A/N: Aaah this chapter. I feel like I've been working on it forever. It went in a rather different direction than I intended it to, got a bunch more angsty, and started to totally overwhelm me, and I'm still kind of unhappy with it, but here it is. As always, thank you to everyone who reviewed; it's been a tough couple of weeks but getting reviews always puts a smile on my face.

TheeBlackWitch: It's not that I don't read chapters before I post them—I read them several times and do a decent amount of editing and rewriting, but the mistakes you're talking about are the kind of typos it's easy to miss when you 'see what you want to see.' Sometimes I do pick up errors when I reread old chapters, but because it's kind of a bitch to replace chapters on ffnet, I usually let them go. Perhaps eventually I'll go back and clean up these minor things; we'll see. As for Spock's PADD: Stonn reaches for it, but he never actually grabs it. Thank you for your comments, though; I am glad you're enjoying the story.

Anoncents: Thanks so very much for the rec! I don't mind at all—I'm actually quite flattered, and I'm of course always glad to have new readers pointed over here to my obscure little guilty pleasure of a writing project.

I've been considering de-anoning and crossposting to lj, at least to my journal and possibly to kirkspock—though I'm afraid there isn't really enough K to qualify this as a K/S story, at least at the moment. I don't know. I might do a massive crosspost later. Either way, all chapters will still be posted here first.

Yes, Jim will return. Yes Jim will interact with Spock again. No, he will not return in this chapter. I'm working on a Jim-centric chapter, as previously mentioned, but unfortunately I'm fighting with it a little at the moment.

Beware: a rollercoaster of genres and a collection of unconnected scenes herein.

x

"Spock. I was starting to wonder if you had left our school permanently."

Stonn is standing in his way again, this time blocking the door to the chemistry lab.

"As I am here now, it is clear that your hypothesis has proven itself incorrect."

He moves to his right. Stonn moves to his left.

"What happened? Were you too ashamed after your poor performance on the Academy exam to show your face here?"

Spock grips his PADD closer against his chest.

"On the contrary, Stonn. I spent the week celebrating. Now if you do not mind, you are in my way."

He pushes past as neatly as he can. Stonn glares after him but does not follow. T'Pring is sitting in the front of the room, running through formulas, or pretending to, and as Spock passes her she whispers, "If you do not have plans, my parents will both be absent all afternoon."

x

The morning sickness disappears as suddenly as it started, toward the beginning of his fifth month. One morning he wakes up and his body is calm; he feels no pain, no nausea, and he has gotten an extra hour of sleep.

When he realizes just how long it has been since he had a restful morning, he turns over on his side and sleeps for an extra twenty minutes.

He can feel the changes in his body, how his dizziness and even his fatigue have lessened, how he feels more in control again. His mother has become almost paranoid about his health, asking every time she sees him what he has eaten and how much he has eaten and if he is tired, how much work he has done and how much he plans to do and if he is feeling worried. The questions are grating but he understands their intent. And it is preferable to the awkward silences that have dominated their relationship for the last quarter year.

His lifestyle becomes healthier, both because of his mother's constant attentions and because of his own heightened concern for his child. It will be weeks before he hears back from the Academy. He does his work as well as he can, good and productive student as always, but it becomes a second priority.

The baby is growing. He buys his clothes in a bigger size and he wears baggy sweaters, even though he knows he's not large enough for anyone to be able to notice quite yet. When he is alone, he puts his hands on his stomach and feels the small, but definite, bump that has formed, how his once awkwardly skinny body has become round. He runs his hands over it gently. No matter how many times he does this, he never ceases to feel a sense of awe.

x

When Spock was younger, he would watch his mother eat and ask her questions about her food: obsessive, minute questions that she answered with, he realizes now, amazing patience. The Terran food she ate was unknown on Vulcan, and he found these strange concoctions an endless source of fascination. Sometimes he would even ask to try something off her plate. More often than not, however, he found the small bite she gave him rather disgusting, and after enough failed experiments, he finally learned to contain his curiosity.

So he's surprised when he walks into the kitchen one afternoon to find his mother sitting at the table, eating something that smells absolutely delicious. It is not her sandwich, her favorite kind, which Spock knows from previous experience is quite unappetizing. It's something else, and as soon as he smells it he feels that he has never in his entire life been hungrier for anything than he is right now for this one food, and he absolutely must have some. He sits down so abruptly next to his mother that he startles her.

