a moment, the smile fading from his face, and his voice a bit nervous, a bit tense, “is it true that the Vulcans are really going to move to a new planet?”

Spock looks up, the white Queen still in his hand.  His son seems oddly worried, ill at ease.  “They must, Sevin,” he reminds him.  “Our planet is gone.”

“I know,” he answers, “but I was just thinking, maybe they could move to Earth, like we did.  Or some other planet.  The new planet…it’s not going to be the same.”

“You are right, of course,” Spock says.  “The new colony will not be a replica of the old world.  But it is the only true option available to our people.  Even if it were possible for all of the survivors to move to Earth permanently, we would not survive here, not culturally.  We would come to blend with the Terran people, until no one could tell us apart from them.  Do you understand what I am trying to explain, Sevin?”

He nods, but his brow is furrowed.  “I suppose,” he says slowly.  “It’s just…you’ve always told me that we are Vulcans, even though we live on Earth.  If it can be like that for us, why can’t it be like that for everyone?”

For a moment, Spock does not know how to answer.  Then he leans forward in his chair and says carefully, “We have been able to remain Vulcans, even far from home, because we had a home to which we could return.  Perhaps someday you will wish to live among Vulcans, in a place where being Vulcan does not mean being a guest.”

“I guess,” Sevin answers, but he only sounds half convinced.

Spock sits back again.  “Do you still wish to play another game of chess?”

“Yeah,” Sevin answers, and though he sounds sad, Spock watches as he pulls himself up.  “Don’t let me win this time!” he smiles.  “It’s not fair.”

Spock is just about to insist that he did no such thing when he hears their doorbell buzz, and he looks curiously over his shoulder.  “Excuse me,” he tells his son, “I will return momentarily.”  He does not get many uninvited visitors, and even Nyota, the only person he can imagine stopping by unannounced, is busy most days at this hour taking additional linguistics courses at the Academy.  He can only assume that the person behind the door has come to see his father.

But when he opens the door it reveals, not a Vulcan Elder or Embassy representative wishing to speak to the Ambassador, but Cadet Kirk.  He’s standing there in his civilian clothes, leaning with one hand at the top of the doorframe, his whole body at an angle, as if he’s been waiting forever for Spock to answer and he’s too bored even to hold his own weight anymore.  He looks up as if startled.  “Oh, hi, Spock,” he says.  “You having a good afternoon?”

He sounds so completely at ease that Spock wants to slide the door shut in his face.

“I am having a quite ordinary afternoon, Cadet,” he answers.  “Is there any reason you have come to my home?  Should I assume this is a social visit?”

“First of all,” Kirk answers, rearranging his posture so that he is standing straight, arms crossed, and one hand out to gesture the appropriate numbers, “we’re not in uniform, so you can call me Jim.  And second of all, no, I’m not here for a social visit.  This is pure business.”  He looks quite proud of himself, and Spock feels at a loss.  What to say?  How to arrange himself, how to act, when his two worlds, his Starfleet life and his home life, meet in such a way?  How to react to Kirk in his own apartment, Sevin in the very next room?

“Um,” Kirk says, a bit confused himself that his confident bluster has had no effect, “so, can I come in?”

“Father?” a voice comes, at that moment, from behind him.  “Who is at the door?”

He turns around and Kirk leans to the side to see over Spock’s shoulder, and so they both see him at the same time, the curious seven year old boy standing in the doorway between the entranceway and the living room.  Spock glances quickly at Kirk.  He’s raised his eyebrows in surprise, eyes a little wider than usual, and he’s half stepped forward in his craning, over the threshold.  Spock speaks quickly, before anyone else can manage a word.  “This is Cadet Kirk.  He is a student at the Academy, and he captained the Enterprise during its latest voyage—during,” he adds, not sure if he should, “The Tragedy.  Cadet Kirk,” he continues, turning now to his visitor, who still stands undecided in the doorway, “this is my son, Sevin.”

“Sevin, huh?” Kirk answers.  He’s hidden his surprise passably behind a friendly smile, and Spock watches, chest tight, breath held, as Sevin’s dad steps fully into the room and kneels down to child’s height range.  “I don’t know if you remember, but we met once before, a couple years ago.  You were in the park with your babysitter.”

“I remember,” Sevin says.  Spock watches his son almost as closely as he watches their visitor.  He is wary, a bit nervous; Sevin has always been shy around strangers, opening up to them only after some consideration, and he is particularly ill at ease to find an unknown person in his own apartment.  “You really liked Margaret.  I remember that.”

Spock is about to apologize for his son’s forthrightness, but Kirk just laughs lightly.  “Yeah,” he says, “I enjoyed our conversation.  I also enjoyed meeting you.  I didn’t know you were Spock’s son.  He and I worked on the Enterprise together.”

“I know,” Sevin answers.  He is standing awkwardly, fidgeting and glancing often up at Spock, unsure what to do.  “You’re both in Starfleet.  Father, why is he here?”

Now they are both staring up at him, Sevin with unease and curiosity, and Kirk with a slightly apologetic look, perhaps embarrassed.  Spock clears his throat.  “I apologize for my son’s behavior,” he tells the Cadet.  “He often becomes nervous when he meets new people.  In addition, he has been experiencing recent stresses—”

“No apologies necessary, Spock,” Kirk insists, standing again and returning his attention to the other adult.  “If you’d prefer, I can come back…”

For a moment, Spock simply stares at him, and in his mind are only questions, vague observations, confusion.  Kirk has lost the easy, confident attitude Spock saw when he opened the door; he has been rattled, and his posture shows it as well as his voice.  The thought that Kirk has met Sevin before, however briefly, is a strange one, but he puts it aside out of necessity.  The man he sees in front of him now, a bit out of place, a bit unsure, and trying, certainly, to get along with his son, affects Spock more than did the previous show.

“That is not necessary,” he says, finally, then turns back again to his son.  “Sevin, Cadet Kirk and I have a few matters to discuss.  Would you mind if we postponed our game for a few minutes?”

Sevin makes a show of thinking, twisting and twitching his mouth, and looking at Kirk out of the corner of his eye.  “Okaaaay,” he agrees finally.  Then he looks at Jim again, a wary, nervous look, and adds, “Just a few minutes, though,” and disappears again into the living room.

“I hope you were not intending to have a long conversation,” Spock says lightly, then, and starts to lead Kirk into the kitchen.  He does not look at him, only listens to his footsteps following Spock’s.  He does not want to talk about Sevin.  He will converse on any topic Kirk brings up but he does not want to talk about the one thing he knows Kirk will now want to discuss.

“No,” he hears Kirk answer, “That is—I mean—”  He sounds flustered, the last thing Spock was expecting.  It does not suit him well, and Spock gets the distinct impression that this Cadet is not used to being at such a loss for words.  “Look,” he says finally, leaning back against Spock’s countertop as if defeated, “I should be apologizing.  I didn’t mean to upset your kid—”

“There was nothing inappropriate in your actions,” Spock insists.  “It was my son, as I said earlier, who was acting impolitely.”

Kirk does not answer this directly, only tilts his gaze down to his shoes, rubs the back of his neck with one hand, shifts his balance from one foot to the other.  “I wasn’t aware,” he says quietly, “that…uh, that you were a father.”

“It is not a secret,” Spock replies, “though it is true that I try to keep my family life private.”  He considers sitting, and inviting his guest to sit as well, because standing like this in the middle of his kitchen makes him feel even more ill at ease than the conversation does, but he does not want to imply that he expects the visit to be a long one.  When Kirk does not offer any more comment, he asks, “Was there something you wished to say to me?”

“Yeah,” Kirk answers slowly.  He seems forgetful, distracted, and, without asking Spock’s permission, he sinks into one of the kitchen chairs.  He looks down at the tabletop for several minutes.  Then he tilts his head back and looks Spock in the eye and asks, quite bluntly, “How would you like to be my First Officer?”

Spock sits down.  For a few moments, he is silent.  He should not be surprised that Kirk is in the position to make this offer: Kirk has few personal reasons to visit him, and the rumor that he would be chosen to take over the Enterprise on her next mission has been prevalent.  Even Admiral Pike gave him a recommendation.  Still, Spock does not know what to say.

“You have been offered the position of Captain, then?” he asks instead.

“Yeah,” Kirk says, and he has a bit of a grin on his face, proud and embarrassed at his pride.  “I just got the news this morning.  It doesn’t become official until the end of the summer, of course—I have to actually graduate first—but…”  He shrugs, still smiling that almost-grin, and Spock wishes he could be annoyed at the expression on that face, but he’s not.

“And your first act as appointee was to come to my apartment and ask me to be your First Officer?”  Spock raises one eyebrow slightly.

“I would have come to your office hours, but you don’t seem to be keeping them anymore.”

“I am on leave.”

“I know.”

Spock rests his hands on the table, one neatly on top of the other.  He stares at Cadet Kirk, future Captain Kirk, and how odd that title sounds to his ears, and Kirk stares back at him, waiting, still.  Spock notices that Kirk, sitting across from him, has mirrored his position.  “And you could not wait,” Spock asks finally, “for me to return to Starfleet before you offered me such a position?”

“Well, here’s the thing, Spock,” Kirk answers, and leans forward with his elbows on the table, arms crossed.  He moves slowly, and his voice drops slightly, as if he were sharing a secret.  “I’ve heard rumors that you’re thinking of leaving Starfleet.  It seemed like I had to take my opportunity while I still had it.”

Spock furrows his brow into a light frown and says, “I hope you do not think that your offer would convince me to change my mind, if it had been made up to leave Starfleet.”

Kirk shrugs and tries to smile, play Spock’s comment off as a joke.  “Well, I thought it couldn’t hurt.  Anyway,” he tilts his head to just the right angle to meet Spock’s eyes, slightly downturned, “you haven’t made up your mind yet, have you?”

He hasn’t.  He asks himself the question every day but finds he can twist logic to justify every response, and when he tries to clear his mind and commit himself to traveling, as his counterpart directed, the path that ‘feels right,’ he finds himself muddled, confused.  He admits, quietly, that he is still contemplating the matter.

“Still contemplating,” Kirk repeats, and nods his head.  “Spock, I don’t want to beg—and I won’t, because I don’t think it would be a positive start to my captaining career, but…we were a pretty amazing team out there.  I came over here as soon as I heard about this Captain thing, before I did anything else or recruited anyone else, because there is no doubt in my mind that you are who I need for this position.  I mean,” and he tries to smile again, and Spock finds he cannot look at his smile, “do you really think I can fly into space without you, Spock?  I’d be insane to try.”

Spock tilts his head down farther and stares at his hands.  “I appreciate your candid nature.”  He says the words in a low voice, and though they come out steady and clear, they sound awkward to his own ears.  He has had many experiences with humans over the last five years, has studied with them and worked with them and even made a few friends among them, but this is an honesty beyond even that to which he has taught himself to become accustomed.  He is at an utter loss.  He wonders if Kirk will find him rude, because of his silence, or if he will decide that Spock is too inhuman to ever function on a ship that will be staffed mostly by people from Earth.  He wonders if it would be a bad idea to accept the offer even if, and he must consider the possibility, it is what he truly wants, the closest thing to a right path that he can feel out.  Images of the Narada flash through his mind, the Romulans, the phaser fire, the Jellyfish.  They were a good team.  His counterpart had predicted that they could be a legendary team.

Kirk puts his hands flat in front of him on the table, as if he were about to push himself back and stand up, and sighs.  “Would you at least think about it?” he asks.

Spock nods, almost imperceptibly, but even though Kirk seems to be looking down at the tabletop his eyes are secretly on Spock, and Spock notices.  “I will consider your offer,” he promises.  “I hope you understand, however, that my situation is a complex one, and not simply because my people are facing such an unprecedented crisis.”

He watches as Kirk glances, a lingering glance, unsubtle, unplanned, toward the back of the apartment again.  “I…” he starts, then falters, and turns back to Spock again.  “You know, Spock I can’t imagine what it must be like for you.  I know that.  I don’t have children, and I…”  He waves one hand, dismisses the thought that he can’t say.  “So I won’t make another pitch to you.”

Spock waits, knows this formula well and waits.  Pike used it too, and Nyota, in her own arguments; there is always a however.  But Kirk does not say anything more.  He just sits there, and stares, as if he is processing some particularly difficult to grasp piece of information, or making a complicated plan.

“If there is nothing else, I did promise my son a game of chess shortly,” Spock prompts him, after several moments.

“Oh,” Kirk shakes himself out of his trance, and this time does push his chair away and stand.  “Of course.  I’ll go.”  He starts to turn, then turns back.  “One more thing.  As Captain of the Enterprise, I’m officially in charge of all of the plans for her repair, for choosing her crew, and for getting her ready for her next mission.  It’s…well it’s the last thing I expected to be doing with my summer.”

“I would imagine it is not,” Spock answers.  He has stood up too and is standing on the far side of the table from his guest, his hands behind his back.  “Do you have a reason for telling me this story, Mr. Kirk?”  He cannot bring himself, yet, to call this man a Captain.

Kirk dips his head and seems about to correct him on the name, but then changes his mind, saying instead only, “Just that I could use all the help I can get.  In fact, I could use your help in particular.”

“There are many qualified, talented members of Starfleet who would be equally able to undertake this project with you.”

“Of course there are.  But I’d like to work with you.”

He makes no further argument, puts forth no further case, just leaves Spock with that simple thought, that straightforward want, and adds that if Spock wishes to ‘take him up on it,’ he knows where to find him.  Spock sees him to the door.  Just as Kirk is about to step over the threshold, he stops, pauses as if there were one more thing he needed to say, and though Spock is strongly curious, he does not press, and Kirk does not find the words he is looking for.  “See you around, Spock,” he says, as he goes.

“What did that man want?” Sevin asks, later, as Spock is setting up the last of their chess pieces.

“Mr. Kirk will be captaining the Enterprise, Captain Pike’s former ship, when she begins her next mission,” Spock answers.  Sevin knows Pike, if only in a cursory way as a man his father works with.  He once described Pike as “large,” though Spock himself is taller, and seems more fascinated with the man when he is speaking to Spock in his authoritative, command tones, than when Pike is attempting to relate to Sevin as a child, his voice softened and his sentences shortened, his smile wider.  For Sevin, he is an imposing, though not a frightening, figure.  The boy has not yet seen Admiral Pike in a wheelchair, and though Spock has told him the news, he seems hardly to believe it, asking questions about how soon Pike will walk again, and when he will fly around in space again.

“Are you going with him?” Sevin asks, his tone lightly curious, before Spock can continue.  “Is that what he wanted?”

“Yes.  He came to request that I serve with him as his First Officer.”

Sevin nods, but Spock knows he does not understand, really, what such a position entails, the responsibility and the honor of it, the rarity of someone of Spock’s age and experience gaining such a post.  He is not aware, either, of his father’s inner debate.  He is looking, now, not at Spock nor at the chess board but out into the distance, not really seeing at all but thinking, considering, imagining.

“If you decide to go,” he says, and moves his first piece, “maybe this time I can come with you.”

Jim comes home to find Bones sitting on the couch, reading one of his medical journals, and totally oblivious to his roommate.  Jim falls down into the cushions on the other end of the couch and sighs in a loud, but he would say not too dramatic fashion, and lets his arms drop heavily to his sides.  He glances over at Bones to see his response.  Nothing.  He is not even a little curious, or at least, he’s not willing to show it.  Jim pulls himself up so he’s sitting properly, back straight against the back of the couch, and one hand playing with the loose threads at the arm, and opens his mouth to tell Bones about it anyway, when he’s interrupted.

“I told you he would say no.  It’s too soon to go asking him questions like that.”

“Hey, he didn’t say no,” Jim corrects, a bit sharply.

This time, Bones looks up from his reading, and even raises an eyebrow.  “He didn’t?”

“Well, he didn’t say yes either,” Jim admits.  “But I think he’s interested.  I think he’ll at least take me up on my offer to work together this summer, though.”  He tries to inject some true optimism into his voice here, but Bones doesn’t seem to be buying it.  He sets his PADD down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“He agreed to the summer work?” he asks.

“Well…no, not officially.  But I think he was interested.  And once he sees how well we work together, and how important he is to this ship even getting off the ground, let alone fulfilling its mission, he’ll want to sign on as First Officer.”

“And how well do you think you two will work together, really?” Bones questions, turning halfway where he’s sitting to give Jim more of his attention.  “All the two of you could do when we were up against the Narada was argue.  Then he marooned you on an ice planet and you retaliated by goading him into almost killing you and then taking his position as Captain.  Maybe he’s right to want a position somewhere else.”

“He doesn’t ‘want a position somewhere else,’ Bones.  He wants to leave Starfleet altogether.”

Bones doesn’t even blink at this news, a rumor he’s heard before himself.  “Well, maybe Vulcan needs him,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, and maybe I need him!” Jim snaps in return.  He didn’t expect to hear the emotion that he hears in his own voice.  There is a moment of tense silence, Bones just staring at him, waiting, and then Jim sighs deeply and lets his body relax.  “You have a selective memory,” he says, calmly now.  “We didn’t just disagree.  When it really came down to it, he had my back.  There were a couple times, even when we were on the Enterprise but especially when we were on the Narada, that I could swear I felt a connection with him.  It’s hard to explain…  Laugh if you want, Bones, but it’s true.”

Bones isn’t laughing.  He’s only sitting, quietly considering, a slight frown on his face.  “I don’t know about this, Jim,” he says after a few moments.  “I agree that Spock is a good Officer, but he certainly has his share of negative qualities.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Jim answers, “I know.  That meeting I had with him might have been the most frustrating conversation I’ve ever had.  I really put myself out there, again and again, but he never gave anything back.  It was like talking to a wall sometimes, you know?”

“Hmmm,” Bones says lowly in response, almost a grunt, disapproval and consideration both.  “I know,” he mutters.

“I want to be optimistic about it,” Jim continues.  He speaks as if thinking aloud, his voice rising and falling with his shifting thoughts and his own arguments and counterarguments.  “I need to be.  I need this to work.  I think Pike must have been crazy to give me this position.  Being a Captain in an emergency is one thing; you just think with your gut and do what you have to do and…you’re there.  But the rest of it, this day to day stuff, organizing and planning and putting everything together…  Maybe if I had ten years or so in Starfleet to learn everything and gain experience, but I don’t.”

“You do know that Spock only graduated a couple of years ago himself, don’t you?” Bones reminds him.  “He’s not exactly what you’d call an experienced First Officer.”

“I know,” Jim answers, though Spock speaks with such authority, carries himself in such a way, and is just generally so…sure of himself, that sometimes Jim forgets that, in Starfleet terms, compared with men and women with decades of experience, he is barely more qualified than Jim himself to lead a flagship’s crew.  From where he’s sitting though, a four year degree earned without any rush and a one year training mission in space seem like infinite knowledge and experience.  “It’s not about that, though,” he goes on.  “It’s about going with my gut feeling because I trust it more than anything else.  My instinct is saying I need Spock on that ship with me.  So I need to push it.  Somehow.”

He pauses, and suddenly he’s thinking about that little boy again, can almost see him standing in front of him.  The thought of asking Spock to leave that little kid behind makes his stomach do flips.  There’s no easy answer here, no quick solution.

He glances over at Bones, as if his friend could read his thoughts, could offer his advice on this unasked question simply by looking at Jim’s face.  But Bones only sighs, and lifts his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs.  “Your gut hasn’t led you astray yet,” he admits, “but you might want to use your brain too.”

“Ha,” Jim laughs, an unnatural short laugh.  He doesn’t mean it.  “Sure.”  He changes the subject quickly, this conversation he started having led him somewhere confusing and uncertain; he stands up and walks toward the kitchen.  “I’m going to make some coffee.”  Bones doesn’t answer, only mutters something unintelligible and picks up his reading again.

At the doorway, Jim pauses.  He turns.  If he hesitates before he asks, he knows, he won’t.

“Did you know Spock has a kid?”

This catches Bones’s attention fast: his head jerks up and he all but drops his PADD to the floor, catching it only just before it escapes his reach.  He stumbles over his words as he tries to hide this break in his composure, and as a consequence only seems the more flustered, the more caught off guard by Jim’s announcement.  “Wh-what?  What did you say?”

Usually this would be funny, but Jim doesn’t laugh, just crosses his arms against his chest and shrugs, as if it were quite normal.  “Spock,” he says.  “He has a son.  I’d say about…seven, eight years old.  He’s cute.”

“And you met this kid?” Bones asks.  He sounds like he’s still waiting for Jim to admit it’s all one massive joke.

“He was at the apartment when I came over.”

For a few moments, Bones doesn’t answer, doesn’t look like he even could answer if he wanted to.  He’s staring in a wide eyed, utterly stunned manner, and Jim just knows he’s trying to imagine what a Spock child would look like—probably like the father, but smaller.  “And you didn’t ask him where this kid came from?” he asks, still so incredulous Jim almost takes his question as an accusation of kidnapping, or perhaps of hallucination.

His only response is to laugh once, without humor, and insist, “Bones, I hardly need Spock to explain the birds and the bees to me.”

“You know what I mean,” Bones grumbles.

“I do know what you mean.  And it’s none of our business where that boy ‘came from.’  Maybe his mother didn’t want him.  Maybe she’s dead.”  He doesn’t particularly mean for his voice to sound as hard, as harsh, as chastising as it does.  He felt enough of the same curiosity that Bones must feel now to forgive it.  Still, he remembers that four year old in the park who knew no sadness yet for his lost parent, and he remembers the look on Spock’s face when Sevin walked into the hallway, that expression as if everything was falling apart, quickly controlled but there, a moment of terror and indecision.

“I just mean,” he tries to clarify, tries to soften, while Bones sits and watches him, “I can’t imagine raising a kid, all alone, while a student.  I feel like I should give Spock some respect for that.  Anyway, I did a lot of crazy shit when I was young, too.  That could have been me.”

“I wasn’t trying to judge him, Jim,” Bones says, into the silence that follows.

“I know.”

It doesn’t seem as if there is anything more to say, so Jim turns again and wanders into the kitchen.  He puts on the coffee.  It’s hard to track down this feeling, hard to pinpoint it and tackle it.  It’s true that, when he saw that kid standing behind Spock, he was feeling on the inside just like Bones looked on the outside.  It’s a thought that’s hard to swallow, hard to comprehend, that Spock is someone’s dad, that he’s bed time stories and hugs and eat all your vegetables—or do Vulcan parents do any of those things?  It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t change the basic observation he has made, the simple realization he has come to, that the cold, argumentative, even arrogant exterior that he saw at the hearing was just masking a man who is infinitely more complicated, more multi-faceted, than Kirk would have given him credit for.

But then this shouldn’t be a revelation.  He knows well enough about defying people’s expectations.  He’s only been doing it all his life.  And, he can’t help thinking, can’t help adding to himself, as memories that he’s been trying to keep down burst through again, as Bones walks through the door, that he already knew something of Spock’s nuances, too.

Bones is standing next to him now, leaning his hip against the countertop.  “Convincing Spock to join you for a five year exploratory mission is going to be a lot harder than you think, if accepting means he has to leave his son behind,” he says.

“I know,” he answers.  His voice is so light, he sounds as if he didn’t care at all for difficulties, as if he had much more trust than he actually has that everything will work out to his favor.

“Why is it so important to you that you get this guy, anyway?” Bones continues.  “Is it just wanting the same crew from the Narada mission?”

“We struck gold with them, Bones, and you know it—”

“I do.  But Spock was just one part of that.  You barely know him otherwise.”

“I know him more than you’d think,” Jim answers.  He’s decided he’s going to make a sandwich to go with his coffee and he’s putting his focus more on searching for bread than on policing his own mouth.  The words say themselves, a translation of his thoughts and his memories into a statement too cryptic and too vague for Bones to ignore, like Jim wishes he would.

“Because of the mission?” he asks.  “Did something happen on the Narada—?”

“No.  Before that,” Jim answers shortly.  He’s found the bread, just needs something to put on it now; he and Bones are both horrible about buying groceries.  They live in their heads, in their work, in their responsibilities to everyone else but themselves.

“Before that when?  What are you talking about, Jim?”

“Just—” he throws the bread down on the table and drops his hands heavily to his sides.  “We met once, when we were younger.  I mean, I think we did.  It has to be him, he has to be the same guy, though we…we never got each other’s names.  Didn’t do much talking, if you know what I mean.”

At first, Bone just looks confused.  Then before Jim can say anything more, he understands, he knows, and all he can do is pass his hand over his face and stare at Jim as if he just can’t believe this.  Jim expects him to ask if it’s some kind of joke.  What he asks instead is, “Am I the only person in San Francisco you haven’t slept with?”

“No,” he answers, swelling his voice with only partly exaggerated offense.  “And I don’t like what you’re implying about me.  The thing with Spock was…well, not my best moment.  But,” he sits down in one of the kitchen table chairs, across from the bread he doesn’t know what to do with, “it was a confusing time in my life.”

 “Yeah, it must have been for him too,” Bones answers.  This might be an insult, a small jab, but Jim doesn’t bother glaring, and Bones goes on, “How old did you say you were?”

“I was…not quite eighteen,” he answers slowly, trying to remember, trying to put the mixed up pieces of that jumbled, disorganized period of his life in some sort of order.  “And Spock was…”  He is about to say eighteen, the age the stranger had given him when he’d asked, but suddenly, and he wonders how he didn’t see it before, how he’d missed it when he was looking at his potential First Officer’s files—suddenly he realizes it was a lie.  He’d noticed, in the middle of his research, that though Spock had started at the Academy earlier than Jim, was more experienced and, at least for the time, higher ranking, he was actually younger by almost exactly two years.  Now when he says this aloud he does not let himself sound surprised.  But he cannot keep himself from sounding, instead, defeated.  “I guess Spock was not quite sixteen, then.”

“Fifteen?”  Bones’s eyes bug out of his face a little.  Jim would laugh, if he felt like he could.  But Bones’s expression relaxes, after a moment, perhaps forcibly so or perhaps simply inevitably, as the information assimilates, as he becomes accustomed to it.  He rests his hands on the counter behind him, and says, as if merely thinking aloud, “I guess he was going through a rebellious stage.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Jim answers.  He stands up again, opens the refrigerator, peers at its empty shelves, wonders why he’s talking about this and why he feels so uncomfortable.  He isn’t usually one to fidget.  “He was shy.  And he seemed…inexperienced.  Maybe he just wasn’t used to Terrans but it felt like he wasn’t used to—”

“I don’t want to know anymore,” Bones interrupts, and even puts up his hands, though Jim’s back is still turned to him.  “Don’t tell me.  I don’t want to know any of the details, not even how you ended up in that situation in the first place.”

Jim pushes the fridge door shut and turns again, and he leans back just like Bones is leaning back and crosses his arms just like Bones is.  “Maybe we were meant to be find each other,” he says.  He wants it to sound like a joke, and something he doesn’t and couldn’t possibly believe, but somewhere in the part of him that does think those thoughts, he likes the sound of it.  He sighs.  Maybe meant to be together just means meant to explore space together.  That is something he’s sure of.  He doesn’t even need those memories from Ambassador Spock to know it.

The rest—that night, eight years ago now, the nervous young Vulcan stranger pressed up close against him on his bike, gripping his waist, and later gripping his hips, leaving bruises, eyes tight shut and skin flushed green—the rest is gone now.  He’s sure that Spock has forgotten it all, has pushed it from his mind, has barricaded himself from it.  They will never speak of it again.

He pushes himself away from the refrigerator with a sigh.  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.  Do you want to go out to lunch today, Bones?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Bones grumbles in return, and together they head for the door.

Chapter Text

He is often struck by how much emptier his days have become—not boring, not lacking in responsibilities, in tasks to do, but no longer so full that he must schedule even the taking of deep breaths.  Where once he had to juggle being a parent with being a professor, or an Officer, or a student, now Sevin is his only concern.  They play marathon games of chess.  They visit museums or go to the park, where Sevin sometimes meets the friends he made last year at school, and plays with them on the swings and jungle gyms and slides while Spock sits on a bench to the side, sometimes reading, sometimes just watching.  His son laughs; he smiles and tells jokes and plays complicated games that even Spock couldn’t begin to understand.  He plays with the exuberance of human children.  Later, they have lunch together at a nearby restaurant, and Sevin tries to explain the great adventures he has been on, and Spock thinks: he is grateful for this child.

In the evenings, after Sevin has gone to sleep, he sits alone in his room or in the kitchen and reads.  He does not require much sleep, and though some days he still goes to bed early, on others he stays up late, losing himself in his books.  He tries not to think about the mission, his mother, or the future.  Six weeks have passed since The Tragedy.

One night, his father startles him.  It is after midnight, and he is in the kitchen, eating a type of sandwich his mother used to like, with extra tomatoes, and reading an article on new transporter technologies.  It is outdated.  He has, himself, seen much more impressive work than the article describes.

“Spock,” he hears a voice, suddenly, behind him.  “I did not expect to find you still awake.”

He jumps, just slightly, so completely absorbed in his reading that he had forgotten, even, where he was or that anyone else was home.  Sarek is standing behind him, but Spock does not turn to look at him.  Instead he replies, “I am catching up on my reading, Father,” and touches the screen lightly to move forward a page.

“It is one in the morning,” Sarek says, and walks to stand in front of Spock, on the far side of the table.

“You are awake.”

His father has, it seems, no immediate answer for this, and when Spock looks up he is sitting in the second kitchen chair, looking at the second half of Spock’s sandwich.  Even though Spock’s sure he isn’t really seeing the sandwich at all, he offers him the rest anyway.  But Sarek declines.  He looks up at Spock once more and tells him, shortly, “My meeting ran late.”

“That is an understatement.”  Spock’s voice sounds, even to his own ears, almost rudely dismissive, but still he sets his reading aside and gives his father his full attention.  “I imagine the Council had much to discuss.”

Sarek’s eyebrows twitch upwards, and he tilts his head slightly to the left.  “That is also an understatement,” he answers.  Humans smile at moments like these and if Sevin were here he would smile too, but Spock only takes a bite of his sandwich and twitches his eyebrows in return.  “The Council has decided that we can waste no more time.  Our people are fragmented and confused.  They act as if they are paralyzed.”

Spock knows the feelings that his father is describing, because he feels it himself, every day.  It is like living underwater, or in a deep haze that never lifts.

“One might call it a logical reaction to such a tragedy,” he answers.

“Or a dangerous one,” his father counters.  “We cannot continue this aimless drifting.  We will lose ourselves and everything that makes our people unique—everything that you sacrificed to save, Spock.”  He says this last quietly, and suddenly Spock’s sandwich tastes disgusting on his tongue.  He swallows, and pushes the plate away.  His father makes no further comment on the matter of sacrifice, and expects none, it seems, from Spock, because he goes on in a more practical fashion.  “We have already been approached by a man who says that he has found what he calls a suitable replacement planet on which to found a new colony.  It has a comfortable desert climate and no signs of life except for several species of plant and animal, similar to those on our home planet, and no sign of past inhabitants.  It is farther from Earth than Vulcan was but still safely in Federation space.  It appears to be exactly what our people need.”

Sarek’s face is inscrutable, his voice perfectly professional, and though Spock knows his father is adept at hiding what must be hidden, still he is sure Sarek has no idea who the Vulcan man who approached him was.  “This man,” Spock asks, “did you tell you anything about himself?”

“You are suspicious, Spock?”

“Not at all,” he shakes his head.  “Merely curious.”

Whether or not his father believes him, he answers, “Very little.  He is elderly, and claims to be a former professor and a childless widower.  He told us that he was off planet when Vulcan was destroyed, and he would like to devote himself entirely to rebuilding our society on this new planet in whatever way possible.  He does seem,” Sarek concedes, “to shy away from questions about his history.”

“Claims to be…” Spock repeats.  “Are you suspicious, Father?”

“I believe his desire to aid Vulcan is genuine.  If you are asking me if I believe he is telling the truth in all matters, no.  But I would be a fool to refuse his aid.”  He looks as if he is expecting Spock to argue with him on this point, and for a brief moment after his reply, Spock sees, or thinks he sees, surprise flit across his father’s features.

“I agree,” he says.  “To refuse such aid would be quite foolish.”

He looks down at his sandwich, still unfinished and unappetizing, and then back up at his father, who is watching him carefully.  “Do you know this man, Spock?” Sarek asks.

“In a manner of speaking.  We met once, briefly, when I was visiting the Academy several weeks ago.  I quite agree with your assessment of him, Father: he hides the truth about his personal life but is genuine when it comes to important matters, including his willingness to aid in the planning of a new colony.  I believe he will be a great asset to you and the Council.”

Sarek still looks at him suspiciously, unsure, waiting as if hoping Spock will suddenly reveal that which, Sarek knows, he too is hiding behind his calm, controlled expression.  Perhaps the similarities between his son and the mysterious stranger will suddenly come to him, an epiphany.  Or perhaps the matter will remain a mystery.  Spock, at least, plans to keep his silence.

After a moment, hoping to change the subject, he asks, “Has the Council agreed to start meeting again regularly?”

“Yes,” Sarek answers, and his tone is of the sort Spock would expect to hear at such a Council meeting, perhaps an overcompensation for the too personal, too secretive tone of their conversation a moment before.  “I will be quite busy with my Council work in the coming weeks.  I have also made plans to return to my position at the Embassy.”

Spock drops his gaze down to his plate.  There’s something, not quite an accusation, but a prodding, a challenge, in his father’s tone.  “They advised a leave of absence,” he says.  “Just as Starfleet did.”

“Yes, and I took it.  But they are Terrans, Spock.  They do not understand.”

“They do not understand grief?” he asks quietly.

“They do not understand how we grieve.  No purpose is served by me sitting all day in this apartment, weeping.  When I am busy, when I am working and accomplishing what must be done, I am doing more to honor my wife and my colleagues than I would be if I refused to leave my bed for six months.”

Spock had said something similar, once, to Dr. McCoy, and he had been wrong then.  But he knows that by now, with the accumulation of days, the settling of a routine, the silence he manages to find sometimes in the most private parts of his mind, his father is right.  He is not done grieving—neither of them is—but it is no longer a question of needing time.  Rather it is a question of reestablishing a life, a routine, around that grief, a border and a background for it.  Eventually Spock will have to do this too.  And he knows it.

“And you, Spock?” his father asks him, almost gently, but Spock can hear in that tone, too, that his father will not let the question go unanswered, all the same.  “When will you return to your own work, at Starfleet?”

“You assume I am returning to Starfleet at all,” Spock answers, and his father raises his eyebrows.  “I would think you would be pleased.  This was never the path you wished for me to take.”

“And yet if you had not, I would be dead,” his father says softly.  Spock cannot meet his eyes.  He stares down at the tabletop, at the corner of his plate, the corner of his PADD, at nothing.

“That is not true.”  It is.  Who else would have known to find the Council, who else would have understood why and how it must be done?  He runs a finger around the edge of his plate.  “And even if it were, my past accomplishments in Starfleet would be no reason to continue serving there.  You were right, Father, when you told me this work was too dangerous for a parent.  I see that now.  Sevin would be safer and happier if I were to take an early retirement.”

He hears Sarek sighing, and he can imagine him, frustrated and tired, trying to gauge his son’s seriousness, knowing already too well that this is not a joke, and knowing this not simply because Vulcans do not joke.  “These are words I do not hear often from you, Spock,” he says.  “I suppose I should appreciate them.”

“Except that you have also changed your mind,” Spock finishes.

“No.  I understand your concerns.  I have had them myself for years.  But I have come to value your work at Starfleet, Spock, more than I believed I would.  And I do not believe, now, that the only reason you are reluctant to return to work is that you are concerned for Sevin.  It is a worry you could balance against others, if you wished, but you are not even attempting such a calculation—”

“No calculation is necessary if the question is easily answered.”

“My stubborn son,” Sarek answers, his voice quieter again, and shakes his head.  They both know Spock’s words were a lie.

“You must pick something,” Sarek continues, his tone harder, not even a hint of a joke there this time.  “You must choose a path, Spock.  I could watch my son in Starfleet, or I could watch him living on the new colony, working in whatever capacity in which he was needed there.  But I could not watch my son continue to live in this useless and wasteful indecision.”

Spock considers telling him about Kirk’s offer, about their plans and the ship and the mission, about the new work he will fit into his day.  But somehow this feels like a giving in, a surrender, and somehow he feels like a little boy again, determined not to lose.  His father will know soon enough.  Eventually, he will know everything.

When the doorbell buzzes after dinner, Sevin all but jumps from his seat.  “May I get it, Father?” he asks, and as soon as Spock nods, he rushes from the room.

“Sevin, do not run!” Spock calls after him, but this is not enough to appease his father, who is staring at him in disapproval.  Vulcan children of Sevin’s age need not be told not to run, and they never show such excitement, either.  But Spock is in no mood to argue with Sarek about parenting, or about the environment in which his son was raised, or about the decisions he has made and why he has made them.

“I would rather he is happy and eager than upset and depressed,” he says, instead, not because he thinks Sarek will speak on these subjects aloud, but because he does not even want him to think about them.

“I will not debate that point,” Sarek answers.  If he was considering adding any other comment, he has no opportunity, because at this moment Sevin returns, walking but with a bounce in his step that speaks of curtailed energy.  He is pulling Nyota behind him by the wrist.

“Whoa there,” she smiles, “not so hard, Sevin.”

“I’m sorry,” he answers, and drops her wrist without hesitation, his voice touched with genuine regret.  But he knows she’s not angry, and she tousles his hair lightly before turning to his grandfather.

 “Ambassador,” she says, in clear, only slightly accented Vulcan.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.  My name is Nyota Uhura, Spock’s friend.”  The word she chooses to describe their relationship carries connotations of acquaintanceship, of a closeness that, though genuine, is casual, conditional, possibly fleeting.  She is not the sort of friend, she is saying, for whom Spock would lay down his life.  She uses the term to be polite, to keep undue emotion from her speech, as she is learned is the custom among Spock’s people.  But the word is a lie.  Nyota is a truer, closer friend than the descriptor she uses would have her appear, a woman with whom he has already faced death.  Still, Spock does not correct her.

Sarek stands at her greeting, nods his head once, and answers politely that he is pleased to meet her as well.  He shows no emotion, gives no reaction that could be discernible to Nyota, but Spock with his old knowledge of his father senses his surprise at the abrupt, bold, address.  Or perhaps he simply finds Spock lacking, for not jumping in sooner with his own introductions.

“Nyota is my friend from the Academy,” Spock adds.  “I have mentioned her in the past.  She studies in the Xenolinguistics department and was the Communications Officer on the bridge of the Enterprise.”  He glances at Sarek, unwilling to say more, but this time his father betrays no feeling, not a single thought, not even to his son.  He cannot.  He only bows, and offers Nyota his sincerest thanks for her service.  It is a formulaic phrase.  Spock hopes Nyota will understand that, despite this, it is meaningful.

Sarek turns to his son and asks, “What time will you be returning from this concert, Spock?”

“No later than ten,” he assures him, and then, in answer to Sevin’s exaggerated pout, “and then it is straight to bed for my son.”  Sevin makes a few attempts at arguments—that the night is a special occasion, that he is almost eight whole years old, that he is part Vulcan and Vulcan children do not need the same number of hours of sleep as human children—but Spock has heard all of this before, and he summarily refutes each of his son’s arguments.  He finishes finally with, “And if we debate this question any longer, we will be late.”

This argument, finally, is enough to shift his son’s attention, and suddenly he has forgotten about extending his bed time and wants only to be sure that they will leave as soon as possible.  “Let’s not be late!”  Spock has not seen him this excited, this invested in something, this purely happy, since before the Tragedy.  Spock assures him they will arrive on time, and hurries them out the door.

The concert, or more properly a string of concerts, is a collection of outdoor performances by various bands from different Federation planets.  The outing had been Nyota’s idea and Spock had been wary, wary of keeping his boy up too late, wary, if he had been honest with himself, of meeting someone he knew.  This is the sort of event that will attract local Academy students and Professors, and it is not impossible that he could see another Vulcan family, trying to accustom themselves to living, for the foreseeable future, in San Francisco and trying to forget, too, why they have been thus relocated.  But Sevin had been in the room when Nyota told him about the event, and he’d taken to the idea right away.  Spock used to take him to concerts in the park every spring and early summer; it is a tradition so old that, to Sevin who remembers so few summers, it seems older than time itself.

They arrive at the park just as the first band, a Terran ensemble from Japan, is warming up.  There is a significant crowd, sitting on benches and at picnic tables, and standing in groups in the area in front of the stage.  Sevin wants to push to the front but Spock holds him back, two hands on his shoulders keeping him near.  When Sevin looks back at him, questioning and slightly bothered, Spock tells him, “There are too many people.  I do not want you to get lost.”

“I’ve been in bigger crowds than this before!” Sevin argues, but he makes no true concerted effort to overrule his father’s decision.  Perhaps he knows the real reason for Spock’s hesitancy.  Perhaps he does not care enough to enter into a debate.  If Spock holds him on his shoulders, Sevin can see the musicians perfectly.

During the intermission, they wander to a deserted picnic table and Nyota and Sevin talk excitedly about the first sets of performers.  Sevin has a passion for music that allows him to speak with a knowledge and authority of one much older; Nyota shares his interest, and she has known Sevin long enough by now to speak to him with ease, where many others struggle to negotiate the balance between Sevin’s human side and his Vulcan one: his intelligence and enthusiasm, his energy, his maturity, his moments of reflective calm.  Spock cannot concentrate on the conversation.  He has not been out to a social event since before the start of the summer, before the mission, and if he is usually ill at ease in such situations, awkward beneath his calm and his armor, now he feels a different sort of tension gripping him.

Sevin starts to lose his energy half an hour after the intermission, and by ten he is falling asleep in Spock’s arms.  Spock cannot stand to wake him, so he carries him home as he is.  The apartment is dark and quiet, and he moves slowly so as not to disturb either his son or his father.  Nyota follows him on equally quiet feet, and waits in the kitchen while he slips Sevin into his bed.  She is making tea when he returns.  Nyota rarely drinks tea, but now, in the still of the night, tired and peaceful, she admits she prefers it to coffee.

“I’ve never seen you that protective of Sevin before,” she says.  He’s wrapped his hands around his mug but hers is still too hot for her to touch.  The kitchen light seems unnaturally bright when the rest of the apartment is in such darkness.  “It was like you couldn’t stand to have him out of your sight for a moment.”

He looks at her, trying to judge her intentions.  He answers carefully, “I am always protective of my son.  He is only seven years old.”

“It’s more than that, now, though,” Nyota insists.  He watches her as she considers, hesitates to say more, and then into the too-long pause of his silence, half-reaches a hand across the table and says, “You didn’t lose him, you know.  He’s safe and he’s not going anywhere.”

He’s not sure how to tell her, not sure if he wants to tell her, that it isn’t the fear that he could lose Sevin that grips him, but the fear that he could simply give Sevin up, let death and oblivion have him because he, Spock, was not watching carefully enough, not holding on tight enough.  It was as if he were merely playing at parenthood for years and did not realize it until he heard that distress call, or worse, until he landed on Earth again and his baby, his boy, was not with him.

“But then, what do I know about being a parent?” Nyota says, a forced lightness to her tone, and pulls her hands back to her side of the table.  “Speaking of going places, the rumor is that the First Officer position is yours if you want it.”

“I believe that rumor has been circulating for some time.  Even I have heard it.”

“Yes, but it didn’t have any legs until it was officially announced that Kirk is relieving Pike.  Now it’s hardly even a rumor—more like common knowledge.”  She pauses, and smiles a conspiratorial smile.  “You know, he came to see me personally to offer me the position of Chief Communications Officer.  I won’t say I don’t still have my doubts about that boy, but…he came through on the last mission, I have to admit that.  And he was utterly professional when he came to speak to me.”  Her smile widens and she sits back in her chair, puts her hands tentatively to the hot tea mug and pulls it to her.  “So are you going to be joining me on this mission, Spock?  Are we going to be crewmates again?”

He takes a drink of his own tea.  He thinks of Sevin, asleep and safe in his room; of the crash of the ship as it appeared at Vulcan, surrounded by the debris of her sister ships, her own fate uncertain; of Kirk as he’d tilted his head back and met Spock’s eye and asked How’d you like to be my First Officer?  “I have not decided yet,” he says, and this is the truth, a truth he’d rather not admit and wishes weren’t real.  Nyota tells him that she’s never known him to be so indecisive, and she even gives her eyes a slight roll; he would be bothered except that he is thinking the same thing, wondering what happened to that boy who rubbed his hands over his stomach and promised himself that whatever happened, he was raising his baby and no one could convince him to do otherwise.  He’d weighed his evidence simply then, and come to simple conclusions, and the logic of his thoughts had been clear and easy to discern.  Now the way before him seems muddy and obscure.

“First Officers need to be quick on their feet in decision making, you know,” Nyota reminds him.

“I am aware,” he answers, a bit stiffly, a teenager’s snap of defiance barely audible in his voice.  “But the consequences of making the wrong decision are great, Nyota.”

“I know.  That’s why you need to make the decision fast, on instinct.”

“I believe it is too late, in this instance.”

She laughs lightly and takes a tentative sip of her tea, and the tension between them seems to break, or at least lessen.  “I did agree to assist Cadet Kirk as he prepares the Enterprise for her next voyage.  Between determining how best to repair the damage done to the ship, and the necessity of replacing the majority of her crew, there is much to be done.”

Nyota raises her eyebrows at him.  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says, “but I am.  It’s a logical thing, to try out a job before you take it on.  But I hardly expected you to choose to spend your time off working so closely with Jim Kirk, of all people.”

He watches the still surface of his tea, green tinted in the overly bright kitchen light.  “Were I to accept his offer, I would be agreeing to work closely with him for five years.”

“Yes, on the Enterprise, and with an official position and official authority.  This summer project, Spock, it’s more like a favor than anything else.”

“You are against the idea?”

“No,” she shakes her head slowly.  “But I wonder about it.”

He senses she is holding back, hesitant and unsure if she should truly speak her mind.  “There is no animosity between me and Kirk,” he insists, though it is not quite the truth; there is something between them that is not harmonious, not synced, not right, though the bite of true animosity is not one he feels, has ever felt, between himself and this new Captain.

“Not even when you brought him up on charges of cheating?”

“I was only doing what was right, as a Professor and Starfleet officer.”

“Oh of course,” Nyota mimics his tone, her own overdone, bordering on mocking but he ignores it and pretends he doesn’t hear.  “So what is he to you then, Spock?” she asks.  “A rival?  A friend?  A romantic interest?”

He hopes she is joking but doubts that he is, so he corrects simply, “He is a colleague.  What in my manner suggests that I have any romantic feelings for this man?”

“Call it a woman’s intuition,” she answer slyly, but vaguely, and he takes this to mean she has no evidence at all.  Of course she does not.  Whatever drew him, fifteen, naïve, unsure, overwhelmed, to the human boy eight years ago is gone, the night an insignificant memory except that it is also the night he conceived his son.  “You won’t convince me otherwise, Spock,” Nyota is saying.  “There was something about the two of you, by the end of the mission—”

“Only the bond of two men in battle.  He saved my life, Nyota.  That alone would be enough to earn my respect.”

She nods, solemn now too, and he watches as she traces the inside of the mug handle with her index finger.  She too is watching her own hands, not him.  “And that’s all?” she asks, quietly, after several moments.

Spock is the only person in the galaxy who knows that Jim Kirk is a father, a dad, to the only three quarters human, one quarter Vulcan child who’s ever lived.  He knows that the only safe secret is one he keeps entirely to himself.  Once shared, this simple fact could escape him quickly, could spread like a contagion, until it becomes common knowledge just as that first secret, the pregnancy itself, became common knowledge in his school quickly enough as soon as it reached Stonn’s ears.  Still he has the sudden idea that Nyota should know.  A small part of him wonders if, somehow, she already does know.  It is not possible.  She could not have guessed.  But she knows him well enough to know he is keeping some secret close hidden in him, if not his son’s paternity, perhaps his true feelings for, true history with, Cadet Kirk.  He looks up at her.  The apartment is so quiet, and, beyond the kitchen, so dark, that it feels later than it is.  When they first met, Spock’s third year in the Academy and Nyota’s first, they stayed up all night talking on several occasions, and so the scene is a familiar one, except for the tight anxious knot in his stomach.

“That is not all,” he answers, finally, and though he never decided to tell her this truth, he knows now that he will hear himself say it.  “We met before, when my father took me with him on one of his trips to Earth, when I was a teenager.  I was…”  He glances up at her, and he feels as if he has to defend himself before he even explains his offense.  “I was young, and, perhaps, naïve.  I found the young Jim Kirk quite fascinating.”

He watches her face carefully, watches confusion pass over it, and then, a moment behind, comprehension.  With it comes shock and disbelief.  She is a perfect study in human emotion.  His own face, he knows, betrays nothing; he can feel his own tension but allows none to radiate out, perfectly controlled, perfectly blank.  To a human observer he looks, more than anything else, unapologetic.

“You’re telling me that you and Kirk—”

“He is Sevin’s dad, Nyota.”

Her mouth drops open, and her face keeps this expression for several moments.  Spock cannot bear to look at her anymore, so he examines his tea instead, slowly rotating his mug a few degrees counterclockwise as if to learn something new from the resulting ripples that shiver through the liquid.

“And he’s decided he doesn’t want anything to do with his own son?  What scum.  And I was beginning to like him too.  I just can’t believe it.”  She sounds much too loud, especially on the word scum, and it isn’t even that his son and his father are both sleeping that he cringes, but that his own ears feel unnaturally sensitive to the sound.  She’s shaking her head and crossing her arms now, as tense on the outside as he felt on the inside, and angrier, and he can imagine her storming right from his apartment and finding Kirk wherever he is and explaining just exactly her thoughts on the matter, in case he could not have guessed them on his own.

“Nyota,” he says quietly, trying to calm her, and that old unconquerable blush starts to burn the tips of his ears, “you are mistaken.  I have…given you the wrong impression, in the past, of Sevin’s other parent.  Kirk never made the choice not to raise his son.  He was never informed of my pregnancy.”

When Nyota hears this, she simply stares at him, the flare of anger burned out now, as suddenly as it came, the disbelief redirected.  She puts her hands in her lap, and lets out a long breath, and she sounds tired.  “You never told him?” she asks quietly.

He could try to explain the circumstances, the anonymous encounter, his embarrassment, how sure he was that the human boy would not believe him if he knew, let alone wish to raise a child with him, but these are only excuses, and sorry ones.  There is no need to explain these things.  “No,” he says, “I did not tell him I was pregnant, and, before the day of the Kobayashi Maru, we had not seen each other since before Sevin was born.  For many years, I did not believe I would ever meet him again.”

Again, she waits to answer, staring at him as if trying to discern something about him, as if trying to place this new knowledge of him into her understanding of his character.  Will she think less of him now?   He cannot keep himself from asking the question, and he holds her gaze only with difficulty.

“I guess I can understand,” she says finally, her voice still soft, as she drops her eyes again.  “I’ve always been really impressed with you, raising a kid by yourself.  And I never thought it was my place to pry about how…you came to have him.  But I thought you’d tell me, at least,” her voice rises in mock anger and shock, and when he looks carefully at her face he sees she’s smiling.  He wonders how genuine that smile is, and how much Nyota merely wishes it to be genuine.  “I mean, I thought we were friends, Spock.”

He tilts his head, and does not smile in return, but answers, “I am telling you now.  You are the only one who knows.”

“The only one?” she asks, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes.  I have not even told my father, or Sevin himself.”

“But you will, right?”  He doesn’t answer, and she leans closer toward him, over the table.  “And you’ll tell Kirk?”  She does not want this to be a question, he knows, he can hear in her voice, but it is, it has to be, and precisely because she already knows the answer, and wishes she didn’t.

“For the moment, Nyota,” he says, “this information must remain between us.”

Her brow furrows, and he waits for the argument, for her to question and disagree, but all she does is shake her head.  He watches as she drinks her tea.  If she asks him why he is so adamant about this secrecy, what will he tell her?  It is as if he has no reason, not even one that is safe to give himself, no reason except habit and fear.  He has convinced himself that this arrangement is the best for everyone, not only for himself and his son but for Jim Kirk himself, but there is no way to determine if Kirk would agree.  Information given can never be taken back.  Ignorance, when lost, can never truly be feigned.  One must accept, or reject.

“If I were to tell him,” he says now, aloud, “he would have to make a choice.  I would prefer if he did not.”

“But he already made a choice, Spock!” Nyota insists.  “Can’t you see that?  Sevin is his responsibility too.”

“Sevin is more important to me than Jim Kirk,” he tells her, and his voice has hardened now, accepting of no argument.  “If Kirk were to know Sevin is his son, and then decide he does not wish for the responsibility of fatherhood, that would only harm Sevin.  I cannot allow that.”

“Kirk is being given the Enterprise.  That’s a lot of responsibility, Spock.  Do you think he’s not ready for that, either?”

“It is not the same as being a parent,” he replies.

Nyota stares at him, searching for an answer to this simple declaration, but she has none.  “You are not even going to give him a chance,” she says quietly, and it is no question this time, and no rebuttal either.  She sounds sad to his ears.

“Neither of us has given him many chances,” he reminds her.

“And he’s been proving us both wrong so far.”

Spock stands, and walks, as if with purpose, to the corner of the kitchen.  He’s thinking of Sevin, and the first time he saw those familiar blue eyes, Jim Kirk’s blue human eyes, staring back at him from that small newborn’s face that day in the hospital.  He remembers those letters he wrote, the ones he still hasn’t deleted, those questions and apologies to a partner he’d barely known.  If their roles were reversed, and someone had kept Sevin from him, he would find it difficult to find a way to forgive that person.  He knows Nyota cannot see his face, so he closes his eyes.  “I know,” he says.  “You have, as always, made valid arguments that force me to admit the flaws in my own thought processes.  In this case, however, the problem is a most personal one.  This makes finding an acceptable resolution all the more difficult.”

“I think you know what that resolution is going to be Spock,” she answers quietly.

He nods.  “The question is only when will I reach it, and by what path?”

Chapter Text

Spock is standing in the hallway of an apartment building in San Francisco, and he’s staring at the floor, which is worn and old but recently cleaned.  This is the sort of building Starfleet students often live in; he knows what the rooms will look like before he sees them: small and simply designed, rented by young people who wish for something inexpensive and close to their campus.  Kirk is standing in front of him, punching a code into the number pad next to door 6C.  He is not looking at Spock but he says, as Spock looks up now at the space between his shoulder blades (he’s wearing his civilian clothes, a t-shirt that’s almost too small), in a voice trying too hard to be casual, “It’s nothing much.  But my roommate is out, and it should be quiet.”

Spock’s first months in San Francisco, he almost forgot what quiet sounded like.  The humans in his classes and in the streets of the city seemed to speak in louder voices than the Vulcans on his home planet, and when his neighbors weren’t fighting they were making up, enough to make Spock blush, in those days.  Sevin cried all the time, as if homesick and confused, and then when he turned two he became uncontrollable.  Spock would have given up, if he had not been, as his father was so fond of saying, so stubborn.

“I am sure it will be adequate,” he says now.

As he steps across the threshold after Kirk, he remembers the last time he followed this man home.  Had he known, in those first moments, before the kiss, before the bedroom, what would happen?  If he had had suspicions, he could not have truly believed them.  Even when he felt the boy, and that is how he thinks of him in his memories, never Kirk, never even Jim, even when he first felt the boy push into him, first enter him, he did not believe it.  It was as if being on a different planet gave him permission to act as a different person.

He knows to take off his shoes even before he sees Kirk do so.

Kirk leads him to the living room, bigger than the living room in that Riverside apartment, and cleaner, though only marginally so.  The far wall is lined with two tall bookshelves of old books, and a few more hardbacked books are stacked next to the PADDs on the coffee table by the couch.  There are plants in the corner, and even a few pieces of art on the walls, and somehow this surprises Spock, who remembers the plain and unadorned rooms in Iowa, the rooms of a young man who had some hope he could leave, who refused to settle, who refused to admit he was settling.  This apartment feels more like a home, not simply a space carelessly lived in out of no more than necessity.

“Sorry about the mess,” Kirk says, and he sounds apologetic and awkward, rushing to clear the books and PADDs and debris from the table.  “My roommate and I, we do most of our work in our rooms, so there isn’t space for a big project like this.  And I’ve been busy recently, so…”  He stops, arms full, ill at ease in the middle of the room; he looks out of place, somehow, and Spock wishes he didn’t.

“I understand.  My own best attempts to keep my apartment in order are often thwarted, and it was even more difficult when Sevin was a baby.”  Mentioning his son was a mistake, he thinks; he’d done so without thinking.  Kirk’s head snaps up suddenly to meet his gaze, then he turns again, looking for a place to set down his books, pretending he had never moved so quickly.  Spock takes a step forward, and then another.  “There is space to work on the floor,” he says.

Kirk hesitates, and then dumps the books and PADDs back on the coffee table and says, “If you don’t mind.”

He tilts his head as if confused that this thought should enter the new Captain’s head, though he knows why, feels the stiffness in his own posture, hears the formality in his tone, the one Nyota tells him sounds like coldness.  Aloud, he answers only, “Where are the plans you wished to show me?”

Kirk excuses himself into his room to collect the materials, and while he is gone, Spock carefully rearranges the furniture.  He pushes the coffee table to the side and moves back a large, overstuffed brown chair, trying to gauge the necessary space.  They are merely colleagues.  Still, images flash to his mind.  He wonders how many people Kirk has brought to this apartment, whom he has touched like he once touched Spock, whom he has kissed.  Jealousy is ugly and unwarranted, the silly emotion of a dreamer; he has no rights to such feelings.  He must strengthen his walls, his defenses, board himself up, forget this strange tugging he feels, a pull of attraction that points backwards or forwards, he cannot tell.

He is sitting cross legged on the floor when Kirk returns, and the sounds of a closing door and then footsteps behind him momentarily startle him.  “Sorry it took me so long,” Kirk says, and smiles a slightly forced smile, and brings himself down to his knees beside Spock.  He is carrying several large sheets of rolled up paper, and two PADDs.

“I did not expect the plans to be in this form,” Spock remarks lightly, as Kirk shuffles through them, reading the labels on the sides.

“The guy I got to make them,” he explains, as he finds the right one and starts to unfurl it, “he’s a bit eccentric.”

This is easy to believe.  Already, simply by choosing the young, inexperienced, if world-saving, bridge crew from the Enterprise’s first mission to be his senior officers, Kirk is gaining a reputation as an eccentric, himself.  Spock thinks, too, of the paper books in the apartment, and of the old books he bought for Sevin before he was born, and the way his boy loved to grab at the pages when he was young, how those books were among his favorite playthings then.

Kirk secures the four corners of the page and then sits back on his heels.  For a moment, he just stares down at the drawing, and so does Spock: at its thin, perfectly straight lines, its carefully measured squares, and the precise calculations summarized in the margins.  It is an impressive design.  More impressive still is the thought that it will become a real ship, the corridors Kirk will walk through and the rooms he will stand in, the ship he will step onto as Captain.

“So this will be level three,” Kirk is saying, and Spock can see, from the corner of his eye, that Kirk is watching him more than he’s looking at the plans.  “I thought we’d start here because this is the part of the ship that will be changed the most, if we go with this design.  I’ll be honest, Spock, I’m having my doubts.  I mean,” Spock watches him turn his attention back to the work before them, shifting his position slightly so that he’s leaning over the page, “at first I was excited to make major changes.  The Enterprise is a great ship, the best ship in the Fleet, no question.”  He has the same expression on his face that Nyota often gets, when she talks about this ship.  “But it took some major hits, and if we’re going to be rebuilding anyway, why not make an even better Enterprise, especially when we have so much more information than we did even a year ago?  It seemed like a great opportunity to improve.”

“The Enterprise was already Starfleet’s most advanced ship,” Spock reminds him.  “Years of thought and planning went into its design.  Do you really believe you can improve upon it so easily?”  He’s not sure if he should be as incredulous as he is, as he sounds.  He knows already Kirk’s confidence, bordering on arrogance, his ambition and his idealism too.

“No, that’s what I’m saying, Spock,” comes the answer, and he doesn’t sound apologetic or defensive; his voice is bright and interested, and he turns again to Spock, trying to explain.  “I don’t think it will be easy.  That’s why I have you here.  Plus, like I said, I’m starting to get second thoughts about some of these ideas.  There’s no question that level three has to be rebuilt; it was basically destroyed.”  He gestures toward the plans, eyes still on Spock.  “The question is, how do we rebuild it?  I’ve been reading into it a lot.  I want the ship to be a coherent design, so I’m worried about changing it too much, and making it some patchwork monster or something.  But on the other hand, there was some controversy about the design when they were first planning the ship.  I was reading an article by Christopher Stevens on the topic—”

“You have read Dr. Stevens’s work?” Spock interrupts.

“Yeah, of course,” Kirk smiles in return, and Spock can feel the tips of his ears blushing green at the easy, careless way Kirk brushes away Spock’s instinctual feeling of surprise.  Anyone in Kirk’s position would have read this scholar.  And Kirk himself is no idiot, no fool; Spock knows this.  He remembers reading Steven’s early work while still a student on Vulcan, of discussing it with T’Pring through the long after-school afternoons in her room.  Now, he drops his gaze abruptly downward, Kirk’s eyes too long on his, and pretends that he is looking at the plans.

“His theories are flawed,” he says slowly, “but I have always had a fondness for them, myself.  He has only written a small number of papers on the subject of ship design, however.  It is not his primary area of interest or expertise.”

“That’s what makes him so exciting, though.  He’s thinking outside the box.”

“Do your Terran thinkers often work within boxes?”  Spock arches an eyebrow but still does not look up.  The plans, now that he starts to examine them in detail, do have intriguing features.

“He’s thinking creatively,” Kirk amends.  “He’s also thinking like a scientist before he’s thinking like an architect.  He’s concerned with details that might not occur, or matter, to the people building the ship, but would matter to the people who are going to be using the ship.  This would be your wing, Spock—that is, if you decide to be part of the crew.”

Spock looks up, and sees that Kirk is staring at him again, a strong and unfaltering gaze that immediately makes a certain chill go up his spine.  It is not quite the look the young human boy gave him, when he asked Spock to accompany him home.  There is something nervous in this look, or embarrassed, and Spock wonders just how much this new Captain assumes that he will get everything he wants, in the end.

“But these plans are not based entirely on Stevens’s work,” he says, and turns to the plans, pointing to the arrangement of laboratory rooms down the corridor.  “Certain of his principles are followed, but there is much that has been altered.”

“I know,” Kirk nods.  “It was a compromise with the architect.  I’m a bit out of my league with this one, though, Spock.  I’ve read the reports and the papers and I’ve met with a couple of different people, and this is what we’ve come up with.  But it’s only a draft.  We can scrap the entire thing and start again, if this isn’t going to work.  Honestly,” he sighs, and sits back so that he’s no longer leaning over the plans, but has his legs crossed under him and his hands behind him on the floor, “maybe this is too ambitious.  Maybe it’s all unnecessary.”

Spock has been leaning forward too, and had hardly even noticed his posture, the strain of it.  He sits back now too.  For several moments, he stares at the plans, detailed and careful, more painstakingly made than any produced by a computer, and he thinks about Kirk, the ship he’ll captain and the crew he’ll command.  He does not wish to do well because he is ashamed to fail.  He sees his responsibility and he rushes to meet it.

“No,” Spock says, legs crossed and hands gripped tight at his ankles.  “You will be expected to leave your mark.  Everyone will be watching you, Captain.  You must prove to them that you are worth watching.”

The plans, he think, are a good start, but they will need substantial revisions.  Ideas start to flash through his mind, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t imagine, that Kirk could be watching him with just this sort of curiosity, a certain form of desire.

“You know, Spock,” Kirk says, after a few moments and so casual, Spock almost doesn’t hear his words at all, “we are off duty now, technically.  You don’t have to call me Captain.”

They decide to meet at the same time the next week, and Spock expects they will not speak with each other again until that time.  So he’s surprised when he gets a call, the day before they are to meet a second time, from Kirk himself.  He sounds tired and slightly rushed, exasperated and still, somehow, apologetic.  Though Spock answers his communicator, “Spock here,” the voice on the other end does not identify itself.  It doesn’t have to.

“Spock, we have a problem.  Not a major problem.  Just—my roommate—Dr. McCoy, you may remember him—is volunteering at one of the city clinics this summer and apparently there’s been an outbreak of some sort of…lice.  So now he has lice and he’s quarantined and my apartment is a danger zone.  I don’t have lice, luckily, but…”

Spock only wishes one could perceive a raised eyebrow over a communicator.

“I hate to ask this, Spock,” Kirk is saying, and Spock is wondering how stern he should be in telling Kirk that he cannot stay in this apartment that is already overcrowded with Spock, Sarek, and Sevin, when he hears, “but could we meet at your place, tomorrow?”

For a long moment, Spock doesn’t answer, and as the silence stretches across the connection he glances at Sevin, who is tapping the screen of Spock’s PADD to flip back and forth through the pages.  They had been practicing reading in Vulcan.

“Or we could go to the library,” Kirk suggests, tentatively, to get back Spock’s attention.

“No, the plans are too private for such a public venue,” Spock answers.  “We can meet at my apartment.  Are you still available at three?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there then.  And don’t worry Spock,” he adds, even though they both know this is not why Spock is worried, if he were ever to admit to worry, “I won’t bring any bugs into your apartment.”

“Who was that?” Sevin asks, when Spock returns to his place next to his son at the kitchen table.

“Captain Kirk,” he answers shortly, and in the tone of voice his son has come to know by now denotes adult business.  Still Sevin, curious as ever, presses him, and asks if Kirk will be coming over, and when.  “He will be here tomorrow,” Spock answers shortly, “but I will ask your grandfather to take you to the park, or to a movie.”

“Oh.”  He had assumed Sevin would be relieved, but his tone sounds, if anything, disappointed.  “I thought I would see him again, maybe.  I know he was trying to be nice to me before.  Do you like him, Father?”

“He is a talented member of Starfleet,” Spock answers, but he’s sure Sevin heard the moment of hesitation before he spoke.  This answer will not satisfy Sevin, but then, no truthful answer would, and he is only a child for whom the complexities of Spock’s history with Jim Kirk would be too much to understand.  He whines, but Spock carefully steers their discussion back to the text in front of them, until Sevin finally relents.

Sarek agrees, when Spock asks him later, to take Sevin out during Spock’s meeting, but makes no promises that the meeting he himself will be in that morning will not run late.  So Spock is not surprised when he sees that it is three o’clock and still his father is out, and his son is waiting at the kitchen table, asking if he and grandfather will have enough time to make it to the movie.  He is not surprised, but he is agitated, uncomfortable, and not even sure that he is hiding these feelings away where they belong.  He jumps when the buzzer sounds, and takes a moment to compose himself before he commands open the door.

It is, of course, not his father; he had not even dared to hope, because Sarek has the code and would simply have let himself in.  So Spock knows it will be Kirk standing there, two long rolls of plans in his arms, saying he’s sorry he’s early—“Is that a problem?”

Sevin has followed Spock to the entranceway and when Kirk asks this question, it’s only half directed to Spock, and half directed to the boy behind him.  “What are those?” Sevin asks, before Spock can get a word in.

Kirk just smiles, steps in as Spock ushers him to do, and answers, “They’re plans for the Enterprise.  Your father is helping me prepare to get her back in space.  You know, I’d be lost without him.”

“Mr. Kirk does not speak literally,” Spock says quickly, and then adds, “My father will be arriving soon to take Sevin to a movie, but he is running late.”

“No problem.”  He sounds almost pleased.  “We can start work later.  There’s no rush.”

And then somehow, it works out in this way: that Spock takes Kirk’s rolled up plans into the living room, and that Sevin, in a burst of politeness that, while not unprecedented, is still slightly surprising, invites Kirk to have tea, and that when Spock walks back in he sees his son sitting next to Kirk at the kitchen table, his posture so perfectly straight Spock knows he must be nervous.  But he’s making an effort.  “Are you and Father friends?” he’s asking.

Kirk hesitates, and Spock sees him glance up to the new figure in the doorway, then back to Sevin.  “Well, we work together,” he answers tactfully.  “And I think your father is an impressive Officer, and a very brave man.  And I trust him very much.”

“Okay,” Sevin says, but he’s clearly waiting for more.  He knows when his question is being avoided.  “But…are you going to be around a lot?”

This question, Spock answers himself.  “Mr. Kirk and I will be working together for several more months at least, Sevin.  So you should accustom yourself to his presence.”

He sees Kirk smile at this, duck his head and smile like he wishes his smile weren’t so big, but Sevin just insists, “I’m being polite!”

“I believe on Earth one would say you are being ‘nosy,’” Spock corrects, and as the alarm for the replicator goes off he adds, this time to his visitor, “I see you have taken my son up on his offer of tea.”

“Well, he was polite to ask,” Kirk says, and Sevin gloats as he rushes to bring Kirk the tea himself, before Spock can reach the far side of the room.  Before he quite hands it over, though, he hesitates, the cup half held out, Kirk’s hands half out in turn to accept it, and says, “I apologize if I was rude when we met before.”

“Apology accepted,” Kirk says, and takes the tea gently.  It’s much too hot for him to hold as Sevin was holding it, though, and he sets it down quickly, trying to hide his discomfort.  Sevin notices and laughs, and Spock notices, then, the look on Kirk’s face.  Despite his skin tone and his eyes, his informal Terran Standard, Sevin looks like a Vulcan, and Kirk is clearly not accustomed to hearing Vulcans laugh.  Still, he laughs a little too.  He is not above it.  “So, Sevin,” he starts, and Spock stands back still, playing the observer, “what movie are you and your grandfather going to see?”

“I don’t know yet,” he answers lightly, “I think maybe an adventure.  Maybe when I grow up, I’ll go on adventures too.  I’m not sure though,” he adds, suddenly embarrassed.  “Maybe I’d be too scared.”

Spock expects Kirk to wave this fear away, to encourage adventuring in the son as he encourages it in the father, but he doesn’t, and when he doesn’t, Spock feels a strange surprise, unexpected because he had not even recognized the premonitions he’d had.  “Being scared is okay,” Kirk says, voice as quiet as Sevin’s.  “Everybody who goes on adventures gets scared.”  What he does not add, but what he is thinking and what Spock is thinking and what Sevin might be thinking too, is that adventures don’t always end happily.  Sometimes the sacrifices and the loss are real, and the fear is warranted.

They each look up sharply at the sound of a footstep at the kitchen doorway, but it’s Sevin who speaks first.  “Grandfather, you are late,” he says in his best stern voice, an impression, perhaps of Sarek’s own voice.  If the room were full of Terrans perhaps he would earn a few smiles, but Sarek and Spock never smile, and Kirk seems too surprised to react.

“Yes,” Sarek admits, “my meeting ran over its allotted time, as I suspected it would.”  He glances at Spock and then at the newcomer, an unsaid question in his expression, but Kirk has stood up now and stepped forward, head tilted slightly downward in deference.

“Jim Kirk, sir,” he says, and starts to reach out his hand, then stops, suddenly remembering, and manages a Vulcan salute instead, if only barely.  Spock watches his father’s face carefully.  He can be a harsh judge when he wishes, and if he had met this man when Spock was pregnant, and knew him as that human who so corrupted his son, there would be little Kirk could say to redeem himself in Sarek’s eyes.  But the foremost thought on Sarek’s mind in these circumstances is that this Kirk served on the Enterprise: the man Spock almost choked to death, the one who beamed with him onto the Romulan ship.  Spock watches his father’s eyes flick away, then back.

“We’ve met,” Kirk adds, a second later, when Sarek does not promptly respond.

“I remember,” Spock’s father says, and he holds up his hand to mirror Kirk’s gesture.  “Though we have never been formerly introduced.  My name is Sarek, of Vulcan.”

“My grandfather is an Ambassador,” Sevin interrupts proudly, just as Kirk is about to continue with some pleasantry, some pleased-to-meet-you formula.  Spock tries not to look as embarrassed as he feels, or as guilty.  His mind makes the connections quickly, his memory sharp and that long ago conversation returning, much too easily as it always does, and he keeps himself from looking at anyone, irrationally fearful he will give something away.

“That is very impressive,” Kirk is saying, and he sounds like he’s smiling that polite smile again.  The room feels faintly claustrophobic, as if of too many generations, or simply too many people, and Spock feels like he’s fifteen again.  He reminds his son that he will not want to be late for his movie, and soon Sevin himself is rushing his grandfather out the door with him.  At the doorway, just before Sevin all but drags him through it, Sarek catches Spock’s eye and raises his eyebrows slightly, but he gives no other comment, and Spock simply ignores the look entirely.

“I apologize for the delay,” he says to Kirk, as he leads them back into the living room and starts to unroll the first of the plans.  His back is to Kirk but he can hear him, slow footsteps first following Spock into the room and then stopping, still half a room away from him.

“Not necessary,” he says.  “I like talking to your son.  He’s a really cute kid, Spock.”

Knowing no response to such a comment, Spock makes none, only takes the unrolled plan to a large table in the corner of the room and starts to arrange it there.  He pretends that it is this simple to turn his attention to the business that has brought them together.  Behind him, he hears Kirk move closer, and with a short glance over his shoulder he sees that Kirk is perched now on the arm of the couch, just a few steps behind him.  He has his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and he’s crossed his arms against his chest.  His posture is relaxed now, not the stiff-backed Officer who’d introduced himself to Ambassador Sarek, but more an older version of the boy who so disarmed Spock eight years ago in Iowa.

“So,” he says, “your Father’s an Ambassador?”

Spock stiffens, and stands up straight again from trying to smooth out the corners of the paper.  Still he doesn’t turn around; it is as if he can’t, and he thinks his ears are probably blushing at the tips again.  “He is,” he answers simply, and pretends that Kirk’s comment is meaningless.  He will certainly give no outward hint that he takes additional meaning from it.

“I bet he was gone a lot, when you were growing up,” Kirk continues.

“His visits to Earth were not infrequent.”

Kirk makes a vague noise of understanding, assent, and then says no more, and Spock almost thinks the conversation is dropped.  Still, Kirk makes no move to join him, and he himself is equally still, his hands resting on the tabletop, his gaze downturned but unseeing.

After a moment, he hears Kirk come to stand next to him, but he does not look up.  All he can see of the other man is his hand, resting now next to Spock’s just below the lower margin of the page.  “Did you ever go with him?” Kirk asks lightly, and before Spock can answer, he says, “That must have been exciting.”

“Exciting is not the word I would use,” Spock answers coolly, and then with more confidence, sure that Kirk has crossed a line and taking courage from it, he continues, “We should begin our work.  That is why you are here.”

Kirk makes no argument but his tone mimics Spock’s, professional and distant.  “As you say, Spock.  Back to work.”

Chapter Text

“Bones, I have a problem.”

“Only one?  Well how about this for a second: the fumigators say it’ll be another week before we can move back in.  Sit.”

He does, sparing a half thought as to why they’re eating lunch here of all places, even though he already knows.  Bones doesn’t have a long enough lunch break to go anywhere but the small cafeteria-style eatery next to the clinic.  The place is small and usually crowded, though they’re lucky today with a bench to themselves, and the food, though large in portion, usually leaves something to be desired.  Like taste.  Bones has already gotten two plates of the day’s dish and now he thrusts one in Jim’s direction.

“That is a problem,” Jim concedes, and picks up his fork, “but it doesn’t compare to this other one I’ve recently run into.”

“And what problem might that be?” Bones asks, his tone humoring, as he returns to his own food.  Jim keeps his fork poised above his potatoes; eating just seems secondary to talking at the moment.

“I have feelings for Spock.”

Bones stops with his forkful of broccoli halfway to his mouth, and gives Jim a look that just screams, Why are you telling me this?  Out loud, he just says, “Something told me this would happen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim answers, genuinely surprised.  It had been, after all, quite a revelation for him.  He’d been walking back the long way from Spock’s apartment to Sulu’s place, where he’s crashing, and thinking about Ambassador Sarek and how Spock must have had some balls in his teenage years to defy a man like that, when suddenly it all came together: the alien boy in Iowa; the strange pangs of nostalgia, memory, and longing he’d felt even years after; the moment on the Jellyfish when he had insisted, when he had known, their crazy plan would work, if only because they were in it together; the way Spock carefully outlined his thoughts on the new science wing redesign, and Jim could almost hear the semicolons in his speech—he’d just known.  Almost stopped traffic the way he halted right there in the middle of the sidewalk, too.  Then that night he’d lain in bed and stared up at the ceiling and thought about it some more.  There was just something about this one.  He was tough and smart and he didn’t give up, gave off plenty of don’t-come-near-me vibes but showed, sometimes, just a hint of what was underneath, that openness and honesty Jim had first felt from him when he was seventeen years old.  It didn’t hurt that Spock was as gorgeous as Jim had remembered.  He couldn’t help fantasizing, too, as he waited for sleep to finally come, of that body with its coiled in strength, the skimming touch of those fingers, the sweet taste of that tongue—

“It means just what I said,” McCoy answers.

“I didn’t realize you knew me so well, Bones.”

“I know your type,” McCoy amends gruffly.  He sounds as if he genuinely does not want to be having this discussion.

“Anything that moves?”

McCoy just frowns at him like he doesn’t appreciate the joke, and turns back to his lunch.  “Your type in the more selective sense.”

“Good to know you think I have one.”

“Jim, I’ve lived with you for three years.  I do have knowledge of you that isn’t based on what comes out of the Academy rumor mill.”

The sentiment is so touching, Jim would almost say sweet, except he knows McCoy would never agree to such a descriptor, that at first he does not know what to say.  There is a piece of meat, he thinks it might be turkey, in the middle of his plate, and he cuts off a bite and spears it with his fork.  “Still,” he continues, after a moment, “I didn’t know I was so transparent.”

Bones makes a noise that sounds something like “Hmmph,” but he can’t quite let the conversation drop without really saying what he’s thinking, or maybe he just knows it’s Jim won’t let it go, so he adds, “Did you really think I’d believe your enthusiasm for this guy is completely professional?”

“Well,” Jim answers, miffed and embarrassed both, and shrugs a little, “I thought it was.”

“Okay, so we’ve determined it’s not.  What are you going to do about it now?”

“That’s what I’m saying, Bones.”  He pokes again at his food but he’s taken three bites since he sat down, and though Jim’s usually all about the long, large lunch, he feels like his appetite’s shot.  “I have a problem.”

“The way I see it, you have at least three,” McCoy corrects him, and Jim shoots him a look over the lump of mashed potatoes he’s forced onto his fork.

“You are not being helpful.”

“I’m reminding you of the reality of your situation.  I know what you’re like when you’re in one of these modes, Jim—”

“What do you mean ‘modes’?”

“Don’t act all insulted.”  McCoy puts up his hands, half halting-gesture, half surrender, and catches Jim’s eye.  “You have feelings for Spock, you’re caught up in all the good qualities you see in him, and you’re only peripherally aware of the problems.  Spock can be the sentient equivalent of an icicle, and I have my doubts that even you could seduce him—past triumphs aside.”  He holds up his hand again and cuts off Jim’s objection before he can make it.  “He isn’t fifteen anymore, Jim,” McCoy says quietly, as if Jim needed any reminding.  Still he drops his gaze down to the tabletop like a chastened boy.

Bones sounds almost apologetic as he continues.  “But that’s only the first of your problems.  Some Jim Kirk charm and charisma could win over even a Vulcan, but what would you do if you had him?  I hate to remind you that you are going to be the Captain of a Federation starship, Jim.  If Spock takes you up on your offer to be your First Officer, he’ll be your subordinate.  Completely off limits for any sexual or romantic relationship.”

“I know,” he answers, can’t help but sound defensive though Bones is half right: the thought has occurred to him, but he’s been doing a good job of pushing it away.  He tries to smile, and wave the whole concern off with a wave of his fork.  “Look on the bright side: if he turns me down for the job, that won’t be a problem.”

“If he turns you down for the job, he’ll be going to the Vulcan colony,” Bones answers solemnly, his voice quiet now.  This is his I’m-sorry-for-the-bad-news voice, and Jim hates it.  “His whole race is in danger of dying out.  If he signs up to rebuild his planet—”

“It will mean settling down with some Vulcan woman and having kids with her.  Great.”  If he thought he didn’t have an appetite before, he had no idea.  Suddenly even the idea of food seems foul, and he pushes his plate away.

“And speaking of family…” Bones continues tentatively.

“Right.  Problem number three.  Sevin.”  This conversation is really just getting better and better.  He doesn’t need Bones to explain this one to him, but then, it probably does do him good to hear, to really have to acknowledge with words just what kind of trouble his feelings—Sam would say, his hormones, even though he thinks this is hardly a valid excuse at twenty-five—have gotten him into this time.

“He’s a father,” McCoy is saying, “and he doesn’t stop being a father when he goes on dates or when he has sex.  He and his son come as a packaged set: you want one, you get the other too.”

“Sevin is a nice kid—”

“Do you want to be his father?”

It’s an annoying question, but a fair one.  He never had much of a father, himself.  He’s not sure how one even goes about being one.  Sometimes, he romanticizes the concept of parenthood: he likes kids, they’re cute and they get excited by things he’s long since taken for granted himself, and they’re innocent and honest and so straightforward in how they need you.  But even his few interactions with Spock’s son were enough to teach him that they’re complicated too, can be distrusting (he sure was) and for good reason; he has no idea how he’d even begin to be a parent to anyone, let alone someone who’s already lived seven years without him, who’d see him as an intruder, an interloper.

He tries to tell himself that he’s getting ahead of himself now.

“I don’t know, Bones, don’t you think it’s a little early to be asking questions like that?”

“I’m just reminding you that they’ll come up eventually.  Probably sooner than you’d think, too.”

He sighs.  His lunch looks no better than it did a moment ago but he really should eat, and he considers trying it again, considers this question so long and so intently that it’s as if he’s forgotten entirely that he ever had another question on his mind at all.  He knows almost nothing about Spock’s daily life, his worries and his responsibilities.  Most of what Jim knows about Spock’s past, too, is by inference.  The man is one gigantic mystery.  All Jim wants to do is solve him.

“Putting all those things aside, though,” he says quietly, and doesn’t look up to see what sort of expression Bones has on his face now, “what do you think?  About Spock?”

There is a silence, not long but rather nerve wracking, until his friend answers, “Anyone on the Enterprise with eyes could see that you two made a good team out there.  He would be a good First Officer for you, there’s no question there.”

“But?” Jim prompts, and he knows it’s coming, hears it in the slow, judicial rhythm of the words, is waiting for it.

“But,” McCoy continues, “you had to insult his mother to get any sort of emotion out of him on that bridge.  He marooned you on an ice planet without a second thought—”

“I like to think of bygones as bygones,” Jim smirks.

“He and the rest of the Vulcans have built six feet thick walls around their emotions, Jim, and they’re proud of it.  Do you really want to be with someone so impenetrable?”

He wants to remind Bones again that he’s already had some experience with Spock’s civilian side, but he knows that this isn’t the point.  The professional, stiff, controlled Officer he met again at the Kobayashi Maru hearing seems hardly the same man he met when still more a boy than a man at all, nervous and trying to hide it, open to being open.  The rules have changed for them both, there’s way to argue against that.

“He can’t be always that way, though,” he says out loud.  “His son is so…human.  Not like Spock at all.  A lot of that was probably growing up on Earth, but he still lived with Spock; he was raised by Spock.  And they do seem very…close.  I like to imagine he softens up when he’s with his kid.  And,” he pauses, his interest awkward, too intense and nosing into a history too private for his knowledge, “and there’s Sevin’s mother.”

“What about her?” McCoy asks wearily.

“Maybe Spock really loved her.”

Bones sometimes mocks him for his romantic side—San Francisco’s best kept secret, he likes to say—but still he always seems surprised when he runs up against it in serious conversation.  He’s staring at Jim now like he’s trying to figure out if this is some sort of strange joke, and when he sees it’s not, he shakes his head, and reminds Jim, “You know better than anyone that you don’t need to be in love to have sex.”

“Touché, Bones,” he mutters, smiling like he doesn’t mean it.  McCoy brought him a cup of coffee with his inedible food and now he reaches for it, gulps it down even though it’s cold.  Bones is almost done with his lunch; his breaks aren’t long and soon he’ll have to go back to work.  Jim’s busy too: he has a class to get to, and, after, a meeting with Chekov and Scotty about some of the changes to the transporter system on the upgraded Enterprise.  He doesn’t really have time for things like romance or even seduction, and certainly not for things like figuring out mysterious Vulcan colleagues he’s almost irrationally attracted to.  But then Jim always was an ambitious multi-tasker.

“You do know I’m going after him, right?” he says, as he and Bones step out into the bright sunlight of a late July afternoon.  There hadn’t really been any question.  It didn’t matter if it was crazy or unwise or even dangerous: Jim doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios and there are people at the Academy, and some in Iowa too, who think this just means taking whatever he wants when he wants it.

“Yeah,” McCoy sighs in answer.  “I figured you would.”

The Ambassador, as Spock has come to think of his counterpart, invites him out to lunch on Sunday afternoon: their last opportunity, he says, to converse before he leaves Earth for a visit to the prospective New Vulcan.  Spock agrees to the meal, but suggests that, instead of meeting in a restaurant, they meet at Spock’s apartment instead.  “My father will be busy at a Council meeting,” he adds, “but my son will be home.”

He’s half convinced this information will be enough to convince his counterpart to cancel their plans, but instead, he hears only a pause and then that eerily familiar voice over his communicator again.  “I thank you for the invitation, Spock.  I will arrive at one.”

To Sevin he says only that their guest is a colleague of Spock’s father, to which Sevin complains that he hopes he won’t be old and boring.  “I am sure he will be quite fascinating,” Spock replies, his voice light but the look he gives his son quite serious, “and I am also sure that you will be on your best behavior with him.”

“I will,” Sevin assures him, and he does sound sincere, though afterward he adds, half to himself, “He must be someone really important.”

The Ambassador is as punctual as Spock would expect him to be.  Spock opens the door to him with trepidation, though somehow he feels less nervous than he would have expected, less nervous than he did when he told Nyota about Sevin’s dad, or when Jim himself met Sevin for the first time.  The thoughts that reassure him are, perhaps, illogical; he knows that whatever similarities exist between him and this other self, the differences are of the type that define a life.  The older Spock never made the decision Spock made when he was fifteen, never saw those harsh black letters on T’Pala’s screen, never gave birth to a tiny little boy with a human heart.  Perhaps he will not understand.  But somehow Spock thinks that he will; better than anyone else, he will at least be able to imagine.

Sevin is standing next to him when the door opens, and so the first thing he does, even before greetings are properly exchanged, is introduce his counterpart to the little boy who would, in another life, have been his son.  “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Sevin says.  He sounds like he’s been practicing this phrase, rehearsed in it, trying hard, and Spock discerns a hint of amusement in the Ambassador’s expression that he doubts else in the universe would notice.

“And you, Sevin,” the Ambassador answers, kneeling down to Sevin’s level, and holding up his hand in their salute.

Sevin mirrors the gesture.  It is a surreal moment for Spock, he imagines even more so for his counterpart, and he watches the two and tries to see a resemblance, a similarity like that of father and son.  The Ambassador seems to be watching Sevin closely, fascinated, perhaps even unable to look away.

The moment stretches and stretches and breaks and then Sevin looks up.  “Father, are we going to be formal all through lunch?”

The Ambassador lets out a sudden, sharp laugh that startles both Spock and Sevin, and says, “If you would permit me to answer, Spock, I do not think any further formality will be necessary here.”

The meal that follows is inevitably strange, for Spock at least, though if his counterpart is struck by the same eerie feelings, he does not show it.  Sevin, free from any worry about remembering the correct formulaic phrases, conforming to the precise details of Vulcan politeness that have never come as instinct to him, becomes animated and dominates the discussion through the first half of lunch.  He seems instantly comfortable with the Ambassador, if also confused, and thus captivated, by him.  He has never heard a Vulcan laugh before, and though Spock’s counterpart does not slip again, does not let even a smile quirk his lips for the rest of the afternoon, the idea that he could so easily allow himself this expression of emotion has Sevin, Spock thinks, almost tempted to try actively to get him to do so again.

The Ambassador seems content to let Sevin speak.  The boy tells stories, asks questions and allows no time for any answers, wonders and muses aloud and asks for no authoritative explanations.  He tells their guest about his school and his friends and about the lessons his father gives him every evening; he talks about his grandfather and about his father and about Starfleet.  He never mentions his grandmother, or Vulcan, or the evacuation, though Spock hears him skirt the subjects, approach them first recklessly, then back away from them carefully.

Eventually, though, the tone of the meeting shifts.  Sevin starts to leave space after his questions and queries, and, slowly, the Ambassador begins to tell his stories.

Spock sits just as rapt as his son, intrigued and on the edge of his seat with curiosity, if for different reasons.  His counterpart has thought his story out well and Spock is impressed; officially, he is an ex-professor from the Science Academy, a man who lived the majority of his life on Vulcan until he began traveling in his old age, after the death of his wife.  But, he adds, he did have friends in Starfleet (how did you meet them? Sevin asks, and he explains, quite easily, that his wife had connections), and they told him many stories about their experiences in space.  One after one, he recounts them.  A crewmember bought a Tribble from a wandering salesman and the little creatures multiplied until they almost took over the ship (Sevin has never seen a tribble but he’s heard of them, and he wants to know what they look like and what they sound like and just how many there were and how fast they multiplied).  When a Tellarite Ambassador was killed on the way to a diplomatic conference, the Vulcan Ambassador was accused of the murder (Sevin exclaims at the injustice, especially when the Ambassador adds that the accused Vulcan almost died from an illness on the same voyage).  A contagion found its way onto the ship and, spread through sweat, infected nearly all the crew so that they lost their inhibitions entirely; one Lieutenant took over Engineering and sang Irish songs loudly over the ship’s speaker (Sevin insists the Ambassador give his rendition of the songs, but he, just as insistently, politely refuses).

Spock sits back in his chair, quiet, and listens to each story in turn.  This was his own life, in another universe.  These stories are memories he will never have, a history he will never call his own.  He is able to imagine it all perfectly.  He watches the Ambassador carefully and sees that he never once glances at Spock in return, his attention sometimes on Sevin and sometimes far away from all of them, from the kitchen in San Francisco, from Earth.  The stories he tells often make Sevin laugh but the sadness Spock feels, beneath them, slides through all his barriers, curls around his mind and holds him there.

Through all of the stories runs the character of the Captain, an upstanding man of sound judgment, professional, brave, uncompromising, but also creative and charming, charismatic.  Before the meal is over, Sevin has cast him as a hero to challenge the heroes in the ancient Vulcan stories Spock has told him.  Spock watches his counterpart’s expression and thinks that this is hardly a surprise.

Sevin has already made plans to spend the afternoon with one of his friends from school, and though he’s reluctant to leave the Ambassador and his wild adventure stories, Spock insists it would be rude to cancel on his friend on such sudden notice.  He has, he admits to himself, his own motives for his insistence.

Sevin’s friend’s mother picks him up at the apartment and, just as he is leaving, he turns to their guest and asks, “Will we see each other again?”

The Ambassador nods slowly.  “I am sure of it, Sevin.”  He looks almost fond.  Before Sevin leaves he gives his father a hug, and Spock tries not to think of those eyes watching him.

“Just out of curiosity,” Spock asks, when the door has closed behind his son and they are alone, the same man twice over, two histories and two lives from two universes, “how much of your story is true?”

“My stories of the Enterprise are false only in their framing,” his counterpart replies lightly, and sits down again at the table.  “I had many experiences there that your son now wishes to call adventures.”

“And you approve of him doing so,” Spock adds, more statement than question.  His counterpart nods, guilty and unashamed.  He is completely unfathomable.  Spock would shake his head in complete incomprehension if the gesture would not make him feel too much like his father.  “And the rest…?” he prompts, after a moment.

The Ambassador shrugs.  He is giving off that distinct air of amusement that Spock finds, at times, the most incomprehensible thing about him.  “Sometimes,” he says, “it is acceptable to stretch the truth.  I prefer to think of it as creating a persona.”

Spock sits down again, too, in the chair directly across from his counterpart.  “And you have chosen the persona of a retired Academy Professor and widower?”

He expects the Ambassador’s answer to be inscrutable, another riddle, and so he is surprised again, when he thought he had no surprise left, when the other man asks him, “Is it too much like the life you thought you would have?”

His counterpart is staring at him, but he drops his own gaze down to the tabletop.  “Would you yourself have preferred such a life?”

“No.”

There is so much more to say, and yet, for several long moments, they sit together in silence.  Spock glances across the table.  His counterpart is not looking at him.  “This Captain you spoke of you,” he says finally, slowly.  He does not know why he is asking this.  He knows the answer.  “This Captain was James Kirk?”

The Ambassador’s gaze is far away now; he’s not looking at Spock’s kitchen but at something only he can see, only he could ever remember.  “Yes,” he says, simply and quietly, his voice soft.  “He was.”

“The James Kirk of this universe,” Spock says, “is quite different from the James Kirk of yours.”

“I would predict that the two are not as different as you might think,” the Ambassador answers, and he sounds, though still particularly serene, like he has returned at least partially to Spock’s world again.  “From what little I saw of your Kirk, he has great potential.”

“Starfleet thinks so too.  They have given him the Enterprise, and he is attempting to convince me to be his First Officer.  I know what you will tell me,” he continues, before the Ambassador can speak, “and I remain undecided on the matter.”  He pauses, just on the verge of continuing, but suddenly unsure, as if on the brink of great honesty he finds himself less capable than he thought of openness.  He swerves in subject, unsure if his counterpart will follow his logic, his train of thought, or if it will remain as mysterious to him as his own thoughts seem to Spock.  “Sevin enjoyed your company,” he remarks.

“And I, his,” the Ambassador answers.  “Your son is…not what I expected.”

His words sound like a politely phrased insult, and Spock stiffens.  “He was raised on Earth,” he answers, a rigid and distant sounding defense.

“He is an intelligent and inquisitive boy.  I did not mean to imply anything negative with my comment, Spock.  I was expecting a child as stiff and controlled as I was at that age, but—”  He is the one to hesitate, this time, and Spock watches him carefully, almost embarrassed, as if he has intruded on a moment too personal and close even for another version of oneself to see.  “Do not misunderstand me,” the Ambassador says quietly.  “I am a Vulcan, and I can never be anything else.  But your son is much happier than I was when I was young.”

