FOUR

He did not take Leila back to the family home, not at any time. She suggested it, and some of the family, when they realised that their Vulcan cousin was meeting a friend, also exhorted him to bring her home, to join them for dinner, or for tea. He did not; the balancing act would have ceased to be so had he been required to deal with their ongoing onslaught at the same time as trying to meet Leila's overtures of friendship in such a way that he could retain his own values without incurring the pain of her sad eyes, or the slight furrows of a frown between the clear brows. So he made sure that he only had to contend with the two scenarios one at a time.

In the house, a routine of sorts evolved, and Spock appreciated routines. He would meditate in the mornings, after having removed the two cats from his room where they were sure to have spent the night snuggled against him. He found he had no objection to his night time companions. The strange vibrating sound which they both made was somewhat soothing and in no way disturbing, and their warmth against his sides was welcome. On those occasions when he touched them, he received from each of them impressions of satiated satisfaction and sanguine peace, utterly self contained and in fact rather enviable. Spock found that he rather respected Purr and Miaow. He also found that they shared his opinion of Proust. One evening three days into his extended stay, when he had returned late from meeting Leila, Purr, Miaow and Spock together had to make a bolt for the sanctuary of his room to avoid Proust's rapturous and slobbery welcome. Spock slammed the door shut and the three listened to the thud of the furry body against the closed door and the plaintive whines of frustration as they sat together on his bed. As Purr rubbed her body against his hand he picked up an unmistakable wave of complete contempt for the noisy and affectionate bundle outside the door. Feline eyes blinked into his in supercilious complicity.

So, his nights were spent with the cats and his thoughts, and his mornings were for solitary meditation, which the family learned to respect, even Finbar. His afternoons, and then his evenings as well, were spent with Leila. He did meet her at 4.30 on the afternoon after his grandfather's memorial service, in the conservatory, and once again they got no further. They strolled, they sat and they talked, and Spock found himself torn into two; one part of him experienced endless fascination with her expressions, her laugh, her eyes, her words, her movements; and the other part of him never ceased to challenge and query these unaccountable and unVulcan reactions. He decided that this would be their last meeting, and that he would return to his ship. He met her again the next day. This time they had a meal together, a lunch, in a warm, bustling, noisy and Human restaurant where no-one pressured them to leave their congenial and private table in the corner. They sat, and ate, and talked some more.

"I always come here. I love it."

"The proprietor knows you."

"I said – I always come here. I sometimes work all afternoon and he just keeps feeding me coffee."

"That is…. convenient for you." He paused. "And not healthy."

She laughed. "So what's new."

Spock considered this. "I do not know."

Leila frowned in surprise, and then laughed. Spock drowned in the contrasting expressions, as she explained. "It's just an expression, Spock. I mean, I'm not really that healthy. I mean, I am, but I don't think about it….oh, I don't know." She smiled warmly at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Don't worry about it."

Spock speared a few of the ingredients of his salad onto his fork and put them into his mouth, and realised that he had not taken his eyes off her face as he did so. He also thought that she realised it at the same time, and once again, as seemed often to happen between them, their gazes caught and could not let go. She broke the silence this time. "Do you think it'll be long before you get promotion?"

Spock wondered if there were any limit to her ability to ask the most unexpected questions. He paused to think, unaware that his fork was still in midair. "Promotion?"

"Well, yes. Science Officer is pretty high up, isn't it. Will you have to wait a long time to move up?"

"I have no intention of attempting to 'move up'. I am entirely content with my duties as they stand."

Those eyes widened again. "But, don't you want to end up a captain?"

This time there was no hesitation in his reply. "I do not. I have no wish to command. I do not foresee that changing. I joined…." Spock paused abruptly, as he realised that he had just been about to divulge a deeply personal detail about himself as though it were the most normal thing in the universe to do. His surprise at that impulse rendered him completely speechless.

"You joined…?" Leila prompted.

Spock shook his head, and returned his attention to his salad.

