Title: Clothes Make the Man (or the Vulcan)
Characters: Spock, Kirk, McCoy, various
Rating: K+
Word Count: 2848
Warnings: Spoilers for TWOK, TSFS, etc. Movie-era fic.
Summary: Five times Spock wore something other than his uniform, and one time he was only too glad to put the uniform back on.
A/N: Adaptation from a writing prompt given to me by imbecamiel, during my recent whining about a lack of muse on my LiveJournal. Other prompt answers to come; this is just the one that grabbed my attention the most. This is going to be a chronological story, following the Triumvirate through the years and how their perceptions of each other change through those years.
II.
Spock of Vulcan no longer comprehends the human concept of feeling.
It is not that he is incapable of feeling. Sarek – he belatedly attributes the title Father – has reassured him that Vulcans indeed do feel; they simply have trained their minds to control and compartmentalize that feeling, to prevent any action or reaction due to emotion. It is a better way of life than the human way of uncontrolled mental chaos, even his mother tells him this; and yet, he and his slowly awakening scientific curiosity must wonder otherwise.
He has been told he is half-human, has the scientific proof inherent in his family unit and his DNA; and yet, his rigorous training exercises do not seem to correlate to this hypothesis. He does not understand emotion, nor why humans feel the way they do.
Nor does he understand why the humans whom he is supposed to call friends, expect him to at least understand those feelings.
After fourteen days of mental strengthening, sequestered in the halls of the most prominent Vulcan scientific councils, he is deemed a successful and fully recovered participant in the most sacred of all legendary Vulcan rites, the fal-tor-pan: the refusion of soul with mind and body. Such a thing has never been done in modern Vulcan history, and the scientist dormant within him recognizes the enormity of such a successful ritual. He now knows all which he should know at his stage of life: he can recite his own personal history, he knows all there is to know about his duties and habits as a prominent Vulcan scientist and Starfleet captain (the title feels wrong, somehow, and yet he has been told he is indeed a captain), and he has been proclaimed fully recovered due to a successful refusion. Sarek congratulates him that evening in their ancestral home – which Spock is still acclimating to, for the finer details take longer to slot into memory's structured order – and assures him that he is fully capable of taking his place again in public life, that there is nothing to hold him back from reclaiming his life once more.
But Spock looks out of the window, down at the extensive gardens winding around the house, and for the twelfth night he once more sees a lonely figure sitting on a bench amid the twilight of a warm Vulcan evening.
He turns back to his father – he is still reconciling distant memory of a stubborn, proud Vulcan elder with the firmly supportive man who stands before him – and shakes his head.
"I am not ready, Sarek," he says, and it is truth rather than instinct which colors the words with regret. "There are too many things which I do not understand."
He does not say that these things revolve around the humans which are still living in sanctuary on Vulcan; for that would be an admission no Vulcan could ever make. And yet, he is a scientist; and a scientist knows that to ignore that which exists is not logical. These humans have, according to Sarek, sacrificed their careers in Starfleet on an incalculably risky gamble to save his body and soul from being forever lost. The healer McCoy, his katra-keeper, has told him that in addition to this, their ship – the U.S.S. Enterprise, which had been Spock's home for sixteen years and the origin of the strange attraction he has to these humans – was destroyed, and along with it an entire planet due to the malfunctioning Genesis terraforming procedure. Admiral Kirk's estranged son had been among the casualties of the battle with the Klingons, and Spock himself had nearly become another.
These humans' behavior is entirely beyond his comprehension; he simply does not understand how they could act so illogically, with so much at stake for them to lose.
What is more disconcerting, is that he somehow knows that he should understand their reasoning, that he should be able to comprehend how they could do such a thing. But he does not understand; he has no frame of reference upon which to draw conclusions, no experience from which to hypothesize what might induce a man to behave so utterly irrationally.
"You're gonna hurt yourself thinkin' that hard about somethin' you can't understand," a voice drawls mildly from behind him, and he is somewhat startled to find that Sarek has withdrawn, wisely silent, and left him with his katra-keeper, the only human who has taken the time to seek him out and ascertain more than just his physical condition during their time here on Vulcan.
Spock is a quick learner, that much is clear from his refusion; he now knows that this human comes from a different region of Terra's North America than the rest of the crew, and that the strange inflection and accent in McCoy's speech becomes more pronounced when the human is tired, or under stress. He has a somewhat disused memory bank to back up this conjecture, but he was proud of the deduction when he made it, late yesterday evening. Perhaps he is not entirely hopeless of understanding these strange humans.
"It is impossible to inflict harm upon one's self through contemplation, Doctor," he replies, and he wonders how the logical response to an illogical statement sounds so…alien, to him.