"Spock! I didn't even hear you come in."

"I apologize for scaring you," he answers perfunctorily, not even looking at her as he speaks. Rather, he's leaning in toward a glass jar that is sitting next to her plate, on the side closer to him. "May I ask what you are eating?"

It is very strange, whatever it is inside the jar: a collection of long, thin, green vegetables, or he thinks they are vegetables, covered in small bumps and swimming in a clear green liquid. He can't stop staring at them.

"Just a sandwich and some pickles. I don't suppose you'd like to try one?" she asks the last question teasingly, quite sure that he will decline as he always does.

But he surprises her by answering, "Please," in a serious tone, and continuing to stare intently at the contents of the jar.

She hands him her fork and is about to get a plate when she sees him pick up the entire jar, spear one of the pickles, and take an experimental bite. It is as he imagined. Crunchy and sharp and exactly what he was craving—he has never used the word 'perfect' to describe food before, but this seems like it could be the time to start. He eats one and is eyeing a second when he remembers his mother is there and watching his every movement.

"Do you mind…?"

"Oh, no, Spock, go ahead," she answers, smiling. If he weren't distracted, he might question her smile. It is fond, human, mothering; the smile she gives him when she thinks he is being overly logical. He thinks she might be making fun of him. He jams the fork into a second pickle and takes a gigantic bite.

"This is…quite fascinating," he says, once he has swallowed. "I have never found anything appealing in your Terran food before, but these are delicious. I think they could be improved, however, if they were dipped in…" He tilts his head, considering. "What is it that you eat with your toast at breakfast? It is blue."

His mother looks confused for a moment, then asks, "Blueberry jam?"

"Yes, I think that is it," he answers, staring more at the jar of pickles than at her, and not really noticing the surprise in her voice. "Do we have any of that?"

"Um—I can replicate some."

Spock starts to nibble on the second half of the pickle. He wonders aloud, "Why have I never tried these before?"

"You probably wouldn't have found them very appealing a couple of months ago," his mother answers. She sets a jar of blueberry jam next to him and sits down again in her chair.

"I do not understand."

He doesn't; this is true; but he doesn't particularly care, either, at the moment. The combination is, as he imagined, delicious.

"Spock," his mother smiles, "it's your pregnancy. Having cravings for unexpected foods is a possible side effect. I used to ask your father for the strangest combinations of things when I was pregnant…it was the first time in our marriage I'd ever been interested in Vulcan food and I wasn't even aware that what I was asking for was unusual." She shakes her head, still smiling, lost in the memory that Spock is only vaguely listening to as he finishes the jar. "Your father tried to hide his surprise, but I think he must have been convinced that I was losing my mind….or perhaps just that all humans had such illogical tastes."

Spock sets the empty jar down and, for the first time, gives his mother his proper attention. He feels almost as if he has woken from a trance, and he is only now able to interact with the world again. He's surprised to see he's eaten a full half of his mother's lunch. "I apologize," he tells her. "I did not mean to eat quite so much."

"Don't apologize, Spock," she waves his concern off lightly. "You're allowed. If this is what your body wants, listen to it."

"Even if, in the future, I desire some particularly odd food? For example—" he tries to think of the strangest combination of food that he can, but his mother interrupts him.

"Pickles and blueberry jam? It's not a very common Terran lunch, Spock."

He considers this for a moment. It is curious—he will have to take his mother's word for this even though it seems strange that no one before him has discovered this particular delicious combination. Then he puts his hand gently against the swell of his abdomen and says, face tilted downward even though he's addressing his mother still, "Perhaps the child simply has unusual tastes."

"Maybe. But then," and here his mother touches his arm lightly across the table, "so did you at that age."

He looks up at her again and can't help but feel embarrassed, and not least because he has just devoured her food in a quite undignified manner. What is worse is that, while he is no longer ravenous, he is still faintly hungry. "I do not suppose that we could make cheese and tomato sandwiches?" he asks. "Perhaps with…mustard?"

x

He and T'Pring are careful to be discreet. He is not sure if he or she is the more paranoid, but they both agree it is absolutely necessary that Stonn not find out about their afternoons together, and so they follow their ritual with precision. When they pass in the hall she taps him on the arm and he knows; they do not even make eye contact. He stays ten extra minutes in the library at the end of the day. She leaves quickly after their last class. He takes the long way to her house, so that it appears that he is returning to his own home. She lets him in by the back door. He leaves before her parents return, and gets back home, most days, before either of his parents. Sometimes his mother comes home early and is there to greet him; he tells her he has been studying, which is the truth, or most of it, and she makes him tea and orders him to rest before dinner.

