A/N: This chapter has been beta read by Azurala, ShamelessSpocker, and TheGlassAuthor. Without them, this chapter would be a lot less...whatever positive adjective you'd like to use. I really appreciate all the hard work they do. :)
"I'm just as fluent in Vulcan. It is highly 'improbable' that I mistranslated the last chapter of my favorite book."
"Am I to agree with you simply because you hold Alice's Adventures in Wonderland in high regard?"
Amanda smiled despite her mock rage, unable to continue the charade. "I will admit I could be wrong. Send me your notes and I'll have your father give his opinion." She attempted the suggestion casually, hoping to ease Sarek into the conversation.
"There is no need to speak of the one who is your husband," Spock informed her stiffly.
She sighed. Spock's eyes flicked over her features, obviously noting her dramatic display of emotion. It seemed to unsettle him. Usually Amanda was more subtle with her expressions.
"I know why you don't want to talk about your father, Spock. I still don't approve of your enlistment, but I believe that disinheriting you was wrong. I can see what it's doing to you." Amanda felt the pressure of angry, unshed tears. She managed to draw upon her training though, and breathed evenly. "It's been two years since you left, but I can tell that you've lost weight. You look like you hardly sleep. Please, Spock-kam, you can tell me anything."
Spock's eyes were wide open, and his face had gone pale as he stared into the camera. With a gesture she had never witnessed in her son before, he raised trembling fingers to the screen, as if wanting to reach through and touch her. Amanda copied the movement.
"The matter is complicated, Mother."
She watched him regain his composure; his pupils were still black pin-points. Amanda drew back herself, hoping her silence would draw out his words like poison from a wound. He was so rarely frightened—let alone in a way that could be visibly observed—it made her want to hold him.
He had stopped letting her hold him when he was three. It was so long ago, but she ached to reclaim that right as a mother.
"I will not deny that I miss Vulcan and he who is my father. I miss you. However, 'homesickness' is not a quantifiable illness, but rather another figure of speech. What I suffer from is not caused by Supprimiolfac either."
He looked distracted, and glanced away from the screen for a moment. It was only for a fraction of a second, and If she didn't know better, she might have suspected that he was protracting the inevitable. But she knew better. She was his mother.
Still, the silence dragged on.
Finally, she prompted, "What is it, Spock?"
"I have been compromised," he answered at once. "My meditations are harder to maintain. I am more sensitive to the presence and contact of others due to the state of my shields." Every syllable made his body tight with tension, as if he were a rubber band being stretched to the point before it snapped.
She sat ramrod straight in response. Concern plainly adorned her face, an expression she often felt but rarely conveyed physically.
Spock spoke in a lower tone. "I feel…immense guilt and shame." His dark eyes seemed to stare beyond her, as if he was not completely present. He sometimes looked the same way when he was engrossed in a question that took all of his mental capacity.
Amanda watched him, regaining her neutral expression. She did not want to further intrude with any further displays. But there was still bile in the back of her throat, sour and acidic.
"When I first arrived at Starfleet, there was an alpha cadet that used his empathic abilities and Deltan pheromones to sexually harass me." Spock closed his eyes a second longer than necessary. "I did not understand the implications of his actions. It is because of me that he was able to do the worse to a female omega earlier this month."
She stared at the screen, mind numb to any appropriate reaction.
This isn't happening.
He continued at a steady cadence. "While the cadet was discharged from Starfleet, no charges were pressed due to circumstantial evidence and his claim that he did not understand that his actions towards us constituted as sexual assault."
It took a moment for her to realize that was the end. No more words. The sentence was over, but the echo was still loud in her mind.
"Oh, Spock…"
In the back of her mind, she remembered the last time she had said the same thing to him. If only he had achieved Kolinahr and enrolled in the Vulcan Science Academy, she wouldn't be listening to her only son admit to being sexually violated, impossibly far from home.
Sarek sensed her distress and reached through their link. His strength and love were a balm against the shock and anger. For a moment, Amanda forgot that as a human, she could not do the same for Spock, and reached for him. She only felt emptiness in response. He never heard her.
She entered Sickbay alone. Nurse Hans looked up at her from a desk, and she could see the foolish creature frantically begin to move about. She ignored further activity in favor of a biobed placed in a discreet corner of the room.
"Number One." Spock did not try to rise from where he lay, but instead bowed his head. His face was a motley of bruises in several states of repair. The worst was his left eye, which was swollen shut.
