igrab
in
grabi_hands
With a Little Help from My Friends [Eleanor Rigby]
[Masterpost]
Vulcan discipline, even for children, is, of course, perfectly logical.
In penalty for whatever transgression the child has committed, he is then forced to sacrifice recreation time to utilize his skills for the benefit of the school.
The punishment is in the ennui.
•
There is a new person in the 'disciplinary cleaning committee', as this small boy likes to describe it. All Vulcan children have a tendency to look the same in their uniform haircuts, uniform academic garments, Vulcan eyebrows and Vulcan ears. But the similarities only serve to make their differences stand out in greater detail - and the memory is drawn to the shape of the eyes, the length of noses, the curve of small lips and the comparable heights at which they stand.
Gaan has always stood out with an uncomfortable amount of distinction.
He is the only child in the room who has chosen to be there, though he is sure that no one knows that. The adults assume that he would not be here if he didn't have to be - that is the logical assumption. To the other children, he has always been there, and it would be considered rude to ask what one has done to merit inclusion to this 'club'.
Gaan chooses to be here because it is quiet, and there are fewer people, and they do not attempt to communicate with him. He has already had too many problems with Vulcan curiosity, and the silence of the room feels something like comfort. He does not mind the boredom.
Alternatively, when the new boy reports for duty, it would not be required to ask what he had done, because everyone already knows. Even Gaan, who does not participate in the verbal exchange of topical information, is already aware of what happened.
Spock, the boy who is only half-Vulcan, physically assaulted a classmate.
No one believes that it was unprovoked, but no one brings this knowledge up in his defense, either. The other children turn their faces away as if they do not see him, carry on as if they do not hear him, and speak as if he is not there.
Gaan feels sympathy for the boy with the human eyes.
He has one friend, a boy two years older than him by the name of Sohar. He does not know how this happened, for it certainly was not anything he did. Sohar was a frequent presence in the Disciplinary Cleaning Committee, and, to Gaan's astonishment, he had drawn in close like a moth to the flame and laid out, quite logically, why they were now friends.
"We share a common enemy, and I have determined that you do not have the necessary defenses to withstand prolonged attack. I offer myself in the terms of an alliance, that we may both benefit from each other's company."
His smile had been like quicksilver, and Gaan did not respond. Sohar took this answer to be favorable.
As always, even now, he is close by, never farther than the arm could reach. Even at a young age, Vulcans are taught never to stand too close to each other, but Sohar had demonstrated an unusually high resistance to this concept. Gaan has always been grateful for this. It does not seem logical, to him, to close oneself off from a method of communication that is much more thorough and precise than the spoken word.
Their hands brush together as they both reach for the same cloth, and a quick exchange passes between them.
Spock. I heard he gave Saval a thorough beating.
Saval deserved every hit of it.
His eyes are so lost.
I'm going.
Sohar stands, and moves as if with purpose to another console for cleaning, but his hand 'accidentally' brushes against Spock's shoulder.
I want to be your friend.
Spock stares, disbelief clearly etched into his eyes. The word had no clear definition, and it was not in any book of Vulcan language, but it was a child's word that permeated the vernacular. It implied a sense of mutual respect, understanding, and a wish to spend recreation time together in a pleasant and fulfilling manner. Spock clearly did not believe that Sohar's intentions were pure, despite the inability to lie through telepathy. Distrust was illogical, but not unreasonable, given his recent experience.
'After school.' Sohar forms the words with his mouth but does not speak. 'We will find you.'
Gaan covers a small smile with one hand. Sohar was atypical, but not unpredictable. He was honored to call him 'friend'.
•
Dzharel stopped, looking up the stairs with something like the expression of concern.
There was a pretty lady on his doorstep, and she was crying.
He set the groceries down as his thick boots cleared the last of the stairs, then sank down to a crouch, his face impassive as he peered at her. She was one of Spock's friends, he knew that much, and her name was Nyota. But aside from that, she was a total stranger, and he couldn't empathize with the tears running down her face, or whatever it was that made them do so.
She looked up when she heard him moving, and for a long minute, she tried to get a handle on herself, to put up a brave face.
He reached out, and squeezed her shoulder with a gloved hand. "Anything you want to talk about?"
Uhura smiled through her tears, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. "No... no. It's all right. Really, very... logical." She tried not to sigh, tried not to let all this get to her, but she'd become emotionally invested, and even when she knew better, she couldn't help the way she felt.
Dzharel's eyebrow went up at the use of the word 'logical'. "All right, so it's something to do with Spock." Then he realized he was prying, and held his hands up in a human gesture of supplication, before standing. "I don't need to know. But if you need anything, well-"
"You're not very Vulcan, are you?" she said abruptly, looking up at him with big, dark eyes.
He was startled by the question - he shouldn't've been, but it had been a long time since someone knew enough about Vulcans to understand. He nodded, a few dreads falling over his shoulder. "Well. Sometimes a person has to adapt, to survive." He cocked an eyebrow. "Know what I mean?"
"Maybe." She sniffed, and wiped her fingertips at the edge of her eyes, sighed when saw the evidence of smeared makeup. "So you were... a lot different, a long time ago?"
"Well... different enough." He sat down; the groceries could wait. "I've changed more than Spock has, and I have to say I'm surprised."