On his fourth visit, T'Pring invites him to make himself comfortable on her bed. Spock accepts as if he were not surprised, although he is; this is the first time that she has not simply pulled up two chairs to her desk and motioned for him to sit. Still, it's true that her bed is more comfortable than the desk chairs, and the pillows he arranges behind him feel better than the hard chair back. He is grateful, he realizes, for the offer. She sits down next to him and they spread out their PADDs and other school things in front of them. For a while, an hour or more, they talk about their classes and assignments. Now that the Academy qualifying exam is over, nothing seems as urgent as before, but still anyone with a hope of getting a final interview can't let himself slack or fall behind now.

They are reviewing physics when T'Pring brings up an article she's read about a new discovery from Earth, and they find themselves in a debate without quite realizing that it has happened. Spock is just about to counter one of T'Pring's points when he feels a sharp pain in his lower back, which makes him stop mid-sentence. Slowly, tentatively, he lowers his body back against the pillows. The pain recedes quickly. It was nothing, just a random seizing of his muscles, but T'Pring is watching him intently—she is curious, but also worried, he thinks as he glances over at her.

"I apologize," he says, to break the silence.

She acts as if she did not even hear him, and asks, "Is something wrong?"

"No. I am fine."

She stares at him as if she does not believe him. He stares back. He begins to feel that she is accusing him, and he shifts slightly against the pillows, unsure what to do or say. T'Pring is unflinching, back straight, eyes on him; she is clearly coming to some conclusion, though he cannot begin to guess what that conclusion could be.

"Does your back hurt often?" she asks him finally. Her question sounds almost like a command and he cannot read her intention.

"No," he answers honestly. "I was simply not taking enough care to sit properly. But it is not a cause for concern."

She does not look entirely convinced, but she nods anyway, considering. T'Pring is not one to hesitate. But she is now. He does not press her or question her even as he sees that her eyes are drifting down his body, to the bump she cannot see but which she knows is there, the part of his body she has steadfastly ignored throughout his visits to her home. They never speak about the baby. Sometimes, with her, he almost forgets.

He pretends he does not see where she is looking.

"Are you in good health, Spock?"

"Why do you ask?"

Her question comes suddenly, his answer just on top of it, and afterwards, there is a pause too long to be comfortable.

"Only because you were absent from school for a week after the exam," she says finally. She is staring at him, still, unembarrassed and challenging, so he meets her gaze in return.

"I was," he admits, "absent for health reasons. But I am recovered now. It is not worth discussing."

Still she insists, "You and your child are safe?" and he realizes at once two things. First, that she is adamant that they should discuss his pregnancy now. And second, that she was truly worried for him during the week of his absence.

"We are," he answers, and tries to put all the reassurance that he can into his tone.

"I could not imagine having to concern myself with a pregnancy, as well as with school and preparation for the Academy," she continues, this time dropping her gaze and settling herself more comfortably again against the second set of pillows. "It must be a challenge."

"Of course. But I only do what I have to do."

He is not sure he wants this conversation to continue. A part of him is grateful for her interest, her concern, the opportunity to speak about this topic that is so forbidden—and yet T'Pring is still the woman he was to marry, still a near stranger outside of their academic discussions—and she is a responsible Vulcan, intelligent and disciplined and everything he has failed to be himself. He cannot help but wonder if she is judging him. He cannot help but fear that she is.

"Stonn has no idea what is happening," she is saying. "He has his theories, but none are close to the truth. I will keep your secret of course, but," and she pauses, glances over to him and again to his stomach, "you cannot hide it forever."

"I am aware." He is, much too aware, and for a moment he does not even notice that he has used with her the same tone that he uses often with Stonn, an icy and closed tone of dismissal. He amends, "My body is already changing. My clothing hides much, but…I am aware." This time the words are almost a sigh. He rests his hands over his lower abdomen and doesn't even care that T'Pring is watching him.

