A/N: My customary thank you to everyone who reviewed, and especially to those who have been sticking with this story, and with me, for so long, even though I am so slow and rambly.

To Dybdahl, who asked about the difference in Kirk and Spock's ages in this universe: it will come up in the text later, but Spock is two years younger than Kirk here. (I know this isn't canon, as some have pointed out…but neither is a pregnant Spock, you know?)

A couple people mentioned the recent lack of Sarek…very true. I have tried to remedy this a bit in this chapter, with some explanation for his absence. Really it is just because I am not used to juggling multiple storylines and he got lost while I focused on other plot points.

The Stonn scene that was supposed to be in this chapter got very long, so I pushed it back. Chapter eleven is almost done, though, and should be up before long.

x

The baby won't be still. Spock has been trying to read the same paragraph for twenty minutes now but there is an uncomfortable ache right above his liver and every few minutes he feels another badly placed kick. They are not really painful but they are…distracting. He pushes back gently at the spot where he last felt movement. "Please go to sleep," he whispers, and immediately feels ridiculous. But this constant discomfort is truly beginning to grate on his nerves.

He is in his sixth month now: almost the end of his second trimester, almost half a year since he met the human boy. He is carrying just enough weight now to give him a subtle, almost constant back pain, especially when he does not take proper care of his posture, and on occasion he feels sudden, sharp pains in his legs. Sometimes he cannot wait to have his body back. More often, he is terrified at the thought of what will happen when his little boy or girl is finally born.

He feels another kick, this time to his pancreas. He sets his PADD aside in frustration and stands up, starts to walk around the room in the hope that the movement will calm the child and allow him the peace to work again.

He is on his second lap around the living room when he hears the door open and looks up to see his father standing in the doorway. "Good afternoon, Spock," he nods.

Spock stops where he is, hands behind his back according to his instinct. "Good afternoon Father," he answers. He knows Sarek is itching to ask what he is doing. But he does not because he is sure the answer will have something to do with the child and it has become Sarek's strict policy to ignore his son's pregnancy as if it does not exist. Spock isn't sure if he has simply put himself in a state of denial or if this is some sort of passive aggressive punishment for rejecting Sarek's attempts to fix the situation. Neither would surprise him. But he hopes it is more the first than the second because at least this response he can understand.

"You are not ill?" his father asks him.

"No," he answers. "I am not ill." He feels another flutter of movement at his side and instinctively puts his hand against the spot. He watches his father's eyes follow the movement. "Your grandchild is kicking," he announces, then, and he hopes that his father can hear the challenge in his voice. "Do you wish to feel?"

Sarek hesitates. For a short moment Spock almost believes he will accept. But then he shakes his head. "No, I do not believe I should," he says. "Excuse me."

He passes right by Spock on his way to the back of the house, and in his wake the room seems strangely quiet. Spock stares after him. Then he stares down at his stomach. He thinks that he really should go back to his work, after all.

x

He does not talk with T'Pring about his pregnancy, but only because he does not wish to think about it any more than is necessary. The image of the child haunts him, and he has found that the only way to handle the conflicting emotions the memory elicits is to wall them away, to live as if they did not exist, to forget. He is partially successful. But it is a delicate balance he must keep all the time.

T'Pring seems to sense his unease around the topic and does not press. She does ask after his health at every meeting, though, and he can tell that she has other questions that she must hold herself back from asking. Sometimes, he wishes she would ask them. He is more comfortable with her than he has ever been with another Vulcan, and she seems comfortable with him as well. It is only the taboo subject of his pregnancy, and the constant shadow of Stonn, that stands between them. His shame and avoidance is enough to inspire her silence.

A heat wave hits at the beginning of his twenty-fourth week. T'Pring turns on the cooling system in her room but it is still unusually hot and Spock sweats uncomfortably in his sweater. He finally asks T'Pring if she would mind if he took it off and she says that of course she does not; he stands and pulls it over his head.

He knows she is looking at the bump of his stomach. Even with the sweater, it is possible to see the unusual shape his body has taken, if one is looking carefully enough, and every day he worries that one of his classmates will notice and jump to the logical conclusion. His secret is only safe because no one would expect a Vulcan teen to be in such a position. No one sees because no one would ever think to look.

