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His mother called him, crying, and said that Father wouldn’t allow him to come home.
Spock sat for a long while after she had hung up, fingers steepled against his mouth as he considered. His roommate came and went twice, not speaking to him. He was used to Spock meditating at odd hours. He heard his roommate packing his things and then shouldering his bag without a word, closing the door with a decisive click.
Winter break had begun.
In a few hours he was expected to vacate the room so that the building could close. After only one term at Starfleet Academy, Spock hardly knew the area well enough to stay here. He could perhaps stay in the public library, reading, for the next two weeks. Or he could find a hostel to stay in. Captain Pike had been kind to him, perhaps he would open his home to the homeless Spock.
Spock gazed out the window at the bay. He was certain that Pike would do so, but he was equally certain that he did not wish to do that. Pike would have questions–Spock had already shared that he was planning to go back to Vulcan for the break. Spock didn’t want to have to explain his mother’s tears or his father’s refusal to speak to him at all.
He had packed three bags, but he grabbed only one–it contained a half-dozen datapadds with the thesis he was toying with, an extra sweater, his ID, and a paper book that Captain Pike had given him. It felt exceedingly light in his hand.
He walked to the transport station and got his ticket to Jupiter station changed to–anywhere else. Somewhere which was not Vulcan. He said that to the woman behind the ticket counter and she looked at him oddly, but then handed him a little chip.
“The train leaves in twenty minutes. They’ll start boarding soon.”
It wasn’t until he was onboard that he realized she really meant train. It was old-style, on metal rails. He sat by the window and looked out as it rumbled to a start, picking up speed to carry them out of the transport station. In the distance, he could see just the corner of Starfleet Academy’s main building jutting into the sky. He closed his eyes to meditate.
Days passed. His ticket would carry him all the way to New York city–the long way around, through the southern states–according to the helpful attendant he asked after the first day. He read through his datapadds and wrote a few more paragraphs of his thesis, but mostly he just sat and listened to the other passengers on the train.
They tended to fall in and out of conversation with one another. Most were human, but he had spotted one Xindi and one Andorian sitting together when he first boarded. The Andorian had been resting with her head on the Xindi’s shoulder, mouth slightly open in sleep.
Spock did not sleep. He did not need it. He rode through night and day alike awake, stepping off the train at each rest stop dutifully to stretch his legs. It was not logical to remain immobile for too long. It was on a bright, early morning in an unfamiliar sleepy town that he heard it.
His ears picked up to the sound immediately, although none of the humans seemed to notice it. In the stillness of the morning the sound carried: sweet and soulful, the music of a stringed instrument.
Spock told the attendant he was leaving here and then he retrieved his bag.
He did not know the name of the town. He was not even sure what state they were in. Still, he stepped off the train platform and walked towards the sound as the train picked up behind him, carrying the other passengers on to their next destination. The town was only a few kilometers across, and there on the other side was a small gathering of humans. Some were behind stands, apparently selling food and other wares. Others were milling about, bartering and chatting. A few tables had been set out and people were eating and laughing. A few were looking towards the stage.
Spock looked as well, his breath feeling funny in his chest.
There was a man there with messy brown hair and blue eyes that were startlingly bright, even from this distance. He had a violin at his chin, but the music he played was unlike any violin music Spock had ever heard. It flew from his bow fast and punchy at one moment, slow and syrup-sweet another. Spock sat in a chair and put his bag on his lap, listening.
He realized, as he listened, that his knowledge of Earth music was somewhat lacking. He knew the classics–Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms–but not this. This was less refined and more improvisational, or so it seemed. It was more… fun, as his mother would have said. It hurt him to think of that, and so he cleared his mind, compartmentalizing the feeling and tucking it away.
He was uncertain how long the musician played. When he ended, the crowd applauded, more prolonged than they had been applauding in between sets. The man stood and bowed over-dramatically, clearly not taking it seriously. He had a broad smile, and his eyes seemed to glitter. Spock abruptly realized he was cold, the air temperature only a few degrees above freezing. He pulled on his sweater and smoothed down his frizzy hair.
The instrument went into a black case and then the man stepped down from the stage, making room for another musician.
Spock stood and began walking over to him, tugging down the hem of his sweater.