"Oh?" She leaned forward, pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned on them. "...Tell me about him?"
"...Heh." If it would take her mind off the pain, he was glad to help. "Well, we met in detention..."
•
Gaan waits outside of the schooling center, his hands clasped nervously behind his back. Sohar is close, close enough to touch, though his own hands are much more neatly folded. They stand here every day, but this day is different, this day they are not only waiting for one - but two.
The first to arrive is T'Lis. She is Sohar's bondmate, and they are close - closer than most Vulcan children, but she has always maintained that a close friendship with one's future husband is perfectly logical. Sohar has an unfortunate habit of believing everything she says. Gaan is amused, and he likes to watch them. His parents had not chosen him a mate.
Sohar tells her why they are waiting, and one of her slanted Vulcan eyebrows arches further. "You wish to form a friendship with the half-human?" Her words do not hold any kind of bias for or against the possibility. Gaan knows from experience that she will most likely approve - if Sohar can prove his reasoning.
"...You know as well as I that Saval is no friend to us, or him." He flicks his eyes back to Gaan and the corner of his mouth turns up in a quick, reassuring motion that he is being thought of. "Gaan believes him to be in need of a friend. I agree with him."
Gaan turns slightly greenish as T'Lis turns piercing black eyes onto him. It is not that he does not trust her, but rather, he does not trust her quite so much as he trusts Sohar. She does not wish to open her mind to him, to let him touch her, and he cannot understand her.
"I have little choice; he is coming."
And so he was. He was smaller than most of the Vulcan children his age; his face rounder, his eyes bigger and so much deeper. They flitted nervously from person to person, but it was the only sign of his inner turmoil, of what swirled and knotted in his heart in reaction to his own loss of control.
He notices what they say and do not say about him, and he does not react, does not flinch from their cool empty avoidances.
"Spock." Sohar calls out, and to his credit, he does not jump, does not react. He freezes, though, and his eyes dart up to lock on to his face. "See? I said we would find you."
Gaan watches as his beautiful human eyes pass over each of their faces, studying, memorizing. "What is it you wish of me?"
"We wish..." And everyone is staring at him, Sohar and T'Lis and Spock, too, though he could not have known how little Gaan speaks aloud. Or maybe he has, maybe he hears the whispers of the one with the gray eyes who listens, but doesn't talk, who doesn't understand questions, who fails all his tests and won't say why. "...Friendship." He is sure he has the word right, though his voice is dry and quiet.
Sohar reaches out and squeezes his elbow, and it's like a jolt of feeling - ProudHappyGood - and his hands tighten, behind his back. He does not know what Spock will say, if he can begin to understand.
Gaan wants this. Gaan wants more than a protector and a confidant. Gaan wants more than sympathy, he wants empathy, and something in Spock's soulful black eyes is telling him that this is someone who will know what it means to be different.
•
They surfaced from the vision with mixed reactions. Spock looked placid, as always, but one eyebrow a centimeter higher than the other said all the 'Fascinating' that he was thinking. McCoy's eyebrows, on the other hand, looked like they were trying to book a starship flight away from his face, and Jim looked... amused, mostly. He shot a look at Spock and the grin spread, and Spock felt something turn over in his stomach. It was disconcerting.
Gaan rose from the floor, his fingers pulling at a loose thread on his soft, drab-colored shirt. "More later. Dzharel is here." And, sure enough, the moment the words slid from his mouth, the door opened, and in swept a Dzharel, an Uhura, and food.
They had dinner in the style of a picnic, on the open floor of one of the rooms. Dzharel had a lot of questions - What happened when you joined Starfleet? What's your ship like? When did you all meet?
It was that last question that had them all looking uneasily at each other, and Gaan, sensing the tension in the room, moved his head in a subtle shake. Dzharel nodded. "...We don't have to talk about that now," he said, taking a slice of bread with gloved hands and spreading it with a spicy paste that the humans found almost too much. Well, not for Kirk, who made a practice of drinking fire sauce, but Uhura proceeded with caution and Bones avoided it altogether. "Tell a story. Any story."
Spock looked at Jim, and Jim raised an eyebrow, and Spock pursed his lips, to which Kirk's answer was a smirk. It was all the prep they needed before launching into their story.
"So there's this bogus test, at the Starfleet Academy-"
"It is not bogus, it is a test designed to monitor a potential captain's-"
"You know, by the way, that test was really easy to hack, I hope you upped the security on-"
"Boys." Dzharel cut them off, his face stretched in a wide smirk. "One at a time, one at a time. Go ahead, Spock."
"Thank you," Spock said dryly, though he was still glaring daggers at his captain. "I programmed a test called the Kobayashi Maru. It is a simulation designed to-"
"-it's fucking ridiculous, that's what it is-"
"-designed to be unwinnable." Spock glared at Kirk even more harshly, now, and he held a hand up in a very clear 'don't hurt me' sort of way. But he was smiling, and he shut up. "Thank you. Now, I had programmed the test without incident for four years, when Jim came along..."
"...I took the test three times." This time, it was a seamless flow, the story moving from one to the other in a conscious synchronization. Dzharel was fascinated by the abrupt, yet seamless change from fierce argument to perfect partnership. "Lost the first two times like a good boy, but the third time, I was ready to fight-"
"You cheated," and they were back to arguing again.