T'Pring looks away quickly, aware that she is staring. Spock settles back down against the pillows at the head of her bed. He pulls his PADD towards him as if ready to start work again but he can feel her gaze still on him.

"I hope you feel that you can ask me anything you wish, T'Pring," he says finally. His voice is quite neutral but neither the full implication of his invitation, nor how radical it truly is, are lost on her. She nods simply. But her mind is running at full speed.

Her silence makes him nervous, and still he sits impassively, waiting, knowing she will pull her thoughts together soon. She does after only a few moments, and when she does, she speaks without preamble. She does not seek further permission or apologize for her curiosity. Instead she looks at him and asks, "Did you ever tell the other father about your pregnancy?"

This was not what he was expecting, but he hides his surprise. He makes his voice cool and unaffected. "No. I am not in contact with him at all."

"I do not understand."

She tilts her head in curiosity, and he considers all the different ways he might deflect this line of questioning. He comes up with twenty-four different routes, but none are satisfactory.

"I met him on Earth when I was visiting with my Father," he tries to explain. He hopes she will not ask for too many details; he does not wish to recount the story of his own scandalous affair, his utter lack of judgement, how he abandoned all reason and logic at such little provocation. He tries to keep his story vague. "There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he would welcome becoming a parent at this time in his life. Also, his life is on Earth and mine is on Vulcan; I do not wish to relocate and do not feel that it would be right to request such a thing of him."

T'Pring gives him a hard and appraising stare. He knows she does not believe him, or rather, that she is aware that he is hiding the rest of the story behind his formal speech. He wonders if she will question him further—if she will challenge him to offer a better explanation, to fill in the obvious holes in his answer.

Or perhaps she can fill them in herself.

"You could not have known him long," she says. It is more observation than question, and he hears little accusation in her tone. Still he's tense. He is not sure where she wishes to lead the conversation, and she is giving him no hints.

"I did not," he admits.

They are sitting side by side, both facing the far wall across from them more than each other. Still he knows T'Pring is watching him, and he cannot stop watching her in return from the corner of his eye, trying to read the expression on her face. She is biting her lip again, the only gesture she allows herself that does not fit her perfect mask of Vulcan calm.

"When you first told me that you were to have a child," she says, her words slow and carefully formed, "I almost did not believe you. I did not see how such a thing were possible. You are young, unbonded—" at the word, he flicks his eyes sharply to hers, but there is no remorse or bitterness there. "Children are born to adult couples…" Her voice trails off, a bit embarrassed. He begins to understand why she has brought up the subject of the human boy. He sits up a little straighter, arranges his hands on his lap below his stomach. He waits, already curious how she will phrase the rest of her inquiry.

"Of course," she is saying, "I do know how children are born. I do not wish to sound naïve…"

She trails off, uncertain, and he thinks that this is the first time he has ever seen T'Pring at such a loss for words. He looks away. He does not know if he does so because he is embarrassed, or simply out of respect for her and her own unease.

Still he told her she could ask him anything. And he should have known she would be curious about this aspect of his situation, about exactly how he came to carry the human boy's child. He feels a blush creeping up his skin at the memory; he ignores it as much as he can but that night is always with him, how the boy kept the lights on (I want to be able to see you. You are…You're gorgeous), how he ran his hands up and down Spock's skin, how he murmured endearments and vulgarities and pleas, all in the same breathless tone. He remembers the boy's smile and the exact shade of the color of his eyes and he remembers how, after it was over, he kissed Spock once almost chastely, like a first kiss, and then turned away.

T'Pring has never known these things.

"I made a completely illogical decision," he says. T'Pring is utterly still, utterly silent, watching him and waiting. "That is, I made a decision that was not based on logic, but on emotion. I do not wish to admit it but…there is no other way to explain. I did not believe the consequences would be quite what they are."

He runs his hands up his stomach, waits for T'Pring to break the silence this time.

When she does it is to ask, bluntly, "Is that to say that you loved the human man?"

She's caught him off guard and he struggles to keep his face expressionless. There is no answer. He does not know. The emotion he spoke of was more desire than love—lust, if he is being truly honest with himself—and yet there was affection there. He likes to think he would not have done what he did had there been no affection.