The silence stretches such a long time that he considers changing the subject to something else. But before he can quite get together the words T'Pring surprises him once again.

"May I see?" she asks.

He turns to her, startled, and almost asks her to repeat herself when she amends, "I apologize. That was forward and inappropriate." She is blushing—faintly, but he can see a hint of green on her cheeks. T'Pring rarely blushes. Her eyes dart uncomfortably back and forth across the wall behind him. She's right. Her request is intensely inappropriate. But he understands her curiosity, and he realizes, as he considers her request, that he is not actually offended.

He looks at her but she will not meet his eyes. "You may," he says, and stands up before he has time to reconsider. He strips off his sweater. The shirt he wears underneath fits closer to his body, and the small bump in his middle is visible now. T'Pring shifts over to the side of the bed where Spock was sitting a moment before. She is silent, but he can tell by the way she bites the corner of her lip that she has something she wishes to say. He doesn't ask.

She reaches out a hand without thinking, then pulls it quickly back.

Spock's heart is beating unnaturally fast in his side. No one has ever looked at him quite like T'Pring is looking at him: he is curious to her, but not freakish; fascinating, but not as an experiment or an attraction. She is intensely focused. Yet he does not feel uncomfortable beneath her gaze. At first, he does not know why. He does not know what there is to this gaze that he cannot pin down. Then he sees. There is a clear and unembarrassed awe in T'Pring's gaze, and beneath it, he thinks, a genuine affection. It is so startling that he reaches out for her hand almost by instinct, stopping just before his fingers touch her skin.

"May I?" he asks.

She blinks up at him. "I should be asking you."

He hesitates; she says nothing more; carefully he takes her hand and brings it up to his stomach. He places her hand against the small curve above his waistline.

"It is small, still," she says. She is looking at her hand, how it rests against him, as if she does not quite believe what she is seeing.

"It is," he agrees. "He or she will be born in approximately four and a half months. There is…time."

T'Pring nods, almost absently. Her touch is gentle, tentative; he can see that she is nervous and this is fascinating, incredible that T'Pring should let her control slip in such a way. No one but T'Pala has ever touched him there, and the sensation is quite incomparable; T'Pala's touch is professional and distant, T'Pring's personal, intimate.

She seems to realize suddenly just how unorthodox their position truly is, and she pulls her hand away as if frightened. "I should not…" she murmurs, and stares down at the floor.

The spell, whatever it was, and if Spock believed in spells and sometimes he does, is broken, and Spock can feel his own cheeks flushing green. He scrambles, undignified, for his sweater. "Perhaps I should go," he starts, as he pulls his arms through the sleeves.

"Only if you wish," T'Pring answers, her voice as calm now as ever. Spock envies her ability to reassemble her reserve with such speed. "But do not feel obligated. My parents will not return for at least another half an hour."

He adjusts his clothing, hesitates, sits back down on the bed. He had expected her to all but push him out the door. But her invitation that he stay sounds genuine. "You are sure?" he asks.

"They always return at the same hour," she answers. But she is only pretending not to understand.

For a few minutes, there is silence, T'Pring gazing out the window, Spock's eyes focused on his own hands.

"Sometimes," he says, "I hate that I look like this."

Immediately after he says it he wishes he hadn't. But it's too late, and he and T'Pring have already shared too much. In one simple gesture, they shared too much.

"I do not understand," she says quietly.

"I am misshapen," he answers. "I am…large—"

"You are not."

"I will become large." His voice is suddenly too loud. He glances at T'Pring, and, perhaps feeling his gaze on her, she looks up again. "And others will see. And it will be shameful."

There is nothing for T'Pring to say in reply, and he wishes that he hadn't said anything at all. "I apologize," he mutters.

"Do not," she answers, but offers no reassurance. She knows he is right; there is nothing she can say but agree and to agree, to repeat what he has already said, would be unnecessarily hurtful.

He pulls himself together, straightens his back, and pulls his PADD toward him. "I did not have the opportunity to reply properly to your last point about the latest Terran physics advances," he says. "What I wished to say was that I believe you are underestimating Stevenson's prior achievements…"

x

T'Pala has hooked him up to a large and complicated machine. This is not the first time in his life that he has found himself in such a position, but it is the first time he has been subjected to this particular test. It has been a long day, and a longer than usual exam, and he is ready to go home. His mother is not with him today. She is at an unexpected meeting at the Embassy and it is Spock's father that is waiting for him, now, probably impatiently, in the main waiting room.