"-and yeah, I cheated. I hacked your program, which, by the way, sucked ass, and I changed the conditions of the test..."
"...And then you got called in front of the academy board and were very nearly kicked out of Starfleet-"
"-and I got to see your pretty face for the first time, lucky me-"
"-and we were interrupted by a distress call. Jim, I really have no idea how you ended up as a Captain, even what with everything that happened." He raised an eyebrow at said Captain, cocking his head in a familiar questioning manner.
"Sexual favors," Jim said easily, not missing a beat. "Ever since Nero, Admiral Pike likes it rough."
There was a long, stunned silence around the table; did he just say that?
Bones was the first to break it, smacking his hand to his forehead. "Thanks, Jim, now I need brain bleach..."
Uhura rolled her eyes. "You're disgusting, you know that?"
Spock made an exasperated noise, but his attention had been caught by something else - at the name 'Nero', both his old friends had stiffened in their chairs. They did a good job of remaining impassive, but Spock knew that tense line between neck and shoulders, and was quite aware it had not been there a minute prior. He said nothing, though, and lapsed back into the pattern of the conversation seamlessly.
"I do not believe Admiral Pike would have allowed his base desires to eradicate the need for professionalism; in fact, the logical course of action would be to take the 'favor', and... proceed with your demotion." The light smile he wore was not physically indicative of a teasing manner, but it was the expression he wore when he was teasing - and he could see the sparkle in Kirk's eyes as he understood this, the twitch of his lips.
"You sure know how to make a pretty insult, Spock," Kirk drawled with a lift of his eyebrows that was decidedly not G-rated. "Care to put your money where your mouth is?"
"If you're inquiring whether I would like to place a bet on the nature of your relationship with Captain Pike, I will gladly inform you that it is not a subject about which I care enough to involve currency. However, if you are merely talking to instigate meaningless banter, I must say, it is not up to your usual standards." Spock enjoyed being long-winded. It had started a long time ago, to confuse those he considered intellectually beneath him. Starfleet had only encouraged this sort of verbal obstacle course, as the difference between Vulcan communication and Human was more pronounced. When he'd met James Kirk, he had been utterly surprised at the man's ability to keep up with him - and, in turn, his determination to... 'see through the bullshit', as it were. This had only served to provoke him to greater convolutions of the Standard language, and in some way, he felt appreciation for the chance to expand his vocabulary.
Kirk gave him one of his famous Looks, the one that said 'You are so fired', hypothetically, of course. "Yeah, well. You've upped the standard for general jackassery, I think I'm allowed time to adjust."
Spock made a great show of checking his communicator for the time. "I will allow you three Earth minutes with which to adequately formulate a clever comeback."
Kirk grinned. "I'll do it in two."
•
They slept on the floor, on thick cushions with a heavy weight of woven blankets. Spock noticed that their pattern and color seemed to suggest Romulan make, though he did not broach the subject. He waited, until Kirk and Uhura and McCoy had fallen asleep.
Dzharel and Gaan were out on the porch, sharing a padded chair, wrapped together in a warm blanket. This one was thin and had a faded geometric design; it was clearly well-worn, and it had long outlived its functionality for the preservation of heat. It was quite obvious that it was only used out of deep personal attachment.
Spock did not blame them in the slightest. The pattern was, unlike the unfamiliar warm blankets covering his human friends, definitively Vulcan.
Gaan's head was tucked into Dzharel's shoulder, and his eyes were closed in the warm innocence of sleep. The other was looking out, over the city, and while he did not move as Spock stepped up beside him, hands folded in a respectful gesture, it was understood that he was aware of his presence.
"Tell me what happened," the dreadlocked Vulcan murmured, and his voice betrayed nothing, implied nothing. For all the world he might have been speaking of any number of trivial events, but was that lack of intonation that indicated how personally invested he was in this discussion.
Dzharel's speech patterns had not escaped his notice. 'Forced' was not the correct word to use, but perhaps 'calculated' was, and it was not difficult to reason out why he had enacted the change. His style of dress, his words, and the manner with which he carried himself pointed to one simple fact - only supported by the point of origin of much of his possessions. Dzharel, and likely Gaan as well, had spent a great deal of time with Romulans.
But he was not Romulan, and as much as he had outwardly altered himself to appear so, there was something about him that was still distinctly, definitively Vulcan. And when he dropped the carefully crafted lilt of intonation that implied a range of emotion, his true nature was obvious - his true, Vulcan nature.
Spock tilted his head down, and his hands tightened at his back. "We received the distress call during Jim's hearing," he murmured, his own voice flat and toneless. "Being that our primary forces were occupied elsewhere, the newest flagships were manned with cadets from the Academy. Jim was not supposed to be one of them."
"But he found a way." Dzharel's eyes flickered up to cock an eyebrow at him. "I can already determine the depths at which his stubborn nature is rooted."