Spock could say, should say, that happiness is not the most important thing in life, that one should rather strive to be content and calm.  But he does not want to say these things.  He cannot say them to someone who knows the philosophy so much better than he does, and yet can still look so fondly upon a child who breaks all the rules.

“He knows the Vulcan ways too,” Spock says, looking down at his hands because these words are unnecessary and he knows it.  “He is more in control of himself than he seems.”

“Spock, you owe me no explanations.”

The silence falls over them again, a palpable thing, difficult to shake off or pierce through.  They have, through all these minutes they have been alone, said almost nothing: Spock has not said what he wishes to say and the Ambassador has not asked what he wishes to ask.  “It is admirable,” the Ambassador says, tentative, and perhaps it is because they know each other so well that Spock is sure they both know where this trail of conversation leads.  This man’s whole life seems mysterious, incomprehensible, and yet Spock can read his curiosity as clearly as a printed page of text.  “It is admirable, that you have been able to raise him so well while also attending the Academy and becoming an Officer.”

“You need not flatter,” he responds levelly.  “I did not intend to have a child.  You must know—”

“I would not have thought it was even possible.”

“I did not think it was either,” he answers, and even though there is something funny about this exchange, neither laughs or even smiles.  Somehow this is enough.  The prompt that Spock was waiting for or the permission he needed, whatever it was has been given, and he wants to tell this man his story, as if he owes it to him because he shares his genes if not his life.  “I was fifteen,” he starts, and he keeps his hands on his knees like he did when he was a teenager, an old habit he’s long forgotten, and even though he doesn’t look up he knows the Ambassador is watching him.  “My father took me with him to Earth on one of his trips.”  He pauses, unsure how to go on, how much he should say and in what terms.

“Sevin’s other parent is human?” his counterpart asks into the silence.

Spock nods.  “Sevin and I refer to him as his dad.  It seemed a proper name for a parent from Earth.”  He pauses again, and runs his hands once up his legs, then back down to his knees.  “Sevin does not know who he is.  I did not know how to contact him, when I first found out was I pregnant.  It was easy to avoid telling him.”  He sighs, so quietly he’s not sure his counterpart can even hear him.  “It is more difficult to avoid it now.”

“Jim Kirk,” the Ambassador says in answer, so calm and so sure that Spock’s head snaps up before he can think.

“Why do you say that?”

“It would be…”  He gives a small shrug.  “Fitting.”

Spock just stares at him.  For the first time, he realizes just what an unknown this man truly is, what his life and experiences have taught him, how they have formed him; it is not that he is particularly wise or perceptive, though Spock imagines these things are true too, but that he has lived in two realities, and he sees them both at once with perfect clarity.  That something, something besides this man, should link the two universes seems impossible and, yet, somehow, also clear, and he will not name this thing, or analyze it, or live by it, but for a single moment he sees it just as his counterpart sees, and it undoes him.

“Are you surprised,” the Ambassador asks him, then, “that I knew?”

“You should know as well as I,” he answers, “that Vulcans are never surprised.”

Chapter Text

Kirk has pulled up the large corner armchair, the biggest one in the room, and draped himself over it, as if he found reviewing the resumes of medical personnel the most relaxing activity possible.  Spock pulls his own hardback kitchen chair closer to the table and the computer screen.  He’s trying not to stare at Kirk and the way he’s completely relaxed, with his legs over one arm of the chair and his shirt starting to ride up to show just a sliver of the skin of his stomach and side.  They’ve been at this for a while and though Spock wouldn’t say he’s tired, he does feel them approaching an impasse, beyond which it would be illogical to continue.

“As Dr. McCoy will be your new Chief Medical Officer,” he says lightly, as he skims the credentials of their latest potential crewmember, “perhaps you should consult him on this process?”

“I tried,” Kirk answers, and he sounds completely unconcerned by his apparent lack of success.  “He says he has no time for ‘grunt work that other people could be doing’ when he has ‘a clinic to run.’”

Spock raises an eyebrow.  “I thought you told me that he was merely volunteering at this clinic.”

“He was.  But Bones is like that.  He likes to be in charge and know that he’s got everything under control.  Plus, he usually is the most competent guy in the room so it makes sense to give him all the responsibility.”  He shrugs.  “I guess he’s sort of a control freak.”

Kirk is making no effort to look at the computer screen in front of them; out of the corner of his eye, Spock can just see that Kirk is watching him, instead, and they’re slipping into something that they shouldn’t.  He is here to work.

Out loud he says, “He did effectively promote himself to CMO during the Narada mission.”

Kirk laughs, one short, sharp “ha.”  “Sounds like Bones.  I thought you promoted him, though.”

“Only after he had already assumed the responsibilities of his deceased predecessor.”

To this, Kirk simply nods in approval.  “Good man.  Got to have people like him on board a ship.”  His gaze, wandering for a moment, returns to Spock again, and Spock looks away as soon as their eyes meet, pretends he wasn’t staring too.  He’s about to make another comment about Lieutenant Smith, the officer whose credentials they are supposed to be discussing, when Kirk says, light and conversational, shifting slightly in his chair as he speaks, “He joined up at the same time as I did, you know.  After his divorce.”

Spock knows almost nothing about Dr. McCoy, except that he is a particularly emotional human and, it would seem, a quite talented doctor.  He also knows that McCoy is Kirk’s roommate and his closest friend, and he can’t help wondering if the doctor approves of Kirk’s professional overtures to Spock, or if he still holds a grudge over certain of Spock’s actions on the Enterprise.

He doesn’t answer, and Kirk goes on, his voice a bit tentative beneath its forced nonchalance.  “Starfleet’s an escape for him.  And I understand that.  It was for me, too.”

He’s staring again.  Spock finds it quite hard to look away when that gaze is on him.  It is steady and appraising, and daring too, a forceful dare, as if to look away were cowardly, and Spock is no coward and will not be seen as one.  He tries not to blink.  It is disconcerting to see how much Kirk can push his buttons.

Clearly, there will be no more work done on their project, at least not right away, and yet he doesn’t move back from the table, wary of acknowledging this new air between them.  It is not simply comradely; it is confessional, and it is his instinct to pull away from these moments, unnerved by the possibility of learning almost as much as of revealing.

“There isn’t any better place to run,” Kirk is saying.  “You train long enough and prove yourself good enough and you get to leave your whole planet behind.  That looked like a pretty good proposition to me three years ago.”  He smiles a humorless smile and adds, “I almost wonder why I didn’t enlist earlier, actually.”

“I am sure that Starfleet appreciates your contributions,” Spock answers, “regardless of your reasons for enlisting.”

This should be enough of a hint, enough of a clue, that he does not want to continue this discussion, but Kirk does not notice it, or does not admit he does.  He swings his legs over the arm of the chair so that his feet are on the floor again and when he speaks again his tone is lighter, no longer the heavy hint of deeper meaning hidden below the surface, no longer a fake nonchalance, or at least, now, a better imitation of indifference.  “So, how did you end up here?” he asks.  “San Francisco is a lot farther from Vulcan than it is from Iowa.”

“If you mean to imply that I, too, joined Starfleet as an ‘escape,’ as you put it, you are mistaken.”

“Spock, come on.”  Kirk is shaking his head and smiling, a sort of smile that does not signal happiness and which is, for this reason, still confusing to Spock, who first learned to read human emotion as if he were reading a book, referents and clues counting for more than instinct.  “I’m not out to trick you.  I’m just trying to have a friendly conversation.”

“Your comments and questions are quite personal for a friendly conversation,” Spock says quietly.

Kirk doesn’t answer right away, his gaze still down at the floor, and Spock isn’t sure if he’s embarrassed or simply taking his time to form the perfect response.  Perhaps, he thinks, it is a little of both.

“Maybe,” he admits finally.  “I don’t mean to pry.  I’m just trying to….get to know you better.  I guess.”

Spock’s sure if he waits long enough Kirk will change the subject back to the project, but he doesn’t keep his silence for this reason.  He must admit that he had wondered how that young man, more practiced in his recklessness than Spock, more confident in his rebellion, with an air of self-destruction or at least of decay, and decay come to soon, how such a boy could grow into this Captain.  The last choice his fifteen year old self could have foreseen the human boy making was to enlist in the military.

Though it’s true, he thinks now, that he was very charismatic, and so convincing.  An able diplomat.

It’s just as true that he wouldn’t have considered himself a likely military recruit, either.

When he sees Kirk open his mouth to speak he is snapped from his reverie, and he quickly interrupts.  “I applied to Starfleet when I was seventeen.  I was accepted, and I decided to attend this Academy instead of pursuing other options.”

When he hears no answer, Spock looks over to see Kirk staring, brow furrowed, as if Spock had said something quite incomprehensible.  “That’s a very mundane story you’ve just told, Spock,” he answers flatly, after a moment.

“It is the truth.  If you would prefer I invent an elaborate tale for your amusement—”

“I’m just saying, why not pursue other options?  Why not stay on Vulcan?  Why move to another planet, where you’re an alien, and bring your son who was what?—a toddler at the time, to raise him all by yourself—”

“Perhaps I should be flattered that you have clearly spent so much time contemplating the details of my life, Mr. Kirk.”  This is the voice he first perfected as a professor, and it feels false, now, too stiff and too impersonal, perhaps excessive.  Still, it provides a certain useful cover.  “However, you have very few facts upon which to base your speculations.”

Kirk remains unfazed, just sits there, staring, and Spock notices he’s leaning in just slightly, perhaps unaware of this posture, sitting as one would sit when concentrating particularly intensely on his subject.  It is as if Spock were some specimen, naked to his gaze, and he cannot help remembering that, once, he did lie naked next to this man.  Even then, he did not feel this open, this exposed.  Their movements were so rushed then, so desperate, the actions of people who are not thinking and like it that way, and there was no time to examine or explore, no time to be careful with each other.

“I’m just making guesses based on what I know,” Kirk shrugs.  “You must have really wanted Starfleet, to go to such effort for it.”

“There were advantages to leaving Vulcan,” Spock tells him, and it is no answer, not even an acknowledgement of Kirk’s comment, except that he is admitting that they are truly having this conversation, after all.  “But it was not a decision I came to lightly and it was not, despite the stories you have might have imagined for yourself, my goal since I was a child.”

“Well, you have to admit, Spock,” Kirk answers, “it’s a pretty ambitious second choice.”

Spock makes a slight noise of assent, but says no more, because he does not feel ambitious, nor accomplished; if Kirk were the sort of person he could confide in, he would tell him that he often feels that perhaps it was all a mistake.  He doubts Kirk would understand.  We saved people, Spock, he might say, and Spock can hear the exact tone he’d use, as if he were really listening to those words being spoken instead of simply waiting out another tense silence.

“It’s a good thing you are here,” Kirk says, and turns back to their work, though Spock doubts he is really reading any of it, gaze resting on the computer screen, unmoving and unseeing.  “I’d be lost without you.”

“That is not true.  Do not joke about such matters."

Kirk laughs, perhaps at Spock’s tone, perhaps at himself, but what he says is only, “Who’s joking?”

The next day, they take a more formal break.  Kirk disappears for a few minutes and comes back with apples and bananas and tangerines from the store at the corner, and they move to the kitchen to eat.  The window is open and Spock can hear the sounds of vehicles and people on the street below them.

“Do you mind,” Kirk asks, as he digs his thumb into a tangerine to peel it, “if I ask you a personal question?”

Spock wants to mock him for asking permission this time, but instead, he tells the apples he is picking through, “I do not mind.”

“Is it…”  He waves his hand in circles as if he’s looking for the right phrase.  Spock has never seen the future Captain at a loss for words before.  Either he’s stalling because he is nervous, or this is truly a first.  “Is it…difficult…to date?  When you have a son?”

Spock’s head snaps up.  “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Kirk shrugs, but he meets Spock’s gaze and he does not seem curious, does not seem to radiate that feeling that Spock knows so well, the pure desire to know for the sake of knowing.

Spock looks down at the apples again.  He picks one, a green one with only one small bruise on its side, and takes a large bite from it before he answers.  “One’s romantic life is not everything,” he says.

“But it isn’t nothing, either,” Kirk counters.  “Unless you’ve been celibate since—”  He stops abruptly when Spock glares at him, and then puts up his hands as if in surrender and leans back in his chair.  “If the question is too personal, I won’t mention it again.  You are, of course, welcome to ask me anything you want about my life—”

“Soon you will be Captain of the Enterprise.  As such, you will have to learn to be more discreet.”

“I promise I won’t make any ship wide announcements about my sex life.”  Kirk smiles, that smile that’s almost like a grin, the one Spock can’t bear to look at, and peels the rest of the skin from his tangerine in one long loop.  “Although, you would have an easier time getting me to keep that promise if you agree to be my First Officer.”

Spock makes no reply to this remark, as it deserves none, only continues to eat his apple and to pretend he is not watching Kirk pull the slices of his tangerine apart.  “I’m just saying,” Kirk continues, after a moment.  “It must be harder to meet people, at least if you’re looking to be serious with them.”

Spock catches his gaze, then, and raises his eyebrows.  “You assume that I wish to, as you say, ‘be serious’ with my partners.”

“You don’t?” Kirk asks, and he sounds, for once, honestly surprised.  Spock draws out the gaze and doesn’t answer, and he’s wondering if Kirk believes him and what he thinks of him, this person who once fell into bed with a stranger.  Is it then so hard to believe that he could have done the same thing since, with another.

“You should not assume anything of me,” he says at last, and turns away.

“Yeah, I’m beginning to get that.”  He’s smiling, Spock can hear it in his voice, but he’s serious too, and somehow this conversation isn’t as unpleasant as Spock would have imagined it to be.

His apple is done to the core when he says, and as if no time had passed at all since Kirk’s last comment, “It is true that, when one has a son, it is difficult to sustain any sort of romantic relationship with a partner who does not wish to involve himself with that son.  In addition,” he takes a tangerine from Kirk’s side of the table, “it is difficult to find sufficient time for such activities.”

The truth is that in the six years since he left Vulcan, he’s had two relationships, and gone on a handful of other dates.  None of the dates knew about Sevin.  He’d gone on them because caring for Sevin without break wore away at him, and because he wanted their adult conversation, and because, in a way, he was flattered to be asked.  He’d gone because he’d hoped to forget the human boy, and to forget Soval, and, later, to forget too the first relationship, and all the opportunities he’d had and hadn’t taken.  He’d imagined that nothing was quite like his night with the human boy, something always missing even in those most satisfying moments with the other men.  He could not have imagined any of them being a parent to his son, and so each relationship, and each possibility, came with its own expiration date, came with the knowledge that it was temporary, fleeting, finally insubstantial.

“If you ever wanted,” Kirk is saying.  Spock had expected him to laugh, perhaps, or smile, what Spock has come to recognize as his common reaction to many of Spock’s statements.  It is perhaps part of the same charm that once seduced Spock so cleanly, though he sees now how in anyone else it would be irritating.  Now he feels his stomach clench involuntarily, and he stops in his peeling of his tangerine.  He imagines Kirk will offer him a date, and this thought is so irrational and so unwarranted, and he does not even know what he would say if it were true, that, a second later, he feels embarrassed that he’d ever had the thought.

“If you ever wanted, I could watch Sevin for an afternoon or an evening.  I know you have your dad to help and that you and Uhura are close but,” he hesitates, shrugs, and quirks up the corner of his mouth in a sort of smile.  Spock pretends he does not notice this shyness, real or put on he cannot tell.  “I’d understand if you didn’t trust me with your kid, either.  I like Sevin, and I would enjoy spending time with him.  But I don’t have any qualifications.”  He pauses, and because he has his eyes turned down Spock thinks it’s safe to watch him.  Perhaps he is simply doing Spock a favor.  Perhaps this, too, is part of his attempt to convince Spock to serve on the Enterprise with him.  “Of course,” he adds, “I don’t have much experience captaining starships either and somehow I’m going to be doing that.”

“You have more than proven to Starfleet that you are capable of such a responsibility,” Spock reminds him.

“Yeah?” he answers, his voice a little quieter now, which Spock did not expect and won’t know how to answer.  “And what have I proven to you?”

Twenty minutes after Spock leaves, McCoy is in the door and taking off his shirt.

“You don’t have to go to so much trouble to seduce me, Bones,” Jim tells him.  He’s washing dishes for the first time in about a month, and he can’t help thinking that a Captain’s salary has to be big enough to allow him to get a real dishwasher.  At the very least, the Enterprise will have one.

“Oh, I’m well aware how easy it is to seduce you, Jim,” Bones calls back through the open door of his room.  “In case you haven’t noticed, our bedrooms share a connecting wall.  What are you doing washing dishes anyway?  We have to leave in five minutes.”

“Leave for what?” he yells back.

There’s a pause, and then the sound of something like a knee smashing against something like a dresser, and then a loud “ow!” and some swearing.  He dries off another plate and then he hears, again from Bones’s room, “It’s Friday.”

For a second, the information means nothing to him, and he’s about to shout back some comment to that effect when it comes to him.  “Oh yeah,” he says out loud.  “Whose place is the game at this week again?”

“Uhura’s.  It’s her housewarming, too, for her new apartment.”

“Oh.”  He shuts off the water and grabs a towel to dry off his hands.  Usually, he doesn’t dress up special for a low-stakes poker game, but suddenly he can’t help thinking that he should at least put on a nicer shirt.  And he’s already wearing one of his nicer shirts.  “Hey Bones, are we supposed to be bringing gifts to this ‘housewarming’ thing?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bones answers, as he reappears once more in the doorway, no longer in the sweaty and stained uniform from his clinic job, but looking instead only one good shave away from a real Southern gent.  “I already bought flowers.”

“What flowers?”

“The ones on the table in the other room.”

“Oh,” Jim answers again, and tries his best to sound disappointed.  “I thought those were for me.”

Bones just rolls his eyes and says, “They’ll be from both of us.”  But he’s the one who goes back and picks them up and carries them all the way to Uhura’s apartment, and all that way Jim’s wondering how Bones knew to get flowers.

They’re the last to arrive but the game hasn’t started yet; Sulu and Scotty are still pushing the furniture to the edges of the room so there’s enough space to play on the floor.  Chekov and Uhura are on the other side of the island that separates the main apartment from the kitchen, gathering drinks and food, and in the rush of greetings and flowers and searching for the cards and something like poker chips and everyone bumping into each other and stepping on each other’s feet, he forgets that he’s been running around all day and that he’s tired.  He can just be.

“Uhura,” Chekov says, as he tries not to bump his head on the table looming over him, “your new apartment is very nice and all but perhaps it is a little…”

“Little,” Sulu finishes for him, but Uhura just shoots both of them a look.

“If I were still living in the dorms, then you’d have a reason to complain,” she reminds them.  “This space is huge in comparison.”

“It’s huge in comparison to what we’ll be livin’ in on the Enterprise too,” Scotty reminds them.

“Not that we’ll be meeting to play poker in anyone’s quarters,” Bones adds.  He’s gotten the cards and has started to deal.

“Of course not, that’s what rec rooms are for,” Jim says.  “And speaking of our future on that beautiful ship, Uhura, when are we going to see Spock at one of these games?  You said you were going to ask him, right?”

“I did.  He said he didn’t want to come.”

“This week or ever?”

She gives him a strange look as if she didn’t understand, and he considers the possibility that he might sound a little desperate.  He notes that Bones’s eyebrows are starting to gravitate toward his hairline.  He’s both mocking and warning at once, and Jim looks down at his hand.

“He didn’t specify,” Uhura says.  “But Spock is….wary in groups, especially if they’re informal and there aren’t any strict rules about how to act.”

“Hey, if we’re talking about having Spock at Enterprise poker nights, does that mean he’s accepted the First Officer position?” Sulu asks.

“Not exactly,” Jim admits.  “But I’m working on it.  And as far as I’m concerned he’s already earned his place at poker night for life, if he wants it, even if he leaves Starfleet altogether.”

“No debates there,” Sulu answers.  “I was just wondering…you know, if he does leave Starfleet?  Who else are you thinking of for the spot?”

There’s no quick and easy answer to that question because the truth is he has no idea.  Various names have been floated around, and there are certainly a thousand people in Starfleet willing to give him their recommendations, or to kindly recommend themselves, but he’s told all of them thanks and he’ll get back to them and never talked about it again.  He’s considered a few.  Maybe Gary Mitchell, except that he’s said to have a bit of an ego, and they don’t know each other very well, and anyway, he isn’t Spock.  That’s the problem with them all, in the end.

He’s about to say something about how he’s thinking about it, okay, but his silence speaks for itself and before he can wave the question away, Scotty asks, “Are we playing poker or what?” and the conversation is dropped.

Later, between hands, and as Bones gets up to get more drinks from the kitchen, Chekov asks, “Is it true that Spock has a son?”

“True and not a secret,” Uhura answers.  She’s separating her winnings into piles of perfectly ordered chips and Sulu, Jim notes, is staring at her like you couldn’t pay him to take his eyes off her.  “Why?”

“Just…”  Chekov shrugs.  “I was wondering if he’d bring this son with him, on the ship?”

“Don’t want to be the youngest one on the Enterprise, lad?” Scotty asks, smiling.  He’s lost more than almost anyone so far but he plays with impossible confidence, and, about half the time anyway, he’s right about his chances for a comeback.

“No,” Chekov answers, sounding slightly defensive.  “I was just curious.  It would be without precedent, da?  And he would be the only one his age?”

“Fleet brats aren’t without precedent,” Jim answers.  “And it’s not like there haven’t been plenty of kids whose parents have taken them to live on other planets.  One could even argue…”  He pauses, and glances around at the other faces.  They’re watching him more carefully than he’d thought, and he’s sure they’re wondering what sort of speech he’s making here, and why, and why now.  He sighs.  “One could even argue that we lose a lot of good people on our ships because they have families that it’s hard for them to leave.”

“Or they leave anyway and Starfleet gets the soldiers and the kids don’t get parents,” Sulu says quietly.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Kirk answers, and quirks up the corner of his mouth even though it’s far from funny.  “Anyway,” he adds, as Bones comes back into the room and starts distributing beers, and vodka and scotch where appropriate, “it’s not really up to me, what choices Spock decides to make for his family.”

“But you’re also a Captain,” Uhura says.  “You know that the environment at Starfleet makes it harder for people with families to serve on ships.  There’s no compromise, only family or career.  Maybe that’s inevitable.  Or maybe it’s partly the way the system is designed.  You’re an important person in that system now.”  She smiles, suddenly and inexplicably and to take out the bite from her final comment, “Inexplicably.”

“Ha ha,” he says dully.  She isn’t wrong, and he’s thought about it too, thought about it more than he’d admit even to Bones.  But if there’s anyone he should be telling those thoughts to, it’s Spock himself, so out loud he just tells Sulu to deal.

Through three hands (he loses each one, but Scotty makes a comeback to make anyone hopeful), he notices Uhura’s eyes on him, steady and thoughtful.  Just before he folds, the thought that comes to him and makes him want to fold, he remembers how close she and Spock are, at least as close as he and Bones, and even though he can’t imagine Spock gossiping or telling secrets from his private life to anyone, he knows well enough how easily even the most close kept of information can spread to best friends.  She knows.  She knows about their first meeting, their youthful encounter, all those polite euphemistic phrases he has for that night they met and fucked.  For a moment, he’s almost embarrassed.  Then he wonders if she’s wondering what he’s like in bed.

He smiles at her, and she looks away.

The idea of Spock gossiping about him is so strange as to be almost funny.  But then, it also means that Spock thinks about him, that he remembers.  He hadn’t really thought Spock could have forgotten—who forgets Jim Kirk? he smiles to himself, and Scotty asks him if he has a good hand, then—and the day he’d met Spock’s father, he’d actually come close to getting him to admit it.  He’d been rattled.  Jim takes a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing he can rattle Spock, in knowing he can reach some of that emotion that Spock keeps so well buried and controlled.

Uhura is watching him again and he can’t help wondering what she knows, what exactly Spock told her.  He can’t imagine there were many details involved, and he didn’t do anything really kinky or weird, didn’t admit any particularly secret part of himself, anything that could make her want to stare at him as if she were trying to see through him.  But he shouldn’t overthink.

“In or out, Kirk?” Sulu asks him, and he glances at his cards and without really seeing them, answers, “In.”

Chapter Text

“Why are we going to the aquarium?” Sevin asks, and Jim is hit with approximately his fiftieth spasm of utter fear since he showed up at Spock’s apartment door fifteen minutes earlier.  But he tries not to show it, partly because Sevin, despite his human characteristics, is still a Vulcan and probably appreciates a reining back of emotion, and partly because he refuses to show how rattled a seven year old can make him.

He shrugs.  “I thought it would be fun.  My brother used to take me to the aquarium in the town where we grew up, when I was little.  And your father told me you’d never seen the one in San Francisco.”

“I meant, why are you taking me?” Sevin corrects, and though he sounds merely curious, perfectly honest and open and unembarrassed, Jim feels almost chastised.  He’s pretty sure he’s not doing a good job at this babysitting thing.  He made his first mistake about 30 seconds after leaving the apartment, when he tried to take Sevin’s hand to lead him across the street.  “No, take my wrist!” Sevin had told him, and then he’d said something about touch telepathy and things-that-aren’t-done, and all Jim could think was that he hoped Sevin couldn’t read any of his thoughts at that moment, because no kid his age should know he has the power to make an adult feel that foolish.

He clears his throat before he answers.  “Well, your father and grandfather are both going to an important meeting tonight, so I volunteered to take you out, to give you something to do.”  He’s probably naïve to think that this will be a good enough answer for Sevin, and of course the boy takes him aback again.

“Why can’t Nyota take me?  Is she busy too?”

“If Nyota took you, I wouldn’t get to spend any time with you,” he answers, and he tries to put a certain note in his voice like of almost-disappointment, as if not getting to spend the afternoon with Sevin would be a horrible case of bad luck.

Sevin seems to be considering this, twisting his mouth and swinging Jim’s hand back and forth between them.  Finally, he concludes, “So you and Father must be very good friends.”

“You think so?” Jim asks, and he imagines he does quite a good job of pretending that the answer to this question doesn’t mean anything to him.

“I don’t know,” Sevin shrugs.  “You spend a lot of time together and now you’re taking me to the aquarium.”

If only this were really the definition of a good friendship, Jim thinks, as they stop at a corner to check the traffic and then quickly cross the street.  It’s not far now to their destination but he feels the need to concentrate, afraid of misremembering where they’re heading and ending up lost in San Francisco with a little boy he’s still somewhat amazed he’s been given the chance to take out alone.  Either Spock was having more problems than usual finding a babysitter, or he trusts Jim more than he lets on.

“Your father and I work together,” he says out loud, “and I respect him very much.”  He would say more, but they’ve turned the corner into sight of the aquarium, which is the sort of large and imposing structure that would immediately catch a young child’s attention, and Sevin doesn’t seem very interested in Jim’s opinions of his father anymore.

“Is this it?” he asks loudly, and Jim smiles.

“Sure is,” he says, and then, as they’ve stopped so Sevin can lean back and appreciate the building’s huge size from afar, he adds, “Come on, let’s go in.”

Sevin is just as impressed by the inside of the aquarium as he is by the outside, and they wander through the rooms slowly, methodically, Sevin spending long minutes at almost every tank, his nose pressed to the glass, watching the different fish and sea animals swimming or crawling along in front of him.  “I like this one,” he announces, and waves Jim over to where he’s kneeling on the bench next to a small side tank.  It’s filled with a collection of medium sized striped fish in bright yellows and blues; they’re almost florescent, and they swim quickly, flicking their tails with each swift turn they make.  Sevin points out a large yellow fish with thin blue stripes and says, “He seems so excited.”  He turns to Jim, smiling in that way that still seems so strange, that smile on a small Vulcan face.  “I didn’t know so many different types of fish even existed!  And we’ve only seen the ones from Earth!”

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Jim answers, smiling back at him.  “If we don’t have time to see everything today, we can come back another time.”

“Yeah, we should!” Sevin agrees.  He turns to sit on the bench by the tank, knees up to his chin, the swimming yellow and blue fish on his left and Jim standing to his right.  “I don’t think Father would ever take me.  He isn’t very interested in fish.”  He shrugs.  “They didn’t have aquariums on Vulcan.”

“That would be all the more reason for him to come see one now,” Jim answers, because he doesn’t know how else to respond to such a casual mention of that vanished planet.  He hears a note of sadness in the boy’s voice that he doesn’t remember hearing three years ago, when Sevin declared so easily that he had no mother at all.  The situation is different now, a tragedy he remembers but doesn’t know how to discuss, and Jim knows it’s not his place either to push or to ignore.  “Your father is interested in plenty of things he doesn’t know anything about.  That’s what it means to learn and discover.”

“I guess,” Sevin answers and then, as if an idea has suddenly come to him, he grins.  “He really does hate swimming, though.  He wouldn’t want to discover anything in an ocean!”

“It’s a good thing you don’t have to get inside the tanks to see the fish here, then,” Jim answers, and he’s about to reach out and tousle the kid’s hair when he thinks better of it, and pulls back his hand.  Sevin doesn’t seem to notice.

They go on to look at the alien fish, and at the turtles, and at the alligators in their pit on the level below the visitors, and afterwards, both tired, Jim more so than he would ever admit, they walk down the street to a café and drink smoothies together.  Jim starts to worry Sevin will fall asleep before he gets him home.  The kid rallies with some extra sugar in his system, though, and on the way back he talks about how gigantic those fish on the third floor were, and how he wonders if they’re big enough to eat a person and what it would be like to be inside one anyway—he hopes he doesn’t find out.  Then out of nowhere, as they’re turning the corner onto Sevin’s street, he announces, “I like you.”

It’s not a huge exaggeration to say that Jim has spent most of his life looking for acceptance and validation wherever he can find it, but most of what he’s gotten has been hollow and short lived, all but worthless.  The only success he’s ever had has been in Starfleet, the moment Pike told him it was official, the captaincy and the Enterprise were his, and it only took three years just as Jim himself had predicted.  He’d thought at the time he’d made that prediction that he was just being obnoxious.  Still, not even that accomplishment feels quite like this does, this personal declaration, this little boy almost like a miniature of his father who tells him so easily and so honestly, I approve of you.  It’s touching.  And not only because he realizes more each day just how bad he’s got it for Sevin’s father.

“I like you too,” he answers, as casually as he can, and turns with Sevin up the steps to the front door of the building.

When Spock answers the door he looks to Jim first and then, after a second, down to Sevin.  “And how was your afternoon?” he asks, and steps back to let them in.

“Great!” Sevin tells him excitedly.  “We went to the aquarium!  Mr. Kirk showed me all the fish!”

“It’s Jim,” he reminds him, and then turns to Spock and says, “I hope I didn’t keep him out too late.”

“Not at all.  My father and I only arrived a few minutes ago ourselves.  I must thank you for taking him.”

“No trouble,” Jim says, and waves the thanks off with one hand.  “I’d do it again anytime, really.”

Spock is staring at him strangely now, and he wonders if he sounds too excited, or if he did something else small and subtle wrong.  Sevin has already left the room, and Jim can just barely see him, through the doorway, sitting on the couch next to his grandfather and telling him about his afternoon.  He and Spock are alone in the hallway, and there is a strange air between them, off and hard to understand, a feeling that has stolen in from nowhere.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, and Spock shakes his head quickly, and the feeling of tension lessens, though it does not disappear.

“No,” he answers.  “Nothing is wrong.  Thank you again, Mr. Kirk, for taking Sevin this afternoon.”

He should tell Spock, again, that he really doesn’t have to be this formal, that even his son thinks they’re friends, but this is a battle that he knows he’ll always lose.  So he just says again that it’s no problem, his pleasure.  Spock doesn’t seem to be listening; his gaze has wandered back to the slight glimpse he can get of Sevin, through the doorway, and Jim follows with his own glance, first at Sevin, then at Spock, and back to the boy again.  He wonders again what happened to his mother, how long Spock has been raising this child alone, what he has given up in the process.  He wonders if it’s been worth it.  It’s hard to imagine loving someone as much as he can tell that Spock loves Sevin, hard to imagine having that much responsibility over another person.  What he’s really thinking, he realizes, and smiles a little to himself, is that it’s hard to imagine being a parent.  He’s aged too, he knows, since he and Spock first met, but not in the same way; he hasn’t been transformed in the same way.  Spock became an adult too early while Jim knows well he became an adult too late.

But he’s been standing in the entrance way long enough.  “So I’ll see you on Monday?” he asks, and Spock turns to him abruptly and tries not to seem surprised.

“Of course,” he answers, “Monday.”

It was a mistake, he thinks now, to let Sevin start spending time with Jim Kirk.  He should have learned when he was fifteen that one single, simple event can have consequences beyond one’s control, and though his situation now is in many ways incomparable, he feels a similar slipping of power, his world becoming too large for him.  Just as it was once inevitable that his body would change and his classmates would notice, now it is inevitable that his secret, given up in small pieces, will spread and spread, a secret no longer.  They cannot continue in this way forever.

It is difficult, harder than he would have imagined, to see how well Kirk gets along with his son, and to see how much Sevin adores him in his turn.  He comes home from one of their afternoons together and Kirk is his favorite topic.  He tells Spock all about the things he and Kirk have done and the stories Kirk has told him, and suddenly Spock is remembering the human boy just as he was, is remembering Riverside, the ugly building and the beautiful sunset, the motorcycle, his first kiss.  He’d wanted to protect his son, to keep him from being hurt if his dad didn’t want a child, but now he wonders how he can keep such information from Sevin when Kirk is so swiftly becoming one of his favorite people.  Sevin is still too young to profess anything more than a passing curiosity about his dad, but Spock has always known, somewhere in the back of his thoughts, that his son will someday start asking questions he will not know how to answer.  He will not be able to lie to him.  But to tell the truth now would be to admit the keeping of a great secret.

It was easier, too, to guard his silence when he could assume that the human boy would not welcome a child in his life.  But Kirk shows such affection for the son he does not know is his, and Spock finds himself wondering, over dinner or when he says goodbye to Kirk after an afternoon of work, what sort of dad he would be.  But then it is easier to spend an afternoon with a child than to be his parent every minute of every day, and a part of Spock, his fifteen year old voice still in his head, still thinks he has done Kirk a favor, in a way.

And would you give up Sevin for anything, he asks himself, would you go back and give him up for more freedom or less responsibility or less worry?  The thought of Sevin being taken from him, or hidden from him, makes that fierce and almost angry sense of primal protectiveness rise in him again, the feeling he felt when his father suggested adoption, that most basic feeling that had come to him before comprehension, even before love.

He resolves again and again to tell Kirk the truth, and it is the logical decision, and he knows it.  But the action does not come easily.  He makes excuses; he puts it off.

“You should come to Friday night poker,” Nyota insists and then, a teasing smile on her face, she adds, “Kirk’ll be there.”

He arches an eyebrow.  “I thought you had decided you would no longer play matchmaker for me.”

“Ha,” she laughs, as if she’s won, “those are your words, not mine.  I didn’t say a thing about making any matches.”

What he needs is to spend less time with Jim Kirk, not more.  What if he left San Francisco, he asks himself, made plans to move to the new colony as soon as relocation started, began to look for a mate?  When he was fifteen he’d started to question the assumption he’d had his whole life, that his mate would not be a person he would love, that she would be at most perhaps someone he could come to love, and he’d dreamt about the human boy and remembered his touch and imagined that, somehow, they could find each other and be a family.  He could not picture himself with anyone else.  Now the dreams are returning but they are frightening, too real, too possible, too easy to believe when Nyota makes her jokes or when Kirk smiles at him a certain way.

At night, he dreams of that slick familiar tongue parting his lips, of those fingers at his hips, of that body held close against his, and he wakes up sweating and desperate, biting his lip and fisting his hands in the sheets.  It’s been years, he tells himself, you must forget him.  And he resolves again to leave Earth and start again far away, resolves to be practical instead of emotional, resolves to find something certain and stable for himself and his son.

“Hey Spock,” Kirk says, and breaks him out of his thoughts.  They have finished working for the day and are eating leftover pasta on the balcony, because the dinner hour had snuck up on them while they were consumed with other thoughts, and because Sarek has taken Sevin out for the evening and so there is no one else home, and because the leftovers were there.  The apartment was first too hot with the late summer heat, then too cold with the air conditioning, and outside at least they can breathe real air.  “Can I ask you a very personal question?”

The phrasing, the tone of the inquiry, makes him immediately nervous, but he says, “Yes,” anyway, out of curiosity.

“Is Sevin’s mother,” Kirk starts, then hesitates, and Spock can tell Kirk’s watching him even though he’s turned his head away.  “Is she…is she still in Sevin’s life at all?”

Spock grips his fork tighter in his hand, and then forces himself to take a bite of his food.  He’s pretending the question doesn’t hit him as hard as it does, and he’s quieting his thoughts and controlling his voice for when he speaks.  “Sevin does not know his other parent,” he answers, voice hard and uncompromising, distant, cold.  “I do not wish to discuss the matter.”

“Okay, okay,” Kirk holds up his hands, one still holding his fork, in a surrender.  After only a few moments, though, tense and silent moments during which Spock watches the horizon start to tinge with pink, he adds, “I just ask because I never knew my father, you know?  I know what it’s like.  At some point he’ll want to know—”

“I know,” Spock cuts him off.  He turns to face Kirk again.  He catches his eyes and stares him down, and his heart is beating fast in his side but he reminds himself that Kirk can’t see it, can’t feel it, and if he looks like he is angry it will not be so obvious that he is scared.  “I have always been able to provide everything that my son needs.”

“Yeah, but it’s not about that,” Kirk insists.  “I know you’re an amazing father, Spock.  But I wasn’t curious about my father because my mother didn’t pay enough attention to me.  People want to know where they come from.”

Kirk is leaning forward over the arm of his chair toward Spock, but Spock himself stays where he is, moving only to set his bowl on the table in front of them and to cross his arms against his chest.  “I do not need the lecture, Mr. Kirk.  Are you saying these things because you think I should talk to Sevin about his parentage or because you think I should discuss the matter with you?”

Kirk opens his mouth to answer, then closes it quickly.  His gaze drops down.  He tries to smile, a half-hearted smile.  “Well, I get curious too.”

He starts to say that it is none of Kirk’s business but this would be a lie, and this time he is the one to falter.  When he was at the Academy, he’d been taught to make decisions quickly, taught to trust his instinct because it might be all he had someday, but it is as if all of this was lost when Vulcan disappeared, in that moment when there was nothing he could do but save what he could, and even then, he lost more than he could have believed possible.  If he had stayed Captain, he could have lost Earth too.

He looks at Kirk again.  In a way, he owes him.

“Could you understand,” he asks quietly, “how Sevin’s other parent could not want to raise him?  We were very young…”

He counts three heartbeats into the silence.  It seems almost difficult to breathe.

“Well, I…”  He clears his throat.  The question seems to have taken him aback, and Spock watches him carefully, because Kirk won’t meet his eyes.  “I guess I remember being that age, sure.  I don’t know if I could have handled it, myself.  Still…to just give up a kid.  I know people do it.”  He sighs, and sounds almost defeated.  “I don’t know, Spock.  It’s a tough question, isn’t it?”

Spock nods slowly.  Kirk is still looking at his feet, and Spock studies his hair and his shoulders.  The noises of the city float up to them from the street below but the moment feels quiet, and there is a stillness between them during which Spock can feel his blood thrumming through each of his pulse points.

“It is a very difficult question, Jim,” he whispers.  He would almost imagine that Kirk did not hear him, except that after Spock speaks, he smiles, a broad smile, but one that is more sad than happy.  Perhaps it is just wistful.

“He’s a really great kid, Spock,” Kirk says quietly, then.  “Not knowing him…that’s her loss.  There’s no question of that.”

Later, he will think that it was in that quiet moment that he should have explained, should have told him everything.  When he was confined to his bed before Sevin’s birth, waiting, unable to predict what would happen or where he would go or who he would be, and he first felt the pains worsening within him, he’d imagined this man next to him and holding him and telling him not to worry, and he had regretted not trying, somehow, to find him.  Now he knows that he will feel the same way again.  But the words elude him.

And slowly, so subtly that he does not realize it has happened until it is done, the moment slips away from him.

“The Captain and Mr. Spock,” Chekov says, in the lull between hands while McCoy counts his winnings and Sulu tries to rearrange himself so that his knee is touching Uhura’s in the most casual and unplanned way possible, “I have heard rumors that they are—”  He waves his hands around vaguely and scrunches up his face as if he were looking for the right words, “how do you say—”

“Fucking?” Sulu supplies.

Uhura frowns at him, and he quickly moves his knee away from hers.

“Those are just rumors, Chekov,” McCoy answers dismissively, barely looking up.  “They’re working together, that’s it.”

“From what I have heard, the Captain is interested in more than work,” Chekov insists.

“And where have you heard this?” Scotty asks him.  He doesn’t sound curious so much as he sounds skeptical, but Chekov is insistent.

“Everyone says so.  Gary told me that if they are not having an affair now, they probably will be soon.”

“Didn’t know Mitchell could tell the future,” McCoy says, and laughs lightly, but Uhura waves the whole thing off.

“Gary will say anything to get that First Officer position.  If it gets around to the higher-ups in Starfleet that their relationship is anything other than professional, they won’t want to approve Spock for any position on the Enterprise.”

“You think he’s trying to sabotage Mr. Spock?” Chekov asks, shocked.

“It’s only a sabotage if Spock wants that position,” Sulu points out.  “Anyway, Mitchell might not know what he’s talking about, but that doesn’t mean he’s totally wrong.  Have you heard Kirk talk about Spock?”  He shakes his head.  “Seems like he’s got it bad to me.”  He glances to his right to see Uhura’s reaction, and notices her watching McCoy, as if he had some answer to a question she can’t get out of her mind.  McCoy is looking down at his chips and doesn’t notice.

“You think so?” she asks lightly.  She’s still looking at the doctor.

“Yeah, it’s pretty obvious,” Sulu answers.

“That’s just how Jim is,” McCoy says.  He doesn’t seem terribly interested in the conversation, and he starts dealing the cards out again.  “Everyone in?” he asks, an afterthought.  Noises of assent echo around the circle.  “Flirting is like breathing with him.  It’s easy to make a mistake.”  He sends the last card over to Scotty and then picks up two of his own chips and clacks them together.  “Why are we spending our poker night gossiping anyway?  Don’t you all have credits to lose?”

“You wish,” Sulu grins, and ignores the way Chekov is rolling his eyes at him.  Somehow, he’s feeling lucky this time.

Chapter Text

Spock hesitates outside Sevin’s door.  He can hear his son crying on the other side, a soft but insistent sobbing.  He’s trying to be quiet.  Spock knows well how that feels, the instinct to hide, the desire for solitude with one’s emotions.  He is not sure that he should interrupt.

One hour ago, he and Sevin saw Sarek off at the space docks, his few belongings packed in a suitcase Spock had given him, for his first trip to the new potential colony.  When he returns to Earth, it will be to a new apartment in Washington, and not to the couch in Spock’s living room where he’s been sleeping since the Tragedy.  Sevin asked him question after question while he was packing.  He’d seemed more curious than upset or even bothered, wanting to know everything he could about the new planet, what it would look like, who was visiting, what they were going to do, how long they would be there, but when it came time to say goodbye he’d hugged his grandfather and held on to him fiercely, all but refusing to let go.  Sarek had been at a loss as to what to do, catching Spock’s eye over Sevin’s shoulder and raising his eyebrows in confusion.

His son had been quiet the whole way home, and Spock hadn’t pressed him, had kept his own silence too.  The apartment was always too small for three people and yet it seems unnaturally empty without his father.  For a moment, when they returned, he felt like he was seventeen again, on his own for the first time and with no idea what to do.  His first night in the dorms at the Academy, he’d spent hours trying to calm Sevin’s crying, hoping none of his neighbors would knock on his door to complain, and when his boy was finally asleep he’d called his mother, half convinced as he waited for her to pick up her communicator that he would ask her to bring him home.  But when he heard her voice he felt his desperation recede, and he had said nothing of his panic.  It had returned over the years but never defeated him, and now he knows it cannot, because there is no one to call, and no home to which he can return.

Sevin retreated to his room almost as soon as they stepped in the door.  Spock tried to ask him if he wished to talk, but he said no, quickly and softly, and closed his door behind him.

Spock knocks, now, two light raps of his knuckles, on his son’s door.  “Sevin?”

“Go away, Father.”

Spock sighs, and crosses his arms against his chest.  “Sevin,” he tries again, this time with some impatience to his voice.  There is no answer, and he waits a moment longer, silent and listening for any hint of movement or response.  Then he opens the door.

The lights are off and the blinds are down over the windows, and Sevin has curled into a corner of his bed, his body wrapped around his pillow.  He doesn’t react when Spock steps into the room and closes the door behind him, or when his father sits down next to him on the bed and puts his hands on his shoulder.  “Sevin,” he says quietly, “your grandfather will return.  He will visit us before he moves to Washington, and we will be able to talk to him on video whenever we wish.”

The boy’s shoulders are shaking with his crying, and he doesn’t answer except to reach out for Spock’s wrist with his hand.  He’s buried his head in his pillow and Spock cannot see his face.

“Are you concerned for him, Sevin?” Spock asks.

“I’ll…miss…him,” Sevin manages between sobs, tears he’s trying to swallow down, and Spock closes his eyes as he feels a wave of intense worry and fear flow through his skin where Sevin touches him.  “What if he…what if he…”  For a moment, he can’t speak.  “What if he dies?”

“Sevin.”  He takes his boy gently by the shoulders and turns him just enough for Spock to see his face.  “Sevin, look at me.”  Reluctantly, he opens his eyes and meets Spock’s gaze, his face red and his cheeks streaked with tears.  “The chances of your grandfather dying on this journey are much too low to warrant such worry.  He is perfectly safe on that ship, and his job on the new colony is not a dangerous one.  He will only be gone for a short while.”

“I know,” Sevin answers, and he takes a deep, gulping breath.  “I know.  That makes sense.  It’s just…Grandmother is gone.  Why is he leaving too?”

Spock has had little experience with such emotion.  When he feels it himself he must bury it or meditate through it, at least hide it, live with it himself so that it does not come out in what he does or how he interacts with others.  As a child, still learning control, he knew he could at least share what he felt with his mother; a human woman, she seemed always to understand.  But other Vulcans have never shared with him, and he has never had a relationship with a human that has involved such a revealing of one’s self.  Even Nyota understands that he does not know how to comfort in the way she would wish to be comforted, when she is sad.

Sevin is the only one who comes to him sad, angry, upset, and wanting help, and each time he does Spock feels a stiffness, a forced quality to his assurances and his assistance.  When he can simply hold Sevin, and listen, he is confident.  But when he is called upon to reassure, to say the right things as his mother always said the right things, he is lost.  He feels awkward and uncomfortable in the face of such strong tears, such naked and unhidden and irrational but undeniable fear and grief.

He watches Sevin now and he does not know what to say.  This emotion is more difficult to face than the tears from a scraped knee or a fight with a friend, because he feels it too; his son is like a mirror, and on his face he has brought to the surface Spock’s own grief, his own fear.  He has been on his own before, but it has never been like this.

Slowly, moving with uncertainty, he shifts his position, so that he is sitting cross legged on his son’s bed.  He doesn’t say anything, but he opens his arms to him and Sevin crawls into the hug, and for a few minutes they sit this way, Sevin crying again but loudly this time, making no effort to suppress his tears.  Spock closes his eyes and holds him tight and tries not to let himself feel what Sevin feels.  It is difficult enough to feel only his own emotions.

“Sevin,” he whispers finally, when his son is quieter, only sniffling, moving his head back and forth against Spock’s shirt.  “Sevin, your grandmother is gone, and we will always miss her.  But your grandfather is still alive, and he is not in danger.  You must not worry for him.  But…if you wish to cry for Grandmother, I understand.”

“But we’re…Vulcan,” Sevin sniffs.  “I…can’t.  I shouldn’t.”

Spock shakes his head, and runs his hand up and down Sevin’s back, trying to soothe him.  “As Vulcans, we feel stronger emotions than humans do.  It is not wrong to feel.  Rather, we must work not to allow our lives to be controlled by our emotions.”

“I…I try not to.”

“I know,” Spock answers softly.  “I know.  Your grandmother was human.  It is only right that you should cry for her.  She would understand.”

He can feel Sevin nodding into his shirt, and after a moment, Spock hears him ask, “Have you ever cried, because she’s gone?”

At first, he cannot answer in words, only with a nod he knows Sevin cannot see.  Then he manages to tell him, “Yes.  I have.”

Within a half hour, Sevin is asleep, and Spock is standing in his kitchen, making tea in a kettle his mother had given him.  He feels unnaturally tired, as if he hadn’t slept in many days, as if he had run a grueling marathon.  The last thing he wants, or expects, is to hear his doorbell ringing, and he has no idea who could be on the other side of the door or why until he walks into the entranceway and commands the door open.  “Mr. Kirk,” he says.  Now that Kirk is standing in his doorway he remembers.  Still,he must have let a second of surprise come through, or perhaps Kirk simply knows how to read him better than he realized or would admit, because he hesitates in the doorway.

“Is it…a bad time?” he asks.

In answer, Spock steps back from the doorway and motions Kirk inside.  “I have been distracted this afternoon,” he admits.  “However, as we have made plans to work—”

“If you want to reschedule, we can.”

“And when do you have time to reschedule, Mr. Kirk?”

They’ve walked into the living room, Kirk barely through the doorway and Spock a few steps ahead, and he turns to look at Kirk with his eyebrows raised, already knowing the answer to his question.  For a moment, Kirk simply stares back at him.  Then he steps forward and sinks down into Spock’s couch, as if totally at ease and comfortable there, and looks up at Spock in evaluation.  “Okay, let’s work,” he says, “but only if you’ll be able to concentrate.”

He stiffens, almost offended except that he himself has already admitted to losing control of his thoughts, and nods shortly.  They sit on the couch to go over the latest messages from Starfleet, the most recent critiques and questions of their plans.  Each letter is addressed to Captain Kirk alone because Spock’s role is an unofficial one, his decisions still unmade, and throughout their discussion Spock keeps one ear tuned to Sevin’s room, waiting for him to start to stir and wake.

Finally, Kirk sets his PADD aside.  It takes Spock a moment to notice that Kirk is staring at him now, a steady and attentive gaze, not curious exactly but patient, a question on the tip of his tongue but in no hurry to voice it.  Spock is sure Sevin will wake soon, and he’s turned to stare toward the hallway without even noticing he has moved in his seat.  He snaps back to attention when he hears Kirk say, “This really is unusual for you, Spock.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your…”  He waves one hand around in a vague circle in front of him, as if this would help him to find the word he’s looking for.  “Distraction.  What’s up?”  He follows Spock’s gaze as it flicks again in the direction of the bedrooms, then back down to the couch cushions.  “Is something wrong with Sevin?”

“No,” Spock answers quickly.  He’s staring down at the cushions of the couch, at Kirk’s knee next to his.

“Is something wrong with you?”

“No.”  And then, to keep Kirk from asking any more questions, as if he believed that such a strategy would work, he adds, “My father moved out of the apartment this morning.”

“I imagine Sevin will miss him.”  He sounds unsure, tentative, and if Spock allowed himself to do exactly as he wished without fear of consequences, he would stand up and walk from the room; he would lead Kirk to the door.  “I imagine you do too.”

They both know that Kirk is taking a risk; Spock can hear it in his voice; but he does not expect to feel the light touch of a hand on his knee.  He moves away without thinking, and Kirk draws his hand back.

“You should go.”

“Why?  Spock, it won’t hurt you to talk about her.”

“You should not speak of what you do not understand.”

“Not understand?  Spock, I’ve lost people too—”

“And how many of them have you killed?”

His voice is so loud he startles even himself, and he’s sure that Sevin could hear him, can only hope that his son is still sleeping too soundly to have been disturbed by the noise from the living room.  He stands up and paces to the opposite side of the room, then turns.  Kirk is staring at him, lips parted and head tilted.  He does not say anything, waiting for Spock to speak, but any words he might have are caught in his throat.  He stands almost completely still except that he can’t stop opening and closing his hands into fists.

“Spock, you didn’t kill her,” Kirk says finally, quietly but forcefully, leaning forward and forcing Spock to look him in the eye.  “Nero did.  Nero murdered her and you did all you could to stop him.  You did stop him."

“Too late.”

“Bullshit.”

It is not that something snaps but that something has snapped, and he walks forward without thinking, does not run but walks with such purpose and such decision that it is like running, and before Kirk has time to react, Spock has grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him to his feet.  His nose is almost touching Kirk’s nose.

Just as quickly as it ignited, his violence seems spent, and he isn’t angry, only so terribly, harshly, sad that it takes all of his energy to hold back his tears.  “I could have saved her,” he says.  “If she had not taken that extra step away from me, if I had refused to let go of her hand—”

Kirk is shaking his head.  “You can’t think that way, Spock.”

“It is true.”

“It isn’t!”

Spock’s hand is still fisted in his shirt, enough force there to lift him off his feet and so close to being used, and yet Kirk seems to feel no fear.  He stares at Spock without flinching.

“She’s gone and she’s not coming back, Spock, and it’s okay to mourn her.  You have to mourn her.  But you can’t blame yourself.”

His reason tells him that Kirk is right.  But then it was never reason, never logic, that kept him up at night, missing her, replaying the moment of her death over and over, her fall, the reappearance of the Enterprise around him and his mother gone, and not even a body, only nothingness.

Slowly, he loosens his grip.  He lets Kirk go, then takes a step back.

“I know that doesn’t make it easy,” Kirk says, hesitantly, but Spock closes his eyes and turns away.  He tries to steady his breathing and, with it, his emotion.  It is wrong to share such things, the feelings he only lets himself have in the darkest and quietest moments of his life, alone and safe that way, secure.  To reveal this part of himself to Kirk is particularly dangerous, a sort of intimacy between them that he cannot allow.  He is stepping too close, revealing too much, building too much between them; the first ties of a bond knitting slowly in the space between one mind and the next.  If they had been touching skin to skin in that moment, Kirk could have learned anything, could have understood it all.  His heart thumps with the danger of it.

“I cannot talk to you about what is easy,” he says, “and what is difficult.”

He does not open his eyes, but he can hear Kirk step away.  “Fine.  We’re colleagues, right?”  Spock imagines he’s smiling, that unhappy smile again.  “Not friends.”

Two days later, he writes to Kirk, a long explanation of his latest thoughts on the plans for the Enterprise.  “You were right,” he writes, “that we should be wary of providing any definite answer to Starfleet regarding the bridge crew question.  You were also correct in your other assessments, regarding the Narada mission.”

Without his father to help care for Sevin, it is harder for Spock to find time to meet with Kirk, so they replace their meetings with long late night communicator calls, during which they speak only of business.  On the last day of August, he drops Sevin off at Nyota’s apartment and then walks to Kirk’s place.  It seems that it has been much longer than it has since they met face to face.  Kirk smiles when he opens the door.

“I don’t know if you’re hungry, Spock,” he says, before they even exchange hellos, as he leads Spock into the kitchen, “but I haven’t eaten all day.  I made enough for two.  You okay with waiting to work until after we eat?”

It seems somehow inappropriate, makes him nervous, but they’ve done it before and so he can give no objections.  Kirk has made a pasta salad, one bowl with chicken in it, and one, which he gives to Spock, without.  He seems in a particularly good mood, speaking cheerily, almost buoyantly, and as Spock accepts a fork, he asks, “Did you receive good news today, Mr. Kirk?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“You appear to be unnaturally cheerful this evening.”

“What’s unnatural about being cheerful?”  He picks up two glasses of water from the counter and hands one to Spock, then sets the other down next to his own plate.

“When one is overworked, not eating enough, and not sleeping enough, being this cheerful is quite unnatural,” Spock answers.

“Okay, caught me.”  He pauses, takes a large bite from his salad, and as soon as he’s swallowed, says, “I finished my last Academy exam today.  Ceremony’s next Saturday but, basically, I’m a graduate.”  He grins, and Spock nods his head in congratulations.

“An impressive achievement,” he says, politely.

“You make that sound like such an understatement,” Kirk answers, but he’s still smiling.  “It’s okay, I don’t expect you to jump up and down with joy.  It’s just—aah!”  He makes a sound that is half exclamation, half sigh, as if his excitement had just bubbled over, and he pounds one fist on the table incoherently.  “This makes it real, you know?  I’ve been running around all summer, doing and planning, and I’ve lost sight of the long-term goal.  And now I see it again.  I’m going to be the Captain of the Enterprise.  I’m going to be out in space."

Spock drops his gaze down to his food, which he has still barely touched.  It is, as he tells Kirk out loud in a low, steady, emotionless voice, quite an exciting thought.

Kirk glances at him apologetically.  “If you want me not to talk about it, I’ll stop.”

“Your excitement does not offend me,” Spock answers tersely, and forces himself to begin eating.

After a moment, he hears Kirk try again, tentative still, “You know there’s still a spot on that ship for you if you want it?”

“I know.  But I am still making my decision.”

“I understand that!  I do.  But do you ever think about it?  I’m not trying to trick you or anything here,” he adds quickly, as Spock starts to open his mouth.  “I’m just—wondering.  Obviously, you’re interested in space, in exploration, or you were, or you wouldn’t have signed up for Starfleet in the first place.  Didn’t you ever imagine it, Spock, getting in that ship and seeing what’s out there?”

He considers lying, but never truly believes he will.  The truth is that it’s the Ambassador he’s remembering, himself from another time, telling stories of another life and its adventures.  Kirk has met this man, too.  Once, it had to be a secret, for his counterpart’s secret machinations to work, but that time has passed and when he looks up, Kirk is watching him, waiting, wondering what sort of answer he’ll give.  He wants to explain everything.

“I have wondered,” he admits quietly.  The apartment is quiet, only the vague sound of traffic on the street below wandering in through a series of open windows.  Spock hears a clink of silverware as Kirk sets down his fork.  He’s holding his own still in his hand, his wrist resting against the edge of the table, his eyes downturned.  “It would have been impossible not to imagine, while listening to my counterpart tell his stories.”

He doesn’t look up, but he hears the scrape of a chair moving backwards.  “You weren’t supposed to know about him.”

“And I did not, not until after we had returned to Earth.”  He looks up, and catches Kirk’s eye, an attempted reassurance.  “You kept your secret well—though I do admit to being suspicious when the Ambassador’s ship knew my name.”

He doesn’t smile, but he’s pleased to see that Kirk does, even if it is a tight-lipped, thin smile.  He still seems wary and unsure.  “I don’t understand, though.  How are we still…alive?”

“You are asking why the space-time continuum was not disrupted by my meeting with this other Spock?”

“Well…yes.”

Spock raises an eyebrow.  “There was never such a danger.  My counterpart merely implied that there was so to keep you from telling me of his existence.  He seemed to be under the impression that we would be best served defeating Nero without assistance.”

For a moment Kirk seems tense, still unsure, as if he’s waiting for Spock to declare it all some unfunny joke, except that he knows Spock doesn’t joke.  Then he sighs, and rolls his shoulders once, twice, to unknot the tension.  “He was probably right,” he says lightly.  He picks up his fork again and spears a piece of chicken.  Then, trying to be casual, he asks, “So you talked to him?”

“Yes.  On two occasions, though the first was only a brief meeting.  Before he left Earth, he visited us and entertained Sevin over lunch with stories of his adventures in space.”

“Does Sevin know who he is?”

“No.”

Kirk nods, his moment of surprise receding, and takes a large bite of pasta before he asks, “What sort of stories did he tell?”

Spock remembers well what his counterpart told him; he’d pictured it all vividly as the Ambassador spoke: the Klingons and Romulans, the desperate situations, the near death experiences.  He’s not sure, now, how much he should share.  Again and again, the hero of the story had been that other James T. Kirk, and he does not want his knowledge of that man’s life to seem too much an endorsement of this man’s capabilities.  He cannot help feeling, too, a certain possessiveness, irrational because this history is no more his than it is Kirk’s.

“Did he say anything about me?” Kirk asks, leaning forward so that it’s hard not to see how truly interested he is.  “I mean, about the other me?”

“He seemed to have a great esteem for his Captain,” Spock admits.

“I bet.”  Kirk shakes his head; he sounds almost sad when he speaks.  “I got the impression, when we were on the Narada, that the other me left some pretty big shoes to fill.  It’s,” he shrugs, his brow furrowed, “intimidating.”

“And yet even he was not a starship captain at the age of twenty-five,” Spock reminds him.  He keeps his tone light but he watches Kirk carefully for his reaction.  Kirk nods slowly, still staring downwards.

“I know.  He went about his career like he was supposed to.”  He smiles again in his self-deprecating way, then looks up slyly at Spock, just a glance with his head still lowered.  “I feel like I shouldn’t even ask, but what did the other Spock say to you, really?  What did he tell you?”

Spock opens his mouth to answer before he knows what words he can say, and then shuts it again quickly.  He pokes a bit at the noodles on his plate, and he sees Kirk about to speak, probably some comment about his own cooking, a changing of the subject, a capitulation, and so before the other man can say a word he answers quickly, “He said that Starfleet was his life.”

Then, as Kirk continues to eat and in between his own small bites, he tells the stories again.  He’s not as good a storyteller as his counterpart, and this isn’t his life he’s recounting; sometimes he sounds stilted and awkward, and he wonders what Kirk is thinking of him.  He gives no indication.  At most, he utters exclamations at some of the more outrageous tales, the old Earth probe that killed Scotty and then brought him back to life, the shape shifting monster that survived on salt, and sometimes his eyes widen or he laughs, low, half under his breath, but no more.  He doesn’t ask any questions.  He lets there be silence when Spock takes a break to eat.

Later, after Kirk has stood to clear the dishes and Spock has volunteered to assist him, after they have both silently agreed that they are to put off work a little longer, standing next to each other at the sink and washing dishes that could easily wait, Kirk says, “Maybe it would have been better not to know.”

Spock concentrates on the plate in his hand and tries to sound his most neutral as he asks, “You found the stories of our alternate lives displeasing?”

“Ha,” Kirk laughs shortly.  “More like too pleasing.  And…”  He pauses, and when Spock glances at him, he sees that he’s stopped drying the fork in his hand in mid-motion.  He watches as Kirk bites his lip.  For a second, he looks so lost in thought that Spock hesitates to hand him the clean plate, hesitates to interrupt him at all.  Just as abruptly, he shakes himself free of the trance, and clinks the fork next to the other utensils in the rack to dry.  Spock hands him the last dish and then washes the soap from his hands.

He watches his own hands turn off the water, listens for whatever movement Kirk might be making, but he’s silent, still.  After a moment, Spock hears the clink of Kirk placing the dish with the others to dry, then the slight sound of the towel thrown down lightly on the countertop.  “You heard it from the source,” Kirk says.  “Did you get the impression that they…that we…”

He trails off; Spock can fee his palms pricking with heat and the tips of his ears feel like they’re burning; he takes a deep breath and tries to look like he is not filling his lungs quite so full with air.  He waits for Kirk to finish.  It doesn’t seem like he ever will.  In those moments that feel longer than they are, he forces himself not to know what Kirk will ask.

When he looks up, Kirk is ready to meet his eyes, and then, as if this gave him courage, he asks, “Did you get the impression that we had something going on?”

“Something…” he repeats quietly, and he means it as a question, a request for clarification.  Kirk seems to take it as affirmation.  He takes a step closer.  Spock knew exactly what he was asking but he had been hoping he could pretend he did not, because now Kirk is standing too close and he’s thinking about how this man used to be a stranger to him, how this man has changed his life.

“Maybe I’m just projecting,” Kirk whispers, and lifts the corner of his lips up in a half-smile.  Spock swallows, feels his fingers twitching of their own accord, and wishes he could look anywhere but at those lips.  “Maybe I just like to imagine that in another life we could have been…”  He lifts his hand slowly to touch Spock’s cheek, not nervous, no, this Jim Kirk has the same confident air about him that he had when he was seventeen years old; Spock knows he shouldn’t trust it.  Still, he knows Kirk is giving him time to pull away, and he doesn’t.

He doesn’t move forward either.  “And in this life, Jim?” he asks quietly.  “What do you want?”

His half-smile turns, for a moment, into a grin, and then he laughs, a soft, light, amused laugh.  “I think you know the answer to that question, Spock.”

He looks up and sees the expression in Kirk’s eyes, desire, want, and he wonders for a moment if he’s turned completely green, if the blush has spread down from his ears to his face, but it doesn’t matter, his heart is pounding, and this feeling is contagious—he caught it long ago.  So when Kirk leans in, he leans in too, and he’s not sure later who kissed whom.

Jim holds Spock close with one hand to the back of his neck and Spock has his own hands at Jim’s hips, and their bodies are close, oh so close.  Jim opens his mouth to him, pushes forward against him and then pulls back, taunts Spock to follow him; it’s like dancing, or fighting, a dynamic thing, breath catching.  He grips at Jim’s waist, then runs his hands around to his back.  He had not let himself think, before this moment, of this moment, of how he’d wanted this moment.  He isn’t fifteen anymore, isn’t inexperienced, and if he’s nervous and confused it isn’t because he’s a virgin; it isn’t because he doesn’t know what will happen next.  He knows what could happen next, if he let it.  He feels Jim’s tongue licking at his lips, then slipping into his mouth.

When he pulls away, he has to force himself to take a step back, to widen the distance between them.  If he doesn’t, he could kiss this man again.  He’s not looking at Jim’s face, more like his chin, his collar, his neck, but he imagines he’s frowning when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I think you know the answer to that question,” he answers, and his voice sounds dull even to himself.

Kirk sighs, low and frustrated.  “Why are you overthinking?”  He sounds almost angry.

“I am more concerned that neither of us is thinking enough,” he answers.  He drops his gaze lower, to their feet.  They are both in their socks.

“You can’t say you’re not attracted to me,” Kirk is saying; he sounds like Spock’s a problem that he’s trying to solve, or an argument he’s trying to win.  “You can’t say that you weren’t attracted to me eight years ago—”

Spock’s head snaps up, and he glares.  He wants to tell Kirk that it was a mistake, a mistake he regrets every day, and he wants to say it not because it’s true but because he wants to hurt him.  The emotion flares quickly, then dies, and when it’s gone he doesn’t know where it came from or how to explain it to himself.  He doesn’t want Kirk to be right.

“One of us had to mention it eventually,” Kirk says.  He isn’t apologetic, but his voice is softer than it was.

“I do not see why we should,” Spock answers.  “That was a long time ago.  We were young—”

“You regret it?”  The question is not quite an accusation, too incredulous for that, his eyebrows raised as if he wouldn’t believe Spock even if he said yes.  He hesitates, and Kirk looks at him expectantly.

“I cannot answer that question,” he admits, then hardens his tone and continues, “but that does not matter.  Mr. Kirk—”

“It’s Jim.”

“We cannot.”  He flicks his gaze away, then back.  “You know why."

For a moment, there is something tense, uncertain, unfinished, between them, something that makes his lungs hitch, and then Kirk breaks their stare and the feeling breaks too.  He tries to smile.  “I do know.  But I guess I’m somewhat of a romantic.”

“You have the Academy quite fooled,” Spock says lightly, and Kirk laughs a laugh that turns into a sigh, and sits down at the table again.

“Only matters if I fooled you,” he says.

Spock leans one hip against the counter and crosses his arms against his chest.  He can’t say that he was fooled or that he wasn’t but what he’s thinking is that he should be the one talking of deceit.  He is the one keeping secrets.  He imagines saying it now, imagines opening his mouth and just admitting, Sevin is yours, your son, but the words repeat so many times in his own mind that he knows he will not be able to will his tongue to form them.

“I recognized you right away, you know?” Kirk says quietly.  He has his left hand formed into a fist, his knuckles against the table, and every now and then he taps them lightly, absently, against the wood.  “At the hearing.  It’s kind of funny…I honestly never thought I’d see you again.”  He smiles, shakes his head in disbelief.  Spock can’t keep his eyes off him, can’t believe that a few moments ago this man was pressed up against him, lips to his lips.

“I, too, believed such an occurrence was unlikely.”

When he speaks, Kirk looks up at him again, and he seems almost surprised to hear Spock’s voice, as if he had forgotten he wasn’t alone in the room.  “You were thinking about me,” he says, and Spock nods, even though it wasn’t a question.

“Of course.”

Kirk gives his knuckles a particularly loud rap against the table, a decisive movement as of one coming to a decision.  Spock tilts his head, watching him carefully.  “I feel like I should be apologizing,” Kirk says, and he slides his gaze to Spock, a half glance.  “What can I say?  I was lost, that old cliché.”

“I do not blame you,” Spock answers quietly, his voice just above a whisper.  Then, even though it is not quite true, but he wants Kirk to believe it is, he adds, “There is no reason to speak of blame.”

Kirk shakes his head as if he knows this is a lie, as if he wasn’t even listening, lost in his own head and his own memories.  “Sure,” he says, “no one needs to be blamed.  I’m not saying I regret anything.  I…find it hard to believe sometimes.”  He looks up, a puzzled expression on his face.  “Do you know what I mean?  It seems like we were children then.”

You are a child yourself, his father had told him once, standing across from him in their living room, trying to convince Spock to give his baby up.  Spock had not believed him.  He had felt so grown up, had been convinced he would have to mature and so would, magically would, simply would.  He looks at Kirk now, and only nods.  “We were,” he agrees.

“I looked up your age,” Kirk admits.  “You were only fifteen when we met.  Why did you tell me you were eighteen?”

It is not a question he truly needs to ask, the answer is so obvious, and Spock lifts his eyebrow to signal his disbelief.  “Would you have invited me to your apartment if you had known my real age?” he asks, voice so light and so unconcerned he almost does not recognize it as his own.  The truth is not so simple as that, as wanting and taking, as lying for a goal; he’d been nervous and unsure and looking for a right answer, even if that answer wasn’t the truth, but he can’t say these things now.

“I see,” Kirk answers, slowly, like he’s trying to test out if this, too, is an easy untruth, but he does not question Spock further on the point.

“You were not forthcoming, either,” Spock points out.  “I, too, can do research and simple math, Mr. Kirk.  You were not quite eighteen at that time.”

“So I added a few months onto my age.  You added three years!  It’s not really the same, Spock.”

He bows his head, concedes the point, and then in the silence where his argument should be, he hears, “So what happens now?  To be honest, I don’t think I could concentrate on work tonight.”

“Nor could I,” he answers.  This isn’t true, he could force his mind in place if he needed, but he’s been here too long already.  It would be best to go.  “We can reschedule, if you wish.”

He hears Kirk stand, start to step toward him again.  “I think that would be best.”  He holds out a hand, as if about to pat Spock on the arm or slap him on the shoulder, then lets his arm drop back to his side again.  “I can…I can walk you out,” he offers.  Spock accepts, though it’s unnecessary, a dozen steps or less from the kitchen to the apartment door, and then another moment of unsure, undecided standing, as Kirk hesitates to command open the door.

He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows that Kirk is waiting for something, perhaps even he does not know what, so he offers, “In answer to your question, about our counterparts,” and watches Kirk snap to attention, his drifting gaze now back to Spock’s face.

“Yeah?  What sort of impression did you get of them?”

“My counterpart did not say anything explicitly,” Spock answers.  “However, it seemed clear to me that he and the Jim Kirk he knew shared a connection that went beyond that of Captain and First Officer.”

“You’re not talking about a really good friendship,” Kirk says.  This isn’t a question either.

Spock shakes his head.  “No,” he says, “I am not.”

Chapter Text

Bones doesn’t believe him when he tries to explain, but he honestly hadn’t intended to start anything with Spock that night.  He hadn’t meant to talk about anything serious, and he couldn’t have predicted that Spock would speak of his counterpart, that man from another universe whose memories and feelings Jim had held in his own brain.  At some point, he admits, he did make a decision to try, to see if something could happen, to test his theory that whatever attracted them to each other eight years ago still sparked between them.  But he hadn’t planned it.  He’d only seen his opportunity and taken it.

It had been a damn good kiss.  He tries to tell Bones this too, but he puts his hands over his ears like a five year old and threatens to leave the room if Jim tells him anything more.  Jim can’t blame him.  He agrees, too, that some information is best kept to oneself, and the way Spock’s lips feel and the way the inside of his mouth tastes, these are secrets he doesn’t mind saving.  He’d been so hot, so literally hot, alien hot, burning.  That had been familiar, at least, though in other ways his memories were not as trustworthy.  This Spock had been more confident than the teenager Jim remembered, not as hesitant, not as naïve.  The way he’d grabbed at Jim’s hips had been almost possessive.

When he remembers it, he can’t help but start imagining what could have come next, how he could have steered Spock into his bedroom, how he could have run his hands all over that skin, sucked at that neck, grabbed that ass, whispered dirty words into that pointed ear.  He remembers Spock’s body laid out in front of him and thinks, what a stupid kid he was then, had to rush everything, never took his time to really look at that lean, lithe boy naked in his bed.  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.  He’d take his time.  Really explore.

It’s not something he can think about in public.

He should have asked Spock, he thinks now, if he stopped the kiss because he didn’t want to fuck a colleague, or because he didn’t want another daddy for his kid.  If he was still seventeen, he’d say, it doesn’t matter, it can just be one night, or just something on the side, it’s okay, your family doesn’t have to be a part of this, but he’s not seventeen, he’s an adult, heaven help him, with an understanding of responsibility and a conscience.  He’s not looking for an on-the-side thing, either.  He wants something that could be the real deal someday.

He likes Sevin, too, he does, though he knows well enough that it’s one thing to think your babysitter is a cool guy to hang out with, and another to be told that that babysitter is your new dad.  Maybe the only thing worse is when he’s referred to as your parent’s “special friend.”  He’d rather face Nero again than use that phrase to describe himself, ever.  Sevin would see right through that sort of thing anyway.  He’s still young, but he’s sharp, and most kids know when an adult is trying to talk down to them.

“So what’s the bottom line, then?” Bones asks him, after too much time listening to Jim talking himself into and out of possibilities.

He sighs a deep, drawn out sigh, and lets his shoulders slump down.  “You really think I have any idea?  Probably nothing.  Probably we go back to how we were.”

“Am I hearing this correctly?” Bones asks, voice filled with false surprise.  “Is Jim Kirk really giving up on a potential partner?”

He opens his mouth, looks at Bones with the words unformed, just staring, his elbow on the table and his hand open, as if about to grasp for something.  The he closes his hand into a fist and lets it fall, rapping his knuckles down on the table.  “No,” he says.  “I’m not giving up.  It’s just…complicated.”

“That’s an understatement,” Bones answers, and just as he’s punctuating this declaration with a grimace and an eye roll, Jim’s communicator starts to beep.

When he hears the voice on the other end of the line, his eyes widen for a moment in surprise, and Bones notices and gives him a questioning look.  ‘Spock,” he mouths, and then Bones makes an exaggerated “ah” face, like he knows what this means, which is funny because Jim has no idea what this means.  The way Bones looks at him then, like he’s wishing him luck or something, makes Jim feel like he’s in middle school again and his first crush has just called him.  The way he feels so nervous, so uneasy, it might as well be true.

“Were you calling to reschedule after yesterday?” he asks, and he tries to sound as casual as he can.  He almost can’t believe he has to try to sound casual.

“No,” Spock answers.  His tone is, as usual, utterly impossible to decipher.  He sounds calm and professional, like he’s making a business call to a stranger.  “Mr. Kirk, I hesitate to ask you this, however—”

“Ask away, Spock.”

“I have an appointment tomorrow at two in the afternoon.  I may not be home until the evening, and Sevin’s classes end at three.  It would be a great help to me if you could care for Sevin in my absence.  I understand if you are unavailable.”

The speech almost sounds rehearsed, and if it were anyone else, Jim would assume it was.  With Spock, he isn’t so sure.  Still, the end of summer classes has left him with more free time than he’s had in a while, and the idea that Spock still trusts him with Sevin, even as a last resort babysitter, is oddly encouraging.  “It’s no problem,” he says.  “I can pick him up at school, if you want.  Just give me the address.”

After he flips his communicator closed, he finds himself wondering again what he’s doing, as if Bones’s voice were permanently stuck in his head.  Still he’s there, the next afternoon, waiting for Sevin outside his elementary school, smiling as he recognizes him in the middle of a crowd of children, taking his wrist as they cross busy streets.  It’s the end of Sevin’s first week at school and he’s full of stories.  He talks Jim’s ear off the whole way to the park.  His teacher is nice but she seats them in alphabetical order by last name and so he’s next to this boy he really doesn’t like, and it’s not right he can’t sit next to his friends.  Also she can’t pronounce his last name so she always has to use his first, so she should seat him with the other kids with “S” names and then he’d be sitting next to Billy Sawyer who’s probably his second best friend and it would be so much better.

Billy’s parents, Sevin tells him later, swinging back and forth on the swings at the playground at the park’s edge, sneakers digging into the sand before each forward push, don’t live together anymore.  Billy doesn’t remember them ever living together, really.  “I guess they used to,” Sevin says lightly, “when he was really young.”

Jim doesn’t know what to say to this.  He wonders what has brought these thoughts to Sevin’s mind, and can’t help thinking about the last time he saw Sevin’s father and the way he’d said we cannot.  You know why.  But then he is ascribing too much meaning to Sevin’s words, he’s sure.  The boy seems to say whatever comes to mind, switching easily from one topic to the next without consequence.

“His father’s going to get married again, though,” Sevin continues.  “He just told Billy last week.”

“Does Billy like the woman his father is going to marry?” Jim asks, his tone casual, and he’s not sure why he feels nervous, as if Sevin were talking about his own father’s new fiancée.

Sevin shrugs.  “He says she’s all right.  But she’s not his mom.”  He pauses, and then shrugs again, and pushes off harder from the ground so that he rises particularly high in the air.  “That’s what Billy says, anyway.”

“It can be difficult,” Jim says.  He’s leaning against the side of the swing set, the metal pole of it digging into his back, his arms crossed.  “When my mom remarried, I wasn’t sure what to think.”

Sevin turns to look at him, a puzzled expression on his face, not confused but curious.  He hesitates, but doesn’t pause in his swinging, how he’s moving farther and farther from the ground now, so that it’s harder to hold any kind of conversation.  After a moment he asks anyway, “What happened to your dad?”

It’s almost funny, how Jim can’t remember the last time anyone has had to ask him this question, the last time he met someone who didn’t already know.  “He died when I was very young,” he answers quietly.  “I never knew him.”

Sevin looks at him, eyes on him even as he moves back and forth, and then Jim sees his gaze drop and his eyelids lower.  He stops giving any force to his swinging so that soon, each arc smaller than the last, he’s almost back to earth again.  “That’s sad,” he says.  “I guess I know what that’s like, though.”

“Sevin—” Jim starts.  He’s not sure what he can say.  For Sevin to never know his mother, even if only because she’d chosen not to have him in her life, must not feel so different from what Jim himself felt growing up.  Except it might be worse.  At least Jim knew that George Kirk would have stuck around, if he’d had any other choice.

Sevin isn’t looking at him.  He’s still swinging, just slightly, kicking his feet off from the ground anew each time, and for the first time since he spotted Jim outside his school, he’s silent, no more stories or unanswerable questions, thinking only quiet, private thoughts.  Jim watches him carefully.  In some ways, he thinks, that saying like father like son is oddly true; it’s like watching a younger version of Spock in front of him.

“Sevin,” he tries again, tentative, and he knows he should not be asking this question, knows that Spock would forbid it if his permission were to be asked.  “Sevin, do you miss your mother?”

He swings back, digs his feet into the sand and is, for the moment, still, then turns to look at Jim.  He seems puzzled, maybe annoyed.  “I already told you.  I don’t have a mother.”

“I know,” Jim answers, gentle and patient, but disbelieving still.  There should be a way to be more precise, to say exactly what he means.  But he does not want to use the words ‘abandoned’ or ‘dead.’  “But you did once.”

“No,” Sevin answers, louder and more insistent this time, and shakes his head hard from side to side.  “Billy didn’t believe me either when I told him, but I don’t.”  He sighs loudly, and Jim can see he’s gripping the chain links of the swing tightly in frustration.  He’s staring at Jim as if willing him to understand, and Jim can only imagine that he’s staring back with an unflattering, stupid expression on his face.  It’s a little worrying.  What has Spock been telling his kid?  That he only has one parent, that he was brought by a stork or found on the doorstep?

“Maybe you can explain it to me,” he says finally.

It takes Sevin a moment to answer.  He lifts his feet and lets himself swing down to a stop, no more energy expended, no more motion.  Jim watches as Sevin trails one sneaker toe into the sand, back and forth.  “When I started to go to daycare,” he says, just when Jim’s half-convinced himself that the conversation will drop here, “I wanted to know why all of the other kids had two parents, and I only had one.  Even if their parents were divorced, they knew who they were.”  He speaks quietly, but not in a whisper, calmly and simply as if this were a story about someone else he was telling.  For the first time since he met him, Jim sees the little boy as a Vulcan child, as serious and seemingly humorless as his parent, walled up and controlled.  “Father used to talk about my dad, but I didn’t know what that meant.”  Sevin shrugs, but something in Jim’s chest jumps.  It doesn’t make any sense.  But then, when he considers it, much of what Sevin has been saying doesn’t make sense.

“Your…dad,” he says hesitantly.  It isn’t a question, and not much of a comment either, and Sevin glances at him for a moment, lifts his shoulders in another small shrug, and looks away.

Jim can’t imagine what it means.  His eyes narrow, and he waits, waits through Sevin’s newest silence, and he tries to picture this person, Sevin’s dad, and wonders whose image it is that he’s trying to form.  A fiancé maybe.  Someone Spock thought he would spend his life with, but the guy left, or Spock had to leave, or he died, or something.  But why tell Sevin of him?  Why let this man take the place of Sevin’s mother, the woman who gave birth to him, in his story?

“Yeah,” Sevin says now, in that same calm, distant tone.  “Father’s been talking about him for as long as I can remember.  All the other kids had mothers, though.  I wanted to know where mine was.  And Father said I didn’t have one.  He said I’d never had one.”  He shrugs again, small, out of place, nervous movement, and rocks back and forth, his feet on the ground.  He speaks slowly and with precision, as if trying to remember as well as he can the conversation he is recounting.  “He said that before a baby is born, it lives in a person, until it grows big enough to come out.  Usually that person is a woman, and she’s called the baby’s mother.  But sometimes,” and Jim can just hear Spock’s voice, can imagine him forming just these words, something his little boy would understand; Jim needs it explained like this to him, too, right now.  “But sometimes,” Sevin is saying, “if a man is Vulcan, and very lucky, he can carry a child inside him too.  And Father was very, very lucky because he got to have me live inside him.  So,” he says, and looks up again, catches Jim’s blue eyes with his blue eyes, and for a moment his expression is totally open, totally trusting.  Then he looks away.  “So that’s why I don’t have a mother,” he finishes, and punctuates his declaration by kicking up a spurt of sand with the toe of his shoe.  “I guess I’m kind of weird that way.”

“There’s nothing weird about having a father who loves you,” Jim answers.  He has absolutely no idea whose words are coming out of his mouth.  He doesn’t know if they even make sense, if Sevin understands him, if he has succeeded in giving reassurance where he’s vaguely sure there should be reassurance.  “I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t understand you before.”

“It’s okay,” Sevin tells him.  “Most people don’t.”  He starts to push himself back and forth on the swing again, and Jim watches him, hypnotized, his face blank and his mind busy.  He wonders if it was a secret.  Sevin doesn’t act as if it were.  And yet, he’s sure Spock has been assuming all summer that Jim had no idea.

Sevin is tall for his age, round with a child’s roundness that tells nothing of his future shape, hair the color of his father’s, and those ears just like Spock’s too, but there’s something different about him, something Jim’s half noticed but never put into words before.  His skin is different.  When he blushes in embarrassment his cheeks turn a light, pervasive pink, but when Spock’s ears burn they flame a deep green.  It seems so clear now that is other parent is human, clear that it isn’t just Spock’s human mother passing down her genes.

There are some other things that are pretty clear now, too.

“Jim,” Bones says, the first thing he hears when he steps in the door, “we need to talk about the sink, I don’t think the water—”

“Can we talk about it later?”

He’s standing in the entrance to the kitchen, hands at his sides, his stare focused out into a vague middle distance.

“Yeah, sure,” Bones answers.  He furrows his brow and asks, “Something wrong?” but he probably doesn’t expect much of an answer.  And he doesn’t get one.

“No,” Jim shrugs, and then disappears through the doorway, heading toward his room.

He sits square in the center of his bed, legs crossed, elbows on his knees and hands over his eyes.  This absolutely is not happening.  It had been almost impossible to confirm Sevin’s story—goddamn Vulcans were so fucking secretive about sex—but he had, had had it all spelled out for him, this strange quirk in Vulcan biology, and as soon as he’d read it, he’d known he didn’t need it.  He hadn’t had any doubt in his head Sevin was telling the truth; he hadn’t really believed the boy was repeating a lie from his father.  That wouldn’t have made sense at all.  This hardly makes sense either but the more he thinks about it, the more it seems possible, seems normal, seems true, in the way that even tragedy assimilates itself into one’s view of the universe, with time.

He does the math three times, even though he does not have to.  It is enough just to use his eyes.  But he forces himself to use his brain.  He converts between Terran and Vulcan time, he tries to remember if he’s ever been told Sevin’s birthday, he counts months with precision, the best he can.  The numbers come out the same every time.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, enough to see sparks and flashes against his eyelids.

What comes to him is a memory of Spock telling him I trust you.  He wonders if it’s real.  Did that really happen?  Spock was standing in his kitchen, telling him it was okay, he didn’t want Jim to take him back to the hotel, he wanted to stay.  He’d looked so fucking innocent.  How could he have ever believed that kid was actually eighteen?  Maybe he’d just wanted to believe it, wanted so bad he hadn’t given himself enough time to think.

He’d been young himself, then, play acting adulthood in his mess of an apartment—he didn’t have any idea then that what he did mattered, could matter, that an action could have consequences.  He hadn’t been malicious, hadn’t had bad intentions, but he hadn’t been trustworthy either.  He hadn’t deserved the kind of trust Spock showed him.  He feels a tight, twisting sensation deep in his gut, thinks about how Spock looked lying under him, eyes shut, biting his lip, trying to decide if he liked the feeling of Jim’s fingers inside him, sheen of sweat against his skin.  He remembers the way Spock looked at him, his eyes glancing to meet his and then away, as if it were an effort to keep the stare, the way he’d said, again, I trust you, and he wishes he didn’t remember the way Spock’s voice sounded then.  He shouldn’t remember that night as clearly as he does.

Much of it is difficult to bring back, it’s true.  But amid the confusion of his memories, the pale scraps of them almost a decade old, a few sharp shards, like jagged pieces of colored glass, sift out from the rest to stab at him.  Spock’s eyes, Spock’s voice.  The tight heat of him.  Fuck, the way he’d felt.  Spock had been grasping his hip, his other hand on his back.  Jim had come fast, faster than he could have predicted, wanted to pull out but didn’t think it was such a big deal that he hadn’t—he knew he was clean.

Dammit, Jimmy, should have done more research on the biology of your potential partners before you fucked them, he thinks, suddenly wrathful, and grips his hair in his fists like he could pull all the hairs from his head.

He should have known.  He should have known from the moment he looked at the kid.  He should have known from the second he saw his own eyes staring back at him that he was looking at—at a relation.  He can’t even bring himself to think the word.  He can’t bring himself to think that he, Jim Kirk, who took twenty years to even start to do right by the father who died for him, could have been part of creating another human being.

And Spock—Spock had been pregnant, had found out at fifteen that he was carrying a child—Jim’s child—the child of some guy he barely knew.  Must have been terrifying.  Like some sort of bad dream.  Worse than this feeling now, even.  Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell Jim what was going on.

Not like he didn’t have eight years to try, though.  Not like he didn’t have tons of time to send a message, something to the effect of, hey, one night stand, having your baby, if Vulcans talked like that, if anyone actually said things like that.  Sevin is almost eight years old.  Kids that age don’t just accept any old person as their new parent, even if that person gave them half their genes.  Stuff like that doesn’t mean much if your dad’s never been there for you before.

His thoughts pull him in two directions, and it makes him dizzy trying to untangle his feelings.  He can’t be a father, a dad, a parent.  He can’t.  It’s impossible.  It’s possible and happening—worse, happened—he’s had a son out there for years, and he’s lost uncountable moments with him.  There’s no pretending this isn’t true, there’s no forgetting now that he knows.  But every time he’d asked himself before, could you be a parent to Spock’s kid, he hadn’t been able to say yes.  Is it really different now that he knows Sevin’s his kid too?  It has to be different.  There’s no choice anymore.  Being a parent, no matter what he does, where he goes, what their relationship does or doesn’t become, isn’t a choice.

For a moment he feels so sick he can’t help wondering if he will vomit right there in his room.  The sick swell of it passes but leaves him rattled.

What if Spock had told him?  He had been seventeen.  He had been dreaming of escaping, dreaming vaguely and easily, no plans and no real hope of it.  Would he have hopped a shuttle to Vulcan?  Played house with some kid he picked up for fun?  He’d had big dreams about Cassandra for a while but as soon as he thought she was going to have his baby he’d started fantasizing about running as fast as his legs could carry him.  He was cowardly then—might still be, for all his high-praised supposed bravery, cowardly now.

There’s no way he could forget, though, that he had a little boy somewhere out there, wondering where his dad was just as Jim himself had wondered, when he was small, where his own father was.  If he’d known, he would have done something, would have had to, would have forced himself to.  He’s not sure what.  But if Spock had told him, you have a son, he’s been born, he would have wanted to see that baby, would have traveled across planets to see it.

A child isn’t a sideshow attraction, he tells himself, he’s not some sight for you to see.  He’s a living person, with feelings and thoughts.  And maybe he doesn’t need you.

He was quick to tell his story, though, quick to explain that he had no mother, that the other kids had two parents, and he only had one that he knew of in all the universe.  Jim wonders what Spock’s told him about his other parent, besides that he’s a man.  Maybe Sevin hasn’t asked too many questions yet.  But he will.

Jim draws in a deep breath, then lets go.  Then he lets himself fall back down on the bed, stretched out with his feet off the edge, his hands raised above his head, tapping out a vague rhythm on the headboard.

Spock has had all summer to tell him.  Even if he thought, before, that there was no need to tell Jim the truth, they’d never see each other again anyway, he has no such excuse now.  He’s had Jim in his apartment, spent hours talking with him and working with him, let him take his son to the aquarium and out to lunch—their son, let him take their son out.  And through all this he never thought to explain.  Had he thought Jim would never find out?  Would he actually try to keep him from his own son?

He tells himself to calm down.  He tells himself to save his accusations for when he knows more.  Again and again, though, he goes over the facts and it seems less and less defensible.  Time has been lost that he can never get back; he’s been denied a relationship that he may never rebuild.  How could he ever accept any excuse for that?

How could he have ever believed that he was getting to know Spock?  Who was this man he thought he might have been, maybe, possibly, falling for?  Is he so lacking in feelings that he could not conceive of what he was doing to another person, as if he thought Jim wouldn’t care that he had a son out there who didn’t know him?  Spock had implied once that Sevin’s other parent didn’t want to have anything to do with him, had all but told Jim this was true.

What a liar.

Sometime around midnight he forces himself to go and take a shower, and to think about anything else but this.  The water is soothing, on so hot at first that it’s scalding, but he stands under it for so long that it turns cold, into a series of sharp pinpricks down his back and arms.  When he can’t stand it anymore, he slams the water off.  He feels a little better, a little calmer, but not much.

He’s not sure how it happened, but at some point in the night, somewhere amid his wandering, confused thoughts, he’s decided, more than decided, realized he did not have to decide, that he wants Sevin in his life as his son.  He has no instinct to run.  He does not want to forget or ignore.  He’s not fit—he’s not ready—he doesn’t deserve—but these things don’t matter.  He’s got it in his head that this kid might need him, somehow, or maybe Jim just needs his son.

The next morning, as he’s eating almost-burnt toast and drinking too strong coffee, and thinking that the scrambled eggs Bones is eating smell pretty nauseating, he interrupts their silence to ask, “Do you think I’d make a good parent?”

McCoy glances up and catches his eye with a completely, purposefully blank expression on his face, and says back flatly in return, “Please don’t tell me that you got someone pregnant.”

For a half-second, he’s utterly baffled as to how Bones could have known, but then he realizes what his friend actually means, and he scrunches up his face in insulted confusion.  “What?  No, that’s not why I’m asking.”

“Then why—Jim, you’re not talking about Spock’s kid, are you?”

Jim just frowns at him in return, serious and still vaguely insulted, and stares McCoy down like they’re on Jim’s ship instead of their kitchen, and he’s a superior officer about to send his subordinate to quarters if he doesn’t give up some sort of answer, and finally McCoy rolls his eyes and says, “I wish you had been talking about getting someone pregnant.  Why this sudden optimism about you and Spock anyway?”

“This isn’t about Spock,” he answers, his voice cold and snapping, and Bones starts back slightly.  He stares at Jim in confusion.

“You’ve lost me there, Jim.  What are we talking about?”

“We’re—” he starts, then feels himself too close to the edge of some great confession, and pulls back.  “We’re not talking about anything,” he says.

“Well that’s certainly how it seems to me,” Bones answers.  “But what were we supposed to be talking about?”  He’s so insistent on this point now that Jim wishes he’d never opened his big mouth.  He’s about to tell Bones to just never mind all that, when his communicator starts to beep.  “Popular man,” Bones mutters—he knows all too well that Jim will carefully change the subject to the safest and most mundane thing he can think of as soon as he hangs up—but Jim just ignores him, stands up and walks to the doorway.

“Kirk here,” he answers.

“Mr. Kirk,” the voice on the other end of the line says, and his heart does a weird jump at the sound of that voice.  He’s half-convinced he’s just imagining that particular hard, determined edge to Spock’s tone, until he hears his next words.  “I have a certain matter I wish to discuss with you.  It is not strictly urgent, however—”

He cuts him off shortly.  “I’ll be over this afternoon, Spock.  I have something I want to talk to you about, too.”

