ONE

Spock stepped out of the principle transporter terminal in Central Seattle, Earth. A fierce gust of icy wind battered at his ribs and cryogenised his neck before he had any chance to rally his physical defences. He had been warned; it was cold, they had said, yet he had not fully understood the words. It's January, they had told him, unnecessarily, as he, like all Vulcans, had perfect time sense and certainly understood the Terran system of marking the months of the year. But none of the words had conveyed the full extent of it, to a Vulcan, in North America, in January. You remember, Amanda had said. We went there for Grandpa's sixtieth birthday. But that had been a long time ago and it had not, he was sure, been this cold on that occasion.

He moved purposefully towards the hover ranks, his holdall clutched in his left hand, his eyes skimming the indicator lights until he saw a free cab. He also saw another man approaching, a businessman judging by his apparel. A busy and efficient looking man. Spock deliberately and shamelessly summoned every ounce of combined Vulcan and Starfleet dominance and channeled it in its entirety through his eyes as he speared the opposition with his glance. The busy efficient man immediately found something very interesting to go and look at on the other side of the concourse; Spock stepped into the vacant cab and managed to stifle his sigh of relief as the freezing wind abruptly ceased. He keyed in his credit, and "583 Ayn Avenue," he said into the voice grill. The cab lifted and set off, and Spock leaned back in his seat and waited for his hands and nose to thaw.

He was aware of a low level hum of unease, for which he forgave himself, and he made little effort to deny or suppress it; it increased in volume as he stepped out of the cab at his destination and assumed the dimension of what he might have termed a panic in another, in a Terran; in someone other than himself.

He was at the gate.

The sharp cold helped him. It cooled him, calmed him, and gave him a focus as he drew all his shields close around him and retreated into his familiar sanctuary. Only then did he put his hand over the door alert and speak into the grill. "Spock here," he announced, aware of the possibility that his harsh, clipped and officious tone was entirely inappropriate for the occasion.

"Spock!" The high shrill greeting made him jump. "Mama," the voice became slightly distorted, as though the speaker was turning away from the indoor grill. "He's here! Grandma!" The gate swung slowly open, and he forced himself against all his flight instincts to step through into the broad graveled courtyard beyond. As his booted feet crunched across the neatly swept gravel, the big double door of the house opened and a young blond woman stepped out and smiled at him. "Spock," she said again, in her real unamplified voice this time. "Good to see you. Come in out of the cold, quickly. It's enough to freeze the…." As if remembering who she was talking to, she paused, her eyes widened, and then she beamed again more broadly. "Come on in, you must be cold."

Estelle. The younger twin. The sixteen minutes difference in age between Estelle and her older sister Georgia was entirely irrelevant to either woman, yet he knew it and therefore it was catalogued there in his mind. Twenty eight years and three months old. One of his cousins. "Estelle," he said, and bowed his head in greeting. Estelle moved aside and Spock stepped past her into the high ceilinged entrance hall of the house he remembered only distantly, from the two long-ago boyhood visits to his mother's girlhood home.

Something struck his leg from behind, and he staggered forward a little before regaining balance and equilibrium. "Proust!" Estelle shouted, inexplicably, until he realised that she was addressing a yellow coloured canid with shaggy curly fur and a flailing tail which threatened to do damage. "Sit! Spock," she went on, her voice softening at the second word, " I am so sorry – he was supposed to be shut away until you got settled. Do come and…"

"Spock? How are you?" A young man approached him with a wide smile and a hand outstretched. Dale. Cousin. Cousin to Estelle and Georgia. Son to his aunt Alice. The outstretched hand brooked no argument, and Spock cautiously reached out and shook it gently. He was aware out of the corner of his eye that Estelle was gesticulating fiercely with bared teeth and shaking head, which she tried unsuccessfully to change into a frantic smile when Spock turned to look at her. Even more confusingly, he could see that the young man was responding to her with equally bizarre expressions which he too then tried to conceal.

The canid leaned heavily against his leg and its tail slapped repeatedly against the holdall which was still clutched in his left hand. Spock found himself retreating into the state of alertness more normally associated with a red alert on his ship. The unpredictability of events here required every bit as much attention as a hostile attack from…

"Spock."

That was a voice he did recognise, and he turned towards his grandmother with the kind of relief that an inexperienced crew may feel when their Captain takes control during an unexpected alien bombardment. Evelyn Grayson seemed…. smaller than he remembered, and she leaned on a cane as she crossed the flagged hall, but it was her all the same. "Grandmother," he said. His voice croaked.

"Grandmother?" She came up close to him, halting only when her cane met the very tip of his toe. She raised her eyebrows. "Grandmother? Spock, it used to be Grandma."

His mouth opened. Then he closed it again and swallowed hard.

"Never mind," she said. "Come on through. I think you'll find that it's very much as you remember…" She continued speaking as she turned and moved towards the broad double doors which opened from the entrance hall, and the little group followed; Spock at her right elbow, Proust the golden canid prancing around them and knocking against his legs, and the young man and woman following on behind. The two spoke to each other in surreptitious hisses as they walked.