"Quite deep," Spock murmured in return, and his own eyebrow answered. "It is as you suspect. Due to a minor miscalculation on the part of our new pilot, the Enterprise was... delayed." His mouth quirked as he remembered, how Sulu had been so nervous at the helm of a real starship, for the first time. He had been too wound with tension to be sympathetic at the time, but he had made his apologies, later. Sulu had expressed only gratitude that his superior officers had seen fit to overlook his error. Spock remembered, with fondness, the helmsman's genuine concern at the matter, and his own awkward assurance that starship captains, like anyone else, are not unreasonable.
"He burst onto the bridge like a sandstorm, sweeping everyone up into his whirlwind of thought. 'A trap', he spoke of. 'We are flying into a trap'. Of course, what he said, at first, seemed to be insanity. But he proved his case with logic, and I could not find fault with it." He paused, his eyes still permanently affixed to a crack in the stone balcony. "Lieutenant Sulu's mistake - and Jim's perseverance - saved our lives."
Dzharel was staring straight ahead as he listened, his eyes, perhaps, not seeing the horizon, but a memory. "The rumors of the Enterprise spread far and wide," he murmured, "Particularly to those listening carefully, for information of his home planet."
A silence moved between them, a mutual grief, an aching for the place they would always think of as 'home'.
"I watched," Spock whispered, and this time, his voice was low and quiet and soft with emotion. "Nero contacted our ship, and he spoke to me. He left us alive, because he wanted me to watch."
"...I see." Dzharel looked at him now, his eyebrow rising. He did not ask why, and Spock did not offer the information. It was strictly confidential, after all, and he had a very strange feeling that Dzharel already knew.
"I beamed down to the planet, to evacuate the High Council."
"...Successfully?" Dzharel did not sound eager for the confirmation, but Spock knew that he was. He also knew that his next words would be painful, both for himself, and for his dear friend.
"Almost." His voice was near a whisper, now. "As we were in the process of beaming, the ground beneath my mother's feet gave way. She... fell to her death."
There was no Vulcan restraint, no repression in his face in reaction to those words. The eyes widened, lips parted and his hands tightened in the blanket where they lay. "Amanda..."
"...My mother is dead." It did not get any easier to say those words. "My father is on New Vulcan, with the majority of the High Council."
"I am grateful," he murmured, but the words that he formed with his mouth were not the words he said. What he said was 'I can't believe she's dead.' What he said was 'My heart hurts.'
Spock pressed his lips together. He had allowed himself to grieve. He would not allow himself to grieve a second time. His mother would not have wanted him to be sad.
"...I was convinced to remain in Starfleet, and to continue serving with my captain. I do not regret this, though I wish there was more I could do for our people."
Dzharel gave him a steady, pained look. "Spock, has anyone ever told you that you have a heart of gold?"
"I do not think that would be biologically possible; but I understand the expression. No. I have never been complimented on... the quality of my emotions."
Dzharel shook his head, sighing. "I have always looked up to you. Vulcans have given you nothing but hurt and pain and intolerance. You have spent your entire life in a struggle to prove yourself, as a Vulcan and as a person, and even the wisest Council elders would not recognize you for your efforts. The logical response, to such oppressive stimuli, would be... at the least, disdain." A dry chuckle escaped his throat, a chuckle of disbelief and incredulity and something he surely learned only recently. "And yet... you still, even now, would do anything in your power to help this race that has scorned you." He swallowed, and his arms tightened around the sleeping body in his lap. "You are a paragon, Spock. The admiration I feel cannot be expressed."
Spock had tried to pretend the words weren't getting to him, but he ultimately conceded, and a slow, reluctant smile moved his lips. "I am touched," he murmured, "and honored. That you hold me in such high regard."
"I will never have your moral fiber, Spock. In all the years I shall live." His voice trembled, and Spock was sure it was mostly grief, at Amanda's untimely death, and perhaps in surprise at the proof of Spock's dedication to his people.
"You will not," he murmured, stating what was simply the truth. "As we are two very different people. I am Spock. You are Sohar."
Dzharel smiled up at him, naked emotion in his eyes. "It has been a long time since I was called that."
Spock returned it, barely moving his lips. "I admit to feeling happiness, that you chose to keep the nickname affectionately bestowed by my mother. It has always suited you well."
"Thank you," and when Dzharel's face schooled over into Vulcan passivity, Spock saw it for what it was - a motion of respect, and dignity. "I am honored, by your opinion of me."
"As it should be."
Spock remained outside with his two friends, silently enjoying the companionship as he watched the stars. When the night became too cold for him, he bowed, and took his leave politely.
He spent the night meditating, on the curious light that Dzharel seemed to see him in. Logic seemed to have no clear answer to this. On one hand, it was logical, to respond to negative history in a negative manner. But it was also logical to put this history aside, and cultivate an attitude that looked towards the future. Either was viable.
But it seemed his heart was able to answer this question, and when the answer arrived, it was surprisingly simple.
Despite all that had transpired, he loved Vulcan. He loved his people, and his dedication came not from a sense of duty, but from love.
It was very similar to the reasons he continued to serve aboard the Enterprise. It was out of love, not duty, that he felt drawn to these people, these bonds of friendship that had formed. It was from love that he drew his strength, for love that he continually experienced a need to perform admirably. He had been told to put aside logic and follow his heart, but perhaps that was not precisely the case.
Given the circumstances, the logical course of action... was to go where his heart told him to be. And logic could not be faulted.