The man had stopped not far from the stage and was scanning the crowd with a slight frown. He skipped right over Spock as he approached, and Spock had to clear his throat to gain the man’s attention.
“Your playing was quite technically skilled,” he said.
The man looked almost offended for a moment, or perhaps merely shocked. His eyes scanned over Spock’s face, lighting on his eyebrows and ears. The man smiled a little then, quirking one eyebrow. “That sounds like high praise from a Vulcan,” he said.
“Yes,” Spock confirmed. “I have not heard music in this style before. What do you call it?”
“I call it—” The man paused suddenly, his gaze slipping behind Spock. Spock watched closely as his eyes lit up and a smile drew across his features. “There you are,” he said sweetly.
Spock stepped aside and watched as the man opened his arms. There was a woman with long dark hair and a sour-looking mouth, but the man seemed to be smiling more at the baby in her arms than at her.
“I’m late,” the woman said, her voice cross as if she thought it were his fault.
“Sorry, honey.” He accepted the baby, almost glowing with the force of his smile. He kissed the woman on the cheek absent-mindedly and her frown deepened.
“She needs a meal,” the woman said.
“Jocelyn, it will be fine. Just go to work and I’ll take care of her.”
The woman huffed and nodded. “I’ll be back at eight.” She turned away from the second kiss he’d offered her and walked from the fair.
The man didn’t seem to care. He was cooing at the little baby, who smiled, gummy and wide, at him. He turned back to Spock and looked surprised to still see him standing there.
Spock shook himself, attempting to reassert his mental discipline in the face of the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to erupt. “I apologize,” he said. “I will disturb you no further.”
“Nah, it’s no problem. Joanna needs a meal and so do I. Would you care to join us, Mister…?”
“Spock,” he said stiffly.
“I’m Leonard McCoy.” His smile grew. He really was quite affable, with a smile and kind word for everyone. “We can talk about music as much as you like.”
Spock agreed, and joined McCoy for a lunch of “fishsticks” which, after Leonard learned he did not eat meat, was substituted with a rather large basket of “fries” instead. The potatoes were flavorful, if also devoid of nutrients. They talked about the music as McCoy fed Joanna from a bottle. McCoy explained that his grandfather had taught him to play. He didn’t get much chance to play for a crowd, but he’d been pleased with the reception.
“What brings you here, anyway? I don’t think they put Podunk, USA on any tourist brochures.”
The way he said it implied that the town’s name was not really “Podunk.” Spock hesitated, considering. Joanna had fallen asleep against McCoy’s chest, her head turned into his neck. She snored lightly. One of her arms had caught half under her body, not that she seemed to mind. Her little hand faced up into the world, fingers curled in sleep. Spock had the irrational urge to touch her palm and see her close her fingers around him. Grounding him.
He opened his mouth and told McCoy the whole story.
After, McCoy looked somber. He’d taken to rubbing Joanna’s back around the time Spock had finished telling him about his mother. Now he frowned into the middle distance. “You just got off the train? With no plan?”
“I heard your playing and was intrigued.”
McCoy sighed. “Well,” he said slowly. “I guess you’d better come with me, then.”
Spock raised his brow. “Come with you?”
“I’m the one who encouraged you to get stuck in the middle of nowhere. Least I could do is show you around a bit, maybe offer you supper tonight. Besides.” He grinned sheepishly. “You seem like an interesting guy.”
Spock found McCoy intriguing as well, but he did not say that. Instead, he nodded. “I would be honored.”
McCoy produced a carrying harness for Joanna and strapped her onto his chest for their walk. He took Spock on a tour of the town. They lingered at the park with its tall grey trees; the little library with its rows of dusty books; and the town’s museum which had only one floor and a handful of displays. Spock found the town intriguing. It was quiet, which was a welcome respite from the overpopulated San Francisco. It was cold and he kept his hands tucked into his pockets and worried about Joanna, but McCoy seemed unperturbed and Joanna had woken up cheerful enough.
Her round blue eyes were a different color than her father’s. Spock hadn’t noticed the woman’s eyes. Jocelyn, McCoy had said.
“What is it?” McCoy caught him looking and frowned down at the top of Joanna’s head, tucking his chin to try to see her.
Spock felt odd at the sight of him worrying over his daughter. “Her eyes are a different color than yours.”