"I told you - they don't shake hands!"

"Jeeeez, Stelli, no-one's died. Just let it go."

"Oh for God's sake…."

Spock had sharp hearing.

"I am so sorry that Georgia couldn't be here when you arrived," his grandmother was saying as they moved into the large and airy drawing room. "She had to take the children to a birthday party. They'll be back soon. Clara, Owen, Spock's here." This last astonishingly unnecessary, in view of the highly audible excitement engendered by his arrival, but she was ever one for the courtesies. Spock's aunt, his mother's elder sister, rose to her feet and came towards him with both hands outstretched and a smile which, to his untutored eyes, looked completely genuine.

"Spock, how wonderful to see you again. And haven't you changed! You look so grown up! And how was Amanda when you left her? Was she well?"

"Ah," to his shame, Spock found himself involuntarily looking to his grandmother for support at this most unexpected of questions. No verbal support was forthcoming, but her eyes were encouraging and he continued. "I…. have not seen my mother for two years and 61 days. I came here direct from my ship." There was a pause, which no-one in the family filled, and so he filled it himself. "She was however well at my last tape from her, when we finalized my visit here."

This seemed to be the right thing to say, as the atmosphere melted and Clara's smile grew even broader. "Owen? She turned towards her husband, who stood, hands behind his back, and bowed his head slightly.

"Spock." His eyes met Spock's, who wondered if he'd imagined the merest of winks. He certainly didn't imagine his cousin's assertion of "There, Dale, that's how you're supposed to do it!"

"For God's sake Stelli…"

"Will you two stop it! Spock, do come and sit down. Proust, sit! Shall we have some coffee? Estelle, would you…? You can put your bag down anywhere, we'll show you your room in a minute. Owen, move along will you? Oh, thank you. Spock, do sit down." She patted the sofa next to her.

He perched on the edge of the sofa, and buried the burgeoning panic before it could take hold. The yellow canid – dog, that terminology would be expected of him - sat at his knee and stared up at him. Its tongue was hanging out. His uncle by marriage returned to some reading he had evidently been doing before Spock's arrival and paid no further attention to proceedings. A part of Spock's mind was appalled at the lack of courtesy to a family guest. Another part was profoundly relieved. Estelle, whom he had not noticed leave the room, re entered holding a tray bearing cups, a crystal jug and a plate with some kind of confection on it. Spock stared at it.

"Who'll have some coffee? Spock, I know you don't often take it – would you prefer water? Estelle, are you doing the honours – oh good, thank you, dear." And a potentially difficult moment was gone as though it had never been. The family busied itself with organizing the correct distribution of beverage, and the canid continued to sit by his knee and stare. "Spock, I am so glad you could come. Amanda was so unhappy that she couldn't be here, and it makes so much difference knowing that you're here in her place. It means a lot to all of us."

Estelle was offering him a piece of confection, and the refusal of the cake afforded Spock a moment or two to compose a reply to this speech, which he guessed, correctly, was of considerable import to his grandmother and had probably been planned. He turned sideways to face her. "It is an honour…Grandma," he said. He did not know whether her answering smile was in response to his statement or to his use of the childhood nomenclature, but clearly he had greatly pleased her with these five words. He decided to go for broke. "I remember my grandfather; he was a man of integrity and ….humanity. I regret his passing."

Spock slammed up his shields at the otherwise overwhelming wave of emotion his stilted speech had engendered, to the extent that he was unable to gauge the reaction of the family, but his grandmother's suddenly watery gaze fixed upon his face suggested that it had been judged appropriate. He nodded, unwilling to risk any further comments in case he blew what he'd gained so far; yet it didn't matter, as the family had taken his words as a signal to embark on reminiscences of Professor David Grayson, recently deceased, and the ensuing and upbeat conversation ranged around the room without his further contribution . Spock sat, his hands clasped together between his tightly closed knees, his back straight. He knew himself to be utterly exhausted. After only a few moments in the company of his family…..

The outside door burst open. Many footsteps sounded in the entrance hall. Proust the dog hurled himself wildly through the double doors out of the sitting room, barking repeatedly in a piercing pitch. "Proust!" It seemed to be a commonly used exclamation here. "Sit!" Proust took no more notice of the newcomer's command than he had of anyone else's since Spock's arrival and continued to shred Spock's nerves with his barking. He then returned once more through the sitting room doors, this time walking backwards, with a small female child attached to his neck. "Pooss!" she was squealing, in a pitch almost as injurious to his ears as the dog's barking. Unable to see, since he was staggering backwards with his face completely covered by the child, Proust complete with his flailing tail reversed towards an attractive low occasional table on which had been placed the tray with the cups, cakes and crystal jug. Probably Waterford, Spock reflected, even as Vulcan reflexes propelled him into an interception course between dog and coffee cups and food. He arrived at the table at the same time as the tail, and shielded the collection with his body, while one of the newcomers worked to haul dog and child away to safety. "Spock, you life saver! Thank you!" said the woman he remembered to be Georgia, sister to Estelle and the last of his three cousins. "How are you?" she went on, detaching her daughter from the dog's ears as she spoke.