→ In My Life
Vulcan discipline, even for children, is, of course, perfectly logical.
In penalty for whatever transgression the child has committed, he is then forced to sacrifice recreation time to utilize his skills for the benefit of the school.
The punishment is in the ennui.
•
There is a new person in the 'disciplinary cleaning committee', as this small boy likes to describe it. All Vulcan children have a tendency to look the same in their uniform haircuts, uniform academic garments, Vulcan eyebrows and Vulcan ears. But the similarities only serve to make their differences stand out in greater detail - and the memory is drawn to the shape of the eyes, the length of noses, the curve of small lips and the comparable heights at which they stand.
Gaan has always stood out with an uncomfortable amount of distinction.
He is the only child in the room who has chosen to be there, though he is sure that no one knows that. The adults assume that he would not be here if he didn't have to be - that is the logical assumption. To the other children, he has always been there, and it would be considered rude to ask what one has done to merit inclusion to this 'club'.
Gaan chooses to be here because it is quiet, and there are fewer people, and they do not attempt to communicate with him. He has already had too many problems with Vulcan curiosity, and the silence of the room feels something like comfort. He does not mind the boredom.
Alternatively, when the new boy reports for duty, it would not be required to ask what he had done, because everyone already knows. Even Gaan, who does not participate in the verbal exchange of topical information, is already aware of what happened.
Spock, the boy who is only half-Vulcan, physically assaulted a classmate.
No one believes that it was unprovoked, but no one brings this knowledge up in his defense, either. The other children turn their faces away as if they do not see him, carry on as if they do not hear him, and speak as if he is not there.
Gaan feels sympathy for the boy with the human eyes.
He has one friend, a boy two years older than him by the name of Sohar. He does not know how this happened, for it certainly was not anything he did. Sohar was a frequent presence in the Disciplinary Cleaning Committee, and, to Gaan's astonishment, he had drawn in close like a moth to the flame and laid out, quite logically, why they were now friends.
"We share a common enemy, and I have determined that you do not have the necessary defenses to withstand prolonged attack. I offer myself in the terms of an alliance, that we may both benefit from each other's company."
His smile had been like quicksilver, and Gaan did not respond. Sohar took this answer to be favorable.
As always, even now, he is close by, never farther than the arm could reach. Even at a young age, Vulcans are taught never to stand too close to each other, but Sohar had demonstrated an unusually high resistance to this concept. Gaan has always been grateful for this. It does not seem logical, to him, to close oneself off from a method of communication that is much more thorough and precise than the spoken word.
Their hands brush together as they both reach for the same cloth, and a quick exchange passes between them.
Spock. I heard he gave Saval a thorough beating.
Saval deserved every hit of it.
His eyes are so lost.
I'm going.
Sohar stands, and moves as if with purpose to another console for cleaning, but his hand 'accidentally' brushes against Spock's shoulder.
I want to be your friend.
Spock stares, disbelief clearly etched into his eyes. The word had no clear definition, and it was not in any book of Vulcan language, but it was a child's word that permeated the vernacular. It implied a sense of mutual respect, understanding, and a wish to spend recreation time together in a pleasant and fulfilling manner. Spock clearly did not believe that Sohar's intentions were pure, despite the inability to lie through telepathy. Distrust was illogical, but not unreasonable, given his recent experience.
'After school.' Sohar forms the words with his mouth but does not speak. 'We will find you.'
Gaan covers a small smile with one hand. Sohar was atypical, but not unpredictable. He was honored to call him 'friend'.
•
Dzharel stopped, looking up the stairs with something like the expression of concern.
There was a pretty lady on his doorstep, and she was crying.
He set the groceries down as his thick boots cleared the last of the stairs, then sank down to a crouch, his face impassive as he peered at her. She was one of Spock's friends, he knew that much, and her name was Nyota. But aside from that, she was a total stranger, and he couldn't empathize with the tears running down her face, or whatever it was that made them do so.
She looked up when she heard him moving, and for a long minute, she tried to get a handle on herself, to put up a brave face.
He reached out, and squeezed her shoulder with a gloved hand. "Anything you want to talk about?"
Uhura smiled through her tears, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. "No... no. It's all right. Really, very... logical." She tried not to sigh, tried not to let all this get to her, but she'd become emotionally invested, and even when she knew better, she couldn't help the way she felt.
Dzharel's eyebrow went up at the use of the word 'logical'. "All right, so it's something to do with Spock." Then he realized he was prying, and held his hands up in a human gesture of supplication, before standing. "I don't need to know. But if you need anything, well-"
"You're not very Vulcan, are you?" she said abruptly, looking up at him with big, dark eyes.
He was startled by the question - he shouldn't've been, but it had been a long time since someone knew enough about Vulcans to understand. He nodded, a few dreads falling over his shoulder. "Well. Sometimes a person has to adapt, to survive." He cocked an eyebrow. "Know what I mean?"
"Maybe." She sniffed, and wiped her fingertips at the edge of her eyes, sighed when saw the evidence of smeared makeup. "So you were... a lot different, a long time ago?"
"Well... different enough." He sat down; the groceries could wait. "I've changed more than Spock has, and I have to say I'm surprised."