Spock is only half listening as T'Pala explains that she is going to project an image of the unborn child onto a large computer screen, currently turned away from him. She tells him that he does not have to look at the image if he does not want to. "It is your choice," she insists. "If you wish, we can also determine the sex of the child at this stage."

It is only the word gender that brings his undivided attention back to T'Pala, and away from the four other topics he'd been considering while she spoke. "The sex?" he repeats. "You will be able to see if it is a boy or a girl?"

"Yes," she answers, patient as always, and lets him consider this idea at his own pace. A boy or a girl. A son or a daughter.

Does he even want to know?

It will be all the more real, knowing. His vague conjectures as to his child's features, which human and which Vulcan traits he or she will have, will take on more definition. But he does not know if this is something that he wants. Even the thought of seeing the child, a small curled body inside his body, is disconcerting.

Still, his curiosity is certainly piqued; a part of him wants nothing more than to use this opportunity to gain all the information that he can.

But he is also—he is scared. He is irrationally scared. He cannot decide.

"You can always choose to regard the images at a later time," T'Pala reminds him, but he shakes his head.

"I would like to see," he says, and it is only as he hears himself say the words that he realizes his decision is made. It will be like hearing the heartbeat, he tells himself: a reminder of that life that brings him, at least sometimes, some small comfort. "However—" he hesitates, unsure of his own compromise—"if it is possible, I would prefer not to know the gender. I would like to wait until the child is born."

T'Pala nods. "That is possible. If you are sure you would like to see the first image…" She begins to flip switches here and there, the screen still turned from Spock's view.

"I am sure," he says. He isn't, really. But his voice sounds convincing to his own ears. He waits as T'Pala angles the screen so that he can see.

For a second, he just stares. Then he says, quietly, just under his breath, "Oh."

It is not quite what he expected. The image is faintly blue, fuzzy in details and yet—he knows what he is seeing. It is recognizable. A very small child, with very small limbs and a rather large head, and a curved bean of a body. He cannot make out any more details.

He almost cannot believe that this being is inside his body. That he carries him or her with him every day. That this is half him, half the human boy.

For a moment, one intense moment, he is flooded with feeling, an unbelievably strong desire that the child should be born, that he should have the opportunity to meet him or her. To hold him or her in his arms. To touch his or her skin, to count fingers and toes, bury his nose in the child's hair, smell its scent.

The moment passes and is replaced by a chill fear. Almost a panic. The room swims like it did when he first found out he was pregnant and he feels dizzy, lost, and shaky. He closes his eyes and tries to steady himself. He brings up every barrier he has. He walls himself in. He reminds himself over and over that he is a Vulcan, that he is in control.

When he opens his eyes, T'Pala has turned the screen away. She is staring more at the image than at him.

"You can determine the gender from such an image?" he asks, after a moment, but only because he does not like the tense silence that has fallen between them. There is something off about his voice, and when he swipes his hand across his eyes he finds that he has been crying. He coughs as if to clear his throat and looks at the wall resolutely.

T'Pala pretends she does not hear the rough edge to his voice. "I can," she says. "And if you wish I can show you but—"

"No," he insists. "I believe I would prefer to wait."

"I understand," T'Pala answers.

He waits patiently as she finishes the tests, regaining his calm slowly. He is embarrassed, of course, at such a display, but he has broken down at less during his pregnancy. The slight pain of a stubbed toe, the annoyance of a temporary glitch in his PADD, the few extra seconds it takes to remember a particularly complex formula—all have taken him to the brink of tears, sometimes over. His mother tells him it is just hormones. He does not find this explanation convincing. A proper Vulcan should be able to handle any potential outburst of emotion. That is what it means to have control.

He remembers the vague blue image on the screen. In a few months, he thinks, I will really be a father.

He feels faint again at the idea, and quickly diverts his thoughts.

x

"Did you wish for a son or a daughter, before I was born?" he asks his mother suddenly that evening. They are sitting next to each other on the couch in the living room, he reading his History assignment, she reviewing the latest sketches for the restoration of the Temple.

"Why do you ask?" she replies lightly, glancing up from her work. He considers dropping the conversation and allowing her to go back to her previous activity, but she holds his gaze steadily, head tilted in question.