Out loud he says only, "How can you expect me to answer such a question?"

"I apologize," T'Pring answers.

Her words are simply rote ones, an acknowledgement that, if Spock wishes, they may go back to their studied roles and all the formalities that come with them. Yet he does not wish. He does not want to be just another student to her, but he does not know what to give her, what will satisfy her curiosity. Even though they were once destined to bond as man and wife, to share not only their bodies but their very thoughts, that half-bond is broken now and anything he could say would be a breaking of the rules. He has broken so many, yet he believes in them still. They are his protection, and he needs them.

He thinks for a long time.

"I cannot tell you about him," he says, finally. This is his decision, his compromise, and T'Pring hears it in his voice and tilts her head, ready to listen to whatever strange new rules he is about to put in place. "He is not my mate, but I owe him a certain loyalty and I—"

"I understand."

He glances at her, then clears his throat and starts again. "I cannot tell you about him—but if you wish to ask other questions about my experience…you may."

There: the door is open, and it is her decision to make now. If her curiosity is stronger than her propriety, he will not deny her. He knows her struggle because it is the struggle they all face, every day.

For a moment, as she says coolly, "I should not," he thinks that she has chosen her propriety. And he is surprised—he has already observed that her curiosity is as insatiable as his own, and he believes that it is one reason why they get along as well as they do. But then she pauses, considering each side carefully but quickly, and the length of her internal debate alone is enough to tell Spock that, eventually, she will give in. He steels himself for her inevitable questions.

"I should not," she starts, "but"—and he knew she would say this, even before the word left her mouth—"but I am curious."

"Ask what you wish," he insists. He can see she is still hesitant. She is embarrassed and unsure and that is why when she speaks she uses the same detached tone that she uses to discuss their school experiments or their problem sets. She holds her body rigid. She pretends she is talking of something else.

In this way, she asks him, "Is it true that humans kiss with their mouths?"

Spock lets out a long-held breath and hopes she does not notice. It is not such a hard question, then, this first one. Nor is it surprising. He knows the same rumors that she knows, the same speculations, the same bizarre stories about that strange and foreign race. He remembers thinking about them even as the human boy leaned in—

"It is true," he answers. He glances at her face to see her reaction but all she does is nod. "They use their hands as well but…the nature of the movement is exploratory, not ritualistic."

He speaks with much more confidence than he has any right to, he who has never experienced a physical relationship with another Vulcan, whose experience with the boy was too random and fleeting to be trustworthy scientific evidence. But T'Pring answers, "I see," and does not question his knowledge—that he has more than she on this matter is all too apparent.

Her gaze slides to him and he knows she is warming to this interview. He feels a flutter of nerves, but he's excited as well, strangely thrilled to talk about this most secret thing. He feels important. He has knowledge that no other Vulcan his age has. He keeps secrets that he shares only according to his own whim.

"What else do you wish to know?" he asks.

"How it feels." Her answer comes quickly on top of his question and she shies from it, hesitant again. He keeps his manner calm in return; he pretends that this conversation is quite an ordinary one.

"The custom of kissing with the mouth is a strange one," he admits. "It is…wet, messy, disorganized…there is no pattern to it that I could detect. I had no instinct for it." He feels his skin heat and he's sure he has admitted too much. But how to describe the sensation, the insistent push of the boy's tongue into his mouth, the subtle warmth of his breath, the taste of him? Should he even describe it? Or is this deep secret better kept hidden? He rubs his hand back and forth against the fabric of his shirt absently and says, "It was intimate, that is all."

T'Pring is staring at him quite intently now and quite suddenly he realizes, as if it was the clearest thing in the world, that she was not asking him simply about human kisses.

Before she can repeat her question, and suddenly he cannot stand the thought that she should, and make it more explicit in the re-asking, he stands up. He has no intention of leaving, it is not that. He simply wishes to move, to pace. He puts his hands behind his back and walks until he finds himself at the window. He realizes too late that when he stands in profile, the gross shape of his body is all the more visible. T'Pring asks him if he is all right but he waves off her concern.

"The rest…" he says lightly, to show that she has not scared him away yet. Then he does not know how to finish. "The rest. I cannot. I do not know." He hears her moving on the bed behind him but he stares resolutely at the gnarled branch of a tree outside the window.

