Author's Note

I have debated whether to write this for a long time. In the end, I decided that it seems like an idea explored in canon often enough that I would give it a go. But I know this topic can be very triggering - and this fic certainly will be.

Obviously, this story comes armed to the back teeth with warnings. The one I want to stress the most is please don't read this if you think it might harm you.

I hope I did the idea justice, as I know other people have done. I also hope I have managed to keep true to Spock's character and not deviated too much.

The fic will deal with the concept of Spock's relationship with food, based off the interactions we see in the series where McCoy seems primed to look for this as a sign of stress. This fic will assume that there is an element of disordered thinking there, as well - it is, after all, illogical for Spock to not ask for McCoy's help if it really is stress.

Since these things don't just happen in isolation and often have a deep root, the early chapters start off when Spock is a child on Vulcan. Obviously, because he is young, I have tried to make them a bit more emotional so they may seem a bit out of character compared to later chapters.

So please bear with the story. He'll look more familiar soon, I promise :)

Summary

You can justify almost anything with logic. Then, before you know it, you can't stop. Trigger warning for disordered eating.

oOo

Chapter 1: Average.

Spock is above average.

Indeed, as his instructors often say, he is above average in Vulcan terms, and exceptional in human terms. A human, like his mother, may even have called him brilliant. He excels in all his subjects and has even managed to obtain an ideal coveted by schoolchildren for generations across the cosmos: he is also good at sports.

He isn't the best at sports, and never could be, not with his… human limitations, as the instructors so frequently describe it. But he still stands head and shoulders above other Vulcan children, if not literally then at least figuratively. He is tall for his age, quick, agile and has earned the grudging respect of some of his classmates. (Though not all, obviously, but even Spock knows at this young age that to expect or even hope for such a thing is illogical).

So, it comes as a complete surprise to him to be sitting in Standard Speaking Class one day, being forced to listen to a classmate call him 'average'.

It starts as a descriptive exercise, of course, to help the schoolchildren develop their Standard. Describe someone in this room – if you are accurate, the rest of the class will interpret your statement successfully.

The class has taken it in turns describing each other – stoically and logically of course. (Even at this young age, Spock suspects that such words are employed on the surface level of communication only).

T'Pring, of course, is classically aesthetically pleasing, of above average height and adept at critical thinking.

Somehow, Spock manages not to look at her to see how she reacts to that last comment. They have only been bonded for a short time and she is not gifted at blocking thoughts – he can often sense her own particular brand of critical thinking directed at him. He can only hope that it will pass as he continues to prove himself; after all, he has felt a grudging admiration there as well.

Sybok had told him that morning, with some amusement, that he had been erroneously described as appropriately dedicated to the Disciplines and that the classmate had then been (logically) castigated for their… inappropriate use of the word.

Sometimes, Spock wonders what his mother thinks of these lessons.

"…he often achieves the highest grades in our cohort…"

Spock's attention snaps back to the present, and he unconsciously straightens in his seat. The instructor's gaze flickers briefly to him and then back to the student who is speaking.

"…is an accomplished telepath…"

Really. If he were human, he would be preening.

"…and is of average build."

"A commendable use of vocabulary," the instructor allows, "but you must continue to practice your accent. You are occasionally remiss in where you place the stress in the word…"

Spock tunes the rest of what the instructor is saying out. Him being in these classes is just a formality really, a way of proving on paper to off-worlders that Sarek's son is getting the eclectic education due to him. He is, of course, already fluent in Standard.

Curiously, though, he is having some difficulty understanding the word 'average'. Average build.

He resists the urge to look down at himself. He resists the urge to frown. He quells the urge – that he had outgrown a year ago, now – to stamp his foot in outrage.

He has never been called average in his life.

He continues to mull it over for the rest of the lesson, the rest of the day, the rest of the week.

Surely, his classmate meant height? No… that is illogical, he is currently among the tallest in his class. It can only really be applied in one sense, and he hates –

No, no.

Spock takes a deep breath, shifts on his meditation mat, and focusses on breathing in the incense from where it wafts over his shoulder.

Vulcans do not hate. Especially not a statement of fact. There is to be no emotion ascribed to it, it simply is.

(But he hates it).

Spock blows the deep breath out through his nose, squeezing his eyes closed with maybe a little more force than is strictly necessary.

No, he does not hate it. It simply is.

He opens his eyes again, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching slightly.

There, that's better.

Satisfied with himself, he elegantly rises into a standing position, snuffs out the incense, and begins to prepare himself for the evening meal. His mother has made him something new this evening, something from Earth that he has never tried before, and he is curious.

But of course, as with all other emotion, it is illogical to fully indulge.