I Suppose That Would Be Handy

For a long moment, Jim found himself looking at his First Officer's rigid, uncommunicative back. The Vulcan was so still that he didn't even appear to be breathing.

Then, without moving, Spock spoke, deliberately level and low. "Captain, have you ever wondered how Vulcans choose their mates?"

Oh. dear. God.

"Well, Mr. Spock," Jim said, trying to buy himself a little time, "I suppose we all figure it's done… logically."

In the silence, Jim could hear the tiniest sound: Spock had exhaled.

Spock slowly turned to face him, though he did not raise his eyes from where they seemed to be studying the standard Starfleet flooring. He shook his head in one small sideways motion. After one of the longest moments in Jim Kirk's life, Spock lifted deep brown indecipherable eyes to meet all-too-human blue ones.

Jim's heart thudded once, twice, three times.

One black eyebrow rose.

"By tradition," Spock said evenly, "Vulcan children are paired, by their parents' selection, when they are but seven years of age. A mental bond is created between them which assures that, when the children reach maturity and it is the proper time, they will be drawn together."

Jim tried to imagine such a thing, but it was difficult to reconcile while looking at his First Officer: Thinking about it was making him vaguely sick.

It couldn't be what it sounded like, surely?

When his mind started conspicuously avoiding the word 'inhuman,' he decided that instead of thinking, he'd probably be better off just watching Spock, listening to him.

It appeared that - now that he had made the decision to divulge... uh, whatever – Spock was much more at ease. His tone was, once more, almost conversational, like he was discussing some random obscure scientific phenomena; and his eyes no longer held the same intensity.

Jim felt himself begin to relax, too – He hadn't realized that something within him had been taut with fright. Poor Spock, he suddenly thought – Does he have this effect on everyone? Is he aware of it?

Jim suspected that Spock was very well aware of the effect he had on others – even if he couldn't completely understand it.

With a disconcerting rush of self-awareness, Jim discovered that compassion was a very refreshing change from pity tinged with fear. He decided to say something before he over-thought his response.

"Well, that must be handy."

"Indeed." Spock said.

After a moment, Spock moved back to the other side of the desk.

Jim watched him walk, sit, lean back - all with a loose-limbed grace different than the very controlled grace he demonstrated on the Bridge.

He tried to figure out where the difference lay, but then thought maybe there was no difference: Maybe it was just him – something all in his own mind.

Just for a second, he wondered how much of what the crew saw when they looked at their Vulcan First Officer was what was projected by Spock, and how much was what they expected from him.

Certainly, here, Spock seemed… well, much more like a real person than he did the rest of the time.

Spock was looking at his hands which were, once again, folded in his characteristic way.

"Particularly," Spock said, in apparent continuation of his previous thought, "given the fact that, without a mate, a Vulcan will die."

Jim was startled by this blunt statement, quiet as it was. Naturally, he had heard conjecture about Vulcan sexual habits, in typical rumor-mongering college fashion. At the time, of course, there was a lot of rampant speculation and gossip, and none of them had known anyone who… None of them had known a Vulcan.

Now, he supposed very few of them ever would.

Oh, there was an awkward, painful thought. Jim's mind shied away, and sought something else less raw.

How weird would it be to have such curiosity out there about you? To be so private, and to know that people wondered about that part of your life?

"Spock," Jim said, gently, "if this is too - Well, you don't have to tell me anything you'd rather - "

But Spock repeated that small sideways motion of his head, and Jim stopped talking.

Jim really wished he knew the right thing to say. Or anything to say, really. He discarded several options, then just sat in silence.

"I may yet be spared," Spock said, almost too quietly to be heard.

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Jim had almost asked Spock to repeat them, but by the time the words reached his brain, he was very glad he hadn't.

He looked over at the other man. Something in the line of that body looked hopeless or lost – vulnerable. If it were anyone else, he'd say 'sad', even.

"Spock, do you - " Jim couldn't ask the question that he was still trying to form.

He tried again. "Was there… someone for you, from when you were a child?"

Spock had turned his face away again slightly, when Jim had started to speak - perhaps in anticipation of what would, inevitably, be asked. Now, he was nodding: A single movement, not repeated.

It took another second for him to answer more fully.

"Her name was T'Pring. She is dead, now." Spock's voice was very Vulcan. After the last few minutes, it was strange to hear it like that.

"I'm sorry," Jim said.

"Everyone lost someone," Spock observed.