"Oh?" She leaned forward, pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned on them. "...Tell me about him?"
"...Heh." If it would take her mind off the pain, he was glad to help. "Well, we met in detention..."
•
Gaan waits outside of the schooling center, his hands clasped nervously behind his back. Sohar is close, close enough to touch, though his own hands are much more neatly folded. They stand here every day, but this day is different, this day they are not only waiting for one - but two.
The first to arrive is T'Lis. She is Sohar's bondmate, and they are close - closer than most Vulcan children, but she has always maintained that a close friendship with one's future husband is perfectly logical. Sohar has an unfortunate habit of believing everything she says. Gaan is amused, and he likes to watch them. His parents had not chosen him a mate.
Sohar tells her why they are waiting, and one of her slanted Vulcan eyebrows arches further. "You wish to form a friendship with the half-human?" Her words do not hold any kind of bias for or against the possibility. Gaan knows from experience that she will most likely approve - if Sohar can prove his reasoning.
"...You know as well as I that Saval is no friend to us, or him." He flicks his eyes back to Gaan and the corner of his mouth turns up in a quick, reassuring motion that he is being thought of. "Gaan believes him to be in need of a friend. I agree with him."
Gaan turns slightly greenish as T'Lis turns piercing black eyes onto him. It is not that he does not trust her, but rather, he does not trust her quite so much as he trusts Sohar. She does not wish to open her mind to him, to let him touch her, and he cannot understand her.
"I have little choice; he is coming."
And so he was. He was smaller than most of the Vulcan children his age; his face rounder, his eyes bigger and so much deeper. They flitted nervously from person to person, but it was the only sign of his inner turmoil, of what swirled and knotted in his heart in reaction to his own loss of control.
He notices what they say and do not say about him, and he does not react, does not flinch from their cool empty avoidances.
"Spock." Sohar calls out, and to his credit, he does not jump, does not react. He freezes, though, and his eyes dart up to lock on to his face. "See? I said we would find you."
Gaan watches as his beautiful human eyes pass over each of their faces, studying, memorizing. "What is it you wish of me?"
"We wish..." And everyone is staring at him, Sohar and T'Lis and Spock, too, though he could not have known how little Gaan speaks aloud. Or maybe he has, maybe he hears the whispers of the one with the gray eyes who listens, but doesn't talk, who doesn't understand questions, who fails all his tests and won't say why. "...Friendship." He is sure he has the word right, though his voice is dry and quiet.
Sohar reaches out and squeezes his elbow, and it's like a jolt of feeling - ProudHappyGood - and his hands tighten, behind his back. He does not know what Spock will say, if he can begin to understand.
Gaan wants this. Gaan wants more than a protector and a confidant. Gaan wants more than sympathy, he wants empathy, and something in Spock's soulful black eyes is telling him that this is someone who will know what it means to be different.
•
They surfaced from the vision with mixed reactions. Spock looked placid, as always, but one eyebrow a centimeter higher than the other said all the 'Fascinating' that he was thinking. McCoy's eyebrows, on the other hand, looked like they were trying to book a starship flight away from his face, and Jim looked... amused, mostly. He shot a look at Spock and the grin spread, and Spock felt something turn over in his stomach. It was disconcerting.
Gaan rose from the floor, his fingers pulling at a loose thread on his soft, drab-colored shirt. "More later. Dzharel is here." And, sure enough, the moment the words slid from his mouth, the door opened, and in swept a Dzharel, an Uhura, and food.
They had dinner in the style of a picnic, on the open floor of one of the rooms. Dzharel had a lot of questions - What happened when you joined Starfleet? What's your ship like? When did you all meet?
It was that last question that had them all looking uneasily at each other, and Gaan, sensing the tension in the room, moved his head in a subtle shake. Dzharel nodded. "...We don't have to talk about that now," he said, taking a slice of bread with gloved hands and spreading it with a spicy paste that the humans found almost too much. Well, not for Kirk, who made a practice of drinking fire sauce, but Uhura proceeded with caution and Bones avoided it altogether. "Tell a story. Any story."
Spock looked at Jim, and Jim raised an eyebrow, and Spock pursed his lips, to which Kirk's answer was a smirk. It was all the prep they needed before launching into their story.
"So there's this bogus test, at the Starfleet Academy-"
"It is not bogus, it is a test designed to monitor a potential captain's-"
"You know, by the way, that test was really easy to hack, I hope you upped the security on-"
"Boys." Dzharel cut them off, his face stretched in a wide smirk. "One at a time, one at a time. Go ahead, Spock."
"Thank you," Spock said dryly, though he was still glaring daggers at his captain. "I programmed a test called the Kobayashi Maru. It is a simulation designed to-"
"-it's fucking ridiculous, that's what it is-"
"-designed to be unwinnable." Spock glared at Kirk even more harshly, now, and he held a hand up in a very clear 'don't hurt me' sort of way. But he was smiling, and he shut up. "Thank you. Now, I had programmed the test without incident for four years, when Jim came along..."
"...I took the test three times." This time, it was a seamless flow, the story moving from one to the other in a conscious synchronization. Dzharel was fascinated by the abrupt, yet seamless change from fierce argument to perfect partnership. "Lost the first two times like a good boy, but the third time, I was ready to fight-"
"You cheated," and they were back to arguing again.
