A/n: *whimpers* ...first time writing Nu!Spock. Be gentle?

Chapter 10

I was never fully sure what made me step back onto the Enterprise, two months ago now. It was not the Ambassador's words- or not them alone, I should say- nor was it any particular attachment to the crew. (Excepting Nyota, of course, and even if that situation it was not enough to drive me back to the ship.) Logically, I should have remained with my people- what was left of my people. I had a duty to them. A responsibility. It was, in part, my fault. It was, in part...

...No. There is no logic or good in thinking such things. Neither myself nor the Ambassador were at fault, and there was nothing we could have done beyond what we did.

I could not name a single, tangible reason for my return. And yet return I had, and, to quote my elder self- it had felt right. The undeniable sense of correctness the moment I had set foot on her deck, the moment the Captain had given me his smaller, more honest smile- the feeling of being a piece of a puzzle set neatly in his place when I had resumed my station-

there was no logical explanation. But there it was, very real and more then slightly unsettling.

That said, I hadn't felt settled since Vulcan had been destroyed. I could not sleep well. Could not mediate well. There was a perpetual ache in the base of my chest, distracting and irritating.

And then there was the crew itself- most particularly the new-found Captain and doctor McCoy.

While I have always been a heightened example of my races' telepathic and empathic abilities, I have never had anyone affect me quite so strongly. It was- subtle, at first, a distant realization that when McCoy or Kirk were within a certain distance I was aware of them in a way that was more then their physical presence. With time, it has become more pronounced; and they are undeniably the only existing people I am aware of in such a way, including Nyota. Physical, skin-to-skin contact with either of them is out of the question; bad enough when Kirk touches me through clothing. It is rather like having every bit of air violently sucked away, only to be slammed back into your lungs moments later.

I pause, within reach of the pair. Kirk looks up, and, of course, places a hand on my shoulder.

"Okay?"

I steel myself against the concern-amusment-affection, and that last is unexpected at the least. I would not expect affection from him, even though we are no longer direct antagonists.

"Perfectly." He removes his hand as if sensing my discomfort, rubs the back of his own neck with it.

"If you're sure. We're about ready to get gone, so-"

"I will be ready when you give the word, Captain."

"Jim." He corrects- it's something he's begun doing only recently- and then the elder McCoy calls his name. Distracted (not that it is a remarkably difficult thing to accomplish with him), he flits off towards his friend's older counterpart, like the fly he has the attention span of when not in a crisis.

Apparently, neither he nor I consider this a crisis. Interesting.

But now that he is distracted, I turn back to where I left my elder self. He is following his Kirk back towards us, and when he feels me watching, he pauses. He changes course, slowly making his way back to me. There is an irrational...relief...when he speaks first.

"Have you noticed it?" He asks in a way that I know means it is not actually a question; he stands by my side without looking at me, watching our respective Captains instead. I toy with the idea of 'playing dumb', as the saying exists, but discard it as quickly as it comes. To pretend I don't know what he's referring to would only loose a potential chance for information from my elder self; information that, perhaps, will help me to balance myself again.

"Faintly." I say, "It's-disquieting."

"Particularly considering your already delicate equilibrium." The look he gives me bodes no room for protestations or arguments. It is flat and calm and level, and perhaps I am the only one that can see the warning in it. "Perhaps if you stopped fighting against it so bitterly, it would give you one less thing to interrupt your sleep."

He's- open. And frank. He's not like I am, and I wonder if it's the effects of the exact thing I'm feeling or simply exposure to the crew for so long. The Ambassador had been much the same way. He seems at ease and comfortable in his own skin in a way I have never been, as if not one nor the other but simply both.

I have never been both. I have never dared try. Rejecting the Vulcan Science Academy was, perhaps, the most human thing I have ever done up until the day Kirk stowed away on the Enterprise. I have devoted myself to my Vulcan heritage- I am Vulcan- I- am one of the last of a nearly dead race- I-

-am half human. I am the last of her. There will never be another child of Amanda Grayson. Even if I were too sire a child who would have been her grandson...

"Even if you could stop it," He's speaking again, low and soft, "I assure you, there's no need to. It is distracting at worst. At best-" He looks at them again, and a warmth crosses his face, subtly. "You will come to appreciate it."

I do not lift a hand to my chest, the way I want to, to rub away the ache. An impulsive reaction that makes no sense- it can't be physically wiped away. I do not, but I grip my right hand tightly in my left and focus on the pressure.

"I fail to see how I could appreciate anything of this." I manage at last, and he lets out a soft sigh.

"I can only tell you my own experiences." He looks at me again. "Yours are considerably different. But you would not have returned to the Enterprise if you truly could not abide the company of-"

"Disliking and being physically affected by are two different things." I snap it, far more harshly then I intended to, far more loudly, far more vehemently. I shut my mouth immediately afterwards, taking deep breaths, focusing on the mental exercises he already offered when he were discussing Vulcan, in that small room.

"It is simply an awareness." He says, mildly. "And you will not met two more human then Captain Kirk and the Doctor." He doesn't continue the thought. He doesn't need to.

I grit my teeth. I don't need that. I don't need this.

So why does part of me want it?

"You can not," He says, very, very softly, "make it go away through sheer willpower. Any of it, least of all half of yourself, Spock. I suggest you make peace with it, or you will be unable to make peace with any thing else. You are, in part, as human as your mother. Are you so ashamed of her?"

My spine stiffens, and I snap to attention- shame is the last thing I feel for her. She is- she was- a strong and proud women, beautiful and graceful and stunningly intelligent, able to outpace even my father in debates and conversation-

He is watching me pointedly. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. Simply gives me something that is almost-not-quite a smile, turns his back, and walks away. He leaves me with my thoughts, twisting and turmoiled, and an oddly warm presence in the back of my mind that I can't quite place until I realize the Captain is headed back in my direction.