Chapter Text

He makes sure to invite Kirk over to his apartment only when he knows Sevin will be spending the entire afternoon and evening with a friend.  He does not want his son to overhear any of this conversation.

It must have been the kiss, he thinks now, waiting for his doorbell to buzz.  It must have been the kiss and how it felt like being caught up in a storm, or like drowning, utterly surrounded and utterly lost—he thought the situation was under control but it wasn’t.  He thought he and Kirk were merely working together, merely colleagues, but they weren’t.  He wonders what else he is not seeing.  What conversations Kirk is having with their son.  What he thinks when he sees those familiar, blue, human eyes.  What his roommate, the doctor, might know of Vulcan biology.  What the other Spock might have told him.

Most of all, he simply wants to have something under his control again.

There’s a sick, twisting feeling in his stomach, more than just the waiting.  It is a cold fear there now.  His father could have kicked him out, when he was fifteen.  He’d had to look at him, at both of his parents, and tell them what had happened, and the only way to do it was to say the words before he could think too much about them, but still he finds himself wondering, for a moment, how he managed.  If he can find the same store of courage, whatever it was, determination, thoughtlessness, if he can bring himself to that place beyond thinking again.

He was trained to think quickly in Starfleet.  Trained to act even quicker.  Trained to have an instinct he could trust.

This secret has been kept too long to call anything he does now quick.  He rubs the palms of his hands against his knees.  He tries to imagine worst case scenarios, tries to drill responses into his head.  The worst possible thing would be to lose Sevin, but no court would ever give custody to Kirk, a parent Sevin barely knows whose career involves living on a starship in space for years at a time.  He could lose any chance of serving on the Enterprise, a position he has yet to agree to take, has yet to decide he even wants.  He could lose any chance of a relationship with Kirk.  But then he’d accustomed himself to that thought eight years ago.  It is nothing new, nothing shocking.  Nothing unmanageable.

The doorbell buzzes.  He walks to open it, pulls up every wall he has, tells himself he feels nothing and there is nothing to feel.

Then suddenly there’s Jim Kirk standing on the other side of the door, hands at his side, and he’s not smiling this time, the fingers of one hand twitching as if he’s fighting not to ball them into a fist.  Spock doesn’t need to touch him, doesn’t need telepathy, to read him.  For a moment, he hesitates to invite him in.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Kirk?” he asks, as he steps aside.

“Don’t use that voice with me, Spock.  You’re the one who wanted to talk.”  He walks past Spock into his kitchen, doesn’t look at him, speaks like he’s talking around something held tight between his teeth.  Spock’s heart thumps painfully in his side, another swell of sickness up through him and a feeling like there’s something tight around his chest.  It’s only a moment, when he feels like this.  He wasn’t expecting Kirk to come through his door so coiled up with anger, so tense with it that Spock no longer knows if this harsh inability to breathe is coming from himself or from the other, and for one awful moment, he thinks, maybe he knows, but he can’t.

“I did,” he answers slowly, as he walks into the kitchen.  He’d been planning to sit with Kirk in the living room, somewhere more comfortable, the lighting better and the large window looking out onto the city skyline.  But Kirk is already sitting, slouched low in his seat, in one of the three kitchen table chairs.  Spock doesn’t sit.  He stands just a step forward from the doorway, crosses his arms against his chest and then lets them drop; he does not know how to stand or what to say.  He opens his mouth to force himself to speak, when Kirk interrupts.

“Is this about Sevin?”

He furrows his brow.  “Why do you say that?”

Kirk’s eyes are narrowed, his gaze part appraising, part daring, and he stares Spock down as if this were a contest, or a battle.  “Because that’s who I want to talk about.”

“Mr. Kirk—”

“No.  Don’t call me Mr. Kirk.  Don’t call me Captain either.  I’m Jim.”  He bites out this last word fiercely.  Spock would have him explain his anger, explain his state, but there isn’t opportunity.  He had prepared himself for speaking, for explaining.  He had expected incredulity and disbelief.  He had expected anger, too, but later, after he’d forced those words from his mouth.  He had built himself up for the effort of confession.  But not for accusation.

Kirk pauses, but Spock does not try to say anything into the silence.  Kirk leans forward in his chair and rests his arms on the table.  “I took you home eight years ago and we fucked and you got pregnant.  That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

There’s something sharp and cold in his stomach.  He steps forward, reaches for a chair and pulls it back without looking at it, without ever looking anywhere than at Kirk, at Jim, and sits down.  He doesn’t know what to say so he picks the wrong thing, the slightest uncontrollable waver in his voice.  “How long have you known?”

“Not long enough,” Jim snaps.

Spock drops his gaze down to his hands.  “I apologize,” he says quietly.

“Oh, great, Spock, that’s great.  You apologize.  Now just find a way to give me back the seven years of my son’s life I lost and we’ll be fine.”  He all but yells the last word, scrapes his chair back to punctuate it, and stands.  His cheeks are pink and Spock can see his hands clenching and unclenching into fists.  Jim’s fists are the only part of him Spock will look at.  He is a chastised little boy, now, against a rage more terrifying than even his father’s and not just because it is louder, not just because it makes a bigger show.  Against his father’s anger, he could match his own gross feeling.  He could feel justified in his own position, in talking about his own life, his own decisions, his own mistakes to make and try to fix.  But this, Jim in front of him now breathing hard and fast and trying so hard to control his voice because if he does not he would be yelling so loud the neighbors would hear every word—this isn’t about Spock.  This is about Jim.

“How did you discover—” he starts, not because this is the most important of his thoughts but because Jim is not saying anything, and he wants to break the silence.

“Sevin told me the first time we met that he didn’t have a mother.  I thought he meant she was dead, or maybe that his parents had divorced.  He told me yesterday what he meant, Spock.”  He lets his arms, up in the air to gesture while he spoke, fall down heavily to his sides, and he breathes out a harsh, angry sigh.  “Once I knew both his parents were male and you were the one who’d given birth to him…of course I figured it out.  I must be a fool for not having seen it before.”  He leans back against Spock’s refrigerator, a gesture that looks more like falling than resting, and stares up at the ceiling, arms crossed against his chest.  “I just want to know why you didn’t tell me.”  The anger isn’t gone, Spock can still feel it, sense it without telepathy in the way that humans, he thinks, sense each other; Jim’s still seething but he’s quiet, now, waiting.  Maybe giving Spock a chance.  Maybe just gathering his strength.

“I did not know who you were,” he tries to explain.  “I did not know anything about you, not even your name.”                                                                                                                                                                    

“That excuse is absolute bullshit and you know it,” Jim answers, a simple and clear declaration, as he drops his gaze forward again.  It is something like being slapped in the face, not quite a punch but a sting; he feels his cheeks begin to turn green.

“I do not see how—”

“Yes you do.  You aren’t stupid, Spock.  Think about it for more than a few seconds—you knew where I lived.  Knew I was in Riverside, knew what my apartment looked like.  You could have looked at some maps, gotten the address, found out my name and how to contact me.  It wouldn’t have been that difficult to do.  You didn’t keep this secret because you had no choice; you kept it because you wanted to.”

Spock looks up and sees that Jim’s glaring, waiting for him, challenging him.  Spock almost thinks he’d use his fists if he could.

“I did not think you would believe me—”

“Because I didn’t know Vulcan men could get pregnant?  You could have explained it to me.  You could have proven it to me if I didn’t believe—doctors, paternity tests—it would have been hard for me to deny it if I’d seen you six months pregnant with my kid!  I mean Spock!”  He pushes himself forward from the fridge, voice almost breaking on the name; Spock’s stomach flips with the fear that Jim might start to cry.  He doesn’t.  The silence sounds harsh in contrast to the loud stab of his voice.

“I…knew nothing about you,” he says quietly.  “I knew only that you were young, and from Earth, and that you seemed to have a life of your own.  I could not believe you would have wanted a child.  Often, I would wish it had not happened.  I believed that your life would be easier if you did not know.

He expects Jim to yell.  For a moment, he looks as if he is drawing a great breath to lend volume to his voice, but then he lets it out, more of a sigh, and his shoulders slump as if he is deflating.  He leans forward to put his hands on the top of the empty kitchen chair in which he’d been sitting.  “Did you really think you were doing me a favor?” he asks.  “That was my child you were keeping from me, Spock!”

He grits his teeth, feels like a punching bag and like he deserves it and like he can’t stand it.  “Would this have been your reaction eight years ago?”  His voice is louder now, far from a yell, but clearly audible as he leans forward over the table.  “Would you have wanted to be a parent at eighteen?”

“Would I have wanted to hear that my one night stand was actually fifteen and that he was knocked up?  No.  I—I would have been terrified of being a dad.  But I would have stepped up.”

Spock doesn’t answer, just watches him.  The brash, confident boy with the pile of unwashed dishes in his sink, quick to smile and to laugh, not as if he had everything but as if he had nothing and could at least count on that—they both know he would not have rushed to welcome fatherhood.  Jim bites his bottom lip, sucks it in between his teeth and then lets go, his eyes twitching back and forth now, never quite resting on Spock’s face.

“You thought I would bail?” Jim asks.

“I did not know.”

“And you weren’t even going to give me a chance?”

He doesn’t answer this either.  The moment stretches and then breaks when Jim slams his palm flat against the table and steps back, turns away.

Spock wants to tell him that he was ashamed.  He wants to tell him that Earth felt far away, and the human boy whose name he didn’t know nothing but a stranger, unreachable, unknowable.  He’d had his regrets.  He’d imagined his baby’s dad with him at his worst moments.  Somewhere along the way, without his knowledge, without his intention, he’d created a character of that man, absent but safe, and he wishes there were a way to explain this, when Jim asks him—

“What have you been thinking all this summer, Spock?”  He doesn’t turn, and Spock watches the back of his head, how he puts his hands on his hips.  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I had intended to today—”

“But I beat you to it.  Why wait this long?  You can’t say you didn’t know how to find me when you’ve been coming over to my apartment every week, when we’ve been working together—I wanted you to be my second in command!  I trusted you with my life!”

He considers standing, but doesn’t.  He has no explanations, not even an excuse, nothing he can force his mouth to say, no words he can force his tongue to make.  “You are going to be a Captain,” he says, voice creaky and low.  “You are going to live in space.  If Sevin knew you were his dad and became attached to you, and then lost you—”

“You were worried about me leaving for five years or you were worried that I wouldn’t want to be saddled with a kid?”

“Jim, I am sorry—”

“I don’t even know who you are!” he screams.  He’s still standing with his back to Spock.  Slowly, he turns to face him again.  He pulls the kitchen chair back with a scrape, and he sits down again.  He’s sitting at an angle, turned away from Spock, one elbow on the table and his eyes focused down on his hands, one hanging down from the table edge and the other on his knee.

“I do not know what I can say,” Spock tells him.

And Jim agrees, “There isn’t much.”  He sighs.  He sounds almost sad.  Spock finds that he can’t take his eyes away from him.  His father once told him that Vulcans feel their emotions even more strongly, even more deeply, than humans do, and he’s thinking again that this is true, knows it must be because of the way his own regret, and worse, his sadness, are welling up through him.  His face is blank, his body still, but this is only because he knows no amount of crying, yelling, or punching, will make this emotion subside.  His defenses are all he has.

“Whatever decision we make now,” he says quietly, “we must keep Sevin’s best interests in mind.”

“What do you mean,” Jim asks, flicking his eyes up to Spock and then away, “by ‘decision’?”

“Sevin is your son.  What sort of relationship do you want with him?”

He sees Jim’s hand clench into a fist, then release, so quick he’s sure it was a reflex.  He’s closed his eyes.  He has his mouth open to breathe.  “There is no decision,” he says.  “I can’t just forget—I need to be there for him.”

“After we tell him, we cannot take that information back.”

“I think we’ve gone way past the point of no return, Spock,” he answers, voice a bit sharp but also tired.  He still hasn’t opened his eyes.  “I helped create that kid…and I’ve lost too much time with him already.”

“I understand—”

“I don’t think you do.”

He grits his teeth.  “What do you want, Jim?  Do you want partial custody?”

The waiting now is almost harder than the rest of it, and he’s wondering if Jim’s asked himself this question yet, or if he’s been so blinded by anger and regret, his sense of being wronged, that he hasn’t given a thought to what the day-to-day life of a parent is like, what sort of sacrifices a person makes for his child.  Spock already knows, knows deep down and because he knows ambition, and he knows Jim Kirk, because he’s been taught to follow logic and because, beyond even logic, he feels it—Jim wouldn’t give up the Enterprise.

“I…I didn’t come here to take your kid away, Spock.”  He says it hesitantly, and only after several long moments have passed.  As soon as he says it, he flinches away from his own words, and forms his fists again, harder this time, tighter, as if his nails were biting into his skin.  “Of course I didn’t.  You wouldn’t think that.”

“No matter how it may seem,” Spock tells him flatly, “I did want my son to know his dad.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Jim answers, no energy for bite.  Then, quietly, he adds, “I want him to know.  The Enterprise doesn’t leave for months.  We can get to know each other.”

“If you let my son believe he will have a full-time dad and then he is disappointed, or hurt—”

“Our son, Spock,” Jim snaps, and jerks his head up to stare at him.  “I’m not a stepfather you’re interviewing.  He’s my son, too; I have rights.”

“He is your biological son.  But he does not know you.  You have not raised him—”

“And whose fault is that?”

He should be embarrassed by the question, and he feels a hot burn in his cheeks, his ears, but he doesn’t back down.  He meets Jim’s stare.  He isn’t wrong, but neither can Spock ignore the tight coiled fear in him that he may have to watch his son learn to love this man, the human boy who gave him his blood and his heart and his eyes, and then explain to him that his dad will have to leave him for years, might even die out there in space.

“I do not want to punish you for my errors.  I only wish to protect Sevin.”

“You don’t need to protect him from me, Spock.”  He spits out the word ‘protect’ as if it were a curse, and he’s sitting rigidly, body tense with energy; Spock feels this tension from him and it makes his own muscles hurt.  “Don’t tell me you made the choices you made for Sevin’s sake.  You were scared and selfish—”

“Do not tell me why I made my choices—”

“It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?  Look, I don’t need your explanations, or your excuses.  I just want to be given a chance.  Don’t tell me that you could know you had a kid somewhere out there, your own flesh and blood, and just forget he ever existed.  I can’t do that.  I—won’t do that, Spock.”

“And what happens when you leave on your five year mission?”

He gives a half-second pause, just long enough for Spock to see his hesitation, then tries to recover, tries to harden his tone.  “We’ll figure it out.”

“Another one of your no-win scenarios, I assume?” he asks coldly, and arches an eyebrow.

“Maybe it is.”

“Not everything can be in your control.”

“Are you telling me or yourself?”

He shoves back his chair, stands, and Jim is on his feet now, too.  They keep the table between them.  Spock imagines himself lunging forward, imagines pinning Jim against the refrigerator, feels so angry for a moment that he’s blinded by it, and then he shoves his walls back up, brings his breathing down.  It isn’t the words they’re saying, it isn’t the sound of Jim’s voice or the feel of his own in his throat, it’s the way Jim cuts him off and his inability to explain, and how there is no explanation, nothing he can say.

“Are you going to fight me on this?” Jim asks.

“No.”

He’s half convinced that if he’d said yes, Jim would have punched him.  For a second, he seems stunned, as if, finding none of the resistance he’d expected, he does not know how to respond.

“Sevin is at a friend’s house until after dinner,” Spock says.  “But I believe it would be best if we refrained from having this discussion with him until another day.”

“That’s probably the wisest decision,” Jim agrees.  “If I stay here any longer, I might do something I’d regret.”  He’s staring at Spock, his gaze still and unwavering, as if he were pondering some question and the only answer he could ever find was in the expression on Spock’s face, if only Spock would break, if only a gaze would break him.  It almost does.  He steps forward around the table, close to Spock now, much too close, breath catching close.  “Spock,” he says, deliberate, slow, “don’t contact me again unless it’s about Sevin.  I…I cannot believe you could keep something like this from me.  Just looking at you makes me sick.”

Then he walks past.  He doesn’t touch Spock, doesn’t even shove his shoulder into Spock’s, and it is better for him that he doesn’t, Spock thinks; he would have taken the opportunity, the touch, to try to read him even through his clothes.  It is better for them both that he keeps his distance.  He knows enough of Jim’s thoughts already.

He walks with him to the door, though Jim barely acknowledges him.  The door closes behind him and Spock leans back against it, palms flat against it, eyes closed.

He has not felt this lonely in a long time.

Chapter Text

“Father, is something wrong?” Sevin asks him the next day at breakfast, and only then does he start to worry.  He had thought he was controlling his emotions well.

“Why do you ask?”

Sevin shrugs.  “You seem different.  I don’t know.”  He turns back to his cereal, and Spock chooses to treat his question as an idle one, and not born of true worry.

“I am preoccupied,” he tells his son, “but you should not be concerned.  Do you have all of your things ready for school?”

“Yes, Father,” he answers, in a tone that implies, of course and what sort of question is that, and Spock doesn’t press.  Instead, he glances up at the clock on the wall behind Sevin and reminds him that they must be ready to leave in five minutes, or he will be late for school.

After he drops Sevin off at the elementary school, he takes a walk, an ever widening circle around the school, until he reaches the main campus of Starfleet Academy.  He finds a bench in the academic quad, across from the building where he’d taken his very first class as a first-year student.  The first days of September still feel like full summer.  On Vulcan, at this time of year, the hottest weather would just be starting to abate, the summer flowers would be falling from their stems.  He doesn’t know what the end of summer will look like on the new colony.  He tries to imagine living there, but it is like imagining oneself living against a blank, white background.

He makes a couple of calls on his communicator, sets up a meeting, talks little but nods while he listens.

That afternoon, he meets Kirk in one of the smaller Academy classrooms, on the third floor of a building that looks out on a sharp downslope of green lawn.  He taught his Ethics class here last semester, every Tuesday and Thursday at four.  They are both perfectly punctual, and catch sight of each other arriving at the same time from opposite ends of the hallway.  Spock knows the code to unlock the door, and he waves Kirk in ahead of him.

“I thought we should meet somewhere neutral,” Kirk says, as he perches on the corner of the desk at the front of the room.

“I agree that was the best idea,” Spock answers, and because he does not know where to go or where to sit, he stays standing, awkward, unsure what to do with his hands and where to look, off to Kirk’s side.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” Kirk is saying now.  He’s wrapped his fingers up casually with each other, and he’s staring down at them.  He sounds so calm and Spock appreciates the low, even tone to his voice.  It is the way Vulcans speak to each other.  He knows what is below, but they need not acknowledge it.  “I don’t want this to be unnecessarily difficult.  I don’t want to put a strain on your relationship with your son.”

“That is admirable,” Spock says, even though what he’s thinking is only, that is decent.  It is the least he should expect; he only feels cold to think Kirk believes he is doing him a favor by not trying to take custody, or to turn Sevin against him.

Kirk laughs shortly, as if he knew what Spock were thinking.  “No need to thank me,” he says.  Spock wasn’t, but he doesn’t correct him; he suspects it might be a joke.  Humans often joke when it is inappropriate to do so.  He notices that Kirk does not meet his eyes.  “Anyway,” he is saying, “I think we should tell him today, after he gets back from school.  The sooner he knows and that conversation is over with, the better.  The most important thing is that there aren’t any bad guys here.”

“I agree,” Spock answers, “that the best outcome is one in which Sevin enjoys a relationship with each of his parents.”

“Yeah,” Kirk says, and then drops his hands down with a slap against his legs, and stands again.  He looks as if he’s come to some important decision, but all he says is, “But that doesn’t mean that his parents have to have a relationship of any sort with each other.”

“We will have to see each other sometimes,” Spock reminds him.  “We share a child—”

“We only have to see each other when one of us drops Sevin off with the other.  I want to make it clear, Spock: that is the only time I want to see you.”  He meets Spock’s eyes for a moment, a hard and cold glare, but not even he and not even those words can break down a Vulcan’s impassive stare, and after a few moments, he turns away.  “I don’t want to confuse him,” he continues.  “I may be his biological parent, but that won’t mean much to him after seven years without me.  We’ll go slow.  I want him to know that.”  He looks up at Spock again, an expression on his face as if he were trying to convince him, or perhaps as if he were looking for approval for his words.  Spock nods.  “At first, it can be just as casual as it’s always been.  We’ll spend some afternoons together.  I don’t have an extra room in my apartment, but he’d be welcome to spend as much time there as he wants.  It can be up to him.”

He is trying, Spock thinks.  He is making the best effort he can.  He’s never been a parent, never thought of himself that way, didn’t have those months to turn the concept around in his mind and accustom himself to it the way that Spock did, watching his own body swell.  He wants to wade into the role even though he knows he’s already in the deep water of it, and the most he can do is try not to drown.  There’s something like desperation seeping up into Kirk’s voice, a desire for approval that makes Spock want to wince; he should not be hearing this.  He and Kirk are nothing to each other anymore, less than colleagues, but it’s hard to erase the past, hard to pretend they did not save each other’s lives; that Spock did not try to strangle him, hands tight against his throat; that they have never spoken of Spock’s mother or Kirk’s childhood; that they did not share a kiss in the middle of Kirk’s kitchen, pressed up against the countertop.

“And when you leave on the Enterprise?” he asks, a necessary question, but somehow cruel, the way he sounds so distant, with only the thinnest cutting edge to his voice.  Kirk’s head jerks up.  He seems almost startled.  Then his eyes narrow.

“Video chats,” he says, “letters.  Maybe visits.  It’s not ideal, I know that, but it’s better than me not being in his life at all.”  He makes this last sentence sound like a dare.

“Perhaps the only thing that we can agree on,” Spock answers, meeting Kirk’s eyes but feeling like he’s speaking across an ocean, across a planet, “is that we should act to benefit Sevin.”

“Exactly.”

“The story should be as simple to understand as possible.  He will, of course, be curious.  He will have many questions.”

“Like why his father didn’t tell him about his dad months ago?” Kirk asks, and lifts his eyebrows.

Spock ignores the jab.  “Or why, as far as he knows, his dad did not.  But you have already said that you do not wish to poison my son against me.  There will be no need for accusations or arguments.  We can tell him that we were waiting for the best moment to tell him the truth.”

“You think he’ll believe that now is the right moment?”

Spock feels his posture stiffen, almost involuntarily.  He doesn’t know what Sevin will believe, except that he knows his boy won’t listen to anything that he thinks sounds too clearly false, too easy.  But some truths are too much for his young ears, some realities too complicated for even his intelligent young Vulcan mind.

“Would you prefer to explain to him the circumstances of our first encounter?” he answers lightly.

“I’d prefer it if we could explain to him why the three of us weren’t having this conversation two months ago, but I’m not sure I understand it myself.”

He doesn’t know if it would be best to step forward or to step back.  Kirk is right and he hates it; there’s nothing to say.

“I don’t think this is as complicated as you’re making it,” Kirk is saying.  “But I agree that we should give the simplest, most straightforward version possible to Sevin, and we should tell it to him as a team.  We’re still capable of that, aren’t we?  Being a team?"

He’s giving Spock a dare again, hard and cold and certain.  It feels like being shoved against a wall, like someone’s breath in his face.  He feels his hands twitch into fists.  “Certainly, Mr. Kirk,” he answers.  “We are more than capable.”

He returns to the dark quiet solitude of his apartment and turns off all the lights, draws all the blinds.  He meditates for an hour, feeling the tension slide down and out of him, leave him, then kink up again as if his muscles were tying themselves into knots.  He finds it almost impossible to relax, Kirk’s voice always in his head, bringing with it a nervousness that feels like sickness.

He’s regained control by the time the elementary school lets out that afternoon, and on their way back home, he tells Sevin that Mr. Kirk will be coming over in a half hour.  “We have something we wish to discuss with you,” he says.

“What is it?” Sevin asks.  He sounds curious but not intrigued, as if he can’t imagine that anything that his father and Kirk could tell him would be upsetting or difficult to hear.  He swings Spock’s hand back and forth where it holds his wrist.  He is utterly unconcerned.

“I will explain later,” Spock answers, “with Mr. Kirk.”  This time, something in his voice draws Sevin’s attention, and he turns to him, brow furrowed.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” Spock shakes his head.  “Nothing is wrong.”  He’s not sure he even convinces himself.

He makes tea and has it ready by the time Kirk arrives, three mugs set out on the kitchen table.  Sevin goes to open the door by himself, and so they appear again together, the human boy all grown up and his son, and Spock can see a resemblance between them that goes past Sevin’s pink tinted skin and human eyes.  He’s telling Kirk that they have tea and Kirk is smiling, perhaps a too wide smile, too forced, Spock cannot tell, and for a few minutes, the three of them sit together and talk of unimportant things.

Then into a lull in the conversation, Spock’s tea barely touched, though he doesn’t think he’s taken his eyes off it since Kirk sat down at his side, Sevin asks, “You were going to tell me something?” and Spock looks up.  He meets Kirk’s eye.  We are still capable, he thinks, tries to tell himself, of being a team.  The voice in his head sounds like Kirk’s, offering a challenge he knows he can meet.

“Yes,” Kirk says.  Spock watches as he starts to lean forward over the table, looking straight into Sevin’s opening, questioning face, and then seems to hesitate, unsure.  He turns to Spock again.

“Well, what is it?” Sevin asks.

Spock knows well enough by now that the way to tell a difficult truth is to start, that this starting is the hardest, that once the first words are spoken, the rest will tumble after each other as if racing downhill, caught by a pull of gravity.  “Sevin, do you remember the last conversation we had about your dad?”

“Yeah,” he answers, and his brow furrows in confusion.  “It was a while ago.  What about him?”  He glances over at Kirk, then back at Spock again.  “You said he wasn’t going to be in our lives but we could talk more about him when I was older.  Am I old enough now?”

Spock is about to answer, when he hears Kirk say, “Are you curious about your dad, Sevin?  Do you ever wonder about him?”

Sevin shrugs.  He seems nervous and Spock hates it, feels his protective nature flare, and he wonders why Kirk has to ask more questions and why he thinks this will help.  The moment is stretching too long and his heart is beating too fast.  “I don’t know,” Sevin says quietly.  “Sometimes, I guess.”

Kirk nods. His gaze looks far away, as if he weren’t completely in the room, and Spock would hit him to bring him back, shock him back, but he can’t.  He can’t even move.  “It’s okay if you do,” he hears Kirk saying, now.  He brings his hands up from his lap and rests them on the table, one hand laid over the other and his fingers rubbing over the skin of his knuckles.  Spock watches as he pulls himself back.  His gaze shortens, his tongue darts out to lick his lips.  He’s trying to find the words, Spock realizes, to say the truth easily and cleanly, but the right moment has passed by somehow, unseen, and Sevin stares at them with wariness and confusion.

“What we wished to tell you,” Spock says, and feels two sets of eyes on him now, his own gaze only on his son, “is that your dad is curious about you, too.  He wishes to get to know you.”

He looks to Kirk, but does not need to give him any hint, any cue.  He’s already twisting his lips into a small, careful smile, and saying, “I’m your dad, Sevin.”

It is no moment of revelation.  Sevin looks at them still with nothing but incomprehension on his face, and Spock wonders if perhaps they have told him the truth too soon.  An illogical thought.  There is no proper time, no proper way to explain, at least none that he knows.  There is only the truth, there are only so many words with which to explain it.  Still it feels like a blow and he wishes he could have softened it, somehow.

“What do you mean?” Sevin asks, finally.  He sounds every second of his age, and no older, and so much more human than Vulcan.  He glances back and forth between Spock and Kirk, quick darts of his eyes, and then, a tentative understanding, he asks, “Are you getting married?”

It’s the sort of question Spock imagines a human would find funny, but Kirk doesn’t laugh.  He seems baffled for a moment, asks, “What?” before comprehension comes, and then just after he adds, “No, no, we’re not getting married.”  He sounds embarrassed, quick to correct, but also incredulous, and Spock stiffens.  His pride should not be hurt.  The suggestion that he should so suddenly announce an engagement to his son in this way is truly preposterous, and he cannot blame Kirk for his reaction.  Still he feels the slight sting of it, as if the idea were unbelievable because Spock is not the sort Kirk would ever marry.

“Then how can you be my dad?” Sevin asks.

Kirk opens his mouth to answer but no words come, nothing but a half-sigh, speechlessness.  He turns to Spock.

“He is,” he says, he starts, and then because the easiest words are the simplest, he continues,“he is your human dad, the one I told you about when you were just a baby.”

Still, Sevin does not seem to understand.  Spock had not thought it would be like this.

“If you’re my dad,” Sevin is saying, “why didn’t you tell me before?  It doesn’t make sense.  You,” he turns to Spock, “you said I would probably never meet him.”  He is talking too fast, just a little too loud, and Spock watches the way his eyes flick back and forth between his parents.

“I was wrong,” Spock whispers.

But his son has turned to Kirk, speaking even louder now, not yelling, but his confusion and the beginning of anger clear in his voice.  He understands now, understood from the start but simply couldn’t believe.  “You’ve been taking me places all summer!  Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kirk looks as if he’s been slapped, just for a moment, and he glances back at Spock.  It would be easy to blame Spock, and only the truth, but Spock knows that he won’t and that it wouldn’t matter if he tried, because to Sevin he is the intruder, the suspicious one.

“It’s complicated,” Kirk tries to say, and before Sevin can jump in to answer, Spock says, “Do not blame Mr. Kirk, Sevin.  He did not choose to hide this from you.  What is important is not the past but that you are now able to have a relationship with your other parent.”

Sevin tilts his head, his eyes still flicking too fast between Spock and Kirk, and Spock is sure his mind is racing with too many thoughts to count.  He looks smaller than he is, such a little boy.  “I just….I don’t understand.  What’s going to happen now?”

“What do you want to happen?” Kirk asks gently.

“I want to keep living with Father,” Sevin answers.  “I don’t want to move anywhere new.”

Kirk smiles, a gentle but sad smile, then tells him, slow and clear, “No one is going to make you move, or take you away from your father.  Okay?  That won’t happen.”

“Mr. Kirk only wants to get to know you better,” Spock adds.

“We’ve had a good time this summer, right?” Kirk says.

“Yeah,” Sevin answers, slow and quiet, and he looks from one to the other and then down at his hands.  “I just…I don’t want things to change.”

“Change is inevitable,” Spock says.  He tries to ignore the way that Kirk is sitting with a half-guilty expression on his face, biting his lip, unsure where to look.  “But this need not be an unpleasant one.  Knowing your dad was something you used to want.”

Sevin nods but the movement is so small and so hesitant that Spock does the only thing he can think: he opens his arms.  He whispers, “Come here.”  Sevin is getting too big to sit on his father’s lap, but he does so now anyway, head bowed and eyes shut tight.  “It is okay, little one,” Spock tells him quietly, in Vulcan now, as he runs his hand across Sevin’s hair.  “It is okay.”

Kirk looks so out of place that Spock would pity him, and he looks at him over Sevin’s head with his best attempt at an expression of apology.  “Things will have to change,” he tells his son in Standard, eyes on Kirk as he speaks.  “But they can change slowly.  There is no need,” he says, just barely audible, “to be upset.”  He wants to tell him that he should be happy, that he should be excited, but then he does not know about emotions, about truly feeling them, so he only closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he sees that Kirk is watching them, the expression on his face utterly unreadable.

After a few moments, Sevin looks up at him and asks if he can go to his room now, and Spock tells him, “If that is what you want.”  He nods his small nod and slips away, not looking at either of them.  They watch him.

The room feels both too empty and too crowded without him, Kirk still sitting in the third kitchen chair.  He is slumped down with one elbow on the table and his hand at his mouth.  Spock stands as if to leave the room but stops in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe instead and crossing his arms over his chest.

“So that couldn’t have gone worse,” Kirk says.

“I disagree,” Spock answers, but he has no desire to outline worst case scenarios now.  He sighs, a sharp exhale.  “Perhaps I should have spoken to him alone.”

Kirk lets his hand fall from his mouth and slap loudly against the table.  “You really hate the idea that I’m finally going to be in his life, don’t you?” he snaps.

Spock feels his eyes widen for a moment in surprise, then allows himself a hint of disdain in his voice as he asks, “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?  You’ve kept me from knowing him for seven years and now you’re imagining cutting me out of this moment too.”

“You are purposefully misrepresenting the situation.”

“Am I?”

“This is not about you!” he yells, stepping forward and slamming his hands down on the table, leaning into Kirk’s space.  He’s sure Sevin heard him, but he doesn’t back down, even though he knows his skin is flushed and he’s breathing too hard.

Kirk’s eyes narrow and he leans forward too, too close now and his expression hard and angry.  “Have I touched a nerve?” he whispers.

Spock doesn’t answer.  He stands there, doesn’t dare move or speak until he can focus on the counting of his breaths, and Kirk doesn’t move either.  He can feel his breath on his face.  When he stands, he resists the urge to push the table forward with his hands as he takes his weight from them, slam it into Kirk’s body and cut off his air.  He half turns from him so that he does not have to see his face.  “You should leave,” he says.

“Spock, you are such a control freak,” Kirk tells him.  “You want to have everything just right, just exactly your way.  You can’t control this.  This is messy.  This is a complicated situation with everyone’s feelings mixed up and in the way.  And you can’t change that.”

“I thank you for enlightening me, Mr. Kirk,” he bites out, voice as strangled as he’d like Kirk’s throat to be, and in response he hears only a sharp, frustrated sigh.  Then, after a long moment, the sound of Kirk pushing back his chair.

“I’ll see myself out,” he says.  “Tell Sevin he can contact me any time, if he wants.”

“I will,” Spock answers, quiet, low, and turns just in time to see Kirk leave.

Sevin rises early even on days when he doesn’t have school, so Spock is not surprised to see him wander into the kitchen at his usual hour the next morning.  Spock himself has barely slept.  He finally gave up trying when the sun started to rise over the skyline, and decided to bring his PADD out to the balcony and watch the sky change colors, and try to look forward, not back.  The Ambassador has sent him several pages of notes on his work on the plans for the new colony, detailed and thorough notes in which it is easy to become lost, and the distraction serves him well.  The desert, he’s told, is vast and beautiful and familiar.  At times, it almost feels like home.

He has moved back inside to reread the letter for the third time when Sevin walks in, sits down in the chair across from him, and asks, “What’s for breakfast?”

Spock pushes his PADD aside.  “What do you want for breakfast?”

Sevin wriggles his nose and eyebrows, makes every silly face he can, and takes such a long time to answer that Spock is sure he has known since he got up what he was craving.  “Pancakes,” he answers finally.  “Real pancakes.”

Spock’s never been much of a cook, and there was a time when even this simple request would have been a challenge, but he has improved at least enough for this since Sevin was small.  So he agrees, and while his back is turned, in the almost-silence of dishes taken from shelves and ingredients looked for, he hears Sevin ask, tentatively, “Is Jim really my dad?”

He sets down the plate he’s holding and half turns, answering over his shoulder, “Yes.  He is really your dad.”

Sevin nods in answer, but he seems distant, gaze downturned, and Spock feels like he is tiptoeing through an old mine field, afraid to say the wrong thing.  He gathers the rest of his ingredients in silence.

“Jim’s really nice,” Sevin says after a few moments.  Spock pauses in his work, but only for a moment, so fast he’s sure Sevin did not even notice.

“You have enjoyed spending time with him in the past,” he says.  “I know that he has also enjoyed his time with you.”

“Then why didn’t he tell me who he was?”  It is a question without passion, without anger or even annoyance—if anything, a plea.

“Sevin,” Spock starts to answer, but finds there is nothing to say.  He hesitates, words caught in his throat.  It should not have worked out this way.  He hears the voices of his adolescence in his head, his father, his classmates, his teachers: one should live one’s life according to tradition, each stage in its proper order, a spouse and then a child, a family built step by step.  He wants to abandon his attempt at cooking now, sit down next to Sevin and explain himself, tell him the truth as well as he can and as well as Sevin could understand.

Then he hears, “Father, when will the pancakes be ready?  I’m hungry,” and he knows, Sevin does not want such an explanation, careful and detailed and long and formal.

Spock turns on the back burner, sets a frying pan on top of it, and says, “Soon.”

When it is warm enough, he pours out the first pancake, too large in the center of the pan.  He tells his son, “It is a complicated situation—”

“You always say that when you don’t want to explain something to me.”

Spock sighs.  “You must not blame Mr. Kirk,” he says, and ignores Sevin’s comment, even though—because—it’s true.  “He was not aware that you are his son.”

He hears no answer and, when more moments pass, the pancake flipped and then slid onto a plate and Sevin still silent, he turns around and sees that his boy is sitting and watching him with attentive eyes.  He sets the plate in front of him.  He does not know what to say, so he tries, “How do you feel?”

Sevin frowns at him.  “I thought feelings don’t matter to Vulcans.  I want to be a Vulcan.”

For a moment, Spock stops short of the words.  His son has spent almost his whole life on Earth, and he speaks and laughs and plays like Earth children do, and knows nothing else.  But still, somehow, it is to his father and his father’s people that he holds his allegience, and all the more so now that he perceives a threat to it.  Spock cannot help but be glad that Kirk cannot hear this, the plaintive, desperate, tone in Sevin’s voice.

 “Sevin,” he says, and tilts his head so that his son cannot look away, “you are a Vulcan.  And our feelings do matter.  We simply do not let them control us.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“You will in time.  But Sevin,” he says, and then hesitates.  He gets up and rummages in one of the drawers, then hands his son a fork.  “Eat your breakfast.”  Sevin does not argue, but immediately begins to cut into the first pancake, and even though there is still batter left in the bowl on the counter, Spock does not move.  Instead, he sits right where he is, looking at his son, who is so human and not simply because his dad is from Earth, and he knows that he and Sevin are the only two in the universe who know this feeling, this place, standing across two identities in a way their ancestors would not have dreamed.

“Your dad would never ask that you stop being Vulcan,” he says, and he puts as much confidence as he can into his voice, an almost uncompromising hardness.

“I know,” Sevin answers.  “But I don’t want him to take me away from you.”

“That is not going to happen.”

His boy just looks at him, unconvinced, and Spock wonders what would assure him, now.

“Would I let that happen?” he asks, at last.

Sevin shakes his head, a small capitulation.  Spock tells him again that he need not be concerned: his dad only wishes to spend time with him, just as they have already been doing.  “It is not such a big change,” he says, and he doesn’t believe it himself, but he hopes that his son will have faith.  “You still have me.  The only part that is new is that now you have another parent, too.”

“And that’s good,” Sevin answers, but it sounds more like a question, and when Spock takes his wrist he can feel how worried his son still is.

“And that is good,” he answers.

Chapter Text

Sevin becomes so quiet in the following days that Spock has to remind himself that it was not a mistake to tell him the truth about his dad.  He has to remind himself that it was not even a choice.  He did the only thing he could.

He tells himself, too, that this is just a phase, just a part of the transition; someday they will each become accustomed to this new family structure.  Someday, it will seem normal to them all.  It will even, somehow, come to seem normal to him.

It’s difficult enough to believe, now.  He used to want this.  He’d wanted the human boy to be a parent with him, to help him raise their child, wanted it worst when he was most alone, most scared, most overwhelmed.  He’d wanted the family that his people told him it was proper he should have.  He’d taken no pleasure in his rebellion, that word they used when they thought he could not hear to describe his unorthodoxy, his scandalous life.  But now Kirk is here and demanding a place for himself—the same place Spock once wished he could give him, if he could have been sure he would take it—and the situation is only more complicated than before, no simpler or easier.  But then he’d learned years ago how to be on his own.  He’d found his routine, found his pace.  Everything is upside down now.  He feels himself stumbling.

He tries to shakes these thoughts from his mind, and continue on with his work as well as he can.  He is drafting a letter when his computer alerts him to an incoming video call from “Ambassador Sarek,” and he sets his work aside without a second thought.  The call is not unexpected, but neither is it wholly welcome.  He has been having too many difficult conversations recently, and this will, he knows, be only another to add to the list.

“I apologize,” his father says, as soon as they have greeted each other, “for not getting in touch sooner, Spock.  I have been busier than I had expected.”

“No apologies are necessary, Father.  I, too, have been…busy.”

Sarek raises an eyebrow at the distant tone in his voice that even Spock himself can hear.  He sounds distracted, concerned with other matters, and already he knows he is letting too much of his thoughts be discerned.

“Should I take this to mean that you have made a decision about your future with Starfleet?”

“Only that I have no future with Starfleet,” he answers brusquely.  “You must tell me what you have learned of the new colony, Father, as I will almost certainly be making my new home there as well.”

“And what has prompted this decision?” Sarek asks him.  Spock gets the distinct impression, from the tone in his voice, that his father does not believe him.  It is slightly frustrating—would be frustrating, he tries to tell himself, if Vulcans allowed themselves to be frustrated—that his father, who once put forth such effort into convincing him not to pursue an education at Starfleet Academy, seems now so adamant that he should remain in the service.

“My circumstances have changed,” Spock answers simply.  It seems to be the simplest, truest answer, at least for the moment.  “In your opinion, will a new colony succeed on the planet?”

“Your attempt to change the subject is not subtle, Spock,” his father tells him.  “However, I did contact you with the intention of discussing my trip, not your personal life.  The planet seems quite suitable, and the other delegates and I are optimistic that we can begin moving the first volunteers here in a matter of months.  It will, however, take time for the planet to be inhabitable for the majority of the survivors.”

“You do not think that most of our people would be willing to live under harsh conditions, if that means being able to live on a planet of their own again?” he asks.

“For some, the pioneer lifestyle is hardly a suitable choice,” Sarek answers.  “For those with children, for example—”

Spock does not interrupt, but only looks away sharply, not sure if he should be chastised or offended.  His father cuts his own words off abruptly and then says, “Spock, there is work to do in San Francisco—”

“I know.”  He clears his throat, lowers the volume on his voice.  “I am already making plans.”

He doesn’t look up, but he’s sure his father is watching him with an expression both skeptical and curious, the look he used to give him when he knew that Spock was hiding some secret.  It is a look similar, he imagines, to the one Sarek gave him when he broke his mother’s favorite vase, when he got into a fight in school, when he claimed to be returning home late from the library in Riverside.  In front of his father, he never truly ages.

“What has happened?” Sarek asks him, now.

He opens his mouth to speak and finds that he is not, this time, even nervous, as if he had no more of that emotion left, or had finally succeeded in becoming immune to it.  His father might be surprised, even shocked, but there is nothing he can do, so many light years away and his son an adult, with his own life, making his own decisions.

“I have found Sevin’s other parent,” he says calmly.  He’s almost disappointed to see his father’s expression remain unchanged.  He is skilled.  Still, Spock notices that he takes several long moments to form an answer.

“You were quite adamant, when you were fifteen, that it would be impossible to find this man,” Sarek reminds him, finally, and his voice sounds so tight, so finely controlled, that Spock feels as if he must look away.  “What has made you change your mind now, that you should make an effort to locate him?”

The answer would have been obvious, had Spock found Jim on his own, but he does not say it; his father is already thinking it.  Without a planet, without a mother, after his life was so disrupted, he could easily have renewed his efforts to bring his son’s dad into his life.  It would be unusual only that he kept his search from his father, and it is this detail that Sarek is really questioning.

“I did not make an effort to locate him,” he answers.  “Rather, we found each other, purely by chance.”

“That is a highly unlikely occurrence.”

“It is.  And yet unlikely is not impossible.”  And, he thinks, finding Jim again was not even the most unlikely thing that has happened to him, who would never have imagined that he would find himself a father at sixteen, that he would watch his planet vanish into the nothingness of space, that he would watch his mother die so suddenly, see her so quickly taken.  He closes his eyes for a moment, doesn’t want to, and after a half-second he opens them again and sees that his father is still staring, still impenetrable.  “He is also an Officer in Starfleet,” Spock says.  “We met again at the end of the academic year—”

“And you are only now informing me?”

It is not often that Spock hears even this hint of surprise in his father’s voice, not often that he so startles him that he would dare to interrupt.  Interrupting is a show of impatience, a loss of control.  His younger self would have taken this as a victory.

“There was nothing of which to inform you,” he says.

“If there is even a possibility that my grandson’s dad is to have a role in his life, I should like to be informed.”

“And I am informing you now.”

“Several months after the fact.”

Spock shakes his head.  It should not be difficult to explain, and yet he feels that they are speaking around each other, talking in circles that only follow back to their own beginnings.  “You are among the first, Father,” he assures him, “to know that Sevin’s dad is seeking a relationship with him.  I recognized him when we met again last June; however, I have only recently spoken to him about Sevin.”

For a moment, Sarek simply looks at him.  Spock cannot help but wonder what he is thinking.  Perhaps that his son is a disappointment again.  Perhaps that is son is incomprehensible, again.

“And who is this young man?” Sarek asks, finally, perhaps not the question he was waiting to ask, but the most important question and the only one whose answer would truly satisfy him.  So they will avoid a confrontation over a decision that cannot be undone, and for a moment, Spock allows himself to be grateful.

“You have met him,” Spock answers, and watches as his father’s eyebrows rise.  “He served on the Enterprise and has also visited my apartment.  He is—”

“Captain Kirk?”

Spock nods, a slight movement of his head up and down, and no more.  He looks at the wall beyond the computer’s screen.  He doesn’t want to see his father’s face, or try to gauge the degree of his surprise, the degree of his disapproval.

“He was not aware, when he and I met, that Sevin was his son?” Sarek asks.

“He was not.  I would conjecture that, had he known, he would have been much more nervous to make your acquaintance.”

“He would have had reason.”

Spock glances at his father’s face, and sees that his gaze is not returned.  Sarek is staring off into the distance, to a place that Spock cannot see, perhaps the past, those days when they hardly spoke and rarely met each other’s eyes.  Spock feels himself there too when he hears his father say, “I have judged him harshly.”

They have not spoken of Sevin’s other parent in years.  After Spock revealed to his father just how much of a stranger his partner had been, the topic became, it seemed, such a source of shame that it was impossible to discuss, a sort of taboo.  Sarek had given up: the only time in Spock’s memory that he had ever seen his father give up.  He had preferred it that way.  He had shivered and felt his stomach knot up every time anyone mentioned his son’s other father, because they did not know him; of all of Vulcan, only Spock knew him, and he kept those memories so close that there were no words into which they could be transformed.

Still he knows well that even something unspoken can be remembered.

He tries to explain, now, “He did not know about his son—”

“That is not why I judged him.  He acted inappropriately with you.”

“I made my own decisions,” Spock tries to insist, feeling his cheeks heat green despite himself.

Sarek shakes his head.  “You were too young to understand what you were doing.  That man took advantage of you.  He—”  Sarek cuts himself off, and takes a moment during which Spock can almost see him collecting himself again.  He’s said too much and said it too quickly.  Spock only watches him, only waits.

After a space, he says, “I did not realize you still felt so strongly toward him.”  He arches an eyebrow, an underline to his insult, but his father betrays no reaction to this baiting.

“You always wished to protect and defend him, Spock, but to my eyes he was the selfish, reckless, young man who used my son because he knew it would be easy to use him.  I had hoped, when you first told me of your pregnancy, that he could be persuaded to provide assistance to you.  However, when you informed me that you knew nothing about him, not even his name, it became clear to me what you were to him.”

Spock remembers Jim’s words, the roundabout suggestions he’d made as to how Spock could have found him to tell him of their child.  Those possibilities had never occurred to him.  But to his father, who had such connections that there was no one in all of Iowa he could not find, given time, locating the human boy would not have been quite as daunting a challenge.

“Is that why you did not press me to find him?” he asks.

Sarek nods.  “If you believe this man has changed, I shall attempt to give him the benefit of the doubt, as his people would say.  It is your decision to make whether or not you trust him with your son.”

“Sevin is Captain Kirk’s son, too, Father,” Spock reminds him, all too aware that he is parroting Kirk’s own words from their last conversation, all too aware that he sounds like a teenager again as he says them.

“You have been Sevin’s family since he was born—his only family.”

“You and mother—” Spock begins, shaking his head, but Sarek cuts him off curtly, his voice as clear and untroubled as if he were merely reading from a report.  This is the voice he uses when he will not be argued with and, for once, Spock does not mind it.

“Your mother and I did not move to San Francisco with you.  We helped when we could, but we have never been that boy’s parents, Spock.  You know this.”

He is about to argue, but the words catch and he swallows them down.  It is only an old habit to disagree with his father, and a disagreement for its own sake is illogical.  In truth, he is glad to hear Sarek’s words.

Out loud, he says only, “Mr. Kirk and I have both changed since we first met.  He is determined to be a part of Sevin’s life, and I could not stop him without a considerable fight.  I would rather my son have his other parent in his life, if at all possible."

“A risk,” Sarek points out, one eyebrow raised.

To this, Spock can only nod.  “It seems,” he answers, “that I am still capable of them.”

On Wednesday afternoon Jim returns to his apartment from a mind-numbingly boring meeting to see McCoy waiting for him on the living room couch, a grim and determined look on his face like bad news.  He has a PADD on his knees but he’s clearly not reading it, and his eyes follow Jim as he crosses from one end of the room to the other.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” he says, as he heads toward his bedroom.

“What has been wrong with you recently?” Bones turns in his seat to ask him, voice so loud it would be enough to start a headache, if Jim didn’t already have one.

“Nothing.”

“No, no, no.  You don’t lie to me, Jim Kirk.”  He jumps up as he speaks and races around the couch to cut Jim off before he can escape into his room.

“I don’t have the energy for this right now, Bones—”

“Okay.”  McCoy crosses his arms and sets his face to a stern expression, but doesn’t say anything more.  They’ve barely interacted since Jim’s afternoon with Sevin at the park, and he’ll admit that this is probably, almost certainly, his own doing.  It hasn’t been intentional.  But he’s wrapped up so tightly in his own thoughts that the idea of conversation, human interaction, discussion even of the simplest type, seems like it would be the last straw on his weary camel’s back.  So he leaves the apartment early and comes back late, eats his meals so fast he barely has time to sit down, says his hellos and goodbyes and no more.

“Excuse me,” he tries now, and makes another attempt at pushing past Bones to the door, but Bones stubbornly blocks his way.

“Did something happen with Spock?”

“Why would you say that?” he snaps back, too quickly, and Bones raises his eyebrows.

“Because one day you’re here telling me every detail I don’t want to know about what’s going on between you too, and the next day, you’re more shut off than I’ve ever seen you.  What happened?  Did Starfleet find out?”

“What?  No!”

“Did you sleep together?”

“No!”

“Well, then what?”

What he wants to say, what he planned to say and should have said, is that it isn’t any of McCoy’s business and he’d like to get into his room now, please, but what he actually says is, “It’s Sevin.”  If he’d hoped that this answer would be enough for Bones, he would have been wrong, but mostly he wasn’t thinking, and that was the problem.  It’s clearly not the response Bones was expecting, because he just stands, silently, still blocking Jim’s way, with utterly blank expression on his face.

Then he asks, “What?” and Jim abandons any thought of disappearing into a nice, blissful, mind clearing nap.

He turns and walks to the couch instead, and slumps down into the cushions dully.  He’s not up for any great explanation, any long discussion, so he just says, “He’s my son,” and throws his hands down on his knees with a loud slap.  He doesn’t even bother looking for the expression on McCoy’s face because he can pretty much imagine it on his own, open mouthed and staring, confused and waiting for the punch line.  He closes his eyes and waits.  He has to wait a while for Bones to process it out.  Jim hears him walking closer, then sitting down on the chair to Jim’s left.

“You’re bullshitting me,” he says.

“No,” Jim shakes his head, still doesn’t bother opening his eyes.  “I wouldn’t joke about this, Bones, trust me.  Vulcan men, if you didn’t know, and I didn’t, can carry children.  So when Spock and I…met…eight years ago…”

“He became pregnant with Sevin,” Bones finishes.  The statement seems more like a question, and when Jim opens his eyes to glance over at him, he sees that Bones is looking at him as if for confirmation.

“That’s it,” he nods.

He half expects Bones to argue, as if this were an arguable point, or to show some disbelief that will need to be overcome.  But he just sits with that same uncomprehending look on his face, and then abruptly shakes himself free of it and says, still a little wide-eyed, “Oh.  Well.  How long have you known this?”

“Spock told me a couple of days ago.”

“Only a couple of days ago?  What was he waiting for?  A court order for a paternity test?”

Jim shrugs.  “I think if he’d had his way he never would have told me.  Something Sevin said helped me figure it out.  He didn’t deny it, though, when I confronted him—Bones, do you have any idea how…fucked up all of this?”  The words spring with the thought, before he can stop them.  It’s the first time he’s felt quite so out of his depth in the face of his new discovery, the first time he’s let himself feel it since the first evening he carefully put the pieces together for himself.

“Are you talking about getting a man pregnant or about suddenly finding yourself a father?” Bones asks him, and he sounds genuinely curious, as if he would accept either answer, or both.

It’s not a hard one for him to answer, but the words that come are not the ones he thought he’d hear himself say.  “Being a father.  Knowing that there was a little kid out there, who I helped make, just growing up without me.  He’d old enough by now to have started to wonder.  What if he has all of these ideas about me, and I don’t fit any of them?  What if I’m a disappointment?  What if he already hates me?  What if he thought I’d made a choice not to know him?  I mean, at least I knew that my dad—”

He stops, and glances over at Bones, still sitting next to him.  He’d been talking aloud as if only to himself, and he clears his throat, clears away the words didn’t abandon me, swallows them down.  This isn’t about George Kirk.  He won’t let it be.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he says instead.  “Honestly.  It feels like…”  He gestures vaguely, unsure what words to use to describe this sensation, so paralyzing and so frustrating.  “Like suddenly I’m a parent.  And I have no idea what to do.  No one ever told me what to do.”

“No one ever tells you what to do,” Bones answers.  He’s smiling, almost amused, but what Jim reads into the expression is, rather, a sadness.  “There isn’t some parenting instruction manual that everyone else in the universe got except for you.”

“Thanks, Bones, that’s very helpful,” he says, and it’s clear enough in his tone that he neither needs nor wants the reminder.

“What I’m saying, Jim, is that you’re not alone here—”

“If you mean that I’ve got Spock, I don’t.  I can’t even look at him right now, Bones.  You were right; he is completely incomprehensible and I can’t understand—”

“I meant that you aren’t the first person to feel out of his depth as a parent.  Everyone does.  There’s no secret out there that everyone else knows and you don’t.”

Jim wants to tell Bones that that’s easy for him to say, but then he remembers that it’s not, that Bones has a kid out there too, the daughter he’s not allowed to see.  They’ve only talked about her once.  Jim doesn’t know any of the details, only that this is a pain that Bones won’t turn into anger, and which he cannot, maybe for that reason, share; the most he’d said was that he wasn’t much of a parent anyway, never was any good at it.  So Jim never thinks of him as one and now, remembering, his annoyance fizzles out and in its place is a sad, guilty, feeling.

“There’s a real possibility,” he says, “that I’ll be horrible at this, that I’ll really screw up.”

“Maybe,” Bones agrees, and Jim is about to snap that that wasn’t the type of encouragement he was looking for, when he notices the almost-smile on Bones’s face, a smirk or a challenge.  It isn’t that the idea is absurd.  It’s that Jim is known for liking a challenge and high stakes, real consequences, have never stopped him before.

Bones lets the topic drop there, but later, over dinner of the last leftovers in their fridge, Jim brings it up again.  “You were right about Spock,” he says, and McCoy starts up, surprised.  Jim smiles, self-deprecating and shrugging.  “It was a bad idea, to go after him.”

“Jim,” McCoy starts, and he sounds like he’s about to apologize, but Jim puts up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t.  He’s not what I thought.  I can’t believe I would trust him with—I did trust him.”

“He’s hardly my favorite person right now, either, Jim,” McCoy grumbles in answer.  “But maybe you should cut him some slack.  He was just a kid when Sevin was born.  He probably had no idea what he was doing.”

Jim just stares, for a moment, and then leans back in his chair and crosses his arms against his chest.  “You’re on his side now, then?”

“If there’s a side to take in this thing, then I’m on yours.  But it certainly doesn’t do you any good to waste all your energy being angry at Spock.”

“Yeah, and you’re one to talk.”

He hadn’t thought about the words before he said them, hadn’t had time to think before his mouth was forming them, but as soon as they’re said it’s too late to reconsider.  McCoy’s face hardens.  His features are set in just the expression Jim would expect to see if he had slapped him.

“I am,” he says stiffly, after a moment, “one to talk.  At least I know my daughter isn’t going to get caught in the crossfire of my anger.  Spock should have told you something earlier, fine.  But you’re stuck with him, so you should learn to live with it.”

He feels like a child who’s being reprimanded, and there’s no way to answer that doesn’t make him look more petulant, more childlike in turn.  He sets his jaw, then takes another sip of his coffee.  He refuses to look Bones in the eye.  “Stuck with him,” he repeats, half to himself.  It’s true.  It’s true and exactly how he feels—like he’s stuck. 

Spock orders a salad and a large glass of water, and Nyota asks for her usual coffee drink and a sandwich.  “It’s on me today,” she tells him with a smile, as the waiter leaves.  “It must have been my lucky night yesterday.  I cleaned up.”

Spock frowns.  “I do not understand how putting your apartment in order should allow you to pay for both of our lunches today.”

She laughs, lightly and without any malice, at his confusion.  It must be something obvious that he misheard.  He will admit that his thoughts are elsewhere.

“I meant at the poker game last night,” she explains.  “I won almost every hand.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a streak like that.”

“Ah,” he answers, but he does not sound particularly happy for her, even to his own ears.  He looks down at the table.  He can see her from the corner of his eye, her head slightly tilted, thinking.  Wondering if she should ask, or not.

She decides to be obliviously cheery instead.  “You should come sometime, Spock, to the poker night.  I know I’ve mentioned it off-hand before, but I’m serious—I think you’d like it.  If you decide to join the Enterprise crew, it would be a good opportunity to get to know your crewmates more.”

“I believe I know them well enough already,” he answers, “after our last mission.”  His voice is quieter than usual, not a whisper, but low and difficult to hear properly in the busy restaurant.  What he should be doing is telling Nyota that he’s made his decision.  Or rather, that he has seen it all but made for him.

“If it makes a difference,” she’s saying, leaning forward with her arms crossed on the table, and her own voice a little lower, as if a secret were being shared, “Kirk comes to almost every game.”

If this is meant to inspire him to attend, he wants to tell her, it is the wrong tactic to take.  The thought of Kirk makes his heart beat faster, disagreeably so, and he clenches his hands into fists and then uncurls them, stretches his fingers out until they hurt.  He has spoken to Kirk only once since they revealed Sevin’s parentage to him, a terse and unpleasant conversation by communicator to arrange for a time for Kirk to visit his son.  Each had used only a bare minimum of words, and Kirk had sounded almost as if he were biting his out through his teeth.  Even if the First Officer position were still available to him, he would be a fool to take it, to live and work and serve side by side with a man who hates him, hates him in just that biting way that only humans can.

“I don’t know how much you believe Academy rumors—”

“Not at all.”

She pauses only a moment, to frown at him for interrupting, and finishes anyway, “but there’s a popular one going around that Kirk has an interest in you that is more than professional.”  She’s staring at him now, expectant, waiting for his response and curious for a confirmation or a denial, but he does not know what to say.  Before he can decide on the proper words, their waiter reappears with their food, and he’s given a few extra moments.  As soon as he’s slipped away again, though, Nyota asks him, “Well?  I wouldn’t repeat it to you if I didn’t think there was something to it.  Maybe he’s just all flirt and no substance, I have to admit that’s a real possibility, but—”

“Nyota,” he interrupts, and even though this is all that he says, she immediately goes silent.  He’s staring down at his hands on his lap.  Slowly, he picks up his fork and spears a bite of lettuce and tomatoes, trying to give himself time to form his words.  “Your sources of information were more accurate than you imagine.  But I do not believe they are up-to-date.”

She does not answer.  He takes his bite of salad.  He tries to focus on the way he chews and the feeling of the fork in his hand, and when he looks back at her, she’s staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed, her food untouched.  He raises an eyebrow in question.

“Something happened with Kirk,” she says.  It is a simple declaration, leaving no room even for her own surprise.  He is fairly certain that she is surprised.

“Yes.”

“You slept with him?”

“No.”

“Oh.  Well.”  He cannot tell if she is relieved or disappointed.  She takes a sip of her drink.  He waits and does not say anything more, watching her thinking.  At last, she says, “So.  You said something about my sources not being up-to-date.  That means that whatever happened between you two didn’t go well?”

“Kirk and I are not currently speaking,” he answers, a clean sidestep of her question, but she does not debate the point.  She remarks that it must have gone very badly.  He shakes his head slowly.  “The two events are unrelated.  He recently found out the truth about Sevin.”

Nyota is so quiet in response that he almost suspects she did not hear him, but when he looks up, she’s crossed her arms against her chest and is watching him, unreadable expression on her face.  “I can’t believe you finally told him,” she says.

“I did not.  I had planned to inform him of the truth, after—after I realized the extent of his feelings for me—”

“And yours for him.”

“But I did not have the opportunity.  He discovered it on his own.  We have told Sevin and he and Kirk plan to spend more time with each other in the hope that Sevin may come to see him as the parent he is, but Kirk and I have chosen to interact as little as possible with each other.”  The words feel more like a speech, a report, than anything personal.  It is true that now, at this moment, he does not feel any of it.  The emotion cannot find its way in.  He lowers his eyes.  “He seems to find my actions quite unforgivable.  I cannot say that I do not understand this perspective.”

“Spock,” Nyota says gently, but for a moment afterwards, she’s silent.  He’s sure that she’s thinking that she told him so; she tried to warn him of this.  Still, she tries to reach out one hand across the table to him, and she adds, “You didn’t do anything unforgivable.”

He shakes his head.  “My biggest concern is still Sevin,” he says.  “He does not understand this new turn of events.  I had always told him that his dad simply could not be in his life.  I did not want to give him false hope that he could someday meet a man I had no expectation of ever meeting again myself.”

“He’s not happy at all to have his dad in his life now, though?” Nyota asks, though her words sound more like a stretched attempt at encouragement than a true question.  She knows as well he does that this would be too simple, too easy an outcome.

“He knows he has been lied to,” Spock answers.  “Unfortunately for Mr. Kirk, it is he to whom Sevin has attached the majority of the blame, however much the evidence points at me, instead.”  He cannot lie and say that this upsets him; the idea that his little boy could be as angry at him as Kirk is, is more rattling than any feeling of guilt he might feel at the situation as it stands now.  He shakes his head again.  “I should have explained everything when Kirk first began to spend time with Sevin.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but what does it help anyone for you to beat yourself up over it?”

“I am not—”

“You are.”  She declares this in her hard, unflinching voice; greater men than Spock have cowered at that voice, the look in her eyes that goes with it.  “You said Kirk’s not speaking to you, so it sounds like he’s already doing his share of condemning, so why add to it?  You put your foot down if he gets to be an ass, too.”

The tips of his ears feel hot, and again he tries to argue, “He is allowed his feelings—”

“He isn’t allowed to bully.  The Spock I know doesn’t have to be reminded not to bow down to bullies.  I’m not saying it’s a surprise that he’s angry,” she concedes, “but what did you do to him, really?”

“I kept him from his son.”

“You kept him from his son for a few months.  That’s not the worst crime, in the big scheme of things.  And if he’s pissy that you didn’t tell him about Sevin when he was born…you were fifteen, living light years away from him, and he was a stranger to you.  What did he expect you to do?”  She shrugs.  “He’ll come to his senses about it.”

“You are quite confident in this assessment.”  He glances from her to their neighbors, letting his eyes flick to each of the tables around them.  He wishes for her confidence.  He wishes for some certain knowledge in this messy, emotional affair, a place from which he can stand and defend himself and know he won’t fall.  It has seemed, recently, like everything crumbles.

“Well, he is my Captain,” she answers with a slight smile.  “I’m supposed to trust him, at least in military matters.  The rest is just optimism.”  She takes another bite of her sandwich, and Spock drinks from his water, and for a few moments, he tries to remember what it was to be fifteen, and Nyota is lost in her own thoughts.  “So,” she says at last, “What happens now?”

“Kirk is to spend two afternoons a week with Sevin.  He will pick Sevin up from school and bring him back to my apartment after dinner.  He has promised to maintain as close a relationship as he can with Sevin even after the Enterprise begins its mission—”

“Do you believe him?”

Her voice is sharp, interrogating, another challenge.  “I do,” he says, after a moment.  “I believe that he intends to remain in as close contact with his son as he is able.  Whether I can believe that he will be able to devote the time or energy he wants to that long distance relationship is another question.”

“So it’s certain that it will be long distance.”  She sighs.  It’s hardly a surprise, and she knows it, but still she asks, “Does that mean he’s officially rescinded the offer for the First Officer position?”

Spock raises his eyebrows.  “He never officially offered,” he answers, then adds, “His views on the matter are quite clear.  We could not work together now.  I am,” he continues, with a slight reluctance, “in the process of making alternative plans for the coming year.”

“Alternative plans,” she repeats slowly, and he watches her fingers moving up and down, slowly, against the side of her glass.  Then she asks, “Is there someone?”

“No,” he shakes his head.  His plans have not reached that far, that is he has not yet brought himself to think that far, though he knows that someday, and soon, he will.  There will be no choice.  “Not yet.”

She nods and looks down at her plate.  Nyota is stubborn and, not unlike Jim Kirk, she does not like to admit compromise, does not like to be wrong, or to admit that there is no other way out of a situation that has reached its impasse.  Spock is not fond of compromise, either.  But they both know the truth of this situation, which is that the only ship Spock would have made an exception for was the Enterprise, and now her captain has closed that door before Spock could quite force himself to close it first.

“Have you told Sevin yet?” she asks.

“No.  I already know that he will not wish to leave San Francisco.  But he is young.  He will adjust.”  He pauses, unsure if he should say any more.  “It is not a conversation to which I look forward.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Nyota answers.  “You can’t put it off forever, though.”

“I know.  Right now, he has enough to think about, knowing about his dad.”

She nods.  “You don’t think…you don’t think he’ll want to live with Kirk on the Enterprise instead of moving to New Vulcan?”

“No.”  She’d asked the question hesitantly, as if predicting how he would snap, how he would hate even the mention of such a possibility.  In truth, it had never occurred to him.  Sevin had always liked the idea of traveling in space with his father, had talked about it when he was four years old and Spock had been preparing for his post-graduation training mission.  But Spock had always assumed that this desire came just as much from a fear of being separated from his only parent as it did from a true curiosity about life on a starship.  And though Sevin had enjoyed Kirk’s company when he thought of him as only his father’s colleague, he avoids even speaking of him now.

“Even if he wished to travel on the Enterprise,” Spock says aloud, “it would be impossible.  It would be completely against regulations.”  

“Kirk has a way of getting around regulations,” Nyota reminds him, but he only looks at her sternly, uninterested in continuing this line of hypotheticals.

“He would never take Sevin from me,” he insists, and at this, the hard note in his voice or the expression on his face, or perhaps just his words, the simple declaration of them, she lets the topic drop entirely.  He goes back to his salad, back to his water.  They allow a silence to stretch so long between them that it becomes something comfortable again.

“We’ll stay in touch, of course,” she says, then, “while I’m on the mission?”

He quirks up one eyebrow briefly, and answers, “Certainly.  There is no question on that point at all.”

Chapter Text

He would never admit it if asked, but Jim had honestly believed that Spock would accept the First Officer position eventually.  He had believed this for the simple reason that he could not imagine any other man or woman in that role, could not imagine any other right hand.  Somehow he’d had this silly idea that he and Spock were destined for something, maybe even greatness, and that that destiny started by jumping on a ship together and exploring the universe.

Now, he takes the steps up to the Academy’s main administrative building two at a time and thinks, what a fool he was.  He can still barely think of Spock’s name without scowling, can’t get over the gross bile of feeling that sways up through his stomach every time he thinks of those eight years of lies.  He’d asked Bones if this ever gets better, but Bones just scowled and said, he wouldn’t know.

It doesn’t matter, he decides.  The problem isn’t Spock, it’s the First Officer position; having assumed that Spock would take it, he had never bothered to come up with an alternative choice.  There are plenty of talented Officers out there, Pike had reminded him, more than once, but every flip through their resumes made each one look more like all the others.  At least Gary Mitchell was someone he knew.  They’d taken a couple of classes during Jim’s first two years at the Academy, before Gary graduated, and had had the friendly acquaintanceship of people who habitually sit near each other during lectures, though they rarely saw each other otherwise.  Gary was competent, intelligent, and ambitious, and though he was known to have a high opinion of himself, Jim preferred to read this trait as a confidence that would be not only beneficial, but necessary, for anyone taking the position of second in command on a starship.  Jim had seen him in a couple of in-class debates and knew he could be harsh, even ruthless, but in normal conversation he was easy going and friendly.  He could imagine working with him for the duration of a mission, or at least, he could sometimes, which was more than he could say of any other candidate he’d considered.  So, here he is.

He skips the lift and takes the stairs up to the second floor, then walks down the hall to the last door on the right.  He has to think for a moment before he remembers the code to get into the room, which is a little embarrassing, because it is, after all, his office.  Starfleet actually gave him an office.  It’s a temporary place, just a small, cramped room that must have been used for storage before they handed it over to the Fleet’s newest captain, but it’s still an office, more than he wants or needs.  He’s early, and Gary hasn’t arrived, so he walks in by himself, commands on the lights, and settles into the chair behind the desk.  He feels like a fraud.

He uses his computer to check his messages while he’s waiting.  One from Pike; Starfleet business most likely.  Or to talk about Spock.  The news has spread fast, like all good gossip will, and though no one would dare say anything about it to Jim’s face, he still feels sometimes like it’s all he can do to avoid hearing it whispered about wherever he goes.  The Federation’s latest wonder boy fathered an illegitimate son in his teens—and it gets better.  The other parent is Spock of Vulcan, famous, too, for his part in the Narada mission, but not quite as golden, the Tragedy clinging too closely to him, the rumors of his burst of anger, his fight on the bridge, tarnishing his edges.  It must have been the hottest gossip anyone at the Academy had heard in years.  Some people joked, when they heard; others denied; a few condemned.  Everyone speculated.  What would this mean for the Enterprise?  Would one of Starfleet’s newest heroes leave the service?  Would they both?

Jim tries his best to block out all of the noise.  When he’s asked about it outright, and that’s rarely, he refuses to engage.  No comment, he says, no comment, as if he had something to hide.

He skips over the message from Pike, for the moment.  There’s another from Scotty just above it; probably another detailed update on the transporter experiments, much too dense to skim quickly now.  One from Spock above that.  He commands it open.  It’s just a short, two line note finalizing some plans regarding Sevin, telling him that Wednesday is a suitable day if he wants to pick Sevin up after school then.  Spock signs the note with his name but doesn’t address it.  Jim closes it without thinking about it.

There’s only one newer message, this one from Gary, and since he has the time, he opens this one too and glances through.  It’s a rundown of his thoughts on the state of the Enterprise mission plans.  Jim’s not sure if he should be impressed or wary.  It’s good work, or seems so at first look, but on the other hand, they haven’t even had their first meeting.  He’s not sure if he’s being sucked up to or upstaged.

He’s left his door open and just then, as he’s about to give the first paragraph a serious read, he hears a knock-knock of knuckles rapped against it.  “Jim?” a familiar, friendly, voice calls in, and then Gary Mitchell is peering his head in around the door.  “Or should I say ‘Captain Kirk’ now?” he adds, lowering his voice in some imitation of pompous formality when he gets to the title.

“Just Jim is fine, Gary,” he answers with a close-lipped smile, and waves him in with his hand.  “Come in, sit down.”

He’s used to thinking of Gary as his peer: another man approximately his age, another soldier of his rank, a student at the same time that he himself was, a classmate.  It feels strange and a little wrong to be sitting on opposite sides of a desk.  He doesn’t want to seem too stiff, too full of himself.  But on the other hand, he doesn’t want anyone to think that he doesn’t take himself, or being captain, seriously.

Gary doesn’t seem to be struggling with any such confusion, or going through any comparable internal debate.  He relaxes back in the chair with a smile and says, “I just wanted to tell you, Jim, that I’m really glad you’re giving me this chance here.  I know there was probably a lot of pressure to pick someone older, more experienced, to balance out your crew, but I think we could work well together.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Gary,” he answers.  “I’m just trying to pick the best people for the jobs.  I want you to know that your appointment isn’t official yet—”

“Does that make this an interview?” he interrupts, but he’s smiling and confident.

Jim grits his teeth a little, and leans forward in his chair, arms on the table and fingertips of one hand rubbing the fingers of the other.  “No,” he says, as if it were a serious question.  “The position is yours if you want it.  I did think it would be best if we met to talk about the mission plans, though.  All of the other senior officers have been on board for a couple of months, so you’re a little behind.”  He gives Gary a smile, his polite conversation smile, a little disingenuous and a little thin.

“Yeah of course,” Gary answers easily.  “Did you get my message?”

“I did.  I haven’t read it through completely yet, but I saw it.”

“Good.”  He taps his fingers once, twice, against the arm of his chair, then leans forward.  “You know, honestly, I’m not usually like that.  The obnoxious overachiever type.  All those thoughts just…came to me and I thought I’d write them down.  I hope they’re…okay.”

Jim doesn’t know what to say.  He considers telling Gary that what he wants are those obnoxious overachiever types, that you can’t live your life doing everything at the last minute, knowing it will be perfect anyway because you’ve always been the best.  He used to live that way, too.  But it won’t be good enough now.  Still, he believes that Gary is being genuine.  That takes a certain amount of courage in itself.  He sits back abruptly in his chair.

“I’ll have to look them over more carefully,” he says.  “I’m sure your insight will be helpful.”

“Well it better be right?” Gary smiles, still that nervous air about him.  “Or else what am I doing as First Officer?”

“Exactly,” Jim answers, with a smile of his own.  His tone, even his words, sound false.  Gary’s words are a poor joke.  But he cannot dwell on it, on what decisions he’s made or what they mean—it’s just a job, he thinks, just a position.  Officially, the First Officer is simply assigned to the Captain.  It’s only by tradition that this was his choice to make at all, a choice he can make well or badly.  And Gary is a perfectly acceptable choice, a man he could have seen himself being friends with, once, had they met under different circumstances, had they been given a chance to click.  They may still find their rapport yet.  They have, after all, five years to try.  So he sighs and gathers his thoughts and turns his computer screen so that Gary can see it too, and calls up the latest documents from Starfleet and starts, “As I said, we have a lot to go over.  Let’s begin here.”

He waits with the other parents outside of the elementary school at the end of the day, although it doesn’t feel right, yet, to think of himself as just another parent.  He’s waited here for Sevin before, it’s true.  But it wasn’t like this.  He was doing a favor for Spock then, a favor he was glad to do and one he’d volunteered for, but still a favor.  Now it’s his own son he’s waiting to take home, and he knows it’s better not to think about it, because it gives him an unpleasant sense of jitters, but he can’t seem to stop.  He realizes he’s been standing at attention, his hands behind his back, and tries to relax.  He’s been through more difficult challenges than this.

The doors of the school open and, in the rush of kids that all but stampedes out, he catches sight of Sevin.  He’s talking animatedly with a boy with red hair and freckles, smiling and laughing and shaking his head at intervals.  The other boy is making funny faces now, as if doing impressions, and Sevin laughs all the harder, but then in a moment he looks up and catches sight of Jim and his laughter staggers off and then dies.  He and his friend are close enough now for Jim to hear them; when he raises his hand and smiles in greeting, Sevin just blinks back at him, then turns to his friend and says, “I have to go.  Jim—my dad is here.”

“Your dad?” the other boy repeats, and he sounds, Jim thinks as he tries to keep his smile firm on his face, even though he doesn’t feel it, a little amazed.  “The one you just met?”

“Yeah,” Sevin answers.  He sounds embarrassed, and he doesn’t quite look at either Jim or his friend.  “So I have to go, okay?” he adds in a rush.  “See you tomorrow.”  He waves goodbye before his friend even has the chance to answer properly, and jogs over to where Jim is still standing, waiting.  He decides not to comment on the conversation or to ask after the friend.  Instead he just asks Sevin if he’s had a good day.

He shrugs.  “Yeah.  It was okay.”

“Well…good.”

They’d started walking almost as soon as Sevin caught up with Jim, and that was the boy’s decision, not his.  The pace isn’t fast for his long legs, but he can tell that Sevin is rushing as if he had somewhere important he had to be, and he considers telling him, hey buddy slow down, but somehow the words feel wrong in his mouth before he even forms them.  He has absolutely no idea what to say.  He’s used to Sevin starting the conversation, running from one topic to the next with excitement and enthusiasm.  He’s always been full of news, or at least of questions, and each question then inspires in him his own speech.  But now he’s as quiet as he was when they first met, and worse.  At least before his reticence had seemed the shyness of a small boy, a preparatory quiet, a sizing up.  But he knows Jim now, so this silence must be of a different sort; there is no sizing up necessary this time.

Except, he realizes even as he thinks it, there is.  Sevin already knows Jim.  But he doesn’t know his dad.  He doesn’t even have stories, the sort of mythical father-legends that Jim used to hear from Sam, or even occasionally from his mother, about George Kirk.  Sevin’s other parent has always been just a question mark to him, just a mystery.

“So,” he says now, trying to sound as cheerful as he can, “what do you want to do this afternoon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Um, okay,” he sighs.  He considers the possibility that this could be a test, but though he wouldn’t put it past the father, he doesn’t think it likely of the son.  This wall between them is genuine.  Though Vulcans are known for their defenses, he can’t help feeling that this is Sevin’s human side showing through.  He remembers the day that he and Spock told Sevin the truth, how confused he was by it, how quick to blame Jim for the secret.  They have not seen each other since that day.  Spock had assured him, in a series of short messages between them, that he has spoken to Sevin at more length on the topic and that he holds no grudges, but still Jim knows that the boy is wary.  Of course he is.  Of course.  It is not even worth saying.  “How about we go to the aquarium?” he suggests, forcing another infusion of light cheeriness into his voice.  “You had fun there the last time, right?”

“Yeah,” Sevin answers.  “Okay.”

The advantage of an hour or two spent watching the various fish, the turtles and the alligators and other creatures, is that they do not have to talk.  He still has no idea what he should be saying.  He keeps telling himself that it will get easier, someday; someday he and his son will have real conversations, will really trust each other, will look forward to the times they can see each other.  He only has to be patient, force down his frustration and this sick feeling that he always gets when he feels like he’s failing at something that he’s really trying to do right, and keep acting this part of the parent he wanted to have when he was a kid, keep acting that part until he becomes it.

He follows by Sevin’s side as he wanders from room to room, never staying long by any one tank or at any one exhibit, and his eyes slipping from creature to creature as if he weren’t really seeing any of them.  There aren’t many other people at the aquarium on a weekday afternoon, and eventually, they wander into a large, empty room, where a hardwood bench runs next to a rectangular tank filled with large fluorescent yellow fish.  Sevin stops in the doorway and Jim stops, too, a step behind him.  The light in the room is dim, so that the fish shine all the brighter.  The whole far wall is only glass and on the other side two dozen long, thin, fish flit back and forth with surprising speed.  They are beautiful.

“I like them,” Sevin declares after a moment, and steps fully into the room.  He walks to the bench and sits down, and for the first time all afternoon he gives his complete attention over, that same fascinated look on his face that Jim recognizes from the first time they explored the aquarium together.  It is the same look he recognizes from when he worked with Sevin’s father.  He comes to sit down on the bench next to Sevin, though he doesn’t give much attention to the fish.  He finds that, however beautiful they are, he’s more interested in watching his son’s face.

After a few moments, long and dragging moments during which Sevin does not once glance at him, he asks, “How do you feel about spending the afternoon with me?”

Sevin shrugs, quickly, like a reflex.  Then he flicks a glance over to Jim.  “I don’t mind,” he says.  It might be only an attempt at politeness.

“Really,” he presses, bowing his head down, trying to meet Sevin’s gaze.  “Because it’s okay if you’re…confused or angry.  I know that Spock—your father and I kind of sprung this on you all of a sudden and it must be hard to get used to.  It’s hard for me, too.”

At this, Sevin turns his attention from the waters beyond the glass aquarium wall and looks at Jim instead.  He tilts his head, thinking or considering or working out some problem in his mind, then says, experimentally, “I’m not angry.  I…I’ve wondered sometimes about you.  I mean, about my dad, because I didn’t know he was you.  I mean—”

Jim smiles.  “I understand.”  And he does.  It is not merely a polite, formulaic phrase.  For a moment, the image of George Kirk in his favorite photograph comes to his mind as if swimming in front of his vision; he wishes it wouldn’t but there it is.  A man in military uniform, standing just outside the shade of a tree in front of a large brick building, summer sun bright on his face; he’s grinning.  He recognizes the place now, in a way he didn’t when he was young: the Academy campus, the man younger than Jim is now.  Tell me more about dad, Sam, he’d said.  Tell me everything you remember.  He’d been about Sevin’s age, then, if he’s remembering right.  The memory feels sharp despite all the years that have passed since the last time he brought it out and turned it over in his thoughts.

He sighs without even hearing it and then, at the shade of concern he sees on Sevin’s face, he forces back the smile that had faltered.  “Well, I’m here now,” he says.  “If there’s anything you want to know…”

“All sorts of things,” Sevin answers, and for a moment he has that bright edge of excitement in his voice again, the first time Jim has heard it all afternoon.  “Where did you grow up?  What’s your family like?  What are my other grandparents like?  Do I have any aunts or uncles or cousins or anything?”

“Well,” Jim sighs loudly, and slaps his palms down on his knees, an exaggerated gesture and an exaggerated sound, “that’s a lot.”

“Sorry,” Sevin murmurs, and he sounds so genuinely embarrassed that Jim regrets attempting the joke.

“No, I don’t mind,” he insists.  “You wanted to know where I grew up?  Nowhere as exciting as San Francisco.  I’m from a little town called Riverside, in Iowa.  Starfleet has a shipyard there, that’s the most interesting thing about it.  My father’s family is from Iowa, so my parents bought a house there after they got married, even though they knew they’d be away a lot.  They were both in Starfleet too—well, my mother still is, actually.”

“But your father’s not alive anymore,” Sevin finishes for him.  His voice is quiet, not quite a whisper, and he’s looking down at his hands.  “I remember you told me.”

“I did,” Jim nods.  “He died when I was born.  It was—there’s no reason to talk about it now.”  He can’t imagine talking about it, here in the underwater light of the aquarium, the soft glow of the fish as they flick by.  He cannot imagine it, not only because he does not want George to haunt Sevin like he haunts Jim, but because the same man who murdered George Kirk killed Sevin’s grandmother, destroyed his first home, and he does not want his boy to relive those events now, does not want to chance that the conversation will find its way there.  Sevin is looking at him.  Jim is half sure he will ask him to go on, that undeniable, childlike, Vulcan-like, curiosity winning out again even over concern for Jim’s clear agitation, but he doesn’t.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks instead.

“I have an older brother,” he answers.  “Sam.  We were really close growing up.  Our mother was away a lot, like I said, and we had a stepfather, but…well, we didn’t get along with him very well.”  He tries to say this last part lightly, as if it were no big deal, as if he didn’t get into a fight almost every week, at least, with that man, from the age of ten until the divorce four years later, as if Sam didn’t bring him up in every drunken ranting rage he stumbled into, years after he moved out of their mother’s house.

“Is he still in Iowa?” Sevin asks.  “Can I meet him someday?  He’d be my uncle, right?”

“So he would be,” Jim agrees.  It’s strange to think of Sam as an uncle, especially to a boy like Sevin, a part Vulcan boy with Jim’s eyes and blood, intelligent and perceptive and inquisitive, good natured and, often, so happy that one would not be able to guess he’d seen such tragedy.  What would Sam make of him?  Somehow, Jim can imagine them getting along quite well, and the thought makes him smile.  Then he remembers their last conversation, or the parts that still stick in his memory, his own blind rage in those moments having turned those hours into nothing but a blur, and at this his smile falters.  “I haven’t spoken to him in…almost six years, though,” he admits.

“Why not?” Sevin asks, a frown on his face that could be confusion or disapproval, and Jim wouldn’t blame him for either.  “What happened to him?  Don’t you like him anymore?”

“We…had a disagreement,” he answers slowly.  It’s the truth, though hardly a satisfactory answer, and Sevin stares at him, open and waiting expression on his face like he hasn’t even considered the possibility that this is all Jim will want to say on the topic.  “He moved away from Riverside when I was nineteen.  He disagreed with how I’d been living my life—that’s not why he left town, but it…it was why we were fighting.”  He lets out a sharp breath and runs one hand quickly across his forehead, just over his eyes.  “I’m not explaining it well.”

Sevin tilts his head, considering, then turns back to watch the fish again.  Jim has the distinct feeling, though, that his thoughts are still on their conversation.  “Everyone says you’re a hero, now,” he says, after a moment.  “How could he disagree with saving Earth?”

Jim laughs, light and a little uneasy.  Sevin’s right, perfectly right in his seven year old way.  He’s gotten so used to not thinking about Sam, not thinking about his mother, not thinking about Riverside, as if the past were the one part of the universe he could never explore, that he hadn’t wondered before what his family must be thinking.  Surely they know, even Sam, who hasn’t tried to contact him.  “I suppose he couldn’t,” he says.  “But it’s complicated.”

“My father says that a lot too,” Sevin answers, “when he doesn’t want to explain something to me, or when he thinks I’m too young to understand.”

He can imagine Spock saying it, too: the story of your dad is complicated, the explanation of death is complicated.  He’s heard the phrase himself, used in just that way, so long ago he’d almost forgotten.  Somehow, though, he imagines that Spock never said it to Sevin in quite the way his own mother said it to him, a snappish and short dismissal that told him that it would always be too complicated, that no matter how old he got or how mature he was, or how much he knew, there would always be something beyond his ability to understand: her feelings, her loss.  He swallows down the memories.

He waits, now, for Sevin, to argue with him, to press the point, but he doesn’t.  He just says, “I think he’d like you now, whatever happened,” and Jim can only wish that he could be as optimistic as this boy.  He doesn’t know if he holds this same belief, that the past is just the past, that any slight, any argument, any mistake, can be forgiven and forgotten, given enough time.

“What about my grandmother?” Sevin asks, and he turns to Jim with an expectant, curious expression on his face.  He’s hoping that this news will be different, will be better.  Jim’s heart sinks at the thought that he will have to dash those hopes again.  He feels as if he’s taking away Sevin’s family person by person, just as he discovers them.

“I don’t speak with her often,” he admits.

“Why not?”

Jim hesitates to answer and Sevin asks, “Is this complicated too?”

“In a way,” Jim answers, and quirks his lips up, a smile at his own inadequacy, how none of the right words come to him.  “My mother wasn’t around a lot when I was growing up.  She had her job at Starfleet—”  His words catch, and he sees Sevin turn away.

“I had to live with my grandparents for a year,” he says, “when father went away on a training mission.  Like that?”

“Yes,” Jim nods, “like that.  Except that my mother took all the opportunities she had to get away from Earth, and I don’t think your father would do that.”  He doesn’t add, you don’t remind your father of bad things.  He doesn’t look at you and see a dead man.

“So,” Sevin says now, slow and considering, “that means you don’t really have a family?”

The words aren’t meant to be cruel, simply an observation, but at the sound of them he feels a sharp pain between his ribs, like a stabbing in his lungs.  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he manages.  “I have you, don’t I?”  Then he reaches out to ruffle Sevin’s hair, an instinct he wonders a second later if he should regret.  But Sevin doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah,” he answers, and smiles a little.  “And you have father, too.”

“Sevin—”  He starts to object, to correct, but then stops himself.  It’s oddly touching that Sevin should see them this way.  It’s also logical, purely and simply sensible, that his two parents, his family, should be each other’s family too.  Considering the years that he hasn’t spoken to Sam, for the cool and awkward congratulations his mother had sent him in the beginning of the summer, no more, as if he were a colleague instead of a son—considering all of this, and what it tells him about family, those people to whom you’ll never be able to break your ties, Spock may as well fall under the title.  They’ll certainly be tied together for the rest of their lives, as surely as he and his mother, or he and his brother are.

So he just claps his hands down on his knees and says, “I guess so.  I guess I do.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon there, in that room with the glowing yellow fish, and Sevin asks him questions about what he liked to do growing up, why he joined Starfleet, what he likes in San Francisco, who his friends are.  Jim tells him about Bones, and how he makes sick people well for a living; about how he got lost on his first day in San Francisco and ended up walking what felt like half the city before he found his dorm room again; about how he often wondered, his first year at the Academy, if Starfleet was really for him, how it was the first thing he felt he had to work for in his life.  But Sevin is most interested in stories of Jim’s childhood.  So he tells his son about Iowa.  He tells him about going to the Riverside aquarium with Sam; about saving up to buy himself a motorcycle for his seventeenth birthday, and spending long nights driving past dark fields, on roads so deserted that it felt like it was just him and the stars in all the universe; about how, when he was young, he used to take his old, ratty, paper-bound books out to the backyard behind his mother’s house and lie in the grass all long summer afternoon and read.

“You had real paper books?” Sevin asks, at this, and Jim smiles at how excited he seems.

“Oh yeah,” he says.  “I collect them.  Nothing compares to being able to turn the pages in your hands.”

“I like them, too.  We’ve had some for as long as I can remember.  Father doesn’t really read them himself, but he used to read picture books to me all the time when I was little.”

The smile is still on Jim’s face, but really his mind has wandered, trying to picture it now: father and son, the same black hair, the same ears, sitting on some chair or sofa somewhere, next to each other or the boy on his father’s lap, and a book open in front of them, real paper pages that the father flips slowly, his son’s eyes scanning the pictures on each one and the words he cannot read.  He’s jealous of the image but there is something else about it, too, beyond the jealousy it piques.  Spock doesn’t read paper bound books.  But he bought them for his son.  He instilled a love of them in Sevin at an early age, so that now, sitting in the aquarium with the dad he’s only just found, they have something over which they can start to bond.  It isn’t much.  But it’s a start, at least.  He is grateful for that.  And a part of him wonders if it’s possible that this could really be a coincidence at all.

Chapter Text

“So,” Pike says, and leans back to give Spock that certain look, questioning and searching both, as if he could read Spock’s thoughts if he only looked long enough.  Spock remembers that look well from his time serving under Pike during his training mission.  Spock was a Vulcan, true, famously opaque, perhaps the first one that Pike had ever met, but he was also a subordinate officer, and Pike had learned how to read his men and women no matter what planet they came from.  If Spock was a challenge to that talent, he would rise to meet it.  He is still the only human under whose scrutiny Spock feels himself ill at ease and truly vulnerable, and he forces himself, now, to meet that gaze calmly.  “So, it’s official.”

“Almost,” Spock corrects.  “However, my mind is completely made up.”

Pike taps his fingers against his desk.  “Hmmm,” he says.  He thinks Spock is lying, that’s clear enough.  He thinks that if he finds the right words, he could still persuade Spock to alter his decision.  But he didn’t come here to be convinced.  He only came to hand in to Pike the last of the work he has completed for the preparation of the Enterprise mission, the barest of pretexts for what is essentially a social visit.  It has been weeks since he last had time to speak to Pike, a man he once considered a mentor, and he must admit to himself that he already misses their old conversations.

“No chance to entice you back to the service, then?” Pike asks.

Spock shakes his head.  “No.  I will remain in San Francisco until relocation to the new Vulcan colony begins, and then my son and I will move to that planet.  My people need me, Admiral.”  He says this last quietly, almost under his breath, and he can’t quite look Pike in the eye as he says it, either.  He watches the way Pike taps his fingers, still, unceasingly but slowly, against the desk edge.

“And you don’t think that Starfleet needs you?” he asks, after a moment.  He picks up the disk that Spock handed him as he sat down, his last official contribution to Starfleet, and looks at it as if it, by itself, warranted some examination.

“I have heard the arguments uncountable times Admiral—”

“I know.”  He sighs.  “I see when I’m defeated.  But you do know that serving in Starfleet and helping the Vulcan colony don’t have to be mutually exclusive?  Starfleet is one of the most important organizations in the Federation, and Vulcan is one of our founding member planets.  We’re devoted to helping in any way possible and the colony will need that support.  The question is, will the colony accept our aid?  There are still some who feel that Starfleet is too Earth-based and, somehow, untrustworthy—”

“I am aware of the politics of the matter,” Spock interrupts.

“Of course.”  Pike clears his throat and tries to recover, as if he hadn’t just been speaking to Spock the Starfleet Officer, forgetting entirely that he was also speaking to Spock of Vulcan.  “And you know that the relationship between Starfleet and the new colony will be an important one.  You could be a great help to that endeavor, Spock.  You would be able to live on New Vulcan, to…to fulfill whatever plans you have there, and still serve in Starfleet.”

He doesn’t answer, at first.  The suggestion is not an impossible one, and it is even one he’s considered.  But what strikes him now is not what Pike is saying but the tone he’s using, an insistence there that Spock never thought he would hear from him, from this man whose orders he is long accustomed to following, and seeing followed, without question.  “It is important to you,” he says slowly, “that I stay in the service.”

“Yes.”  He does not hesitate to admit it, and he stares at Spock with all of the confidence of an experienced captain.  “You’re good, Spock.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; there’s no simpler way to put it.  You’re a talented officer and this Fleet has lost a lot of talented officers recently.  We can’t afford to lose anymore.”

“I am only one person, no different than the others.”

“No, Spock, you aren’t.  Look,” he leans forward, then stops, as if on the verge of giving away a secret that was never made for Spock’s ears.  “I wouldn’t pick just anyone to be my First Officer on the Narada mission.  I would certainly never pick a Lieutenant who was only two years out of the Academy and whose only experience in space was a one year training mission if I didn’t think that Lieutenant was someone special.”

Spock only watches him, for a long moment.  He’s not sure if Pike intends him to be complimented, or impressed, if he believes he is succeeding in changing Spock’s mind through these commendations, but all he can think is that Pike doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t see.  Some failures are unforgivable.

“I hope you can understand, Admiral,” he says, “that I would prefer to make a clean break with the service.”

He does not say: I would prefer to devote myself to my son, to protecting the family that I have left.  I would prefer to promise only what I can give, to one person, one husband, instead of to an organization or a Federation.  He only meets Pike’s gaze, and does not blink.