"-and yeah, I cheated. I hacked your program, which, by the way, sucked ass, and I changed the conditions of the test..."
"...And then you got called in front of the academy board and were very nearly kicked out of Starfleet-"
"-and I got to see your pretty face for the first time, lucky me-"
"-and we were interrupted by a distress call. Jim, I really have no idea how you ended up as a Captain, even what with everything that happened." He raised an eyebrow at said Captain, cocking his head in a familiar questioning manner.
"Sexual favors," Jim said easily, not missing a beat. "Ever since Nero, Admiral Pike likes it rough."
There was a long, stunned silence around the table; did he just say that?
Bones was the first to break it, smacking his hand to his forehead. "Thanks, Jim, now I need brain bleach..."
Uhura rolled her eyes. "You're disgusting, you know that?"
Spock made an exasperated noise, but his attention had been caught by something else - at the name 'Nero', both his old friends had stiffened in their chairs. They did a good job of remaining impassive, but Spock knew that tense line between neck and shoulders, and was quite aware it had not been there a minute prior. He said nothing, though, and lapsed back into the pattern of the conversation seamlessly.
"I do not believe Admiral Pike would have allowed his base desires to eradicate the need for professionalism; in fact, the logical course of action would be to take the 'favor', and... proceed with your demotion." The light smile he wore was not physically indicative of a teasing manner, but it was the expression he wore when he was teasing - and he could see the sparkle in Kirk's eyes as he understood this, the twitch of his lips.
"You sure know how to make a pretty insult, Spock," Kirk drawled with a lift of his eyebrows that was decidedly not G-rated. "Care to put your money where your mouth is?"
"If you're inquiring whether I would like to place a bet on the nature of your relationship with Captain Pike, I will gladly inform you that it is not a subject about which I care enough to involve currency. However, if you are merely talking to instigate meaningless banter, I must say, it is not up to your usual standards." Spock enjoyed being long-winded. It had started a long time ago, to confuse those he considered intellectually beneath him. Starfleet had only encouraged this sort of verbal obstacle course, as the difference between Vulcan communication and Human was more pronounced. When he'd met James Kirk, he had been utterly surprised at the man's ability to keep up with him - and, in turn, his determination to... 'see through the bullshit', as it were. This had only served to provoke him to greater convolutions of the Standard language, and in some way, he felt appreciation for the chance to expand his vocabulary.
Kirk gave him one of his famous Looks, the one that said 'You are so fired', hypothetically, of course. "Yeah, well. You've upped the standard for general jackassery, I think I'm allowed time to adjust."
Spock made a great show of checking his communicator for the time. "I will allow you three Earth minutes with which to adequately formulate a clever comeback."
Kirk grinned. "I'll do it in two."
•
They slept on the floor, on thick cushions with a heavy weight of woven blankets. Spock noticed that their pattern and color seemed to suggest Romulan make, though he did not broach the subject. He waited, until Kirk and Uhura and McCoy had fallen asleep.
Dzharel and Gaan were out on the porch, sharing a padded chair, wrapped together in a warm blanket. This one was thin and had a faded geometric design; it was clearly well-worn, and it had long outlived its functionality for the preservation of heat. It was quite obvious that it was only used out of deep personal attachment.
Spock did not blame them in the slightest. The pattern was, unlike the unfamiliar warm blankets covering his human friends, definitively Vulcan.
Gaan's head was tucked into Dzharel's shoulder, and his eyes were closed in the warm innocence of sleep. The other was looking out, over the city, and while he did not move as Spock stepped up beside him, hands folded in a respectful gesture, it was understood that he was aware of his presence.
"Tell me what happened," the dreadlocked Vulcan murmured, and his voice betrayed nothing, implied nothing. For all the world he might have been speaking of any number of trivial events, but was that lack of intonation that indicated how personally invested he was in this discussion.
Dzharel's speech patterns had not escaped his notice. 'Forced' was not the correct word to use, but perhaps 'calculated' was, and it was not difficult to reason out why he had enacted the change. His style of dress, his words, and the manner with which he carried himself pointed to one simple fact - only supported by the point of origin of much of his possessions. Dzharel, and likely Gaan as well, had spent a great deal of time with Romulans.
But he was not Romulan, and as much as he had outwardly altered himself to appear so, there was something about him that was still distinctly, definitively Vulcan. And when he dropped the carefully crafted lilt of intonation that implied a range of emotion, his true nature was obvious - his true, Vulcan nature.
Spock tilted his head down, and his hands tightened at his back. "We received the distress call during Jim's hearing," he murmured, his own voice flat and toneless. "Being that our primary forces were occupied elsewhere, the newest flagships were manned with cadets from the Academy. Jim was not supposed to be one of them."
"But he found a way." Dzharel's eyes flickered up to cock an eyebrow at him. "I can already determine the depths at which his stubborn nature is rooted."