Spock reflected that she probably did not really want him to tell her how he was at that moment. "I am well, Georgia, thank you. And…"

"I said I had a cousin who was a Vulcan and Greg said I couldn't cos Vulcan's are smart and I'm not smart but I have got one, a real one! Boy, wait til Greg sees you!"

"Finbar! That is very rude! Say hello nicely to Spock."

Boy and Vulcan faced each other in the centre of the room. Spock looked down at the ever widening eyes of the child in front of him. Finbar had apparently been struck dumb as the close proximity of a real Vulcan hit home, and Spock felt an illogical shaft of pity for the boy, required as he too had been so many times in the past to perform for assembled relatives. He used his eidetic memory to sort through Finbar's otherwise incomprehensible opening speech and made a stab at its meaning. "You can assure… Greg?... that you do indeed have a real Vulcan as a cousin, and that therefore you must be extremely… smart."

After a moment's worrying silence a gale of astonished laughter greeted his words, laughter from everyone except the little girl, who was still crossly trying to escape her mother's clutches and return to the dog, and Finbar, who gazed up at him with an expression which everyone but Spock could identify unmistakably as one of dawning hero-worship. No-one seemed to notice that he had not yet said hello nicely to his real Vulcan cousin, but it was presumably deemed unnecessary now. The dog was moved to safety, minus the child attachment, and Georgia and Estelle were discussing domestic details to do with meals and bed times. "Spock," said Evelyn Grayson, and as always the whole room listened. "Let's show you to your room. You must be tired." Neither the words nor the tone invited contradiction.

In the event, a veritable procession conducted Spock to his room. Dale leapt to offer, and Estelle was not going to be left out. Finbar seemed unwilling to permit more than one metre's distance to elapse between himself and his new-found cousin, so he too climbed the broad staircase. Proust would have brought up the rear, had it not been for Violet, who escaped her mother's clutches and took the stairs on all fours in pursuit of the madly excited golden retriever. Spock was so bewildered as to what was expected of him in the midst of what seemed to be a carnival in place of a family, that he retreated even more tightly into that place of safety which manifested, to all except those very few who knew him well, as the facially immobile and emotionally shuttered Perfect Vulcan.

None of them noticed. Estelle got there first and opened the door wide. "Here you are." She paused, and smiled excitedly at him. "It was Amanda's room!" She gestured for him to enter. He did so, noting the slightly old fashioned furnishings which denoted a room seldom used except for visitors. The space was wide and airy. The colours were bland and neutral. He moved towards the bed.

"Purr and miaow," said Finbar.

Spock turned to look at the small boy. He knew that he had done well with Finbar's last pronouncement, but this one was so utterly beyond him that he made no attempt even to try to translate. He simply allowed the Perfect Vulcan gaze to rest upon the child, and remained silent. Estelle however stepped into the breach.

"Sorry Spock, do you have any problem with cats? Proust! Out!"

The Perfect Vulcan gaze was transferred to the older cousin, just as silently. It was getting worse. He wondered if they were all in fact either going insane or, indeed, and quite possibly, had already got there. He further wondered why his mother had not even begun to hint at what was ahead of him when he had agreed to take her place at the memorial service. She had never mentioned these familial disabilities….

One of the cushions on the bed sat up, stretched, yawned and turned to look at him with wide baleful green eyes. The other cat, also not apparently a cushion after all, stretched itself as well and then shifted further into the space vacated by its fellow, without apparently waking. "Cats," said Spock, comprehension dawning. "You have cats."

"The black one's Purr and the stripy one's Miaow," said Finbar, helpfully. "Miaow scratches," he added.

An explanation; and his family were not insane as he had genuinely feared. Not as insane, at any rate, and all looking at him, apparently awaiting some kind of reply. He slowly shook his head. "I…have no problem with cats," he replied hesitantly. "At least," he appended, with honesty, "not as far as I am aware."

"I didn't know they'd got in. But they like it here, it's quiet. Well," Estelle smiled at him again, "at least, it was."

It was dawning on Spock that Estelle, and indeed all of his Human family here assembled, were doing their very best to make him welcome and to be kind and friendly. He was realizing that their intentions were to a man, or woman or child or dog, benign. The responsibility was frightening, dizzying; and in a sense truly awesome. They, and his absent mother, were reaching out to include him. This carried its own set of expectations, which he had not foreseen. This required meditation. He required meditation. He slowly and carefully placed his holdall on the floor by his feet, straightened again to his customary almost military stance, and looked around at the family.

"I thank you all for your kindness," he said. "I…am grateful." He paused, and then decided that it was acceptable to continue, "I would like to rest now. Perhaps I will see you later?"

A babble of nods and smiles and expressions of agreement met this suggestion, and the group moved towards the bedroom door. Estelle then came back and retrieved Finbar, who had apparently assumed that the subtly worded dismissal had not included him and had not budged. "Proust! Down!" was the last he heard from them, before the door closed behind them and he was finally, blessedly, left alone. His eyes closed, and his sigh of relief was long, and private, and heartfelt beyond description.