Pike looks away first.  He sighs and taps his knuckles, once, against the desk.  “You’re stubborn.”

“I am sure of my decision.”

“I’m stubborn too.  I don’t like losing good men for bad reasons—”

He stops himself abruptly, but the only response Spock gives is to quirk an eyebrow up.  “Bad reasons?” he says slowly.

Pike passes one hand over his face, a surprising gesture of regret and embarrassment that Spock had not expected of him.

“You believe that I have made my decision because of my history with Captain Kirk?” he asks.  “I have lost my planet.  I have lost my mother.  I almost lost my son.”  He does not need to say these things.  It is unseemly that he should, as if he owed anyone, even a former superior officer, an explanation of this private decision.  But he cannot stop.  “My priorities have changed, Admiral, and for good reason.  I would not throw away a career for such personal reasons as the ones you seem to be ascribing to me.”

For several moments, Pike doesn’t look at him, nor answer him, just sits with his hand shading his eyes, as if deep in thought.  “Your relationship—past or present—with Jim Kirk is of course none of my business,” he says finally, slowly.  He lets his hand fall back down to the table again.  He meets Spock’s gaze.  Spock still hasn’t let it slip, still has that same, hard, defiant look in his eyes.  “I’m not trying to talk to you about that.  What I’m telling you, Spock, is that if you change your mind, at any point, and want to return to Starfleet, you have an ally in me.  I can’t get you on the Enterprise, but I could find you a place on another ship, or in some other capacity in the service.”

He’s not sure if Pike can be believed.  Spock has tried Starfleet’s patience and he knows it; his summer of indecision was over weeks ago and still his resignation remains just to the side of official.  He can’t believe that there could be a second chance, a chance to undo his decision, or else he might never make it.  He can’t look back.  He almost tells Pike just this, but then he swallows back the words.  “I thank you,” he says, instead.  “You understand that I consider my decision to be final—”

“I understand."

Even as he says this, he looks at Spock as if he knew something Spock didn’t.  It is that gaze, more than any of the words they spoke, that stays with him even after he leaves Pike’s office, through the rest of his day and into the night, as he stars at his ceiling waiting for sleep.

“Father and I used to live in this neighborhood,” Sevin tells him, as they round the corner onto the street where Jim lives.

“Really?”  He’s not particularly surprised, or shouldn’t be: plenty of Starfleet students rent apartments in this part of San Francisco.  It’s cheap housing near the Academy campus, readily available if the dorms are full or if, like Jim, you find yourself tired of dorm living before graduation comes.  Still, it’s strange to imagine Spock walking these same streets, holding Sevin by the wrist or maybe—he must have been so young—carrying him in his arms.  For all the times he’d visited Jim here, he’d never mentioned it.

“Yeah,” Sevin answers.  “I don’t remember it, though.  I was really little.”

Here is another thing Jim never knew, another thing he must imagine with only his scant, poor evidence for help.  He has this strange idea, for just a moment as he keys them into the building’s lobby, that Spock lived in this very building, in the very same apartment that Jim and Bones live in now.  It is just a flash of an idea, no more.  Still, for that moment, he feels able to imagine it all, that time he missed and can’t get back.

They take the lift up, Sevin taking in whatever details he can as he asks, “How long have you lived here?”

“Oh…about two years.  My roommate and I moved in after our first year at the Academy.”

“You said he was a doctor?”

“I did.  He became a doctor before he joined Starfleet, and he’s going to be the head of the whole medical division on the Enterprise when we leave on our mission.”  He’s not sure, even as he says it, if he should mention the ship, the five years of separation that loom over him, that loom over his son too.

He sees Sevin frown and wonders if this is what is worrying him, but instead he says, “I don’t like doctors.  They think I’m weird.  I don’t feel like…real, when they talk to me.”

The lift stops with a slight bump and the doors open.  Jim’s apartment is at the end of the hall, and he leads Sevin there without thinking where he is going.  It is all instinct, and instead his mind is racing with words he could possibly say next.  Of course some people will be assholes—he can’t say it, but he thinks it.  And of course his kid would incite curiosity.  Still, he wishes he’d been there, if not to change anyone’s mind at least to tell Sevin later that people like that, they don’t matter.  But then, he had Spock, a father to tell him everything Jim could have told him, and still it doesn’t matter, still he’s learned wariness and fear.

“Give Dr. McCoy a chance anyway, okay?” he says, and keys in the code to the apartment door.  “Maybe you’ll like him.”

Bones is sitting in the living room when they come in, trying to look like he’s busy when Jim knows very well he isn’t.  He sets aside his reading too fast, glancing up at their footsteps like he was waiting for them.  Jim introduces them—“my son, Sevin; my friend, Dr. McCoy”—and Bones tells Sevin to call him Leonard, even though Jim doesn’t know anyone who calls him Leonard.  Jim smiles wide, wishing that he could tell Bones by the strength of his smile just how hard he may have to work for this one, to seem trustworthy to this one.  Sevin is polite, but quiet.  He looks down mostly at his feet.

“I was just going to start dinner,” Bones says, after a moment, as he pulls himself up from the couch.  When he adds that he “could use some help, though,” with an exaggerated questioning look down at Sevin, the boy nods an okay and follows him to the kitchen, Jim trailing behind.

“I help Father cook sometimes,” he says, then laughs a little.  “He’s not very good at it, though.  Usually we just replicate something.”

“I wish I could tell you I had some particular talent in the kitchen to make up for it,” Jim answers, smiling too, and he doesn’t think about Spock trying to cook, his little boy providing assistance, or perhaps making the whole process harder, what sort of food they might have tried to make together and how it must have come out, and if he used to burn it, and end up ordering out at the last minute, as Jim used to.  He does not think about any of these things.  “Unfortunately, I’m pretty hopeless when it comes to cooking.  If we want any decent real food around here, we have to rely on Bones.”

McCoy rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree.  “I can put something together if I have to,” he mutters.

“Don’t listen to him, Sevin,” Jim stage whispers conspiratorially into his son’s ear.  “Cooking is one of his hidden talents.”

Sevin glances from Jim to McCoy, considering, then asks him, “What other hidden talents do you have?”

McCoy sighs, and Jim can hear him mutter lowly, “Inquisitive, aren’t you?”  If he were speaking to an adult, the remark would have been louder, but Sevin is just a kid, and he can’t be counted on to know when exasperation is exaggerated or feigned.  “Well,” he says, as he starts to take pots down from an upper shelf, “I’ll have you know that I never lose a prank war.”

“Oh really?” Jim crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows in challenge.  “That’s just because you’ve never gone up against me.”

“You talk big, Kirk, but you weren’t there for the University of Georgia Prank War my senior year.  We broke into the President’s office and—”

“Wait, wait!” Sevin interrupts.  “What’s a prank war?”

Jim and Bones explain, with plenty of examples to illustrate the concept, while Bones prepares dinner and Jim and Sevin assist where they can.  Jim wasn’t lying when he said his roommate had a secret aptitude for cooking: it’s not a talent that uses he much, but he has it, and on rare occasions, when he has a free evening and they have more than a loaf of bread and a half-full box of pasta in their kitchen, he’ll cook something nice for dinner and have Jim asking why, exactly, he doesn’t do this more often, again?

“This is great, Bones, really,” he says again, this time, after they’ve sat down at the kitchen table and passed around plates.

“It’s like in the restaurants,” Sevin tells him, and McCoy mumbles something about no need to exaggerate but thanks anyway, but secretly still seems pleased.

The process of setting the table and bringing out the food broke up the flow of their conversation, and for several minutes, the prank war memories dropped, the three eat in silence.  Jim watches his son, and watches, in turn, as Sevin looks at McCoy.  Sevin is staring so intently that Jim catches him, twice, paused with his fork partway to his mouth.  Halfway through the meal, and with a slight hesitation, as if it has taken him this long to find the courage to speak, he asks McCoy, “Why does Jim call you ‘Bones’?”

McCoy opens his mouth to answer, then quickly closes it again.  He glances over at Jim, and maybe he’s asking for permission or maybe just for help, but either way, Jim doesn’t know what to offer.  All I have left is my bones, he’d told him once, when he was running just like Jim was running, and suddenly and inexplicably Jim’s thinking about Spock again.  What was he running from?  Not the other parent of his child, as Jim had once privately thought.  His family, maybe, his society, their disapproval.  The stigma of being an unwed parent, a stigma made all the worse by living among a people that tries so hard to keep these things, sex, procreation, even love, when it’s there, private and hidden.  Everyone knew Spock’s secret.  How could he have stayed?

These thoughts flash through his mind in seconds, and then he is snapped back to himself by McCoy, who is saying, “It’s because I’m a doctor.  ‘Sawbones’ is a very old nickname for doctors.  Right, Jim?”

“Oh, yeah, right,” he answers hurriedly, sure that Bones, at least, saw how his mind had been wandering.  He brings himself back with a quick shake of his head.  “From the nineteenth century, I think.”  He’d rather talk about Civil War doctors than about divorce, and loss, would rather Sevin ask questions about the gory origins of the name—and he does—than about McCoy’s ex-wife, or whether he has children, or what his daughter is like.  Bones tells him that the nickname was first used for doctors on the battlefield, because they had to amputate so many limbs.  Sevin’s face screws up at the thought, and he lets out a long, low, “eeeew.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this at dinner,” Jim remarks.

“Do you take off people’s legs?” Sevin asks, as if he hadn’t heard his dad’s remark, and Jim can’t tell if he’s fascinated or terrified at the thought.  He starts to feel a slight, paranoid, fear that he and Bones have just contributed to Sevin’s long-held distrust of doctors, but McCoy shakes his head firmly and says, no, he has never had to perform such a surgery.

“What do you do, then?”

“Some of everything,” McCoy answers lightly, with a bit of a shrug.

“Everything?”

“Some of everything.  I’m the physician you go to when you’re sick or when you need a checkup.  I perform surgeries.  I act as a psychologist, sometimes, and help people when they’re feeling sad or upset.  I’ve studied the biology of aliens—of non-humans,” he corrects quickly, and shoots Jim a glance.  He nods.  Sevin has leaned forward in his chair, as if trying to get closer to McCoy even though the table is between them.

“A lot of Earth doctors,” Sevin tells him, “think people who aren’t from Earth are weird.”

McCoy’s face falls at the words, and Jim watches as he drops his gaze down to his plate, awkward and unsure what to say.  He can guess, without either Jim or Sevin explaining, what inspired the boy’s comment, and he’s been frustrated with alien biology a few times himself, how it’s so far, he says, from everything he first learned.  Still, out loud, he frowns at the thought of those men and women.  “They just haven’t seen enough,” he tells Sevin, “to know better.”

“Have you seen a lot?”

Jim laughs shortly.  “Bones is going to head the medical department on Enterprise for the next five years,” he tells Sevin proudly.  “By the time he gets back to Earth, he’ll have seen things none of us can even imagine yet.”

“Cool!” Sevin exclaims, before Bones can quite explain that Jim is exaggerating there.  But it doesn’t matter.  He isn’t, and Bones knows it.  Still, his friend gives him a look that says he’s an idiot, or at least, too careless; Jim calls it his ‘don’t-do-this-when-you’re-Captain’ look, though it’s much older than his promotion, almost as old as their friendship itself.

“I wish you were my doctor,” Sevin is saying.  “You’re nice.  Do you know about Vulcans?  Even people who know about Vulcans don’t know anything about me.”

Jim clenches his hands into fists beneath the table, and looks up to meet Bones’s eye, the movement discreet but his feeling clear, and the look Bones gives him in return is a clear warning to hold his silence.  The hint of sadness in Sevin’s voice is an instant killer to Jim’s mood, smothering it out like one smothers a fire; he can’t help but be annoyed at the thought of his son being treated as an experiment, and the feeling is all the worse for being mixed with guilt.  He can’t help being human, can’t help that Spock is Vulcan, and he wouldn’t change either of these things if he could, and it’s not as if he believes he could have altered anyone’s mind, any more than Spock could, had Sevin grown up with him as a parent.  But then the feeling isn’t logical, as few feelings are.

“That’s okay, you know,” he tries to say, now.  “Being the first to do something, or be something, that can be scary.  But it can be exciting too.”

“Like exploring space.”

“Yes.  Like exploring space.”

Sevin smiles, a small smile that looks familiar, somehow (it’s yours, McCoy will tell him later, that kid has that patented Jim Kirk smile, all right).  “Father is the first half-Vulcan who’s ever lived,” he says.  “And I’m the first quarter-Vulcan.  He says that makes me special.  He also says that Earth doctors are even worse than Vulcan ones when it comes to dealing with something they don’t understand right away and he thinks they should have to be treated like they treat their patients to see what it’s like—but I wasn’t supposed to hear that last part.”  He blushes a little, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks and tingeing the tips of his ears, but he seems more embarrassed that he admitted to eavesdropping than remorseful that he did in the first place.  After a second, he adds, “Don’t tell Father I heard him, please.”

Jim laughs a little and promises that it will be just their secret, and McCoy makes his promise as well, though he mutters, “Like dad, like son,” under his breath afterwards.

“I wish you really could be his doctor,” Jim says later, after Sevin is back at Spock’s, the dishes that they feel like washing are washed and the rest are piled in the sink to remain unwashed, and the light evening of early autumn has finally descended into night.

McCoy just sighs heavily, as he falls down next to Jim on the couch.  “You know I’m no expert on Vulcans,” he says, as if this were really the problem.

Jim waves that concern away.  “My kid’s more human than Vulcan anyway, and no one’s an expert in that.  That’s not the point.”  He glances over at McCoy and flashes him a grin that, when they first met, would have forced McCoy to call him out for flirting.  By now he knows better.  “You have a great bedside manner.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not!  Seriously.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow at him, grimaces like he doesn’t believe him still, but doesn’t argue either.

“Really,” Jim says again.  “So you’re not all smiles and forced cheeriness all the time.  You know how to treat people with respect.  That’s what’s important.  That’s what people need.”  He slaps his hands once down on his knees to punctuate his point and then, aware in the silence that this is the first time he has complimented his friend so straightforwardly and so strongly, he feels a slight hint of embarrassment.  There’s nothing he can say now, and nothing Bones can say in return; they only glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

“Sevin’s a good kid,” McCoy says, after a moment.

“He is,” Jim agrees.  “Can’t take any credit for that, though.”  For once, he feels no bitterness when he says it, and no anger, only a welling up of regret, through which it is still hard to see anything clearly.

“No,” Bones agrees, his own voice distant, “you can’t.  You’re going to miss him, you know, when we leave.”

“I know.  I don’t have much of a choice, though, do I?  Spock is leaving Starfleet and I…even if there was somewhere else I could go, I couldn’t resign.”

“Guess you’ve finally found a no-win scenario, then.”

He wants to say, you just wait, he wants to take it as a challenge; it’s his instinct.  But for once he thinks McCoy might just be right.

Chapter Text

He hands in his official resignation at four and, three hours later, as they’re finishing dinner, he tells his son, “Sevin, there is something I must discuss with you.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Sevin asks.

Spock shakes his head quickly, and says, “No, no of course not,” to reassure him; he hadn’t realized just how serious he’d sounded, how sober, and he fears that he’s already started this conversation in exactly the wrong way.  “Sevin,” he tries again, drawing out the name and the pause afterward, gathering the right phrases and choosing the right route from here, “It has been some time since we discussed the future.”

“The future?” he echoes.

“Yes.  You know that I have been taking time off from my work at Starfleet.”

Sevin nods.  “You said it would be the whole summer.  It’s almost October now though,” he adds, as if thinking aloud, and he stares up at Spock with his eyebrows leaning in to meet over his eyes.  “Are you taking more time off?”

Spock shakes his head.  “I am not returning to Starfleet.  I informed my superiors today that I am requesting early retirement.  They made it clear after the Tragedy that they would allow this, were I to choose it.”

“Okay.”  Sevin’s tone is as unreadable to Spock as he knows his own often is to his human acquaintances.  If anything, it is a placeholder, an acknowledgement only that he has heard, and no more.  His gaze is downtilted now, as he pokes his fork absently into the last pieces of lettuce left over from his salad, and Spock only wishes he knew what his boy was thinking now.  “I guess that’s all right,” he says slowly.  “I liked having you around this summer.  Unless,” his gaze darts up, “unless you are going to be doing something else.  Are you getting a new job?”

“Yes,” he answers, and hesitates, but not for too long, does not let himself hesitate for too long, and adds, “on New Vulcan.”

Sevin just frowns.  “We’re moving?” he asks, not because he does not understand, but because, Spock thinks, he wishes he didn’t.

“Yes.  The colony will need all of the assistance it can find.  It is only logical that I should provide what I can.  I must be honest, it will be an adjustment—for us both, but I believe it is the best thing.”

“The best thing for Vulcans or the best thing for us?” Sevin mutters, low and angry, and Spock sharpens his own tone in response.

“For everyone,” he answers.  “Our lives will be more stable, safer, on New Vulcan than they could ever be, were I to remain in Starfleet.  Space is dangerous, Sevin, and a career in the military is not one I believe I can pursue while being a parent to you.”

“But you’ve always been in Starfleet,” Sevin argues.  “For as long as I can remember.  And Jim—Dad—is in Starfleet.  And so were his parents!”

His parents, Spock thinks, and tries to gauge Sevin’s expression, how even though his voice is loud and defiant, his face, when he stops speaking, betrays his insecurity in his own words.  His parents.  His father died in space and he ran away from his mother’s house when he was only seventeen.  Sevin knows these things, repeated all of them to Spock after his first afternoon with his new-found parent, repeated them as if they were the greatest discoveries of the century.

Spock does not argue these points.  He only makes his voice hard, uncompromising, the voice of a parent who is speaking to his child and will admit no argument, no attempt to turn them into equals.  “Your dad and I have both made our decisions, Sevin.  I know that this is difficult for you to understand—”

“Because it’s dumb!  Why can’t you just…be together!  You introduced me to dad and said you wanted me to be friends with him but you aren’t even friends with him.  You hate talking to him.  And now he’s going to go off and explore space and we’re going to live on New Vulcan and I’m never going to see him or anyone else I know and it’s not fair!”

“I know this may be difficult,” Spock answers, and he keeps on talking even when Sevin tries to interrupt again, his voice loud but even, all of his defenses up, “but there is no simple solution.  When you are older, you will understand.”  He hates the sound of his own voice, so harsh and uncompromising.  Sevin crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at hm.

“Why did you leave Vulcan in the first place if you were just going to go back?” he spits.

Spock feels his chest tighten, and his spine stiffen.  “I could hardly have predicted the events of the last few months,” he says, voice low, more dangerous than he knows, and for the first time, Sevin sits back and draws away from him.  He slumps down in his seat, insolent and withdrawn, a pout on his face.

Yes, he thinks, why, why leave that planet and its people, who looked down on him, gossiped about him, who could never accept him or his son, why leave them to try to make something of himself, only to return?  Because they need him.  Because they needed him when their planet was falling apart underneath their feet, when he did all he could and saved what he could, when he couldn’t quite do enough.  Yes, that’s true, true enough, but it’s not all.  Really, he’s returning because he needs them.  Because he can’t stay here any longer.

“You will understand when you are older,” he tells his son.  His tone is stiff, admits no argument or disagreement, and he wonders just when it was that he started to hear Sarek’s voice coming out of his mouth.

“Why can’t I understand now?” Sevin whines.

Because you are too young, he wants to say, but then he knows from harsh experience how dissatisfying that answer is.  He draws a sharp breath in through his teeth, then leans over the table, and tries to speak as calmly as he can, rationally and inarguably.  “This decision is not debatable.  The best thing that we can do for our people now is to help them rebuild our society on the new colony.  There is no reason to remain in San Francisco if I am no longer serving in Starfleet.”

“So why can’t you stay in Starfleet?  With Dad?”

“Your dad and I…”  He hesitates.  Sevin already knows the answer to the question, has already yelled it, shattered any of Spock’s illusions that he and Kirk have hidden their icy animosity from their son.  “Your dad and I cannot work together anymore.”

“Because of me,” Sevin says, not even a question but a low, bitter declaration.

“No,” Spock answers, and then again, insistent and louder than he’d intended, “No.  Sevin.  Nothing that is happening between your dad and me is your fault.  Okay?”

“Yeah.”  He doesn’t sound convinced, but Spock won’t press him, not now.  This is just another problem he can’t fix, a question to which there is no answer, to gnaw at him.  Maybe someday this will all seem worth it, just a small price to pay in the long run, or maybe it will grow into only another paralyzing regret.

“I still think this is dumb,” Sevin informs him.

“The decision has already been made,” Spock answers calmly.  “You may think whatever you wish of it, but it is not going to change.”  He stands up, and picks up both his and Sevin’s plates to take to the sink.  “You will become accustomed to the idea, in time.”

“Yeah, right,” Sevin mutters, but this last remark, Spock simply pretends not to hear.

“So is it just us four tonight?” Sulu asks, as he and Scotty move his too-large dining-room sized table away from the living room wall.  He’s thinking he should sell it.  He really won’t have any use for it when he’s on the Enterprise—won’t have any use for most of the stuff in his apartment, while he’s gone.  He hopes his question comes out mildly curious, and no more, as if it doesn’t really matter to him if they’re six or eight or twenty for poker tonight, as if he was just idly wondering.

“Jim said he would come,” McCoy answers.  “He might be late, though.  Said he had some sort of meeting with Mitchell that might run late.”

“Is our new First Officer planning on making an appearance, then?” Scotty asks.

“Not that I know,” McCoy tells them.  His voice is gruffer than usual and he sounds like he’s just waiting for this conversation to be over.  “Probably not, unless Jim invites him.”

“And you do not think he will?”  Chekov sounds honestly curious on this point, but Sulu has more important concerns than whether Mitchell does or does not show, and before McCoy can quite finish shrugging off the question, he asks, “Anyone know if Uhura is coming tonight?”

He glances around, but Chekov shrugs, and McCoy shakes his head and sighs in his weary, overworked, are-we-here-to-play-poker-or-not way, and Scotty mumbles something like “Hadn’t heard anything,” so he just pulls back his chair and sits down.  They play one hand through, but Sulu folds early.  His mind is elsewhere.  He ran into Uhura yesterday in the library, just by accident, and she’d been agitated and distant.  He felt nervous and tongue-tied, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say except the worst thing to say, which of course slipped out before he could stop it.  So have you heard these crazy rumors about Kirk and Spock?  He wants to hit himself now just thinking about it.  He should have known better, really: gossiping about a guy with his best friend was worse than a rookie mistake; it was the sort of thing that got you cut before tryouts were over.  In his defense, it’s the news on everyone’s tongue: not just that Starfleet’s latest dream team are ex-lovers with a secret kid, but that now they’re feuding on such a scale that the Fleet higher ups refuse to acknowledge it’s even happening.  But of course, after that, she’d gone completely close-lipped.  She’d taken a deep breath first, like she wanted to give him a piece of her mind, but then she’d let it out slowly and forcefully, and said tersely that she didn’t want to discuss anything that wasn’t her business (or his, she might as well have said for how strongly it was implied) and anyway, she had to go.  Then she was gone.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he berates himself silently now, and he doesn’t even realize what sort of sour faces he’s making until McCoy’s voice snaps him back to the present.  “Sulu!  You in for this round or not?”

“Um…I guess not.”  He has no idea what’s going on.  He forces himself to pay attention to the game, the intermittent conversation, but there’s a coil of anxiety balled up in his stomach that he can’t quite ignore.  He’s waiting.  He tells himself that he shouldn’t, it’s just the four of them tonight, that’s it, but he can’t force his ears to stop straining and then—then there’s a knock on the door.

Everyone looks up, except for Chekov, who is trying to decide if he should fold or not, not because the knock is so interesting in and of itself, but because it is angry, almost violent, and accompanied by two loud but incoherent voices, whose argument is just short of understandable.

“I, uh, should get that,” Sulu says, after a moment.  Then, as if to make up for his previous inertia, when he’d first heard the startling burst of knocking and noise, he jumps up and all but runs for the door.  When he gets closer he can hear the argument more distinctly, Uhura’s sharp voice talking about how he just thinks he knows everything doesn’t he, and for a second, he’s afraid to open the door.  Then there’s another loud splattering of knocks, and he decides to key the thing open before they break it down.

It couldn’t have been more awkward if he’d walked in on them having sex, he thinks, the way Kirk’s face is flushed and Uhura’s nostrils are beginning to flare.  He doesn’t know where to look, and he can’t help thinking about how he just knows there will be a passive aggressive note from his upstairs neighbor, the one who hates noise as much as he hates confrontation, waiting for him in the lift tomorrow.

“Oh why can’t you just mind your own—” Kirk is saying, like he hasn’t even noticed the door sliding open or his future pilot staring at him slack-jawed and embarrassed, but then Uhura snaps her head toward him, and Kirk cuts himself off and looks at him, too.

He didn’t think it could get more awkward, but that just about does it.

“Um, come in,” he says stiffly, and gestures them inside.

“Thanks,” Kirk says darkly, and Sulu reminds himself never to get on his Captain’s bad side when they’re living on a ship in the middle of space and Kirk has actual authority over him.

“Sorry we’re late,” Uhura says, and actually smiles a slight, small, apologetic smile at him.  He smiles too wide back and tells them that the game’s already started, but McCoy can deal them into the next hand, if they want.

“Sounds great,” Kirk answers, but his voice sounds absent and distant and his gaze is fixed unwaveringly on Uhura as he speaks.  “I’m, uh, kind of thirsty though.  Do you mind if I…?”  He gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, and Sulu nods quickly and says something like “Yeah, yeah, of course, help yourself.”

He turns back toward the living room and fully expects Uhura will follow him, but when he gets to the table and turns around, he finds she’s deserted him.  It’s no big mystery where she is.  Chekov catches his gaze and raises his eyebrows comically high, and he rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders.  If his newest guests think they’re being discreet, they would be sorely disappointed to learn just how audible they are to the rest of the future bridge crew in the next room over.

“Your selfishness is really appalling, you know that, right?” Uhura’s voice comes at them, followed by Kirk’s just after, challenging her, “I’m selfish?”

“Oooookay,” Chekov says softly just under his breath, and turns his gaze down to his cards.  McCoy clears his throat and Scotty asks, “Everyone in this round, then?” and everyone nods.  The pact is silent but strict: they will all pretend they hear nothing.  As far as they are concerned, there is nothing to hear.

“You just imagine having something like this kept from you for eight years, and by somebody you trusted, and then you can tell me that you understand where I’m coming from.”

“Oh please, don’t even make yourself the martyr here.  It’s ridiculous that you are asking me to put myself in your shoes, when you aren’t even attempting to put yourself in his.  Of course he didn’t contact you—”

“Yes, of course he didn’t, it would be a crazy idea to contact the person you’re having a child with to tell him he’s going to be a dad.”

“Just shut up and listen for once you arrogant—”

“Not arrogant.  Just angry.  And I’d say I have a right to be.”

“Don’t you see you are blinding yourself?”

Uhura yells this last so loudly that Chekov actually flinches.  Even though they are definitely not listening, because Kirk and Uhura aren’t having a very loud, very personal, discussion in his kitchen in the middle of Friday night poker, the game has come to a standstill, the cards dealt but no bets made, and no one daring to meet anyone else’s eyes.

Sulu tries to picture what they must look like now, standing in his kitchen glaring at each other, each probably breathing too hard.  It’s not the sort of fight that turns violent.  It’s the sort that gets stuck.  Neither will admit to being wrong; neither will apologize for words spoken or yelled.  The only thing to do is walk out.

But before any doors slam, McCoy raises his voice and yells at them, “Are you two playing or not?”

He expects one or both of them will leave, but they don’t.  They appear in the doorway together, flustered and embarrassed and each pretending the other isn’t there, and then Kirk takes the spare seat between McCoy and Scotty, and Uhura the chair between Sulu and Chekov.  This puts them, unfortunately, almost across from each other, but neither gives the other a glance for the rest of the evening.

Chekov tries to talk to him about it later, but he says he thinks it’s probably best that they pretend they didn’t hear anything.  It was obvious, of course, what they were discussing, and now he can fill in the gaps in the gossip much better than he ever could have expected, or wanted.  Spock had always intimidated him a bit, and annoyed him at times, too, but ultimately he’d had to admire him just as much as he admired Kirk.  He’d been looking forward to serving with them both, after Kirk inevitably wore Spock down and got him to agree to the First Officer position.  Now he can’t help but be glad that won’t be happening, not if whatever fight they’re having runs this deep.

It’s funny, he thinks, in a sad sort of way, that the same fight that makes it impossible for them work together is over the same person who makes it impossible for them to cut their ties.  He wouldn’t want to be that kid, not for anything.

Jim wakes up at six, an hour before his alarm was set to rouse him, and stares up at the ceiling.  He’d stomped off into the shower and then to bed as soon as he and Bones got back from poker, saying only that he didn’t want to talk about it and not even waiting for an answer, and now he feels like he’s woken from a dream in which he reverted to the mental age of six, except it wasn’t a dream, and he just can’t wrap his mind around the idea that it was real.  It’s enough to make him grab his pillow and throw it over his face as if he could suffocate.

His embarrassment is so thick, so nauseating, coating his stomach and lungs, that it’s difficult to think.  He can’t even remember anymore how the argument started, only that he’d met Uhura down the street from Sulu’s, both of them late and so already hurrying, and from the moment they said hello the atmosphere between them was tense and uncomfortable.  It felt as if they were already fighting before either had said a word.

She’d been so infuriating.  What annoyed him most was not what she’d said, most of that only a blur by now, but that it was Uhura goading him, pressing his buttons, forcing out that repressed, low burn of anger that he’s only swallowed down, not smothered out.  He wants to fight someone, he realizes now.  He’s wanted to fight someone since he first confronted Spock about their son.  But it can’t just be anyone taking the brunt of his anger, and Spock had never quite taken his bait, only letting himself go for a moment here and there, and most of the time hiding behind that perfect Vulcan calm.  He plays their conversations through again in his head and realizes, yes, he was always carefully controlled, but it was more than that, too.  Spock had reacted to him like a man burdened by his own guilt.  He’d seen it, at the time, but only now does he put it into words.

He sighs, and takes his pillow from his face and throws it to the end of the bed.  He lies with his head flat on the uncomfortable, vaguely lumpy surface of his bed, and stares up at his ceiling.  What had Uhura said to him?  To imagine himself in Spock’s position?  He tries, but there’s a block in his mind, as if there were a wall against which his thoughts can do more than hurl themselves helplessly, never breaking through.  It comes from being too angry, too tense.  He enjoys the time he spends with Sevin, and they get along as well as he could expect, but they do not interact like a son and his parent, and perhaps they never will.  That is what he fears in his quiet moments, his irrational moments, when he cannot tell himself to be patient, that this is still new, that almost no time at all has passed and he cannot be unreasonable—the truth is that the time that was lost can never be taken back.  Maybe Spock did not know what he was taking from him.  Maybe there was nothing else he could have done.  But the effect is the same: time lost and memories lost and chances lost, and now he has to prove himself—prove himself to them both.

That’s what it is, isn’t it, he almost says out loud to his ceiling.  Spock thought he couldn’t be trusted.  Spock thought he was just some callous jerk, just some teenage Earth kid who picked up an alien for a good, quick, fuck, and would have been loath to ever hear from that one-night-stand again, especially if the guy contacted him with some sort of completely unbelievable news like I’m going to have a baby.  It must have been so logical to assume, too.  That’s the kind of person Jim was then.  That’s what he seemed like, and it’s not far from who he was.  It sickens him and then the nausea turns to helplessness and then into anger and he goes blind again.

It just fuels that hot flame of rage to think that Spock must still think all these things of him.  He passed over opportunity after opportunity all summer to tell Jim the truth.  They served together.  They walked back to back, phasers out, through a Romulan ship.  Spock would have trusted him to take back his last message (Tell my father—) if he had died out there in the Ambassador’s ship.  And yet for all that, somehow, Spock still sees him as that irresponsible Earth kid, nothing more.

It’s embarrassing, because he was thinking of Spock as the adult he’d become, intelligent and efficient and precise and talented and brave; he’d been thinking of Spock as someone he could trust with anything, as someone he could even love.

It’s a joke.  It’s an utter joke.

He sits up abruptly and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, then bends his body almost double, touching his hands to the floor.  It’s an uncomfortable and useless position and he’s not sure why he’s in it—just like his life.  He wants to hit things.  He wants to exorcise whatever part of him it was that fought with Uhura the day before, the part of him that embarrassed himself in front of his crew, the part of him that can barely have a civil conversation with the father of his kid.

He has the morning free, unusually, mercifully free.  Feeling like he does, there’s really only one thing he can do with it.

There’s a girl working behind the desk at the entrance to the gym, and she looks bored and tired, staring off into the middle distance with her head resting on her hand.  He gives her a forced, perfunctory smile as he walks in.  As far as he can tell, she’s the only other person in the building; the locker rooms, the hallways, the weight room are all deserted.  He glances over the various machines, the free standing weights, and he thinks about how long it’s been since he’s worked out or trained.  It used to be a priority, but it’s fallen low on the list in the hurry of the last weeks.  He feels tense and out of shape, so he takes a few minutes to stretch and to clear his head, as well as he can, but he feels like there are knots in his muscles that he can’t shake out.  He wants to fight, still; he wants to punch something, to thrash something.  It’s a good thing that he brought his gloves.

Sam first taught him how to box when he was in high school.  He was sixteen and bored and suffocating in his own house, somehow more claustrophobic without Frank there than with him, too many silent dinners sitting across the table from his mother, and the only thing he looked forward to was Friday afternoons, when Sam would take him down to the gym and teach him how to hold his hands, how to move his arms, how to punch and how to deflect and how to avoid.  He’ll be rusty; he hasn’t kept up with the skill in the way he wishes he had, but the memory hasn’t left him, the movements stored permanently in his muscles.

There are a couple of punching bags in a small room down the hall from the weight room, and he starts to walk in that direction, gloves held in one hand and brain buzzing.  He’s almost excited.  He can’t wait to work off this anger, this ugly, pulsing energy, can’t wait to feel the hard shock of the punching bag against his fists.  He starts jumping on the balls of his feet as he approaches the door, shaking out his hands and feet, and he lets his gaze wander and his eyes open and close, and it’s purely by chance that he is looking straight up when he gets to the doorway.  He stops abruptly.

He isn’t as alone as he’d thought.  Of all the people at the Academy, all of the students and professors and Starfleet officers living in San Francisco, the one who’s chosen this particular Saturday morning to get up early and train is the last one he wants to see.

It doesn’t occur to him to say hello.  It doesn’t occur to him to say anything or do anything, to signal his presence in any way.  It feels like all he’s capable of is standing in the doorway with his hands at his sides and staring, slightly open mouthed.  That’s Spock in front him.  He’s wearing a loose fitting shirt and shorts, and he looks so strange in this outfit that Jim almost doesn’t believe it’s him—except that Spock’s someone he would recognize faster than he’d recognize his own reflection.  His usually perfect hair is ruffled and out of place, and his breathing is slightly harder, more ragged, than usual, and he’s wearing a pair of large blue boxing gloves and punching again and again at a human-sized punching bag at the far end of the room.  From the doorway, his profile is most visible, but Jim has the distinct feeling that even if they’d been standing face to face, Spock wouldn’t have noticed him.  He’s in the zone.  Jim knows that feeling well, knows how it looks from the outside, too; it’s where he’d been hoping to find himself when he stuffed his gloves in his bag before he left his apartment.

He looks good, Jim thinks, before he can stop himself.  But it’s true.  It’s undeniably true.  The muscles of his arms and legs, the tight, controlled bursts of his movements, the way that he looks disheveled but not tired, not worn—Jim feels a quick jolt of heat pass through him, unwelcome and uncontrollable.  He grits his teeth.

He tells his feet to step forward but they won’t listen.  It’s some sort of trance he’s in now; he’s hypnotized.  He wonders how long it will take Spock to notice him, and he imagines standing just where he is for hours, observing it all and taking it all in.  What would he feel by the end of it?  Would he be carried off into that same space Spock has found, would he feel the same release he’d been hoping to discover in the hard, unforgiving feel of the punching bag against his fists?  Would his anger spend itself out in the mere act of watching, so that when Spock turns to face him he is ready to forgive all and forget all, even to apologize in his turn, and to start again?  Could it ever be so simple?

Or does he need something more?

He doesn’t let himself overthink this time, just clears his throat and steps forward, finally, into the room.

The flurry of Spock's movements stops abruptly.  His hands fall to his sides and he turns to face Jim, and his face is blank but not unreadable: he’s startled, surprised, and there are two high points of green on his cheeks.  He doesn’t say anything.  For a moment, Jim wonders if he will run away.  He doesn’t imagine a literal sprint from the room, but a calm and quiet exit, in which Spock takes off his gloves and pushes his hair from his eyes and then walks past Jim to the door without a word, without even looking at him.  But then, that doesn’t seem like a Spock thing to do.

He looks so young, Jim thinks.  Without his uniform, without the dark, multi-layered, conservative clothes he wears when he is off-duty, and with his mouth slightly open and his chest still rising and falling from exertion, he looks, not younger than he is, but just his age.  Jim often forgets that Spock is only 23.  He is used to thinking of them both as being so much older, their experiences working like wrinkles and lines to age them faster than simple years will do, but he himself is only halfway to thirty, and Spock not even a third.

“Jim,” Spock says finally.  He says the word like it was an effort to form.

“Spock,” Jim echoes back.  “I wasn’t expecting to find anyone else here this early.”  He holds up his gloves for a moment, watches Spock’s eyes flick to them and then back to Jim’s face, and adds, “I guess we both had the same idea.”  He gives a small, humorless smile, pulled from convention rather than feeling, even though he knows such a gesture is useless with Spock and won’t be returned.

“So it seems,” Spock replies.  He tilts his head just slightly to the side, as if thinking or considering some problem, or picking the proper words to say.  “Do you wish for me to leave?” he asks, after a moment.

Jim has the feeling that Spock wouldn’t leave, even if he asked him to, and of course he shouldn’t.  It’s a public space.  They’re adults; they can be mature.  They can share the large, empty, high-ceilinged room, with its clean white walls and unscuffed floor.  So of course there is only one answer he can give, no matter how he may feel, and he says, “Of course not,” with a light wave of his hand as if to bat Spock’s words aside.  He realizes as he says it that he doesn’t want Spock to leave, not at all.  They’ve been avoiding each other too long, speaking only when they have to and so briefly, so tersely, that it is as if these meetings do not happen at all.  Standing face to face with Spock, with time to breathe and to think and to look at him, really look at him, is oddly jarring.  He doesn’t know what he’d do if he let himself go.

He wants the moment to pass, so he asks, the first thing that comes to mind, “Where did you learn how to box?”

“On Vulcan,” Spock answers.  “I was instructed by a man named Syken, who used to live on Earth.  I trained with him after Sevin was born.”

The reference to their son, like the hinted offer to leave a few moments before, feels like a challenge.  He can’t tell if Spock is goading him, exactly, or to what end, but he’s almost certain that Spock knows what he’s doing.  If he’s showing almost none of his own emotion, it’s clear that he wants to see Jim’s.  Would fighting be giving in?  Is this what Spock wants?  He can’t stop the images that flash through his mind, a perfect, controlled violence between them, communication beyond words, which have only failed them, a release.

He stopped solving problems with his fists years ago.  He’s beyond that now, a real adult at last.  That’s what he tells himself.

He gestures vaguely at the punching bag beyond Spock’s shoulder.  “You’re good,” he says, like it’s just some casual comment.  “Syken taught you well.”

“Thank you.  It has been quite some time since I practiced.  The memory returns faster than I had anticipated it would.”

“I know the feeling.”

“This is a skill you also possess?” Spock asks, hardly a question, with a slight nod at Jim’s gloves.

“I box a little,” he admits, and he almost sounds like he’s being humble except that he follows the words with a small grin.  He was good, once.  The few times he’s faced off against another Cadet, he’s won, and he feels, with a perhaps misplaced confidence, that he’ll be able to shake off the cobwebs on his old talent easily.  Perhaps it is foolish to be so sure.  He’s seen what Spock can do.  Still, he’s already feeling a rush, a burst of adrenaline from no more than anticipation, because he knows it will happen, they both do, it’s only a question of who will ask first.

Spock tilts his head, examining him then with that careful, considering gaze, his own face so blank and unreadable that Jim doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s thinking, what exactly he is contemplating.  After a moment, he says, “It is reassuring to me that we can be civil with each other.”

“We’ve been civil,” Jim insists.  It’s true in the strictest sense of the word.  They don’t yell.  They aren’t rude to each other.  They say what they have to say.

“Barely,” Spock answers, tight-lipped and voice low.  His control is still in place; this isn’t a slip; but Jim can’t help thinking that it could be turned into one.

“Look, Spock,” he answers, and he doesn’t sound angry so much as resigned, and as he speaks he starts to pull on his gloves.  “I can’t—”  He’s not sure how to finish.  The words had come out with confidence, but he falters suddenly.  Spock is staring at him, waiting.  He shouldn’t have said anything.  He should have taken a swing.  It’s what he wants.

“You cannot,” Spock repeats quietly.

Yes, he considers saying, I cannot.  I cannot have this discussion with you, I cannot explain myself, I cannot accept explanations.  I know what you’ll say and you know my answers.  I met you when I thought my life had no purpose and then we changed each other forever, and only you knew.

“I came here to train,” he says instead.  “I need it.  I can use one of the punching bags, like I was planning, or,” he gestures between them with one gloved hand, “or we can have a go.”

He’d been sure that Spock would agree right away, and it is only in that first long moment of his silence, the way that his eyes flick from Jim’s face to the floor, then back, that Jim realizes what was so jarring about his first sight of Spock in his boxing gloves, his fighter’s stance, lashing out with his short, quick punches.  He had seemed angry.  The emotion wasn’t intense, or terrifying; perhaps it would be better called frustration, a long pent up and then released irritation, yet it was there.  Spock isn’t here to train, or to keep in shape.  He’s here to let out aggression, just as Jim is.

“I have not had the opportunity to box with another person in years,” Spock admits.

“All the more reason to take this one,” Jim answers.  Maybe, if their situation had been different, he would have smiled.

Spock nods, but says no more, and slowly they move into position across from each other.  There is no official signal to start, but after a few moments, a few dragging seconds during which his eyes are never still, and his every muscle is tense, he gives a small nod, and Spock tilts his head in answer, and it begins.

His mind leaves him, and he is all body.  In the moments before it turns off, before it goes black, he finds himself thinking about what Pike told him, the last time they spoke.  The thing about being a Captain, he’d said, is that you have to start being a diplomat, but you never stop being a soldier.

He never thought he’d be one, a soldier, but when he took on that role, he took to it completely, he pulled it on as a second skin.  Starfleet’s shining new ships and clean, sterile, phasers hide the grit well but it’s still there, adventure and danger and the constant threat of death and that is what he loves in it, what he needs in it.  There’s a part of him that needs to argue with force, not words, a part of him that needs to feel the pulse of power in his arms and hands.

If Spock were human, Jim would have a distinct advantage in their contest.  He doesn’t know how long Spock has been in the gym, but he was beginning to breathe heavily in his workout at the time Jim interrupted him, and if he were from Earth he would have built up a sweat, a core of fatigue and slowly growing exhaustion.  But Spock fights with an energy to match Jim’s, and his tireless, quick movements are a challenge.  Jim does his best to meet it.

He’s not sure, later, how long they fight.  He loses himself, no thoughts in his head but how Spock will move next, how he should move to counter, until he feels like he’s no longer his own person but that he has merged with Spock, two halves moving in sync.  He feels that hours are passing, then the next moment he’s convinced it’s only minutes; he feels a stab of fatigue and then, with the same breath, a lightness as if he were beyond all pain.  Here, in the swing of his arms, the blocked punch of his fist, he’s saying everything he wanted to say and couldn’t find the right words to express.  He’s saying everything again that he said wrong.  This is the release that he wanted because his anger, that coiling sickness that never leaves him, it’s only partially directed toward Spock.  The rest is reserved for himself.  He wants his body to hurt.  He wants to be exhausted and sweating and aching; he wants to be close to collapse; he wants to know nothing and feel nothing except the burn of used muscles and the overworking of his lungs and heart.  He wants to be entirely his body.

Their rhythm falters, skews, and he realizes with a jolt that Spock is no longer fighting as he was.  He rarely attacks, and he’s only barely on the defense.  If Jim wanted to win now, it would take nothing.  It would be too simple.  He stops mid swing, and steps back quickly out of Spock’s reach.  “Don’t even think of letting me win,” he warns.

“I was not.”

“You were.”

To this, Spock gives no further argument; nor does he admit that Jim is right.  He only gives a small nod, and then steps forward again to close the space Jim had put between them.  The fight is immediately intense, and he wonders how long Spock has been holding back, and how much.  That is over now.  Before he quite knows what is happening there is a fist an inch away from his cheek, set to collide with the bone.  He doesn’t flinch.  Spock doesn’t move.

They step back at the same moment, and Spock shakes his arms out, an uncharacteristic gesture that Jim watches while he should be catching his breath.  He watches, too, as Spock tears his gloves from his hands and throws them into the corner of the room.  For the first time since he walked into the gym, for the first time, Jim thinks, since the day Spock let out his grief over his mother, he looks truly angry, truly furious.  Jim’s surprised Spock was able to stop his fist in time.  But then, he shouldn’t be.  Spock is a Vulcan, after all, famously, infamously, in control.

“Are you all right?” Jim asks him.  It’s a stupid question.  He almost can’t believe he let the words out of his mouth, and yet, he hadn’t known what else he could possibly say.

“No,” Spock answers.  He’s breathing hard, but it’s not from exertion, Jim’s almost sure.

“Are you mad at me?”

Spock turns to him sharply at the question, surprised that Jim should ask the question or that there is no dare to it, no challenge, Jim isn’t sure which.  “I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Jim adds.  If he’s honest with himself, he wishes Spock were.  Jim’s anger is a wall between them, and he wants Spock to punch it down.  He hadn’t realized it before, but it’s true.  He can’t do it himself.  He’s too blind.

Uhura’s words echo, too loud, through is mind: Don’t you see you’re blinding yourself?

Spock is pacing away from him.  He stops at the wall, turned from Jim so that only his profile is visible, and then he punches one fist against the hard, unforgiving stone.  Jim half-jumps at the impact, but Spock seems not to feel it at all.  He lets his knuckles rest against the wall, and bows his head.  “I knew I should have told you,” he says quietly.  His voice is not soft, not a whisper, only perfectly audible and perfectly calm.  “You believe that I did not consider it?  You believe that I did not think of you?  I wanted you to know your son.  I wanted you to love him like I loved him.”  He takes a deep breath, and then slams his fist into the wall again.  Jim can’t stop watching him, can hardly to remember to breathe as he watches, and he wonders if Spock could really break through the Academy gym wall, if he tried hard enough.  This is the easiest thing to think, so much easier than to contemplate everything that Spock is telling him.

“Finding you would have been a risk,” Spock continues.  He grits out the last word through his teeth.  “If you rejected Sevin—”

“And you?”

His hands are still in his gloves, and it feels like they’ve swollen with heat.  They have become large and blocky and useless things that weigh him down.  His throat is dry.  He did not have to ask the question, almost did not mean to, and he tells himself it will be his last stab, tells himself he does not need to attack any longer.  He cannot win.  There is no winning.  For once, there is no winning.

“And me,” Spock answers, as he turns his head to look at Jim once more.  Jim wonders if he is waiting for some answer, some response.  But what can he say?  He was what Spock had feared he would be.

“I told Sevin,” Spock says after a moment, “about my retirement from Starfleet.  He became upset at the idea of moving to New Vulcan.  Yet he knows that what he wants, for his parents to be in Starfleet together, is impossible.  We can barely speak to each other, let alone serve together.”

Something in Jim’s chest constricts, and he’s not sure if it’s the realization of their own transparency, and what it does to their kid, or if it’s the thought of Spock and Sevin moving to New Vulcan that causes this tight, aching feeling.  Spock’s words are just another reminder that he shouldn’t need of the distance that will be between them.

He licks his chapped lips, and swallows down to try to ease the scratchiness in his throat.  “You know that if I could,” he says quietly, “I’d give him that, what he wants.”

Spock turns so that he is facing Jim again, his bare hands at his sides now, and there’s that air of youth around him again, so strong that Jim can’t look away.  “Have you finally found a problem you can’t solve, Captain Kirk?” he asks, low and mocking.

“You know, you never answered my question, before,” Jim answers.  His voice is a sharp contrast to Spock’s, loud and easy, a dirty imitation of friendliness.  Spock’s question is unfair; he deserves it and it’s true and he won’t admit any of it.  “Are you angry with me, Spock?  Did you have to force yourself to stop your fist, so you wouldn’t hit me?”

“No.”  Spock seems to anticipate Jim’s argument, and so repeats, again, “No.  I am not angry with you.  Are you still angry with me?”

He’s not sure if he can trust Spock’s answer, almost doesn’t want to trust it; it leaves him alone in a mess of emotions that contrast sharply with Spock’s control.  But then, it is control, he sees.  There is something to hold back, some feeling or combination of feelings that is more complicated than anger, and which he doubts Spock could explain to him even if he wanted to.

Spock is staring at him unblinkingly, waiting for his answer.

“No,” he says finally.  The word feels hollow, and it sticks in his throat as he tries to say it.  He tries again.  “I don’t know.”  He looks down at his hands and slowly, watching his own movements as if they were another man’s, he pulls off his gloves.  His hands look so small without them.  He looks up again and thinks that, finally, all his armor is gone.  “I really don’t know.”

Spock nods.  “I understand,” he says.  He looks resigned, and Jim’s not sure if it’s true, that he understands.  If he does, then he has one up on Jim, who feels like he’s lost in the dark.  He watches as Spock picks up his gloves, and starts to walk toward the door.  He stops only once, when he’s already past Jim, so that he has to turn to look at him.  “You are coming on Friday to take Sevin for the evening?” he asks.

“Um, yeah,” he answers.  “Of course.”

Spock gives him another curt nod, their deal made, their plans set, and then, no more to say, he turns his back on Jim again and walks out the door.

Chapter Text

Before the Starfleet Medical Center moved to its new location on the edge of the Academy campus, it was located in a series of buildings three blocks north of the main library.  After the move, the fate of the abandoned buildings became a source of debate among Starfleet officials, and while they discussed, the former Medical Center remained empty, in an indefinite limbo.

But that was before Nero.

Now, in the wake of Vulcan’s destruction, San Francisco has become inundated with survivors, men and women looking for fellow survivors, for temporary homes, for medical assistance, for work.  They come looking for a reason to keep going, to keep waking up every morning in the face of such incredible loss.  The first scattered attempts at a relief effort were all but unable to respond, too confused and disorganized in the face of a tragedy on a previously unheard of scale. 

A month after Nero’s defeat, the Medical Center buildings were appropriated by the consolidated relief organizations.  They have become, in the months since the Tragedy, the headquarters for the relief services for the displaced Vulcan community, providing every type of service possible for the still struggling, still wandering, still mourning survivors.  The organization is not without its controversy.  It is staffed almost entirely by people from Earth, Starfleet officials and civilian volunteers alike, and though they provide what assistance they can with the best of intentions, they are still seen as outsiders.  Many Vulcans, still of isolationist politics, still full of distrust, refuse even the most necessary help from any Earth-led group.  Still, they need it no less.  Some come grudgingly.  Others fall through the cracks.

Spock hates them sometimes, the ones he can’t reach.  He trains himself not to think of them.  He trains himself to focus on the ones who come.  They need medical assistance.  They need help searching for their still-lost family members, the ones they are convinced are not among the dead.  They want to move away from Earth.  They want to know about the new colony.  They do not know what they want.

It is the members of this last group that are sent to him most often.  He is one of only a few Vulcan volunteers at the Center, and his Terran coworkers often assume that he will be able to win over even the most wary or distrusting or ill at ease of visitors, simply because he is, by their reasoning one of them.  They are not always correct.  But he enjoys the feeling of rising to a challenge, enjoys even more the feeling, hard earned and rare as it is, of believing that he has made some positive difference for another person.  It does not pay off his debt.  Nothing ever will.  His planet cannot be brought back into existence; its dead cannot be resurrected.  But his work with the survivors helps to ease the hard pressure against his heart.

Two days after his impromptu boxing match with Kirk, he gets up early after a night of restless sleep, sees Sevin off to school, and sets off for his shift.  His thoughts are at once clouded and, somehow, clear.  He thinks about Kirk.  He cannot help but think of him, though the thoughts are no more than fleeting images, a few sensory memories of sound and image and not-quite-touch: the sweat across Kirk’s forehead, the movements of his fists, the flick of his tongue between his lips, the low, out of breath, scratching of his voice.

But he allows himself no more concrete memories than these.  It is useless to think of him, to think of their conversation, to think of the moment when fist almost touched cheek.  He has practical concerns to address.  His father will be arriving at the end of the week, a visit for which Spock is not at all prepared.  He is convinced that Sarek will wish to discuss Kirk’s place in their family in more depth, and he does not look forward to such a conversation.  Sevin will, of course, wish to tell his grandfather everything he has learned about his newfound dad, all of his thoughts on this latest development in his life, and this will give Sarek more than enough opportunity to judge again Spock’s choices, the path he has so carelessly taken that has led him to this strange, unprecedented place.

Some mornings, he wakes up and manages to think to himself that he has no regrets.  He has made the best decisions he could, even and especially in situations where no course of action is ideal, and that is all that even the most perfectionist of beings can accept from himself.  The feeling never lasts as long as he would like it to.  But at least he knows he is still capable of it.

He enters the Center through the main doors and takes the lift up to level three, the least altered of the building’s six stories, where the relief effort headquarters their medical services.  It is also where Christiana, the volunteer supervisor, has her office.

The lift comes to a halt with a slight bump and the doors slide open, revealing a receptionist’s desk and a waiting area, all but empty.  The only two people in sight are the receptionist herself, and a young Vulcan man who is speaking with her.  He has his hands on the countertop between them and is talking in what probably sounds to her to be a calm, emotionless voice, but which hits Spock’s ear as the tone of an irritated individual who is on the verge of losing his patience.  Spock steps out of the lift and waits, hands behind his back, off to the side and out of the way, just within easy listening range.

“I was told that Dr. Anderson would be available to see me at this time,” the Vulcan man is saying.

“I know,” the receptionist answers, “but as I have already told you, Dr. Anderson is not here.  She had an unexpected family emergency and wasn’t able to come in.  Dr. Malloy is here, however, and he would be more than happy to see you—”

“That would be impossible,” the Vulcan interrupts her curtly.  Spock watches as the reception purses her lips, and bites down as if she nothing would give her more pleasure than to evict this man from her presence.  Spock gets the impression that their conversation has been traveling this circular path for quite some time.

“Dr. Malloy is quite capable—” she tries again.

“That is not the issue.  I was told that my files would be sealed.  I was told that only Dr. Anderson would have access to them.  If I were to see Dr. Malloy, he would have to open my files, and that would be unacceptable.  If I cannot trust your organization—”

“Mr. Senar, we are only trying to help—”

“You are not succeeding.”

The receptionist sighs loudly at this, and the Vulcan, Senar, opens his mouth to speak again, and in the half-second before he continues, Spock understands that this is the breaking point of the conversation.  The receptionist thinks Senar is rude and unreasonable and Senar thinks the receptionist is untrustworthy and incompetent.  Spock can tell, too, from the man’s clipped and simple Standard that he is not comfortable with the language, making the encounter all the more difficult.  So there is nothing else for him to do but to slip in next to Senar and ask, “Excuse me?” so that both of the combatants are distracted from their disagreement and their attention is directed to him.

Senar starts at the sight of him, a quick movement that Spock almost misses.  He glances quickly at the receptionist, then back to Spock, and then with a deep breath, he says, “I do not know if you are here with the expectation of receiving some sort of assistance, but I would warn you that my visit here, at least, was a complete waste of my time.”  He is speaking in Vulcan, and his words follow quickly upon each other.  Spock would assume that it is his agitation affecting his speech, but he finds it more likely that Senar is speaking quickly on purpose, on the theory that the receptionist does not know enough Vulcan, if she knows any at all, to follow him when he speaks at this more rapid pace.

“Is there a problem?” Spock asks him, again in their native tongue.

“Clearly, there is a problem,” Senar answers stiffly.  “I live outside of the city, and I only come to San Francisco for my meetings with Dr. Anderson every two weeks.  The Center is out of my way, I do not enjoy the commute here, and there is no reason I should come if I cannot speak to Dr. Anderson.  Certain information about my health is confidential, if you understand, and Dr. Anderson is the only physician here I trust.  However, she is not in today and no one made any effort to contact me.”

“I understand your frustration,” Spock nods.  “However, I do not believe that there is anything Ms. Chanwith,” he gestures to the receptionist, “or anyone else at the Center can do to solve your problem, though we would be happy to assist you with whatever we can, now that you have already made your journey here.”

“We?” Senar repeats, and tilts his head in question.

“Spock,” he introduces himself in response, and brings up his hand in their salute.  “I am a volunteer.”

“Spock,” Senar says quietly, slowly, and his eyes flick across Spock’s face, searching it.  He is wondering if he knows who Spock is, if the name is a coincidence or a clue.  “My name is Senar,” he continues, and holds up his hand to mirror Spock’s gesture.  Then the slight furrow between his eyes deepens, so that he no longer looks curious, but rather concerned, and into the silence that has slipped between them, just before Spock can ask him if something is wrong, he says, “I believe I should sit down.”  He looks as if his knees are about to buckle so Spock helps him to the closest of the waiting room chairs.  He waves off the help of the receptionist when she half-rises from her chair, and shakes his head when she makes a gesture as if to call for assistance.  Senar looks pale, and he is holding his body with unnatural, too careful stillness, his eyes closed, but he doesn’t seem to be in any immediate danger.

“Are you all right?” Spock asks him, as he kneels beside him.

Senar nods, but he doesn’t speak or open his eyes.  He has his hands curled into tight fists, resting on his knees.

“You are sure?” Spock asks again.  He can hear his own concern sharp in his voice.  Senar’s sudden faintness had startled him, and for the first time he asks himself just why this young man needs to see a doctor with such frequency.  If he is seriously ill, he cannot let his pride or his sense of privacy keep him from getting the help he needs.  Spock watches him carefully for any signs that his condition is worsening, but if anything he seems to be regaining his color.

“I am sure,” Senar answers, voice quiet but eyes open, now.  “I believe it would be best for me to return home now.”

He starts to stand, but Spock clamps a hand down around his wrist, and he is startled into stillness again.  He gives Spock a sharp glare, and asks him what he thinks he is doing.

“A few moments ago, you appeared to be on the verge of losing consciousness,” he answers, his voice emotionless and decisive.  “Leaving now would not be reasonable.  I cannot force you to speak to any physician you do not wish to see, but I can strongly advise you to remain here until you are sure you have recovered.”

Senar seems on the verge of arguing, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he abruptly closes it again.  Perhaps it is Spock’s logic, or perhaps simply his tone, but he offers no resistance.  He does pull his arm rather forcefully out of Spock’s grip, but after he is free he does no more than sit back more comfortably in his chair.  “Are you a physician?” he asks, after a moment.

“No,” Spock answers.  “I am—was—a Lieutenant in Starfleet, and a scientist.  I have no medical training—”

“But you are a Vulcan,” Senar finishes, and the observation would be quite an obvious one except that his tone implies he has come to a decision, a decision informed more than anything else simply by this knowledge of Spock’s identity.

Spock nods.  He watches Senar’s eyes flick to the receptionist, who is still watching them, though she is making an effort to appear as if she were not, and then back to Spock.  “May I have a glass of water?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course.”  He stands, and leaves briefly to get a large glass from an employee lounge down the hall.  When he returns, he hands Senar the drink and watches as he swallows it down in large, slow gulps.  He does not kneel down by his side again, though, and when Senar is finished and has set the glass aside, Spock asks, “Would you prefer to speak in private?”  He is sure that the receptionist cannot understand their language, but the space is an open and public one, and the possibility of another Vulcan appearing is high.

“Yes,” Senar answers, and pushes himself up onto steady feet to follow Spock to an empty examination room just off of the waiting area.  There are two spare chairs in the room, and Spock immediately takes one, but Senar, unexpectedly, does not.  He walks to the far end of the room and stands there, his back to Spock, for several long moments.  “I understand that you volunteer here,” he says, finally, “but I must tell you that I do not like this organization.”  He makes a half turn, his profile visible now, and crosses his arms against his chest.  “What do these Terran men and women know of Vulcans?  What do they know of our history or our culture?  You are the first person I have met here who can speak my language.  Dr. Anderson did study Vulcan biology specifically while in school, but even she will admit that most of her former patients were Terran.”  He bows his head, perhaps on the verge of saying more, perhaps afraid to say more, lest any more of his emotion show.

“In my experience,” Spock says, “all of the volunteers try to be as aware as possible of the differences between their culture and ours.”

“Trying is not succeeding,” Senar answers sharply.  Then he lets his arms fall to his sides and sighs.  “Forgive me,” he says quietly, and Spock notices that his eyes have closed.  “I am not myself recently.”

Spock cannot help but be embarrassed for him, for the cracks in his control, for the volume of his voice.  This is not for Spock to see.  There is no connection between them except that of their race, and it seems a faulty and faint connection, now.

“Were you injured, during the Tragedy?” Spock asks him.  His voice is quiet, too, not a whisper, but hushed as if he is embarrassed to ask, or expects Senar to be embarrassed to answer.

“I suffered minor injuries,” he answers, “but they were not serious.”  He speaks as if waving the question away, as if both it and its answer were of no consequence.  Spock runs over phrasings in his head, how best to ask what he most wants to know: why a young man in his late 20s who suffers no lasting injuries should need to see a physician on a bi-weekly basis.  Perhaps he suffers from some long-term illness, a problem since childhood.  Or perhaps his issue is psychological, and he is too ashamed to put this into words.

Before Spock can ask, however, Senar steps forward and sits down in the second chair, next to Spock.  He seems stiff, his posture almost posed, and he stares down at his knees unflinchingly.  “I do not know why I am speaking to you,” he says.  “I know of you, of course.  You saved the High Council—”

“Some of them,” Spock corrects, and Senar’s gaze snaps up to meet his.  But Spock makes no further comment, and Senar continues speaking as if Spock had not interrupted.

“And you destroyed Nero.  I did not realize that you volunteered here, as well.”

“I only recently started working here,” Spock admits.  “It is not surprising that we should not have met each other before.”

Senar nods, but he seems to be only half-listening, more lost in his own thoughts than truly present in the room.  “I spend too much time here,” he says.  “I do not think it is necessary.  It is my husband who insists—” He cuts himself off, and suddenly he is looking at Spock again, truly seeing him.  Spock had been watching him carefully in his turn, trying to gain what information he could from his voice, his posture, and he had not been expecting to see his gaze met so abruptly.  He cannot read the expression that flicks across Senar’s face.  It is perhaps curiosity, perhaps apology.

“He takes a more optimistic view of the Center,” Senar continues.  “He often accompanies me to my appointments.  I do not like coming alone and sometimes, I think that I should not go.  But I cannot lie to him.”  He shuts his eyes again and shakes his head.  “Why do I share these things?” he asks.  Spock leans forward in his chair, barely recognizing the change in his own posture, as he watches the faint color that had returned to Senar’s cheeks fade again.  “Dr. Anderson says this is normal,” he continues, and Spock is sure now that he is speaking only to himself.  He would leave this man to his privacy, to his solitude, but he cannot, cannot trust Senar to be alone, and he keeps one arm awkwardly held halfway between them, in case Senar should suddenly faint or fall.  “But what does she understand about what is normal?  Nothing is normal for us now.  I feel as if all of my shields have been taken down.  I cannot stop talking, all of these emotions I am feeling.”  As he speaks, his hand moves down to cover his lower abdomen, and in this gesture, subtle but undeniable, Spock suddenly understands.  He understands it all.

“Senar,” he says, his voice louder and sharper than the other man’s, trying to reach him, and as he says the name, he seems to come to a decision.  He puts his hand on Senar’s arm.  When he speaks again, he uses the informal voice, even though it is inappropriate to speak in such a way to someone he has so recently met.  “Senar, are you listening to me?  How far along are you?”

Senar’s eyes snap open, and he jerks his head to meet Spock’s gaze.  His expression is completely open, completely transparent, every battling emotion of rage, embarrassment, surprise, utterly visible there.  He had slipped into a half-trance of meditation, Spock realizes, and to be so abruptly shaken back to full consciousness has left him without any defense at all.  “How did you know?” he asks quietly.

Spock nods down slightly to where Senar’s hand is still curled below his stomach.  Senar follows Spock’s eyes and, when he realizes what he is doing, he starts to blush a light green, but he does not move his hand.

“I remember what it was like,” Spock tells him.  His voice is low, almost inaudible, and he still has not moved his hand from Senar’s arm, is still not sure the danger has passed.  A moment of surprise flits across Senar’s face at Spock’s words, but he does not question or press.  He seems to understand quickly, instinctively, what Spock means, and he nods, then drops his gaze.  “I understand your desire for privacy,” Spock says.  “But you cannot put yourself or your child at risk because of your pride.”

“We are not at risk,” Senar insists.  “All the tests have indicated that I am healthy.”

This is a lie too clear, too transparent, to bother arguing with.  Spock takes his hand from Senar’s arm and asks him, again, voice deliberate and clear, “How far along are you?”

Senar glances at him, and he swallows down as if the words will not come.  Spock wonders if this information is shameful, and how it could possibly be, but in a moment, Senar forces himself to speak.  “Eleven weeks,” he says, and then, “Spock, is there—something—I think I—”

Spock only barely understands him, and is able to grab a trashcan from the corner at the last possible second.  He has a half-moment’s instinct to touch Senar’s back or his knee, to offer some sort of comfort, but it is an instinct born of too many years as the father of an all-too-human boy, too many years as his human mother’s son, and he knows that such gestures would be inappropriate here.  He has already touched Senar too much.  So he only holds the trashcan steady, until he’s sure that Senar’s wave of sickness has passed him, and then he hands him a paper towel from the roll above the sink.  Senar wipes his mouth off roughly and then throws the paper away, and he does not look at Spock even once.  He is deathly pale again, and lightly shaking as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and closes his eyes.

“I must find you a physician,” Spock tells him.  He makes his voice just hard enough to admit of no argument, the tone he used to use to deny students extensions, to speak to subordinate officers.

He expects Senar to argue, even now—it is nothing, it is morning sickness, it is normal—and even sees the beginning of a disagreement in the slow shaking of his head.  But when he speaks, he says, instead, “You must call my husband first.  The information is in the public section of my file.”

“I can call from here,” Spock answers, already reaching into his pocket for his communicator, “if you do not wish to contact him yourself.  I do not want to leave you alone.”

Senar shakes his head, and gestures vaguely at Spock as if to give him permission to call in his stead.  He forces a quick glance to see that Spock has his communicator in hand, and then rattles off a string of numbers.  Each syllable seems to pain him.  He has his eyes closed and his hands in his hair, head tilted down.  Finally, just before Spock sends the call, and as he is wondering how he should address this nameless husband, Senar adds, “His name is Soval.”

Soval.  The name echoes again and again in his head.  It has been a long time since he has thought about him, his ex-fiancé, his almost-husband, the second man he had to learn to forget.  He had never felt for him what he felt for the human boy—for Jim—yet he cannot deny that he had, in certain quiet moments, accustomed himself to the idea of building a life with that man.  They have not seen each other in years but Spock remembers him well, his quiet voice, his somber expressions, his air of mourning.

These are the thoughts of a few, errant moments, and no more.  The name is, after all, a fairly common one, and that Senar’s husband should share it with the Soval Spock once knew is surely a coincidence.

Senar’s husband’s communicator beeps again and again, and Spock is all but sure he will get no answer, when the other man finally picks up.  “Soval speaking,” he says.

It is a strange moment, then, how quickly he recognizes him and how that jolt of recognition seems to send a shock through him.  The unknown miles between them and the distortion of the communicator mask his true voice, and yet Spock cannot help thinking that Soval sounds just as he remembered him.

“Soval, this is Spock, calling from Vulcan Relief Services in the former Starfleet Medical Center.  I am here with your husband, Senar—”

“Something is wrong.”  The words are not a question, and he sounds, though worried, also resigned.  He is expecting the worst news, and Spock does not know what to tell him.  He does not wish to alarm him unnecessarily, but nor does he want to encourage Senar to continue refusing help out of a misplaced belief that there is no reason for him to feel concern.

“He is not in immediate danger,” Spock says.  “However, he has requested your presence, and if it is at all possible for to come—”

“Yes.  Of course.  Tell him I will be there as soon as I can.  Twenty minutes.  Tell him—”  For the first time, Spock hears a hesitation in Soval’s voice.  “Tell him that he should not wait for me.”

Spock manages to say no more than, “I will,” before the connection is abruptly cut off.

He turns then, and repeats the message to Senar, who makes only the barest movements to signify that he has heard and understood.  Spock asks him how he is feeling, and he answers, lowly, that the sickness has not left him yet.  When Spock tells him that he is going to get a physician, he does not argue.

While Dr. Malloy speaks privately with Senar, Spock takes the opportunity to visit Christiana and explain his tardiness, and why he did not immediately check in with her when he arrived.  The events of the last half hour are no surprise to her, having already been informed of Senar’s complaints by the receptionist, and she tells him, before he even asks, to wait in the reception area for Soval’s arrival, in case his help should be needed.  He nods once, an agreement and a thank you, before he leaves her office.

The waiting area is no longer empty, but it is hardly crowded, and he barely takes notice of the two Vulcan women who are sitting in the back row of chairs, patient and silent.  Finally, now, he can think.  He wishes he did not have the opportunity.  The rational part of his mind tells him that Senar is in no danger.  Bouts of nausea and dizziness are hardly uncommon pregnancy symptoms, and if Senar seems to be experiencing them, at least at the moment, worse than Spock himself did during his first trimester, that is hardly a cause for panic.  The stress of the still-recent Tragedy, his inherent distrust of the only medical services available to him, his inevitable confusion and difficulties adapting to his new life on Earth, all of these factors could contribute to a more difficult pregnancy.  He knows there is, most likely, no real danger.  Senar will be told to relax, to rest, to stay off his feet.  That is all.

Still, the encounter released a jolt of adrenaline through him that, though he does not let its effects show, he cannot help but feel.  A high risk pregnancy in its first trimester—Soval and Senar both must know that the possibility of losing their baby is real.  He knows that fear.  He remembers the day of the Science Academy entrance exam, the hard clenching fist of pain, the falling away of his consciousness, the panic upon waking.  The memory is almost more chilling than the experience itself; now that he knows the little boy his then-unborn baby would grow to be, the thought of losing him is all the harder to imagine.

But there is no reason to these thoughts.  He pushes them away.  In a few minutes, Soval will be stepping off the lift, the first time they have been face to face in over four years, and he feels the need to prepare himself for that moment.  They kept in touch during Spock’s early Academy years, and even met on several occasions when he visited Vulcan during his summer holidays, but as Spock became busier, the intervals between conversations grew longer and longer, and eventually they fell completely out of contact.  Spock had not even been sure that Soval had survived the Tragedy.  More often than not, he had forced himself to assume that he had died with so many others.

But he is alive.  He is alive and bonded, expecting a child.  Though he has lost much, more than one can count or fathom, as they have all lost—perhaps parents, perhaps colleagues, perhaps neighbors—he has at least the family that he wanted so deeply when Spock first met him.  Brief as their conversation was, he could hear clearly in Soval’s still-familiar voice just how deeply he cared for Senar and their baby.  They are his life.  They are at the very center of his life, the most important ones.  It is not jealousy Spock feels at this thought, not quite that, but perhaps it is some form of envy, or perhaps simply sadness.

Before his thoughts can reach any farther, he hears the lift doors slide open, and he turns sharply to see who it is now stepping out.  He has only a moment, a split second, to think, he looks just the same.  He does.  His face seems hardly to have changed since the first time they met, and though he no longer wears his professor’s robes, he still dresses as simply as before, and in the Vulcan fashion.  As he steps off the lift, he glances first to the left, toward the receptionist, and then to the right, where he immediately sees Spock and catches his eye.  Spock stands, too, and manages to take two steps forward before they meet, in the aisle that runs between the receptionist’s desk and the waiting room chairs.

“Spock,” Soval starts, more emotion seeping into his voice than Spock has ever heard there before, recognition and apology and worry, and all he can do is shake his head to cut off whatever Soval might say next.  There is time for that, there will be, later.

“He is in the first room to the right,” he says.  In his own voice is no emotion, so that anyone who overheard might assume that they had never met before at all.  “Do not be concerned, Soval.  Dr. Malloy is with him and there is no cause for worry.”

This time it is Soval who shakes his head.  “If he called for me,” he answers, “there is cause for worry.”  He starts to walk past Spock, but Spock slips ahead of him, and manages to reach the door to the examination room and knock before Soval can burst in.

“Senar,” he says, “Soval is here.”  He speaks in Standard, instead of Vulcan, in order to address his words implicitly to Dr. Malloy as well.  The door slides open as if Spock’s words had given a secret command, and Soval steps forward and, in three long strides, is standing at his husband’s side.  Spock does not follow, but he stands in the doorway anyway.  It isn’t his place.  He knows this, yet somehow he can’t bring himself to leave.  Neither Soval nor Senar seems to notice him, but Dr. Malloy gives him a quick glance and a nod, a sort of silent permission.

Senar is lying on the examination table, with his head tilted all the way back, and he only turns and opens his eyes at the sound of his husband’s footsteps.  He does not look quite as pale or quite as faint, only tired and perhaps near sleep, and he does not say anything even after he has met Soval’s gaze, even when Soval is by his side and has placed one hand, subtly, discreetly, over his.  “What happened?” Soval asks him, quietly, in Vulcan.

Senar shakes his head, shaking the question away in that one movement, and for a moment two lines crease between his eyes as if the words had pained him.  “I was just…dizzy,” he says, after a moment.  “You know that this happens sometimes, Soval.  It is nothing.  I should not have called you.”

“That is an illogical thing to say,” Soval answers, and his voice, now, is a whisper, almost painful to hear.  Spock glances at Dr. Malloy.  He has half-turned from them, his gaze averted to the floor.  If Senar’s condition were serious or urgent, he would have interrupted by now.  So it was nothing.  Their panic was unfounded.  Senar is safe and so is his child.

This is a moment that is not meant for him, a place where he does not belong, so slowly, quietly, he steps back and returns to the waiting room.  He could visit Christiana’s office, start the work that was his purpose for coming to the Center, but somehow he feels that to do so would be to leave in the middle of a conversation, to leave something undone that he must see through.  So again he finds himself waiting.

Fifteen minutes pass, and then, as he sees them emerge from the doorway into the waiting room, he wonders if he shouldn’t have waited at all, if he has only taken another liberty.  But Soval walks over to him without hesitation, Senar only a half-step behind him.  He stands quickly to greet them.

“Senar,” he addresses him first, with a nod.  “You have recovered.”

“I have,” he answers, voice more stiff and controlled than before, so distant and so formal that Spock is sure he is overcompensating.  He does not quite look Spock in the face when he speaks, but glances continuously between Soval and the far wall, his eyes the only part of his body that cannot keep still.  He says no more about his health, or what he learned from Dr. Malloy, and of course he should not and cannot.  It is not Spock’s affair.  After a moment’s hesitation, however, he starts to add, “I must thank—”

“No,” Spock cuts him off abruptly.  He would say more, but somehow no words seem right.  He can be neither coldly, distantly, professional, nor familiar.

“Spock,” Soval says, then, into the half-moment’s awkward silence, “it has been too many years since we have spoken.  I know that I am at least partially at fault for our loss of contact.”  He turns to Senar and tells him, “Spock and I are old acquaintances.  I have spoken of him in the past.”

“I remember,” Senar answers, and Spock cannot tell from his tone just what he knows or how much his husband has shared.  He still avoids any direct contact with Spock’s gaze, and the expression on his face, when Spock does catch it, is unreadable.

Spock clears his throat, then says, “I am just as much to blame, Soval, for the long period of silence between us.  To know that you survived,” his voice falters on the word, and he hesitates.  “To see you again, and to meet you, Senar, is a pleasure and an honor.”  The phrase, formulaic and stiff, feels so formal as to be false.  But there are no words for what he truly wants to express.  What he has is the only thing any of them, any of his people have, tradition and code, a language within a language, between the lines of which their true feelings must be read.

“‘Honor,’” Senar answers, and in this Spock chooses to read a deep undercurrent of sincerity, “would be a more appropriate word for me to use, Spock.”

“This is neither the time nor the place to recount stories,” Soval adds.  “We wish to return home, and I know that you are busy.  Please have dinner with us this weekend.  I am sure we each have much to say.”

“I thank you,” Spock nods, “and gladly accept.”

Chapter Text

His first indication that something is wrong is the unexpected wait after he rings the doorbell.  Usually, the echo of the buzzer in the apartment is all but drowned out by Sevin’s loud, fast footsteps as he races to open the door, and even when Sevin isn’t home, Spock always appears quickly to let him in.  It’s true that much has changed since he and Spock told Sevin about his human dad, and perhaps he can’t expect the welcome of old days.  Still, though, he can’t help the uneasy feeling in his gut.

He begins to wonder if he has the time or the date wrong, and the question makes him reach into his pocket for his communicator to check for missed messages or calls.  Bones warned him about this.  He told him it was a bad idea to lock himself in his room for twenty-four hours without his communicator, the messages on his computer blocked.  Jim had answered only that it was necessary: he had too many graphs, charts, lists, figures, calculations, problems, and most of all too many people bothering him, and he had no patience left for distractions.  He needed to get some real work done, that was it.  Then he added, “Don’t disturb me unless the building starts to burn down.”

So he’s not surprised that he has several missed calls, all from Spock, but before he can listen to any of his messages, the door in front of him slides quietly to the side.

His gaze shoots up, questions and apology both on his tongue, but when he catches sight of the face staring back at him, all of those possible words die.  Instead, he manages something like “Ambassador Sarek.  I—didn’t realize you were on Earth,” even these simple words mangled and twisted as he tries to form them with a thick tongue.

“Mr. Kirk,” Spock’s father answers.  “I arrived this morning.  Please, come in.”

He hesitates, uneasy for reasons he understands and others he doesn’t, and the latter have everything to do with the peculiar, unreadable expression on Sarek’s face, curious and somber but challenging, too.  “Actually,” he starts, “I’m only here for—” and then over Sarek’s shoulder, he sees Spock, who looks actually, honestly alarmed.  Jim swallows hard, and just manages to say, “for Sevin.”

“He is not here,” Sarek informs him brusquely.

“I left you several messages,” Spock adds, stepping up so that he is standing just behind his father.  His expression is more controlled now, but there’s something about his eyes, how they twitch back and forth between Sarek and Jim, and the stiff set of his shoulders, that makes Jim feel on edge.  “I misread the calendar when we were speaking last.  Sevin’s day off from school is next Friday, not today.  I thought perhaps you could spend tomorrow with him instead.”

“Oh.  Yeah,” he answers.  Talking around Sarek is more difficult than he would have imagined.  “Of course.  I’m sorry about the messages, by the way.  I had my communicator turned off so that I could work.  But it’s…it’s no problem.  This time tomorrow is okay?”

“Yes,” Spock answers.  “Sevin will be pleased to know that you are available tomorrow.  He enjoys your time together.”

“I do, too,” Jim says, and manages a light smile, but what he’s wondering is how much he should read into Spock’s polite words, if he is saying these things as some sort of olive branch, after their last encounter in the Academy gym.  Or perhaps, Jim thinks, he is saying them for Sarek’s benefit, as he watches with that same unblinking, unfaltering expression on his face.  “Well,” he adds, after a too-long moment’s pause, during which no one else speaks and there seems to be nothing left to say.  “I think I should go, then.”

That would be all, a simple ending to a simple misunderstanding, except that as Spock starts to say, “Yes,” his father says, “On the contrary, Mr. Kirk, I think you should come in.”

He can’t stop his reaction, a slack jawed and vaguely incredulous, “What?” that does not do a good job standing in for the polite, “I’m sorry but I do think it would be best if I returned to my work,” that he should be saying, and his only consolation for how rude and adolescent he sounds is that Spock’s voice all but overrides him as he says, “Father, I do not think that is a wise idea.”

“It is perfectly sensible,” Sarek answers, seeming to respond to his son more than Jim, though it’s the human man to whom his words are nominally addressed.  “I already know that you are not busy at the moment, Mr. Kirk, because you believed you had plans with my grandson this morning.  I would like to speak to you.  The opportunity has now presented itself.  In truth,” he adds, with a slight tilt of his head, as if this last were not worth saying, but he will, “I believe that this conversation is many years overdue.”

He opens his mouth to answer, though he doesn’t have an argument because he has become sixteen, or feels it, and he already sees there is no choice here, when Spock cuts in, “Father, I am sure that Mr. Kirk has many important tasks that he could be accomplishing in his spare hours.  There is no reason that he should spend them with us.”

“There is a very good reason that he should spend them with us,” Sarek corrects.

If Jim feels sixteen, Spock, he imagines, must feel twelve.  It does not matter that he is an adult with a child of his own; he is still a son, too, and Ambassador Sarek is clearly the sort of man one does not even consider defying.  He speaks with an authority that is powerful because it assumes no contest will be brought against it, and even though Spock gives his father what is most certainly, undeniably, a glare, still Jim is ushered in, and before he quite knows what is happening, he is sitting in Spock’s familiar kitchen with an empty mug that will, in moments, be full of scalding hot tea.

“I have wanted to meet you for several years now, Mr. Kirk,” Sarek says, almost casually, or as casually as Jim has ever heard a Vulcan speak.  He pours water from a kettle into each of their mugs.

“We have met once, before, Ambassador—” he starts to correct, but Sarek cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“When we last spoke, neither of us was aware that we share a relative in common.”  He sits, and rests his hands on the table in front of him as if he were settling down to a conference or a debate.  Jim glances at Spock out of the corner of his eye.  He can see just enough to tell that Spock’s head is tilted down, his gaze focused on his tea, and his left ear is turning a deep shade of green.  He has his hands beneath the table, probably on his knees.

He forces himself to look at Sarek again, to control his own voice.  If Sarek can speak like an Ambassador and a diplomat, a man with long experience being respected and winning his arguments, then Jim can at least take the opportunity to try to sound like a Captain, to infuse his tone with all of the authority that that position brings.  He knows what this conversation is truly about, and he sees no reason to walk around the topic, to imply what one can state.  “I can assure you,” he says, “that Sevin is extremely important to me.  I realize that I am coming into this family rather suddenly, but my intentions are good.”

Sarek stares at him as if he were speaking an unintelligible language.  After a moment, he says, “I see.”  He clears his throat, a subtle, almost imperceptible sound, then continues, “Sevin was telling me about you last night.  He seems to enjoy your company, but he speaks of you as one would speak of a friend.  He sees you as an adult with whom he enjoys spending time, but he does not see you as a parent.”

“I would hardly expect him to,” Jim answers calmly.  “The adjustment will take time, I know that.  He has only known me as a parent for a few weeks.”

“Precisely,” Sarek agrees, his voice cold, and Jim notices Spock’s gaze snap up to glare at him again.  “Sevin does not know how to see you as his dad because you were not there when he was born, when he was first starting to grow and learn.”

“With all due respect, Ambassador, I wasn’t told that Spock—”

“With all due respect, Mr. Kirk,” Sarek interrupts, his calm and steady tone a harsh contrast to the heat of Jim’s voice, “you were not informed because you did not want to be found.  You made it clear to my son at your first encounter with him that you did not intend there to be any future contact between you.”

He can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and neck, embarrassing and hot.  What is the point of this conversation, he wonders—only to taunt him?  To bring out all of his unseemly human emotions?  He clenches his hands into fists, under the table where Sarek can’t see.  “I hardly expected that he would end up having my baby—”

“Neither did he.”

“Father,” Spock says sharply, his word cutting in over Sarek’s so smoothly that Jim would almost consider the whole confrontation staged, if he did not hear that deep undercurrent of true anger and shame in Spock’s voice.  “You have made your point more than adequately.  Captain Kirk is not to blame.  He is doing what he can in a situation that is difficult, and it gives us no honor to live in the past and continue to condemn old mistakes.”

In the silence that follows, Jim looks between father and son and can’t help thinking that he has intruded on an argument that is not truly about him.  That would be a lie, though.  Sarek has been speaking to him as if Spock were not even in the room; this is no act for Spock’s benefit.  It only hits, inevitably, upon their history, a time in Spock’s life that Jim cannot even begin to imagine.  What must it have been like for him, to come home to this man and have to tell him that his son was about to become a teenage father?  Jim cannot help feeling shamed after only a few minutes in his presence, and with the full knowledge that his life and his decisions are not Sarek’s concern.  To face him as a son, and at the age of fifteen, would be a terrifying feat.

“I do not wish to condemn,” Sarek says, at last, but his voice is quiet now, a slight capitulation.  “If anything, I wish to inform.”

“Inform?” Jim asks, a slight wariness in his tone.

Sarek nods once.  “Spock and Sevin are the only family that I have left, Mr. Kirk.  You are intimately and permanently connected to that family now, no matter how much, or how little,” he adds, placing particular emphasis on the last words, “contact you have with my son.  Sevin clearly already privileges you with a great amount of trust.  I do not.”

“I assure you, Ambassador, that I will do everything in my power to earn your trust.”  He says the words slowly, carefully; he is not scared or intimidated, or responding to the implicit threat in Sarek’s words.  Rather, he is responding to the emotion he hears there, acknowledging the risk that Sarek is taking in showing such feeling to a stranger.  He does not like being bullied or intimidated, but this, this at least, this honesty and bravery, he can respect.

“You have a long way to go,” Sarak informs him in answer.

He bows his head.  “I know,” he says quietly.  “I know.”  Then, before he can rethink his decision, he stands.  “I think we’ve said everything we need to say to each other.  Spock,” he gives him a curt nod, “I’ll be back tomorrow to see Sevin.”  He turns and walks toward the door without another word, but he hears the sharp scrape of a chair just behind him, and footsteps following.  He knows it’s Spock even before he turns around.

“I apologize for my Father’s behavior,” Spock says.  “It was not appropriate that he should speak that way to you.  I was not aware that he was planning on such a confrontation.”

“Don’t apologize, Spock,” Jim answers quietly.  He has one hand on the door, his body half turned to leave, and he doesn’t quite look Spock in the eye as he speaks.  He concentrates on his shoulder, the perfect black of his shirt.  “It wasn’t—I’m not—he did have a right to say those things to me, in a way.  He wasn’t wrong to say them.”  He holds up a hand before Spock can say any more.  “I’d be angry except…if you knew someone had treated Sevin like I treated you, wouldn’t you want to give him a piece of your mind, too?”

Spock looks up, and Jim allows himself one true look at the expression on his face.  For a split second, it’s open, an understanding there that isn’t condemnation, nor forgiveness, and no longer apology.  Then he closes himself off again.  He nods, silent.  Jim murmurs again that he will be back tomorrow, and slips out the door.

“You’re just like Father,” Sevin tells him, and the comment is so sudden and out of place that Jim almost starts.  A deep frown creases between his eyes.  “He always lets me win, too,” Sevin continues, “even when I tell him not to.”

A thunder crash echoes, far off and subtle, and the rain seems to lash suddenly harder against the apartment window.  The storm hadn’t started until after they’d already stepped through the door of Jim’s building, but they’d both already seen the dark clouds gathering and put aside any half-made plans for a pleasant Saturday outside.  Instead, they’d taken out Jim’s old, rarely used chess set and started what seems to be becoming a marathon of games, upon Sevin’s insistence.  He’s a good player, a good strategist, Jim had noticed right away, good enough that Jim thought he could get away with a subtly purposeful lose once or twice.

“Ah, you’re too sharp for me,” he answers, now, with an extra bright smile.

“Well, don’t do it again,” Sevin insists, in his best authoritative voice, and Jim forces the smile off his face with effort.  “This is how I learn.”

“Yes,” he says, “of course.  You’re right.  Does that mean you want to play again?”

Sevin nods, and starts to rearrange the pieces in the correct starting positions.  As Jim watches him, the determined set of his expression, his precise movements, he lets those words play in his head again, so strangely jarring.  You’re just like Father.  It’s not that Sevin doesn’t mention Spock, because he does it all the time, casually and easily, inevitably.  The reference shouldn’t hit him the way it does.  Perhaps it’s the comparison that does it, or perhaps it’s simply the mood Jim is in, the events of the last few days, that makes the word jump out so harshly at him.

“Sevin,” he says, a bit hesitantly, not quite sure even as he starts to speak just what it is he wants to say.  “Sevin, do you and your father play chess often?”

It’s an innocuous question in and of itself, but Sevin looks up at him so sharply that it is as if he knew, or heard somewhere in Jim’s voice, what lies beneath it.  Sevin talks about his father all the time, because that man is the most important person in his life, because, for most of his life, Spock was all he had.  Yet Jim knows almost nothing of those years.

“We play sometimes,” Sevin answers, after a moment.  “He only taught me over the summer.  I like it, though.”

Jim nods, and taps one finger against the side of the table, two irregular, absent, taps as he thinks.  He wants to ask what else they do together, what it is like to be Spock’s son, but he’s wary of phrasing his question in such an obvious, outright way.  “He’s a good teacher,” he says, instead, “your Father.”

“Yeah,” Sevin answers, with a slight shrug.  “I think I learn more from him than I do at school.  He gives me lessons in how to read and write in Vulcan, so I’m almost as good at it as I am at Standard and English.  And sometimes we do math problems together and he told me that when I’m older maybe we can visit one of the Starfleet labs and he’ll show me one of the more fun experiments he knows.  Well, he used to say that anyway,” he adds, and then, “I don’t know if they have labs on New Vulcan.”

He hasn’t spoken to Sevin of Spock’s decision, just as they have not spoken of the Enterprise mission except in the vaguest of terms.  It feels, somehow, like a forbidden topic, a subject that it is not his place to discuss.  Jim knows that Spock made the only choice he could, but sometimes he cannot help but hate it, to feel that there is something deeply wrong in it.  He does not know where the feeling comes from.  It is, as Spock would say, illogical, illogical to revolt in such a base and emotional way to a decision that is so simply sensible, the decision to go where he is needed, to leave a place that no longer has meaning for him.

“I’m sure no matter where you are, your Father will find something fun for you two to do together,” he says.

“I know.”  Sevin is taking his time gathering the chess pieces, examining each one as he moves it from the board.  “It’s important to him that we spend time together.  I know because he tells me, to remind me when he’s really busy that he still loves me.”

It’s hard to imagine Spock saying the word love, except that Jim has heard it himself.  I wanted you to know your son.  I wanted you to love him like I loved him.  The words had hit him even then, and they’ve reverberated again and again in his mind since.

“I imagine he was busy a lot.”

Sevin shrugs.  “Yeah.  He’s been around a lot more since—since summer, ‘cause he hasn’t been working.  But when he was at the Academy he always had class to go to or projects to work on or something.  He was usually home at night before I went to bed, so he could tell me a story or at least say goodnight to me, and that was nice.  I didn’t like it when he was too busy to be there…”  He trails off at this, his small hands still now, and Jim considers changing the subject, or telling Sevin that he does not need to talk about this if he doesn’t want.  But he can’t quite form the words, because he wants to know just that much.

“Sometimes,” Sevin says, “if he wasn’t home when I went to sleep, I’d hear him coming into my room later.  I don’t know how much later.  I guess whenever he got back.  I never let him know I wasn’t asleep but I’d hear him come in and sit down next to me and say goodnight to me.  I liked that.”

Jim nods, quiet and slow, even though Sevin isn’t looking at him and probably does not see the gesture.

“I think he thinks I’m mad at him for always having things he has to do,” Sevin continues, a slight frown on his face.  “I’m not, though.  Father and I are really close, and he never misses the really, really important stuff.  Like my birthday.”

Jim’s never celebrated a single birthday with Sevin, and for a second that brief strangling feeling of jealousy seizes him.  But he forces himself to let it go.

“Yeah?” he asks instead.  “How do you and your father celebrate your birthday?”

Sevin looks up quickly as if he had forgotten Jim was even in the room with him.  “It’s not that interesting, I guess,” he admits.  “Father makes sure he’s home as soon as I get back from school, and then we call my grandparents and talk to them for a while, and then we go out and do something together, whatever fun thing I want to do.  Last year we tried to make dinner together, too, but that didn’t work out very well.”  He smiles a little, thinking of it.  “What’s nice is that it’s a day just for us.  It’s special.  It’s special because,” he adds, his back a little straighter and a certain expression on his face, concentrating, trying to remember something, picking his words just so, “it’s special because it’s the anniversary of the day I came into Father’s life, and that was the most important day in his life.”  He gives a little nod.  “That’s what he always tells me.”

Sevin’s face is so open, in that moment, and he looks, with his pointed ears and dark hair, so much his father’s son, that Jim feels himself completely disarmed.  He says something generic and meaningless about how he’s glad they have that tradition, but he barely listens to his own words.  What he’s thinking about is Spock.  He’s trying to imagine him as he looked when Jim first met him, that young, but with a newborn child, facing the prospect of raising him all alone.  Yet seven years later he can still tell that boy that the day of his birth was the most important in his father’s life.  Most important doesn’t necessarily mean happiest, true.  Does it in this case?  He has no idea, and doubts he could ask even if it were Spock facing him now instead of his son.

“Father and I fought last week,” Sevin says, as he moves another chess piece to its proper place.  “He told me we were moving to New Vulcan and I got angry.  I still don’t like that we’re going.  But I really hate fighting with Father.”                         

“No one likes to fight with the people they love,” Jim answers.  He should be saying this to himself.  He should be the one being instructed, or comforted, on the receiving end of whatever effort he is now making.  He shakes those thoughts away.  “But I’m sure your Father knows that you still love him, even when you’re angry with him.  And it’s okay, you know, to be upset about a big change in your life.  You shouldn’t think of it as an ending, though.”

“So what is it?” Sevin asks, a hint of skepticism in his young voice.