McCoy paused, and then burst into laughter. “Is that why you look like that? It’s normal. Young babies–well, human babies–have eyes like that. They’re still blue.”
They were, quite blue, but the color seemed oddly smooth, with none of the texture and ice of McCoy’s eyes. “I see,” he said.
McCoy’s features softened, slipping into a gentle smile.
Spock felt the oddness grip him again, his side clenching at the sight of McCoy’s smile. What was it about the man that made him feel this way and made it so difficult to repress the emotion? He shook off the question. It was the unfamiliarity of a new place and the lack of sleep, surely.
Later, at McCoy’s home, he found himself thinking of his mother. He stood at the small window in the living room and looked out at the sky which had darkened early. He couldn’t see Vulcan’s sun this time of year, but he could imagine it. On Vulcan, it was late at night. He wondered if his mother slept. If his father slept near her.
“Spock, could you watch Joanna while I get things around?”
He found himself with an armload of child, squirming and squinting at him. He held her awkwardly as McCoy stepped back into the kitchen, separated from the living room by nothing more than a line between carpet and tile. He could feel McCoy’s eyes still on him as he began chopping carrots.
“She likes you, you know,” McCoy said. His voice was soft and cheerful. “And I’ve found Jo is a good judge of character.”
Spock did not look at him. He gazed down at the baby and tried to hold her in a way to make her stop fussing. Cupping his hand under her head helped, but her face was still screwed up in frustration. She wiggled around and he shifted so her head was tucked against his chest and his arm was under her body, and she frowned at him. He did not know what was upsetting her.
“Try talking to her. She likes that.”
“You are a baby and therefore do not understand what I am saying,” Spock said instantly. “However, I will defer to your father’s expertise in this area.”
He heard McCoy laughing in the kitchen, and knew that after that he was being watched less closely.
He talked to Joanna for a while, explaining his thesis to her. She seemed interested more in following his face than his words, but it was good to talk about it. Saying it outloud made him realize some theoretical problems he had not noticed before, and he made mental notes of them. He brushed his thumb against her little hand and she took hold of him, cooing at him, her sounds garbled but happy.
He paused, thinking. He wondered if he was attributing to her emotions she did not have. He rested the tips of his fingers against her soft forehead and opened his mind. He did not push in, but he made himself known to her and she responded so joyously that his eyes closed in surprise.
Happy. Soft. The lights were bright and too colorful, and she saw things more sharply than he did, the shapes were more interesting, the sounds more distracting. All was new and fresh but also meaningless. Just important to look at, unimportant to understand–and then suddenly the happiness expanded out, feathering and soft, in all directions as she looked past him, practically through him.
Spock felt a hand on his shoulder and he pulled away somewhat guiltily, looking up at McCoy, who was smiling at him again, eyes half-hooded. He saw him as Joanna saw him for one brief moment, and then he blinked. The feeling faded.
“Dinner is ready.”
The heat of his hand lingered on Spock’s shoulder long after he had left.
They ate and McCoy asked him about his thesis. Surprised that McCoy had been listening, he tried to explain it again. McCoy had little knowledge of physics, but he knew how to ask probing questions around the parts that Spock didn’t quite understand himself yet either. It was invigorating to discuss his thesis with someone who seemed genuinely interested.
After, McCoy made him tea. He sat on the couch and held it in his hands as McCoy fed his daughter and told him about his life as a country doctor. He had been this town’s chief surgeon for five years. He knew everyone in town, and they knew him, but the way he talked about it implied a certain…distance. It seemed fulfilling for him, but Spock got the impression that there was something about his life that McCoy wasn’t sharing with him.
It was late and Joanna was asleep when Spock stood.
“I must thank you for your hospitality, Dr. McCoy. I should take my leave of you now.”
“Where do you plan to go?” McCoy asked, sounding surprised.
“We passed a hostel that I can sleep at.”
McCoy shook his head. “Spock, I wouldn’t be very hospitable if I kicked you out. I’ve got a spare room you can stay in. Unless.” He jerked suddenly, blinking. “Is there, uh, a Vulcan taboo I don’t know about? I apologize if there is. I’ve worked with Vulcans, but only professionally.”
“Professionally?”
“I treated a few during med school. I took a xeno residency.”