"Quite deep," Spock murmured in return, and his own eyebrow answered. "It is as you suspect. Due to a minor miscalculation on the part of our new pilot, the Enterprise was... delayed." His mouth quirked as he remembered, how Sulu had been so nervous at the helm of a real starship, for the first time. He had been too wound with tension to be sympathetic at the time, but he had made his apologies, later. Sulu had expressed only gratitude that his superior officers had seen fit to overlook his error. Spock remembered, with fondness, the helmsman's genuine concern at the matter, and his own awkward assurance that starship captains, like anyone else, are not unreasonable.
"He burst onto the bridge like a sandstorm, sweeping everyone up into his whirlwind of thought. 'A trap', he spoke of. 'We are flying into a trap'. Of course, what he said, at first, seemed to be insanity. But he proved his case with logic, and I could not find fault with it." He paused, his eyes still permanently affixed to a crack in the stone balcony. "Lieutenant Sulu's mistake - and Jim's perseverance - saved our lives."
Dzharel was staring straight ahead as he listened, his eyes, perhaps, not seeing the horizon, but a memory. "The rumors of the Enterprise spread far and wide," he murmured, "Particularly to those listening carefully, for information of his home planet."
A silence moved between them, a mutual grief, an aching for the place they would always think of as 'home'.
"I watched," Spock whispered, and this time, his voice was low and quiet and soft with emotion. "Nero contacted our ship, and he spoke to me. He left us alive, because he wanted me to watch."
"...I see." Dzharel looked at him now, his eyebrow rising. He did not ask why, and Spock did not offer the information. It was strictly confidential, after all, and he had a very strange feeling that Dzharel already knew.
"I beamed down to the planet, to evacuate the High Council."
"...Successfully?" Dzharel did not sound eager for the confirmation, but Spock knew that he was. He also knew that his next words would be painful, both for himself, and for his dear friend.
"Almost." His voice was near a whisper, now. "As we were in the process of beaming, the ground beneath my mother's feet gave way. She... fell to her death."
There was no Vulcan restraint, no repression in his face in reaction to those words. The eyes widened, lips parted and his hands tightened in the blanket where they lay. "Amanda..."
"...My mother is dead." It did not get any easier to say those words. "My father is on New Vulcan, with the majority of the High Council."
"I am grateful," he murmured, but the words that he formed with his mouth were not the words he said. What he said was 'I can't believe she's dead.' What he said was 'My heart hurts.'
Spock pressed his lips together. He had allowed himself to grieve. He would not allow himself to grieve a second time. His mother would not have wanted him to be sad.
"...I was convinced to remain in Starfleet, and to continue serving with my captain. I do not regret this, though I wish there was more I could do for our people."
Dzharel gave him a steady, pained look. "Spock, has anyone ever told you that you have a heart of gold?"
"I do not think that would be biologically possible; but I understand the expression. No. I have never been complimented on... the quality of my emotions."
Dzharel shook his head, sighing. "I have always looked up to you. Vulcans have given you nothing but hurt and pain and intolerance. You have spent your entire life in a struggle to prove yourself, as a Vulcan and as a person, and even the wisest Council elders would not recognize you for your efforts. The logical response, to such oppressive stimuli, would be... at the least, disdain." A dry chuckle escaped his throat, a chuckle of disbelief and incredulity and something he surely learned only recently. "And yet... you still, even now, would do anything in your power to help this race that has scorned you." He swallowed, and his arms tightened around the sleeping body in his lap. "You are a paragon, Spock. The admiration I feel cannot be expressed."
Spock had tried to pretend the words weren't getting to him, but he ultimately conceded, and a slow, reluctant smile moved his lips. "I am touched," he murmured, "and honored. That you hold me in such high regard."
"I will never have your moral fiber, Spock. In all the years I shall live." His voice trembled, and Spock was sure it was mostly grief, at Amanda's untimely death, and perhaps in surprise at the proof of Spock's dedication to his people.
"You will not," he murmured, stating what was simply the truth. "As we are two very different people. I am Spock. You are Sohar."
Dzharel smiled up at him, naked emotion in his eyes. "It has been a long time since I was called that."
Spock returned it, barely moving his lips. "I admit to feeling happiness, that you chose to keep the nickname affectionately bestowed by my mother. It has always suited you well."
"Thank you," and when Dzharel's face schooled over into Vulcan passivity, Spock saw it for what it was - a motion of respect, and dignity. "I am honored, by your opinion of me."
"As it should be."
Spock remained outside with his two friends, silently enjoying the companionship as he watched the stars. When the night became too cold for him, he bowed, and took his leave politely.
He spent the night meditating, on the curious light that Dzharel seemed to see him in. Logic seemed to have no clear answer to this. On one hand, it was logical, to respond to negative history in a negative manner. But it was also logical to put this history aside, and cultivate an attitude that looked towards the future. Either was viable.
But it seemed his heart was able to answer this question, and when the answer arrived, it was surprisingly simple.
Despite all that had transpired, he loved Vulcan. He loved his people, and his dedication came not from a sense of duty, but from love.
It was very similar to the reasons he continued to serve aboard the Enterprise. It was out of love, not duty, that he felt drawn to these people, these bonds of friendship that had formed. It was from love that he drew his strength, for love that he continually experienced a need to perform admirably. He had been told to put aside logic and follow his heart, but perhaps that was not precisely the case.
Given the circumstances, the logical course of action... was to go where his heart told him to be. And logic could not be faulted.
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