“It’s an adventure.”

Sevin looks up at him, head tilted and waiting.  He isn’t convinced, but he could be.

“We’ve talked about adventuring before,” Jim reminds him. “It can be scary—really scary, because you’re going out into the unknown.  But it’s exciting too.  Not everyone gets to be an adventurer.”

“I guess,” Sevin answers, though he sounds far from sure.  Then he bites his lip, and says, hesitantly, slowly, “Dad,” like he’s still getting used to the word, like he’s not sure if he’s making a statement or asking a question.

“Yes?” he prompts.

“Are you going to visit us on New Vulcan?”

It’s a difficult question.  It hints again at everything they don’t say, that time they do not speak of, that separation that may break their still-fragile family apart.  “I’ll try,” he answers, the best promise he can make and be sure to keep.  “I won’t be able to control where I go most of the time, Sevin, so I don’t know how often I’ll be able to visit you.  But we’ll be able to see each other on video—”

“It’s not the same.”

Jim lowers his gaze, staring down at his fingers laced loosely together.  “I know,” he says quietly.  “I know.”  Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh, and he forces that too-bright smile onto his face again.  “But we’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t we?”

Making the best, he thinks, is another way of saying, admitting a loss.  It’s as Spock said, a no-win scenario that not even Jim Kirk can find his way out of.

“I don’t see why,” Sevin mutters, but before Jim can comment, his son is asking him in a loud and steady voice if they can play another game, so he decides to let it go.  The boy is his son, too, after all, and perhaps some of that spirit, uncompromising and stubborn and optimistic, always optimistic, is transmitted through the blood.

He’ll remember almost nothing of the ceremony after it’s over.  It’s not a big deal, he tells himself as he puts on his uniform, pulls on his shoes, straightens his collar.  It’s only a bit of formality to get through.  He’s finished his classes; he’s graduated; his promotion was approved and so was his assignment to the Enterprise.  This is just an excuse for everyone to get dressed up and gather in the largest auditorium on campus and feel good about their latest, youngest, Captain, and their latest, most heroic, Admiral.  If he thinks of it as a ceremony to honor Pike, he feels better.  A moment in the sun is the least he deserves, and small compensation for everything that’s been taken from him.  If he thinks of the day as a way to honor him, though, to honor Jim Kirk, he starts to feel uneasy.

Underneath the uneasiness, he feels, too, a little bit of pride.

His crew is in the second row.  He sees them as he comes in, Bones and Chekov and Sulu and Uhura and Gary Mitchell, too, all looking as proper and official as he does himself.  He gives them a quick smile.

Later, he stands up in front of Admiral Barnett and listens to the same man who presided over his disciplinary hearing tell him about his valor, about what a credit he is to the Federation.  He feels the words more than he hears them.  They go straight to his spine; they define his posture and his stance.  He’s thinking that maybe he underestimated this ceremony, this moment, because he’s never felt like a Captain until now; he’s never believed in what he’s done, what he’s accomplished like he believes it now.  He can’t help smile as the Admiral awards him his commendation and pins the medal to his chest.

He’s directed to Pike, gives Barnett one last handshake, and then turns to walk to where Pike is sitting in his wheelchair, just off to the side.  “I relieve you, sir,” he tells him, and the words don’t sound personal, but they don’t professional or simply ceremonial either.

Pike’s own reply, “I am relieved,” sounds almost paternal, and when he shakes Jim’s hand and tells him, “Your father would be proud,” it is like stepping across a threshold.  It is like coming home.

He turns to face the crowd that fills every seat, and allows himself a half-smile at the way that they clap for him.  He knows that this glory will last only a moment.  Soon his job will be meetings and long documents and infighting and planning; soon he’ll be under the microscope again, his every move scrutinized for possible mistakes.  They’re clapping, but he hasn’t convinced them all, not completely and not yet.  There is still work to do.

He can’t wait for it.  He tastes the challenge on the tip of his tongue.  It teases and tantalizes.

His eyes scan the crowd, not trying to pick out any individual face but merely taking in the number of them, so many more people than he ever thought would gather in one place for him.  But even though he doesn’t mean to, his eyes do catch upon one figure, almost by accident, and once he sees him, he can’t look away.  He’s standing in the middle of the auditorium, but at the very back and in the aisle, as if he’d slipped in just at the last moment.  He’s wearing gray, and he sticks out sorely amid the cadet red all around him; the way he stands and the silhouette he makes seem to set him apart, too.  He’s too far away for Jim to see his face.  Still, he knows who it is.  He’s sure of it.

He tries to find him after the ceremony, but he disappears too quickly.  Perhaps it’s better, Jim tells himself.  He’s not sure what he would have said.

Chapter Text

The beginning of October starts to feel like true fall; the temperatures drop and the winds pick up.  Jim can’t help but be glad, as he and Sevin step through the door into Spock’s building, to be out of the cold and the almost-rain, and he rubs his palms together roughly to try to generate some heat.  Sevin is wearing mittens and what looks like a winter coat.  Jim can only imagine that Spock, badly affected himself by the cold Earth weather, walks the line between protective and paranoid in dressing his son against the elements.

They take the lift up to the fifth floor and Jim rings the buzzer to the side of Spock’s door.  It slides back a moment later and there is Spock on the other side to greet them, but before either of the adults can even say ‘hello,’ Sevin is launching himself forward to hug Spock’s legs and telling him, “Father!  It is so windy out!  I thought it was going to blow down all the trees!  You can still hear it, can’t you?  It’s whistling.”  He forms a circle with his lips and tries to imitate the sharp whistling sound of the wind, audible even inside, but the noise he produces is intermittent and weak.

“I see,” Spock answers, and places one hand on Sevin’s back as if to steady him.  “It sounds like quite an impressive windstorm.”  He glances up, for a moment, and catches Jim’s eye, the expression on his face curious and unreadable, and he adds, “Not a nice night to be out at all.”

“It really isn’t,” Jim agrees.  “My ears won’t stop ringing.”

“You should have worn a hat!” Sevin tells him, and pulls his own hat further down over his ears.

“I guess so,” he smiles in answer and then, as he looks up from son to father, he lets the smile linger on his lips.  Spock’s eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, as if he were coming to some decision.

“Sevin,” he says, without looking down at the boy he is addressing, but his fingers on Sevin’s shoulders giving a little squeeze, “it is getting close to your bedtime.  You should go and brush your teeth, and if you are quick, your dad and I will both say goodnight to you.”

“Really?”  He looks quickly from one parent to the other, as if waiting for one to contradict the almost-promise, but his face is so bright and his eyes so wide that, even if Jim were not secretly thrilled at the suggestion himself, he could not have found it in him to refuse.

“If your dad can spare a few minutes,” Spock amends, and quirks one eyebrow just the slightest bit up.  Jim keeps his stare, half-certain there’s a challenge in it from which he wouldn’t dare back down.  He hesitates only a half-moment, but in that handful of seconds a thousand thoughts rush through his head.

Sevin has never stayed at Jim’s place, and Jim has never spent more than a few moments on the threshold of Spock’s apartment as he’s dropping Sevin off after a visit; he’s never tucked him into bed or said a final goodnight just before turning off the bedroom lights.  He’s never had those moments with him.  He’s imagined it.  It’s a silly fantasy he has of parenthood, a stereotype of an idea, and thinking of it, wanting it, always makes him feel like someone else.  It feels domestic and sweet and quiet, and he’s never thought of himself as a person who would want to be, or even could be, domestic and sweet and quiet.

He doubts that Spock views him this way either, but still, he asked, he made the offer, and Jim certainly can’t refuse.  “Yeah, of course I can stay,” he says, addressing his words to Sevin and giving him a wide smile as he speaks.  The boy dashes off without another word, and then it is only the two of them, standing on opposite sides of the doorway.

Spock looks at Jim as if he were about to say something more, but he doesn’t, only steps back purposefully and lets Jim in.

He’s not sure how to take the invitation, really, and though he tries to put those thoughts out of his head, he can’t quite banish them completely.  They remain in the background, scratching and teasing, as he and Spock help Sevin get ready for bed, as they tuck him in, as he reads him a story because Sevin insists, and they are both in the mood to indulge him.  Spock doesn’t look at him again.  Jim sneaks glances at him out of the corner of his eye but his attention is always, unfailingly, resolutely, on their son.

Jim wonders if he’s sending some sort of message, if there’s a secret meaning to the invitation or the look in his eyes as he’d offered it, but he forces himself to bites down on his paranoia and swallow it down.  The most important thing is Sevin; they’ve each said it again and again, and it’s been Spock’s constant refrain since the first conversation they had about their boy.  It’s killing Spock that Sevin thinks they hate each other, and this could easily be no more than an attempt to show him that they can affect at least a semblance of civility and normality.  Still, something feels different between them, a certain tension broken, a certain held breath released.  There are moments when he feels almost domestic, simply and sweetly at home.

By the end of the story, Sevin, still so energetic and excited when Jim brought him home, has quieted and relaxed and seems on the verge of sleep.  Spock says goodnight to him softly, and Jim follows his lead.  He watches Sevin snuggle down into his pillow, some strange looking stuffed animal with fangs held tightly in his arms, and listens to him whisper, “G’night father, g’night dad,” just barely audible, as they reach the door.  Sevin calls him ‘dad’ only intermittently.  Most of the time he’s still ‘Jim.’  The word feels strange to him, too, but still it warms him, and he smiles.

Spock closes the door after them and they wander back into the living room, slowly, as if half-asleep themselves.  It is not late, but he feels drowsy with the atmosphere of good nights and sweet dreams, and the thought of going back out into the still-harsh wind, the storm that may break before he makes it back to his own apartment, is far from appealing.

He turns and sees that now, this time, Spock is watching him.  He has his hands behind his back but his posture is otherwise more relaxed than Jim usually sees it, and he’s standing just behind the couch and giving Jim a quiet, slightly appraising, but non-judgmental and patient stare.  Jim meets his gaze and almost smiles.  But he doesn’t, quite.  He can almost put a name to the feeling he has now, the strange sensation that has haunted him since Spock first appeared on the other side of the apartment door, and what is striking is that it is not really a feeling at all, but the absence of one, the absence of that slow burn of anger that he felt flare in him when he and Spock fought at the Academy gym.  Only the ash of it is left.  In its place is a strange emptiness, a windedness of the type that comes over him after a long run.  The marathon isn’t over.  But they’ve turned a corner.

“I should go,” he says.  He’s not sure how many minutes they’ve been standing there, each silent, each waiting, but he’s sure it’s been much too long.

“Perhaps,” Spock answers, his voice barely above a low murmur, and he hardly sounds convinced.  But then, Jim hadn’t sounded too convincing when he spoke, either.  He glances over his shoulder toward the door, sure that Spock’s eyes are following his.

“I have to tell you, Spock,” he says, “I’m not looking forward to going back out in that.  Sevin wasn’t kidding about that wind; it’s vicious.  It took at least fifteen minutes for my ears to stop hurting after we got here.  And I’m pretty sure it’s going to start raining soon, too.”

“It is already raining,” Spock answers, and when Jim shoots him a confused look, he gestures with one shoulder.  Jim steps closer to the window Spock had indicated, and he sees now, yes, there’s a light but steady drizzle of rain falling now.  It makes almost no noise as it comes down and he hadn’t been able to hear it but Spock, with his superior ears, had picked up the sound of it without difficulty.

“Great,” he mutters under his breath.

“Jim.”  Spock’s voice is hesitant, a bit cautious and slow.  Jim’s back is still to him as he looks out the window, and he’s not sure that Spock would have spoken at all if they’d been facing each other.  “If you do not wish to venture out into the rain, you may stay here.  I have extra blankets for the sofa, if the weather does not improve and you prefer to spend the night.  I only ask—”  Again he pauses, and Jim turns to look at him.  He sees Spock’s eyes flick back and forth across his face, as if trying to read him, trying to determine if it is even worth continuing with his offer and its one condition.  “I only ask that you leave before Sevin wakes up tomorrow morning.  You should know that I do not desire to deprive you of a morning with your son.  Rather, my concern is that Sevin should wonder what it means that you spent the night here and ascribe it a meaning that it does not have.”

“And what meaning would that be?”

He asks the question too quickly, a reaction like a knee jerk, and the words are hardly out of his mouth before he is trying to bite them down again.  Spock blushes, a light but noticeable spread of color across his cheeks.

“If he knew you had slept here, he would ask if you were moving in with us,” Spock answers.  “He would want to believe that the three of us were to become a family.”

“We are a family,” Jim mumbles in answer.  He isn’t trying to start an argument, and there’s neither anger in his voice, nor true conviction.  He glances up to catch Spock’s eye, and sees that his expression is completely unreadable.  “Of a sort,” he adds, in the same low voice, and quirks up the corner of his mouth.

Spock tilts his head and repeats, “Of a sort,” a tiny capitulation that Jim takes as a gesture of goodwill.

Jim lets out a long breath, then, and drops his hands down to his sides.  He knows that Spock is still watching him, and that his offer still hangs between them, unaccounted for.  “I’d like to stay,” he says.  “It would be great, actually.  Thank you.”

Spock nods.  “You are welcome.”  He glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen, another moment of hesitation, and Jim bites his lip, wondering and watching.  It’s still early yet, by their adult standards.  For either he or Spock to go to bed now would be absurd, but Spock at least can feign being busy and retire to his room if he does not wish to remain in Jim’s company.  In this apartment that isn’t his own, Jim can only remain in the public spaces, with or without Spock as he decides.  Two weeks ago, Jim would have simply assumed that Spock would make some quick and easy excuse and then make himself scarce.  No other course of action would seem feasible, the deep iciness between them making prolonged contact as painful as frostbite, but now, he is less sure.

“If you do not mind,” Spock is saying, “I have not eaten dinner yet today, and I was planning on eating after Sevin had been put to bed—”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Jim interrupts him quickly, waves his hand in a broad gesture toward the kitchen.  “Go on, don’t let me stop you.  I’ll just…”  He lets his gesture broaden, this time taking in the couch and the coffee table and the room at large.  He has no idea what he’ll do.  But he’s pretty sure that this Spock’s polite brush off, and somehow, he does not know why and did not expect it, it disappoints him to hear it.

He’s lost in this thought, wondering at it and unsure, when Spock’s voice cuts through his questions.  “Would you like to join me?” he asks.

He’d had an idea he would make this offer, quite a simple and obvious one, almost inevitable after the invitation to spend the night had been accepted, long before he said the words.  If he is honest with himself, he has been considering the invitation for days.  But he was hesitant.  There are words that need to be said and he knows it.  Still, he was not sure if Kirk would be ready to speak, to break their mutual silence.  He’d seen the fissures in the barrier between them the day at the Academy gym, but he couldn’t be sure how deep they ran, and so he hesitated, watching Kirk search blindly around the room for some easy distraction, wondering yet again if he could force out the words on his tongue or if, finally, he would do more than swallow them down too, like so many others.

So he hears his own voice as almost a stranger’s, asking, “Would you like to join me?”

Kirk’s gaze snaps up like a reflex, and it’s a second before he pushes back his surprise.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Sure.  If you don’t mind.”

“I do not.”

Kirk follows him into the kitchen and takes a seat at the table while Spock makes himself a sandwich.  For several minutes, neither speaks, and it isn’t until Spock has finished preparing his food and sat down in the chair across from Kirk’s at the table, that he breaks the silence between them.  “Captain Kirk,” he starts.  “I should be straightforward.  I did wish to speak to you on a specific topic.”

“Okay.”

Spock listens for wariness in his voice, but hears none.  Kirk folds his hands together on the table in front of him, and rubs absently at the knuckles of one with the fingers of the other, but his gaze is on Spock’s face and he’s waiting, listening.

“I have considered the possibility that I overstepped a boundary during our conversation at the gym,” Spock says, words slow and deliberate as if they were well planned and well-rehearsed, instead of merely the first words that come to him.  They are the truth, but he does not add that he is sorry if he did, because he is not sorry.  But if Jim notices this detail, he makes no show of acknowledging it.

“If you overstepped, so did I,” he says instead, and then, as if he were speaking the same words Spock was thinking, he adds, “But I have no regrets about it.  I think we said things that needed to be said.  If anything,” he admits, slowly, seeming to test the words out against his tongue before he speaks them, “I don't think I've said enough.”

Spock nods, but it is a false gesture, because he has no idea where Jim is leading.  Still, he's curious, and all his own words are only questions, and it will be all the easier if Kirk answers them before they're asked.  “I am listening,” he says.

Kirk’s eyes fall down to where his hands are still moving against each other.  “You asked me, at the gym, if I was still angry.  I didn't know what to tell you then.  But I realized today that I'm not, I'm really not, anymore, Spock.”  He glances up, just for a moment, not long enough to gain anything from Spock's still impassive expression, and then back down.  “I'm...what would I say?  I'm... embarrassed.”  His mouth quirks for a half-second, out of place smile.  “At some of the things I said.  I spoke in the heat of the moment, more than once, and it was all true, I’m not saying it wasn’t, but…”  His voice trails off, uncertain and hesitant.  He looks up and catches Spock’s eye, and his expression now is open, so open and honest that Spock knows all at once that Kirk is going to apologize and that he is going, in his turn, to forgive him.  “I hurt you,” he says.  “I know that.  And I am sorry.”

He considers saying that he was not hurt, considers it as a reflex, because being hurt means that Kirk has gotten to him, has pushed past all of his barriers and found the soft, vulnerable, weak part of him beneath.  Vulcans don’t get hurt, he wants to say.  That’s what humans think.  Except that Kirk knows better than most that that is a lie, and even if he had not seen some of Spock’s worst, his rage and his sadness, not even the most ignorant of Terrans believes in this stereotype anymore.

“I accept your apology,” he says at last, “and I believe it is only right that I offer some of my own.  I should have told you about Sevin earlier.  I could not predict your reaction—”

“You’ve explained—”

“I know.  If I am to apologize, however, it is not simply for keeping my secret.  It is for not defending myself.”

He lets a pause settle between them after he speaks.  He still hasn’t touched his food, though he’s still hungry, and as he watches a frown crease between Kirk’s eyes, he focuses on the feeling of his empty stomach instead of on the memory of his confession.  He remembers his father, remembers Nyota, how they’d warned him and disagreed with him and told him that the father of his child should know, should know, but still in the aftermath they had defended him without hesitation.  He remembers feeling weak against Kirk’s words, his gaze, and he remembers hating the feeling, wishing he could rebel against it but being stuck, always, beneath some weight the name of which he did not know.

“What do you mean?”

“You were not the first person to condemn my decisions, Captain Kirk,” he answers.  “My classmates, my teachers, my parents’ colleagues, and almost everyone else that I knew on Vulcan had an opinion of my pregnancy.  Most people did not share those opinions with me directly, but I was aware of their disapproval.  Yet when confronted I could always answer them, even when it was my own—” He cuts himself off, and feels a frown pass over his features, before he can stop it from forming.  He clears his throat roughly.  Then, as if he had not faltered, as if this pause in their conversation was natural and comfortable, no unseen ghosts echoing between them, he starts to eat.  He can feel Kirk watching him, but he does not ask any questions or make any comments.

Even when it was my own father.

“You are the first person,” he says, “to whom I could give no answer.”

Kirk doesn’t say anything, nor does he look up, nor does he still the movement of his fingers.  “It was bad, I guess,” he says quietly, after another long silence between them.  “Difficult.  To be in that situation.”

“It was.”  He won’t complain of it, won’t search for sympathy or even understanding, won’t be made into a victim or a case for pitying, insulting, charity.  What he wants is only for Kirk to know that something has changed, will change, between them, that he begrudges Kirk nothing, no emotion, not even his reckless and sharp anger, but he won’t be a target, as if the only goal he’s had for the last eight years is to hurt the human boy who was the father of his child.

“I didn’t know,” Kirk says.  It doesn’t sound like an excuse, nor a revelation.

“You are surprised?”  Spock quirks an eyebrow up, the question hardly worth asking, and Kirk shakes his head quickly.

“No.  To be honest, I never thought much about—”

“I could tell.”

“Do you want me to apologize again?”

“No.”

He doesn’t want to reverse their positions, and be the one to hold onto anger instead of the one looking for forgiveness.  He only wants this to be over, this impasse, this staring contest.  Jim Kirk will never be his bondmate, his partner, his lover; they will never live together as a family with their son, content and complete in that way his younger self had wanted, without ever being able to put that want into words.  He knows this now.  It is quite obvious.  But neither can they continue as they are.

Kirk sighs, and sits back in his chair, arms crossed against his chest and head tilted, considering.  “You’re right,” he says, “that I don’t know anything about your experiences on Vulcan.  But I—I wish I did, Spock.  That’s what’s hardest, for me.  That time I’ve lost with Sevin…and with you—”  His voice, strong and confident at first, falters on his last words, a confession he had not been sure he would share.  “That’s what haunts me.  It’s…difficult to accept that I can’t have that back.”

Spock considers answering that he knows, or he can understand, but he doesn’t and he can’t.  He considers telling Kirk that they have both sacrificed: Kirk has lost years with his son, and Spock lost years of his childhood, lost the ability to transition slowly from adolescent to adult, the way that Kirk could.  But he’s sure that this trade would seem nothing but unequal to Kirk, now.  He wants to tell him that he thought of him, that he missed him, that he wanted him, that he and Sevin have lost, too, just as Kirk has lost, in being separated from him for those years.  But Kirk is right.  None of these words bring those years back.

“It’s sadness,” Kirk is saying, now.  He sounds almost surprised, as if it were only in saying the words that he realized, himself, that they were true.  “That’s what I feel instead of anger.  Just…sadness.  Regret.  I know we can’t go backwards, but,” he gestures with one hand that ends in a tight-closed fist, as if grasping for something he knows he could never catch, “if you could…just tell me…”

Tell him.  Ideas flash through his mind at the words.  Each one is, in its own way, another risk.  He thinks of the letters that he still has; he thinks of the words his teenage self wrote, the secrets he told and the truths he laid out with such innocent honesty, how he’d closed his eyes as he wrote and tried to picture the boy, bring back every sense of him he could, sight and touch and voice and smell.  No.  He cannot yet.  He can offer—perhaps—something else.

“I will of course answer any questions you have,” he says.  His voice sounds like another’s, too calm and too distant.  It is a tentative offer, almost a negotiation.  Kirk seems oddly shocked by it, though it is so simple, the least, he knows, that he can do, and if this is a negotiation, it is no more than a first offer, easily given.

“Oh,” Kirk answers.  “Yes.  It’s hard to…”  He sighs, and a smile flits, quickly, across his lips.  “Hard not to say I just want to know everything.”  He closes his eyes, and while he thinks, Spock watches him.  His face has changed since he was seventeen, grown more serious and somewhat sharper, but in this moment, quietly waiting, he looks young, he looks like the human boy who’d asked him, so deliberately and so clear, do you want me?

“What was it like,” Kirk starts to say, now, slowly, and his eyes still closed, “when he was born?  What did he look like?”

“He was small,” Spock answers, such an obvious thing, but the first observation that comes to his mind, the first thing that had struck him when he held his son in his arms.  “His skin was pink.  He had your heart.  When I touched his ears, they unfurled into points, like mine.  When he opened his eyes, I saw that they were blue, and I remembered yours.”

“You were thinking of me?”

“Of course.”

Kirk has opened his own eyes now, and for the first time in a long time he is staring at Spock without anger or distrust.  If anything, he looks amazed.  It is as if, Spock thinks wildly, he is seeing Spock for the first time.

“I—often thought of you,” he confesses, that familiar burn at the tips of his ears again, and one of Kirk’s hands, resting now in front of him on the table, reaches out like a reflex as if to grab for one of Spock’s own.  He pulls it back quickly.  Spock drops his gaze.

“There was a possibility,” he says, “at the end of my pregnancy, that I could lose Sevin.  He was to be born on the nineteenth, but I had emergency surgery to deliver him three days early.  He was born healthy, however…when I woke, I did not know…”

“That must have been terrifying.”

He nods, but still does not raise his head.

“If you don’t want to talk anymore tonight—”

“Jim.”

He looks up and Jim is staring at him.  He takes a deep breath and feels it hitch slightly, an uncomfortable break in the smooth movement of his lungs.  It is not, in that moment, that he makes a decision, but that he feels it made for him, simple and clear in front of him.

At the same moment, as if they’d planned and choreographed their movements against each other, Jim leans forward, and Spock stands.  “I will return in a moment,” he says, and then slips from the room.

He knows where it is, the thin disk that he hasn’t touched since before the Tragedy, but when it’s in his hand he hesitates.  He rarely knows, anymore, what is a good idea and what is not.  Even this simple gesture inspires a wave of indecision, sickening and paralyzing.  He shakes it away.  This is right.  This time, in this small way, he is right.

“What is it?” Jim asks him, when Spock offers him the disk, standing arrow straight and impassive next to his chair in the kitchen again.

“A holo,” Spock answers, though he knows well this isn’t a true answer to Jim’s question.  “I—I will want it back,” he adds.  “You may make a copy, if you wish, but right now, this is the only one I have.”

“I’m flattered you trust me with it,” Jim says, taking it carefully from Spock’s hand, and even though he does not know what is on it, he handles it and speaks of it with a tone almost of a reverence.  Spock nods, a small gesture of assurance that he is confident his trust is not misplaced.

Jim breaks the moment, then, with a quick glance over at Spock’s plate, still sitting with its sandwich almost untouched at Spock’s side of the table.  “You should eat,” he says.  “You said you didn’t have dinner.”

It’s true, and he steps back and takes his place again across from Jim.  For several long moments, they’re both silent, Jim still staring down at the disc in his hand and Spock quietly eating, until the silence ceases to feel stilted and odd and begins to seem, almost, comfortable.

“You know how they’re making new holos now?” Jim says, with a slight nod down at the disc.  “They’re supposed to have better quality picture and sound and everything?”

“I have seen the advertisements,” Spock answers.

“Yeah, well, Bones knows one of the people who developed them.”

“I did not realize Dr. McCoy was so well connected.”

Jim smiles a little and clarifies, “He met her at the hospital where he works—”

“I was under the impression that Dr. McCoy’s time was primarily spent volunteering at a clinic.”

“Oh, he does that too.  I guess it wasn’t keeping him quite busy enough, though.  He takes a few shifts at the hospital, too.  Anyway, this developer came in with some sort of inner ear problem, and they started talking.  She says the new technology is overhyped.  She says don’t bother with it until the next update, when they get more of the bugs out of it.”

“Sound advice,” Spock says.

“Oh, yeah, apparently she was just full of advice of all sorts,” Jim tells him, and then, laughing a little to himself, he starts in on a story about Dr. McCoy’s first meeting with the woman in question—“she made a horrible first impression on him, but I think that probably cut both ways”—and in this way the spend the rest of the evening and the first hours of night, in conversation that is carefully neutral.  They are cautious with each other, true, allowing long silences to fall when there is nothing safe to say.  Yet there are moments, too, when Spock feels himself truly relax, when he begins to feel, finally, at ease.

Chapter Text

Soval and Senar live in an apartment just outside the city, in a neighborhood Spock has never visited before.  It is only by chance that he arrives on time.  The wrong turns he took, the side streets he stumbled into, the unfamiliar buildings and shops, all made him feel out of place and he could not stop himself wondering, as he consulted Soval’s directions again and again, if this was only the start of an evening during which he would inevitably lose himself an infinite number of times.  He would be more easily able to control his nerves, perhaps, if he were spending the evening with Soval alone.  They knew each other well, once.  They were comfortable in each other’s company.  But Senar is an unknown variable.  After his embarrassing slip of control at the Center, he will have something to prove, all the more so if he knows about Spock’s past with his husband.

He reminds himself to keep an open mind, gathers himself and straightens his shoulders, and waits for the buzzing of the doorbell to cease its echo and for the door to slide open at last.

“Spock,” Soval greets him, an unmistakable undertone of warmth to his voice as he steps back and gestures Spock inside.  “Come in.”

“I hope I am not too late—” he starts, but is interrupted smoothly by Senar, as he appears in the doorway from the kitchen.

“Not at all.  It is we who are not on time.”  He has a large cooking spoon in one hand, and he uses it to gesture vaguely behind him.  “We ran out of some of the necessary ingredients and had to go shopping at the last minute.”

“Senar dislikes shopping,” Soval adds, as if to explain the slight edge of exasperation in his husband’s voice.

“I dislike shopping on Earth,” Senar corrects.  “Have you found, Spock, that humans eat a disproportionate amount of meat?”

“One becomes accustomed to their habits,” Spock answers, his reply not quite as smoothly given as he would have preferred.  He feels like he has stepped into the middle of an argument, quite by accident, and what is disconcerting is not the disagreement but how ordinary it seems.  He has wandered into a domesticity that is not his, a private family life where he doesn’t belong; it is more embarrassing than if he had caught Soval and Senar in an embrace.  He looks from one to the other, unsure what to do next or where to go.

The moment breaks quickly, and Senar turns to step back into the kitchen.  Soval follows, and Spock after him.  The room is small, smaller than his own kitchen, and he’s not sure where to stand so that he remains out of the way.  He finds a corner near the doorway to the main room, and stands with his hands behind his back as if at attention.  Soval seems to be watching him out of the corner of his eye, but Senar, for his part, pays little attention to the arrangement of the others in the room, as he returns to the large pot he has boiling on the stove.  “I trust your word, Spock,” he says calmly, his back to them.  “I must say, however, that I cannot imagine myself ever becoming accustomed to these strange people.  Soval and I had tea at a café down the street yesterday, and I overheard two people at the next table arguing.  They were in public.  It was quite unseemly.”

“It is difficult to spend so much time around beings who have no control over their emotions,” Soval agrees.  “When the woman behind the counter handed me my tea, her fingers brushed the back of my hand, completely by accident.  I could feel everything she was feeling.  She had no shields up at all.”  He sounds amazed at this idea, at this careless openness of the Terran people, and he looks to Spock with a questioning expression, as if waiting for the secret, hidden explanation to this behavior that only Spock could provide.

“It was disconcerting to me, as well, when I first arrived here,” he admits.  “I learned to control my reactions.  Their way of life is undeniably different from ours; however, I have found that there is much to be learned from them.”

At this, Senar half turns to him, catching Spock’s eye over his shoulder.  “You must teach me these lessons, Spock,” he says.  “I am quite curious.”  Before Spock can decide how he wishes to read Senar’s tone, open question or challenge, Senar has turned away from him again, and announced, “I believe it is ready.”

Beyond the kitchen, the apartment has only two rooms, the second separated by a doorway from the first and screened by a makeshift curtain.  There is a table set off to the side, closest to the large window that looks out on the street, and it is just big enough to seat, perhaps, four people.  Spock helps Soval and Senar set the table and bring out the soup and bread and drinks.  The apartment, he notices, is sparsely furnished, which makes it look both larger and colder, more impersonal, but then, he could hardly expect any different from two people who escaped the Tragedy with so little, and who see their situation now as only transitory, impermanent.

For several moments, bowls filled and passed, utensils passed down from hand to hand, the conversation stops, and Spock takes the opportunity to take his bearings.  He observes what he can.  It has been, he realizes, a long time since he took a meal with his own people, with a Vulcan who wasn’t his own father and without the company of Terrans.  He does not feel quite at ease—he hardly could, sitting next to his former fiancé and that man’s husband.  But still there is a part of him that feels calm and in control in a way that he does not feel even in the company of those humans he is closest to.  What he feels, he decides, as he takes the spoon that Soval is holding out to him, is the sense of belonging that comes from no longer being an other.  He is not the example of the Vulcan race.  He is not the only different one in a room full of people who are all the same, the same in some way he is not.  He clings to this feeling and breathes through it, like breathing through a mask.  He doesn’t know what to expect, but he has this.

“Soval informed me that you had a son, Spock,” Senar is saying, now.  “I trust you know that he was welcome to join us—”

“Yes,” he interrupts smoothly, a flick of his gaze in Senar’s direction, and then down.  “Soval extended the invitation to us both.  However, Sevin habitually spends Saturday evenings with his other parent.”

Before he says the words, he wishes that there were some other way to avoid the topic of Sevin’s absence, some other half-truth to tell.  But the act of speaking passes the problem, the awkward, unsure pause, on to Soval and Senar, and he looks to each in turn to gauge his reaction.  Neither will comment with any but the vaguest of answers, the simplest of formulaic phrases to move the conversation on, but Soval will know, now, that the human boy has been found, somehow amazingly found, and Senar will know that the topic he’d taken the risk to raise is, by every unspoken rule of propriety, off limits.  Will he understand, Spock wonders, what it means for two parents to split custody?  Will he ask Soval about it later, and will Soval be able to answer, even knowing what he does of Spock’s past?

“Another night, perhaps,” Senar says, voice quieter now, as if in apology, and his head bowed.  “He would be welcome in our home.”

“Yes,” Soval echoes.  “I would be pleased to see him again.  I am sure he has grown up considerably since the last time I saw him.”

“He has.  He will turn eight this spring.  Time seems to move more quickly than one could imagine.”  He is careful, as he speaks, to concentrate on his food, to form his words as one would form words of no consequence; the topic will drop and he will be glad to see it go.  But out of the corner of his eye he can see Senar, so tightly wound and carefully under control that Spock feels almost able to read all the thoughts he is trying to hide.  His own child must be on his mind, constantly on his mind, and all the more strongly invading his thoughts when he hears of others’ children, how quickly they grow; Spock knows how unbelievable that sounds during the age long wait to meet his boy or girl.

“Spock,” Senar says, into the pause that stretches, just a few beats too long; he sounds like he is trying again, starting over, “Soval has spoken of you to me, of course.  I know of your work in Starfleet—”

“There is no need to speak of that,” Spock tells him, and then feels his ears burn at how sharply, how suddenly he had interrupted.  He shifts his shoulders back, clear his throat, and adds, “I have recently taken an early retirement from the service, and I am putting that time of my life behind me.  Any work that I did as an Officer…I was only doing my duty.”

“You were doing more than your duty,” Senar insists.  His voice has a barely hidden hard edge to it, but he says no more on the topic, only returns his attention to his food and then, after a moment, continues as if Spock had never interrupted, “In fact, I know very little about you.  Tell me: you are a scientist, what is your specialty?”

At this question, the conversation opens.  Words flow easier.  Spock tells them of his training at the Academy, of the experiments he helped design and of some of the latest work being done by his former colleagues.  Soval updates him on his latest work, only a moment’s sadness, quickly controlled, passing across his face as he adds that the destruction of his lab has, of course, set him back in his most recent experiment, and the exchange becomes almost animated as they trade stories.  Senar adds his own comments into the spaces, but he is the quietest of the three.  Spock does not know how to read his silence.  Is he holding his tongue in deference to their guest?  Or perhaps he is quiet because he is not a scientist, although the few comments he contributes seem to indicate at least some knowledge of and interest in his husband’s experiments.  Does he just want to listen, more interested in observing Spock and his mannerisms and his speech patterns than in allowing himself to be read in turn?

Spock finds a quiet comma in the conversation to ask him, “And you, Senar, what are your interests?”

“I am also a physicist,” he answers, with a slight nod of his head toward Soval.  “That is how my husband and I met.  After I finished my first degree at the Science Academy, I continued into the advanced study program in Physics.  Soval and I worked together on several experiments.”

“It seemed only logical to continue our partnership after Senar had earned his second degree,” Soval adds, and the phrase he uses makes Spock wonder what type of partnership he is referencing.  He glances between them, but neither provides him with any clues, and so it is difficult to know what to say in response.  He tries to imagine them, Senar a young graduate student, only a year or two older than Spock is now, and Soval, approaching forty, still lonely, still haunted, long hours together in the Academy labs, or leaning together over endless strings of equations, building that affinity that comes from shared work and shared ideas, slowly becoming used to each other.  Perhaps their lives seemed already so tangled, so entwined, that when each realized that he needed a partner, it was simple to know where to look, and no more.

“Not being able to work,” Senar is saying, interrupting Spock’s thoughts with the accidental clink of his spoon against his dish, the clearing of his throat, “since we came here, it has been difficult.”

“We still have most of our notes and our equations from our latest project,” Soval says.  “They were stored on computers and backed up on systems based on other planets—”

“Only by chance,” Senar adds.  “We were sharing our work with a Tellurite team.  They had copies of all of our data.”

“Yes.  We were, in this sense, lucky.  But we lack everything else.  Lab equipment, computers…”  Soval lets himself trail off.  “Perhaps we seem as if we are complaining too harshly, when we were lucky to escape alive at all.  Still, it is difficult.  Days stretch too long without the work one is accustomed to.”

“I understand very well,” Spock answers, directing his words to them both.  This is no polite or formulaic phrase; for the first time in his life, he is neither a student nor an Officer, neither a scientist nor a professor, and not even the added time with his son can quite make up for that hole in his life that was once will filled with papers to write or grade, experiments to design and run, the cerebral work that kept his brain sharp and that helped to vary his hours, keep his days vibrant and living.  It is rash, perhaps, but he feels the offer on the tip of his tongue before he has quite thought it through.  He feels it is right before his brain reverts to logic, and by then his mind is already made up.  “You must know,” he says, as he takes a deep breath, just enough time in the filling of his lungs for his decision to solidify and his resolve to set, “that I cannot make you any promises.  However, I still have a few connections at the Starfleet labs.  I may be able to convince someone to grant you access.”

He watches as Soval and Senar exchange a glance, but if their thoughts are readable to each other, they remain inscrutable to Spock himself.

“Do you believe that would be possible?” Senar asks.

“Your access would most likely be limited,” Spock answers, with a slight bow of his head, as if in concession to a sparring opponent.  “You would have to work around the schedule of the students for whom the labs are primarily intended, and you may not find the facilities on par with those at the Academy—”

“But some arrangement might be possible?” Senar interrupts.  There’s a low thrill of excitement skimming the edge of his voice, and a knot of tension in the set of his shoulders.

Spock gives his word that he will do his best, and swallows down his surprise at the depth of gratitude he’s shown.  Senar’s first reaction, genuine, honest, and open, seems to embarrass him, and in response he quickly closes himself off all the more completely, his control tightly kept, the walls he’s reinforcing almost palpable through the air.  There is a certain nervousness about him, and it sharpens the edge of Spock’s own raw, uncertain nerves.  He remembers Senar’s insistence that his files, the secret of his pregnancy, not be revealed, and he cannot help but wonder if it is the knowledge that Spock, a near stranger, knows his secret that keeps him always on this balance, faltering constantly between a chill reserve and a stunning openness.  The end result is that he is utterly unreadable.

Soval, for his part, rides the balance of his husband’s shifting moods, his guest’s tramped down unease, filling each silence with questions or stories or comments and keeping the evening afloat.  It is not an unpleasant meal, by Spock’s estimation, but it is occasionally tense, occasionally stilted, and he feels that he must work to present the perfect face.  It is strenuous.  Soval alone seems not to feel this.  His calm never cracks, and there is an easiness in his manner that Spock envies, never passing the line into something inappropriate, never breaking the rules they each know too well, never stepping over the line or showing too much.  He is, Spock realizes, more at ease in his own skin than Spock has ever seen him.  The shroud of grief that had all but defined him has lifted.  He still carries the weight of their loss on his shoulders but it is not the same, a collective hurt that bends them all down, and it is what he has gained since Spock met him that shows most clearly in his face, in his voice, in his bearing.  He might say it is enviable.  He might say it is lovely.

After dinner, Spock helps to clear the dishes from the table, even though Senar tries to insist that he need not, he is a guest.  “It is nothing,” he answers, and picks up the last stack of plates.  When he gets to the kitchen, he sees that Soval is filling a kettle for tea, and though he had not expected that he would stay this long, he finds himself accepting the offer to remain and drink a cup.

“Pour only two,” Senar says, and shakes his head against the unspoken protest he reads in the crease of Soval’s brow.  “Do not be concerned,” he adds.  “I do not feel ill.  But I am tired, and I think it best that I lie down.”

“If you would prefer that I leave—”

“No, Spock, please stay.”  His voice is so insistent, and his gaze, where it searches out Spock’s, so insistent, that he simply nods in response; he understands.  “I hope you will join us for dinner again in the future,” Senar adds.  “I have enjoyed your company.”

“And I yours,” Spock answers, and holds up one hand in salute, just as Senar does.

At first, after the water has boiled and Soval has poured two mugs, handed one to Spock and wrapped his hands around the other, they sit in a friendly silence.  It is not that they have nothing to say to each other, but rather that, for the moment, they are in no hurry to speak.

“It has been,” Soval says finally, low and quiet as if afraid to disrupt someone, something, or break a spell, “so long, Spock.”

“Too long,” Spock echoes.

Soval brings up one hand as if to gesture or reach, an uncertain movement Spock does not understand and, perhaps, neither does Soval himself, because he brings it back down suddenly.  He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come.  The evenings are growing shorter now as fall settles in over the city, and it has been dark now for hours, the kitchen quiet and too brightly lit from a lamp above the table, splashing a circle of light across their hands and faces.  Spock catalogues his questions slowly, separating those he might ask from those he never could.

“It happened so suddenly,” Soval says, and Spock feels a slight jump, like a shiver, pass over him.  He had not expected that either of them would speak quite yet.  “The day that Vulcan—we had no warning.  I was at the Academy.  I was able to evacuate, of course, but Senar…  It took me three days in this strange city to find him.  I was told I was awake, but I did not believe it.”

Spock has the sudden thought, sharp and painful, that, had Soval lost his husband, seen his second partner dead and been forced to start over, yet again, and in this new place that he had never seen before and did not understand, that he might have found himself incapable.  He might have ended everything.  He blinks away the thought, and all of the images that echo after it, the Jellyfish, the spin of space ahead of him—

“I considered contacting you,” Soval admits.  “I knew you had survived.  I could not help thinking,” he pauses, and Spock is not sure if his silence is because he is unsure of his words, or because his voice is breaking.  “Losing something is not the same as giving something up.  To have given up your friendship seemed unconscionable, given the circumstances.”

Spock presses his hands tight against his still-hot mug of tea, and stares down at the dark liquid of it, how it trembles slightly at its edges against the inside of the mug.  Soval once told him that he cared little for their people’s conventions.  He was not concerned with the finer points of their politeness, with their judgments, with their strict propriety.  What he valued was his home, his family—his friends.  Spock had never thought of him having friends.  He had seemed so solitary, worn down and broken down with his loneliness, and so much older than his years to the boy of fifteen who Spock had been, that it had been difficult to imagine that he could ever have a simple, honest, true connection to another.

“You are a brave man, Soval,” he tells him now.  He does not elaborate.  He does not explain.  But nor does Soval question.

To say anything more on this topic would pass beyond bravery, and into something approaching scandal.  The will hold their tongues.  The friendship they’d developed over Spock’s last months on Vuclan seems, after years of separation, sharper and clearer and more precious, more fragile and more valuable, than he could ever have known then, and he need not put this into words to see it, or to feel it in that deep down place where he can allow himself to feel.  The rest, their engagement, their plans, seems transitory and thin as smoke on a breeze.  He never loved this man.  But that does not matter now.

“You mentioned,” Soval says tentatively, “that your son was spending the evening with his other parent.  Are you bonded now, Spock?”

Spock shakes his head but he knows, of course, that Soval is asking only a polite form of the real question on his mind.  If Spock were bonded, he would have brought his husband to dinner, or at least mentioned his name, and he would not have to imply that his son split his time between his two married parents.  “No,” he murmurs, “no.  Sevin is with his biological father this evening.”  He does not look up to see Soval’s reaction; he already knows his face will be carefully blank.  “Much has changed since we last saw each other,” he says.  “For both of us.”  Here, finally, he glances up, a flicker of his eyes up but is head still downtilted, a gaze under eyelashes.  “When Senar told me his husband’s name, I wondered if it was you.”

Soval takes the hint and, a pause to take a sip of his tea, a collecting of his words, he says, a hint of amusement to his tone that would be inaudible to a human listener, “You are restraining your curiosity well, Spock.”  He bites his lip for a moment, thinking.  “He told you at dinner that we began working together while he was at the Academy.  We knew each other in passing before, when he was a student working toward his first degree.  Later, we started designing experiments together.  His mind is sharp, and he has an innate talent I had not seen, even in an advanced student, in years.  He challenged me.  I was his advisor, but our working relationship often resembled a partnership of equals.”  He seems to trail off, his gaze settled beyond Spock’s shoulder, and his fingers move in a light stutter against the side of his mug.

“May I ask a personal question?” Spock asks, the words seeming to form themselves from a long string of incoherent thoughts that chase themselves through his brain.  He can’t find the tail end of them, where they’re leading, at least not at first.  Then it seems quite clear, what he must know.

“Of course.”

“Did you bond with him out of convenience?”

If Soval is shocked or insulted by his impertinence, he does not let it show.  He brings himself back from that faraway, unknowable place where his own thoughts had led him, and he meets Spock’s eye, and he answers, “No,” not as if the answer should be obvious to all but as if it could be nothing but obvious to him.  There is no hesitation and no irresolution.  “No,” he repeats.  “I had lived too many years without a mate.  I had learned how to live that way.  I—in truth, Spock,” he continues, and his slow words pick up speed, a confession spoken quickly to be painless, “in truth, I was hesitant to involve myself with another again.  It was Senar who…was confident.”  He taps his fingers sharply, once, against his mug and then picks it up to take one long, almost gulp of a drink.  “We have been bonded for almost two years now.  He is…more than my mate, Spock.  I think that you, of all of our people, can understand me best.”

He almost says that he does not know why Soval would think such a thing, in words harsh and snapping, but he controls himself.  Such words are not necessary.  He is not angry, though nor can he be flattered as perhaps Soval thinks he should be.  Maybe he is only stating a fact, no hope or assumption of any reaction from Spock in return.  He only knows that Spock, too, has made a life-changing decision because he felt, not because he thought.  Surely Spock did not love that human boy, no, but he wanted him, wanted him against all logic, wanted him beyond rationality.  He allowed himself that want.  He gave into it.  Perhaps Soval, too, feels that he gave into a want, when he married that young man, just at the beginning of his career and his life more open to possibilities than Soval’s had been in years.

“I do not think that I can understand as much as you believe,” he answers lowly.

Soval shakes his head.  “You asked if it was a bond of convenience,” he says.  “You did not merely assume that it was.  Spock,” he takes a breath, drawing together his words as he draws in air.  “Spock, you know we do not speak of these things.  True feelings—love—these are hidden things.  They are our secrets.  But—I do—”

There is a wall here, past which not even Soval can reach, and he looks down at the tabletop, head completely bowed and shoulders stiff.  There is less air in the room than there should be.

“You told me that you wanted a family, and a comfortable home,” Spock says, and he watches the top of Soval’s head and the press of his hands, but he does not expect him to look up and hopes he won’t.  He could not speak otherwise.  “That was years ago.  I see that you have that now, and I—that is how it should be, Soval.”

He sees Soval nod, the slightest movement of his head.  “You know that we are expecting a child,” he says.

“I do.”

Soval moves one hand up to cover his eyes.  He had seemed, in Senar’s presence, younger than his years, but now in this moment he seems older, bent and weighted with worry.  “It was what we wanted, before the Tragedy,” he confesses.  “Our circumstances are different now.  There are so many variables, and it is still early.  That is why Senar does not wish anyone to know.”

“I hope you know that I will keep your secret.”

“Of course.  I did not doubt that, Spock.  I only…”  His voice trails, and he looks up.  For a moment, a quick blink of a moment, his face is open and honest, terrified and hopeful, every thought he has had since he came to know he was to be a father utterly exposed upon that face, and this is the way that Vulcans used to look at each other, raw and fierce.  Then a mask falls over his features.

“Of course,” Spock echoes.  He does not speak to save Soval from speaking, but because he knows he won’t.  There is nothing more that he can say.

If Spock could share his own thoughts, he would say, you cannot worry.  You cannot let yourself be consumed by worry.  It does not feel real some days and others, it is painfully so, and that little boy or girl could be anyone, every possibility opened to him or her now if only you can provide a place from which to start.  The responsibility is terrible and breathtaking.  He knew he was not ready, when he faced it himself, and perhaps they feel they are not either, a strange city and a strange planet and their lives now defined by loss, but they are, he knows they are, and he would say it, if there were words with which to say it.  But there aren’t.  And he can’t.

It’s late, the apartment dark and quiet, and he knows he should have been asleep hours ago.  There is a deep fatigue settling in over his muscles; he aches with it; he wants to sink into a bed piled high with pillows and sleep and sleep the deep and dreamless sleep of the exhausted.  He knows that he won’t, though.  He knows that if he falls down into bed now he’ll only lie awake, twisting from one side to the other restlessly.  He wanders into the bathroom instead and strips off his clothes, piece by piece, and then steps under a spray of water as hot as he can make it.  He scrubs away dirt and restlessness.  He shakes out all of his limbs.

Later, it’s two in the morning and he’s bleary eyed, he wraps himself in a thick blanket even though the night isn’t a cold one, makes sure it’s held tight across his shoulders and stretched out to perfectly cover his feet, and he sits in the overstuffed living room chair that he and Bones bought for a handful of credits at a used furniture sale two summers ago, and he prepares to watch the holo that Spock gave him.  He doesn’t know what to expect.  It could, really, be anything, and his lungs seize unexpectedly as he sets the holo to play.

The first shot is jumpy and he’s not sure what it is or what’s happening.  Then it becomes clear.  There is a room, poorly lit except in the corner, where one bright light illuminates a figure, and Jim knows who he is, there is no question, but he doesn’t quite let himself believe that he knows.  He watches with his breath held.  He is so very young, the Vulcan boy.  He’s sitting in a rocking chair, an incongruous image, a person so alien and an object so familiar, and he’s moving slowly back and forth, so slowly and so carefully that Jim does not realize, at first, that he is moving at all.  His head is bowed.  His black hair shines in the light above him.  And he is not alone.

Jim’s gaze moves down to the boy’s arms, where he’s holding a child so small and so carefully bundled that he almost cannot make him out.  That’s his son, that’s the Vulcan boy’s son and Jim’s son, too, and how old is he here, how many days can one measure his short life in?  The Vulcan boy is holding him so carefully.  Jim curls his fingers up in the blanket that he’s holding tight around himself, and he wills the shot to tighten, wills his view closer to that small, small, person, as if somehow in this way he could reach out and hold him, too.

As he watches, the Vulcan boy looks up, a slight frown of disapproval across his features.  “Mother,” he says, “is this really necessary?”

“Trust me, Spock,” a woman’s voice answers from off screen, “someday you will be glad you have this.  He will grow up faster than you realize.”

Jim has to pause the holo, here, because there’s a pricking in his eyes and he does not want to close them, does not want to miss a second.  They truly could not have known, either mother or son, grandmother or new father, what the value of these captured moments would be.  Jim never knew Amanda.  He does not even know what she looked like.  But he cannot imagine what it would be to Spock to lend this to him, perhaps the only recording he has of her voice.  He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

It isn’t a time machine.  It isn’t the same as being able to hold his baby in his arms.  But it’s something, and no insignificant thing.

He sets the holo to play again and watches as the focus shifts to the Vulcan boy’s face.  He looks like he did when Jim first met him, and he realizes that he did not understand how the years had changed him until this moment.  The boy on the screen is sixteen years old, his face only beginning to lose its child’s roundness, and a certain awkward teenage bent to his frame.  “I—know,” he is saying.  “He has already grown so much, I think.  Does it seem so to you?  After only four weeks?”

“He has,” Amanda’s voice comes, quiet and almost reverent, into the scene.  “Let me see him, Spock.”

As she speaks, the boy shifts, and he carefully moves the blanket that is wrapped around his son, until the child’s face is visible.  He is beautiful, Jim thinks, breathtaking and beautiful, pink cheeks and black hair and tiny pointed ears, his genes and the Vulcan boy’s, twined together to create this, and oh, he feels it in his heart, he does, more than he’s ever felt anything before, a deep grip against his heart.  He swallows hard.

When this was recorded, he thinks, he was living in Riverside.  He was wasting time, he was getting by.  And while he was drifting so, the Vulcan boy was becoming a father, was responsible, all by himself, for this small being, this delicate little person.  He would have been terrified, if it had been him.  He feels that, now, feels a great swelling of his heart, love and longing, sadness and regret, but fear as well, the sort of fear that washes over a person when the stakes are real and the potential loss unbearable.  He’s the type to thrive on such fear.  But that does not mean he doesn’t feel it.

He watches the rest of the holo with his hands over his mouth.  Just breathing is difficult.  He’ll watch it again, he decides, before he returns it to Spock.  He won’t be able to stop himself.  It’s as if some part of himself that he did not know he had was opening up.  It’s painful and irreversible and strange.  Somehow, though, he’s better for it.  A new life is like a new start, he thinks, and what he’s ready for now is just that new beginning.  He’s ready to start again.

Chapter Text

He’s been here before.  He remembers it.  He remembers the unfamiliarity of touch, the deep thrill of the forbidden.

But it’s different now.  He knows this man, now.  He knows the color of his eyes and the shades of his voice, and the ways that he gestures.  He knows what his anger looks like, and what his fear sounds like, and he remembers, somehow, what his passion felt like, and he feels it now, oh he feels it.  The man is kneeling in front of him, kissing his knees—why his knees—he feels dizzy.  He doesn’t know.  He shuts his eyes tight until he sees stars behind his eyelids and the man laughs, laughs at him, and runs his hands up from his knees up the outside of his thighs and tells him, low and soft but insistent, “Keep them open.  Why do you want to miss this?  Why do you want to miss this again?”

“Again?  No, I remember.  I remember so well.”

“Do you?  Really?  You remember what I taste like?  You remember what I feel like against you?  You remember my hands and—Spock, you’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

He feels kisses, soft but distinct presses of lips, one after the other, tracing a path up the inside of his leg, up higher and higher; he runs his hand down through the other’s hair to snag at the base of his neck, holding him steady.  There is a warm breath on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.  His eyes are still closed and he turns his head away, too, but—

“Open your eyes, Spock,” he says, strong and adamant, a Captain’s voice, a Captain’s order.  “Do I have to tell you again?”

No, no, he wants to see this.  He does.  He wants to see the way those fingers grip his hips, wants to admire the unique sharp lines and curves of the other man’s face as he kisses and licks at Spock’s skin.  “You are teasing me,” Spock says.  His voice is barely more than a whisper, and it shakes as he tries to form the words.

The man laughs, a sharp exhale against Spock’s sensitive skin.  “I am,” he admits, with no remorse.  He’s moving his hands up Spock’s body now, sliding gracefully up his sides, reaching up the way that plants reach up for the sun.  Spock grabs his wrists on instinct and pulls him up and then they are toppling down, one on top of the other, on the bed.  Yes, this familiar bed, yes these familiar sheets.  He pulls the other man close, so much skin and so much skin and oh, how long has it been since he’s felt like this, ready to let go.

“Are you, really?  Can you?” the other man is asking, mouth right up to the shell of Spock’s ear, as if he could read his thoughts.   “Do you really trust me, Spock?  Can you really let go?”

“I want to,” he answers.  It isn’t an answer.  It’s the only answer he has.  The other man laughs again and then rolls sharply off of Spock and pulls him after, so that now Spock is on top, and the human man is pressed into the mattress underneath Spock’s weight.

“Take,” he says, and this time it’s his hand in Spock’s hair, gripping the short strands, keeping his gaze so that there’s nowhere to look but those wide open blue eyes, that full mouth twisted up into a half smile, and his voice is so rough and so daring and so sweet, each word formed careful and slow, “what you want.”

He’s suddenly quite painfully aware of his own strength, his own power, and he feels the low, animal thrill of control unfolding up his spine.  “What I want,” he whispers.  Oh, but he wants it all, wants it all.

He grabs at the man’s wrists and holds them tight, then pins them down to the bed.  The other man is grinning.  He wants this, he knows what’s happening, it’s some sort of plan.  He’s almost laughing.  Spock dips his head so that they’re nose to nose.

“It’s been so long,” the man is whispering.  “So very long, Spock.  Did you know I missed you?  Did you know I still want you?  The things I would say to you, Spock, if I could, if I just had the opportunity, do you remember all of those filthy things I said to you then?  Oh, and the things I would do to you, Spock, do you even want to know what I would do?”

Spock listens to these words with his eyes closed.  He seems to feel the very syllables against his skin.  His blood is pounding in his ears, his skin flushed, his body too warm, and he can feel the way the other man squirms under him, pressing his hips into Spock’s, teasing him and taunting him and showing him, too, oh how much he wants him.  It’s thrilling.  It’s terrifying.

You could never get me out of your head, could you?

These words, this time, they seep right through his skin.  He feels himself shiver, the way one shivers through a fever, hard and ugly chills that shake him.  Then the human boy, this man beneath him, older now and no longer nameless, but he can’t quite bring himself to say that name—the man starts to whisper to him again.  His voice is soft now.  “It’s okay, Spock,” he’s saying.  “It’s all right.”  Nothing more coherent than this, and no sound in the room at all but the low murmur of his voice.  Spock tilts his head.  He kisses the man’s cheek, and then the corner of his mouth.  Then his chin.  And his other cheek.  Then his lips.

He still has the man’s wrists pinned but as the kiss deepens, opens, shaky and fraught and insistent, he lets them go and then suddenly those hands are sliding up his arms and exploring down his back.  There is no more speaking now, no more words.  Emotions flit across skin, fluttering like butterfly kisses, attraction and lust, apology and regret, affection too.  He never would have, he never would have then, if he had not felt affection.

“You know that I wanted you,” Jim is whispering now into his mouth.  They’ve tangled themselves up in the sheets and each other’s limbs, each point of contact bliss and agony, and Jim has his hands on Spock’s face, holding him so still and so close it’s claustrophobic.  “You know that it was real.  As real as it—”

“Could be.”  He nods, and he knows Jim’s eyes are closed and he can only feel the movement, hands on Spock’s face still, body crushed close.

The hands slip down, touch delicately at his neck and reverently at his shoulders and side and hips, then drift to the small of his back and hold him there, hold him close.  Another kiss, through which he forgets to breathe.  Then those lips leave his and his head tilts back and the man is kissing down his neck and sucking at the space above his collarbone and one hand, one hand has moved across his hip, delicate touch of trailing fingers, and then further, and then those fingers are curled around his cock and he lets out one long, low sound, the touch is so unexpected, when he could not believe anything could be unexpected.

“Do you trust me still?” Jim whispers.

His voice is familiar, and young, much too much of each, and Spock wonders at his own age and his own body and his own sensations, and he’s afraid to open his eyes.  He is on some edge.  He cannot look down, the vertigo would throw him, and his heart rate is too fast with lust and excitement and yes, with fear.  This is an adrenaline rush.  This is the biggest rush he has felt in months.  He needs it.  He is utterly vulnerable and utterly lost, and he holds on to the other man, he holds onto Jim, and buries his face in his shoulder and grips at his shoulders and back, as if this could help, as if this could truly solve everything.  But he doesn’t answer the question and Jim doesn’t stop asking it, a low, rumbling chant, like distant thunder.  It builds and builds until it wakes him, finally, and he’s alone and breathing too fast and too hard.  He still hears the echo, “Do you trust me, do you, do you, do you trust me still?”

The dream leaves him rattled, more so than he would care to admit.  He finds himself thinking about it at odd moments.  It slips in through cracks in his carefully made barriers, cracks he did not realize were there, thin and insistent tendrils of thought that make his mouth go dry.

He was aware, of course, that a part of him had never stopped being attracted to Jim Kirk.  But it was always a small part, easily buried and easily ignored, completely irrelevant.  He knows how to prioritize; he knows how to push what is unnecessary away.  Right now what is necessary is giving Sevin a stable relationship with each of his parents.  What is necessary is protecting himself, protecting, as the humans say, his heart.  He needs to find a level ground on which to stand with the new Captain, where they can be civil and polite, where they can even be—he hesitates on the word even in his own thoughts—where they can be friendly.  They seem to be approaching such a place.  The ice between them is broken.  They are experiencing a thaw, and it feels not unlike that first thaw he ever felt.  He was eighteen years old and a new Cadet, miserable and desperate his first winter, and the others told him it was a warm Earth winter but he was used to the desert, and it was too cold and too wet and the chill too sharp for his blood, and when the first thaw came it was sweet and soothing, and he started to feel, again, like perhaps he could accomplish this, this almost impossible thing, his life as he’d made it.

So this thaw now feels the same.  It feels like walking out into the crisp new air of spring.  But he does not want to be optimistic, does not want to allow himself that; it is an excess.  Sexual feelings, simple sexual feelings, are easily put away.  He has done it before, through long periods of celibacy that he never actively sought to break; he does it every day in the way that he defines himself by what he does and what he has to do, and never by what he feels or what he wants.  He will do it now.  He stands under the warm spray of the shower, the tiny droplets soothing down his body, and he brings back the dream in careful measures, sliding over details, sliding his hand over his skin.  It is enough.  He takes a shaky breath as he finishes, and leans back against the wall of the shower, exhausted and panting, tired and spent.  For the moment, then, his body is satisfied, and that is enough.  That is all that is troubling him, a confusion of the body.

“So what’s the latest on you and Kirk?” Nyota asks him at lunch, an honest curiosity in her voice, but also, overlaying it, a dare.  He wants to ask her why she thinks that there is anything that could be labeled as ‘the latest’ between them.  But she already knows that there is.  As long as they have Sevin, they are in each other’s lives; their relationship is a constant thing.

Still, he remains evasive.  “I ran into Mr. Chekov,” he answers, “while visiting the Starfleet labs.  He informed me that you and the Captain were involved in some manner of altercation at Mr. Sulu’s apartment.”

“‘Altercation,’” she repeats, “makes it sound like a fist fight.  We…had a disagreement.”

He makes no other comment than to raise an eyebrow, and for a moment, she stares him down.  Then she relents.  She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms against her chest and says, “Okay.  It wasn’t one of my prouder moments.  I didn’t mean to start anything with him, I promise.  We happened to run into each other on the way to poker night and…I don’t know.”  She shrugs, but the gesture is not dismissive.  She tilts her head back just slightly and stares up at the café’s ceiling, as if thinking, remembering the moment and gathering her words.  “I don’t know how it happened.  We were both chilly with each other, and… I don’t remember who started it.  I am sorry, Spock,” she adds, bringing her gaze forward again.  “It was embarrassing.  And it really wasn’t my business.”

“No,” he agrees, but there is no accusation in his words, “it was not.  I do not enjoy the thought that the details of my personal life should be known to the future Enterprise crew.  However, the incident was certainly more embarrassing for Captain Kirk than for me, and it cannot be undone now.”

“So you’re not angry?”

“No, I am not angry with you.”

“And with Kirk?”

Again and again, he finds himself faced with this question.  Everyone wants to know if he is angry.  Kirk was angry.  Sarek is angry.  Sevin is angry, too, in his way and for his own reasons.  But Spock feels no anger.  These events, now, are only the consequences of his actions of so many years ago.  If they are fair or not does not matter.  He has no desire to dwell on the past, and if a voice inside him, small and insistent, keeps telling him that he is so burdened, he is haunted by it every day—his mother’s death, Vulcan’s destruction, his own battered self-worth from his childhood and adolescence and the disapproval he’d faced during his pregnancy, Stonn’s whispered words to him, you were an experiment, you were something freakish to him—he keeps that voice down.  He can’t look back.  And if his feelings for Jim Kirk are hardly straightforward, he can at least say that they do not include any rage.

“No,” he tells Nyota, “I am not angry with him either.”

She gives him a slightly disbelieving look, but he is insistent, and eventually she throws up her hands.  “So tell me really,” she says, “if you’re not mad at him, what is going on between you two?  Are things getting any better?”

“Our relationship has improved,” he answers.  He forms the words slowly and carefully, as if he were inventing each one.  “We had a serious conversation several days ago about,” he pauses, mouth oddly dry, unsure how much he should share and how to explain, “about our history, and about Sevin.”

“Sounds like a conversation you should have had a while ago,” she says quietly.

“Perhaps.  Since then, our interactions have been…short, but not unpleasant, and lacking in animosity.”

“That’s good,” Nyota says, but her cheeriness is so transparently forced that he allows himself a light frown.  “Really good,” she adds, and nods her head one too many times, her fingers tapping with slight agitation against the side of her glass.

“I hope you do not believe that I am so inept at reading human emotional cues that I think you are telling the truth,” he responds, which earns him a quirking smile and then a long sigh, breathed out through lips that form a perfect o.

“Well, it’s certainly not bad, I know that,” she clarifies.  “I really am happy for you Spock, if you and Kirk are finding some middle ground, finally.  But you just make it sound so anticlimactic, and I’m wondering…where do you want this to go?  What do you want, really?”

“I believed I had made that clear,” he answers.  “I want Sevin to feel secure, at least as much as is possible when one of his parents has a career in space.”

“But for yourself?” she presses.

It is this question that stops him short.  There seems to be no further answer than the one he has given, only that he wants Sevin to feel safe and to be happy.  He does not want him to have to worry about his parents, or to be confused by them and their relationship.  He wants the complicated universe to simplify itself for Sevin when he looks to his father and his dad, his closest family, his home.  But to explain this would not answer Nyota’s question, and he knows it.

“Don’t think about what’s practical,” she’s saying, “or even what’s possible.  Just…is this really what you want, what you think is best?”

“What would you have me say, Nyota?  Do you want me to say that I wish to return to Starfleet and serve on the Enterprise?  Do you wish me to admit that I would have Captain Kirk as a partner with whom to raise my son?”

“If that’s the truth, then yes.”

Nyota, he thinks, was always quite talented at staring him down.  He knows well, after years of friendship, that she will not back down any more than he will when he has a point to prove, and now, this time, she wants his answer and she’ll wait for it, not quite patiently.

He sits back first, and breaks the gaze, but he does not quite give in.  “I cannot say that,” he says.  It is the truth, but the words he does not say are the important ones.

Spock tells himself that they do it for Sevin, that it is good for him to see his parents together, and to feel a sense of normalcy and togetherness at least sometimes, at least in the last moments of his day.  Still, this only explains why he lets Kirk in, why Kirk accepts, why he steps over the threshold and helps to tuck Sevin into bed and kisses him goodnight.  It does not explain why he stays.

It is a habit now.  Spock does not ask Kirk to stay; Kirk does not make any motion to leave; they simply wander together into the kitchen, or the living room, or, on occasion, to the balcony, though the late October nights are too cool, at least for Spock’s taste, and often drive them inside again quickly.  Some evenings, neither knows what to say.  The silence is not always comfortable.  But even when he finds himself simply staring at the way that Kirk rests his hands on his knees, his fingers slowly rubbing circles at the kneecap, Spock cannot help thinking that he prefers this to an evening alone.

“You seem,” Spock says, now, and then pauses, scanning quickly through possible descriptors with which to finish his sentence; he does not want to be inaccurate, but nor does he want to offend.  Kirk’s face looks unnaturally lined and he cannot seem to stop fidgeting.

“How do I seem, Spock?” Kirk asks, a slight smile curling up the corners of his mouth, curious and, Spock thinks, mildly self-deprecating.  He is wondering perhaps how tired he looks and how judicial Spock will be in his description.

“Weary,” he answers.  “If you would prefer to go home and rest—”

“Are you trying to kick me out?”

“No.”  He gives an answer even though he knows it was not a true question, but something, perhaps, like a joke.  Kirk is still smiling, and it improves his appearance, even that small, drowsy, distant smile.

“I suppose weary is a good way to put it,” he admits.  “I’ve…it’s been a long week, you know.”  He shakes his head, then passes one hand down his face, and that smile that still hasn’t left his face seems on the verge of becoming hysterical laughter.  Spock feels his shoulders tense at the thought.  He does not feel equipped, the long evening beginning to slow, his long day beginning to unwind, the chill of winter threatening, to respond to such a bald display of emotion, should it come.

“Would it help you to discuss it?” he asks.  His voice sounds too stiff for the words; he did not quite mean it to; but if Kirk notices he does not comment.

“Aaaah,” he answers, a long and vocalized sigh, and slaps his hands down on his knees, slumped where he’s sitting.  “I shouldn’t, probably.  You don’t need to hear me bellyaching.”

“Bellyaching?  Are you ill?”

“No, no,” he laughs, a light and meaningless laugh.  “It’s just an expression.  It means…complaining.  You don’t need to hear me complain.”

“I do not mind.”

Kirk bites his lip, pulling the whole corner into his mouth in an exaggerated gesture.  He eyes Spock without turning to face him.  He warns, “It’s about Starfleet.”

What impression does he give of himself, Spock wonders, if Kirk believes that even the mention of the institution should break him?  In truth, he feels nothing, no flare of jealousy nor of regret.  His decisions sits, often, awkwardly on his shoulders, and he feels like he’s walking in someone else’s skin, but the feeling gets no worse at the sound of the word.  He insists that it’s fine.

“Okay,” Kirk answers, though he does not sound sure that it is.  But he asks for no more assurance.  “I had a meeting with Gary Mitchell today, my new First, and,” he pauses, tilts his head back to stare at Spock’s ceiling, “and it went pretty much as well as most of our meetings go, which is terribly.  It’s never terrible in the same way so I never know what to expect, and I can always hope that we’ll get along better next time, but it just doesn’t happen.”

“I was always under the impression that Lieutenant Mitchell was a capable Officer,” Spock answers, his voice diplomatic and steady, then concedes, “though I have never worked with him myself.”

“No, you’re right, Gary’s a fine Officer, in a lot of ways,” Kirk says.  “He’s intelligent and creative and he has a lot of ideas.  He’s a good guy, too.  I think maybe we could have been friends, if we weren’t working together right now.  He’s the sort of person you want to go out to the bar with, you know?”  He casts a sideways glance at Spock and smiles, amused, Spock thinks, at the error in his own words.  Of course Spock wouldn’t understand.  He is not himself, as Kirk would say, that kind of guy, the kind to go out to bars with or talk about women with or any of that, the kind to become the sort of friend Kirk is imagining Gary Mitchell would be.  He feels a strange shiver of jealousy, uncalled for and bizarre.

“But I’m not inviting him out for a couple of beers,” Kirk is saying.  “I need him to be my second in command.  I take that very seriously.  But he…I’m just not convinced he does.”  He shakes his head and sighs, shuts his mouth into a tight thin line, as if to stop himself from speaking too quickly or too much.  Still, Spock gets the impression that Kirk is talking as if to himself, and all but uncensored.  “He comes in late some days.  He gets distracted easily.  When we have conversations, he’s always trying to change the topic on me—he’s smart,” he says, with a wide gesture of his hand, as if coming to a conclusion, “but he lacks focus.  And then when we do find a topic that we can both stand to discuss, we disagree on it.  Today, I was trying to talk to him about allowing families onto the Enterprise, and he just kept on looking at me like I was speaking a language he didn’t understand.  I have never seen anyone less open to an idea.”

He turns to Spock now, waiting for his opinion, perhaps, his face so open and his expression expectant of no more than agreement and commiseration.  Spock is convinced there is no trick here.  Yet he can perceive the slightest of increases in the rate of his heart.

“Families?” he asks.

“Um, yeah,” Kirk answers, though at the hesitant tone to Spock’s voice, a light color spread across his face, almost unnoticeable—embarrassment at how quickly he’d brought this topic up.  Now that he has admitted his thoughts, though, he can only go forward.  He begins speaking again, at first slowly, and then with rising enthusiasm.  “I want to alter the design of the ship, while there’s still time, to make it more family friendly—nothing drastic, we’d just need to add some more common spaces and change some living quarters so that they have smaller rooms semi-attached to the larger ones.  Then we would be able to bring Starfleet members with spouses and children to serve on the mission, too.  There are a lot of talented people out there who either can’t or won’t serve on missions like ours because they have families and don’t want to leave them, and it’s really not as impossible as everyone thinks to bring those families on board too.  The ship is already equipped to serve the long-term needs of its crew.  It just has to be equipped, now, to serve a few more needs.  If we brought on enough families, so the children weren’t too isolated, hired some teachers, changed some regulations, it could be done.”

Spock listens to this explanation, watches the bright and excited gleam in Kirk’s eyes, hears the way his words pile on top of each other so insistently and so persuasively, and he says nothing.  He sits very still, the way that animals do when they hope to convince their predators that they are dead.

“Gary doesn’t think much of the idea though,” Kirk adds.  He gives a slight cough, and it sounds like a cue, asking Spock to answer.  “He thinks it’s impractical.  Won’t even listen.  That’s what’s annoying.”  He pauses a long beat between each sentence, but Spock pretends that Kirk is not watching him, or waiting.  “You know?”

“If you successfully convince him,” Spock answers, at last, “and the Enterprise crew are able to take their families with them into space, will the Captain decide to take his son as well?”

“What?  Spock—no.”

To his credit, Spock thinks, Kirk sounds as if this idea had never occurred to him.  There is true shock to his voice.

“Seriously,” Kirk continues, “even if I wanted that—even if I thought that was possible, or a good idea—I would never bring up the idea to you that way.  I’d at least be straightforward about it.  I hope you can trust me in that, at least.”

“It would be,” he admits, “out of character for you, and a contrast to your previous statements regarding Sevin.”

“Yes,” Kirk nods.  “Because I’m not taking him away from you.  I would never—Spock, I couldn’t be a parent on my own!  I’m riding a bike with training wheels, here.”  Spock squints, and tilts his head slightly to the side in confusion at the reference, but Kirk doesn’t seem to notice.  “I’ll be honest: I did decide to push this idea because of Sevin, but not because I wanted to take him with me.  I can’t do anything about my—about our situation, but I know we aren’t the only two people in the Fleet who’ve had to choose between career and family.  And I don’t see why that has to be the case.”

“You realize that there are quite sound reasons to bar children from accompanying their parents on missions, even exploratory ones like that the Enterprise is undertaking—”

“I know.”

Kirk’s stare alone cuts Spock’s words off completely, abruptly, and he closes his mouth and lets a silence form, gaze locked onto gaze and each unflinching.

“Just tell me” Kirk says, “honestly, if you were my First, would you try to convince me not to pursue this?  Or would you help?”

“I am not your First Officer.”

“Just pretend.  It’s a hypothetical.  Imagine you were.”

He would tell Kirk that this is easier said than done, that he cannot open himself to such fantasies, such flights of unreason.  It is not safe.  But then the answer comes quickly and simply to him, as Kirk must have known that it would.

“I would offer whatever assistance I could in your plans,” he says, and Kirk’s face breaks out into a wide grin.

“How did I know?” he says, half to himself, and hits his knee with one closed fist in an oddly violent, Spock thinks, gesture of excitement.  “How did I know?  You have a very restrained image, Spock, but I know what’s beneath that.  You’re daring.  You’re not afraid; you want to push yourself; you’re…rebellious.”

He says this word like it is a compliment, but it leaves a bad taste on the back of Spock’s tongue, the bitter tang of his scandal, his teenage revolt.  Everything that Kirk is saying about him may have been true, once, but he doubts it all now.  He’s pulled back the tether on his dreams.  He’s reigned himself in.  He calls it being responsible, but doubt lingers.

“It would be more accurate to say that I was rebellious, Captain Kirk,” he answers stiffly.  Kirk gives him an exaggerated frown, confused by the clear reprimand in Spock’s voice.  “I have left that era of my life behind me now.”

“A little rebellion can be good for you,” he says quietly.  “It means you don’t let other people’s rules box you in.  It means you’re creative, and bold.”

On Vulcan, rebellion meant you did not respect the culture you were born into, the strict rules that keep your society decorous and functioning, instead of wild and suicidal.  Rebellions meant you were unpredictable.  It marked you a danger and a threat.  But he does not tell Kirk this.

“The description you have just given would more accurately describe you than it would me,” he says, instead, but Kirk is shaking his head before Spock has even finished his sentence.

“No,” he insists.  “Pike gave me the rest of your work on the Enterprise mission plans.  I read it all through in a night, and then I had to go back right away and reread it.  You have some really fascinating ideas, Spock.  But it’s more than that—they’re unusual.  I mean that as a compliment.  You’re…you’re so much more than you want people to see.  I think we—” he cuts himself off, a slight stutter in his speech.  Then, quieter now, almost a secret or a confession, he says, “I think we could have worked well together.”

He knows that Kirk is watching him, but he cannot return the gaze.  He considers telling him that it is too late now, that the partnership they could have had was for another life, and there is nothing to gain from imagining it or wishing for it, nor can they speak as if their circumstances simply happened to them, unconnected to and unshaped by their own actions and decisions.

“I watched the holo you gave me,” Kirk says, when Spock doesn’t speak or look up at him.  “It was…  What can I say, Spock?  Thank you.  I—”

“You need not thank me.”

“Well, I will anyway.  Spock,” he says the name insistently, almost sharply, and Spock feels in the same moment the unexpected touch of a hand on his shoulder.  He jerks under the touch, but does not shake it away.  He looks up on instinct, the result Kirk was waiting for, he’s sure, and realizes that the gaze that he’s felt on him so unceasingly is open, boldly so, doubtful and unafraid, an expression of question and apology and anticipation.  “It was…lovely,” he says, and as he says the last word he gives a small shrug and his eyes go, for a moment, too wide, as if he were unsure of the word and yet can think of no more expressive term.  “Watching you with him, it was beautiful.”

All of Spock’s words are caught in his throat, sharp, dry, words that pain him.  He swallows heavily, as if this would help, but it doesn’t, and Kirk is still watching him, still waiting.  Spock watches as his tongue darts out and swipes across his lips.  He is trying, Spock thinks, inexplicably, trying so hard and yet to what end, for what purpose, Spock doesn’t now.

“This will sound silly,” Kirk says, a twitch of a smile at his lips that he knows doesn’t belong, “but if I could have…if I could have reached through the screen and touched you, I would have.”  He still hasn’t moved his hand from Spock’s shoulder.  The weight of it is unnaturally difficult to bear.

“Jim,” he says finally, the name all dust and desert earth, a surprise to his own ears.  “I cannot truly explain.  Perhaps I should not try.”

“No, no,” Jim answers with an insistent shake of his head, and his hand slides down Spock’s arm to rest just above his wrist.  “I’ll take what I can get, really.  That’s not to say—I’m not trying to push.  I just…you know it drives me crazy sometimes, that I couldn’t be there with you?  Maybe you wouldn’t have wanted me.”  He smiles that confusing self-deprecating smile again, and when he shakes his head this time, it is a slow, weary movement.  He takes his hand from Spock’s wrist and moves deliberately away toward the far end of the couch.  “I was really a mess when you met me, Spock.  You could probably tell.”

“Perhaps I had an indication,” Spock admits.  “However, when we first met, I was…impressed…by you.”

“Impressed?”  He looks up again, a quick jerk of his head up, and this time the smile tugging up at his lips is genuine.

“You were confident, and self-assured.”

“I was trying to seduce you.”

“You succeeded.”

Their eyes meet, two beats too long and then three, and Spock thinks, a brief and flashing thought, he does not know from where, that this would be a good moment for two humans to laugh.  Instead, he turns away.  “I was young,” he says.  “I did not know the difference between true self-assurance and a mask.”

“Ouch, Spock,” Jim says with a slight laugh, forced or not Spock cannot tell.

“Am I wrong?”

There is a moment of silence after he speaks, and then Jim sighs, long and slow, and Spock hears the clap of hands against knees.  “I guess not.  If it matters, when we first met I found you…captivating.”

“Captivating?”

“Yeah.  You were honest—seemed honest, anyway, though I should have known you weren’t being truthful about your age.  But you were genuine where it mattered most, and inquisitive, and…innocent.”

The word stings, but he makes no comment.  It is true, anyway, what Jim said.  He was innocent, and young, and he did not what was happening or what it meant, but he knew what he wanted, and he took a great risk for it.  For years afterward, the human boy haunted him like a ghost.

“Spock, are you okay?” Jim interrupts the rush of his thoughts, and at his words the sliding of image after image and question after question halts.

“Yes,” he answers, and then, “Jim,” and he watches out of the corner of his eye as Jim leans in closer.  “I did not think that I would ever see you again.  But I thought of you.”

“I know.  You told me.  I—I thought about you sometimes, too.”

The words could be a lie, polite and formulaic, the words he thinks he should say.  Spock does not let them reach him.  He does not give them weight.

“Sometimes, I,” he says, as if Jim hadn’t spoken.  His own words feel heavy, too heavy to form.  This is a bad idea, he tells himself, to reveal such things, and yet now that one secret, the most important, has been told, it is as if he has none, none that matter.  “Sometimes I wrote to you.”

“Wrote to me?”

He nods.  “I did not expect you would ever read what I wrote.  It was…it was what I believe your people would call ‘therapeutic.’”

For a long while, much longer than Spock expected, Jim does not answer.  Spock watches their hands, next to each other on the couch and not touching.  It’s odd to think, but he does, about how those hands once touched him, once grabbed him close, once trailed down his skin.  The memories are meaningless, he thinks, or should be.

“I don’t suppose,” Jim says, at last, “that I could read them now?”

Chapter Text

As they turn the corner from one tile-floored, uninspiring white corridor into another, Jim’s hand securely around Sevin’s wrist even though the computer science building is near abandoned at this hour, no crowd from which to protect him, his son asks him for the third time, “Jim, why are we here?”

“You’ll see,” he answers, also for the third time, and feigns a similar impatience.  “We’re almost there.”

Under different circumstances, and in a somewhat closer to ideal world, Jim and Sevin would be climbing aboard a shuttle, on their way to the docking station where the Enterprise is currently living as she awaits the rest of her upgrades and repairs.  But such a plan is not really possible, even for a stubborn Captain like himself.  So he settles for the next best thing.  When they reach the last door in the hallway, he unlocks it with a quick swipe of his identity card and announces, “We’re here.”

Sevin looks from one end of the room to the other and declares, “It’s the computer lab.  I’ve been here before.”  Then his eyes narrow, and he asks, “Are you going to do work?  Is that why we’re here?”

“No!” he insists, “no,” surprised at the idea, though he knows he shouldn’t be.  He wonders how many times Spock took his son to the lab or the library and told him to amuse himself and be quiet, he’s sorry, but his father is busy, he needs to finish his work, it’s important.  “No, it’s a surprise.”

“The computer lab isn’t a good surprise,” Sevin tells him, and crosses his arms matter-of-factly.

“Don’t be smart,” Jim answers, and ruffles his hair on instinct.  He’s still not sure if the gesture is allowed, but Sevin smiles, so it’s okay.  “Here,” he continues, and waves Sevin over to the nearest computer, just at the corner of the back row of machines.  He pulls the chair from the neighboring computer close and motions to Sevin to sit, while he takes the chair in front of the screen and begins to call out commands.  Sevin watches him carefully, pays more attention, in fact, to his dad than to the screen, but does not interrupt, his curiosity now properly piqued.

“I want to introduce you,” he says, in his best serious voice, allowing only a slight quirk of hinted smile, “to an important lady in my life.”  Before Sevin can ask, he gives the last command, and the window on the screen expands to an image, full color and 3D and as realistic as can be, of Starfleet’s newest flagship.

“Is that your ship?” Sevin asks him.

“Yes it is,” he replies, his face splitting into the stupid grin he always gets, instinctively gets, when he hears reference to the Enterprise as his.  If ever there were a man less worthy, he told Bones the first time it happened, and his friend rolled his eyes and told him his fake modesty would fool no one.  He was right, Jim thinks, that the modesty was forced, but his humility, that awe inspiring feeling of his own smallness in front of that massive ship, the greater masses of space to which she will take him, is as genuine as any feeling he’s ever had.

“That’s…”  Sevin pulls his chair forward, half reaching out a hand as if he could touch the ship itself through the screen.  “That’s really, really, cool.”

“I’m glad she meets with your approval,” Jim laughs.  “I just wish I could show you the real thing.  Maybe someday, huh?”

“You think I can visit you on the ship?  With Father?”  He doesn’t even bother to look at Jim as he asks the question, his eyes still glued to the image of the ship as it revolves, slowly, in a complete circle in front of him.

The truth is that Jim wants to say yes, and of course, and that would be wonderful.  For just a moment, just a split-second (Is there any chance that you would want to raise this child as your own? With me?), he even imagines saying, I want you both with me, out there in space, some strange new version of my family, but those words are impossible.  “You know that I can’t make any promises,” he tells Sevin instead.  “But you and your father would both be welcome on my ship, anytime you wanted.”

“Really?”

How could he look into such bright, honest, earnest eyes, turned toward him now, and say anything but, “Yes, of course”?  That gaze would be enough to turn a polite lie, had he been telling one, into the hardest and clearest truth.

(I will be a father, and you, somewhere on Earth, will be a father as well.  But you will not know it.  Your life will be easier, not knowing; it is better for you that you do not know.  I take comfort in knowing that I am protecting you from this.).

“It would be so cool to fly around space,” Sevin is saying.  “You’d get to meet people from other planets—maybe even other people like me, with parents come from different places.  And you’d see lots of new things—you could discover new animals maybe!  That would be fun.  How big is your ship?”

The question breaks sharply into his thoughts (Your life will be easier), surprising him, and he answers first with a long, drawn out, “Aaaah,” as if he were thinking, as if he were trying to comprehend, himself, how very massive the Enterprise is.  Then he calls up a new screen.  This one is a large chart of statistics, numbers, lengths and widths and measurements, which somehow seems to fascinate Sevin almost as much as the previous images did.  “Very big,” Jim says.  “It’s one of the biggest ships in Starfleet.  Here.”  He points out several of the more impressive details, the number of floors and rooms and computers.  Sevin sits on the edge of his chair, leaning with his arms on the table in front of him.

“What does the inside look like?” Sevin asks then, and again Jim pulls up a new screen, this one with various images from within the ship arrayed and ready to scroll through.  Sevin seems utterly enthralled, utterly fascinated, by every detail, the shining white of the walls, the gleam of the instruments on the bridge, the long gallery of the observation deck, even the cramped and impersonal quarters.  His excitement is infectious but a part of Jim, still, beneath the surface, feels cold the way that fear makes one feel cold.  What would it be to be this boy’s father every day, to be there with him as his father every day?  Parenthood still feels like a hobby.

He knows the strength that people have, knows the resilience of the spirit.  Still, Sevin seems so young, innocent and unclouded and unruined, and the ship that he’s examining and wondering about and questioning is going to take one of his parents away, and what then, what of their relationship then?

(I expect her to tell me that I am wrong, somehow; that I am unfit for this.)

The door to the lab opens—Sevin is paging through images from one of the Enterprise science labs and barely seems to notice—and Jim looks up out of instinct just in time to see his Chief Engineer walking in.  He catches sight of them almost accidentally, the sight of Jim arresting his gaze as he gives the room a random glance, and immediately takes an exaggerated sideways step to change his direction and head over.  Once he has Jim’s eye, he tilts his head once at Sevin and widens his eyes, just for a moment, in query.  Jim gives him a curt nod, acknowledgement and warning both, then turns to his boy, touching his arm once lightly to get his attention.  “Sevin,” he says, “there’s someone I want you to meet.  This is my Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Scott.”

“Scotty,” he corrects with a large and friendly smile.  “You’re Sevin, huh?”

“Mmmhmm,” he nods, and looks up at Scotty with wide, nervous eyes.  Jim remembers too late the first time he and Sevin met, how the boy had tried to hide behind his babysitter, curious but hesitant and unsure.  He wants to tell him it’s okay, there’s no reason to be afraid of Scotty, he’s friendly and likeable and not threatening at all, unless he’s experimenting with the transporter while you’re standing on it.  But he knows Sevin’s trust can’t be pushed, can’t be created magically; no one’s can.

“Did you know I served with both your parents?” Scotty is saying, half kneeling now to Sevin’s level.  “The first time I met your dad here, I was stationed on an ice planet.  You had to be careful where you went because there were these gigantic monsters out there in the snow—”

“Monsters?”  Sevin’s eyes grow wide with fear and excitement, and he glances up at Jim as if for confirmation.

“Terrifying monsters,” he agrees.  “I almost got eaten by one.”

“Really?”

“Yep.  He chased me all the way down a big, slippery hill until I escaped into a cave.”  He decides not to mention that the monster at the cave’s entrance was the second he’d faced, that he’d eaten whatever horrifying creature had been chasing Jim at first, the one of whom he’d thought, well it can’t get any worse than this.  He wants to entertain Sevin, but he doesn’t want to give him nightmares.  If he wakes up shaking in the middle of the night, it will be Spock who has to comfort him.  (It is not simple, caring for a child, and especially one so young…I have no time for myself.)

“Did a monster ever try to eat you?” Sevin asks Scotty, voice low and secretive, nervous perhaps as he asks his question of a stranger.

Scotty shakes his head.  “Can’t say that it did.  But when your dad and I transported back to the Enterprise from the ice planet I was tellin’ you about, there was a bit of a…miscalculation, and I…might have found myself in one of the ship’s water pipes.”

“It wouldn’t have been that big of a problem, if that pipe hadn’t been leading to a turbine at the time,” Jim adds.

“Whoa!  What happened?”

“Your dad overrode the security system and opened the pipe at the very last moment,” Scotty answers, and he places such an emphasis on the last words that Jim has to bury his face in one hand.

“Hey, hey,” he says, “no exaggerating.  You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s not embarrassing, that’s great!” Sevin insists.  “Does stuff like this happen all the time on a ship?”

“That’s what I’m waitin’ to find out,” Scotty answers with a smile.

Jim rolls his eyes, an unsubtle and loud gesture, and then forcefully changes the topic.  He knows that if he mentions the Enterprise, Scotty will completely drop their previous conversation, as if it had never been started at all, and he’s right.  He motions to the screen, mentions they’ve just been looking at the new pictures of the ship, and Scotty immediately takes his bait.

“Nothin’ like the real thing, though, are they?” he says when Sevin expresses his appreciation.  “She’s a really beauty, never seen another ship like her.”  He has a look in his eye, faraway and soft, like most people get when they talk about the person they love.  “I was just up there yesterday, tryin’ to fix some kinks in the transporter upgrades, and she was as lovely as ever.”

“You can go on the ship?” Sevin asks, gaze jumping from Scotty to his dad, and all of his nervousness seems to have evaporated, by now, for which Jim is glad.  The power of his curiosity, his wonderment, seems always to overpower his fear, and though Jim knows he’s wary of strangers, a common instinct, still there is something innately trusting about him.  Perhaps he should worry.  People who are too trusting leave themselves vulnerable.  Yet Sevin already knows the world is cruel and dangerous, and he knows how to survive in it.  He will be resilient, Jim thinks.

(When he is in my arms, I can feel a sense of contentment, and of security, coming from him. My mother says that he is a happy child. He is more vocal than most Vulcan babies are. I am trying to learn his sounds, to interpret the slight variations in them, as if his language were a completely new one, of his invention, that I must become fluent in.)

“Can we go?  Can we go on the ship?” Sevin is asking now, looking up at Jim expectantly with those wide blue eyes, and he hates to shake his head and say, “Aaah, no.  Scotty’s allowed up because he’s working.  But the ship’s not ready for most people to visit yet.”

“Do you get to visit?”

At this, he allows himself a small, proud grin.  “Starfleet does occasionally allow the Captain to visit his ship, yes.”

“Then you should take me with you!” Sevin exclaims, and though his voice is almost too loud for the lab, the room is all but deserted, and Scotty doesn’t seem to mind.

“Eager one, aren’t you?” he says.  “If your dad ever does bring you ’round, I promise to give you a tour through Engineering.  It’s only the most interesting division, if I do say so myself.”

“Really?”  He sits up straighter, instinctually excited, then hesitates.  “But—what do you do in Engineering?”

It’s a dangerous question to ask around Scotty, but Sevin doesn’t seem to mind the long response he gets, just leans forward in his chair to listen with interest and eagerness, while Jim sits back in his, half listening to Scotty’s chatter, half drifting.  The words from Spock’s letters won’t leave him.  They echo through him.  He’d shown such great, such heartbreaking honesty, shared his worries and his fears and his shame, his first tentative steps toward love for his new child.  There was something, almost, even, heartbreaking about it.  All those words, he thinks now, spoken into a void, addressed to him without the hope he’d ever hear them, and now after all these years he’s privileged to catch their reverberations; they seem to bring back the ghost of that teenage boy, the one he couldn’t get out of his head, in a way that is almost eerie, that gives him chills.

There was life, he’d said of that first contact with their unborn son, That is what I can tell you. I felt life. I felt a life that we created.  How difficult that must have been to believe.  It’s hard enough, some days, even now, watching Sevin as he talks to Scotty, as he tells him his job sounds like so much fun, and can Scotty show him how all the insides of the ship work, he wants to know all about it, he’ll understand a bunch because his father has taught him things that none of his classmates know, he wants to see how the transporter works most, can they see that—it’s hard enough to really believe this kid is his, his genes, his blood.  Part of his legacy, in a way.  He smiles into his hand.  He’d call it a dream but he’s just about convinced himself by now that this is real.

Dear Spock, I’m writing this letter many years too late, I know that, but somehow I still feel like I owe you some sort of answer, after all of those things that you wrote to me.  It’s harder than I thought it would be to know the right things to say.  I guess you had this one advantage over me: when you wrote, you never thought I would read what you said, but this time I’m counting on you reading my words.

Put another way, the pressure’s on, but then I’m supposed to do well under pressure.

I spent a long time today, Spock, trying to remember what I was like when I was seventeen, and imagining what I would have thought had I read your letters to me when you wrote them.  I think you know as well as I do that that’s impossible.  I’ve left that guy so far behind it’s like he never existed.

Well, that’s not true at all.  I can’t believe I wrote that.

I remember…feeling lost, feeling bored, feeling like a disappointment, like here I was some hero’s son working as a stock-boy and getting drunk with my brother on weekends when he’d have me as company.  A smart, ambitious person like you probably wouldn’t have given me a second glance if you’d known who I really was.  Do you wish you hadn’t?  I was about to write that I was lucky you did, but then that’s easy for me to say, and I guess you didn’t feel so lucky when

You wrote that you could not stop thinking about me.  I thought about you, too.  I guess I couldn’t get you out of my head because you confused me, because I couldn’t quite get a hold on you.  I guess I still can’t.  It seemed like you trusted me, you must have trusted me, but you were still so closed off and distant, and afterwards, I felt like all you wanted was to get away from me.

I’m sorry, Spock; I didn’t mean to write about any of that.  It’s not polite, is it?  It’s not what people are supposed to do, talk like this.  It’s strange how even though I know I’m going to send this to you and you’re going to read it, it still feels like I’m writing to myself and I can say anything.  Maybe I shouldn’t send this copy…  I don’t know.