Spock nodded, filing away this information. “No, there is no taboo. I merely do not wish to intrude. Your…wife will be home soon.” In fact, she was already quite late.
McCoy grinned, but it seemed flat. “And you think she won’t approve of me bringing home strange Vulcans?” He let out a long sigh and was silent a moment. “You may be right about that,” he agreed finally. “But I don’t think she’ll be home tonight to worry.”
Spock paused. He sat back down. “Has she been injured?”
“No! No, thank God.” McCoy sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be dragging you down into my problems.”
“As I have already drug you into mine, I believe we could say that ‘turnabout is fair play.’” He watched, utterly still, as McCoy laughed.
McCoy sobered, running his thumb over the rim of his mug. His tea had cooled during their long conversation. Finally, he whispered, “She’s late more often than not. Says she’ll be home at eight, comes in at eleven or twelve when I’m already asleep.”
“I see.” Spock watched McCoy’s hands, tense around his mug. “You are having difficulties in your relationship.”
“That’s… a nice way of putting it.” McCoy chuckled again, humorless. His eyes lifted to lock with Spock’s, bright and gleaming. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I don’t even really know you.”
“Perhaps that is why.”
“Perhaps.” He dropped his gaze, taking a deep breath. “I have a shuttlecar. I can take you to the hotel.”
Outside, the temperature had dropped. Spock stood in the garage and watched McCoy strap the sleeping Joanna into a carseat. She fussed slightly and he soothed her, resting his hand against her soft face. Spock’s fingers twitched, remembering her thoughts from earlier.
The ride was brief and silent. When they landed, Spock was still staring at McCoy’s hands on the steering console.
“Are you going to stay in town?”
Spock hesitated. For a moment, he wished to say yes. He wished to make plans to see McCoy again tomorrow, and the next day, and every day until he was forced to go back to San Francisco (and perhaps even then he would not go). He wanted to curl up on the couch and read the book Captain Pike had given him as McCoy sat beside him, smiling softly. He wanted to hold Joanna’s little hand and talk to her father about why the universe was so fascinating. He wanted to know why McCoy, a country doctor, had taken a xenobiology residency in medical school. He wanted to ask how he felt about his wife’s slow spiral away from him. He wanted to ask how McCoy felt about him.
Instead he said, “I think not. I will continue to New York tomorrow on the next train.”
“That’s, that’s good,” McCoy said. “It should be a nice trip for you.”
“Indeed.”
“Spock,” McCoy said, and then he was very quiet.
Spock looked to him, attempting to keep his gaze level and flat in the face of McCoy’s clear and utter emotionalism. He wondered how it could be that such a kind man had gone so long without anyone showing kindness to him. It must have been a long time indeed for him to look at Spock in this way. Spock tipped his head, tense as a coiled spring, and could clearly see McCoy’s wish to be held, a wish that mirrored his own.
Spock’s hand twitched. He could have done it. Could have reached out and held him, been held by him. Instead, he kept still, so still that he did not breathe, did not blink.
“I’m sorry,” McCoy whispered. “Spock, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Spock didn’t know himself, either. He tried to think logically. “I cannot help you, Dr. McCoy.”
McCoy laughed at that, sudden and harsh. He turned his face into his hand and closed his startling blue eyes. “Jesus, I’m trying to trade one emotionally distant person for another.” He took a deep breath. “Have a safe trip, Spock.”
“I will endeavor to do so.” His hand fell to the door and then he paused. “Are you aware that your daughter loves you very much?”
“What?” He could only see a blurry image of McCoy reflected in the window, but he could hear the incredulity. “She’s just a baby.”
“I am aware.”
“How do you…what do you mean?”
“Vulcans are telepathic,” he explained simply. “And I felt what she felt when she saw you.” He bowed his head, staring hard at his own hand. “I cannot help you. I cannot advise you. But I ask that whatever you do, you do for her. Joanna is your daughter, but she also has no choice in who will raise her and whether or not they will love her.”
“Spock…”
“Good day, Doctor.”
He left, feeling not quite real, and shut the door behind him. Spock turned from the shuttlecar and walked away, studiously not thinking of Joanna in her carseat, McCoy’s blue eyes contemplative and dark. He did not think of his mother.
He did not look back.