Spock was troubled.
His half human side had almost always drawn attention to him in some way. Teasing and attempts to elicit a negative emotional response from him had been quite common regarding others his age. Despite the fact that Vulcans were urged from the earliest point possible that they should maintain a strict control over their emotions and only give their attention to logic, his classmates seemed to almost delight in his extremely rare lapses of emotional control.
It was because he was half human, they implied. He was half human, which was somehow a disadvantage—in spite of this he refused to see his mother, his human side, as a disadvantage—and therefore inferior.
Spock had not always understood that concept. He had become accustomed to the fact that others believed it, however. He had endured such behavior throughout his life, from early ages at school to the point where he rejected—the first to dismiss his potential for the prestigious academy, a decision that further alienated him—the Vulcan science academy. Even there, conversing with a supposedly distinguished school board about his decision, it was obvious enough that others considered his half human side to be a disadvantage. They stated this outright with a blatant disregard for diplomacy.
(Or maybe they simply did not know that they had insulted him until he questioned as dryly as a Vulcan could about his "disadvantage" and refused the Academy.)
Spock dismissed the assumption that his human side was a disadvantage. He disagreed logically with it. His genes, in fact, had been meticulously sorted out so he received only the most superior of them: the "best of both worlds", so to speak.
He had obviously inherited his father's Vulcan intellect, bodily appearance, and general physiological makeup. His body was almost completely Vulcan down to blood but excepting his eyes, something that had also been a source of much ridicule and scathing comments. (And secretly, though he knew there was absolutely no logical reason to ponder the effects his emotions had on his eyes, he had, on occasion, felt a slight nervousness that they would betray him in some manner).
Amanda's human intuition allowed him to converse with humans a little more easily than most Vulcans might, and gave him a limited understanding—a very limited understanding, but an understanding—of human concepts and emotions. Sarek's teachings allowed him to control what emotions his human side might produce.
His human side was not a disadvantage. His Vulcan side was most definitely not. Together, they clashed almost constantly within him and sometimes caused more trouble than they were worth, but also managed to occasionally compliment each other.
Unfortunately, this particular instance was an example of the former. The two sides within him were battling possibly more violently than they ever had and were causing much grief.
He began to attempt to carefully sort out his thoughts and feelings, something he had attempted only once before when considering whether to advance to Starfleet or the Academy, the only other time where he had been so troubled.
His home planet had just been destroyed. This knowledge brought sadness.
His father had been saved, but his mother had not; she had been lost within two feet of his fingers. Illogical guilt that he had not been able to able to save her gnawed at his insides.
Around ten thousand Vulcans had survived, a tiny number compared to once six billion. He was now part of an extinct species.
He felt a stronger, more violent feeling of sadness that took several seconds to identify as despair.
He knew of the man, the being that had caused all of this. He knew that he was currently rebelling against the very strong urge to follow him. Purposefully searching for a battle in which they were outgunned, manned, and at a disadvantage in every possible way but surprise, was illogical. Logic always triumphed over feelings. Always.
Why, then, was he feeling like this? Currently, the only emotion strong enough to combat his sadness was his anger, fury even, with this man and an almost overwhelming desire to somehow… somehow negatively repay him for the damage he had done.
Granted, he supposed that the destruction of his home planet and one of his parents slightly warranted such emotion, but he did not understand why he couldn't control it. He'd had the time to seethe and sulk, and now it was time to come to the logical realization that the destruction of his planet was something that just happened, and it was illogical to dwell on it further when the thought only caused pain.
Also, he was captain now. He possessed neither the time nor the luxury of such a thing.
His hands, clasped behind his back as they normally were, tightened. His emotions and feelings crashed with increasing force against mental barriers and wore them down. He was uncertain, but if Spock were forced to pick a side, he would decide that his human side was most definitely getting out of control.
Whatever the outcome, it would most certainly be violent, and it could not happen on the bridge.
He looked around slowly to see if his constant presence was required. Logically, since the course to regroup with the rest of Starfleet had already been plotted and they were expecting no trouble, it was not. He gave a few orders in an even tone that were met with half hearted "yes, sir's" and cautious nods. Then he polished the look on his face that was filled with indifference he certainly did not feel, careful not to reveal the writhing mass of emotions inside him, and strode rigidly to the elevator.
His attuned ears picked up the noise of boots clicking on the floor behind him. Distracted as he was, Spock did not realize that they were lighter and neater than most of the other personnel until he saw the Lieutenant step into the elevator beside him.
He abruptly closed his mouth. He'd planned to greet whomever he encountered in the same even tone he had been using for the past few hours, one tailored specifically to discourage further conversation other than a polite or sympathetic, "Captain" as a response. It warned off inquiries and well meant sentiments that he found he did not enjoy at all.
As captain, he had been forced to accept that his crew simply felt sorry for him and endure them.
His expression did not change as the doors slid together. The elevator had been in motion for only 1.3 seconds before she reached across him and, unsurprisingly, pressed a button on the wall.
The elevator stopped.
Immediately, she turned to him, eyes shiny with tears. "I am so, so sorry." Her voice was thick with emotion.
It was an illogical thing to say. She had not done anything pertaining to his… emotional state, and therefore possessed no fault regarding the matter of his planet's destruction or his mother's—
His train of thought stumbled to a halt. Throughout the day he had received many similar statements, most of which he'd acknowledged with a stiff nod. Some of them he had not acknowledged at all.
He had eventually recognized the human desire to express sympathy through a phrase that normally expressed regret. He had no idea how to respond to it, however, and thought that the nod he'd utilized previously might seem too cold, so he simply blinked at her.
She rested her arms on his shoulders and leaned in, her eyes closing. In return Spock allowed his eyes to shut and felt warmth travel through him when she gently brushed her lips against his.
She pulled back; both opened their eyes. She stared at him for several seconds. Strangely, she seemed to be more distressed than he.
Spock breathed evenly. He found it increasingly difficult to keep his face free of emotion.
She hugged him and pressed the bottom half of her face into his shoulder. He returned the gesture obligingly, surprised at how comforting it was.
His grip on her tightened. In a corner of his mind that was still safe from the impending tsunami of emotion, he assessed his strength and kept it below acceptable parameters. Squeezing her too tightly would hurt, and he did not want that.
He rested his cheek against her shoulder, feeling the warning prick of tears behind his eyelids.
No. Crying was where he drew the line at emotional control.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he allowed the comfort and warmth he felt at her grip suffuse him, slosh around, and wash out as much of his emotion as he could.
When she pulled back, he was mostly composed. "What do you need?" she asked, and swallowed. Her voice wavered slightly. "Tell me, please. What do you need?"
He had the urge to take another breath under the illogical hope that it would help him regain control of himself. Stifling it, he responded crisply, "I need everyone to continue performing admirably."
She nodded, swallowing once more and quickly wiping a stray drop of moisture from the corner of her eye. "Okay. I... we can do that."
He nodded once in thanks as he reached over to set the elevator back in motion. They shared another swift, chaste kiss in the 3.8 seconds the elevator took to reach the deck.
The doors slid open; they quickly parted.
She spared a concerned glance and he left.