If you had told me about Sevin when you were pregnant…I’ve thought about that question for a while, what I would have said.  I wouldn’t have been disgusted, or shut you out.  I hope you know that by now.  I wouldn’t have blamed you.  I would probably have blamed myself.  Really, the most honest thing I can tell you is that I wouldn’t have known what to do.  I would have been terrified.

I guess from your letter that you know how that feels.

You wrote that “it is in the nature of all living things to surprise.”  You constantly surprise me, Spock.  Every time I think I have you figured out, you change on me.  Reading your letters is like seeing yet another new Spock, and it’s a privilege, because I never would have thought you would have allowed me to see such a vulnerable part of you.  When I found out that Sevin was my son, and that you had been keeping that information from me, I couldn’t believe it of you, because I had trusted you and believed you trusted me, too.  It hurt my pride to think that I might not have earned your trust the way I thought I had.  I don’t know if you giving me these letters means you trust me more now, but I guess it must.  I don’t know if I would have had that sort of courage.

There is a part of me that envies you, that you could be there with Sevin from the beginning, that you got to hold him when he was born.  Another part of me knows that I should not romanticize.  It must have been more difficult than I can imagine.  I can’t tell you with clear conscience that I wish I could have been there to help; that is, I do wish this, but I don’t know what sort of help I would have been.  You spoke of wanting a partner, another person to help you; you said it was “shameful” that you had only your parents.  I guess you were thinking of me, or whoever you thought I was or wanted to think I was.  I would have wanted to be that person for you, reliable and strong, like you.  I would have tried.  I know I would have tried.  But I was a mess.  I’ve said that to you before, and I’m not offering it as an excuse.  I guess I’m just saying that I’m not sure I could have done what you did, succeeded like you did.

What I don’t understand about your letters, Spock, is how you were never angry with me.  Maybe you were, and just didn’t write those feelings down.  But nothing you wrote sounds like you were holding back.  You talked about taking responsibility for your own actions, about deserving disapproval, and yet you levied none of that disapproval against me.  I made the same decisions you did, Spock.  I didn’t get the chance to take responsibility for them then.  I want to now.

Let me take you both with me.  Be a part of my crew.  I’d be a fool, I was a fool, to think that anyone else could do that job, could be my First, my right hand, better than you.  You have one of the most brilliant minds and you’re fearless, or you can be, and you know how I work, you get me, I felt it on the Narada mission, like we were made to fit.  I think we both messed up but this could still work

He stops abruptly, embarrassed by the flurry of words that he’d written.  He’s not even sure where they came from; they read as if someone else had set them to the page, as if he’d been, for a moment, possessed.  He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.  He’s tired, that’s all, tired and confused.  He’s tired of late nights looking for solutions to impossible problems, tired of Gary’s passive aggressive approach to debate, tired of the beautiful set of Spock’s eyes in his face and the way his long fingers look wrapped around a mug of tea and the blush of green he gets at the tips of his ears when he’s embarrassed.  He’s tired of it all.

He erases the last paragraph, then sends the rest of the letter off before he becomes tempted to reread it.

Chapter Text

Like all missing objects, Sevin’s second mitten is found in the last place Spock thinks to look, between the second and third cushions of the couch, the protruding edge of the cuff hidden by one of the pillows.  “It’s not even cold out,” Sevin insists, as Spock tugs the mitten into place on his left hand.

“We will be outside all afternoon,” Spock answers.  “Your hands will become cold.  Now,” he stands, and takes Sevin’s wrist gently, “we must go.  We do not want to keep them waiting.”

Sevin fidgets as they ride the lift down to the ground floor, and he swings his hand back and forth between them, where Spock is still holding his wrist, as they walk.  “New people make me nervous,” he says.  “Do we have to meet them?  What if they don’t like me?”

“They will like you,” Spock answers, and it is not the first time he has reassured Sevin in this way.  Still, he repeats the phrases patiently.  “And yes, we must meet them.  We have made a promise, and it would be rude of us to break it.  Also,” he adds, only to pause as they cross a busy intersection, Sevin’s short legs struggling to keep up with his father’s faster strides, “also, Soval is not a stranger.  You first met him when you were four months old.”

“That doesn’t count,” Sevin tells him, his tone inching into a whine at the last word, as if his point were quite obvious and Spock quite dense not to understand.  “I don’t remember having met him.  I was too little!  Just tell me again what they’re like.”

“Soval is a very old friend of mine,” Spock answers.  His words are well worn and familiar, like an old story, though it’s only been a few days since he first asked Sevin if he wanted to meet the men his father had been having dinner with.  “I met him before you were born, and when you were very little, we would go and visit him together often.  He is an intelligent, generous, and kind man who is very much looking forward to seeing you again.  His husband, Senar, is looking forward to meeting you too.”

“But he didn’t know me when I was little,” Sevin prompts.

“No.  He and Soval only married two years ago, and I have only known him a few weeks.  But Senar likes children very much and will be pleased to meet you.”

“Does he want to have kids, too?” Sevin asks, a new question this time, not part of their practiced litany.  “Does he want to be a father?”

They’ve reached a larger crowd of people now, a Saturday rush outside of the movie theater, and Spock takes the opportunity to delay his answer as he and Sevin wind their way to the clear space of sidewalk beyond.  He had anticipated this question.  So had Soval and Senar, and when Spock asked if they would prefer Sevin did not know of Senar’s pregnancy, if they would prefer their secret to remain close kept, their own, they glanced at each other and then answered that they had not decided yet.

“And you?” Soval asked in his turn.  “Would you prefer that we avoid sharing this news with your son?”

It is no idle question, nor one asked simply out of courtesy, a sense of the necessity for reciprocation.  The possibility that they could lose the baby is still real, and neither would blame Spock if he wished to shield Sevin from knowing yet another loss, from trying to comprehend yet another type of misfortune.

He told them that the choice was theirs.

Now he answers only vaguely, “Someday, yes, he and Soval would both like to be parents.  You must understand, though, Sevin, that that is a very private decision between two people.”

“You mean that you don’t want me to ask them about it,” he translates, and Spock nods, hoping his son will retain some sense, some version, of discretion.  It is not the first time he has wondered if his boy will provide too great a shock to Soval and Senar, his boy with his human laughter, his child’s energy, his father’s boundless inquisitiveness, his dad’s craze for adventure.

Soval and Senar are waiting for them just inside the entrance to the park.  Spock notices them before either notices him, and he takes them in: how out of place they seem against the background of a cool, wet November day; how Senar wears a hat pulled low over his ears but still looks so distinctively Vulcan that not even the least observant human would mistake him; how Soval holds the fingers of his left hand pressed gently, subtly, to the fingers of Senar’s right.

“Is that them?” Sevin asks him.  He is nervous, but intrigued, and keeps his pace just a half step behind his father’s so that he can duck behind his legs at a moment’s notice.  Spock nods.  Before he can say anything more, Soval looks up, catches sight of them, and brings up his hand in a salute.  Spock returns the gesture and then, then, they are all four standing together and the series of introductions and greetings begin.  All that Sevin can bring himself to say is one shy, “Hello,” in Vulcan, but Spock is sure he sees a slight tug at the corner of Soval’s mouth at the word.

He crouches down to Sevin’s height and tells him, “I do not expect you to remember me, but I remember you.  Your father and I were friends when he still lived on Vulcan, when you were not even a year old.”

“I know,” Sevin answers quietly.  “Father told me.”

“That was years ago, though,” Soval continues.  “How old are you now?”

“Seven years and six months,” he says.  The question, Spock thinks, was a clever one, and he knows that Soval does not miss the hint of pride in Sevin’s voice as he answers.

Soval widens his eyes as if in amazement.  “Has it been that long?” he asks, and gives a slight, disbelieving shake of his head.  “Before long, you will be an adult.”

“There is no need to exaggerate,” Spock interrupts, a certain stiffness in his voice that is only partly an act.  The idea of his little boy all grown up—Soval is not serious, of course, but still the thought is uncomfortable.  He watches as Soval straightens to full height and suggests that they move away from the street, watches as he puts his fingers to Senar’s again, watches as Senar’s eyes flick down to Sevin, a hesitant glance, wondering perhaps if he should speak and what to say.

They are making their way toward a group of benches, when Sevin pokes his finger discreetly into his father’s side and whispers, “Can I ask them a question?”

Senar answers for him, “You may of course ask us whatever you wish,” and gives Sevin a soft expression that, to Spock’s Vulcan eyes, is friendly, open, non-threatening.  He is not sure if Sevin recognizes it as such.  Still, Sevin trusts Senar at least enough to ask, “Why do you walk with your fingers together like that?”

Senar uses his free hand to gesture to a young couple walking across the grass ahead of them, and asks Sevin, “Do you see those two people?  How they have their fingers laced together?”

“Yeah.  They’re holding hands because they like each other.”

“My husband and I also like each other,” Senar says.  “This is our version of holding hands.”

“Oh.”  Sevin swings his father’s hand back and forth between them, absently, as he considers Senar’s words.  “I get it,” he adds, after a moment’s thought, and then, “Father doesn’t have anyone he likes enough to hold hands with.”

Spock can feel the tips of his ears turning green but he ignores the sensation, ignores, too, the way that Soval and Senar are looking at him, embarrassed for him, confused.  Still, neither comments, and Sevin does not appear to notice his indiscretion, though he seems already to be slowly warming to his new acquaintances.  He still does not quite look up at them, allowing himself only shy glances from the corner of his eye, but as they skirt the picnic tables and start to walk deeper into the park, he asks, “How old was Father when you met him, Soval?”

“I was fifteen years old,” Spock answers quickly for him.  He is thinking, without wanting to think, of the reserved man in his professor’s robes sitting so unexpectedly at his kitchen table, with his logical proposition, his plans, and he is sure that these same memories are returning unbidden to Soval too.  Still, it is not he to whom Spock turns, trying to catch a glance, but Senar.  His face is impassive.  It would be too large a secret, Spock thinks, to hide from a spouse.  Surely he knows.  But then, it has been so many years, and he should not place meaning, importance, to a piece of history that does not merit such weight.

“Fifteen,” Sevin is saying, now.  He tests the word carefully, as if it were some new piece of vocabulary he has just learned.  “What was he like?”

Soval quirks his head, just slightly, to the side, and considers.  He’ll say something polite, Spock knows, not exactly a lie, but not a whole truth, either.  He won’t mention that he came to know Spock through his disgrace, that what he was at fifteen was unbonded and pregnant and holding on to old dreams because they were all he knew.  But he must be thinking these things.  Spock is.

“Your father was only a teenager, of course,” Soval answers, “but he seemed older than his years, when I met him.  I found him to be smart, direct, ambitious, and, most of all, brave.  He was very brave.”

Spock feels his stomach flip over in embarrassment, the particular discomfort of undeserved praise.  Yes, he thinks, smart enough to have unprotected sex with a stranger, ambitious enough to blind himself to the own consequences of his decisions, direct enough to break off his arranged engagement behind his father’s back—and brave?  Soval is only saying these things for Sevin’s sake.

The boy is surprisingly quiet at the sound of such high praise directed toward his father.  Then he looks up at Spock and tells him, “I want to be like that when I’m older.  All of those things.  But especially brave.”  He gives a small, decisive nod, then turns back to Soval and Senar.  “That’s the most important thing, to be brave.”

“And why do you say that?” Senar asks him.

“Because,” Sevin answers, “if you’re brave, it doesn’t matter what else happens to you.  You can handle it.”

“That is very wise, Sevin,” Senar tells him.  His voice is quiet, thoughtful, and when Spock looks at him he sees that his gaze is far away, and he knows the look as one a person wears when he is sifting through his own secret thoughts, coming to his own conclusions.

“There are some things that scare me,” Sevin admits.  “Like, when I have to go to the doctor, especially if it’s a new doctor.  Or moving to a new place, and having to meet lots of new people.  But I try my best to be brave anyway because my father and my dad are brave, just as if they weren’t afraid of anything.”

“Everyone is afraid of something,” Senar says.  “Even brave people.  In fact, if they were not afraid of anything, they would not be brave at all, because they would not have to face their fears.”

“Are you afraid of things too?”

“Sevin,” Spock interrupts, with a quick, apologetic, glance at Senar, “that is quite a personal question.  It is not appropriate—”

“I am not bothered,” Senar assures him.  Then, with only a half-moment of hesitation, he leads their small group over to the side of the path, out of the way, and he leans down to be level with Sevin and tells him, “Of course there are things of which I am afraid.”

“Like being on a new planet?”

Spock is staring down at the grass, still green now but the coming colder months will dull it, sap its color away, and he is thinking, this is okay, these are not questions a Vulcan child would ask, would dare to ask, but they are not on Vulcan, not anymore, and if there is an openness to this conversation, an honesty, that borders on the inappropriate, still Senar is allowing it.  He is taking his own risks for his own reasons.

“Yes,” Senar answers.  He draws the word out so that it cracks into two syllables.  “This is a new experience for me and for my husband also, and that is…difficult.  But not everything that is frightening is bad.  For example, Soval and I are expecting a child, and that is frightening.  But it is also an event to which we both look forward.”

“You’re going to have a baby?” Sevin repeats, his eyes wide.

“Yes,” Senar nods, and glances up at Soval, who is already staring down at him and who places, now, his fingertips lightly against Senar’s shoulder.  “He or she will be born in five months.”

“Five months,” Sevin says, and rolls his eyes upwards, nods his head back and forth, his gestures of thinking.  “That’s in…April.  My birthday is in May.  We’ll have spring birthday together!  And—and we both have two fathers.  I don’t know anyone else like that.”

Spock doesn’t notice the way Senar glances up, again, at his husband, but he does see the way that Soval’s fingers tighten again, a comfort, against Senar’s shoulder.

“Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?” Sevin is asking now, already so excited, so invested, and Spock knows he will want to meet this child, when he or she is born, and for the first time he imagines himself visiting this newly expanded family, visiting them just as Soval once visited him, to meet his new son, to say he has your ears.

“We do not know yet,” Soval answers.  “He or she is still too small.”

“How small?” Sevin asks, and again Spock is about to tell him not to press, not to be rude, but Senar does not give him the chance.  He shifts so that he is no longer crouching, but kneeling, and touches his lower abdomen gently.  It is still so flat that one would not guess that there is life growing there.

“So small that there is barely any sign of him or her yet,” Senar answers.

“That’s where the baby is?”

Senar nods.  “That is where the baby is,” he repeats quietly.

“I can’t even tell,” Sevin says, a touch of awe to his voice.  “There’s really a baby in there?”

“Yes,” Senar nods again.  “Really.”

“Wow,” Sevin declares.  Then he tilts his head back and looks up at his father and asks him, “Was I that small once?”

“You were,” Spock answers.  “I remember when you were that small.  That was years ago, but I remember it very well.”

Sevin declares this “Weird,” but whatever other thoughts he may have on the matter, he keeps to himself.  He wriggles his nose, and Spock sees his hands twitch, as if he would reach out, though he knows that he cannot.  “Are you excited to be a father?” he asks, the eagerness in his own voice betraying the answer.  He looks first at Senar and then, almost an afterthought, he twists around to look up at Soval, too.

Spock knows that neither of them would choose the word ‘excited’ himself, and yet, the word already in the air, it is easy enough to agree.  Soval nods, no more than a simple, silent answer, and Senar says, “Yes.  I am, very much.”

“Good,” Sevin decides.  A human would laugh, Spock thinks, at his tone, at how he sounds so approving, like Senar and Soval have passed some sort of test.  The adults gathered around him now do not laugh or even smile, but Spock notices Soval’s eyebrows quirk up, the look of amusement that passes, almost unnoticeable, across Senar’s face.  “You should practice,” Sevin adds.  “We should play.”

“Play?” Senar repeats.

“Yes!  There’s a playground at the edge of the park.  We should go!”

“That is an acceptable plan,” Senar says, a bit of hesitation like nervousness in his voice, but still he stands, his hand finding Soval’s again by instinct as soon as he is upright.

Sevin starts to lead them down the path again, energetic and at ease, now; he drifts ahead of them and then falls back, humming absently, then drifts forward once more.  After a few moments, as he is doubling back for the third time, he turns to Soval and Senar and asks, “I know you said you didn’t know yet if it’s a boy or a girl but what do you want it to be?”

The two exchange a glance, a private and silent negotiation between them, and Spock expects them to say that it does not matter, that they have no preference, but instead Senar admits, “I am hoping for a daughter.”

“Hmmm,” Sevin answers.  “Girls are so boring, though.  They never want to do anything interesting.”

Spock arches an eyebrow and reminds him, “Nyota is female, and we often do interesting things with her.”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Sevin answers, though he does not explain the supposedly quite obvious distinction between Nyota Uhura and the ‘boring’ girls he knows.  Instead, his eye catches on the playground, just now coming into view as they turn a corner, and he points to a girl his age who is climbing her way to the top of the jungle gym.  “See,” he says.  “I bet I could climb faster than that, and do more tricks when I get to the top.”

“Just be careful that you do not hurt yourself doing any of these ‘tricks,’” Spock warns in his sternest voice, but Sevin insists, “Senar will make sure I’m safe,” and all but drags him off by the wrist.  Spock looks over to Soval, who is watching, in his turn, the other two making their way to the group of children and guardians at the playground, Sevin pulling Senar insistently with his child’s surprising strength.  The expression on his face is calm, clear, but still Spock detects a certain fondness there, a wistfulness.

Whatever thoughtful trance he was starting to fall into, he shakes himself out of it abruptly, and turns to Spock.  “Somehow, I do not think we are needed there,” he says, and then gestures with his head toward a nearby empty picnic table.  They sit down next to each other and, for several moments, are silent, watching as Senar crouches down to Sevin’s height again, as they speak, as Sevin gestures, as, later, he starts to climb up the side of the dome-like jungle gym, Senar below him, carefully watching him.

“Your son,” Soval says, “he is…so open.”

“That is a polite way of saying that he is not like a Vulcan,” Spock answers.  “It is true, he is a product of his environment.”

“That was no insult, Spock,” Soval assures him, half-turning to face him now, and his voice insistent, quietly shocked that Spock would even consider such a hidden message to his words.  “I am glad to have the opportunity to meet him again, and spend this time with him.  He has grown so much since the last time I saw him.”

“He has,” Spock agrees.  “I regret that you have not been able to see him grow.  He was fond of you, when he was a baby.”  This is the truth, somehow difficult to admit, and bordering on the inappropriate, but still he thinks that Soval understands his words.  He remembers their last meeting before Spock left for Starfleet, how Soval had not looked at him as he broke their engagement, how he had watched Sevin instead, let him use his hands as a place to land his small toy spaceship.  “I hope that you and he will come to know each other again.”

“I do not doubt that we will,” Soval says, and then gestures lightly to where his husband and Spock’s son are, Senar watching with his head tilted back as Sevin sits at the top of the dome, and adds, “He and Senar seem to be enjoying each other’s company.”

“Senar has expressed frustration with humans before,” Spock points out.  “I would expect him to find Sevin exhausting, or difficult to understand.”

“The latter, perhaps,” Soval concedes, “but that need not be a negative.  Sevin…seems to have no secrets.  We are not accustomed to such frankness.  In an adult it would be, often is, disconcerting.  It as if, the more open a person is, the more willing to share his thoughts and feelings without recourse to familiar formulas and conversational rules, the more, conversely, it is difficult to trust that person.  That is how it is, for us.  It is like this for you as well, I imagine, being a Vulcan like we are.  But Sevin is still young.  His sincerity can only be genuine.”  As he speaks, he buries his hands deep in his jacket pockets, frowns slightly, as if unsure of his own explanation.  “For a child who has seen such loss,” he says quietly, then, “he is quite trusting.  That is a credit to you, Spock.”

“I thank you,” he answers.  His words feel like the sort of formula Soval was referencing, simple and expected, the only thing to say even as Soval’s speech runs again through his mind.  Someday, inevitably, Sevin will grow out of his young child’s optimism.  He must.  But this optimism comes, Spock knows, from resiliency, and it is this stubborn insistence on survival that Spock hopes will stay with him.

“I suppose he makes us feel optimistic, as well,” Soval admits.  Whether he is referencing his nervousness at his impending fatherhood, or the more general pessimism that, Spock is sure, clings to them both now that Vulcan is gone, he does not say, and Spock does not ask.

Spock lets his own hands drift to his pockets, the fall chill through his thin gloves too much, too unwanted, and ventures, “I hope that it is not inappropriate for me to ask—”

“Little would be.”

They do not look at each other.  He asks, “Is Senar in good health?”

“He is,” Soval answers.  He speaks without hesitation, but there is a certain hint of relief there in his voice, a long held breath released, that makes Spock think he is grateful for the opportunity to speak.  “He is in his fourth month now.  It is easier than it was.  His doctor says that there are no complications and…he tells me that he can feel his own health improving.”  He pauses, and Spock follows his gaze, off centered now and focused out past the playground, past Senar and Sevin and the other children and parents.  When he speaks again the change in topic seems, to Spock, startlingly abrupt.  Still he knows that Soval has followed a certain train of logic in his mind until it is clear to him that he can say, now, “You mentioned that you have found Sevin’s other parent.”

“We found each other,” Spock corrects.  “We served on the Enterprise together, last summer.”

“He is in Starfleet as well?” Soval questions, his eyebrow quirking up in surprise.  “Was he in the service when you first met him?”

“No.”  Spock answers quickly, perhaps too harshly so; the question catches him completely off his guard.  He remembers the rumors, remembers the whispers about an older man, a certain edge of violence even to some of the theories, but he never discussed these things with Soval, never knew what he thought or what he imagined, never wanted to know.  “No,” he repeats.  “He enlisted after I did, and without the knowledge that I was also in the service.  It was mere chance that we came into contact again.”

“An unlikely occurrence,” Soval observes.

“And yet,” Spock finishes, “not the only one.”

He glances over at Soval, his shoulders hunched now in response to the chill, and a certain air about him like words unsaid.  The hesitation strikes Spock as odd, unnecessary; they have both said more than enough to make any remaining ideas of propriety seem obsolete.  But he does not question.  He lets Soval take his time, and in that silence he remembers their first meeting, how old Soval had seemed then, older than Spock himself and older than the human boy, and all of his experiences and loss a weight upon him.  Spock has his own experiences now, aging him.

“I must admit, Spock, that even though you have told me that this man is not your mate, I…”  He frowns slightly, his brow furrowing down over his nose.  “I do not understand what your connection to him is.”

“We have a child together,” Spock answers, as if this were quite obvious, and at the same time all the answer that Soval should need.  “Sevin lives with me but spends two or three afternoons and evenings a week with his other parent.  His dad and I are...”  He hesitates, the word friends on the tip of his tongue but then, it is not quite right, and the Vulcan word he would use is even more awkward a descriptor for the peace that they have found between them, slowly warming, not quite easy yet, gradually easing.  “We are friendly,” he says.  “But that is all.”

Soval shakes his head.  “I still do not understand,” he says.  “When we first met I was under the impression that, if given the opportunity, you would bond with your son’s other parent.  You live in the same city with him now.  He is developing a relationship with Sevin.  And yet you hesitate to say that you are even ‘friendly’ with him.”

“Was my father the source of this ‘impression’ you mention?” Spock asks, voice abruptly cold, even accusatory.

“No,” Soval answers.  He seems surprised that Spock would think so, and he half turns to him, trying to explain.  “I simply assumed—incorrectly, I see that now—because I could not imagine another way it could be.  How can you share a child with a person, and not share a life with him?”

“It is,” Spock admits, “unconventional, by our standards.  But I have little use for convention.”

“I understand,” Soval says, but the slight startled movement he’d made, quick but Spock had noticed, couldn’t help but, gives him away.  He does not understand as much as he claims he does.  Still, he thinks it over, so many unknowable thoughts drifting through his mind and only the echoes of them, the ripples of them, visible on his face.  “I should never have assumed,” he says, after several moments.  “To bond with a person out of obligation or expectation, that would be a capitulation.  Compromise never sat well on you, Spock.”

It is embarrassing, how badly this compliment, and it is a compliment, applies to him now.  Or perhaps, he corrects himself, it is that the observation strikes true, but that he has chosen an ill-fitting compromise regardless, and he can feel it now more than ever stretching tight across his shoulders.

“Everyone compromises,” he answers.  “I am no exception.”

“You are referring to your decision to leave Starfleet?”

He nods.  “When resettlement begins on the new colony, Sevin and I will move there, and I will do my part to rebuild and,” he adds, the slightest drop in volume to his voice, “to repopulate our planet.”  He glances at Soval, his face admirably blank, unreadable.  “Perhaps you spoke too soon,” he suggests.

“Vulcan certainly needs you,” Soval answers slowly, considering.  “We need all of our people.  Of course, sacrifice can be honorable, Spock, but—”

“You assume I am sacrificing.”

Soval tilts his head.  “Am I wrong?”

Spock can’t stand the gaze that’s somehow built up between them, causing a vague itching in his palms and across his shoulder blades.  He turns away.

“However, the Tragedy has changed everyone’s circumstances,” Soval continues, a certain forced and unnatural lightness to his tone, like making conversation, which takes the place of an apology.  “I cannot presume to tell you your own thoughts or calculations.  I used to believe that, if I had to, perhaps even one day simply because I wanted to, I could move to another planet and live my life there as contentedly as on Vulcan.  Now that I am here, I think perhaps I was naïve.  It is much more difficult than I imagined.  I cannot help but look forward to the day when my family and I can live again surrounded by our people.  There was so much that I took for granted, before.”  He bows his head, and Spock finds himself watching Soval’s ear, the sharp point at the tip, the careful cut of his hair.  It is difficult, he knows from experience, to find a Terran barber who understands how to cut a Vulcan’s hair properly.  It never quite looks right, at first.

“Perhaps it is best for our people to be together,” Soval continues.  “To be united.  I do not mean that we should be isolated.  If the Tragedy has taught us anything, it must be that we need the Federation; we need our allies.  But I fear that if we do not establish a functioning colony on a new planet, we will scatter and lose our identity as a people.”

“That will not happen,” Spock answers, his voice hard, not with certainty but with his own fierce desire to believe.

“No,” Soval echoes, humoring; Spock feels all of the years between them in that word, feels his own youth.  “If it is what you want, Spock,” he continues, “I am sure that the colony will benefit from your presence.  We will have to rebuild,” he almost sighs, a forceful release of pent up breath, and in that gesture he looks up again and out at the horizon, “everything.  There will be priorities, I know, but I assume that education will be one.  The Science Academy will need you.”

He turns to look at Spock again, and with that look, that expression on his face that says he knows what Spock is thinking, and don’t, he cuts off all of the words that come so quickly to Spock’s tongue, about how the Academy does not need him, and never has, and he wonders if that wound still stings or if he reacts out of no more than old instinct.  His hands are on his knees.  He does not answer.

“What are your plans?” Soval asks.  It is the clearest of questions.  It is simple, obvious.  Yet no one has ever asked it of him before, and he has barely asked it of himself.

The answer that comes—to do what I have to do—is not at all what Soval is waiting to hear, a clean sidestep of his question and yet the most true thing Spock can think.  The very honesty of it is a weight against his shoulders.  It is what he knows but all he knows.  The rest, move to Vulcan, do work where he is needed, bond, raise children, he never enumerates.  He knows that Soval is still staring at him, still waiting, but he says nothing.

“Father!” he hears Sevin’s voice suddenly, and his head snaps up, an automatic response.  “Father!  You need to see this!”  His boy is running up to him now, Senar following, slower but with longer strides, behind him.  “I learned a new trick, you should see!”

“A new trick?” Spock repeats, as Sevin grabs both of his wrists and tries to pull him to his feet.

“It is quite impressive,” Senar informs them, the hint of awe in his voice for Sevin’s benefit, Spock knows, and yet he can tell by the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head that he has enjoyed himself.  This is the most relaxed that Spock has seen him since they met, no tension legible in his mouth or his hands.

Spock stands, and Soval does too, a beat behind him.  Sevin grips his father’s wrist, and Senar’s hand reaches out to touch Soval’s again, and Sevin leads them back the playground, and the conversation drops.

Chapter Text

Nyota asks him what made him change his mind, but he doesn’t know.  He doesn’t want to know.  He tells her that Soval and Senar volunteered to stay with Sevin for the evening, allowing him the opportunity to go out.  It is no answer, describes nothing of what he wants, why he chose this activity over any other, but she does not question it.  She only warns him, “There’ll be a lot of Enterprise talk, you know.  Kirk and Scotty took the bridge crews up to see the ship a few days ago.  She’s…she’s amazing, Spock, even better than when she set out last summer.”

“I understand that Mr. Scott has made several integral alterations,” Spock answers, carefully neutral.

“Yes, but not just him.  I could see your work in it, too.  I know you care about this mission, Spock—”

“Nyota.”

She does not often speak with him like this anymore, as if she could still convince him to change his plans and return.  When she does he breaks off the attempt, quickly and curtly, because he cannot allow himself to wonder.  He spends too much time already wondering if he is making a mistake.  They cross the street, an easy excuse for a few moments’ silence.

“Okay,” she says, then, when they’ve slipped into step next to each other once more.  “I know.  Your mind is made up.”

Yes, he thinks, so made up that he is going to spend an evening socializing with members of Starfleet, the same crew he could have served with if he’d chosen a different path.  He took a walk, two days before, through the Starfleet Academy campus, past all of the old buildings where he used to study, where he used to teach, the dorm room where he lived his first semester at school, and he’d seen those Cadets in their red uniforms, walking with a certain restrained hurry, trying to be what they were not yet, and he’d thought about them flying off into space, so many of them, and dying.  That is what space is to him, now: adventure, a dangerous adventure, a thrill, a trap.  He’d envied them, but the envy felt like a disease.  There must be something wrong with him, he thought, to feel that way.

“It is made up,” he says out loud, “and so is Captain Kirk’s.  He has already appointed a First Officer.”

Nyota makes a bit of a face, and tells him, “Mitchell’s been going on a power trip recently.”  She sounds like she is making conversation, and no more.  Still he narrows his eyes, suspicious.

“A ‘power trip’?” he repeats.

“He and Kirk fight all the time.  Mitchell thinks he has the answer to everything, and he’s always threatening to go over Kirk’s head when they disagree.  They clash a lot.”

Clash, Spock thinks, would be an understatement of his own interactions with Jim Kirk.  No matter what Kirk’s working relationship with Mitchell might be, it is difficult for Spock to imagine anything more difficult than the one they would have, if they served side by side.  If that were possible.

“Anyway,” Nyota is saying, “the position of Science Officer is still open.  That would be a possibility—if you were still in Starfleet.”

It’s hard to find new ways to say the same old thing, especially when he recounts the same words to himself all too often as well, so he doesn’t they.  They are approaching Kirk and McCoy’s building now, and silence is easy.  They are the last two to arrive.  He scans the faces gathered around the table and settles on Kirk’s, not first, but last, lets his gaze linger there.  The gathering is informal, a few hellos here and there for new arrivals, and a settling into chairs and a dealing of cards—Kirk had been in the middle of a conversation with Scotty when Spock and Nyota entered, and hadn’t looked up.  So Spock allow himself a longer gaze at him than he should.  He indulges himself, carefully drawing a line around the curve of Jim’s ear, down his jaw, down his neck, with his gaze.

“Have you ever played poker before, Mr. Spock?” Chekov asks him, startling him.

“I learned during my first year at the Academy,” he answers.  “Though I admit, it has been some time since I last played.”

“Well don’t expect us to go easy on you,” Kirk smiles.  “We all play to win here.”

“And what are the stakes?” Spock asks him.

“High,” Kirk answers, in just such a way that Spock knows he is lying, even as McCoy speaks over him.

“Almost nothing,” he says.  “Don’t worry, Spock, we’re not about to bankrupt you.”

“Perhaps you are the one who should be relieved, Dr. McCoy,” he answers, accepting as he does the first of the cards that McCoy is sending shuttling across the table toward him.

Winning is no challenge, but he allows them to think that it is, sitting out hands or folding purposefully early, as if it were imperative that the others at the table like him, as if he cared that they not see him as a threat or a show-off.  He doesn’t question his own motives.  What is best, he thinks, is if he does not stand out.  He becomes only his ears, listening to the conversation as it fades in and out, how the ship looks better than ever, and is it possible we’ll be living there, how exciting is that, can you even put it into words, what sort of people do you think we’ll meet, any pretty women?—“or handsome men,” Sulu adds, with an awkward smile at Nyota.

“I wouldn’t say no to either,” Kirk puts in, with a flash of a sideways grin, and next to him, Dr. McCoy rolls his eyes.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he says.

Spock keeps his eyes carefully on his cards.  It is difficult, resisting the urge to look up again, to see if Kirk seems embarrassed, or maybe proud, if he’s shaking his head, or looking away, or if he is, perhaps, looking at Spock even now.  The stir of jealousy in him is ugly.  He has been, he realizes, skating over the surface of a light and ever present envy all evening, the feeling that Kirk and Nyota and McCoy and the others will be leaving, soon enough, on an adventure that will expand their lives and leave them open to every possibility, to possibilities not yet invented or imagined, while he—

His own future seems closed and small, suffocating.  It should not be, it should not be; he repeats it but the words are from some unknown language, hollow ringing.

The next hand, he does not win, and it is no surprise to him that he bets so badly and reads the others’ faces so sloppily, because he is moving by rote now.  He once told his father that Starfleet would afford him opportunities for scientific study and discovery that not even the Science Academy could offer.  What had excited him then, even in the breath-held days before he left, the ones he barely remembers now, only a scattering of goodbyes and Sevin’s crying fits and everything unknowns and questions—what had excited him even then was the thought of going where no one had been and seeing what no one had seen.  The need for adventures is in your genes, Spock, his mother had told him.  At first, he hadn’t even understood what she meant.

He does not think often, anymore, about what he has given up.  He tells himself it is a small price.  But oh something still thrills in him at the thought of all of that undiscovered space, at possibilities left unexplored.

“Mr. Spock,” Chekov says suddenly, breaking into the visions of stars and planets he’s been wandering through, “may I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” he answers quickly, and does not let himself feel his wariness, noting it only as paranoia.

“Commander Jacobson showed me the code you were writing to update the science division computers and he said that you had not appointed anyone to finish your work, and well, I thought—I know I am only an Ensign and that we have never worked together but—”

“It is Commander Jacobson’s project,” he interrupts.  “You would be better served discussing the matter with him.”

Chekov shakes his head.  “The work is yours,” he says.  “The Commander knows this.  He said to ask you.”

There was a time, months ago, before the Tragedy, when that complicated string of code had been his most important work, the project that kept him up at night.  It is strange, now, to think of how quickly it was pushed from his mind.  He has barely thought of it in weeks.  It should be easy to say he does not care, that Chekov should take the work, Chekov or anyone, what does it matter to him?  But he hesitates.

“If you are still working on it—” Chekov tries again, nervously, but again Spock shakes his head.  Chekov breaks off his own words abruptly.

“I have retired from Starfleet,” he reminds him.

He stares down at the chips ordered in neat stacks in front of him.  He does not acknowledge the way that Nyota is staring at him, even though he can feel her eyes persistently gazing, daring him; she told him just yesterday that he says it too often, always reminding everyone and himself that he’s all but gone, yet he’s still here, not a dozen blocks from the center of the Academy campus, almost every acquaintance he has from Starfleet, and his life almost unchanged from before his retirement.  Of course I am still living in San Francisco, he tried to say, tried to begin, my plans— but she pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest and said, he didn’t understand, or he was pretending he didn’t, and why won’t he ever say what he’s really thinking?

“If the project interests you,” he says now, “then you should finish it.  If you like, we can discuss it together.”

“That is a very good idea,” Chekov agrees.  “Except—”

“Yes?”

“You said you were retired.”

It seems as if all of the other conversation has stopped quite suddenly.  “I am,” he answers, and tries to infuse into his voice a certain border of disdain, not because Chekov’s comment is deserving of such feeling, but because he wants to sound as if this were quite an obvious observation, and thus one that need never have been made.  He refuses to admit contradiction.

Chekov’s skin blushes over a faint pink, but still he leans forward slightly toward Spock and asks, “And are you—?” as if, now that he has begun, he can ask anything.

“Yes?”

“Well, that is, I heard you were moving to New Vulcan, when the colonization begins, and—well, I was wondering if that is true?”

He affirms, quietly, that it is.

“And,” Chekov presses, “and—well I am not exactly asking why, that is not my business I know, but—”  He pauses sharply, abruptly, and then tries again, “We have spent all evening talking about the Enterprise, da, and how exciting it is.  Are you excited to go to New Vulcan?”

The answer, that he isn’t, that he never has been, is no surprise to him, no revelation.  It comes to him simply, a dull and echoless thought, and he has not exactly had it before and yet he’s known, known right from the start, that this decision was not about excitement or about want, but about need, and—this time a slight reverberation, a small set of circles rippling out from the center—about fear.

“It is my duty, Ensign Chekov,” he says out loud, “to aid my people.  It is not a question of excitement.”

He feels all of their eyes on him, waiting perhaps for him to say something more, but it’s Dr. McCoy he turns to.  It is McCoy who seems just on the verge of speaking when the door to the apartment opens and Kirk and Sulu, absent the last twenty minutes, return, arms piled high with bags and boxes, and the moment breaks in two.

“We bring sustenance,” Kirk declares, as he sets his own pile down on the coffee table.  He starts opening boxes of pizza, while Sulu hands out beers, the poker table abandoned quickly and everyone crowding around the newcomers and declaring how hungry and thirsty they are.  Spock slips off into the kitchen for a glass of water without telling anyone where he is going.  He follows the rote motions of taking down a glass from the cupboard, turning on the tap, watching the water fizz and spray as the glass fill, but when he turns the tap off and turns around, he realizes he isn’t alone.

“You could also say,” McCoy tells him, “that your duty is to Starfleet.  That’s what you agreed to, when you signed up, isn’t it?”

“I have been a Vulcan much longer than I have been an Officer,” Spock answers.

“Okay,” McCoy concedes, though the tone of his voice is no concession at all.  “But Starfleet was a commitment you chose."

“You believe that makes it the more important priority?”

“I believe that you left your people and your planet to come here for a reason.  Both Starfleet and New Vulcan could use you, Spock, and neither one needs you so badly that it would collapse without you.  You know that.  If it’s a question of duty, though, I would say Starfleet has just a much a claim to your talents as the Vulcans do.”

Spock watches the water in his glass, all but still, small waves of it lapping up the sides when he moves his hand slightly.  He could say that the Vulcans need him more than Starfleet does, and that even if they did not, his people will always have his allegiance first, and it would not be a lie to say these things.  But it would not be a proper answer either.  Instead he says, quietly, low, like some sort of confession, “Starfleet was my choice.  But being a father was also my choice.”

Another answer to another person might have stopped the conversation, but McCoy doesn’t leave, and Spock isn’t surprised.  He just stands there by the doorway, waiting silently and watching while the sound of incoherent chatter slips in from the next room.

“You’ll have to take me through your logic on that one, Spock,” he says finally.

“I would have thought it obvious, Doctor,” he answers.  “If there is to be a choice made between my son, and Starfleet, I must choose my son.  I cannot commit myself to a career in Starfleet and still be a proper father to Sevin.”

“Why not?”

He leans back against the countertop and remembers those acid days, no sleep and no clear breath for his lungs, nothing on his mind but the image of his planet disappearing and the thought that his son was gone with it, that he’d failed the most important task of his life and his little boy was dead.

“I hope you do not think I am insulting your friend,” he says.  “That Captain Kirk must remain in Starfleet is as clear to me as that I must return to Vulcan.”

“As clear or more,” McCoy corrects.  He is still watching Spock carefully, like one watches an experiment or a specimen.  “This isn’t about Jim.  He didn’t raise your son.  It isn’t the same for him, I know that.”  His eyes narrowed, unformed words just at his lips and on the tip of his tongue and Spock watches him back, wondering why he needs to have this conversation, what he hopes to learn or accomplish here.  “I notice you still haven’t answered my question,” he points out.

“Because when Ensign Chekov informed us that my planet had minutes left before it was to be destroyed, I beamed down to save the Elders, because I knew they mean more to my people than a seven year old child.”  His voice is louder than he had meant it to be, louder than he had expected it would be, and he feels that familiar heat in the tips of his ears again.  Still, he ignores it, and ignores, too, the slightly shocked look on McCoy’s face.  “I could have gone to him.  But I did not.  And I did not—”  He swallows hard against the lump in his throat.  “And I did not even save all of the men and women I set out to rescue.  I failed on both counts.”

He thinks he sees sympathy in McCoy’s expression, understanding and even empathy there, but then he has yet to perfect that art of reading the human expression.  He is not yet fluent in it.  When McCoy speaks again, his voice is almost derisive.  “So you just gave up?” he accuses.

“No, I—”

“Spock, listen to me.  You were a hero during that mission, by anyone’s standards, not a failure.  And your son survived, he is fine—”

“By chance.”

“No, he’s fine because other people did their jobs, just like you did yours.  So you couldn’t do everything, is that the worst crime in the world?  Are you going to be punishing yourself for the rest of your life for not being a superhero?”

“Punishing myself?”  He furrows his brow, and feels his fingers tighten of their own accord against the slippery too-warm glass.  The idea is strange and disconcerting, wrong, of course it is wrong, but difficult to disprove.  “Why do you believe that life on New Vulcan would be a punishment?”

“Is it what you want to do?”

He opens his mouth for a quick and snapping retort but there’s nothing, only a lie, and he finds himself remembering that rumor, that strange understanding other peoples have of Vulcans, that they never lie, that they cannot.  For a moment, it feels true.

“Don’t answer that,” McCoy says.  His voice is gruff and dismissive and he won’t quite look Spock in the eye; Spock feels his embarrassment as if they were touching, as if he could sense it through his skin.

“No,” he says.  “I do not suppose that I need to.”

McCoy makes a low grunt of noise in answer, and glances over his shoulder toward the door, probably desperate, Spock thinks, to abandon this conversation he has started.  They aren’t friends.  They barely know each other and hardly like each other but they share an important person in common, and is that why McCoy followed him here?  Is he trying to convince him to come back to Starfleet because he thinks it is what Captain Kirk would want?  What does it matter to Kirk where Spock is, unless it is on the Enterprise with him—hardly a given, even if he were to beg for a position in the service once more?  Does McCoy know that is what Kirk wants, or is he only guessing, or assuming?

“Whatever you do,” McCoy is saying, his words directed to the floor, “I just hope you don’t spend the rest of your life carrying around a lot of useless guilt you don’t deserve.”

“I thank you for the advice, Doctor.”

McCoy’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to decide if the sarcasm he heard in Spock’s voice was purposeful, or just a trick of his own hearing.  Even after years on Earth, Spock takes a certain pleasure in this confusion he so often inspires in humans.  They don’t seem to believe he is capable of anything but the most straightforward of speech, as if he did not spend his whole life speaking in a series of increasingly elaborate codes, combinations and re-orderings of set phrases and varied registers of speech, all the meaning slid into the cracks between.

He does not tell the doctor that in this case, the sarcasm was only half sincere.

“Yes, well,” McCoy continues, “I’m just saying, as someone who carries around more than his share of pointless guilt, it isn’t worth it.”

Spock nods, but there is nothing he can say in answer to this, no more acknowledgement he can make.  He’s heard a secret that wasn’t intended for him, and in this situation for which he was never prepared, where there are no formulas nor carefully constructed social rules, he feels out of his depth and lost.  McCoy seems to feel no more certain of himself.

It is Kirk’s voice, finally, that breaks the tense, uncertain, stretch of silence between them, calling out, “Spock!  Bones!  Where did you go off to?” from the next room as if he did not know exactly where they were.  “Get back here right now, Captain’s orders!”

McCoy’s mouth contorts into an exaggerated frown, but he’s glad for the excuse.  “Ah, well, we don’t dare disobey Captain’s orders, do we?” he mutters, and turns back through the doorway to where the others are waiting.  Kirk isn’t Spock’s Captain, and never will be, but Spock follows orders, too, and steps after McCoy through the door.

“So here’s the problem,” Jim says, and sits back in his chair as if he were not at this moment outlining the conundrum at the center of his life.  Pike’s face where it fills the computer screen in front of him is utterly passive, unreadable; Jim imagines he knows what he’s about to hear, but it’s hard to tell, and maybe he will be surprised yet.  “If I get into one more argument with Mitchell, I’m going to punch him in the face.”

Pike doesn’t even crack a smile, which is a bit of a disappointment.  Jim can hear a tapping sound in the background, as if Pike were drilling his fingertips against the arm of his chair, and for several long, stretching, awkward moments, this is all he hears.  All he sees is the hard lines of Pike’s face, his blank stone expression.

What he finally says is, “This isn’t a game, Jim.”

“Oh believe me,” he answers, “I know it isn’t.  That’s why I called you.  If I can’t find a way to work with him…this might be the longest five years of my life.”

“If you can’t find a way to work with him, you won’t make it five years,” Pike reminds him, and gives him a stern father-figure look.  He holds the expression for a beat, then two, and then he sighs, a heavy, dry sigh of resignation that Jim knows well, by now.  Whatever Pike’s about to say, he’s already telling himself to shut up.  “What I should tell you,” he says, “is to grow up.  Deal with it.  If you have personal issues with Mitchell, you put up with them—”

“More like professional issues.”

“You put up with those, too.  You’re a Captain now.  You’re in charge of that ship and all of her crew.  They are your responsibility.  That’s more important than any of your feelings.”

He already knows this, of course he knows, but he doesn’t say so.  Pike would just tell him that he could use a bit of reminding.  He rubs his fingers across his forehead, as if he could sort all of his thoughts this way, just reach in through the skin and bone and put everything where it needs to be.  “You said that’s what you should be saying,” he reminds Pike.  “But it’s not what you’re going to say.”

“No,” Pike agrees.  “It isn’t.”  He clears his throat, the sort of gruff and overdrawn sound that can only precede a confession, a sharing of confidence, an inappropriate and uncomfortable discussion of feelings.  Jim is more curious than he would admit, and more hopeful.  “The bottom line, Jim,” Pike says, “is that you don’t just have to be able to work with your First Officer, you also have to be able to trust him—trust him with your life and the lives of your crew, and with your ship.  If you can’t see Gary Mitchell being the person you can rely as if he were you, then maybe he shouldn’t be your First.”

There isn’t much he can say to this.  He sits there like he’s stunned, like he hasn’t had just exactly this thought skimming across his mind, wordless and ill defined, but persistent, for weeks.  It is different, to hear it spoken aloud.

“What if there isn’t anyone I can rely on as if he were myself?” he asks quietly.  He’s telling himself not to think about Spock, standing on the Jellyfish and trying to give him one last message, and Jim wouldn’t hear it, because they weren’t going to die, couldn’t die yet.  He’d never been more certain of anything in his life.  Pike doesn’t answer for several long moments.

“What if there is and you don’t want to admit it?”

Jim’s eyes narrow.  “What are you getting at?”  Pike’s face is so frustratingly unreadable that he almost wants to ask if he’s been taking lessons from a certain Vulcan of their acquaintance.  Instead, he just hardens his voice, brings out those excuses again, “Because if you’re thinking of Spock, he kept a pretty big secret from me—”

Pike holds up his hands.  “I don’t want to hear about your personal issues with Spock.  I think you know how irrelevant your past with him is to this question.  Do you trust him now?  Do you trust him the way one soldier trusts another?”

Of course he does.  He opens his mouth, shuts it again, then looks away because he’s embarrassed and there isn’t anything to say.  He’d thought, when he first found out about Sevin, that it was a blow from which he could never recover, from which they could never recover, if there’d ever been a they at all.  He’d thought of it as a betrayal.  It seems more complicated now, the decision of a teenager that snowballed, that tied the hands of the adult.  And it’s no teenager he’d have at his right hand on that ship.

“Even if I do,” he answers, finally, and ignores the way Pike smiles at this as if he’s won.  “Even if I do, there’s no way we could serve together.  It would require Spock to change his mind about leaving the Fleet, first of all, and then the pulling of quite a few strings to get him on my ship—”

“You can leave those strings to me.”

“And it just wouldn’t be—appropriate,” he finishes.  It’s a bit embarrassing to be caught worrying about propriety.  But it’s been there in the back of his mind, niggling there every time he tries to entertain some outlandish fantasy of him and Spock and Sevin and the Enterprise and the great vastness of space.  He sighs and leans back in his chair, waiting for the question, pretending it won’t come.  Clarify, please.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Pike repeats, quietly.

“We have a kid together,” Jim reminds him.  “The way I feel about him—”

He cuts himself off, because Pike is still staring at him, waiting or appraising, or both.  Jim hides his mouth behind his hand, as if afraid more words he never meant to say may force their way out even through his fingers.

“Which is the problem?” Pike asks him.  “Your son or these…feelings?”  He shifts uncomfortably on the last word, and Jim can at least be reassured that he is not the only one wishing that the conversation had not taken this turn.  “If your plan to allow families to serve together is accepted, then you and Spock being parents won’t be the issue it was.”

“I know.  I know that, I just—”  He drops his hand, and shifts and leans forward again until he’s on the edge of his seat, face too close to the computer screen.  “Could I really serve with him, when he’s…when he’s as important to me as he is?”

When Pike doesn’t answer right away, he realizes how much he’d been hoping for a quick and easy yes, for some reassurance that his worries were unfounded.  He takes Pike’s silence as an indication that he’s right, you can’t love your First Officer—not that he does, not like he thought he did, not now—but you can’t take the chance that you could come to love him, either.  It’s a bigger disappointment than he thought it would be.  It’s a bigger disappointment than it should be.  He already knew, thought he knew, that it was impossible, an idea not even worth entertaining.

Still, he had.

“It’s a fair question,” Pike says, then.  “And it’s one only you can answer for yourself.”

“You think there can ever be an answer besides ‘no’?”

“There was for me.”  He waits a moment, perhaps for Jim to question, perhaps just to gather his own words.  “My First Officer on my first mission as Captain was a woman I cared about very much.  She was…everything to me.  The most important person in my life.”

The words sound like a realization, something Jim shouldn’t be hearing, and he ducks his head as if this gesture could close his ears.  “Your Number One,” he says, because of course he’s heard of her.  He hadn’t known she and Pike were anything but colleagues.  He wonders how many people did know, how many people could have known.

“Anything that you and Spock do, of course, will be subject to a type of scrutiny that she and I never experienced,” Pike reminds him.

“Of course,” he repeats, with a heavy sigh.  “That’s the price for saving Earth, I guess.”

“That’s the price for being the youngest Captain in Starfleet history,” Pike corrects.  Then his voice softens, as if something in Jim’s expression or the set of his shoulders makes him want to show pity.  “It has been done, Jim.  More people than you would think have asked themselves the question you’re asking yourself now.”

“So you’re telling me I’m not as special as I like to think I am?” he asks, with that bright, wide, smile he doesn’t even have to try for anymore, and a small laugh sliding on at the end of the words.

“No,” Pike says, “but I will tell you this Jim: you are special enough for Starfleet to make a couple of exceptions for you.  Your favors will run out eventually,” he adds, “but they haven’t yet.”

Jim just taps his fingers harder against the arm of his chair, almost painful strikes against the hard surface.  Then he runs his left hand over his face, from his forehead to his chin, and when it’s gone, when he’s wiped away his silence, his thoughts, he says, “You speak as if you know what I’m going to do.  I don’t even know that.  And it’s not just up to me, anyway.”

“I know.”

“I have to be sure I know what I’m doing.  This—this is sort of a big deal.”

It’s the next five years of his life.  It’s his profession and his family.  It’s the rest of his life, he thinks, all of it, the rest of his life with Spock barely in it, and his son fighting for a place that’s not the periphery, if Jim lets them get away now.

“Just don’t overthink it, Jim,” Pike reminds him.  “There is something to be said for gut feeling.”

Jim laughs.  There isn’t much humor in the sound, but just enough, just what he needed.  “You don’t have to worry about that, Admiral,” he says.  “Overthinking has never been one of my problems.”

Chapter Text

Rain starts to fall around noon.  Spock watches the fat, heavy droplets hit against the burnt orange tiles of his balcony, falling slowly and indecisively, leaving large, round splotches by his feet.  The rain is cold and unpleasant, and when it starts to pick up, he’ll slip inside again, but for the moment he’s content enough to watch the thick gray clouds crowding against each other, sliding past each other above him.  It will be properly winter soon.  San Francisco winter, Pike called it, as if it hardly merited the name, but Spock thinks of it as Terran winter, meaning that it is more winter than he cares to know.

It’s been a quiet day.  He dropped Sevin off at school and then took a long walk around the neighborhood and through the Academy campus, not thinking, not needing to think, sometimes remembering.  He returned to the apartment at lunch, and just as he was washing the dishes, a soft mechanical movement, the water too warm over his hands, his communicator had started to beep.  He’d let it go.  He was unwilling to hurry through his chores and already without looking he knew who it was.

He listens to the message now.  His father’s voice is steady and professional, with edges of weariness only Spock would be able to hear, telling him in curt sentences that he has a job for him: a place among the staff of the medical services group that the Federation is organizing as one of the first projects on the new colony.  So many physicians and medical staff were lost in the Tragedy that it will be necessary to employ aliens there as well, but the more Vulcans who can be found to lend their expertise, the better the Federation group will be able to earn the trust of the other survivors.  Spock’s experience at the Medical Center on Earth would make him an ideal candidate.  He could move to the planet with the second group of settlers, after the initial building is completed.  However, his training would have to begin as soon as possible.  So it is urgent that he answers.  Spock listens to the message a third time and a fourth, as if searching for some hidden meaning in the pauses between words, and then he turns his communicator off and slips it back into his pocket.

His father is expecting an answer.  He will ask, when Spock returns his call, why it took him even the hours it did to respond.  Yet he has no desire for this conversation and instead he leans back against the balcony railing, hands wrapped around the upper bar of it, the sharp edges of it cutting into his palms painfully.

All he can think about is the Enterprise.  It’s been eight days since the poker game, eight days since he stood in the doorway of that other life he could have had, eight days since Dr. McCoy spoke to him of regret with the color of it shading through his voice.  Each day since he’s woken up with planets at the edge of his vision.  It is unsettling.  He feels as if a parasite of a desire has taken hold of him, squirming insidiously through his thoughts, and what rattles him most is the slow dawning that this desire is, perhaps, no parasite at all, that it has always been a part of him.

“Do you believe in destiny?” he’d asked his counterpart, two days ago, and somehow he’d been surprised to see that other Spock shift back in his chair, the image of his face on the computer screen receding.  He’d thought the answer would be clear to one of them.

The other Spock had only inquired in his turn, “Why do you ask me this question?”

“There was no one else I could ask.”

There was no need for his counterpart to ask about Starfleet, or about Jim Kirk; he must have already known Spock was contemplating that other life, that unlikely life he’d chosen once and tried to choose again, starships and space and a partnership to define his whole life.  Is it foolish to believe he could ever find that twice?  Or is it so integral to who he is that it must be found over and over, in every iteration of his existence?

He runs through the questions again now, sifting through them like sifting sand through his fingers.  “I did not always,” the Ambassador had said.  “And I am not sure I do now.  But it is a seductive concept.”

It is, Spock thinks.  A fat raindrop splatters over his bare right foot.  Everything would be quite simple, if he could rely on a destiny to lead him where he needed to go.

He has not even finished forming this thought before he cringes at how false it rings.  He has always prided himself on his logic and his reason, his ability to choose.  He feels no differently now.  If anything, his pride is only wounded by the subtle, silent, undeniable realization that his reason has led him astray.

He must do what is best for his son.  He must allow him the opportunity to grow up where he is accepted and where he can be happy.  Their people may be more tolerant now of a quarter-Vulcan child than they were; they may see any percentage of Vulcan heritage as worthy and precious.  But they may instead be more isolated, and even less tolerant, scared now more than ever that their culture will be diluted through alien marriages and part-alien children.  Either way, Sevin will have a difficult time adjusting to life on the new planet.  Years on Earth have left him unaccustomed to the society in which Spock grew up.

He knows he must also do what is best for himself.  He must devote himself to the most meaningful work possible.  He is sure he could contribute both to New Vulcan and its society, as well as to the Federation and to Starfleet; trying to weigh the importance of one work over the other is maddening.  It cannot be computed.  He must consider instead what he wants, which life would make him most content.  He admits that, by this standard, there has never been any debate.

He contacts his father first, and then Admiral Pike.  Neither seems surprised, although Sarek does ask, in a stiff tone that makes Spock feel sixteen again, if his decision was influenced by the new Captain Kirk.  He replies that his decision is no one’s but his own.  Admiral Pike is confident in his promises, and asks Spock if he is considering a place on the Enterprise.  He answers that this is not his decision to make.  All of the words come easily to him, as if they were someone else’s words.  Strange, he thinks, how the decision to leave Starfleet seemed to come by inches, protested at each step, such a difficult and complicated process, and yet it is undone in moments, and now he feels nothing.  He feels normal.  For the first time in quite some time, he feels as he should have felt all along.

The rain is falling faster now, the droplets of it smaller and more densely spaced, and he steps inside again.  He spends the afternoon reading, has dinner at a decent hour, and then returns to the balcony, what there was of a storm having passed by now, and watches the gray light of evening pass into night.

The doorbell buzzes half an hour before Sevin’s bed time, and then there is his boy, stepping wearily over the threshold and wrapping his arms around Spock’s knees.  “Father,” he’s saying, “I’m sleeeeeepy,” and above him, Jim Kirk is giving Spock a guilty half-smile.

“I think I’ve finally found the end of his limitless energy,” he confesses.

“So you have,” Spock murmurs in answer, and then turns his attention back to Sevin, all but asleep on his feet.  “Come on little one,” he says to him, switching to Vulcan by instinct, the language they often speak when alone, and always when Sevin is tired or nervous or sad, “time for bed.”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Sevin agrees.

His son is still light enough that Spock could easily, if he wished, pick him and carry him to his room, but he forces himself to do no more than take his wrist and lead him down the hall.  He cannot carry him forever.  Kirk stands awkwardly at the threshold, his hands in his pockets.  Spock raises an eyebrow at him.  Perhaps it is hearing Vulcan that threw him; or perhaps the knowledge that Sevin is so tired he will fall asleep the moment his head finds the pillow, no bedtime story or goodnight ritual required; or perhaps it is some reason of his own that makes him hesitate, but Kirk acts as if he expected Spock to motion him away and close the door on his face.

But when Sevin looks over his shoulder and asks, “Aren’t you going to say goodnight, Jim?” he smiles, half-embarrassed, and follows them in.  Spock commands the door closed behind him.

Sevin rouses himself enough to brush his teeth, to change into pajamas, to give both of his parents a proper goodnight hug.  As he wraps his arms around Spock, just for a moment, Spock catches Kirk watching them.  He’s seen this expression on Kirk’s face before.  It is part confusion, and part wonder.  Spock knows what he’s thinking, has even heard him ask the question, one night after Sevin was asleep and they had sunk into the couch cushions, as much space between them as they could manage.  It’s just—I still don’t expect it, he’d said.  I didn’t realize Vulcans were so demonstrative.

We are not, he’d answered.  Not often.  Not even parents and children.  My interactions with Sevin are an exception.

When Kirk notices Spock watching him in return, he turns away.

Spock lets Kirk step out of the room first, and as he himself leaves, he commands off the lights and closes the door.  “There is something on your mind,” he says, as they return to the living room.  It is not a question, and he does not attempt to make it sound as if it were.

“Hmmm, what?”

Kirk looks up abruptly from where he was watching his fingers tap restlessly against the back of the sofa.

“I was simply commenting that you seem to be preoccupied with some thought,” Spock repeats.

“Oh.  Yeah.  I guess I am.”  He circles around to the front of the couch and drops down onto the pillows in the corner.  “I’m sorry, Spock, I guess I’m a bit out of it.  Sevin tired me out, too.”  He looks up, twisting around to catch Spock’s eye and giving him a thin, forced smile.  “And it’s been another of those long days.”

Spock had been considering wandering into the kitchen for tea, something soothing and without stimulants, something tasting of completeness and calm because he feels, quite oddly, at peace with his decision of the afternoon.  He feels as if it truly were an ending and not merely the beginning of a new set of questions and tasks and difficulties.  But Kirk is sunk deep into the couch cushions, looking boneless and tired and immovable.  He’s looking at Spock with an expectant expression on his face.  So Spock forgoes the tea.  He perches on the edge of the middle cushion and asks, somewhat awkwardly, what is wrong.

“I didn’t say anything was wrong,” Kirk answers, but his tone implies, Spock thinks, that there is.  He doesn’t comment.  After a moment, not as long as Spock was expecting, as if this thought were a secret but one he is eager to share, Kirk breaks, his posture curling forward as he leans into Spock’s space.  “It’s just,” he says, then pauses again.  Spock watches his tongue slide out over his top lip, then his bottom one.  “As of today, I don’t have a First Officer anymore.”

It is a bit startling.  Spock feels his eyes go wide for one brief moment, and he curls his fingertips into the couch cushions, hoping Kirk doesn’t notice the movement.  “Has Lieutenant Mitchell been injured?” he asks, even though he knows the answer; it seems the politest question to ask.

“No,” Kirk answers, with a slight laugh that Spock chooses not to take personally, “no.  He quit.  That is, he suggested I request he be reassigned, but it all comes down to the same thing.  It’s an embarrassing moment for me as a Captain, actually—I’ve known for a while that we couldn’t work together.  I should have been the one to make that call.  On the upside,” he adds, slouching into the back of the couch again, “I’ve broken another record.  I doubt any other First Officer in the history of Starfleet has resigned this quickly before.  He didn’t even wait for us to take off before deciding I was intolerable.”

“You were not intolerable,” Spock corrects.  “You have told me more than once that you and he do not work well together, and just now you said that you agree with his decision to sever your working partnership.  In addition, you must admit that it is better that he did resign his position now.  Had he waited until after the Enterprise left Earth, it would be significantly more difficult for you to find a replacement.”

“You make a very logical argument, Spock,” Kirk says.  “And I admit,” he adds, with a long, low sigh, “I shouldn’t make this into my pity party.  But now I’m faced with this question: who is going to be my First Officer when the Enterprise takes off in seven months?”

“Seven months should be more than enough time to pick a suitable officer.”

“Suitable,” Jim repeats, as if the word were an insult.  “Gary Mitchell was suitable.  I need to find the right person.”

The way that Jim Kirk is looking at him now, and he is looking, eyes searching Spock’s face and his mouth slightly open, and Spock can see the way his chest rises and falls with the tempo of his breathing—the way that Kirk is looking at him now, he finds it impossible to look away.  He keeps his own expression set.  Watching Kirk makes a strange feeling thread up his spine, confusing and unwelcome, and threaten his balance.  In return, he must be unreadable.

“That is quite a romantic notion, Mr. Kirk,” he says, finally.  “Out of context, one might assume you were speaking of a potential spouse, rather than a potential crewmember.”

Kirk seems unsurprised at the comparison, and instead of laughing at it, as Spock had expected he would, he only tilts his head and says, “The two aren’t as far apart as they seem.  There’s a certain…chemistry…necessary for both.”

“Chemistry,” Spock repeats, with a slight rise of his eyebrow.

“Yeah.  I don’t mean test tubes and beakers and the periodic table but—”

“I understand the term.”

There is a pause, after he cuts Jim off, tense and long and he can’t help thinking of what it would be like if he took Jim’s hand in his, passed fingers along fingers or pressed palm to palm and let all of his thoughts, all of his confused and jumbled feelings, pass through from skin to skin.  It would be a reckless, dangerous thing.  After it was over, gasping for breath, he would be afraid to look Jim in the eye.  Would it be worth it, for a moment of closeness?  Would it be worth it, were Jim to lean forward now and kiss him, one hand at the back of his neck and his mouth open and searching against his, to kiss back?

He doesn’t know how he can think these things.  It must have something to do with the look in Jim’s eyes, a look that on anyone else would signal desire and want.  But because it is Jim, it must be something else.  He’s sure.  It must be some words on his tongue that he’s trying to gather together and form and speak, and only memory, and his own pervasive, unwanted desire, that is confusing Spock’s thoughts in this way.

“Say what you want about us, Spock,” Jim says.  “About our—”  He gestures vaguely, grasping at the air with one hand.  “Our history, our partnership.  But we had some amazing chemistry.”

“Had?”

“Could have again,” he corrects quickly, and Spock feels himself release a breath he has held too long.  “Sometimes, I just want to kick myself, Spock—”

“That would be quite the physical challenge.”

Jim grins, a sudden bright grin as if on instinct, and he leans forward again, invading, just barely, the bubble that Spock keeps around himself always and calls his personal, inviolable space.  “Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and tell you not to leave the service.  Because I don’t think I’ll find anyone else who I click with the way I clicked with you.”

He’s looking at Spock now as if he’s just made some great confession, and expects an equally great confession in response.  Or at least, Spock thinks, he is expecting a reaction, any sort of reaction at all.  He allows himself to swallow once, heavily, trying to dislodge the strange lump that seems to have formed in his throat.  He considers commenting on the ambiguous nature of the word click as Jim used it.  He considers reminding him that they were barely speaking at the time Spock handed in his resignation.  He considers recounting his conversations with his father, and Admiral Pike.  Jim is fidgeting slightly, fingers tapping against his knee.

“Look, Spock,” he says finally, the silence too much.  His voice has a high, nervous strain to it that does not suit him.  “I know you made your decision.  And I respect that.  But you know where I’m going with this line of thought, I’m sure—”

“I do.”

“And you’re not going to make it easy for me,” Jim finishes, the words rushing out in one long breath.  “That’s fair.  Why should you?  I know I’m crazy for suggesting this and I can’t even make any promises that I could get all the right strings pulled, no matter what Pike says—”

“Ask, Jim.”

For once, he just wants something to be simple.  He holds Jim’s gaze, steady and daring, and it is Jim, finally, who turns away, smiling to himself as he does.  “Come back to Starfleet,” he says.  “Be my First Officer on the Enterprise.”

The words are not, strictly, a question, but Spock lets this go without comment.  “Yes,” he says.  Then he adds, not letting himself notice the way Jim’s face lights up, the way that that human phrase is the only proper term for his expression, “If, of course, Admiral Pike still has any favors left with which to assist us, after he convinces Starfleet to ignore my previous resignation, as he has promised he will.”

“And when were you planning on telling me you’d rejoined, huh?” Jim asks.  Spock isn’t looking at him any longer, but he can hear the smile in his tone.

“I have just done so,” he answers.

“Of course, yeah, sure.  I’m just glad I got you before you accepted a position on another ship.  Spock—”

He must be smiling quite widely, Spock thinks, as he watches his fingers curling around his own knees.  He can hear that grin in Jim’s vowels, the pauses between his sentences, can hear it strangling out his last sentence.

“I just—” he tries again.  “I can’t remember the last time I was this excited.  I’m like a kid at Christmas.  This is great.”

“There are, of course, questions that must be answered,” Spock reminds him.  He does not let his own feeling bleed into his voice, but some part of him, some part that exists in him but is not physical, yet feels physical in this moment, is expanding in a sharp and beautiful way.  “We do not even know if Starfleet will allow us to serve together.”

“There’s precedent for married couples serving on the same vessel.”

“We are not married.”

Jim mentions this point casually, easily, and though Spock’s own response is equally quick, he feels a sudden race of panic, a shot of adrenaline, at the words.  He understands the point that Jim is making, even before he explains it—“People who have a personal connection, families, are allowed to serve together on occasion”—but still this slide in logic, this comparison, in which their relationship functions as a marriage, in which their connection forces them to follow the rules set for married couples, it incites a feeling as of the ground being pulled from beneath his feet.  His fifteen year old self might have taken this opportunity for a pointless, even damaging, fantasy.  He might have allowed himself to wonder if, perhaps, he and the human boy—maybe—

But Spock is too old for such thoughts now.  Even as a teenager he put them away.

“Our situation is not precisely analogous,” he argues.  “In addition, you are the Captain of the Enterprise, and I am only a Lieutenant, and your subordinate.  Married couples who serve together often serve in separate divisions.”

“We are in separate divisions, technically,” Jim answers, though the way he says the last word implies he sees how thin his own claim is.  “I’m Command and you’re Science.”

“As the Captain of the vessel, every crew member is under your command and is your responsibility.  As your First Officer, I would be included in that number.  If Starfleet thought you were likely to give me special preference because we share a child—”

“It’s a valid concern,” Jim admits.  “But I think we can work around it, convince Starfleet that we can be professional about this.  The truth is, Spock, that even before I knew about Sevin, I felt like—like I couldn’t let you die.  Like that was a priority for me, even on the Narada mission, when we barely knew each other, to make sure you got home safe no matter what.  And of course,” he adds quickly, “I have an interest in protecting the rest of my crew as well, and I feel a connection to everyone from the mission last summer, probably more than a Captain usually would with his subordinates.”

You are babbling, Spock thinks.  But he doesn’t say the words out loud.  Instead, he says quietly, “I would not use that argument with Starfleet.”

“No, I don’t suppose they would like it,” Jim agrees.  He rubs his hands down his legs to his knees, and Spock listens to the minute sound of skin against fabric, almost inaudible.  “I’m sure we’ll find something to tell them.  I’m not worried about it, to be honest.  I’m not worried about serving with you, either.”

“Why not?” Spock asks, saying the words not just because he wants to know the answer, though he does, but because he feels that Jim is waiting for him to say them, wants him to.

“Because—”  He starts, stops again just as abruptly, and then leans in a bit closer, head bent like he’s sharing some deep secret.  Spock forces himself not to pull away.  “Because of this feeling I had when we were on the Jellyfish, just before we split up.  And I know, I know, a feeling, that’s nothing, who cares about that, right?  But I’ve never had one quite like it before.  It was this…conviction...that it would all turn out okay.  We were going to make it, both of us.  I just knew it.”  He gives a half smile.  “You probably think that’s ridiculous.”

Spock shakes his head.  He doesn’t think anything of the gesture; he simply doesn’t want to speak.  He has the keen and undeniable sensation that Jim is watching him closely.

“Anyway,” Jim says suddenly, voice louder now, desperately loud.  “I don’t think I should break out that argument with the higher-ups either.”

“I believe discretion would be wise, in this instance.”

He looks up when he hears Jim stand and start to pace around the back of the couch.  “And of course we’re taking Sevin with us,” he’s saying.  “There’s no question of that.  Between the two of us, convincing Starfleet to allow kids on exploratory missions should be no problem.”

“We have much of which to convince Starfleet,” Spock points out.

“You don’t believe we can?”

Jim is standing just behind him now, leaning forward with his hands on the back of the couch, just by Spock’s shoulder.  He twists around to look at him.  “I believe we can,” he assures him, and this is not even a lie; in this moment, at least, he could believe anything of them.  “Sevin will be pleased to learn of this new development,” he continues.  “However, we must be careful not to give him the wrong impression of the situation.”

“Wrong impression?”

“That we are in a romantic relationship.”

“Oh.”  Jim’s gaze, so insistently locked with his, shifts suddenly away, and the expression on his face becomes closed off and unreadable.  “Um, yeah.  I guess that might confuse him, wouldn’t it?  We’ll have to be clear about that.”  He starts to pace again, slowly but deliberately, behind the couch, so that Spock has to contort his body just to watch him.  He doesn’t know where this sudden agitation has come from.  He feels it, too, though, crawling across his own skin.  Perhaps it is simply the release of weeks of tension, of waiting, of wanting this and never believing in it, and now seeing that it is real and how the vague hope of it has shattered into details, practicalities.  It is difficult to breathe through.

“Do you really think Sevin will…make assumptions about our relationship?” Jim asks abruptly.

“It is a possibility,” Spock answers.  “My decision to rejoin Starfleet will almost certainly surprise him, and in looking for an explanation for this change in events, he could decide that the simplest one is the correct one.  In addition, it is only to be expected that a child of separated parents would wish those parents to enter into a romantic relationship, thus making the child’s family unit complete.”

“Shit, Spock, you sound like you’re reading from a report,” Jim says, voice bled through with frustration and fatigue.  He runs a hand through his short hair with a sigh, then lets his arm fall down to his side again.  “Does he talk about that with you?  About us, wanting us together?”

“No.  It is only a hypothesis.”

“Hypothesis.”  He steps around to the front of the couch again, and sits back in the spot he’d occupied before.  “Okay.”  His eyes dart from one side of the room to the other, a long pause stretching, then, “You know,” he glances over at Spock, just for a moment, “the faster we talk to Starfleet, the faster we get you on the Enterprise officially, the better.  And we should know exactly what we’re going to say.  We need to get this right.”

“I am in agreement.”

“You want to work on it now?  What we’ll say?"

Perhaps it is because he sounds nervous—Spock isn’t sure, doesn’t know why he should be so unsettled—but Jim seems, in this moment, much younger than he is.  Spock takes a moment merely to observe him, to trace all of the details and angles of his face, and when he finally answers, finally agrees, he cannot help but be embarrassed by how long his simple answer took to form.

Admiral Barnett’s office is white walled and spare, his possessions neatly organized on one tall shelf near his desk, and the desk itself uncluttered.  This makes it appear larger than it is.  Barnett sits with his back to the only window, a long rectangle that looks out on the Academy campus’s main quad: a beautiful view, even in the first days of December, all of the leaves gone from the trees and the sky a permanently smudgy gray.  Spock looks at this view first, as he enters the room one step behind Kirk.  It is merely a habit, like his ruler straight stance, to keep his gaze stubbornly set at whatever is directly in front of him, but at Barnett’s greeting, a curt, “Captain Kirk.  Lieutenant Spock.  Come in,” his eyes flick immediately to the man himself.  He does not look pleased to see them.

Barnett stands as they enter, then gestures them into the two seats in front of his desk.

“You wanted to see us, Admiral?” Kirk asks.  His voice skirts a boundary between confident and disrespectful, and when Spock slides his eyes from Kirk to Barnett he sees that the Admiral has noticed it, too.  There is a slight frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“I received your proposals,” he says.  His own tone is edged with long-suffering fatigue.  He knows who they are.  They’re Starfleet’s resident heroes, yes, lauded occasionally with terms as loud as genius, the head of the crew to whom the whole planet is in debt, and who currently hold a whole deck’s worth of cards.  They have enough capital to ask for anything, and receive.  Such labels, such perceptions, make Spock uncomfortable.  At the same time, in a certain deep down place, they make him rather proud.  He hasn’t thought before now what else he and Kirk are, but he hears it loud and clear in those four words.  They are potential problem children.  They are two young men who have already achieved what men and women twice their age have not, and the possibility that this could go to their heads, inflate their egos to an impossible degree and make them impossible to work with, is real.  They do have power.  And their latest requests prove that they know it.

“And you’ve read them over?” Kirk asks.  If he’s having the same thoughts as Spock is, he doesn’t let it show.

“Yes.”  Barnett slides his fingers across his desk, and looks from one to the other as if waiting for them to crack.  Spock’s face is impassive, Kirk’s lightly questioning, waiting, but otherwise opaque.  “You do realize that you are asking Starfleet to break several important rules to suit your whims?”

“Bend, I think,” Kirk corrects.  Spock’s gaze flicks over to him on instinct, his eyes slightly narrowed.  Does he realize what he’s doing?  Does he see the line he’s toeing?  Kirk’s gaze meets his, some message there that Spock can’t know he’s reading as he should, and he asks, “Wouldn’t you say that’s a better term, Mr. Spock?” 

“I would say it is a more precise word, yes,” he agrees, and chooses his side, seals his fate.

Barnett looks at him now as if he were the crazy person here, worse even than Captain Kirk because at least, from him, such strange logic could be expected.  It is not a look Spock has often seen him directed towards him.  He only raises his eyebrows, as if he did not recognize it.

“Captain Kirk and I have already proven that we work well together,” he says.

He would continue, even opens his mouth to do so, but Barnett interrupts.  “You could learn to work well with someone else,” he says.  “Each of you.”

“Could we though?” Kirk asks.  His voice is light and inconsequential, his question taking on the air of the rhetorical, the curious, but Spock hears, and he knows Barnett does too, the threat beneath it.  “My last collaboration wasn’t exactly a success, and Lieutenant Mitchell and I hadn’t even left Earth yet.”

“So you and he have both told me,” Barnett answers.  “However, Mitchell never tried to strangle you—”

Spock’s jaw clenches, but Kirk cuts in icily, before the sentence is even finished, “With all due respect, Admiral, I firmly believe that if Lieutenant Spock and I had not been serving on the Enterprise together during the Narada mission, if one of us had been there without the other, it would have ended in disaster.  We’re unconventional, yes.  We would both admit that.  But we’ve proven that we can make unconventional work.”

For a moment, Barnett does no more than stare him down.  Spock’s gaze flicks from one to the other, each stony faced and silent, and he is reminded of his own people, all the messages that are sent in a certain tilt of the spine, a certain motion of the fingertips.  “You understand,” Barnett says at last, “that an organization such as Starfleet is wary of that particular trait.”

“We do understand,” Spock answers.  “I, in particular, was raised in a culture with a similar suspicion of any person or decision that was out of the ordinary.  We are also aware that our methods—”

“Our madness.”

“—Have only been tested once.  But Captain Kirk has the right to choose any qualified Officer to be his second in command, and I am a qualified Officer.  He is not breaking, nor even bending, any rules in this request.  If you referring to our desire to bring our son, along with other children of Starfleet officers, onto our ship with us, I must point out that we are not the first members of Starfleet to suggest such an arrangement for exploratory missions.”

“We just happen to be the first to plan out our proposal in this much detail,” Kirk finishes.  They both turn to Barnett, waiting for a response.

“It is,” he admits, “a very thorough proposal.  But I’ll be honest: if it were anyone else giving it to me, I would not be convinced.”

If.  Spock feels his eyebrows twitch of their own accord at the word.  It could be either a compliment or an insult, though he’s sure the former was intended, and he feels inexplicably wary.  He had convinced himself during the writing of their report that their request was more reasonable than, perhaps, it was, or than it could possibly seem to a man in Admiral Barnett’s position.  The perfect confidence he’d built up in the power of their argument, a steady and unassailable confidence, starts to weaken.  Still when he glances to his right, he sees that the expression on Kirk’s face is optimistic.

“You two have only proven yourselves once,” Barnett continues, “as Lieutenant Spock pointed out.  But what you accomplished was on a completely unprecedented scale, and we—Starfleet, Earth—must admit that we are in your debt.  That does not mean you simply have carte blanche for the rest of your careers to do exactly what you wish whenever you wish to do it.  This is still the military.  There is still a hierarchy here.”

Kirk opens his mouth as if to answer, but Barnett silences him with one hand palm out and a stern look.  “Lieutenant Spock is almost correct.  Under most circumstances, you, Captain Kirk, would have every right to appoint whomever you wish to the position of First Officer and you, Lieutenant, would have every right to accept that position.  However, the decision to permit you to serve together is complicated by your family situation, just as it would be complicated if you were an engaged or married couple.  If we could ignore it,” he pauses, here, to give each of them in turn a pointed look, “we would.  Your case is so high profile, however, and the issue of your son so pertinent to your other proposal, that we must make a public declaration of permission in allowing Lieutenant Spock the position on the Enterprise.”

Spock bristles at the phrase the issue of your son, but clenches his jaw and says nothing on the matter.  He already knows Barnett’s answer, after all.  If it were no the speech would not be necessary.  The brief swell of nerves he had experienced just a few moments earlier has settled, and in almost every respect, he is calm.

“But we will,” Barnett is saying.  “Allowing you this professional partnership is a gamble.  I want to make that very clear.  It is a gamble for the entire organization, but if there is even a spot of trouble during your mission, it will be the two of you, and not Starfleet, that will be taking the blame.  The same rule is in place for your proposal regarding children on the Enterprise, provided you can make all necessary arrangements in time for the scheduled start of the mission in June.  Permission will be given, but on a trial basis only.  One year into your mission, you, your ship, and your crew will be subject to inspection, and if everything is not running smoothly, Starfleet will take whatever measures necessary to assure that they start to run smoothly.  Do you both understand?”

They give their assent, nodding their heads and reciting, “Yes sir,” almost in unison.

Starfleet will take whatever measures necessary, Spock thinks.  He means that Spock will be removed from the ship, and that Sevin will be sent back to Earth or New Vulcan.  Unable to abandon his son, he would be forced into a desk job in San Francisco or, perhaps, find himself prematurely retired again, and living on New Vulcan as he has spent the last months saying he would.  The idea is suddenly not only distasteful, but impossible to fathom.

“Good,” Barnett says, with one decisive nod of his head.  “And—Captain, Lieutenant—one more thing.  You can consider that capital you earned on the Narada mission officially spent.”

Later, walking back across the Academy campus in the direction of Spock’s apartment, Kirk tells him, “It’s strange.  I knew he was going to give us permission right from the start, but that moment just before he said it, I was so nervous, I could feel my stomach doing flips.  I knew my intuition was right, it wasn’t that.  It was more like—like I realized what a big moment it was.  Do you know what I mean?"

“Actually, Captain,” Spock answers, “I do.”

Nyota and Sevin are deep in a discussion about the latest recording from Sevin’s second favorite—or perhaps third, at the moment, it’s so hard to keep up—musician when Spock and Kirk arrive back at the apartment.  Sevin interrupts his own sentence to greet his father and then, when he sees that Kirk is with him, adds, “Jim!  What are you doing here?”

“Your father and I just came from a meeting,” Kirk answers, as he shrugs out of his coat.  “He invited me to stay for dinner—if,” he adds, “that’s okay with you, of course.”

“Yes!”  For a moment, his expression is bright and excited, even more so than Spock would have expected, and this alone makes a chill of worry pass over him.  He wonders again what Sevin hasn’t told him, what hidden thoughts he has about his parents and their relationship.  Then Sevin’s face falls slightly, his expression turns pensive and he says, “You never stay for dinner, though.  Is something going on?”

“Yes,” Spock answers.  He pauses to take Kirk’s coat from him, steps out of the kitchen for a moment to hang both his own jacket and Kirk’s on two pegs by the door.  As he steps back into the room, he hears Kirk add, “It’s good news, though—don’t worry.”

“The meeting went well, I take it?” Nyota asks, with a slightly conspiratorial smile.  Kirk tells her it went very well and Spock nods in affirmation; Sevin looks to each adult in the room in turn, his curiosity piqued, but he is forced to wait until Nyota has left, until dinner is cooked, until the table is set and they have seated themselves around it, to get any answers to his questions.  It is the first time, Spock realizes, that the three of them have shared a meal together.  He and Kirk have become increasingly friendly with each other, but still they divide Sevin sharply between them, so that he is rarely in the same room with both of his parents at once except when, in the evenings, they appear together by his bedside to wish him good night.  The thought comes to Spock slowly and peacefully that this era, then, is over.  The fissures in their makeshift family are still there, and painfully, visibly, so, but they are becoming more adept at fitting their pieces together in some workable way.  When the Enterprise takes off, when they are living close quarters, when Spock and Kirk are working together every day, their family will refocus itself yet again.  It’s impossible to predict what form it will take.  But he feels optimistic of its direction.

“You said you had good news,” Sevin is saying, his voice hinting into a whine.  Spock doesn’t blame him.  If anything, he is surprised at his patience.

Kirk is glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, wondering perhaps who will speak, who will tell him.  Or telling Spock that he should be the one.  Spock doesn’t quite look at him, but he can see he’s smiling.

“Your dad and I already told you,” he starts, “that we had a meeting with Admiral Barnett today.  We were discussing a proposal that Dad and I submitted to him not long ago.  We did not wish to tell you earlier, in case you became optimistic and the proposal was then rejected.  However, the Admiral has agreed to accept our plan that I should re-enlist in Starfleet and join the crew of the Enterprise as her First Officer.”

“In other words,” Kirk adds, “your father and I are working together again.”

Sevin looks back and forth between them as if they’d spoken in a foreign language, one he has never heard before.  “This doesn’t mean I have to go to New Vulcan by myself, does it?” he asks, after a moment.  He doesn’t sound like he really believes his own words.  He does sound rather as if he is trying not to believe them.

Spock and Kirk speak over each other trying to explain, repeating “no” and “no” and “of course not, no” until finally, it is just Kirk, conspiratorial, leaning forward, grinning, telling him, “You’re coming with us.”

Sevin sets down his fork solemnly, carefully, the last movement that Spock expected from his often excitable little boy, and then slides down from his chair and walks around the table until he is standing between them.  In retrospect, this moment seems to stretch much longer than it actually does, this moment that feels like indecision.  Then Sevin’s arms are around him, pulling him into a tight hug.  Sevin lets go only to repeat the gesture on his other side, to pull Kirk forward out of his chair and hug him close, too.  Spock watches them, Kirk with his arms wrapped around Sevin, the human boy and their son, and tries to memorize the moment.  He will bring this image back the next time he feels doubt.

“I was trying to get used to the idea of New Vulcan,” Sevin is saying.  He has pulled away from the embrace and is standing between them, looking quickly from one parent to the other.  “I really was.  Because I knew that that was what you wanted, Father.  But I really really really didn’t want to go!  I didn’t want to leave my friends or my home…  I guess I’ll have to anyway.  But being on a starship will be so exciting!  I’ve been wanting to go into space for forever.  Maybe I’ll make alien friends.  Maybe,” he adds, words tumbling fast against each other, and a sudden expression like light dawning over his face, “maybe I’ll meet other people like me, who are more than one thing.”

“That is very possible,” Kirk answers.  He looks like he’s trying not to laugh at Sevin’s enthusiasm, but though Spock does not find it funny in the least, he understands Kirk is not malicious.  He seems to find Sevin’s reaction endearing.  On this note, at least, they are in agreement.

He reaches out and wraps one arm around Sevin’s shoulder, encouraging him to step closer again for another half-hug.  “There will be other families on the ship as well,” he tells him.  “Other children.  You can make friends with them.  It will be very different, Sevin,” he continues, a bit quiet now, a bit softer, “living on a starship, than living in San Francisco.  But you will have us.”

“I know,” Sevin answers.  He sounds cheery, unconcerned, the slight warning of Spock’s words sliding off of him even as he takes the offered reassurance for granted.  “I know it will be different.  It will be all new!  That’s what makes it exciting!”

“You sound like your dad,” Spock tells him.  He catches Kirk’s eye over Sevin’s head, and sees that Kirk is already watching him back.  His expression is steady, his eyes clear but the set of them hard to read.  There is a fondness there, but it underlies something else, as if Spock and Sevin were an object of study to him, as if he too was unsure of his own thoughts.

“And like your father,” he adds quietly.  Spock expects Kirk to smile as he says it, expects that familiar upturn of the mouth, that so very human expression that so often graces his son’s face.  But he doesn’t.  His expression remains serious and steady.  He’s talking to Sevin, but it’s Spock he’s watching as he speaks.  “He likes the unknown, too.  It must be a family trait.”

Chapter Text

three and a half hours until midnight

Kirk arrives at 8:30, carrying a box full of food that Spock would never eat.  “I just want to thank you again for this,” he’s saying.  “Bones and I wouldn’t have minded having it at our place, obviously—but this does save us the trouble of cleaning up.”  He grins a slight, self-effacing grin, and sets the box down on Spock’s kitchen table.  Spock decides not to examine it too closely.

“My offer was selfish,” he answers, “not altruistic.  If Sevin falls asleep before midnight, it will be much easier for me to bring him to his own bed than if we were at a gathering in another section of the city.”  He does not add that the possibility of leaving Sevin in someone else’s care was never a viable option.  This holiday, its equivalent never celebrated on Vulcan, means more to his son than to him, and sending Sevin to a babysitter’s while he himself attends a celebration would feel like a betrayal.  “Are you certain,” he asks Kirk now, “that all of the other guests are prepared to celebrate your New Year with a seven year old?”

“I’m incredibly certain,” Kirk answers.  He’s speaking with his back to Spock as he opens up cabinets, looking for a glass.  “I asked around—twice—everyone’s okay with it.  Oh,” he adds, turning suddenly at an unexpected thought, “Sulu mentioned something about bringing a bottle of champagne, so everyone can drink a glass at midnight.  It’s an old Terran tradition.  No one’s getting drunk, though, I promise.  I’ve already warned both Scotty and Chekov that I’m patting them both down at the door.”

Spock raises one eyebrow archly.  He’s not sure if this is meant to be a humorous remark or not, but it does not reassure him.

Kirk takes down an empty mug from the top shelf and fills it with water at Spock’s sink.  “Trust me,” he says.  “This isn’t going to be some raucous Academy party.  It’s just a small gathering for the bridge crew.  We’re all adults here.  Even Chekov turned eighteen last month.”

Spock makes a low, almost inaudible noise, considering.  “I reserve the right to immobilize anyone I consider to be, in your words, raucous,” he notes, and Kirk laughs.

“Sure, Spock,” he says, tipping back the mug to drain its contents.  “Okay.”

He had intended the comment as a warning, not a joke, but he has no opportunity to make his position clear.  Sevin interrupts him, bounding in through the doorway from the living room and announcing, “I heard voices.  Dad’s here!”

Kirk’s face takes on that certain aspect, touched and happy and proud, that apears only when Sevin calls him dad, and Spock has to turn away rather than watch them.

“Just got here,” Kirk says, and pulls Sevin in for a one-armed hug.  Spock catches sight of the gesture out of the corner of his eye, busying himself otherwise with examining a bag of something called potato chips.  He hears Kirk ask, “What’s going on, huh?  Ready for the New Year?”

“Yep!  I’m staying up until midnight!  Father says I can.”

“That’s pretty late.  Do you think you’ll last that long?”

“Of course!”

Spock looks up and catches Kirk looking back at him, a conspiratorial glance over Sevin’s head.  He’d already told Kirk that Sevin would be asleep by ten, perhaps ten-thirty; Spock often envies him his energy, but it burns itself out, inevitably, hours before Sevin ever thinks it will.

“You remember our agreement?” Spock asks, slipping his gaze now down to his son, a slight warning in his voice to give it weight.  “You can stay awake to see the beginning of the New Year, but only if you are polite to our guests.  I wish there were someone closer to your age, but—”

“It’s okay,” Sevin interrupts, and shrugs.  “I don’t mind.  I’ll just have to be really mature for my age.”  He says these last words as if he were reading them off a page, reciting the compliments his teachers have given him at every parent teacher conference Spock has ever attended.  Sevin pauses, a hint of nervousness clouding his expression, then glances over to the door and asks, “When will they get here?  I don’t have to talk to anyone I don’t know, do I?”

“In half an hour,” Kirk says.  “And if you don’t talk to new people, how will you get to know them?  Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov are the only two you haven’t met, and I promise you they’re both really nice.”

“If you say so,” Sevin answers.  He doesn’t sound terribly convinced, but before he can consider the possibility of new acquaintances in any more detail, his eyes catch on the various bags and boxes that Kirk has carried in.  “You brought chips,” he notices, strangely excited, Spock thinks, at the sight of the odd things.  “We never get these.  Can I have some?”  He eyes one parent, then the other, expectant and purposefully wide-eyed.  Kirk smiles.  Spock’s eyes narrow.  His dad will teach him horrible eating habits yet, he’s thinking, but when the question is posed to him—“Please, Father?”—he does not say no.

two and a half hours until midnight

Nyota arrives on time, Ensign Chekov and Lieutenant Sulu ten minutes later, Lieutenant Scott a few minutes behind, and at twenty past Dr. McCoy sweeps in, grumbling about working on holidays.  “Don’t believe him,” Kirk whispers to Sevin.  “He volunteers to work the days no one else wants.”  The doctor, Spock notes, does not hear the comment, nor does he notice the way that Sevin looks up at him, impressed and slightly awed.

The first half hour of the party, if Spock must refer to this event as a party, seems to rush by, little more than an extended flurry of greetings and introductions and the reporting and repeating of the latest news.  Everyone says a special hello to Sevin.  For a few minutes, at least, he resembles the person of honor, and even through his shyness it is clear to Spock that he is pleased.  He even introduces himself to Sulu and Chekov without prompting.  He is fascinated by Chekov in particular (perhaps, Spock hypothesizes, sensing a kindred spirit in the excitable young navigator), and when he hears his age, he asks Spock loudly, “Father, can I start working on a starship when I’m seventeen?”

Spock glances at Chekov, who is looking back at him with a guilty expression on his face.  He is nervous that Spock will not appreciate the idea of his son running off into space at such an age.  If anything it is simply the thought of Sevin growing up at all that stops Spock short.  But he only arches an eyebrow and tells Sevin, “Perhaps you should finish elementary school first, before you start planning your future.”

Sevin doesn’t look too pleased by the idea of waiting for anything, his face screwing up into an expression that is half frown, half consideration.  Kirk interrupts any potential answer by saying, “There’s certainly no rush.  On the other hand, you will be spending the next five years on a starship.”  He’s balanced on the arm of Spock’s sofa, arms crossed against his chest and an exaggerated pensive look on his face.  “By the time you’re thirteen you’ll probably have picked up more knowledge about space than most first year Academy students.”

“Is that true?”

“Your dad is exaggerating,” Spock cuts in quickly.

“Really, Sevin,” Nyota adds, “it’s good to have dreams but you shouldn’t be in any hurry to make decisions about what you want to be.  You have limitless possibilities.”

“Exactly,” Sulu agrees, as he comes to lean against the side of Nyota’s armchair in a manner that he must think looks casual and unplanned.  “You have to give us all a chance to plead our cases.”

“Plead what?” Sevin asks.  “What do you mean?”

“Just that we each have our own specialties on the ship, and I bet we’ll all be trying to convince you that our division is the most interesting one,” Sulu answers.  He gives a slight shrug, and adds, “I’m a pilot, by the way.  I get to fly the ship.”  He straightens his back visibly as he says this, infusing his words with an exaggerated puff of pride, and Spock notices that his face turns pink when Nyota rolls her eyes and smiles.

“I’m sure it will be quite the competition,” she says.

“I do not think you will win, Hikaru,” Chekov announces, suddenly, as if the thought had only then occurred to him.  “The pilot flies the ship but it is the navigator who decides where it goes—”

“Actually it’s the Captain who decides where it goes,” Kirk interrupts.  He gets several pointed stares, the most withering from Chekov, but he only grins.  “I’m just saying.”