"It was a closeness we do not allow ourselves," he says quietly. He is only half aware of the words, barely remembers at all that T'Pring is still listening. "Something vulgar and animalistic in it, frightening, uncontrollable…but not only that…we were not simply bodies…"

He shakes his head as if waking himself from a trance or a dream, and he turns to T'Pring once more. "I apologize," he says. "I am not being precise. I am not answering your questions."

"I am the one who must apologize," T'Pring answers, "for asking impossible questions."

She is sitting now on the edge of the bed, her fingers curled over the side, and she's running over his words in her head. She's trying to turn the vague sensations he's described into quantifiable facts, into numbers and figures, anything she can analyze. Or that is what he believes she is doing. He finds he cannot stop watching her, the wondering expression on her face, the way she watches him and does not watch him at once. She is quite beautiful.

"It was not dangerous?" she asks. "Not violent?"

He is not sure if she is thinking about the vague stories they have both heard about Pon Farr, or about the even more vague rumors that sometimes circulate about humans and other aliens. Either way, this question is much easier, and he comes to sit down next to her again, all the tension drained out of his body and only a slight residual fatigue left behind. "No," he says. "Not in my experience."

"Painful?" she asks.

"No."

This is not the complete truth, not the real answer to her question, but she does not want to hear about that terrifying abandon, the feeling that he would never be the same, a certain pain there that he did not truly feel until the boy pulled away and let his body rest next to Spock's on the unmade bed. She is not asking about this.

"Pleasurable?"

It's supposed to be good, baby.

He wants to tell her he does not know. He's not sure he does, and he's tired of these half truths that are all he can give. But when he opens his mouth to answer, what he finds himself saying is simply, "Yes." Just that, just yes, and there is nothing else to say.

x

A week passes with no opportunity for them to meet. He takes care not to look at her, not to allow any hint of their friendly relationship to escape. He is tense all the time, tense with this secret and with all of his secrets; he carries his things in front of him as he walks down the hall, and scans every face he meets for some hint of suspicion. He is on guard all the time.

One afternoon T'Pring gives him the signal, and he shakes his head in return. He hopes she understands: it is not that he does not wish to see her, it is that he cannot.

Instead he returns home, where his mother is home early and waiting for him. She gives him a hug, as she rarely does—as he lets her only on occasions such as these. Then she pulls away and touches their fingers together gently, the affectionate touch of a parent and child. She smiles at him, takes him by the arms and looks at him carefully, as if examining him. "Happy Birthday, Spock," she says, then. Somehow, she manages to sound as proud as she does every year. As if he has accomplished something great by simply becoming one year older.

When his father comes home they sit down together to dinner: a much larger and more formal dinner than they usually share, and made up of all of Spock's favorite foods. It is the usual tradition, though this year the atmosphere is tainted by the tense, awkward, silences that not even his mother can completely dispel. She does try. Spock tries as well, for her more than for himself. This tradition is, after all, one that she created and has preserved in a way Spock and his father never would. This custom of celebrating one's birth is a Terran one, not a Vulcan one.

In the past, and especially as a young child, Spock enjoyed the attention the day brought him, the large dinner, the feeling that he was special that his mother never failed to convey to him with particular insistence. This year is more difficult. He does not want to be reminded of his age. Only sixteen and he's ruined everything already.

He's sure his mother has reminded his father to hold his tongue today, to say nothing about the baby or Spock's future, or any of those dangerous topics. She would have done better to warn Spock himself because Sarek has not mentioned Spock's pregnancy once on his own accord, not since their last fight over Soval. Spock had never seen Sarek so angry; he'd seemed just short of disowning his son completely, had left the room without even letting Spock finish his explanation. And since then they have been civil, teethgratingly civil. Spock hates it. But there is nothing he can do: his father understands none of his hints, takes none of the opportunities that Spock gives him to talk openly about the child again.

They used to talk about Spock's classes, and about Sarek's work at the Embassy; they'd debate current events and share science articles they'd found. They had been close. Spock did not realize how close.