Obviously, if they had yet to begin dermal regeneration, the damage to the bones in his leg had been too severe to warrant any lesser distractions. She surmised that now that he was no longer in critical condition, they would proceed to the less serious injuries.
Her eyes scanned the biofunction monitor, assuming a parade rest. The data was fluctuating erratically. If the alarm sound had not been silenced, it would be ringing loud and clear in distress. "Dr. Boyce should have recalibrated the biobed for your specifications," she said.
While her tone had not been critical, having only made a simple observation, Spock responded. "I believe it is an issue with the biobed's programming. It resets after every examination report has been entered into the system."
Number One looked down at the PADD she held, the details of a report already glowing coldly on the screen. The backlight made a mosaic of color bleed onto her pale skin. "Then the good doctor is not at fault, only Nurse Hans for not sending the report requesting technical assistance until after I entered Sickbay."
She examined the report, filing away the necessary details. When she looked up again, dark brown eyes watched her with wariness. She sat down in a chair next to the biobed, the crisp lines of her uniform unbroken by creases thanks to years of practice. Omegas needed reassurance that they would not be attacked when injured, and decreasing her perceived height would alleviate any subconscious threat he was experiencing.
"Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant?" he requested.
"I welcome it."
"Why are you here? Am I to be reprimanded for the events on Rigel VII?"
She looked up from her work. "No, you are to be promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. The captain wished to inform you in person, but he was…delayed."
It was easy to lie because she knew that Chris honestly wanted to talk with Spock, but found it hard to deal with his own misconceived guilt. He had agreed that a commendation was in order for Spock's actions, but left the details up to her.
She witnessed Spock's reaction, what little there was. He blinked once, and then continued breathing as normal. Instinct drove her to push him, curious about his ability to work despite physical distractions.
"You hold an A7 computer expert classification?"
His chin lifted a fraction of a centimeter. "Affirmative," he said.
Her smile was without warmth. "Then you should have no problem correcting the faulty programming."
"I will need a PADD." He did not look startled when she handed him her own. "This will take approximately five minutes."
She watched him open a program and start the code, fingers sliding and tapping in a quiet symphony of thought and action. It was an education to witness his aptitude. His thought process seemed unhindered by the medication. Once she observed an established rhythm had been set she continued speaking.
"Your file shows that you have completed the recommended course in Starfleet's hand-to-hand training as well as the basic forms of Vulcan martial arts."
"It is called wehk-pukan," he corrected quietly, almost as if he could not help himself.
"However, on Rigel VII, once you were disarmed, you still sustained serious injuries until unconscious. It seems that your advantage over humans in strength and speed made you overestimate your abilities against trained warriors."
Spock peered up at her from the PADD screen. His expression was neutral, holding no resentment or guilt. Still, she deliberately looked down at her blue, manicured fingernails. Staring could be deemed a dominance display, and not one she wished to engage in.
"Please understand me, Mr. Spock. This is not a reprimand, only an observation."
"It is an accurate observation," he said. Almost hesitantly, he resumed reprogramming the faulty biobed.
She waited patiently. After another minute, her silence was successful.
"Vulcan has higher gravity and less oxygen, making me stronger compared to my fellow cadets. I erred in thinking it was unnecessary to pursue further physical training."
He offered her the PADD, which she took back. Already the biobed was adjusting its calibrations on the biofunction monitor. The detected Vulcan vital signs were shown as normal.
"It is an easily amended error," she said. "If you had access to my file, you would be aware that I served in the military before enlisting in Starfleet. I have extensive training that would benefit you."
"Indeed?"
Number One turned off her PADD after a momentary glance to validate the code was implemented into the system. "I am willing to share that experience. It will require a serious commitment from you. You will spend your entire off-duty time slot—outside of sleep requirements—at the gym."
"I accept." His eyes shone with what might have been excitement on a more human face.
"Very good, I will begin the process to transfer you to the bridge on Alpha shifts. Congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant."
TWO YEARS LATER
Spock woke at 4:45 to the insistent chime of his alarm. Another night spent on Earth. He showered and dressed before taking his suppressants at 5:00. Diligence was essential in his morning routine. Breaking it for any reason would leave him vulnerable to chaos or worse: his omega scent. Not that his morning routine had been altered since he started teaching at Starfleet Academy last year.
That could all change if he was careless.
Perhaps the majority of Starfleet students no longer dealt with role discrimination. The acceptance rate was almost equal that year, which was a vast difference from his time as a cadet. But he could not forget that as long as he was an omega, he was not safe.