“Well I figure out how to get where we’re going,” Chekov corrects.  “It is a much more powerful position than that of pilot.”

Sevin is looking from person to person with fascination, eyes bright with interest.  Spock is rather tempted to cut this strange multi-person rivalry short, but when he opens his mouth, and before he manages to make a sound, Kirk elbows him lightly in the ribs and whispers, “It’s cute.  And I think he likes being fought over.”  He leans in close to Spock’s ear, lips almost touching his skin.  His words are so quiet that not even Sevin, on Spock’s other side, can hear them.

“Ah, but none of you would get anywhere without a Chief Engineer,” Scotty is saying.  “It’s the most interestin’ job on the whole ship because you get to know her like no one else.”

Spock frowns lightly at the way he pronounces the words ‘know her.’  This sounds like a rather inappropriate activity to be referencing in front of a seven-year-old.  In Scotty’s defense, however, Spock is fairly certain that he does not notice his own inflection, and luckily, the only thing Sevin questions is the pronoun: “Wait, who’s ‘her’?”

“The Enterprise, of course,” Scotty answers.  “Most amazing lady I’ve ever met.”

Sevin’s mouth twists up at the corner, his peculiar expression of confusion and curiosity.  He glances toward his parents for explanation, but before he forms his question, Kirk tells him, “Ships are traditionally female, and some of us get rather…attached to them.  You get to know one well enough and you see that she has a certain personality, like a person does.”

“Like I was tellin’ you that day in the computer lab,” Scotty adds.  “There’s nothin’ like a job in Engineering to let you learn about a ship, and all of her peculiarities, what she can do and what she can’t, what she likes and what she doesn’t…”  He trails off, his expression faraway and almost dreamy, and Spock notes the way that Nyota is hiding a good natured smile behind her hand.  Dr. McCoy is frowning, but everyone else is nodding his head, or letting the corners of his lips curl up, or biting the corner of his mouth as if thinking; it is a room of people utterly devoted to space, to exploration, to flying into the unknown, and they may not be able to match Scotty’s feelings in degree, but they all identify with them in kind.

“That was pretty cool,” Sevin is saying, “what you told me about the way the transporter system works.  I’m not sure I understand all of the steps of the formula though…”

The questions he asks would be astute from the mouth of a first year Cadet, and Spock feels himself almost glowing inside with pride.

“If this were a competition,” McCoy says, “maybe Scotty would win it after all.”

“It would be appropriate,” Spock points out.  “Sevin was named after an engineer.”

“I was?” Sevin asks, at the same moment that Kirk says, “Really?”  His son looks merely curious, excited perhaps to learn something new about himself, but Kirk is looking at Spock with a suddenly and strangely intense gaze, one that Spock cannot meet, one that he wishes were not being turned toward him in a room full of people.

“Yes,” he answers.  “Sevin Xrresvi was integral to the successful take off of the Vulcan ship whose exploratory mission led to the discovery of Earth.”

“In other words,” Sulu says, “without this guy, Vulcans and humans would never have met.”

“Most likely, our two peoples would have met eventually, simply under other circumstances,” Spock corrects.  “But essentially, yes.”

Kirk, he knows, is still staring at him with that careful, unwavering gaze, but Spock ignores him.  Sevin is telling him that this is really cool, and what else does Spock know about this other Sevin, and is he famous?

“Slightly famous,” Spock answers.  “He is certainly well known among those interested in Vulcan space history.  As for his duties as an engineer, I believe Lieutenant Scott would be better equipped than I to explain those to you.”

“But if he started now, we’d still be listening next New Year,” McCoy says, with his usual put-upon gruffness.  Scotty pretends to be offended.  Kirk seems not to have heard him at all.

“Zeres,” he mutters, “Zeker.  Zrrees.  Spock, I really don’t think it’s possible for me to pronounce this name.” 

“No,” Spock agrees.  “It is not.”

two hours until midnight…

Despite McCoy’s warning, he’s the one sitting with Sevin on the couch and talking his ear off about his job, while Scotty finds his way to the kitchen to search out something non-alcoholic to drink.  Jim glances at them through the doorway and allows himself a small smile.  Chekov is leaning against the arm of the sofa and listening in, adding commentary here and there in his own animated way, but the rest of the party is uncomfortably squeezed into Spock’s kitchen for no reason, following that utter lack of logic that seems to infect any group with no set leader to steer it right.

“You’d think Starfleet would be more excited about getting its dream team back,” Sulu is saying.  “You’d think there’d be some big celebratory announcement or something.”

“No, the higher-ups are too embarrassed for that,” Uhura answers.  “It hasn’t exactly been a smooth road to this point, has it?  In the last six months, they’ve lost one of their most famous members, gotten him back again, waited forever for the new Captain of the new Flagship to pick a First, dealt with rumors of infighting and stalemates, saw that First Officer quit his position, and only after all of this did they get back their ‘dream team.’”  She shrugs.  “I think they’re afraid of further upsets.  They’d rather have the preparations for the next Enterprise mission get as little press as possible.”

“It’s nonsense,” Jim says, leaning back against the counter and crossing his legs at the ankles.  “We broke all the rules last time and won.  But when we continue being unorthodox, suddenly it’s suspicious.  No one had time to question us before because there was a crisis, but now there’s plenty of time and it’s all Starfleet wants to do.”

“Yeah, it’s frustratin’,” Scotty agrees, “but at least you still have command.  At least they’re not exiling you off to an ice planet without any proper food.”

“Yet,” Sulu finishes.

Jim just waves away the comment.  “Been there, done that,” he answers, glancing over to Spock as he does and giving him a wink that pretends it is more subtle than it is.  Spock doesn’t look terribly amused, but he doesn’t glare either, as Jim was half expecting he would.  So he assumes there are no hard feelings.  “Anyway,” he continues, “you can’t get anywhere if you don’t take big risks.  I think Spock and I are both on the same page about that.”  He shoots another look Spock’s way, and this time, he nods.

“Such risk is sometimes necessary,” he agrees.

“So this being on the same page thing,” Sulu says, “how’s that working out?  Can you two actually work together without driving each other insane?”

Jim opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, he hears Spock answer calmly, “Of course we can, Mr. Sulu.  The period of enmity between us is long over.

Jim tries to meet Spock’s gaze, but he’s looking down into his glass of water, purposefully avoiding Jim’s eyes.  A long silence stretches, edging almost on awkwardness.

Then Scotty announces pleasantly, “Good.  No one wants to work on a tense ship, you know.”

one and a half hours until midnight…

Dr. McCoy is getting him up to date on what Kirk will later term “science division gossip,” in particular Lieutenant Coleson’s latest experiments attempting to synthesize a natural anti-toxin found in the plants on Rigel VIII, when Chekov appears at his elbow.  “Excuse me, Mr. Spock?” he says.  It is difficult to believe anyone with this voice could be a navigator on a Starfleet flagship.  He sounds nervous, and young.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Chekov?” Spock asks, half turning to him.  He calculates the probability that Chekov is bringing news of some irreparable damage just inflicted on his apartment.  It is too high for comfort.

Chekov shakes his head.  “No.  Not really.  It’s just…  I think your son is asleep.”  He gestures over his shoulder to a chair in the corner of the room.  This chair is not usually in the corner of the room, but Sevin has dragged it there, probably for the purpose of observing the rest of the party from a comfortable distance.  Curled up in the corner of the chair is Sevin himself, his nose in a pillow.  Spock takes a long moment just to look at him.  He looks smaller than usual, and this brings out Spock’s protective instincts, and makes him guilty.  It is illogical and irrational, but he feels like he’s abandoned his little boy.

He tells McCoy and Chekov that he will be back shortly and walks quietly across the room, as if, despite the other noises, the conversations, the sounds of eating and drinking, his footsteps would disturb Sevin most.  Then he crouches down next him.  He’s sure that McCoy and Chekov are still watching him, but he imagines that they aren’t.  He knows the sort of expressions they must be wearing.  He knows them from study sessions left early, meetings interrupted or rescheduled by sudden calls, babysitters that cancel, plans reshuffled when his boy wakes up with a fever or sore throat, from any number of moments in which being a father was more important and more pressing than being a student or a professor or an officer.  It isn’t simply that he feels his own priorities shift in these moments.  It is that he feels the perceptions of people around him change as well.  The gap between him and them grows.

He looks at Sevin now and sees that he is quite deeply asleep.  He has one arm beneath the pillow, the opposite hand up next to his face; his kneels curl up toward his chest in the small space afforded by the chair.  Spock lifts him carefully.  It is not far to Sevin’s room, and the path does not require walking through the rest of the party; in only a moment, Spock is toeing open the door and commanding the light on at its lowest setting.

Sevin shifts slightly in his arms, mumbles something unintelligible, but does not wake.  He is a deep sleeper.  Spock tucks him into bed, but then, instead of leaving, he sits down at the edge of the bed and simply watches him.  His days are busy again, now.  He does not often find moments like these, does not often allow himself such rest.  In a few hours it will be a new Earth year, and what did his mother once tell him about this holiday?  A time to start over, a time to make promises to yourself.  She had spoken of resolutions.  He has made several of those, recently, not in honor of the turning of a calendar page, but because he needs to—because, if he is honest with himself, it is in his nature.

His most important resolution is to keep Sevin safe, a promise he made to himself when he found out he was pregnant, but which seems more urgent now than it has in years.  He brushes back the hair that has fallen into Sevin’s eyes.  It’s getting long now, and should probably be cut soon.  The way his boy talks about space, about adventure, about exploration, Spock knows he’s inherited a spirit of almost reckless curiosity from his parents, as surely as he’s inherited Spock’s hair or Jim’s eyes.  Such need to discover is a blessing and a curse.

Sevin starts to shift and move under his gaze and then, unexpectedly, he opens one eye blearily.  He blinks.  Then he rolls over, slowly, haltingly, onto his back and asks, “Is it midnight?”

“No,” Spock answers.  “Not quite yet.”

“Oh.  I wanted to stay up.”  Despite his words, his eyes are already closing again.  “Is comfortable here, though.”

A noise in the doorway makes Spock turn, though Sevin barely seems to notice.  The figure is only a silhouette, dark and shadowy against the light of the hallway, but Spock recognizes him.  “Thought you’d be here,” the figure says as he steps forward, features resolving themselves into Kirk’s familiar ones.  He perches on the end of the bed.  “You still awake, buddy?”

“Yes,” Sevin murmurs.

“Barely,” Spock amends.

Sevin rolls over onto his side again, mumbling not-quite-words in Standard and Vulcan.  Spock can see Kirk smiling in the dim light.

“Happy New Year, Sevin,” Kirk whispers.

“Yes,” Spock repeats.  “Happy New Year.”

one hour until midnight…

“Has anyone else noticed that I’m the only woman here?” Uhura asks, either as a logical continuation of the current conversation, or possibly just out of the blue.  Jim isn’t sure which.  His thoughts have been wandering.

All seven of them have gathered in one place for the first time in a while, the split groups of two and three finding their way together again, and he’s found himself on the floor, distracted by Uhura’s bare shoulders, by the arrhythmic tapping of Chekov’s foot, by the vague outline of the skyline through the window beyond Spock’s head.

Uhura’s comment snaps him back to the present.

“Have I noticed that Starfleet is still largely a boy’s club?” he asks in turn.  “Yeah, it might have occurred to me.”  Growing up with a mother in the service, it’s occurred to him more than once.

“By my estimates, the crew of the Enterprise will be 45% female,” Spock says.  “Higher than the average.”

“It’s just your ill luck to be stuck on a bridge crew that’s almost all men,” Jim adds, and flashes her a smile that even he would admit is annoyingly false.

“I need to make more female friends, that’s all I’m saying,” Uhura explains, with a slight sigh.  “Not that I don’t enjoy the company of all of you, of course, but—”

“You want someone to talk about girl-things with,” Chekov finishes.  Jim doesn’t particularly want to know what topics Chekov thinks are included under ‘girl-things,’ but luckily he doesn’t explain.

“Basically,” Uhura agrees, and then turns to Bones and asks about Christine.  Jim vaguely remembers a Christine on the shortlist for the position of Head Nurse.  Possibly more than one Christine.  But he remembers Christine Chapel in particular because Bones had skimmed down the list of names, narrowed his eyes, and then announced, “No contest.  It’s hers if she wants it.”

“I took a class with her my first semester,” Uhura is saying.  “Before our specialties diverged, one of those general requirement courses.  But we kept in touch afterward, off and on.  I remember talking about the Enterprise with her.”

“Well, she was offered a position on my team last week,” Bones answers.  “Still waiting on an answer.”  He sounds incredibly put out.

“Speakin’ of potential crew,” Scotty says, leaning forward as if with a sudden memory, “and not to talk too much about work during a party—”

“Scotty, all we’ve been doing is talking about work this whole evening,” Sulu reminds him.

“Did you get my recommendation, Captain?  The one I wrote for—”

“Yes.”  Everyone’s eyes are on him now, obvious confusion on each face.  “And it’s Jim, Scotty, we’re not on duty.”  His words fall short of their goal, to cut through the sudden and awkward tension he’s brought on with just one word, one word and the tight set of his jaw as he’d spoken it.  He hugs his knees up to his chest, a defensive and childlike position.  “I read it.  And I agree that she’s a more than competent engineer—”

“Why do I hear a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence?” Scotty asks.  The others, Uhura and Chekov and Sulu and Bones, are looking one to the other, furrowed brows and tight lips, wondering if anyone else quite understands the exchange.  Spock is looking only at Jim.

“But I doubt she would even want to work on my ship,” he finishes.

Scotty blinks.  “Why not?”

He starts to answer but Uhura interrupts with, “Wait,” and “Is this—?”

“Gaila,” he tells her.  “Yes.”  To the others, he gives one sweeping, warning look, demanding silence.  He skips over Spock, though, doesn’t dare to look at him at all.  “We have some history,” he tells Scotty.

“History?” Spock repeats.  He sounds almost bored, when he says it, the word flat and barely inquisitive at all, and as a consequence Jim is tempted to read disdain into the tone.

“At the Academy,” he clarifies, not a clarification at all, not an explanation.  Then he continues sharply, words directed to Scotty now, “Look.  I wouldn’t mind working with her.  I’ll offer her a place on the crew if she wants it, but I don’t hold out much hope for her accepting.”  He turns away.  “Some people hold grudges.”

“Some people do,” Spock agrees quietly, his voice a murmur as if he believes that no one will hear him.

“Whatever you did, you should just apologize,” Chekov advises firmly.  “The Enterprise is a famous ship.  She will not need much convincing to accept a place on its crew.”

Jim wishes he could argue that he does not need to apologize, and why is everything always assumed to be his fault, but he doesn't want to sound like a whiny twelve year old (he remembers old fights with Sam, his own voice and his brother's, too, still clear in his memory, everything was so unfair), and anyway, it was his fault.  “Yeah, well,” he says, clearing his throat on the word, “thanks for the advice, Chekov.”

The topic of conversation changes quickly, but Jim's own thoughts lag behind.  He's bothered.  He shouldn't be bothered, but he is; something doesn't feel right.  Uhura is glancing at him, now and then, out of the corner of her eye, and he does not even want to know which one of his many sins she is recalling, which of the many times she caught him in her room she is remembering, which of the days he flirted with her just to break off his words into a wide grin at Gaila’s approach, and still over her shoulder give Uhura a wink.  It’s no use to say his relationship with Gaila was casual.  It was at first, but by the time it ended, he was already knee-deep in a swamp of problematic feelings.  He would have had to let her down gently if she hadn’t decided on her own that he was scum, if she hadn’t sent him that note, the one piece of correspondence he’s had with her in the last six months: do not contact me again.

“We’re all adults here.  It shouldn’t be a personal thing,” Sulu had said, before Bones stepped in with a story about the first time he and Christine Chapel met, something about a volunteer job and a spurting artery, “and the Enterprise is a big ship,” but Jim knows that old emotional wounds heal slowly, and a big ship can seem awfully small if it contains someone you’re trying to avoid.

He looks to his right, catches Uhura’s eye, raises his eyebrows in question.  She looks away quickly.  He regrets the gesture.  He can handle it, if she’s judging him.  He deserves it, anyway; it’s fair.  What really makes him itch, makes him want to fidget and twist in a way unbefitting a grown man, is that Spock, who is sitting so that Jim should be directly in his line of sight, is not looking at him.  He has arranged himself carefully, purposefully, to avoid looking at him.  This says more than a glare ever could.

He’s just not sure what.

If Spock were angry, petulantly angry in some immature way, he could be petulantly angry in return. They aren’t involved.  They—they never were by some standards, certainly not when Jim was with Gaila, and if anyone was already aware that he’s had some loutish moments in his past, Spock is that person.

But this is not anger.  This could be something like shame, or embarrassment, or confusion.  But Jim can’t imagine why Spock would feel any of those things.

He stares at Spock so long that, finally, eventually, Spock turns and looks at him in response.  His face, at first inscrutable, suddenly casts over, like a curtain being drawn, with amusement.  It is a forced amusement, perhaps, a look that says so? why are you watching me so intently?  But it is the only expression there.  Whatever he was thinking before, it has passed, and Jim forces his own feelings back too. 

three minutes until midnight…

From the balcony, it is just possible to hear the crowd, gathered at a party a few block away, as they shout excitedly about the coming of the New Year.  Chekov, Scotty, and Sulu huddle together in the small space, while McCoy, Nyota, Kirk, and Spock stand just beyond the doorway, in the living room, all waiting, though there are still more than two minutes left before the countdown starts.  Spock does not find the idea of a countdown terribly exciting.

“It isn’t, really,” Sulu agrees.  “What’s exciting is the kiss at midnight.”

“Oh?” Nyota smiles.  “And who are you going to be kissing?”

“You?”  Even though his face is all but invisible in the dark, Spock can still imagine the hopeful expression Sulu is wearing.

Nyota laughs lightly and says she’ll think about it.  “I’m not kissing all of you, though,” she warns.  “If you want a New Year’s kiss, you’ll have to pair up among yourselves.”

“But there are seven of us,” Chekov points out.  “It will be uneven.”

“As this ‘midnight kiss,’ is a Terran tradition, and not a Vulcan one, I do not see any reason to participate in it,” Spock says, and hopes the stiffness of his posture and his tone will only reinforce his message that he need not figure into their equations.  The thought of a forced and awkward kiss with a colleague, in deference to a tradition he does not understand or follow, is quite unappealing.

“But it is such a great tradition, Mr. Spock,” Chekov insists.  Spock isn’t sure if the Ensign gives any reasons in support of this assertion, though.  He is distracted by Dr. McCoy, and the way that he discreetly elbows Kirk in the ribs.

“And I’m sure you wouldn’t mind,” he mutters, before Kirk cuts him off with a sharp, “Shut it.”

Spock pretends not to have heard.

The faint sound of a countdown drifts in through the open balcony door.  Nyota, McCoy, and Kirk crowd closer to hear, and at the ten second mark, they join in.  Spock just listens.  The very last moments of the year.  He knows from previous experience—the evening last December, which Nyota spent telling him about her family’s traditions; that night, his second year at the Academy, when a man he barely knew appeared at his door with a bottle of champagne he didn’t care to drink; long afternoons with his mother, when he was young and stories about Earth were his favorite entertainment—that this is a time for looking forward and for looking back.  What have the last twelve months been like?  Unprecedented, he thinks.  Unforeseeable.

The crowd shouts, two, and one, and Happy New Year, and the slight echo of a riot of noise reaches them, a blaring like high-pitched horns, an incoherent, joyous, shouting.  Nyota leans in and gives Sulu a small kiss, a light kiss against his lips that makes him grin.  Scotty and Chekov shrug at each other, then lean in for a moment, press of mouth against mouth and then laughter.  Chekov looks pointedly at McCoy next, and, against his protests, his oh no you don’ts, manages to sneak him a quick peck.  No one notices, in this confusion, the way that Jim puts his hand against Spock’s arm, just above the elbow, the way he stands too close, the way he kisses Spock’s cheek and then pulls back, as if he hadn’t done anything at all.

happy new year

“You did not have to stay,” Spock tells him, for the third time, after everything has been put away or thrown away or set back in its place, after the apartment is quiet again, the city, quiet again.  It is almost one in the morning.  He is not tired, but he is ready for sleep.  His hands hang uselessly at his sides.

“I know,” Kirk answers, for the third time, and as if he were not even listening to himself.  It is just a habit now, a call-and-response.  He lets himself tip over and sink down against the couch cushions.  As soon as he’s there, limbs outstretched and head rolled back, he groans and says, “Oh, shouldn’t have done that.  Don’t want to ever get up now.”  His eyes are already closed.

Spock stands behind the couch and watches him, the relaxed posture of his body, the calm lines of his face.  Spock has never seen Kirk asleep before, but he imagines he would look something like this, eyelids thin over his eyes and a peaceful aspect stealing over him totally.   “You could stay here,” Spock offers.  “Unless you would prefer sleeping in your own bed.”

“Mmm, sleeping’s the only important part,” Kirk answers, and starts to twist and turn and rearrange himself, eyes still closed, his sockfeet burrowing into the corner of the couch beneath the cushions.  “Are you sure you don’t mind?  I’ll be up early, promise.  Won’t get in your hair.”

“You would not fit in my hair, Jim,” Spock says quietly, and reaches out without thinking to touch Kirk’s hair, his fingers stroking gently across the top of the short strands.

“Sit with me for a moment,” Kirk says.  His voice is soft and low and not at all insistent, but somehow it still sounds like a command Spock could not ignore.  “Maybe you want to sleep.  That’s okay.  Thought we could talk though.  I’m more awake than I look.”

At the last, Spock jerks his hand roughly away, as if he’d touched something burning and wanted to save his skin.  Kirk does not seem to notice.  But when Spock does not move or answer or give any other indication he was listening, Kirk cracks open one eye and asks, “Are you all right?”

He nods.  Then, Kirk still watching, he walks around the couch and comes to sit just on the edge of one of the cushions, next to Kirk’s arm, even though he is so sprawled out that there is hardly any room left.  Kirk does not comment on the resulting proximity.  He only turns slightly on his side, pulls his splayed out limbs closer to his body, half curls around himself.  This new position means they are no longer touching, there is no more accidental contact of hand to leg, back to thigh, and yet it seems so much more intimate, that Kirk should let Spock see him this way.

“You know I’m optimistic about this year, right?” Kirk murmurs.  “I never really got into New Year’s, the whole resolutions thing.”

“But this year is an exception?”

“No.”

Spock watches the way that he smiles, a lazy and simple and sweet smile.

“No,” he repeats.  “Don’t need a New Year’s resolution if you’re doing your best every day.  Damn, that sounds sappy.  You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

Jim shifts, stretches, rearranges, and Spock watches each of these minute movements as if they were the most fascinating things he has ever witnessed.  He should stand up, get his guest extra pillows, a blanket, turn off the lights and go to bed himself, but he allows himself just a moment longer, and another moment after that.

“We’re going to be brilliant, Spock,” Jim tells him.  “We’re going to go down in history.”

“You sound quite certain of this,” Spock answers.

“I am.”  His eyes are still closed, that vague lazy smile on his lips, and somehow when he moves his hand to rest on top of Spock’s, he makes it seem like the gesture is innocent and meaningless, and so Spock tells himself that it is.  “And don’t even tell me you aren’t certain of it, too.”

Chapter Text

Spock has been following Lieutenant-Commander Montague’s research since he read, at fourteen, the paper she published on the potential genetic links between Vulcans and Romulans.  It was a truly fascinating piece.  Still, though they both live in San Francisco and both taught at the Academy, he has never before made her acquaintance.  He taps the screen of his PADD impatiently, flipping through the pages of her résumé, the other documents in her file, searching for no particular thing.  He’s memorized most of it already.  She is forty-one years old, served on two separate exploratory missions in her twenties, but has been living in San Francisco for the past ten years with her husband and two children.  Twins, Spock notes.  Only a year older than Sevin.  He flips forward to her most recent article, on the evolution of Orion female pheromones.  Her writing has become less political in the last years, he notes, and she is relying more and more heavily on data gathered by other scientists.  This is inevitable, perhaps—necessary, perhaps—but—

“So we’re basically agreed that we’re going to offer her the position, right?” Kirk interrupts his wandering thoughts, and Spock looks up abruptly to catch him grinning, rolling his shoulders back and stretching like he’s winding himself up for a fight.

“Of course,” he answers.

“Family and all?”

“As she requested.”

“Great.”  His back cracks, audibly, distressingly, and Spock wrinkles his nose briefly at the sound.  Kirk doesn’t seem to notice.

Spock considers asking Kirk how much he knows about Montague’s research; he imagines the answer would surprise him, no matter what it was.  Perhaps Kirk would dodge around the question, tell him that, well, the science stuff is his area, right?  Or maybe he’d impress Spock with his insights, jumping from observation to observation more deftly than many trained in the field ever could.  Both responses, Spock decides, would be accurate.  Kirk is a perfectionist.  He hides it well from his more casual acquaintances, but anyone working with him in even the most casual way can see it.  He wants to know everything he possibly can about every aspect of his ship, its crew, their work, their passion—but he is also well aware that his ship will function most smoothly when responsibility is delegated in just the right way.

Before Spock can ask any questions, Montague herself appears in the doorway, on time down to the second, and Kirk ushers her in.  They pass around introductions, and sit down in the three chairs that form a misshapen circle around Kirk’s rectangular desk.  “I’m sorry about the lack of space,” he says, grinning with exaggerated embarrassment at the tiny, crowded, office he’s been stuck with.

“I’ve seen worse,” she answers, with the sort of tight-lipped smile that Spock has learned to read as nervousness.  Her gaze is unsettled.  She sits straight-backed and stiff in her chair, professional and poised, but she glances so quickly from one of them to the other, that she makes even Spock feel ill at ease in sympathy.  It is a strange realization, that his presence might unsettle her.  She is someone he has long admired.

Kirk is leaning forward, now, his hands clasped together on the desk and his own gaze steady.  “I’ll be honest,” he tells her.  “I know that Lieutenant Spock,” he gestures briefly, “and I asked you to meet us here for an interview.  But we’ve looked over your file and discussed the matter and neither of us thinks that an interview will be necessary after all.  We’d like to offer you a position in the science division on the Enterprise.”

For several moments, Montague simply stares at him.  Then she looks to Spock, who nods once to confirm Kirk’s words.  She smiles tentatively.  “You are sure, Captain Kirk?”

“I’m always sure,” he answers, with a grin that softens the sharp arrogance of his words.

“You have been doing fascinating work for the last two decades, Ms. Montague,” Spock adds.  “I am extremely interested to know what you would accomplish with the opportunity to do first hand research.”

“So am I,” she answers.  “My work has stalled recently, I can admit.  I’ve been searching for an opportunity to go back into space, but the possibilities are limited—you understand.  I didn’t wish to leave my family, not for the years that exploratory missions usually last.”

“You were considering a position on the Earth colony Beta 4?” Spock asks, glancing down unnecessarily at her file.

“I was,” she answers.  “The opportunity to travel from planet to planet is preferable, however.”

“It is,” he agrees.  “However, the Enterprise might not have the same caliber of lab equipment as a larger lab like those on the colonies—”

“I am sure the labs on Starfleet’s flagship are excellent,” Montague assures him.  “The variety of possibilities that open up when one is actively exploring…”  For the first time, her eyes truly shine, her whole face seems to light up at the thought of these possibilities, at the options now open.  She shifts forward in her chair.  “My work is about the connections between peoples.  Those connections start to seem tenuous when one is stuck always in the same place.  It’s narrowed my perceptions.  And truthfully,” she adds, voice a little softer now with guilt, “I couldn’t imagine my life without my family, but I didn’t join Starfleet to live in the same city on the same planet my entire life.”

“I know that feeling,” Kirk says, so low and quiet that Spock isn’t sure he meant to say the words aloud.

Spock tells her that because of her rank she will be one of the senior members of his team, and they begin to discuss particulars, layering in more and more details and not noticing, either of them, that they have shifted their chairs closer to each other around the short end of the table.  Spock remembers a glance toward Kirk and sees that he is watching them, smiling, tilted back in his chair and his hand over his mouth.  His expression is alert, but detached.  He is engrossed in their conversation, but perfectly aware that it is not his.

Like Spock and Montague, he does not notice the way that time passes, becoming thin and fragile and slipping through fingers like sand.  The sound of Montague’s communicator suddenly beeping startles them all.

She glances for a moment at the caller and then asks them to excuse her, please, and Spock waves his hand shortly in permission.  She leaves the room, where the sound of her quiet voice only barely reaches them.  Even Spock can only make out a few words.  But the pause is enough, and when they, too, look at the hour, they exchange a surprised glance.  “Almost three,” Kirk points out.

“They are most likely outside now,” Spock answers.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, then simultaneously stand up.

In this way, their meeting comes to an abrupt end, two bodies crashing into one body in the doorway, apologies circling around, until they all realize that they are walking in the same direction and find themselves accompanying each other to the administrative building’s front door.

Montague’s family is waiting for her by one of the bare-limbed trees by the sidewalk, but Nyota and Sevin are nowhere to be found.  Spock slips his hands deep in his jacket pockets.  These are the coldest weeks of the Earth year, he’s told, and he feels every degree, can be grateful only that today the air is calm and there is no wind to snap past his cheeks and chill his skin.  Montague’s husband catches her eye, raises his brows in a question, and when she nods happily he grins and throws out his arms.  They hug fiercely.  Spock looks away, uncomfortable, but happens to meet Kirk’s eye in the process—an embarrassing coincidence.  The space between them is cavernous now in comparison to the affection they are witnessing, and he’s glad that his hat covers his ears and that his cheeks are already green from the low January chill.

Montague’s children are giddy with their own excitement.  Though Spock remembers that they were in the middle of an argument when he first caught sight of them, they have since reconciled all of their differences.  They are dancing in a vague circle, crunching the frost beneath their feet as they sing a tuneless song about going into space, going into space.  The boy, Thomas, has dark red hair and round features, while the girl, Victoria, is too small still for her name and already gangly, and together they move with a seemingly boundless energy; Spock wonders if the Enterprise will be big enough to contain them.  They’ve circled around him and Kirk before he quite knows what has happened.

“Sorry about them,” Montague’s husband smiles, as he stills the boy with two hands to his shoulders.  Montague herself has caught up Victoria and stilled her whirlwind limbs with a hug.

“No apologies necessary,” Kirk answers.  “I get excited about the Enterprise, too.”

Montague passes around introductions, the adults shake hands, the children wave.  Spock’s head feels vaguely dizzy trying to keep up with their constant, slight movements, the wriggling and twitching and squirming that signals their impatience with adult conversation, with this whole concept of staying in one place.  They want to ask questions.  What will the ship be like?  Will they have to share a room?  Will there be other kids there?  Will they still have to go to school?

Spock informs them that they will have tutors, and yes this means hours a day devoted to learning, and yes this means homework, too.  Tom lets out a long, loud, whine, an “Aw, no,” accompanied by a stomp of his feet.  “That sucks.”

“Language,” his father warns lightly, as his sister taunts him, “You didn’t really think we wouldn’t have to go to school anymore, did you?  That’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb!  It’s—”

“Optimistic?” Kirk finishes, and smiles a conspiratorial smile down at Tom.  Spock gives him a warning look.  “You know,” Kirk continues, a clean change of subject that passes right by Spock’s slightly sour face, the way that Victoria sticks out her tongue, “Spock and I have a son who’s just about your age.  He’ll be on the ship, too.”

“Does he have to go to school, too?” Tom asks.

“Yes,” Spock assures him.

“Even though his parents run the whole ship?”

“Even though his parents run the whole ship,” Kirk nods.

“Wow,” Tom says, and he sounds almost impressed, at Kirk and Spock and their devotion to education, or simply at the unfair nature of the universe, it’s difficult to say.

“Do we get to meet him?” Victoria asks politely, sweetly, looking up at Spock with her wide eyes.  In fact the answer to her question is yes, and he tells her so, with a slight accompanying gesture behind her.  Sevin and Nyota are approaching, now, half-jogging across the grass toward their small group.  Nyota is already waving and apologizing, and clearly slightly out of breath.  Sevin, even running on his shorter legs to keep up, is not at all breathless.  As soon as Nyota lets go of his wrist, he circles around to stand between his parents, not quite behind them, watching the new people warily.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nyota is saying, one hand at her side, pressing down at a stitch.  “Blame it on the traffic.  I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Kirk leads another round of introductions, but by the end, Tom and Victoria cut in, announcing their own names eagerly, asking Sevin question after question about himself, and above all, the most important and most central thing, what does he know about space.  Has he ever been?  Has he seen the ship?  Does he know anyone else who’s going?  And so on and so on.  Spock can feel Sevin’s hand still gripping tightly to his pant leg, but excepting this small sign of nerves, he seems to stand up a bit straighter with confidence at each new question.  It is a pleasant thing, Spock knows, to feel knowledgeable.

Sevin sidesteps carefully around the subject of the ship itself, telling them only what he knows: that it is big, really incredibly big, and listing off statistics that Spock is sure the other children do not follow.  He skillfully avoids mentioning that he has never actually stepped aboard the ship herself.  He has traveled in space, however, which fascinates the twins and brings on another marathon of questions.  Sevin answers them happily.  They hit an impasse, though, when Tom brings up the subject of tutors again—does Sevin know they still have to go to school, even when they’re living on a starship?

“Of course!” Sevin answers.  “How else will we learn?”

“Do you like school?” Victoria asks him.  The idea seems to genuinely intrigue her, and there is nothing accusatory or malicious in her tone.  Still, Sevin shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, and shrugs to temper what would, Spock knows, usually be a spirited answer.  Sevin’s worst complaint about school has been that it is not interesting enough; the teachers move through the material too slowly, and really it’s not so difficult, is it?  He already knows so much.

“Yeah,” he says, now.  “Usually.  Don’t you?”

“Ugh, no,” Tom answers, while his sister gives a small shrug to match Sevin’s gesture.

“Sometimes I do,” she says.  “I don’t like getting up early, though.  And I don’t like my teacher this year at all.  I liked Ms. Early a lot better—that’s who I had last year.”

“Oh!  I have her this year,” Sevin answers.  “I think she’s pretty good…what’s wrong with your teacher this year?”

“She’s too cheery,” Tom declares.  “She makes too many jokes.”

“No, it’s not that,” Victoria corrects, giving her brother an unsubtle glare for interrupting.  “It’s just—she spends too much time on boring stuff.  Like math.”

“Math isn’t boring!” Sevin insists, and for a moment, Spock foresees the premature end of this just-begun friendship.  Sevin looks offended, as if Victoria had insulted his family or committed some grave offense against his honor.  Kirk is hiding his smile behind his hand.

“Well I think it is.  You should prove it then, if you think it’s not,” Victoria challenges.

“I can!” Sevin tells her.  “I can prove it!”

“Good luck making her think so,” Tom says.  “I think word problems are the best part of school, but Victoria doesn’t like them.  She doesn’t like anything.”

“I like lots of things—”

“Find us at recess tomorrow, Sevin.  We’ll be by the swings.”

Victoria gives her brother a sour look for interrupting her, but remains cheerful when she tells Sevin that, yes, he should hang out with them, though he won’t convince her at all about this math thing, but he should at least tell some more stories about space.  Isn’t it exciting, it must be so very exciting, to look out a window and see stars, to visit other planets, to go to sleep in one corner of the universe and wake up in another…

“Starfleet’s next recruit, I see,” Kirk smiles, growing fond at the way her eyes light up at as she imagines this transient life, unattached to any world, lost and free.  That is how he described that desire himself, once, that slight haunting in the back of his mind through his adolescence, the harder thrum of it after he enlisted, too loud to ignore ever again.

“No need to get ahead of ourselves,” her father answers.  The corner of his mouth tilts up, a light comment with a serious edge.

The children, Spock notes, acknowledge neither comment, too busy with their own plans.  Even Sevin is bouncing on the balls of his feet with pride and curiosity and argument, with anticipation; he’s intrigued by these new people already, at an age where it’s still easy to be drawn to someone new, where it is still easy to be open.  Knowing this, seeing this, Spock finds it easy to be hopeful.

By the next Saturday, Sevin has accumulated a small cache of surprisingly elaborate stories about his new friends, which he shares with his dad and Bones over lunch at a café down the street from their apartment.  It is a bitterly cold day, of the type Jim has learned not to expect from San Francisco, but at least he has experience with the way sharp air feels when you breathe in, with wind you feel like cuts against your skin.  Sevin, who was born in the desert, and Bones, a veteran of Georgia summers, are not as familiar with these particular elements.  Bones grumbles and makes sour faces and then sighs in relief when they step into the bright colors and machine-warm air of the café, but Sevin has his stories to distract him.  He tells them in no particular order, one anecdote opening up into another like nesting dolls.  He pauses in his narration only when necessary: to tell his dad he doesn’t need mittens, really (“Your father would kill me if I let you leave without them,” Jim answers), or to ask, when they get to the café, what sort of food there is here, and can they sit in the window?

It’s an order-at-the-counter type of joint, with the menu behind the cashier.  Bones lifts Sevin up so he can see properly, and makes a big show, as he does, about how heavy he’s gotten, and what have you been eating lately, kid, huh?  Sevin laughs as Bones sets him back down.

Jim leans over to ruffle his boy’s hair and when he looks up, he sees that the cashier is smiling at him.  No, she’s smiling at the three of them.  That’s clear, he tells himself, perfectly clear.  He’d only thought at first that her eyes were set on him, but now she is taking the whole group of them in.  He cannot blame her; his son is adorable.  She asks them if they’re ready to order, then.  Under different circumstances, Jim would lean forward to answer this question, rest his arm on the counter in some practiced casual way, glance at her name tag for just a moment too long, use her name when he tells her that no, he’s not quite decided, and is there anything she’d recommend?  She’s cute, this woman, about his age, with blonde hair that reaches almost to her waist, held back in a braid, and a dusting of light freckles over her nose.  She’s his type.  Most women are.  But for some reason, surprisingly, somewhat disconcertingly, he feels no spark between them.

They order too much food and take a leisurely lunch, picking at dishes scattered among them, Jim and Bones listening as Sevin does most of the talking.  He and his new friends seem to have hit already on that strange and unnameable quality that defines best friendships, a certain instinctual trust, the discovery of shared interests that seems to create in its turn new loves in common, like a secret language.  In this case, there is even a literal secret language, which Sevin references but, unsurprisingly given its name, does not describe in any detail.  Bones tells a similarly vague story about secret societies at the University of Georgia back in his day (he makes it sound like his day was when dinosaurs roamed the earth), and gives Sevin all sorts of ideas in the process that will almost certainly bring ruin and disgrace to Jim’s ship in the coming years.  But Jim doesn’t mind.  He’s thinking about his brother, the closest thing he had to a best friend through most of his own childhood, and he’s thinking of Bones, sitting across from him and letting his accent deepen and sprawl, and the first day they met, on the shuttle out of Iowa on the way to a new adventure.  Though Bones tells him he shouldn’t romanticize.  They were both running away.  He hadn’t known then, couldn’t have known, that this angry man with his space sickness and his bitter grumbling voice would turn into his closest friend.  He’d long lost that child’s easy trust in friendship, if he’d ever been lucky enough to have it, and all he’d thought was who was this guy anyway who looked like he hadn’t slept in days, who needed a shave and maybe something stiff to drink, who was desperate and sour and lost.  His bitterness was something that Jim needed, somehow, if only to remind him not to rely on beautiful narratives, no matter how tempting, in a world too often defined by emptiness and loss.  Bones needed him, too.  He needed Jim’s ambition and his new-forged optimism and his light-hearted view, his belief that winning is always possible.  They tempered each other.

“And we think we’ve found a place on the playground,” Sevin is saying, as he leans forward and pulls himself almost to the edge of his chair, his legs dangling, “that would make a good secret fort, even though Victoria says that’s a stupid idea because it will be found really easily and not be secret at all, but Tom and I think it’s great.  This is why I think that girls aren’t any fun.  Even though Victoria is fun most of the time.”  Sevin considers this last statement for a moment, then nods his head once, a reaffirmation.  “Yes.”  He lifts his glass to take another drink of water, but it’s empty, and he frowns down into it, surprised and bothered because he hadn’t noticed his own movements, his own actions, too caught up in his storytelling.  Jim knows the feeling.  His own lunch is half gone, and he has no memory of eating, no memory of drinking either, though his glass is empty too.

He shoots Sevin a quick smile, picks up both of their glasses between two fingers, and slides up from his chair.  “Be right back,” he says.  Behind him, he can hear Sevin asking Bones how he would build a fort, if he were to build one, and he finds himself considering the question too, now that it’s in his mind to be considered, so that he almost doesn’t hear the woman behind the counter asking him if he needs any help.

“Oh,” he smiles, the curl of his lips a reflex, “Yeah.  Two refills please.  Thanks.”

“No problem.”  She flashes him a smile in her turn, then adds, back to him now as she sets the glasses to refill, “You have a very adorable family, you know.  I hope that’s not strange of me to say.  I just couldn’t help noticing.”  The little laugh at the end of her sentence, self-deprecating and soft, is endearing, and in another circumstance or maybe another life he could have fallen in love just there, at the sound of it.

As it is, he doesn’t even know what to say.  He decides on, “Oh, thanks,” and then adds her name, “Chelsea,” when she turns around once more.  But this is more habit than anything.  It’s a strange in-between sort of moment.  They’re both stuck, waiting for the glasses to fill, and she’s looking at him and biting the corner of her lip between her teeth; she appears to be on the verge of saying something, while he just stands on the other side of the counter and hopes he didn’t sound like he was flirting, just then.  She seems to think he and Bones are a couple, and he’s not sure how to correct her without making the information sound more significant than it is.

She interrupts his thoughts sharply, unexpectedly, by asking, “How long have you been together?” and he glances up on instinct and looks straight into her eyes.  Her expression is open and curious and bright, but still he feels her natural friendliness is being tempered by something else.

“Together?  No, Bones—he and I aren’t together.”  He can’t quite bring himself to call his friend Leonard, but McCoy will sound too formal to a stranger, and he tries to cover up the slight hitch by leaning forward with his arms crossed and elbows on the table, the slight illusion of conspiracy between them.  “It’s not like that.  We’re just friends.  Sevin is my son, though.”

“Oh!  Oh gosh, I’m so embarrassed now, seriously, I didn’t mean—”  Her cheeks color to the perfect shade of rose as if on command, and she brings up both hands to cover her face in possibly the sweetest gesture he has seen another human being make in years.  It is absolutely endearing.

“It’s fine,” he reassures her, “an understandable mistake.  I take it as a compliment, actually.”

Her mouth turns up at the corners, a perfect shy smile.  “You partner—wife?—probably wouldn’t.”

“If such a person existed,” he answers lightly, “I don’t think he or she would be insulted.”

The machine behind her clicks off, the two glasses full, and the sound of it coincides and all but covers her small, surprised, “Oh.”  He wishes he were quick enough to read the emotions that flit across her face, but before he can decipher them, she’s turned her back to him again.  Perhaps there was pity there, a knee-jerk reaction to the thought of single parenthood, and then guilt, and curiosity, because she’s wondering now how to interpret their past conversation, just minutes before.  In retrospect, does a certain position of the body, a certain hint of tone, mean something more than she would have dared to admit?  He wants to tell her that it doesn’t.  He flirts on instinct.  It means nothing, nothing at all.

She turns toward him again and slides the two glasses across the countertop.  He catches her glancing, a quick dart of her eyes and no more, toward Sevin, who is listening carefully and nodding quickly now at some story that Bones is telling.  Jim pretends he does not notice, and he smiles again at her, his old charming Jim Kirk smile.  It still comes easy.  He notices, a similar instinct flaring, the way she curls her fingers against the countertop, the dusting of freckles over her nose, the way her lips curl up hesitatingly, then falter, then try again at that shy awkward smile she wears so well.  He could turn back to his table now.  He should.  But he waits two beats too long and then she’s saying, “I’m surprised,” standing up on her toes as she says it, as if to get his attention, as if to call him back to her.

“Surprised?”

“That you don’t have anyone.  I mean that you’re—not married.”  She tilts her head, turns the power up on her smile.  “Handsome guy like you.”

He can’t help a small laugh, a “ha” that edges into an “oh” and then into an almost inaudible sigh; he’s flattered, and it’s true that she is quietly and simply beautiful.  “Thank you,” he says, and tries to keep his own expression open even as hers falters and falls closed.  He’s still holding on to the two glasses.  They’re filled to the brim with cold water and they’re sweating and his own hands feel clammy where they’re wrapped around the glass.  “I’m flattered.  But I’m not looking—”

“Oh of course.”  She has her hands deep in her pockets now and her shoulders slightly hunched, and he thinks he must be crazy not to say anything now, not to set down the glasses again and try something like well actually I’ve been thinking I might try again, or to talk about exceptions or time for a change.  She is lovely.  He can already tell.  But where usually his mind would be full with bright, scattered images of them, reaching for her hand over the table at dinner, first kiss at her front door one hand gently at her waist, her smile in the morning soft and sleepy and her body so warm—right now he sees nothing.  He sees the woman in front of him, pretty and kind.  He feels the empty space where the spark should be, and isn’t.

So he just says, “Thank you,” and shoots her another friendly, means-nothing smile, and returns to the window table where Bones and Sevin are still debating the pros and cons of a playground fort.

“Sorry it took so long,” he interrupts, as he slides back into his seat, passes one glass across the table to Sevin.

“It’s okay, you weren’t gone very long,” Sevin answers cheerfully, and does not seem to notice the look that Bones is giving Jim, frowning and suspicious.

“Can’t imagine what it was that distracted you,” he mutters.

Jim glares at him and hopes his son doesn’t see.

“I was just having a conversation,” he says, and this isn’t quite the voice he used to use when Bones would tease him, gruff-voiced and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling, about his tireless flirting, and he would adopt in turn a mock defensive tone.  Of course I have some standards.  You never see me flirting with you, do you?  But then Bones’s tone was a little off, too, bordering on accusatory and no joke beneath to lighten it.

“A conversation about what, is the question,” he answers.

“Nothing important.”

Sevin is glancing between them, suspicious and curious, and so Jim changes the topic quickly and hopes he won’t pursue it.  He doesn’t.  In the back of his mind, Jim’s still thinking about the cashier, about Chelsea and her freckles and her small white teeth, but more than that, he is thinking about Spock.  He wishes he weren’t.  There’s no reason he should.  Yes, their son, sitting across from him, his hair and his ears and his face so much like Spock’s, but if he’s guilty, and he is not sure he’s guilty, it isn’t because of Sevin.

“So being a dad means I’m not allowed to flirt?” he asks, later, more harshly than he’d meant to as he pops the cap off of his beer and glares out past Bones’s shoulder.

“Maybe not in front of your kid,” Bones answers.

Jim just frowns at him, and taps his smallest finger against the neck of the bottle like he’s thinking.  But he isn’t really thinking.  There’s a blank red spot in his mind, annoyance, exasperation, and it’s directed toward himself, scrambling his reason.  He’s not used to the feeling.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he says, finally, after such a space that the words, even if true, have been completely deflated of meaning.

“Sevin didn’t notice anything,” Bones answers.  He opens his mouth to say something more, and then closes it again.  Jim doesn’t ask him what’s on his mind; he’s got a couple of ideas and he doesn’t want to hear any of them spoken out loud.

But even though Jim wishes he wouldn’t, Bones tells him, “He wants you and Spock to be in a relationship, you know,” and it’s said and out there, and Jim sets his beer down on the countertop behind him, and licks his lips once thoughtfully.

“Of course he does, he’s a kid and we’re his parents,” he answers.  “He wants us to be a traditional family, and I can’t blame him for that.  But it isn’t going to happen.”

“Really?” Bones asks, his eyebrows disappearing up into his hair.  It’s been a while since he’s sounded quite this skeptical, and Jim’s a bit insulted.

“Unless you’re seeing something I’m not,” he says, “then yes, really.  Spock and I aren’t—we’re friends and we’re colleagues and we’re parents together, and we aren’t anything else.  And we’re not going to be.”

Even he hears the disappointment in his own voice, and to hide it, he picks up his beer again and takes a long drink.  He pretends not to notice that Bones is still watching him, with that look he wears when he thinks Jim has gotten some daft strange idea in his head and he’s afraid to be around for the fallout.  When Bones asks him if he’s really sure about that being friends thing, Jim tells him to shut up, sounds angrier than he is, but in return gets no more than a short scowl and a suggestion that they go out to dinner tonight, instead of shopping.  They do, and the conversation drops.  They do not pick it up again.

Chapter Text

Morning light seeps in gray and weak through his bedroom window, the first light of a dreary February day.  He surfaces slowly into it, sliding out of his vague dreams and remembering the day, the time, the place.  Saturday, an early hour, his apartment in San Francisco.  It is a rare day of few responsibilities.  Kirk has Sevin for the day, and Spock should, he thinks, take the opportunity to see someone about renting out the apartment during the mission.  Five years is too long for it to sit empty.

He gets to his feet slowly, considering, and lets his thoughts wander while he dresses. It’s strange, but his mind does not usually fill with practical details quite this quickly.  His dreams are a complete blur but he wonders if perhaps something in them—

Footsteps.  For a brief moment, he feels frozen by panic.  Sevin rises early only on holidays and Spock himself never oversleeps.  He can tell by the angle of the light that it’s much too early for his boy to be up, much too early for any visitor.  He turns toward the door, but moves no further, every muscle tense and ready, wondering who it could be.

The footsteps stop—they must be in the main room now—Spock takes a few steps forward and tilts his head.  There’s something wrong about them.  He hears it clearly when they start up again: the short excited strides of a small boy, running quickly down the hall.  His caught breath unhitches, releases, and his heart beat slows once more.  He feels silly now to have expected any danger.

“Father!” Sevin bursts into his room with a shout, running straight for his father and jumping up into a hug, too quickly for Spock to warn him: careful, careful.  “Father!  Good morning!”  They end up falling on the bed, Sevin’s arms wrapped tight around Spock’s stomach, and Spock’s arm around Sevin’s shoulders, as Spock wonders where his boy has found quite this much energy for quite this early in the day.  He’s dressed already too; if he were a little older, Spock would wonder if he slept at all last night.

“Good morning,” he answers.  “What has inspired you to be so awake?”  Even as he asks the question, its answer occurs to him, simple and obvious and clear.  “Did your dad plan something special for today?”

Sevin frowns up at him.  “You don’t remember?”  When Spock doesn’t answer—his own face, he’s sure, a more subtle mirror of Sevin’s confused expression—Sevin laughs and reminds him, “Father, it’s your birthday today!  How could you forget that?”

His birthday.  It is easier to forget than Sevin, still so young, a child raised on Earth, would believe.  He is twenty-four years old today.  But he barely believes it.

“It was,” he admits, “an oversight on my part.  But at least I have you to remind me.”

“You can count on me to remember the important stuff!” Sevin agrees.

“Yes,” Spock answers, Sevin’s bright smile making him grow fond, even though the day itself, the anniversary of his birth, does little to inspire him with feeling.  He finds it difficult to appreciate this Terran celebration, honoring a person simply for coming into existence.  The only times he has ever felt the true awe that he believes a birthday should inspire, the feeling that he seemed to see on his mother’s face when she would hug him close on this day every year, are on his own son’s birthdays.  Only that day each year seems to deserve a celebration, in his mind.

He glances back at the clock on his bedside table, just to be sure of the hour, then adds, “Your dad will not be here for another two hours.  What do you want for breakfast?  After he brings you back from your day together, you and I can celebrate, if you wish.”

“No,” Sevin answers, shaking his head, and Spock starts in response, honestly surprised.  But he controls his expression, only lifting one eyebrow in an exaggerated way that makes Sevin laugh.  “No,” Sevin insists.  “I don’t want to celebrate your birthday when I get back, Father.”

“And why not?” Spock asks in return.  “Am I too old for a birthday celebration?”

“No, that’s just silly,” Sevin shakes his head again.  “You’re never too old for a birthday.”

“Then I must admit I do not—”

Before he can form another word, he is interrupted by the loud, jarring buzz of the doorbell.  The question of who that could be is only half out of his mouth before Sevin is jumping up again and telling him, “We should get that, it must be important!” and dragging him by the wrist into the hallway with his surprising small child’s strength.

The doorbell buzzes again before they reach it, but by then Spock has already determined who their visitor must be.  He’s ready when Sevin commands it to slide open and he sees Jim Kirk on their door step.  Jim Kirk, grinning.  “Good morning, Spock,” he says cheerfully.  “I hear it’s your birthday today.”  Obviously prepared and practiced words.

“So Sevin reminds me,” he answers, stepping back to invite Kirk in.  “You realize you are early by almost two full hours?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I came when you were expecting me.”  He’s still smiling that wide, full, smile, one that shows his teeth and that seems to change the very shape of his words as he speaks.  As he steps past Spock he gives him a hard, jarring slap on the back.  Spock raises an eyebrow in slight disapproval, but Kirk doesn’t seem to notice.  He’s already knelt down to Sevin’s height, and is ruffling his hair and giving him a hug.  “Hey buddy.  We still on?”

“Yes!” Sevin answers, returning his dad’s hug happily.  Then, as if suddenly remembering a quite important detail, he adds, “That is—if Father thinks it’s a good idea.”  He looks up hopefully, and Kirk, still kneeling at seven-year-old height, looks up too.  He has trained his face to take on what Nyota calls a ‘puppy dog expression,’ a wide-eyed and innocent look that she’d warned him he should never trust, and certainly not from a man like Jim Kirk.  He had not told her that he hardly needed the advice.

“What idea is this that needs my approval?” he asks, looking down at them both, his eyes slightly narrowed with suspicion.

“We want to celebrate your birthday together, all day, starting with breakfast,” Sevin answers proudly.  “I told Dad we should go to the place around the corner because they serve Vulcan food and it’s almost as good as what I used to eat at Grandmother and Grandfather’s house, I think.”

“I called ahead,” Kirk adds.  “There’s a table upstairs for us, if you want it.”

Sevin’s eyes are wide and bright, staring up at him just as before, but Kirk’s expression has softened into something quieter, and edged with worry.  He thinks there’s a possibility, Spock realizes, that he will hear a no.  He thinks perhaps he’s overstepped their boundaries.

But it’s been a while (days? weeks? longer? not even his precise mind can decide) since Spock has known where their boundaries are.

“And after this celebration breakfast?” he asks, as if he were still making up his mind.  “What other plans have you made?”

“It’s a surprise,” Sevin answers, with a short decisive nod of his head.  “You will come with us, right, Father?  It’s not a real birthday celebration if the person having the birthday isn’t there.”

“The boy is being logical,” Kirk adds, his voice carefully, perfectly serious, until the last moment, when he caps off his sentence with a grin.  “Come on, Spock,” he adds, quieter, “you only get one birthday a year.”

Sevin must have told him, Spock is thinking, and then they planned this day together, and let none of their plans slip in order to keep this a surprise.  Was it his son’s idea, or Kirk’s?  And what should he read into that expression, shifting so subtly across Kirk’s features now, something so completely human that he cannot himself put it into words?

He looks away.  “Sevin,” he says finally, “get your jacket, please.”  Sevin is off and rushing for the closet before the words are even out of Spock’s mouth, and he has to add loudly, “And do not forget your mittens,” because he knows his boy is always misplacing or forgetting them, telling his father that it isn’t that cold out, really.  But Spock worries about chilled fingers, unbuttoned jackets, weakened immune systems, disease.  He keeps an eye on Sevin to make sure he is bringing a hat, too, and notices only out of the corner of his eye that Kirk has stood up again, and is watching him.

“I hope you didn’t have anything important planned,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.  “Sevin wants your birthday celebration to monopolize the whole day.”

Spock arches an eyebrow, and pretends that he is staring straight ahead, that he is not carefully watching Kirk’s face in the side of his vision.  “Sevin does?’

“And I do.”

This last sentence is spoken so quietly that even Spock’s sharp ears barely discern it, and he has no opportunity to answer because Sevin has slid down the hallway again and wiggled himself in between them.  “Ready?” he asks.

“If you are,” Kirk answers.  He’s grinning for Sevin’s benefit but his eyes are turned on Spock.

They are halfway out the door when Sevin tugs on his sleeve and tells him, “Father, if I have to wear a hat, you do too.”  A fair point.  Earth winters are so cold.  Spock takes an extra moment to grab a hat off a high shelf near the door, and when he steps into the hallway, for just a moment before he joins them at the lift, he has a certain view of them: the human boy and their son, lit up by the morning light.  Kirk’s head is bent down, Sevin’s tilted up.  Something undefinable seems to connect them, some similarity that he cannot name.  It is perhaps the way they stand, or the angle of their smiles.  Maybe it is only what he imagines he sees, knowing as he does the blood that connects them.  Maybe this is only old fantasies resurfacing from years ago when he thumbed through worn memories of his night with the human boy, when he wondered if he would see those familiar features on their son or daughter’s face.  Still, for a moment, they seem to form almost a mirror image of each other, and the observation arrests him.

“You coming Spock?” Kirk calls to him, looking up as he does.  From this distance, Spock thinks, he could be seventeen still.

“Of course,” he answers, and locks the door behind him as he goes.

They’re led to a table on the second floor of the restaurant, more of a balcony than a proper second story, overlooking the large tables below and the few other early morning patrons.  The food is nothing like home.  The earnest imitation only makes him more nostalgic for the sort of breakfasts he would have as a child, especially when he was young and he hadn’t learned yet that birthdays were for Earth children, those days when he would wake up early to ask his mother to make him his favorite food, excited and anxious to start a day dedicated just to him.

Still, when Kirk asks him how it is, he says it is as he remembers.  Kirk’s smile, and Sevin’s proud beaming face, are worth the lie.  The waitress tells them their breakfast is free after Sevin blurts out that it’s his father’s birthday today, then tells them they’re an adorable family.  Kirk thanks her, which Spock cannot find the words to do.  What she means is that Sevin is an adorable boy, and perhaps she thinks that he and Kirk frame him well, but when Spock hears the word family he tenses.  They are, in a certain sense of the word, just that.  But he knows what she’s thinking and to let her believe as she does seems to him a more egregious lie than his own.

In the afternoon, he finds himself in the desert.  The air is dry and warm and the atmosphere arid.  He feels at ease under the harsh shine of the sun.

“It’s a cheap imitation, I’m sure,” Kirk says quietly, as he watches Sevin slide down one of the sand dunes.  He and Spock are at the top of another, and he’s sweating terribly, the skin of his face beaded over, stains under the arms of his shirt.  But he doesn’t complain.  He only slings his arms over his bent knees casually, circles the fingers of one hand around the opposite wrist, and squints down, following the curves and the valleys of varied yellow sand.

“It is beautiful,” Spock answers.  His voice thrums with a low, audible, sincerity.  He’s sitting so close to Kirk that their arms are almost touching.  “An excellent birthday gift, Captain.”

“It’s Jim,” Kirk answers quietly.  The words are rote now; he hardly expects Spock to pay attention to them, and he’s smiling; he doesn’t mind this habit of theirs, this well-worn call-and-response.  “And it was Sevin’s idea.  I just helped to organize it.”  He raises his head, looking off into the far distance, and adds, with the slightest hesitation bookending his words, “He misses it too, I think.”

“Someday he will forget,” Spock answers.  It’s a fear, not a fact, and he doesn’t mean to voice it. He flinches, almost unnoticeably, when Kirk frowns at him.

“He won’t.”

“He is seven years old.  He lived only two years on Vulcan before we moved to Earth, and since then he has only spent one or two months of every year there.  This,” he presses his hands down into the sand, but he means, this earth, this Earth, “this is what he knows.”

“He won’t forget, Spock,” Kirk insists.  But Spock reads into his voice an insistence so harsh and so defensive that he assumes it can only be meant to convince its speaker.  He doesn’t know how to answer.  He watches Sevin, who is waving up at them now from the valley below.  “He was telling me all about Vulcan when we were planning this,” Kirk continues.  “He remembers more than you think.  He told me about your house and the gardens and the library and—Spock—”

Spock has closed his eyes, not to try to remember, but to try to keep the images back.  “Is it a help to you?” he asks quietly.  “After you have suffered a loss, does it ease the pain of it to remember?”

Kirk takes several long moments to answer, and during that pause, Spock listens to him breathing.  He tunes out everything else, those vague landscape sounds in the background, their conversation, and he focuses in until he can count the intakes and outtakes of Kirk’s lungs.  If they were closer, he could listen to his heartbeat too.  There are so many things about this man that he does not know.  This is at once a sobering reminder of the distance still between them, and a taunt. He remembers quite suddenly and quite sharply the desire he had felt, the night they first met, to trace his fingers down Kirk’s spine and feel each of his vertebrae through his skin.  What can he possibly do with memories like these?

Next to him, Kirk breathes out, “Sometimes,” and his fingers dig into the sand as if searching for something there.  “Do you want to forget?”

“No.  I could not.  I could never.”

“So it’s just talking about it you don’t like?”

Spock opens his eyes and glances at Kirk, just for a moment.  He keeps most of his attention on Sevin still, below them.  Kirk is tense.  Spock feels it like he feels his own tension, though the annoyance, and the confusion, belongs to the human man alone.  Kirk continues, hardly pausing for Spock to answer, “Or is it talking to me that’s the problem?  Am I on some sort of probation?”

“You are hardly a criminal,” Spock tells him.  “Why do you think I would find discussion with you to be more difficult than with someone else?”

“I don’t know,” Kirk shrugs.  He answers so quickly that Spock’s sure he’s lying.  He still sounds on edge, like he’s holding back, biting back words that Spock can already guess.  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he adds, after a moment.  “It’s not my business.”

He’s sitting there next to Spock and pressing his hands into the hot sand to either side of him.  Spock can’t take his attention away from him now.  It would be easier, Spock thinks, if he could just reach out and touch him.  His fingertips to the skin of Kirk’s wrist or arm would tell him everything.  Is he thinking, as Spock is, of the Narada mission, and the last moments of Vulcan’s existence?  Or is he considering their relationship—those thoughts intrude on Spock, too, making themselves known like loud, constant, background noise—and the optical illusion of closeness that seems to bring them together, only to fade away when it is most needed?  Why shouldn’t Kirk speak to him of Vulcan?  But then, also, how dare he?

A part of him wants to talk about it all.

“Vulcans,” he says, finally, “do not customarily celebrate birthdays.”

Kirk looks up suddenly, as if startled.  “Oh,” he says.  “I should have known that, probably…  Am I committing some sort of alien-etiquette faux-pas right now?”  He flashes a bright half-smile, the kind that makes him seem distant and unknowable, like an actor playing a part.  This sort of smile, he could show to anyone; it could mean almost anything; it is unreadable and shallow both.

“No,” Spock answers.  “Sevin is more than familiar with the Terran birthday tradition and he enjoys celebrating the occasion with me.  So I am accustomed to marking the day in some manner. That was not why I brought up the topic."

"Okay,” Kirk answers slowly, waiting out a certain pause as Spock looks out into the distance, purposefully avoiding his gaze.  Kirk is watching him; he knows that.  “So why did you mention it?”

“My mother,” he answers.

“Your mother?”

Sevin is trying to build something out of the sand, but this isn't beach sand, it doesn't stick to itself and form castles or buildings or villages. But the boy doesn't seem frustrated. His creations are transient, and he does not care. This is enviable.

Spock nods. “My mother was human,” he reminds Kirk needlessly, “and though she never marked either my father's birthday or, as far as I was aware, her own, she insisted that we celebrate mine, every year.”

“So being here makes you think of her,” Kirk says, half question, half simple comment, and speaking as if he did not want a pause to form between them, as if he feared it. He likes to hear his own voice, Spock might have thought of him once.  He might have settled on an explanation no more complicated than that.  Now he knows Kirk too well for such simplicity and he wonders what scares him in the silence.  He seems on the edge of saying something more, but Spock interrupts him.

“Yes,” he answers simply.  “That is why I am glad you and Sevin planned this for me.”

Kirk offers him another smile, this one more tentative and muted and true, and then turns back to look at the toes of his shoes.  He opens his mouth, but does not speak.  The silence he tried to shun has returned now, stronger than him now; the man with words for every occasion has become tongue tied, and Spock chooses the side of the silence, letting it fall over them both.  He does not mind it.  Perhaps Kirk believes that Spock can read something of him in these quiet moments, but Kirk is the same enigma he has always been.  The human boy with his back to Spock and his face to the closed curtains of the window and around them both an air of such finality that Spock did not even know how to believe that a moment like this one, now, would ever come.  Has he ever moved beyond that image?  Is that still all he knows?  What would Kirk do if he were to reach out, as he suddenly so fiercely wants to, and wrap his fingers around his wrist?

“I’m…I’m happy to know that, Spock,” Kirk is saying.  “I was a bit worried there, for a minute.  You can be a hard nut to crack sometimes, you know?”

“I do not know,” Spock answers.  “This is another of your Earth expressions?  I am not familiar with it.”

Kirk laughs lightly at him, and then reaches out to slap his back in the simple, easy way that Spock has observed him take with the rest of the crew.  The gesture is friendly and familiar.  He flinches slightly at it.  Kirk doesn’t seem to notice, but only says, “It means you’re hard to read, hard to…understand.”

“Because I am not human,” Spock finishes.  He’s heard this one before.  It is usually the preface to a request, not always politely worded, that he try a little bit harder to be understandable—to be normal.  It’s in his heritage too, isn’t it?  It cannot be that hard.  And life would become so much simpler, in consequence, for everyone if he could just fit in.

“I guess that’s part of it,” Kirk replies.  “Or maybe you’re just an enigma, Spock.  Maybe that’s part of who you are.”  Below them, Sevin is gesturing broadly, trying to convince them to come down and join in his latest idea for a game.  They can hardly refuse.  Spock gets to his feet first and takes a long look at the landscape sprawling out beneath him, nothing like the points and harsh slopes of Vulcan and yet so different from the wet and foggy corner of Earth that he is so used to: a combination of places, just as he and Sevin both are a combination of heritages.  It is more than suitable for the day.

“Still,” Kirk says, as he stands, dusting the sand lightly off his pants, his voice bringing Spock back to the present once more, “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

In the days after his birthday, Spock finds himself often distracted by slight curling intrusions of thought, like the tendrils of plants quietly invading where they should not be as they search out the sun.  He doesn’t know why.  It was a pleasant day, spent in the company of his son and a man he is becoming accustomed to calling a friend, and nothing very remarkable happened.  He did not share too much.  Nothing inappropriate was said.  Yet he feels that he’s slipping; he is treating Kirk as a confidante, and he wonders: if he had some thought or some concern or worry on his mind, would he have to fight the urge to go to his Captain and to seek out his advice?  Would Kirk’s ear be the one he would trust to listen?  And would such trust be wise?

He comes to no conclusions, but is soon, and inevitably, distracted by other concerns.  His days are busy, and February is short.  Kirk starts eating dinners, as often as not, with Spock and Sevin at their apartment.  On one occasion, Sevin spends the night at Kirk’s.  He slept, he explains later, proudly, and while Kirk looks on slightly red-faced, in his Dad’s bed while the other took the couch.  “I want a big bed like that,” he decides.  “One I can roll around in.”

“Sorry to break it to you, Sevin, but no one will be rolling around in the beds on the Enterprise,” Kirk tells him, his tone implying a great sacrifice is being made.  “The bunks are too small.”

Sevin pouts, Kirk breaks out in a grin, and Spock can do nothing but hope that that grin does not haunt him, too.

His life is pockmarked now with distractions, odd thoughts invading at inconvenient times, and he can’t afford this.  The Enterprise will be leaving in only a few months.  He feels like even a year might not be enough time.  Kirk, with his black-rimmed tired eyes, and the way that he covers his yawns with the back of his hand, tells him that he should sleep more, and stress less.  Spock never yawns, and his face is clear, and he wonders how Kirk knows that he’s up more nights than not, unconnected thoughts flitting wildly one after the other.

“Really,” Kirk repeats, and slaps his hand down on the tabletop.  He sounds like he’s speaking to them both at once, that certain edge of frustration in his voice that Spock knows he only turns against himself.  “We’re getting nowhere here.  It’s already past eight.  You said your friends could only look after Sevin until half past, right?  They’ll be here soon, we’re nowhere near where we need to be, and I think the best thing now would be to take a break.”

Spock is about to say that their problem might be, on the contrary, that they have taken too many breaks, but before he can, his doorbell buzzes loudly and insistently.  He and Kirk both turn toward it on instinct.  They already know who it is.  Kirk is just a step behind him when Spock opens the door, and there are Sevin, Senar, and Soval standing on the other side, Sevin leaning so heavily against Soval that he’s almost asleep on his feet, Senar with his hand against the swell in his middle, too big now to be quite hidden even by his robes.  Spock assumes he does not even notice his own position.  It brings attention to the new shape of his body in a way that must be accidental, and all Spock can do is pretend he does not notice, as he would hope someone else would do for him.

A long moment falls, stretches, becomes almost uncomfortable, before he thinks to introduce Captain Kirk to the two Vulcans still standing in his doorway. He realizes only as he speaks how odd this moment is.  At first he thinks of it as his past and present meeting, but that isn’t quite right.  Two parts of his past, perhaps, each having followed him into the present by their own strange paths.  He refers to Kirk by his rank and calls him a colleague first and a friend second, and he’s glad to be speaking in Standard so that he can use the same broad term to refer to Soval and Senar.  He does not have to explain that Kirk is Sevin’s other parent.  That is, perhaps, one small blessing.  The boy does this for him, opening his half-closed eyes, catching sight of his dad, and taking the few steps from Soval’s side to Kirk’s.  “Dad!  You’re still here,” he greets him, managing a bit of energy for him as he attaches himself to his knees.  Spock feels that this should make the drawn out moment of introduction less difficult, less awkward, but it doesn’t.

“It’s nice to meet you both,” Kirk says, and holds out his hand.  It takes a moment for Soval, to whom the first handshake is directed, to respond, but just as he does, Kirk takes his hand away.  He realizes his mistake at the worst time.  He tries to stretch his hand into the proper sign of greeting, but the effort isn’t quite enough.  Spock can only assume he must be nervous, because this isn’t the sort of social faux-pas that Kirk would usually make.  He’s too controlled and too aware, much more so than most people would credit him.  But Soval doesn’t know this and for just a moment his eyebrow quirks up, and he glances at Spock and Spock can all but see his thoughts rearranging, as he recalibrates all of his theories and reevaluates his memories.  So this is the human boy, then.  This is the mysterious figure that so many whispered about in their city, the father of the Ambassador’s son’s child.  It’s the slip-up of a moment, but Spock wonders how far it will echo for Soval and Senar, and he imagines Kirk is wondering the same thing.  The tips of his ears are red.

“It is a pleasure to meet you too,” Soval echoes, and Senar inclines his head.

Spock asks them if they’d like to stay.  It is only a polite offer, made to diffuse an oncoming stalemate, but he can feel Kirk growing tense all the same, as if these Vulcan men were only here to torment him.  It would be amusing if Spock didn’t feel so awkward, too.  But it isn’t until Senar has accepted for himself and his husband both, and Sevin has been put safely to bed, and Spock is making tea out of another habit too old to break, that he wonders what caused this break in Kirk’s usual, almost instinctual calm.  Spock has never mentioned to him that Soval was his fiancé once.  And even if he had, what could that matter?  It was years ago, and he’d believed the human boy had left his life for good.  Kirk must have had several partners in the time between their first meeting and now.  They have not betrayed each other.                              

“So how did you and Spock meet?” Kirk is asking, as Spock returns to his spot at the table.

Soval and Senar have their hands on the table, wrists crossed and just their first two fingertips touching.  It is a sweet gesture, but Spock doubts that Kirk sees it, or that he sees how uneven they look: the traditional Vulcan couple with their simple robes, bonded, expecting their new son or daughter, and their distorted mirror image, a part-Vulcan in his Earth clothes, his human friend, forming a family of chance, and connected only by their son—perhaps, he could say tentatively, by their work.  A small part of him adds that there is more between them than this, but he squashes it down.  That is nothing.  That is like a fairy tale.  Scientists do not speak of fate.

“We met when Spock was in school,” Soval answers simply.  “Our fathers worked at the Embassy together; that is how we first came in contact.”  This isn’t a lie, but Spock would hardly call it the whole truth.  He admires Soval’s diplomacy, but Kirk, proving that he is more observant than his first impression might have implied, notes the glances the others exchange, the slight implication that they know something he does not.

“Did you meet at some sort of Embassy event?  I’ve always wondered about those.  I think it would be fun to go as an observer, not,” he takes a sip of tea, clearly pretending he likes the taste more than he does, “not officially, you know.”

Senar looks very much as if he did not know, but he’s amused regardless.  Spock reads it in the line between his eyes.

“No,” Soval answers, as if he were about to say, ‘no, I do not know.’  “We did not meet at an Embassy event.  Ambassador Sarek introduced us.”

“It is not an interesting story,” Spock adds quickly.  He’s starting to blush, he’s sure; he doesn’t want to remember that particular meeting, the deep embarrassment he’d felt at his father’s attempt to help, to find the mate that he needed because it was such madness to raise a child alone.  A bit of defensiveness, far below the surface, tries to bubble up.  Sarek was wrong.  He could do it alone, and he has been, he’s been fine.  He’s so lost in the memory that he hardly notices Soval talking again, about how Sarek had believed they had something in common, and that was why he brought them together.  Spock glances at Senar and wonders if he is jealous.

“He thought we might have something in common,” Soval is saying.  “In a sense, he was correct.  We were quite close by the time Spock left Vulcan to attend Starfleet Academy.”

Quite close is something of an understatement, and yet precisely what Spock expected Soval to say.  If Kirk suspects there is something more to the story, he doesn’t say.  He knows he’s outnumbered.  The conversation continues, wandering past any discussion of Spock’s past, settling, briefly, on Senar and Soval’s plans for their family, and then finding a more neutral topic, to Spock’s mind at least: the latest rumors about the new colony.  Spock wonders what Kirk is thinking.  Does he notice the slight references, the clues that Spock sees in certain glances and pauses, certain gestures?  Or does he see only the surface of the conversation, as humans so often seem to do?

Even after Soval and Senar leave, Kirk stays.  “Tell me honestly,” he says, as he pours himself a glass of water, “how big of a fool did I make of myself?”

“Would you like a number?” Spock asks, quirking up his eyebrow, but Kirk volleys back:

“Only if you give me a scale, too.  Out of ten, would you say, a nine?”

“You are unnecessarily strict with yourself,” Spock tells him.  He’s walked over to the side table where they left their work when Soval and Senar came in, trying to sort through and organize what they’ve accomplished.  It gives him something to do.  “I would rank your foolishness at perhaps a four.”

Kirk laughs at this, as Spock had secretly hoped he would (he pretends not to understand what is amusing), the sound eventually dying out into a long, rough sigh.  “Even with the confusion with the handshake?  I felt like I’d walked in on a pop quiz on alien etiquette and I completely failed.  It was odd.  I’m not usually that…”  He trails off, one finger tapping against the side of his glass as he looks for the right word.  “Tell me if this sounds stupid, Spock, but the moment I saw them in the doorway I could swear they were watching me.  Trying to analyze me maybe, or—or figure me out.”  He narrows his eyes, and gives a short shake to his head, as if dismissing his own thoughts.

“Is it a surprise to you, Captain?” Spock asks in return.  Kirk is so lost in his own thoughts, he won’t notice the hesitation before Spock speaks, or the slightly forced quality to his confidence.  “You are well-known now, and of particular interest to survivors such as Soval and Senar.  One would expect them to be curious.”

“But this felt different,” Kirk insists.  He sets his glass down on the countertop behind him and crosses his arms.  “It felt…more personal.”  This is the perceptive Kirk, the Kirk who trusts his intuitions and his instincts, who seemed so suddenly absent when Spock’s friends first appeared at the door.  It is oddly encouraging to see him, even as Spock knows, in this moment, that he won’t be able to hide a thing.

Spock sits down at the table and looks up at him.  “You are Sevin’s human parent,” he explains.  “Soval in particular must be interested to meet you, as he has known Sevin his whole life.”  He does not explain any more than this, but he watches Kirk, wondering how perceptive he will be this time, if he will somehow be able to read in these few words and in the expression on Spock’s face what he is not saying: that Soval knew Spock even before Sevin was born, that he knew him as a teenager pretending he was in a situation he could handle, pretending for so long and with such insistence that eventually it was the truth—that Soval knew him when he was a scandal and a sideshow and that Kirk himself had been a shadow over this all, the unknown human boy, the mysterious human parent to Spock’s child.  That their story has only become stranger, and its twists and turns more unexpected, in the years since, is only an additional factor.

Kirk’s eyes have narrowed somewhat and he looks, not as if he had figured out all that he wants to know but as if he were, at least, aware that there are pieces missing to the puzzle.  “What did Ambassador Sarek think you two would have in common?” he asks.  His words are slow, that same expression on his face still, and Spock can almost see what he is thinking.  “You were only a teenager then, and Soval is clearly older—”

“And I was expecting a child when we met,” Spock finishes for him, unsure if Kirk would say the words or not, saving him the trouble of deciding.  He raises one eyebrow.  It is the truth, and there is no reason to hide it.  How much time has Kirk truly spent imagining what that period was like for Spock, how alone he felt and how scared of the future, surrounded by judgment and gawking curiosity?  Spock does not wallow in it, in those old memories.  That time is past and he does not need pity, nor desire it.  But nor will he pretend it never happened.  He cannot.

He can tell by the expression on Kirk’s face that he is trying to imagine it now.

Spock drops his gaze and continues, “Soval was a widower.  My father thought that we could bond, and that this relationship would provide a stable family for Sevin.”  At the words ‘stable family,’ he cannot help the hint of bitterness that seeps into his voice.  He wonders if Kirk can hear it, or if it is too subtle for human ears.

What he almost misses himself is the note of anger, not subtle at all, in Kirk’s voice when he answers.  It is unwarranted, of course, and out of place.  What reason is there to be angry about this story from the past?  “But you didn’t, obviously,” he says.  “That was just your father’s idea.”

“He had certain ideas about propriety,” Spock answers, stepping aside from the real question.  Then, because he knows he isn’t being fair to Sarek, he adds, “He also believed that having a mate would be easier for me.  His reasoning was logical.”

Kirk does not seem to agree.  His expression has become hard, almost combative.  Spock tilts his head and wonders, is this about Spock himself, or about Sevin?  He decides quickly that it is most likely about the boy.  The idea of another person raising his son would of course inspire jealousy, and apparently Kirk has never before considered the possibility that Spock had other relationships, perhaps even serious ones, in the years they did not know each other.  It’s true that no one Spock has dated has acted as a parent to Sevin.  Soval came the closest, but even during their engagement, he resembled a close uncle more than a stepfather.  But even so, how could Spock truly be expected to wait forever for a man he believed he would never see again?  Unpleasant as this conversation is, perhaps it’s for the best, another window on that time when they were separated, a time about which Kirk knows, still, almost nothing.

“It doesn’t seem logical to me to marry you off at sixteen,” Kirk answers, bitterness barely concealed in his voice.

“To my people, having a child at sixteen was hardly logical, either,” Spock points out.  But because he does not want to play this role, does not want to say everything his teenage self did not want to hear, he adds, “Soval and I are not bonded, clearly, and that is for the best.  I did choose to be engaged to him for a short while, after Sevin was born, but broke off the arrangement when I entered Starfleet.  We lost touch for several years, and I was not even aware that he had bonded before I met Senar last summer.”

Kirk’s face has a closed off expression, as if he were hearing but not truly listening to any of Spock’s words, or as if he were listening and storing away to process later rather than now.  He finishes his water and puts the glass in the sink, and then he is just standing there, with nothing to do with his hands.  “I can’t believe you were actually going to marry him,” he says finally, absolutely incredulous.  Spock wonders if he has taken in the rest of the story at all.

“The idea occurred to me,” he answers lightly.

“No,” Kirk snaps, “it occurred to your father, and you just went along with it.”

Why does he sound like he is accusing?  What did Spock owe him then, and what does he owe him now?  Not this story, not these memories. But still he can’t stand for this man to have the wrong idea of him and his life and his past.  His eyes narrow and he says, this time his tone near icy, “I made that decision on my own, Captain Kirk, after my son was born, and when I realized that it would be more difficult to raise him on my own than I had previously thought.”

Kirk opens his mouth to speak again, then closes it just as quickly.  Spock hears his teeth click shut against each other.

After a few moments, he admits, “He seemed like a nice person,” in the sort of tone a little boy would use to apologize when his parent goads him to.  “But the thought of you with him, Spock—”

“It did not happen, and he is starting a family with Senar now,” Spock interrupts, his ears uncomfortably warm, to save Kirk from having to say anymore, and himself from having to listen.  Perhaps it is not just the thought of Sevin being raised, in part, by someone else that is so irritating to Kirk.  But if that is so, he won’t say it, and Spock won’t ask.  Spock will not let him say it.

“Right,” Kirk answers.  A long pause has stretched between Spock’s words and his reply, a silence that Spock did not notice until it was broken.  Kirk looks like he is about to say something more, an apology perhaps, or some comment about that distant apst, but Spock does not want to discuss any of it because what good would it do now?  It would only tear down more of his defenses.  They are already too weak.  The way that Jim Kirk is looking at him, he knows that he will need them more than ever now.

Chapter Text

Being busy has at least one definite perk: that it leaves no time to think about anything except whatever problem is just underneath his nose. Spock is a persistent problem—or maybe it would be better to say a persistent question—but figuring him out, figuring them out, is never Jim’s first priority. Only at certain moments does it really strike him that perhaps he does not understand what is happening here as well as he likes to believe. This realization, an epiphany he finds himself having again and again, occurs always under certain circumstances. When their arms brush against each other and he feels a shiver. When he finds himself staring at Spock’s ear or his hand or his mouth, or when they get caught in a too-long gaze and he has to turn away and clear his throat. But the worst is when he learns that Spock was once engaged, and he feels a strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach, similar to the sensation he experiences when he gets truly terrible, impossible to fathom news. Not to exaggerate the incident, of course. Nothing actually happened, after all, and even if it had, if he had enlisted in Starfleet and found Spock married, it would have been, in the end, not so terrible. What does he have now that would be barred from him then?  He and Spock could still be friends, could still be colleagues, and he could still have a relationship with his son.

Jim outlines these thoughts to Bones late one night, when he can’t sleep and Bones wishes he would at least try, and somewhere around, “and there wasn’t even anything wrong with him, he was a nice enough guy, as far as Vulcans go,” Bones cuts him off with: “You’re sounding like a Vulcan yourself, now stop pacing like that. You’re giving me a headache.”

“What do you mean I ‘sound like a Vulcan?’” Jim asks, screwing his face up as if he’d just tasted something sour.  Bones gets what he wants: Jim’s surprise is enough to make him stop pacing, as he was doing, in a line across their living room and back.

“I mean you’ve forgotten what emotions are,” Bones grumbles in return. “Apparently.  You sound like you’re talking about an equation.”

“I do not. I’m just pointing out—it was a weird reaction for me to have. As if it…”  His voice trails off, as if his thoughts were leading him someplace strange and new, beyond words, and then he shrugs, forcing himself back to the present. “As if it mattered at all what Spock’s romantic life was back then or what it is now.”

Bones stares back at him, eyebrows slightly raised.  He seems to be struck dumb by Jim’s obliviousness. “Even if you weren’t jealous,” he says, “that would still be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard out of your mouth. Imagining someone else with Spock, raising your son, being part of a little family that doesn’t include you—obviously that is going to bother you, Jim, now get your head out of your ass.”  With a final glare, he hauls himself up off the couch and wanders into their kitchen to make himself a drink.

Jim rushes after him, making a quick last minute maneuver to avoid bumping into an armchair, and slides in between Bones and the kitchen counter, blocking his access to the cupboard where they keep their glasses. “Hold up,” he says.  He knows very well that most of what Bones just said, and all of the emotion behind those words, was about his own ex-wife and, more to the point, his daughter’s stepfather, but he also knows that his friend would deny that association with his dying breath. So he doesn’t push it. “Wait a minute. Go back to the part where you think I’m jealous.”

“No.”

By standing on his toes and stretching slightly, Bones reaches behind Jim and grabs the glass that he was searching for.

“You don’t honestly think I’m jealous of some forty-year-old Vulcan who was almost in an arranged marriage with Spock?” Jim persists. He slides around to Bones’s side and tries to catch his eye as he mixes one of his strange Southern drinks. Bones takes the position that he will get farther ignoring than arguing, and doesn’t answer. “Because even if I were,” Jim says, “it would be a waste of energy.  I don’t have energy to waste right now.”

“You clearly do,” Bones mutters under his breath, and walks back into the living room with his drink. He sits in the armchair, and Jim flops down across the couch, on his back with his feet up on the far arm.

“I can hear exactly what you’re saying,” Jim tells him, pointing his finger vaguely in his friend’s direction. “And I’m serious.  There is nothing going on here.”

“You have an awful lot to say about ‘nothing.’”

“And even if I were interested,” he continues, as if Bones hadn’t said a word, “it wouldn’t matter.” He pauses, to give the other a chance to ask why, and when he doesn’t, Jim continues on. He doesn’t even falter. It isn’t, after all, really a conversation. “Things were so… messy after I found out about Sevin. And, yeah, we’ve really moved past that and it was months ago, but we’re just friends, so it’s—Anyway, there’s so much going on, it would be completely crazy to add something else to my life right now. Even if I thought Spock were interested. Which he isn’t. Why would he be?”

Bones narrows his eyes at Jim, a look to tell him that he’s crazy if he actually expects an answer to that question, and Jim shoots him a glare in return.

“You’re really not being helpful,” Jim tells him.

“You don’t need help. You know very well that this is another one of your horrible ideas.”

“It isn’t,” Jim answers. “It isn’t an idea at all.” It’s more an observation, or, he might say, a question. Or a thought. But that’s most definitely all. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t date anymore and rarely even flirts. Or that he can’t imagine his own life revolving around anyone but Spock and Sevin. He’s focused because of the mission. The Enterprise—the Enterprise is almost as important. He’s found a calling. He’s found his only, his perfect, purpose in life. Everything else cannot help but fade.

And if he feels a bit jealous at the idea of Spock with someone else, that is only because they share a son, and, he truly believes, that calling too, and it’s all of one piece with no room for additions. There is no room for anyone else.

There’s no place for the past either, or at least no time for it, and he soon finds himself burying the ‘horrible idea’ that Bones found so annoying in favor of more pressing worries and concerns. Scotty and his engineering team claim that at least a half dozen of the proposed upgrades to the ship defy the laws of physics. Jim’s so tired of the laws of physics. The new crewmembers with families seem to think their Captain is their counselor and every day there are new messages, new problems and questions. Why do they think he can solve them? Barnett wants constant updates, or perhaps constant reassurances, so it feels like he can’t even sneeze without writing up a report on it. No one told him that command came with so much tedious bureaucracy. And as March unfolds and the weather warms, Sevin becomes restless and impatient, eager for his spring vacation and unwilling or unable to control his endless energy, no matter how little energy his dad has, in turn, for him.

“Where are we going?” he asks one day, at lunch at a small, cheap café-type-place near Jim’s apartment. Jim is ravenous, and all but inhaling his sandwich and soup. Sevin is picking at his food.  He does not seem dissatisfied with it so much as distracted from it, concerned with the people outside and the people inside and the conversation he’s trying to have; Jim has a sudden image of Sevin downing a bowl of sugar for breakfast. Jim wishes he had this sort of energy.

“What do you mean where are we going?” he echoes. “We’re going into space, remember? We’re going all over the place.” He caps the words off with a large grin, implying a sentiment that he does not feel.

“Daa-ad,” Sevin whines, “I meant on vacation.”  Jim had been under the impression that Sevin wouldn’t be able to hit that particular pitch, that perfect high-low two-tone complaint, until he reached at least thirteen, but apparently Vulcans mature faster than humans.  Or perhaps he’s simply remembering the stages of childhood development wrong.  “I was just telling you,” Sevin continues, “Will is going to New York and Naomi’s aunt is taking her to one of the outposts to see where she works, and no one is staying in San Francisco!  It’s going to be boring here.”

Jim would really appreciate some boredom right now, something he never thought he would say even a few years ago, let alone when he was Sevin’s age. So he probably can’t say it out loud. He sighs and does not succeed in hiding his aggravation.  “Eat your lunch,” he directs.

“I want to know where we’re going and that’s not an answer.”  Sevin is downright pouting now and Jim isn’t sure how he can explain the situation in a way that his son will understand and accept.  He’s clearly not in the mood to be reasonable.

“Eat your lunch and you’ll get an answer,” Jim answers.  Sevin opens his mouth to argue, but Jim cuts him off before he quite can, a pointed gesture with his fork, a barely-heard “Ah,” and an expression of gentle warning on his face.  Sevin takes a sullen bite of his salad.

Jim nods.  “Better.”  He takes several bites of his sandwich but has no illusions that Sevin will let the topic drop, even for a few minutes.  He’s already tapping his fingers and fidgeting in his seat.

“You know that your father and I are very busy right now,” he starts.  Sevin isn’t going to be satisfied with this answer, or the explanation it’s leading up to, but Jim doesn’t want to be the sort of dad who just says ‘no’ and never gives an explanation for it.  Frank was that sort of stepfather, more often than not.  When he did give a reason, it wasn’t a particularly satisfying one, just some variant of ‘because I said so,’ and Jim learned early to cut through the bullshit and find that every explanation, every ‘because’ was no more than an admission that there was no because.  Jim gave up on authority before he hit sixteen.  He hardly had a choice.

Now he is an authority. It’s a head trip.

“Yeah, I know,” Sevin answers, almost whining.  He’s kicking his heels against the chair legs and they make a dull, arrhythmic sound like a headache building.  “You’re both always busy, like all the time.  It’s spring, it’s time for a break.  Don’t you think you need a vacation, Dad?”

Jim actually laughs a little, despite himself: Sevin sounds like a little salesman when he tries to turn the conversation around—like a sneaky little salesman.  Jim finds himself wondering where Sevin learned that particular tone.

“I could definitely use a vacation, yes,” he says honestly.  “But I’m afraid that’s just not in the cards this year.”

Sevin pouts like it’s a competition and gives up any pretense of eating his lunch, just crossing his arms over his chest and kicking harder against the chair leg, only one foot this time but so loudly that Jim feels like it’s his head that’s being pounded on.  “Other kids’ parents have jobs,” he points out.  “They take time off.”

“This is different—”

“Why?”

Jim sighs, irritated.  Being an authority is more than a head trip, he’s decided: it’s a near impossibility, and is he really getting defeated in an argument by an eight-year-old?  No, that isn’t quite what’s happening.  They aren’t having an argument.  Jim is trying to have a discussion, and Sevin is trying to get his way by whatever means he can.  He thinks he’ll win, too.  Jim knows this because he knows the expression on his son’s face, and where it comes from, and he knows it because ever since he and Sevin met, he’s been a buddy, as indulgent as he can possibly be, the cool babysitter turned cool parent, and it’s worked: he and Sevin have fun together.  But he can’t be that person all the time, and it’s a shame.

His voice hardens, the tone neither harsh nor cruel but commanding and inviting of no argument, and he answers no more than, “Because.”

Sevin treats Jim’s look as an invitation to a staring contest, but he doesn’t actually respond.  He just waits.

“Because,” Jim starts again, voice the tiniest bit softer but still allowing no interruption or discussion, “your father and I are preparing to send an entire ship into space for five years.  It is a very big ship, and there are a lot of people, hundreds of people, who are counting on us to do a good job on this.  These are people whose jobs, whose lives even, depend on me and on your father.  If I could take a holiday from this responsibility, I would, but that is simply impossible.  So,” he finishes, with a large intake of breath, and a sharp rap of his knuckles against the table, “we’re staying in San Francisco.  But if your friends have anything bad to say about that, you can always remind them of the sort of adventures you’ll be having with your parents when that ship gets off the ground.  And I don’t want to hear one more complaint or see one more pouty face.”

What he gets in response is not technically a pout, but it is a bit of a sigh, and he decides to take the sound as resignation and, thus, as a win.  He’s said the right thing, somehow.  He’s just about to add something reassuring, less strict-Dad, and more cool-Dad, when Sevin’s expression changes, opens up and widens as a face does in recognition, his gaze wandering over Jim’s shoulder as he waves.  Jim turns too.  He notices him right away, Spock—he’s hard to miss, standing off the side of the doorway, just out of the way of the slight afternoon café traffic, and watching them.  His expression is as unreadable as always.

“Father!” Sevin greets him, with a cheerfulness that Jim doesn’t know how to read.  Maybe he’s just gearing up to make his case again, but to his other parent this time.  It’s probably what Jim would do in his place, though if ever there was a father who would implacably stand by his ‘no’ on an issue, Jim figures that father is Spock.  Or Sarek.  Or any Vulcan.  He’s actually wondering how any of Spock’s people are able to go through a standard period of adolescent rebellion, when he remembers Spock’s own history, their own first meeting, and he feels so remarkably stupid that he’s a beat behind Sevin in waving Spock over to their booth.

“What a coincidence to find you here,” he smiles, and Spock looks back at him with an expression Jim has come to recognize as the Vulcan equivalent of a polite greeting-smile.

“I would be an incredible coincidence,” Spock answers, “if I were not specifically on my way to your apartment and caught sight of you in the window.”

“Ah, well, now you’ve spoiled all my fun.”  He snaps his fingers once, an ah-well gesture, but Spock only raises an eyebrow.  It’s hard to tell if he doesn’t understand or if he’s simply not amused, but then, that is the story of most of Jim’s interactions with Spock.  He’s started to find it endearing.  Sevin, meanwhile, is watching them both, following their conversation as he absently plays with a tomato with the tines of his fork.  Jim has to admit he is not watching him; he’s too distracted by the odd expression on Spock’s face, a new variant of wordless Vulcan communication perhaps, something he doesn’t recognize and cannot explain.  It’s very strange.

He’s not sure how long the silence stretches as he tries to figure it out.

Sevin’s voice jars through the pause, though, interrupts it and shatters it utterly.  “Father,” he asks, “Father,” almost a whine, his hand tugging on Spock’s shirt sleeve to get his attention, “Dad says we can’t go anywhere on vacation, either.  Are you really that busy?”