His mother keeps up conversation as well as she can, but sometimes a too-long pause falls among them, just the clinking of utensils and the other small sounds of a family at dinner, and into one of these silences, Sarek speaks up. "I was called to the Academy today," he says quite simply. But something in his tone makes Spock's head snap up and his attention focus. "It was a trifling matter but while I was there I learned the results of the entrance examinations."

Of course he did. The information would not be readily available but Sarek would never pass up the opportunity to enquire in just the right places, especially if he were already on the grounds. Spock hasn't checked his messages yet that day and he says as much, waiting for his father to give him the news instead. He has a cold feeling in his stomach, waiting. He's sure he already knows. He'd tried his best but the exam is designed to be difficult even for the best, most prepared, and most focused students, and his focus had been elsewhere. Of course it had been elsewhere. He had almost lost his child—

"You passed, Spock," his father is saying. "Barely, with one of the lowest qualifying scores, and of course you must still submit a final application and attend the interview, but you did pass."

At first he does not know what to say. His mother is already congratulating him but all he can do is stare at his father and wonder what he is thinking. His face gives nothing away.

"Thank you for informing me," he says finally. He does not want either of his parents to see how amazed he is. The Academy is a real possibility, still, despite everything, and he begins to see for the first time how much he had doubted it, how much he had come to believe that all of his plans were as ruined as Soval had said they were.

"Of course," Sarek answers. Then, Spock almost does not see him hesitate, he is paying so little attention, he adds, "I am proud of you, my son."

x

That night, he can't sleep. He can still sleep on his side if he finds just the right position but his body is becoming more awkward, and he is not sure what to do with it anymore. Also, the baby is surprisingly active and no position he tries seems to suit its particular taste. He rolls over onto his back and looks at the ceiling. Then he turns his attention back to the round bump at his middle. "Are you still celebrating?" he asks. "It is time to stop."

Lying in bed if he is not going to sleep is surely an activity without a purpose, so he hauls himself up and quietly slips out of his room. He has an idea that he will replicate himself a glass of water and perhaps some olives. And strawberry sauce. Or at least the olives.

But as he passes his parents' room he hears voices, and he immediately stills. His father might be able to hear his footsteps. He has to be careful, especially if he wants to find out what his mother and father are discussing in such loud tones. He flattens himself against the wall and concentrates.

"I am trying," he hears Sarek insist. "You have noticed that we are no longer arguing—"

"I have noticed you are no longer speaking," Spock's mother interrupts sharply. "It's not right, Sarek. You need to accept this situation for what it is and move on."

At first Sarek doesn't answer, and Spock waits, not wanting to move but prepared to rush back to his room at the slightest hint of movement on the other side of the door, his own eyes closed and one hand against the wall.

"There are consequences to Spock's actions," Sarek tries to say, but again his wife cuts him off.

"Yes. Many. And Spock is aware of them, or will be soon. We can't do anything about most of them, but we can at least be there for him, as his parents. That baby is your grandchild. Do you really want Spock to take him or her and leave and never come back here again? That's what you're driving him to do."

"Spock has never given any indication that he wishes to leave Vulcan. In fact, he reacted strongly against the idea when I brought it up four months ago." Spock listens to his father's voice and wonders if he is as confident in his argument as he sounds.

"Yes, four months ago," Spock's mother agrees, "because it was a shock. But he may yet come to change his mind. Is that what you want, Sarek? For him to cut us out of his life?"

"Of course not."

"Then stop being so unreasonable. Accept this. Everyone makes mistakes. He's still your boy."

"And yet when he told me he was to have a child I did not recognize him."

Spock does not want to listen to the rest of this conversation, so he slips by his parents' door quietly and retreats into the kitchen. Eating makes him feel better, and he can almost imagine falling asleep, somehow, now. He does not wish to think about his father, or about Earth, or about what will happen after his baby is born. But he cannot stop.

It should be quite simple. Vulcan is his home. Earth is far away, hostile, strange, and if he has few allies on Vulcan, he has none at all there. And yet—not even his own father can do more than pretend to accept his child, and his mother is already anticipating his escape. The only conclusion he can come to is that, if he does not somehow find a way to gain the respect of his own people, at least enough to guarantee his safety and his son or daughter's as well, then he will have no choice but to leave them.