"You're sayin' that to someone who lived for a month with a constant migraine, thanks to somebody deciding to park his katra in my head," is the dry reply, and the doctor's eyes glint with what Spock has learned is not truly annoyance, only the human instinct of fondness.
Why is it that he can read these humans, yet not understand why or how they feel what they do?
"I am still at a loss to understand why yours was the vessel which I chose, Doctor," he responds, in total honesty. "I cannot comprehend why I would do such a thing, as your mind is by far the most chaotic I have encountered in a human."
"Yeah, you're recoverin' just fine," McCoy mutters with a roll of the eyes, though Spock can of course hear the words perfectly. The human's aging face suddenly becomes serious, however, and his tone is grave. "Do you remember anything about that last hour in the Engineering Room? I was the only person available to you. We all know you intended Jim, Spock, you're not gonna offend me by admitting it."
"Why would I have chosen the admiral, Doctor?"
His question is totally curious, for he has no idea why he would choose one human over another, other than this strange, almost magnetic attraction he does have toward the man whose name he remembered before he recalled his own. Jim is…different. But how, Spock does not know, and cannot remember.
McCoy's eyes sadden, and again Spock does not know why. "I was hoping you'd remember a little more than you have, Spock," the human explains, not unkindly. "This is killing Jim, and while it's not your fault or mine…well, I hate it, Spock. I'd never want to drive a wedge between you, not in a million years. But somehow I have. We both have. And you don't even see it, do you."
Spock glances unintentionally out the window again, at the lonely figure sitting below. "I do not understand, Doctor," he repeats, helpless. "What am I supposed to see? How do I regain human feelings, for which I have no frame of reference?"
He hears a sigh behind him, as McCoy moves to his left, and looks down at the garden as well. "Blasted Vulcan indoctrination…look, I can't answer that, Spock. None of us can." The doctor snorts softly, running a weary hand down his face. "We should just be lucky we got you back at all, y'know. Got no right to be angry that you're not exactly firing on all thrusters yet."
The metaphor is a human speech pattern, but easily extrapolated. He does not waste time in questioning it. "I am at a loss, Doctor, as to how to proceed."
Below them, the admiral has stood wearily, like a man far older than his years. Kirk glances up at the lit window, their shadows silhouetted against it, and something in his sad expression twists a strangely painful knot in the vicinity of Spock's chest, before the man disappears into the shadows.
Beside him, McCoy leans his head wearily against the cool glass of the window.
"You and me both, Spock. You and me both."
Spock does try, indeed he does – with but varying degrees of success.
His initial greeting when they board the Bird of Prey, informing the admiral that he has misplaced his uniform, is met with a tiny but genuine smile, as if Kirk is going to laugh but ends up not doing so due to a lack of practice. Spock still believes these humans are highly foolish to return to Earth when they have been offered Vulcan sanctuary for the rest of their lives (as participants in the first successful fal-tor-pan in modern Vulcan history, they have been awarded the status of honored outworlders in Vulcan society), but he has learned in their months on Vulcan that it is utterly impossible to argue with a human whose mind is made up.
He feels just a twinge, a strangely fleeting sensation of warmth, when after landing successfully on Terra in the late 1980s, the admiral chooses him when they divide into teams. It is actually the first time since Spock's refusion that Kirk has actively sought out his company, and it is notable in that novelty though he suspects it is primarily so that Kirk can be in the vicinity should his alien status become public knowledge through some accident. But the admiral seems to be in decent spirits, all things considered, and is speaking to him without that awkward hesitance which always characterized their conversations on Vulcan. Spock wonders if the fluttering sensation burgeoning deep inside him is that of hope – hope that perhaps, just perhaps, all is not lost to salvage a relationship he still does not comprehend.
It is illogical, he realizes, to be so content when the fate of an entire planet and the Federation is at stake, centuries into the future…but content Spock is, walking in oddly perfect sync down the crowded streets of San Francisco beside an irritated human with a propensity to forget he is not invincible against Old Earth automobiles.
He shakes off the knowledge that he is thinking most illogically; for after all, it is only reasonable to allow himself some flexibility, after such a mind-altering occurrence as he has endured recently.
Their mission is fairly standard, from what he can remember of their days aboard the Enterprise: namely, everything which can go wrong, does. The humans call it Murphy's Law, which Spock discovers upon brief research (namely, a highly amused Montgomery Scott in lieu of a working library databank) is actually a non-existent, humorous principle rather than a scientific tenet such as the Laws of Thermodynamics. However, in the end, they accomplish their mission and then turn in victory toward Sol, with two humpback whales and a stowaway marine biologist aboard.