"I saw the image of my child today," he tells her. He tries to make it sound as if this were nothing, an ordinary occurrence, but his mother's face lights up right away.

"I'm sorry I missed such an occasion," she says. Then her smile falters as she sees that Spock remains as neutral as ever. He turns his gaze down to his hands, but he can hear his mother slowly set her things aside and move to sit a bit closer next to him. Her enthusiasm over his child is so unadulterated now, after his scare, that sometimes he does not trust it. He certainly cannot match it.

"Are you nervous?" she asks him gently, and touches his arm.

He does not wish to talk about himself and so instead asks her quickly, "Were you?"

His mother sighs in answer, long and tired—it is not a frustrated sigh, exactly, but rather the sort of sigh she used to give when he asked a particularly complex question at a particularly young age. He knows she will be honest with him. She takes her hand from his arm and sits back against the couch cushions. "Yes," she says. "Of course. I was an alien on a strange planet, expecting a child who I was told might not even live…that on top of the usual worries," she waves her hand vaguely, "like, will I be a good mother? Will I be able to care for this child? But I had your father. I wasn't completely alone and neither are you, Spock. You remember that."

"I do," he says, and does not point out that a parent is not quite the same as a partner. Then, because he finds something lacking in the silence, because he feels that he must speak and here it is safe for him to speak, he adds, "But I still ask myself many questions, regarding my ability to be a parent."

She nods. "Every parent asks him- or herself those questions. But I know my son, and he accomplishes whatever he sets out to accomplish."

"You had your doubts before," he reminds her.

"Because you're still so young, Spock. But you have me, and you'll take it just one day at a time…" She pats his leg resolutely. "It will be fine."

He hates the word fine but doesn't comment, just shift back on the couch and slightly away. He does not wish to talk about himself. Finally he says, "You did not answer my earlier question. Were you expecting a son or a daughter, before my birth?"

"I had no preference," she answers. "I remember…just being excited to meet my baby, to see you grow and learn…I did not even need to know the gender. It was your father that insisted we find out."

Spock turns sharply at this last sentence, startled despite himself. "My father?" he repeats.

"Yes. He was intensely curious as to whether he was going to have a son or a daughter. I think…" she pauses, remembering. "I think he was nervous, not that he would ever admit it, and when your father is nervous he tends to collect as much information as he can on the situation. I think it makes him feel more in control." A new thought comes to her suddenly and she smiles widely. "Oh but he was happy to hear he was having a son. I remember the way he said 'a boy,' as if he had been secretly hoping for a son all along. He even smiled a little at the news."

Spock cannot imagine his father smiling.

"And you?" his mother asks, then, touching his arm to bring his attention back. "Did you find out the gender? Is that what brought this topic up?"

"No," he shakes his head. "T'Pala asked me if I wished to know but I told her I did not. I—" he is about to attempt to explain exactly why he had made the decision he did, but before he can find the words he feels a sudden, and strange, sensation in his side. He stops, and his whole body stiffens.

"What happened?" his mother asks, and in her voice he hears all the worry he himself cannot express.

"I do not know. Something—with the child. Right here." He puts his hand gently against his stomach, just to the right and above the waistline of his trousers. "It felt…"

He struggles for the right word and in the silence his mother seems to come to a realization. "Like a kick?" she asks.

He looks at her in confusion, eyebrows leaning to meet over his nose.

"Here," she says, and puts her hand next to his on his stomach. "Tell me if you feel it again."

They wait several long moments, each watching the same spot on Spock's body expectantly. Then suddenly he feels it again. Something like—yes, as if he were being kicked from the inside. "It's the baby," his mother tells him, softly, as if this were a secret. "He or she is awake and moving."

His mother seems quite pleased with this development, almost excited, but Spock would not say that he feels any emotion quite so pure. Rather, he is at a loss for a reaction. It is beyond what he knows. He breathes out, a bit shakily perhaps, one breath, and in that breath his only observation: "Fascinating."

x

A/N regarding the gender: Despite what it may seem, this chapter is not an attempt to buy time while I decide on the gender. I decided way back before I even started chapter one, when I was planning out this whole universe in my head. I know my choice is bound to disappoint some, but…well, I'm pretty attached to it.

In chapter ten: T'Pring questions. Spock celebrates. Stonn investigates.