"Oh come on. What were you going to say? You joined what?"

He took a deep breath, and then calmly and carefully returned his gaze to the girl across the table; calm, bland, inscrutable. "I joined Starfleet because of the opportunities it offered for scientific exploration and research, and I have by no means exhausted those opportunities."

Leila frowned in puzzlement at the apparent difficulty that such an innocuous reply had caused him; yet she could see that she was not going to find out any more about it. "I thought about it, joining Starfleet."

"Then why did you not do so?"

She smiled wryly at him. "Because I didn't, and don't, think I was good enough." She raised her hand to wave away his attempted reply and softened the gesture with another smile. "There are so many botanists in Star Fleet, and at the time I had a look into it I just didn't think I had anything special to offer. It might be different now, but…" She wrinkled her nose as she searched for words; Spock found himself captivated. "I don't think I want the whole military side of it, you know, the discipline, the fighting, all that, you know?" She looked at him for assent before continuing. "I'm a botanist. That's all I'm interested in, really. I don't need the rest of it. Do you know what I mean?"

He nodded.

"Do you like all that stuff?"

She had done it again; yet the question was understandable in the context of the conversation and deserved an answer. "My liking for it or otherwise is not relevant. I chose to join Starfleet, and accepted that I was joining a military organization.."

"Yeah right."

His initial reaction to this apparently unambiguous response was that he was pleased that she accepted his word. Her refusal to meet his gaze, the snappy aggression with which she tore off a hunk of bread, the clatter with which she laid down her knife, told even this Vulcan that she was nevertheless displeased about something he had said.

He was genuinely confused. "I…Leila?"

"I bet you don't like all that stuff. You're supposed to be pacifists, Vulcans, aren't you, but you have to fight all the time. And kill people? Maybe? And all that macho stuff with the others there – I bet you don't like that." Eyebrows and chin raised in friendly defiance; Spock sat, salad forgotten, wondering if the sensation flooding him could accurately be described as anger. He looked at her across the table. The blue eyes opened wide again, but this time the effect was not appealing. And, this time, the silence was not comfortable nor intriguingly transfixed.

"My decision to join Starfleet was my own and is not subject to argument or scrutiny. I am in no way obliged to explain my motivations, to you or to anyone else."

He watched her as she swallowed, looked down at her food and then back at him. "Spock….."

His gaze remained level; the unnamed sensation continued to swirl.

"Spock. I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning….. I am sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry."

Ah. So he had perhaps been correct. However….

"I am a Vulcan. Anger is an emotion, and I do not experience emotions."

"No. I'm sorry. And I am sorry for… just now. Please forgive me, I was…. wrong. Spock – I don't want to fall out with you." The blue gaze was pleading. Spock knew that he was completely confused. He did not know why her remarks had stirred him so, or why he found himself relieved to hear her clearly heartfelt apology, or why he had found himself in such an extraordinary situation which involved having a beautiful botanist groveling for his approval. Or, indeed, why he was so quick to give it.

"I… it is no matter," he said, quietly. He rediscovered his salad, and jabbed at it once more with his fork, before looking back up at her again through his lashes. "I…it is forgotten."

She smiled at him. The room became a little brighter. "Can we meet again tomorrow? You go back the day after." She gave a small laugh which did not sound at all happy. "I'd hate for us to finish on a bad note." It was her turn to busy herself with coffee cup and spoon.

"Yes, we can meet tomorrow. I will need the following morning to pack my belongings and…my family will expect…." He trailed off in uncharacteristic vagueness, and she laughed again, but this time genuinely.

"Families!"

"What about them?

"I mean, they're a lot of trouble."

Spock did not deem it safe or politic to reply to that remark.

"Come to my apartment and I'll cook you a meal. Will you do that, will that be alright?"

He considered. A Human would have said that alarm bells were ringing, but Spock dismissed the quirk of unease without any attempt to identify it. He could see no logical reason for refusing the invitation.

He accepted, addresses were exchanged, and the arrangement was made.