He reluctantly repeats McCoy's suggestion when asked; namely, that he is preparing to take his best guess as to where they will land and when – and to his surprise, Admiral Kirk seems to be ridiculously pleased with his statement, instead of mildly horrified as Spock himself would be, were it his ship and life and history on the line.
Kirk leaves the Bridge with Dr. Taylor, still grinning wider than he has in weeks, and McCoy rolls his eyes and gives him a look which Spock does not require telepathy to interpret as the human phrase I-told-you-so.
He sighs silently, and shakes his head. He most likely will never understand these humans, and so perhaps it would be more logical to simply cease the attempt?
When they crash with a sickening jolt into the choppy waters of the San Francisco Bay – Spock's quicker mind realizes immediately after a glance at the navigation panel that they have come terrifyingly close to destroying the Golden Gate Bridge – he is moving even before Admiral Kirk, instinct overpowering everything else with the same insistence that drives all command officers – seeing to the welfare of the crew in the event of a doomed ship.
Jim shoves past him with a shouted order to see to the safety of all hands, and for a fleeting moment their eyes meet – and Spock realizes in that instant that his heart remembers what his mind may not yet, for they are already moving in that strangely perfect synchronization which instantly made them the command team to be feared in the galaxy, well over a decade ago.
"I will," he promises instinctively, unintentionally making it a personal statement rather than the official Aye, sir which is required of Starfleet officers. And in that instant, Spock suddenly realizes – he is vowing to protect those who have protected him; as companions and comrades, not as fellow Starfleet officers. It is a promise to a man who has never lost faith in him, despite the odds, and it is a promise he will keep if it means drowning to save any one of these remarkable humans.
Thankfully, it does not come to that, but it is a dangerous situation in which they all finally find themselves, precariously clinging to the side of a sinking Klingon warship during the hurricane of the century. Spock spares a few moments to ensure Dr. McCoy's grip is secure on the slippery surface – the odd wave of protectiveness for the human no doubt stems from knowing he was the katra-keeper; it is but logical – and then turns his gaze downward, waiting for the telltale explosion of spume and spray which will indicate Jim successfully released their living cargo, thereby giving this doomed planet its last hope of survival.
It is oddly comforting, to know that at the least, he will have the opportunity to share the fate of his shipmates, in whatever befalls them in the next few minutes. This is the least he can do, to repay such loyalty and affection.
When another three minutes, fourteen seconds pass without a sign, he glances up calculatingly at the open hatch, only to have McCoy yank firmly on his sopping sleeve with one shivering hand, a scowl firmly affixed upon his face.
"You even think about it, Jim'll kill you," the doctor half-yells over the sound of the wind. "'Sides, you're the quickest risk out of all of us for hypothermia, so you aren't goin' anywhere, not on my watch!"
Spock ignores the medical diatribe with practiced instinct, looks desperately once more at the churning water, but sees nothing. No sign of the admiral, and no sign of the trapped whales. A fissure of pain, unusual in that it is a physical manifestation of mental distress, begins to open up deep inside him, somewhere he did not even know existed. He looks up, meets McCoy's equally worried gaze, and then turns back, scanning the roiling waves once more.
And still, there is nothing.
The frisson of panic which is working its way steadily past his carefully constructed, textbook Vulcan shields, splinters now, fracturing in his chest so painfully he can scarcely breathe. Beside him, he vaguely hears McCoy curse Kirk to every known god in existence, and he briefly wonders if it is truly unVulcan to follow suit – when suddenly, a dark head bobs to the surface, disappears in another monstrous wave, and then surfaces again. Jim is coughing, gasping frantically for air, and struggling in the face of the waves and wind – but he is alive, and will soon be safe.
McCoy's squawk of warning as Spock lunges forward rings in his ears, but not louder than the sudden rush of painful sensation which unexpectedly shatters the wall of comfortable Vulcan control that has shielded the core of his being for so long. There is still no sign of the whales, George and Gracie – but despite that, it is as if the sun has already come out from behind the clouds, scattering darkness in the wake of warmth and light. He cannot believe that he has been living under such calm, controlled shadow, and that there has been all this time, dormant inside him, such a wash of memories and sensations, too many to remember individually but all of them, all of them centering around this one unique human. It is illuminating, breathtakingly so, and he feels…
He feels. Everything.
It is the difference between blindness and enhanced sight; and he will never forget this moment if he lives – again – another lifetime. They are by no means who they were, he and Admiral James T. Kirk – but they will be, this much Spock knows, and now knows why.
Splashing closer in the frigid water, Jim's shaking hand flails unsuccessfully for a moment before latching onto his on a third attempt.
And there is nothing in the galaxy which will induce Spock to let him go.