Kirk has Sevin for the day, while Spock attends meetings, makes visits, and handles chores both domestic and official, all of this the result of a last minute rearrangement of plans.  Such rescheduling happens often now.  Sevin barely seems to notice.  He adjusts as easily to life at his dad’s as at his father’s, treating both apartments as home, never complaining about the uncertainty that surrounds him.  At his age, Spock would have found such a life irritating.  Even into his teens, he liked order, everything in its place and according to its plan; it was what he’d been taught and how he lived and there was something reassuring in it.  There had been, in turn, something terrifying about giving up that order when he had Sevin.

Chaos is more acceptable now.

The supposedly quite urgent meeting with the lead scientists on his team was not, it turned out, either urgent or worth everything else he had rearranged to attend it, and so he is mildly irritated when he arrives, on time though barely, at the computer labs to meet with Ensign Chekov.  He greets him tersely.  Chekov’s smile, wide and genuine when Spock first walked in, falters somewhat.  “Is something wrong, Lieutenant Spock?” he asks.

Chekov, though eighteen now and an adult by his planet’s laws, still appears quite young in Spock’s eyes.  Numbers are, after all, hardly the most significant indicator of a person’s maturity.  Something in the Ensign’s manner, in his wide eyes, in the way in which he displays awe, even when awe is warranted, and in the tone of his questions no matter their content, keeps Spock always quite aware that he is a teenager still.  And yet when Chekov works, he seems to become a completely different person.  His brow furrows, and he grips his stylus hard between his fingers, and sometimes his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth. Something about him—in the way that he seems oblivious to the entire world around him, so completely focused that one can almost hear his thoughts as he thinks them, quick and bright thoughts firing between synapses—reminds Spock of himself.  Kirk says they have bonded.  Perhaps this is true, in the human sense of the word.  They rarely talk about anything but work—in particular, now, this string of code with which they are each equally consumed—but when they are at work their minds sync perfectly.  They may be silent for an hour, and when one breaks through, and speaks, the other is quick to answer and to merge his thoughts with this latest question, discovery, or view.  Often, it is Spock who gives advice and Chekov who asks questions, but on occasion even these roles are reversed.  Spock hesitated to call it a mentorship, as Kirk seems prone to.

“No,” he answers now, sitting down next to the Ensign and commanding his computer on.  “No, Ensign.  I have had my time wasted this morning, that is all.”

“Ah,” Chekov answers, nodding and sympathetic.  He looks off to the side, as if contemplating something else entirely, as if his mind were wandering, but when he answers, “I find that very irritating too,” Spock believes him.  “And it is harder for you, I know, because you are so much more busy.  And you have your family.  That is difficult.”

Such a comment could be, if said in a certain voice or by a different person, in a different environment, quite condescending.  A part of Spock almost reads it that way.  But this is the part that is still sixteen, all too used to side glances and whispers, and to polite and even phrases that hide hard judgments underneath.  Ensign Chekov is not, is far from, Stonn, and he is sincere.  It is only a second that Spock feels himself so suddenly and so strangely in another place and time.  It is disconcerting, but the feeling is easily shaken.

“It is difficult,” he answers.  “However, I am here now.  Have you come to any conclusions on our latest tangle?”

“Almost,” Chekov says brightly, and swivels his chair around to face the computer screen.  He pulls up one window and then another, explaining his latest thoughts.  Spock starts to lean in without even thinking.  It is laudable, he thinks, that Chekov can so easily switch his mind from one topic to the next, that he does not linger on an awkward line of questioning or even seem to feel its awkwardness, and it is from this quirk of his personality that he gets his reputation for innocence.  Perhaps that reputation is warranted, in a way.  Chekov seems to carry no past of his own and no understanding of regret, of decisions and memories that reverberate, Nyota would say that haunt, that are in consequence as sensitive as injuries.  Chekov does not lack sympathy.  When he finds these spots, he recognizes them, he backs away, but he wastes no time on apologies and only moves on, and when he finds a new topic he does not look back.  Nor does Spock.  He finds this trait rarely in humans.  Even in Vulcans, it is often only on the surface.  With the Ensign it is genuine and deeply sincere, and so for Spock, too, the echo of association stops as suddenly as it began. He thinks no more about what is difficult; he thinks no more about the past, even about his morning and its tiny but persistent irritants.  They have a problem to solve.  It is quite fascinating.

When they have exhausted their ideas, they decide to put the project away for the day.  Chekov wishes him luck with his other work, and waves goodbye in a bright and friendly fashion, to which it is difficult to respond.  Chekov is cheerier than the average human.  He settles for a nod and a polite reply of well wishes in return.

Once he is alone, Spock checks the time.  An awkward hour.  He considers stopping by the offices of one of his colleagues, decides against it, and finally sets off on foot toward Kirk’s apartment with the idea that he can pick up Sevin early if the Captain is busy or spend time with them both if he is not.  He is not sure which outcome he would prefer.  By coincidence, he comes across them early, sitting across from each other in a booth by the window of a café where Kirk has taken Spock to eat on four separate and memorable occasions, for what he called ‘much needed breaks’ while they were working.  Perhaps it is not so odd to find them there.  Still, Spock is very briefly surprised.  He sees Sevin poking at the food on his plate, and even through the window, Spock recognizes the expression on his son’s face.  He’s asking for something.  Pleading, actually, might be the correct word in Standard.  If the past week is any indication, he’s asking Kirk to take him on vacation, the same request he’s made of Spock every day since his best friend announced his own family’s trip to New York.  He’s shown himself incredibly reluctant to accept any answer but ‘yes, we will go on a trip,’ and Spock worries that this tendency will only get worse as he gets older.  Not even logic works with him.  Spock finds it maddening.

He slips into the building behind another patron, not trying to be sly, exactly, but not drawing attention to himself, either.  The first thing he hears is the word ‘because.’  Kirk’s voice is hard, precise, insistent, and perhaps a year or two ago, Sevin would have bowed to it, nodded and accepted the tone if not the word, pouted, but put away his argument.  Spock knows that will not happen now.   But before the protests begin, Kirk continues, and Spock forgets about standing back or keeping out of the way.  He just stays in his place and listens.  Kirk’s back is to him and Sevin is too focused on his dad to notice Spock watching them.

Spock is able to hear everything.  He will admit he is impressed.  More than anything, he notices that Sevin does not immediately protest, that, for once, he takes in the argument and considers it; he truly listens.  Spock is under no illusions that this is the end of the debate.  But he does see it as a positive step.  Perhaps Kirk would even succeed in convincing Sevin that a spring in San Francisco is not so terrible at all, except that Sevin happens at that moment to notice Spock’s presence, and in another minute Spock has found himself sitting in the booth next to his son.  He is only half paying attention to the conversation, even as he participates.  This is fitting, because Sevin’s thoughts have clearly already drifted elsewhere, and even Kirk has that expression around his eyes, the one that implies contemplation.  So they are all distracted.  Spock cannot get Kirk’s words out of his mind, or his tone of voice, how he’d seemed equal parts Captain and father, authoritative in the way both must be but not unkind, certain but not unreasonable.  He’s seen this side of his Captain before.  He’s seen him often enough now that he no longer fears for their mission in the way that he once did.  But he realizes only now that he has never been as certain that their family, if they are a family, if this fragmented and untraditional unit they have formed is a family, will succeed.  Kirk has existed in his mind more as a babysitter than as a parent.  Perhaps even now he is exaggerating the importance of one short speech, and yet it strikes him, he hears it echoing.  It will for some time.  He’d heard a new note in Kirk’s voice, as if he himself had come to a turning point.

Sevin interrupts his thoughts with a persistent tug on Spock’s sleeve.  “Father,” he says, “Father, Dad says we can’t go anywhere on vacation, either.  Are you really that busy?”

Spock tilts his head and gives his son a curious look.  “You have already asked me this question,” he reminds Sevin.  “And you know my answer.  Your Dad and I are of the same opinion on the matter, I assure you.  In fact,” he adds, with a quick glance over to Kirk, “I believe he has said everything there is to say on the topic already, as well as or better than I could myself.”

Chapter Text

The beginning of the message addresses him as family and this, as the Earth saying goes, Spock takes to heart. He replies in equally intimate terms, offers polite congratulations, and promises to visit at the first opportunity, which by a lucky accident happens to be that very afternoon.

Soval and Senar live just outside San Francisco, a long bus ride out from Spock's neighborhood and the Academy campus. On the way, he sits by the window, watches the people and buildings as they pass, this unfamiliar part of a city he's started to call home, and remembers when Soval first visited him, after Sevin was born. Soval’s appearance, the words that they spoke, even the school project he’d been working on and the details of his parents’ house, destroyed now, swallowed up, all are perfectly defined and preserved in his memory, but his feelings during that meeting are not. He could describe them, but only as one describes fossils, because that is what they are: there is no life to them. They are of interest. They speak to the past. But one cannot forget for a second that they are of that past entirely. 

He remembers being wary. He remembers being suspicious and uncertain, also tired, busy, overwhelmed—more overwhelmed than he can even now admit, yet unwilling to accept help. Would it be fair to say he was scared? Scared he’d made a mistake, and that his parents had been correct, he could not do everything on his own? When Soval had offered again to be his bondmate, a part of him could not help but take the offer seriously. He could even picture it. He could picture a life with this man. To remember that temptation now sends an odd feeling through him, something like guilt, though neither Kirk nor Senar was in their lives—and no he should not equate the two—but mixed with that feeling there is a deeper uneasiness, the origin of which he cannot name. Had he married Soval, would he have even survived the destruction of Vulcan? Is it only that thought that causes this queasiness? And if not, then what else could it be? He knows only that there would have been something deeply wrong in that path.

Perhaps he felt such an instinct even then. After all, he did not choose it.

If he continues in this vein, his thoughts will quickly become irrational. He knows this. Lifting his head, he catches a glimpse of the ocean through the window, just a tiny hint of sun glinting off water, off in the distance through a maze of buildings straight ahead, and he remembers something else that Soval told him then: he had never seen Earth. Only in pictures. Yet his daughter is Earth-born, and she will never see Vulcan. Only in pictures.

Spock hesitates for a moment outside the door before he knocks. He could not explain to himself why, but he feels he needs these minutes to gather himself, or to prepare. Soval and Senar are expecting him, true, and they did specifically invite him to visit and to meet their newborn girl, and yet he feels as if he were about to invade on a scene not for his eyes, into a territory that is not his. There is something else that bothers him too, something again that he cannot name. It is all the more frustrating for being just out of his reach. Finally, he reaches up and raps his knuckles against the door, waits out a long pause—yes, he is intruding, he is certain now—and then is allowed in.

Soval opens the door for him, and Spock is struck again by the same memory, which seems more ancient and more worn now than it is, because it comes from a different planet and seems to be from another life. Once they stood in the opposite roles. Spock was a new father then, and Soval, a visitor. Perhaps these same thoughts have struck Soval too, and as sharply, because he hesitates before offering a greeting, stepping back, and ushering Spock in. Or perhaps Spock is flattering himself. Of everything on Soval’s mind, now, why should he be thinking of their past? It is more likely that, despite the invitation he sent, he was shocked for just a second to see someone at his door, requesting entrance to the private, closed off world that Soval has kept for a week now with his bondmate and their child.

“I am pleased to see you, Spock,” he murmurs, as the door slides shut behind them. A human, Spock believes, would never see what Spock sees in this man’s face. He would appear to an alien, and for this moment he forgets that they are the aliens here, as calm, as impassive, as emotionless as always. But that is not what Spock sees. He reads fatigue around the eyes, and certain remnants of worry in the set of his expression, worry that has faded but not left him, a sense of uncertainty clinging. In the way he looks at his guest, too, Spock is certain he sees pride. This pride neither overwhelms nor erases these other emotions, but it’s there and it’s visible and Spock chooses it as his focus. Perhaps this is his form of optimism. Perhaps it is just easiest for them both to ignore what cannot be made positive.

“And I am honored that you invited me,” Spock answers. His voice is equally quiet. Despite himself, he glances over Soval’s shoulder, into the rest of the apartment, but of course there is nothing to see: only the curtain that marks off the makeshift bedroom, and behind which Senar and his daughter are resting. “Are your family well?” Spock continues, and pretends that his eyes never flicked away from his friend’s face.

“Yes, both very well.” He’s trying not to say too much at once, but there is so much to say. There is an instinct, and Spock knows it well, to cut oneself off after a new child is born, to bond with it, to ignore everyone else because those people are already known and cannot ever be as important or as interesting or as purely fascinating as this new being in one’s life. But there is a competing desire, too. Soval needs a break. He is tired, only vaguely aware of the day or perhaps even the hour, and his world has become so small that a part of him craves a broader view. He wants new conversation. But if that conversation starts, Spock is sure that it will soon lead right back to Soval’s bondmate and daughter, that his pride in them, obvious even now, will become brighter still, and Spock does not begrudge him this. In a way, he envies him.

Spock tilts his head to the side, an indication that he wishes to hear more.

“Senar is still recovering, but that is to be expected. And she—” he pauses just a moment. This is the first time he has referenced his daughter by herself, and something in this clearly strikes him and makes him hesitate. This hesitation underscores the moment. “She is healthy. She is healthy and beautiful. We are,” he admits, “in the middle of a debate, as to which parent she resembles more closely.”

This is a debate that no one will win, and the expression on Spock’s face shows amusement. “I am sure she is a perfect combination of you both.” It is illogical to say that any one being should be perfect or that any mixing of genes should be without its flaws. They both know this. Yet it is the polite thing to say.

“Would you like to meet her?” Soval offers. “Perhaps you can decide for yourself.”

“I would like to very much,” Spock answers, and this time allows a more obvious, decisive look at the curtained off room over Soval’s shoulder.

Soval pokes his head in first, and murmurs a low question that not even Spock, standing just behind him, can make out. The answer he receives is similarly unintelligible, but it must be an affirmative, because Soval carefully parts the curtains and steps in, nodding for Spock to follow. He steps into a small space, half lit and sparsely furnished, hardly even masquerading as a proper room. Even more so here than in the rest of the apartment, Spock is aware that this is a temporary home. The bed is a mattress. Clothes are kept in boxes. One corner is devoted to clothes, toys, and other supplies for the baby, and Spock sees right away that many are gifts and some are previously used. Yet all of this is unimportant. Not only is the apartment not really home, the planet itself is not really home; someday they will leave this all behind and they know it.

There is a small bassinet by the side of the bed, but it is empty. Spock barely glances at it. He takes the whole space in quickly, in one glance, and then his eyes are drawn to what seems to be the center, where Senar is sitting at the edge of the mattress, holding very gently something small and bundled up. His eyes flick up when the newcomers enter. He looks tired and a bit worn, lacking in color, but content. Yes, Spock repeats to himself: content, that is the word. He remembers what Soval once told him, that they had wanted a child on Vulcan, that they had all but abandoned this hope and that the dream had seemed particularly impossible on this new, harsh planet, this strange place. But after all that, here she is, Senar’s expression seems to say. In that, he is as proud as Soval, or more so.

“Spock,” he says quietly. “You are here. We were hoping you would come.”

“I would not want to miss this opportunity to meet the newest member of your family,” Spock answers, a gentle rehearsed phrase. He wants to step closer, but does not dare. “May I see her?”

Senar nods, and gestures with his head for Spock to approach. Soval stays behind, as if wanting to watch them, as if wishing, for now, to remain a spectator. Spock crouches so that he is at the proper height. As Senar pushes back the blankets slightly, so that the newborn girl’s face is visible, Spock feels himself suddenly and strangely in two places at once. A part of him is here. Another part is years in the past and lightyears away. He has not seen a child this small since his own son was born. 

Immediately, he knows he must put up his defenses. He cannot let those memories show on his face or in his posture: they are of the past; they must be put away. He does not want to remember the first time he held Sevin or touched his ears to watch them unfurl, or held his tiny hand and counted his fingers. Why should he think of such things? What good do they do?

Just as one adjusts a microscope that is out of focus, in order to make its picture sharp, so he adjusts his sight now, and he finds his double vision cleared. The child in front of him is a one-week-old Vulcan girl, with green tinted skin and pointed ears, her eyes closed now in sleep, her hands curled into small fists. She has a very fine down of black hair. She appears incredibly peaceful.  

“We’ve named her T’Prina,” Senar tells him, after what seems an age long silence. “We believe she is the first Vulcan born since the Tragedy, but we are not certain.”

“It is quite possible,” Spock replies, though the words seem too inconsequential, all but meaningless. What was the point of them? He cannot stop looking at the little girl, tiny, vulnerable, safe in her father’s arms. “She is very beautiful.”

“We agree,” Soval echoes. His voice seems faint and far away, even though he is standing just next to Spock, and a few steps behind. He is looking, Spock knows without a glance, not at his visitor, but at T’Prina, who holds the complete attention of everyone in the room. “We are quite proud of her.”

Spock sees out of the corner of his eye that Senar is nodding. “And yet,” he murmurs, a hesitation in his voice, “I look at her and I wish that I could bring her home.” This, he does not need to add, this apartment, this planet, is not really home, and never will be. Will the colony feel as Vulcan did? Or will it be just another replacement, a good-enough imitation that will leave them always with a strange, haunting sense of displacement, never quite right, never quite home?  Spock feels that Senar is looking at him now. He is wondering, perhaps, if Spock has felt this way his whole life: a half-stranger no matter where he goes. It is an impossible question. Feelings and impressions are too subjective. There is no scientific test for his emotions.

He pretends he does not notice. “Senar,” he says instead, flicking his eyes up, returning the glance, “for her, New Vulcan will be home.” He does not know if this is a reassurance or only a new worry, but at the way Senar dips his gaze downward again, the slight furrow that forms between his brows, Spock understands that this idea has never before occurred to him. His daughter is the first member of a new generation, and the cavern that separates her from the last is deep. 

Jim is third generation Starfleet on his father’s side and second generation on his mother’s, and if he adds in aunts, uncles, cousins, great-aunts, great-uncles, second-cousins-once-removed, and so on, the list of Kirks in uniform grows near uncountable. But he is in contact with none of them. It’s been over four years since he’s spoken to his own mother face to face, and though one would think that a woman would want to pay her son a visit after he did something big and impressive like, for example, saving the entire planet from destruction, Winona Kirk has a different set of priorities. Jim doesn’t exactly blame her. They’ve never been close.

He replies to the one short message that she sends him after the Narada mission, a missive so neutral that it might have been sent from any Starfleet officer to a fellow serviceman. That done, he moves on, goes back to work. He’s not exactly expecting a warm and fuzzy family reunion anytime soon, and, more than that, he’s busy.

So when he comes home one afternoon and finds, instead of Bones, Winona sitting at his kitchen table, he’s a bit surprised. Startled, he thinks, might be a better word. And mixed in with that, he’s a little annoyed.

“You’re not my roommate,” he says, though, in a tone that strives to be inconsequential and light. It falls flat.  

She doesn’t smile. “He let me in. I was going to call, but I thought it might be more fun to just drop in.”

Jim can think of very few things that would be less fun than a surprise visit from his mother. In fact, he’d rather be stranded on an ice planet (again) than have whatever conversation they’re about to have, and he almost says so, until she tilts her head just slightly, her version of an apology, and says, “I know we have a lot to talk about.”

That’s an understatement.

He sits down across from her. “I guess so. But if you just wanted to catch up, you would have come to visit months ago—years ago.” Their last decent conversation, after he joined Starfleet, was over video, and he'd managed to stand it only because he knew he could just turn off the viewscreen at any moment, and zap her image away. It still hasn’t hit him that she’s really here this time, his mother, a flesh and blood person so close that he could touch her, if he wanted to. She looks older. She’s more tan than he remembered, too, probably because she’s been off-world on a desert planet for the last three years. And she’s grown out her hair, which he notices because she’s wearing it down so that it frames her face, softening it, rounding it out. For a short moment, Jim thinks that she looks like she’s hiding, and he wonders if that’s what she’s been doing for the last twenty-six years.  

It’s odd that he feels so little for her. She’s like a hologram mother, distant and unreal, liable to disappear at any moment. He tries to focus on all of the details of her, but still all he feels is a slight under-taste of distrust, something like wariness.

“I know,” she answers, but her tone is colder this time, harder, and there is no hint of apology about her anymore. Something else has taken its place, and when he realizes what it is, he straightens his back and pulls away. It's the barely repressed expectation of confrontation. She wants to fight with him. She’s the one invading his home, showing up unannounced after an age-long absence, and she acts as if he were the one who’d done something wrong, as if all she can do is draw on a deep store of patience just to deal with him. He could be twelve again, rebellious, but small.

“I assume you have a specific reason for stopping by, then,” he says. Even he can hear how distant he sounds. This is the tone of an officer speaking to a superior, wanting to fight but not knowing the terms, only their respective positions, and treading lightly for this reason. It is not, he thinks, the tone of a son to his mother. He still can’t believe this is his mother. “You might as well tell me now. I don’t have time for small talk.”

She closes her eyes, just for a moment, like flinching, then snaps, “You could have told me.” These aren’t the words she was intending. He hears that, and it almost disarms him, in just the same way her own sentence almost disarms her. “You could have told me that you have a son, Jim.”

His hands tighten on air. Strange, but of all of the accusations he’d expected, this one had not crossed his mind. He starts to answer, closes his mouth again, and finds he can no longer meet her eyes. “You weren’t around to tell,” he says finally. “We haven’t exactly been in contact. You know that. You can’t drop in here with no warning and act insulted that I don’t treat you like family. That goes two ways.”

It’s like listening to someone else speak, some combination of Captain and lonely little boy; he wonders if she can hear both these people too.

“It isn’t the sort of thing I expected to hear through Starfleet gossip,” she answers. He has the impression that she hasn’t been listening, that she’s reciting her half of a script she’s written in her own mind. He’s all but unnecessary here. “To be caught completely off guard and then to have to explain—”  She makes a low, displeased sound, deep in her throat. “I didn’t realize when you left my house that you’d start having children.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly part of the plan,” he admits. His tone, too flippant and light, out of place in this conversation, jars badly with his words. “But it’s too late to change anything now. In my experience, time travel is pretty tricky—probably not worth the risk—”

“You can put that attitude away now.” His mother never did have any patience for him, and he takes pride, a stupid and immature sort of pride, in goading her. “I know it can’t be changed.”

“Could have fooled me—”

“Jim.” The harsh snap of her voice makes him sit up straighter, eyes wide for just a moment, as if he’d heard a threat there. Sometimes, as a child, he’d hear this tone, frustrated, edged with an anger painfully reined in, and he’d feel irrationally frightened. He never believed his mother wanted to harm him. But he feared she wanted to harm someone.

“Then tell me why you’re here, if it’s not just to scold me,” he says quietly. “I think you owe me that.”

She sighs. She wants to get up and pace; he knows that look. “I wish you’d told me, so I could have at least prepared myself for the comments. There are plenty of people who believe I can answer all of their questions about you and your…”  She waves a hand. “Partner.”

Jim narrows his eyes. “Even if I’d told you about Sevin, you wouldn’t have any of the answers they want. Just change the subject; it’s not their business anyway. And Spock isn’t my partner. He’s my First Officer, and he’s my friend.” He puffs himself up a bit at the word ‘friend,’ because Winona might not understand it, but that title is hard-earned

“You aren’t in a relationship with this man?” she asks. Jim narrows his eyes as he tries to read her tone, and does not realize he is mimicking her expression so exactly that no one could doubt they are mother and son.

“Not in a romantic relationship, no,” he answers, after a beat, and then, after a second: “I guess that’s a popular rumor. Feel free to squash it.”

“I thought you might have taken the opportunity to settle down.”

“I’m about to leave on a five-year exploratory mission into space, so, no, settling down isn’t part of the plan, and that has nothing to do with my relationship with Spock. Can we please drop this charade where you pretend to care about my life?” He pushes his chair back abruptly and stands, because he did not see his breaking point coming, but apparently, this is it. How can she talk about settling down? She left Frank, who never wanted kids, who didn’t like kids, who hated being stuck with her kids, to raise him and his brother while she stayed as far away from Earth, and all her wretched memories, as she could. She never settled down. Maybe she would have, in some way or another, if George had lived, but he didn’t, and that has changed everything. Only Jim knows by how much.

She stares back at him, and does not answer for a long time.

When she looks down, staring at her hands where they’re folded on the table, one half on top of the other, he feels defeated, as if he had been the one to break first. “How could I know about my grandson,” she says quietly, “and still stay away?”

He doesn’t have an answer. He just stays standing, wishing he could sit, exposed as he looks down at her, yet unable to move.

“I only wondered, if you hadn’t told me about him, what else you’d hidden. I thought you might be married, or—what is that Vulcans do?” She glances up at him, almost amused. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve ended up with someone from another world.”

“I haven’t ‘ended up’ with him. I’m not—” But that isn’t what bothers him about the phrase. He is with Spock, in almost every way that matters, and maybe ‘partner’ isn’t the worst word for what they have. “This isn’t the end.”

She smiles at that. How funny, she might be saying, or, how naïve.

“Answer the questions however you want,” he says into the silence, as it stretches out painfully long. “As long as it’s the truth.” He already knows she’ll find half-truths and almosts, nice-sounding good-enough words to make everything neater and easier than it is. That is how his mother likes her narratives: simple and clean-cut. Such stories invite no questions. They are a wall, behind which she can live with her pain that no one questions and that she need never explain.

If this permission satisfied her, she would leave. But she’s here for something else, and Jim knows it. He knew it right from the start.

“I’ll be in San Francisco for two weeks,” she says. “And I thought you might find the time—”

“I’m busy.”

She talks right over him, as he expected she would. These are words meant to be spoken over, a compulsory and meaningless objection. 

“—to introduce me, at least to my grandson?” 

The conversation stays with him, echoing in him, bothering him, like an itch he can’t quite reach to scratch. He’d told himself to make no promises, but of course he had. By the time she left, he'd promised exactly what she wanted. He isn’t exactly a diplomat. And even if he were, when he talks to his mother, it’s challenge enough just to fight against the instinct to be a little boy again.  

Of course, he’d rather call the whole thing off. If he could come up with some polite excuse, some easy sidestep out of this annoying, odd meeting, he would, but he left himself no room for that, like a fool.  

It’s not until late that night that he starts to question his own irritation, his childlike desire to stomp his feet and say no, and what he finds then is not a secret hatred of his mother, but his own bone-deep fear. He's quietly panicked. All he's wanted since he set foot on that shuttle out of Riverside is to put the past behind him—all of it, Winona, Sam, Iowa, his childhood—and now it's here again and at his door and worse, coming after his son. Jim's heard the talk, of course: what kind of father must he be if he thinks he can take a child out there into the unknown. But he wouldn't even consider it if he didn't really believe, as deeply as it is possible to believe, that he can keep his boy safe. All he wants is to keep him safe. Winona's not exactly a Romulan or a black hole, but she's unpredictable, an intermittent mother, never quite he wanted her to be—that's threat enough when he thinks of how excited Sevin was to learn about his dad's family, how much he wants to know them. Jim won't let him be disappointed. He won't let him be crushed. And it doesn't matter that his son and his own younger self seem to blend more and more in his thoughts, his sleepy night thoughts, as he drifts off. It doesn’t matter that the past and future are twisting together for him now. Such confusion always comes at this hour. It's best to just let it be. 

His odd mood follows him through the next day, building up slowly behind a wall of other concerns and higher priorities, until all that’s left at the end of the day is the rubble of his distractions and an endless speech about his childhood and his mother and his confused jumble of feelings, though he’d never admit he’s talking about his feelings. Not in so many words. Spock is patient with him, though, surprisingly patient; Jim is quietly grateful in turn. It’s late by now. Sevin has been put to bed, and they’ve abandoned their work, too: their PADDs sit ignored on the coffee table, and Spock’s computer has put itself gently to sleep.

“I haven’t seen her since I left Riverside,” he’s saying. “Since before I joined the Academy. So when I see her, when she just shows up, it’s—it’s just like seeing a ghost—” He falters, recognizes just how inappropriate that particular phrase was, and looks up. But Spock, standing by the window, facing Jim, makes no sign that he's bothered or even that he noticed the slip. 

“I am sure it was disorienting,” he answers.

“Yeah,” Jim echoes. “Disorienting.” He reaches back to rearrange the sofa pillows under his head.  His feet are propped up on the far arm. “I don’t know why I can’t get her out of my head.”

Spock tilts his head just slightly to the side. His expression is one Jim already knows well, what he secretly calls Spock’s computer face, where he seems to resemble machine more than man, as he runs through possibilities and potential answers as if they were no more than long strings of code. Jim likes to imagine his brain, when he does this. A fast whirring compact machine.

Today, though, Jim’s distracted, and it isn’t Winona who sends his usual slight fantasies astray. It’s Spock himself. Something about his face, not its expression but its very form, seems bizarrely, impossibly striking, and Jim is taken over by the same feeling that often startles him when he encounters something beautiful.

“She is your mother,” Spock says finally. “Given your history and the situation, it is perfectly reasonable that you should be upset by this turn of events.”

“I never said upset.”

Spock raises his eyebrows. He knows, of course, that he’s not wrong.

Jim breaks their staring contest first, and turns his gaze up to the ceiling, shifting a little on the couch. “She’s not going to take ‘no’ for an answer,” he continues. “She wants to meet him. She’ll insist.” 

He knows, of course, that if Spock were to put his foot down, if he were to insist for any reason that Sevin not meet Winona Kirk, it would only create problems. It would put Jim in the middle of two immovable obstacles, two impossible forces; it would make his life that much harder and he’s not sure what he would do, how he would fix it. But he wishes for it anyway. He wishes for it because he feels, on some level deep beneath thinking or even sense, that Spock would win. Spock would banish Winona back into space, somewhere beyond even Jim’s own reach, and this problem could be neatly sidestepped and forgotten, solved, just like that. Is he a bad son, for thinking this way? Is he stupid for thinking this way?

Spock says only, “Of course she would insist,” in the lightest and most inconsequential of tones. So there will be no debate. But still Jim wishes he knew what Spock was thinking, if he’s nervous deep down under that stony Vulcan façade. Jim would be, if their positions were reversed—he was, when he met Sarek, and the mere memory of that meeting brings a slightly queasy, uncertain, feeling to the pit of his stomach. If not for himself, isn’t Spock nervous for Sevin? Curious, at least?

“Have you spoken to Sevin yet?” Spock asks, breaking Jim’s train of thought. He startles. Spock is tilting his head and waiting.

“I thought it was better to bring it up to you first,” he answers, and the fleeting expression on Spock’s face reads, strangely, like defeat. But then, of course: only distracted people ask such obvious questions. He's been caught out in an obvious attempt to break out of his own wandering thoughts. “It’s a…. dual parent decision,” Jim adds.

Spock sits down at the other end of the couch, just by Jim’s feet, which he moves out of the way to make room. “Yes, of course. But surely you know I would not keep Sevin from his own grandmother.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.”

He sounds sad, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s disappointed, like a child, that there is no quick solution here, or if it’s because he’s thinking despite himself of Spock’s own loss. Surely it haunts Spock even more than it does him. The silence is uncertain and uncomfortable and Spock’s back is too rigid and too straight. 

Jim clears his throat awkwardly. "Sevin’s always been curious about his Earth family,” he says. It’s an inept change of topic, more a testing of waters than anything. “I mean, he’s asked me questions about them. I guess it was a disappointment to him, that he only has me, on this side." Just me, he doesn't add, his human father, a complete mystery for the first seven years of his life.

“Meeting you could not have been a disappointment,” Spock answers. His voice is quiet and low, gentle with sincerity. It is this undercurrent, perhaps, that makes Jim want to move closer to him. He wants to pretend he cannot hear, sit up and lean in, feels this want like a wave cresting in him, building. “You are, after all, his parent," Spock continues. "I could tell him very little about you when we lived on Vulcan.”

Jim wants to put his hand over Spock's and tell him, You don’t need to be stoic with me. But he knows this isn’t true. He’s not sure what it takes to earn Spock’s openness but he isn’t there yet.

All he says is, “I’m trying to make up for all of that, you know.”

“I do.”

Jim hesitates, starts to answer, doesn't know what to say, so he gives in. He sits up slowly, leaning his weight on one hand, and with only the slightest hesitation puts his other hand on Spock's shoulder. Somehow it just feels like the right thing to do. But Spock won't return his gaze and he seems nervous, Jim can see it in the tense set of his back or how he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He can't help wondering how they found themselves here—here in any sense of the word.

He breaks first. He stands up first and walks to the window, restless, pacing, and he doesn’t hear the way Spock sighs, and he wouldn’t have been able to place the sound even if he had noticed the slight, gentle outtake of breath. Regret, or relief?

“I’m sorry I missed out on so much with him,” he says, louder, the start of a rush of words or a confession. “But I’m not always sorry he missed out on me. You were probably better off not having my dead weight around seven years ago. I didn’t… I don’t like to admit it, but it’s probably true.”

Spock shakes his head. “It is never better to be alone.”

It would be easy to argue, and he almost does. But he closes his mouth before any words quite form. He’s spent more than enough time feeling sorry for himself, angry that he missed out on the earliest years of his son’s life. And now, with Winona in the city, sneaking into his apartment and staring at him across his kitchen table with her quiet, judging stare, bringing back sharp, clear memories of his childhood and the troubled years before he first met Spock, and after, now it’s hard to avoid asking himself again, as he occasionally does: what could he have really done for Sevin? What could he have offered him? But the question, the doubt, that has never done more than hover on the edges of his thoughts is: what could he have done for Spock? Eminently capable, fearless, competent, genius Spock, Spock who can do and has done everything, infuriating but too-near-perfect Spock… what could he have needed from Jim?

“I… suppose not,” he answers slowly. It’s pathetic, how he does not hide his surprise, does not hide anything at all. Spock can read his mind as surely, Jim thinks, as if he were touching his fingertips gently to Jim’s face.

Perhaps, if he were a better man, he would apologize. Or perhaps that would be a pointless waste of breath.

“Do you—?” he asks instead, and is grateful when Spock interrupts, uncurls himself from the couch and says, “It is late and we should both be asleep.” A simple statement, easy to agree with, easy to push everything else away. Yes, yes, of course. Jim is about to head for the door when Spock offers him the couch, a not-unusual arrangement between them now: late nights working or talking, which end with Jim passed out in the living room, an alarm set to wake him early so that he will be gone by the time Sevin wakes. No reason to confuse him. No reason to inflate his hopes. The offer and acceptance is a well-worn ritual by now too; Jim hesitates, as if he shouldn’t, as if he would be an imposition, then agrees, acquiescing quietly and offering a thanks that Spock simply waves away. 

Usually, he falls asleep quickly. Tonight, he finds himself awake a long time. If Spock hadn’t interrupted him, what would he have said? What could he have said? Had he been on the verge of asking a question, or making an offer? Does it matter?

And how, he wonders, as he turns on to his side, laughing very lightly at himself, at how in over his head he is, at how little this frightens him—how will he ever run a ship if he can’t even control himself? 

Sevin is not nervous. He walks between his parents, talking happily while Spock nods and Jim pretends to listen. He tries to actually listen. But it’s hard to break free of the agitated circle of thoughts his brain has been following almost without pause for the last day. He feels like he’s about to be put on trial, every decision he’s made quietly picked apart and analyzed, everything Spock or Sevin has ever done heaped on him, too, because he chose Spock, professionally, personally, in (almost) every way there is to choose a person, because he helped create Sevin. Yet he is nothing but proud of them both—so perhaps it’s not Winona’s reaction he fears at all, but Spock’s.

He glances over, but if Spock is nervous, he doesn’t show it one bit. Maybe someday Jim will learn to read him. Maybe someday he’ll know which small, slight tics mean what, know how to discern worry, or fear, or happiness.

Jim insisted that they meet in a public place. He’s not sure what he thinks is going to happen, what he fears, but he won’t be stuck in a small apartment with his mother and his son and his inscrutable Vulcan friend with no easy way out and no witnesses. This is not paranoia. This is not a train of thought unbefitting a starship captain. It is perfectly reasonable and normal. Lunch is obvious, simple, and safe. Winona let him pick the place, claiming he “knew the city better” than she did by now, so he brings them to a small restaurant with open architecture and too many plants, a largely vegetarian menu for Spock and Sevin.

Sevin keeps up his easy chatter until they get to the door, then stops abruptly, perhaps out of sudden nerves, more likely out of building curiosity. Then he shoves through the door ahead of his parents and looks around, no idea who he’s looking for, a woman who looks like Jim, perhaps, or someone to whom he feels some indescribable, deep pull. “Sevin,” Spock says, in a low and quiet voice to calm him, and holds him still with his hands on his shoulders. “We are here early. She probably has not arrived yet.”

Winona is always early, though, something Spock doesn’t know, and so Jim’s not surprised to see her already waiting for them. She’s at a corner table, near a window looking out on a terrace garden, where a few other patrons are enjoying the first truly pleasant days of spring. Jim catches sight of her first and says nothing. He only watches her, how absolutely still she sits. How emotionless she seems.

Finally, more out of fear that she will notice him first, that he will lose the power he has in this moment, he nudges Spock gently and tilts his head to her table. That's her. If Spock is surprised in any way, he does not show it. But Sevin, when Spock squeezes his shoulders and points him in the right direction, smiles widely and seems about to run to her, then hesitates, held back by a natural shyness or because of something he sees in Winona herself, Jim cannot know. He ends up leading the way himself.  

Winona seems to snap out of something—her thoughts, a trance—as they approach. She looks up sharply, but after a moment the expression on her face softens. Jim is a bit surprised that it does, but then, her job requires some diplomacy, and she's been doing nothing but her job for over twenty years. He'd know. And this isn't a moment to appear hard or angry or tough. Jim doesn't entirely trust the friendly smile she greets them with, though. Even Spock can probably see that the way she stands when they approach, back perfectly straight, hand out to reach for his, is more appropriate to a first meeting between officers than between family. Spock takes her hand, though he has not learned yet how to shakes hands without looking awkward and uncertain, and then offers her a Vulcan salute. Sevin just looks up. Winona has no idea what to do with him.

"Ah, Mom," Jim steps in, gliding into the empty pause and turning himself off, as if he were performing a play in front of strangers. Words come to him without prompting, and he feels like he's watching himself from far away. "This is Spock, of course, and this is our son, Sevin." He puts his hands on Sevin's shoulders, and nudges him forward just a step. "Sevin, this is Winona Kirk—your grandmother."

Jim isn’t sure what to expect; he finds that he’s holding his breath, just waiting, on the edge of something that might be beautiful or might be nightmarish, that might be what he’s been waiting for all these years or might be all his old fears confirmed. He’s not had family for years now, he’s not sure how family is supposed to be—he’s aware of the leaves of the plants moving in the false breeze of artificial inside air, and of time slowing down, and the walls moving in. Almost. It’s almost that bad. He’d rather be on the bridge facing down a ship of hostile Klingons than here. He’s wondering if time has actually slowed—yes Captain this is a delayed side effect of living in an alternate universe, my extensive research has revealed that as you were never meant to be here at all, sometimes time itself—but then the second hand on the clock behind Winona’s head moves one clear tick forward, with a too-loud sound that might as well be the sound of it moving in reverse. Stranger things have happened to him.

This time it is happening to them all. Sevin is looking up at Winona, and Winona back down at Sevin, without moving or speaking, each waiting for the other or for some inner realization, an oh moment: this is what I am supposed to do. It doesn’t seem to come. Jim wonders how long it’s been since Winona saw a real life child face to face. She has an expression on her face, as if seeing a strange new alien creature for the first time, the look of a land-bound diplomat suddenly thrown into space, shocked at the new, the unexplored, the bizarre. Jim wants to shake it off of her. Sevin is just a kid. And he’s staring back at her with uncertainty bordering on fear.

This slow dragging on of moments isn’t in his mind, it’s not some comical twist of his imagination, a joke he’s playing with himself to lessen his own nerves. The silence is really this long, and truly this awkward. Almost despite himself, Jim finds himself hoping blindly and fervently that his mother will just speak, just say something, do anything but stare with that look on her face, almost confused, every thought that passes through her mind somehow both visible and inscrutable as it is translated over her features.

“Sevin,” Spock says at last, nudging him forward just the tiniest bit. “Say hello.”

“Hi,” he blurts out, as if he can’t help but form the sound. Another word seems on the verge of following, a word that decides to twist itself into another “hello” at the last moment. Jim realizes that Sevin doesn’t know what to call her.

But at least this seems to wake Winona up, at last, and she kneels down to Sevin’s level. “Hello, Sevin. I—I’m glad to meet you.” The words are a little stilted and too formal, but the sentiment is there. Jim’s certain of that, certain enough to feel his own chest clench with it. Winona’s voice has a twinge of awe around its edges.

If Sevin hears her amazement, her sense of wonder at his existence, he doesn’t show it, and Jim’s sure he’s absorbed it only an unconscious level, if it all. It seems to trigger something in him, but only an instinct. No longer nervous, he steps forward. Then he wraps his arms around Winona in a gesture so purely affectionate that even Jim’s worst vision of his mother (cool, professional, distant) could not help but respond. Anyone would. Still, at first, she seems not to know what to do, as if it’s been years since she’s been hugged or touched at all with such natural and unselfconscious affection. Then she hugs him in return and Jim watches her eyes close.

Only then does he remember to look over at Spock. His face is as unreadable as always. Does he find the scene curious, or touching, or sad—a reminder of his own mother, perhaps, who held Sevin when he was small, who knew all of the firsts that Winona, that Jim himself, will never know? Who will miss all the firsts to come? Even if this thought is not making Spock’s heart clench in his side, it is making Jim’s hurt a little bit in his chest.

Sevin pulls back from the hug and takes Winona’s wrist instead, leading her back to her table. Jim has never seen anyone lead his mother anywhere, and he’s never seen that look on her face either, slightly confused and slightly surprised, so unsure what she’s supposed to say or do that she’ll easily let a seven-year-old child drag her along. Sevin jumps up onto the chair next to hers, and leaves the two seats on the opposite side of the table for Spock and Jim. The last thing he wants to do is look his mother in the eye, so he tries to take a long view. His mother and his son, next to each other. They look nothing alike, they know nothing of each other, but he remembers Sevin’s curiosity and all the questions he asked about his family, Jim’s family, and he knows that even an awkward lunch means a great deal to his little boy. Sevin is staring at Winona with wide-eyed affection and fascination.

But Winona clearly doesn’t know where to look. “Spock—” she starts to say, and Jim’s fingers clench around the edges of the menu. He knows an interrogation voice when he hears it. But the word is hardly formed when Sevin interrupts, “Dad says you work for Starfleet, too. What do you do?”

“Sevin, your grandmother was speaking. It is not polite to interrupt,” Spock warns. Sevin mumbles an apology that Jim doubts is sincere. He can hardly fault Sevin: his excitement and enthusiasm are genuine, and they bubble up almost on their own. And anyway, Jim’s secretly proud of his son’s attempt to keep the focus on himself. That’s where it should be. Jim knows his mother only invited them here to take a look at her grandson, a curiosity in more ways than one, and to interview Spock on any number of qualifications, to see if he was fit to be Jim’s First Officer, to see if he was fit to raise her grandson—as if the first were her business, as if the second were under her control. Jim’s not worried about his friend. Spock can handle anything she tries to throw at him and more and won’t even raise his voice; Winona will get no satisfaction from his response. But it’s not fair to Sevin to make him wait so long to meet a grandmother who cannot even pretend to show the same interest and curiosity about him as he shows toward her. 

It's possible that she feels that same curiosity. Jim’s not sure, but he thought he saw it, or something of the sort, in her face when Sevin took her hand. But if she wants to know this little boy she’s also afraid to know him, and she’s never been one to work through what she cannot understand. She abandons the difficult and takes refuge in the familiar. Others don’t see it in her, because her job is the unknown. But to her, it is a comfort, and the simplicity of Iowa, her own bed, her sons, a wild place of tangled emotions and strangling memories.

“Sevin’s coming with us on the five-year mission,” Jim says quickly, but lightly, before Winona can get in another word. He wonders if Spock can hear how tense he is, if he can sense a depth of feeling beneath the surface of the words. He hopes Sevin can’t. “And he’s been learning everything he can about Starfleet—just really taking everything in.” What he means is that Sevin is a smart and curious kid, pure and open in his desire to learn, and if Winona has any grandmotherly feeling anywhere in her, she’ll encourage that. What he means is don’t you dare sit there and ignore him. “You should tell him about what you do. Sevin’s never met anyone who’s spent so many years working off planet.” He turns to his son and adds, “Your grandmother has spent most of the last twenty-five years on off-planet colonies and space stations.”

Sevin looks suitably impressed, his eyes wide and his body tilting forward with the force of unasked questions, but he’s a little confused and uncertain too. “I thought you said you grew up in Iowa,” he says. They’ve looked it up on a map together more than once, and Jim spent a whole afternoon showing him pictures of Riverside: rolling green farmland, the somewhat shabby downtown streets, the local Starfleet base.

“I did.” He glances at Sevin, then looks to Winona, needing to watch her face. “With my stepdad, and your uncle Sam.”

“It wasn’t as easy to take children on missions off-planet when your dad was growing up as it is now,” Winona says quickly, a cover that Jim, at least, can see right through. “You’re lucky that way. You’ll—get to have it all.” She smiles, and if Jim were being generous, he’d call it not just encouraging, but apologetic, like she wishes it could have been that way for her boys too. But Jim doesn’t buy it. To him, it seems too little, and very too late.

Something of his feeling must be showing on his face, because Spock nudges his knee under the table, hard, and breaks an awkward pause that’s threatening to grow into an awkward silence. “Jim and I both want Sevin to learn as much as he can. Of course, he has never met anyone with experiences as unique and varied as yours. Jim mentioned that you represented Earth at the Federation conference on Rigel II three years ago. I am especially curious to hear more about that event. A colleague of my father’s, whom I know quite well, represented Vulcan. I understand that it was… a tumultuous meeting.”

No one could say no to such a steady, reasonable tone, or not be turned by such subtle flattery. Jim’s sure that Winona hears it, just as he does, but it’s the sort of diplomatic conversation steering she’d appreciate, and she lets it show. If she’d harbored any hope of turning the conversation around again, of getting her interrogation in after all, it’s gone now. The slight downward movement of her shoulders and the minute change in her expression say that she’s accepted as much. It will wait until another day.

As she opens her mouth to answer, a waiter appears quietly next to their table and asks for their order. Jim hasn’t even looked at his menu, so he orders the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t listen to the others. He glances out the window instead—they’re not far from the Academy, and he can see a group of cadets, in their spotless reds, passing by in animated conversation—and tries not to assume too much about the way Spock called him Jim. It shouldn’t mean anything at all that he did. He could hardly call Jim Captain Kirk at a family lunch—okay, he wouldn’t put it past Spock to do that, actually, but not with Winona right across from them, not when the image they want to give her is one of a functioning family, instead of simply colleagues raising a son. So it was a strategic move, as purposeful as the subtle compliment or the passing mention of his father. That was all.

When he turns away from the window, the waiter is gone, and Winona has started to explain the conflict between the Andorians and the Orions at the conference. Sevin is listening attentively to every word. Spock is pretending to listen too, but Jim thinks that’s just an act, and his thoughts are wandering behind his steady gaze. For his part, relief has started to set in: he can feel only a remnant of his former tension, persistent between his shoulder blades. Now all he has to do is keep his mouth shut, and stay out of the way.

Winona and Sevin dominate conversation for the rest of lunch, which is just as it should be. From time to time, Jim feels Spock’s arm bump against his as they eat, and each time, he wonders if it’s a coincidence or accident, and each time, he decides that it probably isn’t either one, and he has to hold back a smile. He probably thinks it’s going well, too, he thinks, and his spirits are buoyed.

Still, as lunch winds down and they prepare to leave, he feels a certain sense of relief cresting, a sensation like being able to breathe again fully after hours of half-holding his breath. It went well. It went better than he’d thought it could go. He can’t complain. Then, as they're preparing to say their goodbyes, Winona stoops to give Sevin a hug without any sort of prompting at all, and he feels a rush of pride, tinged only a little with jealousy, as he watches his son cling to her. 

Spock has taken a step back, as if he feels himself the odd one out. As if this scene were not his even to observe, except from a distance. Jim wants to take his hand and pull him forward again, but he doesn’t. He feels in a way like he can't.

He’s caught off guard when Winona approaches him. Maybe if he’d been paying a bit more attention, he would have seen the hug coming, or he would at least have had a chance to glance at her face, to gauge if this a genuine gesture inspired by a pleasant afternoon, or just a calculated one, a pantomime of affection to show Sevin. Even the second is more than he would have expected of her. A moment passes, then two, and he manages to move his arms to hug her in return. By the time she pulls away, he’s convinced himself it’s real, and if he’s wrong, that the comfort of the illusion is worth a little self-deception.

She grabs his arms a little too tight, and looks in his face like it’s the first time she’s really seen it, his adult face, her long-gone son’s face. He finds the gaze uncomfortable, but stubbornly won’t look away. What he sees is a woman older than the mother in his memories, but no softer, tough and determined and scarred by grief she’s learned to hide from almost everyone, everyone except her sons, who share it too.

“I’ll be there to see you off,” she says, in a low voice of solemn promise.

He nods. He knows she wasn't planning on being in California that long. She probably changed her plans in the moment of speaking, which is so unlike her that he feels a grudging sort of affection rise in him despite himself.

But all he answers is, “Sevin will like that.”

She drops her hands again and turns to Spock, remembering this time to raise her hand in a Vulcan salute. He returns the gesture, then sticks out his hand for her to shake. His expression doesn’t change even as she says, “We didn’t really get to talk. Maybe a lunch just the two of us, before you leave.” It isn’t really a question, but Spock agrees as if it were. He doesn’t seem in the least bit nervous or uncertain, just cool and professional, as if Winona were a new Starfleet colleague and not Sevin’s grandmother, a relative of sorts. Jim envies that impenetrable mask. He’ll have to ask Spock if it’s something one can teach, or just a natural talent, imbedded in Vulcan genes.

“I’ll contact you,” Winona promises, and from this, Jim sees that the mask is frustrating to her, and she’s making some slight attempt to see what’s underneath. It will take much more than that. He knows. He feels like he’s been trying forever, himself.

They walk outside together, but at the doorway, Winona makes clear that she’s heading in the opposite direction, and quickly takes her leave. Jim is grateful. He feels exactly what he imagines she must feel, a slowly stifling claustrophobia, a sense that their reunion has lasted a few beats too long. He’s glad to be outside and to feel a gentle April breeze. This is something he will miss about Earth, one of only a very few things.

“That was fun!” Sevin announces, surprising Jim out of his thoughts.

“Mmmm,” he answers, unable to manage more. Over Sevin’s head, he catches Spock’s eye. He inclines his head briefly, a gesture Jim’s not sure he knows how to read. But he takes it to mean you survived, and finds he feels a bit stronger for having lived that moment when their gazes met.

Chapter Text

When Spock was pregnant, he imagined any number of alternate lives. They felt like shameful, secret fantasies, and caused him so much guilt that he often indulged in them only late at night, waiting up in the dark for sleep to come. He imagined that the human boy had asked him to stay. In the hidden corners of his deep-night thoughts, he pictured himself saying yes, and when they found out Spock was pregnant, the boy would grin a ridiculous human grin, and Spock would find himself hoping their child would be able to smile just like that. This story he told himself was so unrealistic that it made him pull the blankets up almost completely over his head, as if hiding from some invisible judging gaze, but he didn’t stop. He felt his real child moving inside him, a first few tentative kicks, and he pictured the human boy asking where do you feel it? and pressing his hand next to Spock’s, curious to feel it too. 

This was not the only fantasy. He imagined meeting the human boy again on Vulcan, or on Earth, imagined introducing him to a daughter or a son, imagined a welcome both warm and sincere, imagined he’d know what to do in the face of foreign, effusive emotion. Sometimes he pretended that they’d never ran into each on Earth but met for the first time in some completely different way, older perhaps, and able to form a relationship in the proper way. His parents and his peers would easily approve of them. (In his night world, his peers simply accepted the idea of a Vulcan bonding with a human man, and he did not care, he did not care in the slightest that their acceptance was only a thing of fantasy. He did not care at all that he wanted it enough to build it into his dreams.) 

Sometimes he couldn’t sleep, and he played the illusion out and out, an intricate alternate life for himself and his child and the boy he couldn’t get out of his head. Years and years he imagined for them. Sometimes he spun the fantasy on Vulcan, sometimes, and less confidently, on Earth, filling in fanciful details that seemed acceptable, even true, in the late night and the total dark of his room. But he never imagined a life in space. He never imagined Starfleet or the Enterprise or Captain James T. Kirk. 

And he did not predict this moment.  

He sees those old fantasies—those secret and embarrassing thoughts whose existence he could never admit to a soul—for what they are now. They were no more than stories, comforting bed time fictions, and the once subtle shine of fantasy on them is glaring now. Naïve and young, he’d found comfort in imagining grand gestures, big reunions, desperate pleas: Spock, stay.  

But what is so truly fascinating about his life now is the existence of quiet, soft, utterly mundane moments, like this one. His son on a stepstool, trying to reach the highest shelf. Jim Kirk, leaning over the old, paper-bound cookbook splayed open on the kitchen countertop, his elbow on the counter and his hand over his mouth, thinking. He’s crossed one ankle over the other. A variety of kitchen instruments, bowls, and miscellaneous ingredients are scattered around the room, in haphazard order. Sevin was born exactly eight years ago today, and for the first time, the human boy is with them to celebrate. 

The very concept of a birthday is already a strongly human idea to Spock, but it has never felt more of an Earth tradition than it does this year. Hardly surprising: they've never marked the occasion in such an acutely traditional Earth fashion before. Kirk showed up after lunch with a large blue balloon and these old books, a shopping bag full of random ingredients over one arm, and now he and Sevin are quite intent on this process of making a cake. Spock's lived on Earth long enough to know why a cake, but still—it's quite curious. 

"Spock, do you know you have nothing in this apartment?" Kirk asks him suddenly, and Spock's attention snaps back to him. He's kneeling now, opening up one of the lower cupboards that Spock has never used and peering in, as if he might find something useful hidden in the back, against the wall.  

"I have many objects in this apartment,” he corrects stiffly. He knows, of course, what Kirk means. But he’d rather play the part of the alien confused by Earth expressions, because it’s easier, because it’s less aggressive, than show he’s annoyed—slightly, irrationally—at the question. Kirk’s obvious good intentions aside, he’s just a little too used to being told he is lacking. “What specifically are you looking for?” 

“Something to put the cake in.” If he’s noticed Spock’s tone, he ignores it. “You don’t have anything in the way of pots or pans. Do you ever cook?” 

“On occasion,” he answers, at the same time as Sevin answers, “Not really,” and Spock just knows that when Kirk reappears from the cupboard, he’ll be grinning. And he is. 

“It’s okay, I’m not much of a cook, either,” he admits. “Good thing we’ll have food synthesizers on the Enterprise, huh?” 

“Yes, quite fortunate,” Spock agrees, as he walks over to a cupboard above the stove, where he keeps the few cooking supplies he does own, and fishes out a suitable cake-sized container. It’s true he doesn’t exactly have the best-stocked kitchen in San Francisco, but in his defense, it’s not like he’s ever had much time for cooking, and even less for baking. And it would be foolish to invest in kitchen supplies now, only a few weeks before the departure of the Enterprise. Everything he owns is about to be put into storage. A new tenant is already planning to move in. 

He hands the dish over, and Kirk smiles and says, “Thanks,” seems to be on the verge of saying something more, then doesn’t. This is also quite curious. 

“Dad, do we have everything?” Sevin asks. He’s interrupting nothing, and yet it feels like he is interrupting something, some small but growing moment, nonetheless. 

“Um—” Kirk take a quick glance at the assembled ingredients and utensils, then nods, though he hardly looks sure. “Probably.” This is not exactly the voice of a confident Captain, but then his duties on the Enterprise will probably not involve baking cakes. “Here,” he says, and helps Sevin down to the ground again, slides the cookbook over so they can double check their list together. Spock hardly feels needed here, which is acceptable: he’d rather be an observer, anyway. He sits down at the far side of the kitchen table to watch them. 

He’s never had a chance like this before, really, and it’s a strange one: a chance to see Kirk in charge as a parent. He knows that Kirk has spent plenty of time around Sevin on his own, of course. And they’ve spent time together as a family, or their confusing version of it. But when he’s around he usually, by habit, or because of experience, dominates their dynamic in ways he has not even noticed until now, in subtle ways he’s half-sure Kirk himself has never given a second thought. Perhaps it is sensible that he does. It is certainly forgivable: he’s been Sevin’s sole parent the boy’s whole life. He’s never let anyone else come even as close as Kirk has to his child. No one else has had that right, nor earned it. But when their ship takes off and their mission begins they will all be living, not quite together, but in closer proximity than ever before and it is inevitable that their routines and habits will change. There will be more days like this, he expects. And Kirk will grow into his own as a father just as he will grow into his own as a captain and Spock will be there to see it happen, and he’s glad for it. 

It’s odd, not what he expected, but he feels no jealousy. He knows, quietly, privately, in the silent space in himself where he faces no judgment and can think anything with the purest and clearest honesty, that if it were anyone else here with his son, he would be fuming. If Kirk were just a close friend, if he were a boyfriend, a lover, a husband, Spock would never allow him here. Or at the very least, grudgingly. Sevin’s birthday has been, ever since they moved to San Francisco, a day for the two of them alone. Has he made an exception because Kirk is Sevin’s biological father? Because he feels obligated, because it would be wrong to separate Sevin from one of his parents on this day? That would be logical. But even if so that explains only Kirk's presence, not Spock's strange feeling of calm.  

Kirk is helping Sevin pour sugar into a measuring cup. He's doing most of the work but letting Sevin think he's in charge, and he seems so at ease—how long has it been this way? 

Maybe Spock finds Kirk's presence easy to accept because he so long held onto a fantasy of the human boy, not this fantasy exactly, true, but a romantic image nevertheless of forming a family together. Seeing that the reality is both more mundane and more vibrant and true than any imaginary world he ever created for himself, it becomes easy to form a new fantasy and then to say that he is living it.  

Sevin asks Kirk if he's ever baked a cake before, and Kirk admits that he has not; Sevin stares at him with wide eyes, like the thought of a grown-up not being an expert in all things has never occurred to him, and almost pours too much sugar into the container in his distraction. Kirk catches him at the last moment. "I never claimed to be an expert," he insists. "We're going to figure this out together, right?" 

Is this all he wanted? Do such simple things really make him content? Is it enough to know that Sevin's dad is in their lives and that Sevin can spend an afternoon with him and be happy? 

Is it a sign of how far he's come than he even dares to think of these blessings as small? 

Sometimes he still thinks of Kirk as the human boy, a distant and nameless fantasy figure, an outline he could fill with every alternate life, every far-away future, that ever sprang into his mind. Every time he let himself think everything would be easier if, he remembered the human boy. Every time he let himself think everything will be better when, he brought up those images again, and told himself he was illogical, even foolish, and promised himself he'd never travel this path with his thoughts again. No real life person could ever be everything the human boy was to him, more symbol than even memory as the years went by, a well-worn talisman, a comfort object. 

He likes to think of Kirk in those terms again just to bring the past and the present together in his mind—otherwise a surprisingly difficult mental puzzle. He likes to remind himself that this person—his colleague, co-parent, perhaps his friend—is the same as the young man he met in Iowa almost nine years ago. Those memories are real. Everything he remembers sharing with the human boy, he shared with Kirk. It truly happened.  

Quite a ridiculous thought: he has Sevin, he knows it was real. He can hardly forget. 

He wonders if Kirk ever has thoughts like these; if that night seems distant to him, like another life, or close; if it's muffled by all the years and all the people in between or just as sharp as if it had happened only a few day ago. 

Sevin is carefully combining ingredients, while Kirk stands just behind him, hovering, anticipating disaster. Spock is not worried. 

"Are you sure you've never made a cake before?" Sevin asks, his gentle but curious question interrupting a long but companionable silence. "Not even for your birthday?" 

It's good to know, Spock thinks, that he's not the only one with a thought stuck on repeat in his mind.  

"Ah—no," Kirk answers. For the first time, there's something like hesitance, awkwardness, in his manner. "I never celebrated my birthday much growing up, actually." Kirk tries to keep his voice light, as if the words were trivial, but he has neither of them fooled. Sevin tilts his head and devotes all of his attention to studying the expression on his dad’s face. Spock just waits, wary of this new turn. Kirk clearly knows he’s said just the tiniest bit too much and backtracks quickly. “But hey, that doesn’t matter, right? I know how to read directions and I think between the two of us we can figure this thing out.” 

His mistake is in assuming Sevin cares at all for the cake anymore. He has the one-track mind of a child but the intensity of a young Vulcan and now that he’s on to something new, he won’t give it up easily. Not for a little while, at least. He knows well enough that not everyone celebrates birthdays, that the tradition was, in fact, all but unknown on Vulcan, but the idea of a human, spending his childhood on Earth, avoiding that particular day even as a child is a strange new concept for him. “Why not, though? You grew up here, didn’t you?” 

“Well, not quite here. Iowa, actually—that’s almost two thousand miles—” 

“But on Earth?” 

Spock would almost smile, if he were more human, at the way Kirk’s walked himself right into a corner. But he doesn’t, and not just because such an expression would be improper. He doesn’t want Sevin to learn this particular truth at this particular moment, any more than Kirk himself does. 

A long beat passes, Sevin looking up at his dad and Kirk looking anywhere but at Sevin. Then he sighs, a capitulation, leans back against the countertop, crosses his arms, and says, “Yes. But… you remember I told you once that I never got to know my dad? Because he died when I was young?” 

“Yeah,” Sevin answers slowly. He’s thinking through the story as he imagines it will go, before it’s told to him, and his gaze as he does is intense and unwavering. Spock can tell Kirk is unnerved by it. He’s hesitant, uncertain of the right words, but still he goes on. 

“He died on the day I was born, specifically. So my birthday… it was always about remembering him. Even when I was a kid.” He shrugs, but this gesture will not be enough to shrug off the words, or this moment. Both Spock and Sevin are watching him closely, and though his gaze is on the floor, he must know it. 

Spock knows the story, of course. Everyone at the Academy does—everyone in the Federation does, he would assume. But they’ve never spoken of it. Not in any of their conversations, not even their most personal, at any point in the year they have spent in each other’s company. It’s strange, how Spock has only noticed this oversight now. To him, George Kirk is still little more than a name in the history books, hardly a flesh and blood man and not at all a father who never got to know his son. What he may be to that son—perhaps a mystery, a myth, or just a ghost—Spock cannot begin to guess. 

For a long time, Sevin says nothing in reply. His expression is thoughtful, more adult than he knows, but otherwise unreadable. Then quite without warning, he wraps his arms around Kirk’s middle without any apparent intention of letting go. With his sensitive ears, Spock hears him murmur, “I’m sorry,” and at those words, like a cue, Kirk wraps his arms around his son in return. The moment seems so private, so personal, that Spock not only wishes he were somewhere else, but almost feels as if he were. 

Still, he notices when Sevin pulls away just a little, and gently, purposefully, presses his fingers to the bare skin on the inside of Kirk’s wrist, right against his pulse point. It takes Spock a moment to recognize what he’s doing, and he’s not quite sure what clues him in, at last: the expression on his son’s face, one of concentration and purpose, or on Kirk’s, one of confusion and dawning peace. “Sevin,” he interrupts sharply, and both of them startle, and turn to stare at him. Sevin looks contrite, Kirk merely confused. Immediately, Sevin drops his hand back down to his side. “You know you cannot—” 

“I know, I’m sorry.” His cheeks have flushed pink, and he turns back to the half-assembled cake ingredients on the counter, his back to Spock. “Sorry, Father.” 

“It’s—” Kirk starts to interject, then cuts himself off, perhaps aware that it is not his place to say, as Spock is sure he was intending to, that it is all right. He is not a Vulcan, and does not know about their people’s rules. And Spock is in no mood at all to explain. 

Sevin has never tried to send feelings or thoughts through touch telepathy before, not since he grew old enough to understand and control the ability. It was surprise, more even than shock, that made Spock speak so suddenly and sharply. He is not angry. He understands well the instinct Sevin had and gave in to, what some would call the human instinct to share but which Spock thinks of rather as the Vulcan instinct, buried and suppressed out of necessity, to share, to comfort in this uniquely Vulcan way. He would explain all of this if he could. Later, in private, he will. For now, it is Kirk who breaks the silence, bringing Sevin’s attention back to the celebration at hand. This time, he lets the prior moment drop easily, purposefully, and they are distracted again. 

Later, as Kirk sets the temperature on Spock’s somewhat unreliable old oven, Sevin says brightly, “But you’ll celebrate your birthday on the ship, won’t you, Dad? Next year? You have to.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Kirk answers, pretending he is not really thinking, though Spock highly suspects that he is. “How do you think I should celebrate?” 

“With a big party and a cake,” Sevin says, as if this were completely obvious. “A big party and a big cake to celebrate turning…how old are you?” 

“Twenty-six.” He might as well be saying ‘eighty-six.’ The number seems to surprise him, and in truth it sounds strange to Spock’s ears too: a reminder as sharp as Sevin’s birthday itself that time has passed for them all. “Twenty-seven next birthday.” 

“Old,” Sevin declares, which would be funny, in a slightly different circumstance. 

“Hardly,” Spock tells him. “Do not be rude, Sevin.” 

“I’m not! I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” His hands free now, he’s started to move restlessly around the kitchen; Kirk steers him away from the stove unobtrusively, hardly seeming to affect his course at all. “I’ll be that age someday. Doing something really cool.” 

“No doubt you will,” Kirk murmurs. Sevin doesn’t seem to hear him. 

“So are you going to have that party?” 

Kirk just smiles this time. “If my First Officer approves.”   

Spock quirks up his eyebrows, and, just a little, the corner of his mouth, for the benefit of the two pairs of eyes watching him. “I hardly believe I could say no, Captain.”  

While the cake is in the oven, Kirk and Sevin play chess, and Spock slips into a state of semi-meditation on the floor by the sofa. True meditation, of course, is for private, but at least he has achieved a state of pleasant thoughtfulness and calm. 

When Sevin asked Kirk if they could play a game while they waited, Kirk had seemed hesitant—it was only a game for two, after all—and it had been Spock who insisted that he was fine, and they need not worry about him. And that was the truth. Their intermittent conversation, the unnamable sense he has of them, his simple awareness of their presence in the room, forms enough of a connection. He feels included. And if his presence is a background one, that is acceptable—he and Sevin spent the morning together, just the two of them, after all.  

This year for his birthday, Sevin had insisted, somewhat to Spock's surprise, that his father show him everything he could of Starfleet. They visited the Academy campus, the classrooms, the offices, the research facilities, the dorms—Sevin had, of course, no memory of the months they lived in one themselves. They stopped by the docking bay and walked through the cavernous hangars, and Sevin had asked question after question about Spock's experiences, about their future life in space, and again and again about the Enterprise. He'd wanted to see the ship, too, but this close to launch, such a visit was impossible. Soon, Spock had promised instead. Soon. Before you know it. 

As an officer, he has been able to visit the ship a few times himself, always on official business, and so his own curiosity is not as acute as Sevin's. Still, Spock understands his sharp anticipation. He understands the frustration of waiting. He's more than ready, too, for the long-awaited takeoff to occur. 

The light ding of a bell startles him, and his eyelids shoot open, the inside lids on the slightest, still disconcerting, delay. For a moment, he has no idea what the noise could mean. Then—"It's done!" Sevin announces, and starts to stand. 

Kirk waves him back. "I'll get it," he offers, but Spock gestures him back in turn. A glance at the board shows him they are quite in the middle of things.  

"Let me," he says, and rises to his feet. 

It's been some time since he's used the oven, he would be embarrassed to admit, and it takes him a minute or two find the oven mitts hidden in the back of one of the drawers. He turns the oven off, opens the door, and carefully reaches in to draw out Kirk and Sevin's cake. A simple operation. And yet, as even simple operations occasionally do, it goes awry—the oven mitt slips, his hand comes in contact with the hot metal side of the pan, and he all but drops the whole thing. He lets it clatter from his hands onto the stovetop, unthinking, just acting on the instinct to get it away, and lets out a fast string of Vulcan curses, mostly under his breath. 

It's not his proudest moment. 

The pain has largely subsided, the slight throb of it easily brought under his control, and only an acute and less simply suppressed embarrassment left, when he turns and sees Kirk and Sevin standing in the doorway. 

"Father, are you okay?" Sevin asks, skirting around the kitchen table to get to him. Kirk follows the same path, but slower, and echoes the same sentiment: "Are you all right?" 

All Spock can think is that he hopes Sevin didn't hear too much of what he was saying. Kirk wouldn't have understood a word of it, but those weren't phrases he wants added to his son's vocabulary. 

“Yes,” he answers, trying to convey by his tone just how misplaced their concern truly is. He keeps his hands behind his back, in part because the posture is a familiar and comfortable one, and in part to hide the burn, slight though it is, from view. “I am uninjured.”

Kirk and Sevin continue to stare at him as if he had told them quite the opposite, and in a way, by saying too much, he supposes that he has. Sevin’s face shows a wide-eyed concern, while Kirk’s expression is one of persistent skepticism.

“Then what was that crashing sound?” he asks.

“And why did you say all those bad words?” Sevin adds.

Spock flinches with embarrassment, and carefully does not allow himself to even glance in Kirk’s direction; it is worrisome enough that Sevin understood what he said, without also seeing Kirk’s reaction to his slip. Instead, he just adjusts his shoulders back and admits, “I accidentally touched the side of the pan when I took it from the oven. It was nothing, only a bit of clumsiness. I did not mean to alarm you.” He means ‘either of you’ but only flicks his eyes to Kirk at the very last moment.

But there is nothing mocking in his expression, only, still, that same concern. He takes a few steps closer and asks, again, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. My exclamation was one of surprise. That is all.” He turns to Sevin, intending to offer him additional assurance, when his son suggests, brightly and with an earnest expression that is hard to deny:

“Dad should kiss it better!”

The idea is such a strange one, and so suddenly presented, that for a moment, Spock can only stare. “And how,” he manages finally, “did you come up with a cure such as that?”

“I heard about it in school,” Sevin answers brightly. “It makes it hurt less.” Then, a bit more quietly, he adds, “Maybe it will help, Father.”

“I do not know—” 

“Come on, Spock. It’s an old Earth remedy.”

He had expected Kirk to want to avoid this particular awkward moment just as much as he does himself, but when he glances back to the captain, he finds his expression is that peculiar combination of open and unreadable that, among all of the aliens with whom Spock has had contact, only humans have seemed able to master. He’s half-holding out his hand, wanting, but unwilling yet, to touch. Something about him, something unusually and unexpectedly soft, makes any possible answer stick in Spock’s throat.

The uncertain half-smile on Kirk’s face just makes the nervous twist in Spock’s stomach worse. Sevin is glancing between them now, expectant, and the subtle throbbing of the burn against the side of his index finger, light though it is, is frustratingly difficult to ignore. 

"An Earth remedy the logic of which escapes me," he answers, as he takes his hands from behind his back. He gives Kirk a little nod, the permission he's been waiting for, and then Kirk is holding his hand carefully in his own. Spock's breath catches, despite himself, and he forgets that their son is watching them.  

Kirk searches out the burn easily, a slight thing, a small bump of angry green between Spock's first and second knuckles. He traces it gently with his fingertip. On Vulcan, this would be an intimate touch, a decidedly private and personal touch. A touch that, in its softness, would be inappropriate from even a close friend.  

On Earth, it carries no such significance. That is what he must remind himself, even as Kirk slowly lifts his hand and presses a soft kiss against the burn. The kiss seems to last, Spock thinks, longer than it should. But then, he is not familiar with the details of this strange tradition. 

"Do you feel better?" Sevin asks, and his voice is a sharp interruption to a moment Spock wishes he could say had never been building at all. Kirk takes a long stride back, his own manner awkward and uncertain. "Did it help?" 

It did not. The touch, the kiss, brought up only a rush of old, best-buried memories, of touches more illicit and more intimate still, of feigned closeness that felt so achingly genuine, it echoed in him, taunted him, for years. It was not the contact of skin against skin, hands, lips, that caused this uncomfortable beating of a heartbeat in his temples, but the sense of deep caring and concern that passed between them: no telepathic wave of it, but clear in the minutiae of the gesture, telegraphed in the most human of ways.   

But he cannot, does not dare to, put this realization into words, so he answers only, "Yes. It did. Thank you, for the suggestion, Sevin. And thank you, Captain Kirk."  

When Uhura sends him a message asking to meet, Jim assumes, reasonably enough, that she wants to talk about the mission. He suggests they meet in his office. She tells him she'd rather not, and that's when he understands—this is personal. He shows up early to the small, crowded café a few blocks from the Academy campus where she suggested they talk, and he buys himself a large coffee, because he already knows that he'll need it. 

The Enterprise takes off in three weeks, two days, and fourteen hours. He tells Bones he's not really counting the hours, but he is—not even on purpose; the count just keeps coming to him. They'll have to be out of their apartment at the end of next week, which is somewhat inconvenient, and in the interim, as they wait out the final days before flight, Bones will be staying with Scotty and Jim will be crashing on Sulu's couch. Sulu had agreed cheerfully enough ("I assume this means I'll be getting all of the best bridge shifts this year?"), then asked a question that Jim's pretty sure, in hindsight, was a handy precursor to the conversation he's about to have now, and to many future conversations, too: "But—why aren't you staying with Spock?" 

If only there were an easy answer to that one. 

From where he's sitting, he can see the door open, a bright shaft of sun stream in, and with it a group of harried Academy students. Uhura, in civilian clothes, is almost lost in the back of the crowd of them. But he sees her, catches her eyes, and waves. 

She orders something caffeinated and iced and faintly alien looking, then sits down across from him. 

He opens with: "Is this a conversation that should worry me?" capped off with his best charming smile, because charm is his go-to, so hard-wired he might call it instinct, and he's not sure what else to do. 

"No." But she looks serious, even nervous, and when she smiles it's just for a moment, just to add, "Maybe a little. We need to talk about Spock." 

That's pretty much what he expected to hear, and yet for a few seconds he has no idea what to say. The truth is that Spock has been on his mind a lot recently. But even if he could distill all of those jumbled, rotating, tangled thoughts into something intelligible, namable, he's not sure he would. 

"What about him?" 

Uhura opens her mouth, like she has a whole reply already planned, then closes it again. Not so simple for her either, perhaps. She sighs, leans the slightest bit forward, and says, "Look. I don’t know what's going on with you two—" 

"Nothing." 

"But I know it's something." She gives him a hard stare, like daring him to argue. He doesn't. "And I'm not the only one." 

Jim just shrugs and leans back in his chair, arm slung back over the top rung. "We've been the favorite topic of the Academy rumor mill for a year now, and you know most of that gossip isn't true. And once the Enterprise takes off and we get out there, none of us will care anymore about what a bunch of bored Starfleet people in San Francisco are saying to amuse themselves." 

"I'm not talking about gossip and rumors. I'm talking about what I've seen, what everyone on the bridge crew has seen, what Sevin's probably seen—" 

"Hey." His son's name makes him sit up straight again, a deep frown furrowing between his eyes. "We're careful around him. He's just a kid, he probably wants his parents together, but we've made it clear that we're just friends."  

Uhura looks, now, if not apologetic, at least sympathetic, and her voice is softer when she answers, "I'm not saying either of you is doing anything wrong. I'm just saying it's obvious, in the way you look at each other and talk to each other and talk about each other—you're not just friends." She gives a little nod, almost imperceptible, as if she were convincing herself, and he realizes just how hard this was for her to say, and feels some sympathy. 

Still not as much sympathy as confusion and curiosity, though. "Have you talked to Spock about this?" 

"No. And I'm not going to." She pushes her shoulders back slightly. The words are a promise but the tone is a dare. "Not until he's ready." 

Jim would really like to know what that means—ready to talk? ready to hear these stark supposed truth she's so eager to deal out to him?—but he doesn't ask. "So why are you talking about this with me? Not that there's anything to talk about." 

"Because if something does happen between you two, if you're even thinking about, it there's a couple of things I want you to know." 

Uhura looks on the verge of saying something more, of starting some speech even, but he cuts her off. This conversation is starting to veer into unsettling territory: there's a this-can't-be-happening buoy of denial floating in his stomach, a here-comes-bad-news feeling, an imminent-break-up feeling, almost. He's not in control, is what it is. 

"I'm serious. I'm not even thinking about something happening." This is the truth. He's thought about Spock, yes. All the time. How great he is at raising Sevin. How efficient and expert he is at his job. How brave he is. His odd sense of humor. His stubborn insistence when he thinks he's right. His intellectual curiosity. His unexpected quirks and habits. His moments of vulnerability. 

How much of a mystery he still is. 

How Jim was wrong to judge him as harshly as he did last summer, to see an all-too-human mistake as a deliberate breach of trust. 

But he doesn't think of Spock in a romantic way. He doesn't think of anyone that way. He's not trying to fill some sort of emptiness anymore, not looking to romance or sex or women or men as a stop-gap against a void. He has his work and his son and his crew and his friends, and he's fine, he is—except that Uhura is looking at him like she can read each and ever thought in his head and she doesn't believe a single one. 

All she says out loud is, "Let me say what I came here to say." She's not begging, just polite and calm. "Please. Just in case it should become relevant to you." 

Jim considers a moment, then inclines his head and tells her to go on. It seems like the sort of thing a good Captain would do.  

She takes a deep breath and starts, "Spock doesn't let people in easily. I think he wants to, but the way he grew up—I don’t mean being Vulcan, I mean being half-human, and then having Sevin so young—it's just safer for him to make sure he stays independent. But he has a soft spot for you. I think he'd take big risks for you." 

Is this supposed to be encouragement? He almost hopes it's not. 

"But if he takes that risk," she continues, "and it doesn't work out, it will be devastating to him—emotionally, professionally. And it could be even worse for Sevin." She looks down at her hands for a moment, clears her throat. Maybe trying to decide if she should go on. "Spock is my closest friend. And Sevin is the sweetest, most good-hearted kid I've ever met. And I would hate to see either of them get hurt, even a little bit, by a risk that doesn't pan out." 

At that, she flashes her gaze up to him again, and he finds himself taken aback by how sharp it is. "Is that a threat, Lieutenant Uhura?" 

"No." Her answer is quick, bright—too much so, and he doesn’t believe it. "I just wanted to remind you of the stakes involved here. Spock and Sevin aren't just in your life for the next five years, though that's long enough. They're in it for the rest of your life. They could both be really hurt here. And neither of them deserves that." 

It's hard to know what to say to that. One instinct wants to be defensive: he knows all of that and that's why nothing is going to happen, that's why he's kept Spock at a careful emotional distance for months now, because he's not stupid, and he's not a masochist, and he's not cruel, either. But another part of him, smaller but strong enough to keep those other words down, knows that Uhura's only saying what he needed to hear. He's been known to act without thinking. He's been known to avoid uncomfortable truths.   

So what he says instead is, "I know." His voice is quiet and low and there's an undercurrent of something else, approaching a plea, underneath. "Believe me, I know. You're talking about the two most important people in the universe to me. Do you really think I'd let myself do anything that could hurt them?"  

For a moment, Uhura just stares at him, as if he'd said something really out there or strange, and he can't fathom it. Then he replays his own words to himself and he hears it, too. For him, it is no great revelation. He's known this, on some level, for a long time. Perhaps for an impossibly long time. 

But he knows what it sounds like. A confession. A harbinger of trouble to come. 

He sits back, slumping just a little—something he almost never does anymore—and crosses his arms against his chest. "Sevin is my son. Of course there's no one more important to me than him." 

"And Spock?" The words are light, but a challenge. Because obviously, that was the part that actually surprised her, that needs explaining. 

"Sevin's father. My First Office. My friend." He shrugs, but doesn't feel it. "Of course he means a lot to me. And of course I'm not—I'm not going to do anything that could hurt him, either." 

"That's all I'm asking," she answers, but if her words imply they've come to an agreement, conflict resolved, negotiation completed—she won't press any further and he won't look any deeper and it will all be fine—there's still a nagging feeling him that says this is, at best, a pause. It's a persistent, tickling feeling that he's at the beginning of something, not the end of anything. 

And that feeling doesn't go away, not that evening, or the next day, or the next. 

Last summer, almost a year ago now, he knew what his feelings for Spock were. He wasn't in love with him, that would be saying too much, but he liked him, he was attracted to him, he was willing to see where those feelings went. Finding out that Sevin was his—finding out that, as his feelings grew, as he opened himself up more than he had to anyone since he left Iowa, at least, Spock was hiding something so central and so important from him—cut off all of that. It brought up too much shit. Too many insecurities, too many bad memories and bad associations, too much fear, and he masked it all in anger, and sent it all away. Pushed it all onto Spock. 

So many months later, and he still doesn't know how to get past that. He doesn't know how to trust that they can do this right, this time, and he doesn't know how to swallow down his fear at the stakes involved (not just their feelings or even their careers, but their kid) because high stakes have never given him pause before. 

He's locking up his storage unit on the last day of May—an early summer humid scorcher that has him longing for his climate controlled ship—when the real problem occurs to him at last. He sees his blind spot. He uncovers the assumption that has defined every circular, hurried thought he's had the last three days.  

None of this would matter if he only saw Spock as his friend. Or his co-parent or his colleague or his First. The spaces Spock occupies in his life can't be summarized in a few words. There aren't any boxes he can check off and say: that's what he means to me, no matter how he made it sound to Uhura. That's too simple. Too incomplete. He and Spock moved beyond that long ago. 

He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, wipes away a layer of sweat, then leans back against the hot metal of the storage room door. The sun is bright and the sky a clear, sharp blue. Two weeks before takeoff is not the time to be finding complications. He's putting away his old life. He's starting again: the next five years in command of a ship, finding the outer edges of space. The frontier. 

He knows this, and he knows just as well that it's too late. Doesn't matter. Whatever those feelings are, they can't be put back in their box. Whatever Spock is to him now, he's not going to become anything less.    

Jim knows he's not ready, yet, to put a name to this, and maybe in the end it won't matter, because he'll never test the words, because Spock won't want to hear them, because Spock will have nothing to say in return. But he feels it. He knows it's there. Not love, not fate. Not yet. But when he stares up at the sky, he wonders if the resolution is out there, somewhere out there, hiding with the rest of the unknown. He wonders if he'll be lucky enough to understand it all someday, let it resolve into something clear and bright and true, a simple feeling all their own, at last.  

Chapter Text

The launch of any Starfleet flagship on a five-year mission will undoubtedly draw large crowds, but the Enterprise and her crew have attracted a particularly immense and diverse collection of onlookers and media. Sevin suggests that all of San Francisco has come to the space docks to see them off. Spock knows this is an exaggeration, but he understands the sentiment. 

"Just remember to stay close to me," he says, and adjusts his hold on his son's wrist. They're still on the edge of the crowd, but already people are moving in close around them: curious observers, not sure where to go; family searching out specific members of the crew; reporters who want to be everywhere at once. 

"I will," Sevin promises. "Don't worry, Father. You won't lose me." 

"I am not worried," he replies, which is mostly the truth. There just happens to be a lot on his mind, that is all. He cranes his neck and scans the crowd, trying to find the fastest, most efficient route through it. 

He catches sight of Nyota first, stuck in the middle of a small throng of her own. Her extended family flew in to California last week, Spock knows, to see her off. Ensign Chekov also has several people with him, probably his parents and grandparents, some younger people who may be siblings or cousins. They are speaking very quickly, and on top of each other. Lieutenant Sulu is having a more sedate conversation with his own parents, not far off. 

Spock notices other members of the crew as well, all in their dress uniforms for the occasion, surrounded by family and friends. He sees emotional conversations, teary goodbyes, hugging and kissing and other dramatic displays. Had he encountered this scene six years ago, he would have been overwhelmed by it. But his time on Earth and among Earth people has made him more accepting of their otherwise alien habits.  

His own father isn't here. Sarek had planned to come and see them off, but unexpected complications regarding the new colony kept him in Washington. In a way, this is a relief. What could they say to each other in this moment? What could they do? Goodbyes among Vulcans—the set phrases, the moments of silence, the final pause before parting when truth may finally be said—are different from goodbyes among humans and would be an oddity in this foreign place.

That's what he tells himself. Before he left for Starfleet, his father took him by the shoulders and said, "I cannot tell you I know this is the right choice, but I am proud of you," and that is what he remembers now. It is almost the only thing he remembers of his last day on his home planet, before he came to California for the first time. 

Spock takes another look across the dock and this time he finds the Captain, calmly and confidently answering questions from an overeager reporter. He's smiling, relaxed, obviously showing off his charm. A handsome young Captain, creating the sort of positive, upbeat headlines everyone wishes to read. He moves his hat under his arm, gestures widely, laughs brightly and the reporter laughs too, and Spock forces himself at last to look away. 

He notes, without surprise, that despite her promises, Winona Kirk is nowhere to be seen. He reads no malice into her absence, though he's not sure her son will do the same. More incapable of understanding and controlling her feelings than a Vulcan child, she hides from them in the safety of work and its formalities. The emotion of this moment would unnerve her. Of course she stays away. 

Off to the side, making up the edge of the crowd, is a group of Vulcans, awkward in their Terran clothes, uncertain of their own presence. The media must have learned quickly not to bother them—there is no uplifting story here—and so they wait and watch, undisturbed. To the humans, they must look somber. But Spock feels the curiosity that comes from them in gentle waves, and underneath that something that might be hope. 

He's about to turn away from them again, and finally find a path toward the ship, when one suddenly raises his hand to get Spock's attention, and Sevin calls out, "It's Soval!"  

So it is. 

Spock raises his hand in return, then forces a path through the disorganized mass of people to get to him. The crew who recognize him step aside. The spectators who see his uniform try to ask questions, get his attention, but he only waves them off. He has no time for tourists and onlookers, not today, and this many strangers this close to his son raises certain primal instincts. Eventually, he clears a small space, not far from the group of Vulcans, where Soval can meet them. Spock sees now that Senar is with him, and that he has their daughter in a sling against his chest. Spock's own son comes to stand in front of him, looking quietly, curiously, up, and Spock keeps him close with two hands on his chest: a protective Earth gesture he learned from his mother. Senar notices, tilts his head, but says nothing. 

"Spock," Soval greets him. "We did not truly expect we would get a chance to speak to you." His tone says the rest, what he need not say in words: But we are glad to have found you. 

"When we arrived and saw the number of people," Senar continues, "I calculated that it would be irrational even to attempt to locate you. Does the launch of one of your ships always attract such attention?" 

"One of our ships," Spock corrects. A Federation ship, and we are still Federation. "No. This is... unusual, even for a Constitution class vessel. I am pleasantly surprised—" 

"Is that your baby?" 

"Sevin!" Spock's voice takes on a slight sharpness and he looks to the others with apology. "Do not be rude." 

"I'm sorry, Father," he answers, and sounds it, but he doesn't stop staring up at Senar. Spock catches the two exchanging a glance.  

 "Yes," Senar answers, then, after the slightest of uncertain pauses, "This is our daughter, T'Prina." 

Sevin cranes his neck, up on his toes now trying to see her face. Spock's subtle attempts to keep him down do nothing, but Soval, at least, seems amused and Senar is trying to pretend he does not notice. "Father told me she was born," Sevin is saying. "She doesn't mind all the noise and the people?" 

Spock notices Senar look to his husband again, just for a moment, before he answers, "Not yet." In those two words, Spock reads how wary he is, how uncertain of his own decision to bring his child here, surrounded by the Earth people who make him so nervous, and Spock wonders for a moment if Soval had to convince him to come, if they fought. But no. Senar is too curious. He doesn't entirely trust the people crowding around them. But he isn't eager to leave, either. And he seems confident at least in this: that if he keeps his daughter close, no one can harm her, and if he keeps his own mind calm, she will feel it through his skin and be calm too. 

"Spock," Senar addresses him suddenly, and he startles, wondering if he's been caught staring too. But it's been only a moment, only the slightest pause. "May I speak to Sevin for a moment?" 

What he means is, may Soval speak to you for a moment?, but Spock appreciates the phrase. He lets Sevin go. "Do not wander too far," he warns. "Stay with Senar." 

"I will, Father," Sevin promises, with admirable politeness, given how many times he's heard a variant on this 'be safe' message today. They take a few steps away but stay within Spock's line of sight. He can only hope the crush of well-wishers won't utterly swallow them up. 

"Thank you," Soval says, then, his voice a bit lower and quieter now. "I only want a few words, especially as I do not know when I will see you again." 

Spock opens his mouth to say that they certainly will meet again: when the colony is ready for habitation, when the Enterprise is called upon to visit it, as she most certainly will—but that is not what Soval means. Or rather, it is exactly what he means. The day when he and his family are finally able to call another planet named Vulcan home seems impossibly far away. Nothing Spock can say will bring it closer, or take it from the distant daydream plane on which it exists into the real and the certain. So he falls back on an old phrase, instead, a formula because that is all he knows for moments like these. "I appreciate the chance to say goodbye." 

Soval inclines his head. He has never looked more Vulcan, nor, because of the setting, more foreign. "Spock," he says, voice quiet but still audible despite the noise around them, "I have a favor to ask you." 

Spock glances to his left, where Senar and Sevin are talking. A couple of rowdy ensigns jostle closer, and Senar frowns at them, disapproving. He takes Sevin's wrist to pull him a step closer, then doesn't let go, just in case. 

"Of course," he answers. He wonders if Soval can hear, over the sound of shouted greetings mingling with lengthy goodbyes, what is underneath the simple words. He seems to. Spock thinks that he does, in the way he steps forward slightly, the secret-low pitch of his voice, how he does not seem embarrassed by his own hesitance.  

"I know you are aware of how difficult living in San Francisco is for us," he says. "Not just because it is so different from home—" Soval hesitates, faltering over the last word, and Spock feels an ugly second-hand embarrassment welling up in him again. He wants to look away. "We are too isolated. We have found other survivors in the city and the Federation gives us what resources it can but...even after a year, it is triage. Sharing information seems to be the last priority of the aid workers, the volunteers...or perhaps they have nothing to tell us. The Council is on the other side of the country. Your news programs speak of our people in only the vaguest of terms—Spock."  

He reaches out one hand, drops it quickly before he can grab on to Spock's sleeve. He swallows down the desperation Spock was starting to hear in his voice. If he thinks that Spock is judging him, if he thinks that Spock has looked away out of disdain or disgust, he is wrong; it was only the word your that tripped him, how Soval sees Earth as Spock's planet, its people as his people. As simple a word in Vulcan as in Standard, it must have slipped right off his tongue; he did not notice. But Spock noticed. And from that point fans out everything else Soval has told him, a vast wasteland of nothingness, no information and no future and no anchor for himself or his husband or their child. He wants to reach out, too. He wants to send his thoughts from his mind right to his friend's, or at least touch skin to skin and let him feel whatever reassurance he can find in himself to give. But he holds back. 

"I know there is little you can do," Soval concedes. "But you have many more connections than either Senar or I do. If you hear anything from your father, or from Starfleet..." 

What he is asking is so little. Yet he cannot seem to hide his guilt, or, beneath it, mixed in with it, his worry and his fear. Spock glances to the side again, to their families, and sees that Senar has crouched down now to introduce his little girl to Sevin, and the scene looks so much of a piece with the rest of the interactions around it, family reunions preceding long goodbyes, that Spock could almost forget just how out of place his people are. 

"Soval," he answers, "I will not forget your family. I cannot. Whatever information I receive that I may share, I promise I will." 

There is nothing in Vulcan, no words and no gesture, to convey the depth of his sincerity; he has only the tone of his voice, the subtle notes he knows no human ear could catch. Soval hears them. He inclines his head and murmurs, "Thank you," and Spock knows there is more he wishes to say, but cannot. The space docks are loud with conversation, people who speak because they cannot stand the silence, because they want to put off the final moment of goodbye, and in this moment Spock understands them. He cannot stand this silence either. 

"You will find a home on New Vulcan," he says. It is more platitude than promise, but all he can offer. "Our people have survived worse than this." 

"Have we?" Soval answers, and looks up. Not even during their engagement did Spock see an expression so open or emotions so clear on his face. He has taken down his barriers. Even without skin to skin contact, in a space as crowded as this, surrounded by so many humans with no sense of themselves, bursting with the feelings they share so indiscriminately, he must feel everything. He must feel, in a sense, connected to everyone. But when Spock looks at him, he sees a man apart. 

He opens his mouth to answer but before he can, a loud shout reaches him: "Spock! Come here for a moment! They want to take a picture of the whole bridge crew!" 

Kirk's voice. A part of him is annoyed at the interruption, another part, simply relieved.  

He hesitates only to glance at Sevin, but Soval notices and says quickly, "We will keep him safe. In a few minutes, I assume you will be ready to leave." The last sentence veers toward a question, and Spock nods. 

"Yes," he answers. "I will be in touch." The sentiment is an echo of their last goodbye, on Vulcan, but this time he will not let the promise lapse. 

With some reluctance, he steps back and joins the crew where they are gathered a few yards away, getting into position for their photo. Kirk is standing in the second row, in the center, McCoy and Nyota on either side of him, Scott and Chekov and Sulu huddled in front. He waves Spock forward and then makes a space for him to his right, next to Nyota. When Spock is in place, Kirk puts one arm around his shoulder loosely.  

Spock's spine turns rigid, and his muscles tense. He looks straight ahead. He tries to disconnect. But the photographer urges them closer together, and the press of his side against Kirk's, the movement of Kirk's arm down to rest just above his hips, all bring him right back to himself—right here to this humid San Francisco summer, to these crowded space docks—fully aware, hyper-aware, of every point of contact between them. 

"You okay?" Kirk murmurs to him.  

The photographer takes his first picture: a brief flash, underscored by an unintelligible, encouraging yell. 

"Affirmative," he answers, no more than an outtake of breath. 

These pictures will be in the history books. Even if they fail, they will fail spectacularly; they will fail because their ambition was too great. Even if they fail, they will be remembered. 

Then Jim asks him, "You think we're ready for this, Spock?" and he wants to ask ready for what? because the question could mean so many things.