After eating breakfast in his room, he took his morning run along the coast, rather than indoors. Patterns were necessary for an ordered life, but something in him sought the cool breeze. Above him, the birds began to call to one another.
He knelt in the damp sand, not quite assuming the meditative pose he intended when he first arrived. His mind still emptied out of habit though. Ignoring the sunrise behind him, he stared west towards the horizon, already calculating the sphere of the planet in the back of his mind.
The foam rushed inland. Dawn was just peeking over the San Francisco skyline, crepuscular rays breaking through cloud and fog. Sunlight began to warm his back just as the foam reached his knees. The clinging wet cloth on his skin was an unpleasant sensation, but one that was easily blocked with more formulas and a series of numbers.
Instead of departing right away to change clothing, he focused on a broken shell, running both index finger and thumb along its jagged edge. Its specification was unfamiliar to him, and he regretted not bringing his tricorder with him to the beach. He let it fall back to the sand and stood. His time was being wasted there if he was not cataloguing, studying, or meditating as usual.
The air still held the morning's chill. Fortunately, he still retained some habits from his time serving under Captain Pike, such as wearing a heavy undershirt in addition to the standard uniform. Even though he was stationed on Earth, learning under the tutelage of Number One had left its mark on him. Many of her mannerisms had been adopted. Continuing these habits gave him comfort in light of patterns that were just beginning to emerge.
Now that he was commissioned to reprogram the Kobayashi Maru as well as holding a teaching position at the Starfleet Academy, he was familiar with eating his meals alone. However, for the last 15 out of 29 days, his advanced phonology aide broke the pattern and joined him for lunch in the mess hall. The cadet sometimes used the time to coordinate classroom duties and confirm necessary details, but more often than not, she simply discussed trivial topics. He did not dissuade these conversations since he found them educational in the art of 'small talk.'
"Do you have a favorite food?" she asked him.
"To have a favorite food is illogical. The purpose of food is to provide necessary sustenance to the body. Anything else is secondary and therefore irrelevant."
The cadet looked taken aback by his response, and he considered why that would be the case. Perhaps she did not understand the importance of logic to his people. It was not unlikely that he was the first Vulcan she had interacted with on a regular basis. While Vulcan was one of the principal Federation members, they did not typically take permanent residence on Earth unless research or ambassadorial duties were in effect.
She held out her hands, palms flat. A human gesture meaning that the bearer held no weapons. "I'm sorry if I offended you with my presumption, sir. I'm not very tactful when trying to understand new cultures."
Ah. That Spock understood. Curiosity was what drove him to pursue science. Math and physics explained the universe in the same way languages were translated from one to another. They had common ground, it seemed.
"Perhaps your stated lack of tact in the face of foreign cultures should be cultivated, considering your linguistic track. You will be called upon to serve in diplomatic functions that require an open mind. In this case, no offense has been taken, Uhura. I was simply explaining my lack of…'favorites'." He watched the tension ease from her shoulders. "In truth, I find it educational conversing with you as well. I am still learning, and you provide a unique insight that I appreciate."
"Okay," she said. It was a lackadaisical reply to the reassurance he had provided, but it would suffice. She glanced towards an empty table and stood quickly in alarm. "I'm late!" Uhura grabbed her bag, an orange, and waved goodbye. It was not a gesture that he returned.
Already he was focusing on the familiar but exciting pattern that was the Kobayashi Maru. His attention was once again being captivated with restructuring the equations on his PADD to a more complex rendering. It consumed all of his conscious thought for the rest of the day.
Nyota stretched where she stood, lithe runner muscles visible. She had just finished grading several tests and was done for the week. He did not look up from his desk, expecting her to leave quietly as she usually did.
What she did instead was ask, "Are you hungry yet? I know this great restaurant not too far."
"Negative."
He felt unsettled, but hid the emotion behind filing the graded tests. They had been working together for 7 months and 11 days, and she had never offered something like this before. She had broken the pattern with a simple question. Then again, perhaps he had done so first by referring to her by her first name 4 days ago.
Nyota seemed unfazed by his rejection. "Maybe next weekend? I'll see you on Monday," she said as she waved goodbye. He watched her carefully for any signs of distress, but found none in the way she walked, ponytail swaying in time with her step.
"Good night, Nyota."
She left without a glance back. Spock stared at the closed door for a moment before deciding the matter too inconsequential to examine thoroughly, and returned to his work.
