Celebrate the Earth and Sky (10/20)

[aerlalaith]

Soar with the Wind V

Spock found the remainder of their journey at sea a satisfactory one.  Now in accord with Jim, the two spent the majority of their time together.  Spock educated his companion on the basics of Vulcan culture, while Jim taught him how to cook Earth food, and to cheat at a game he called ‘poker.’  When they grew tired of these endeavors, they devoted their time to baiting McCoy, who was only too willing to be drawn into an argument.

Once, Jim woke during Spock’s - now very familiar - feelings of claustrophobia and fear in the night.

“You can talk about it,” he said, so quietly that at first Spock thought he must have hallucinated it.

“I did not know you were awake,” said Spock.

Jim was quiet for a moment.  “Bad things happen,” he murmured.  “I know.  I’m sorry they happened to you.”

“I am . . . gratified,” Spock said, a strange lump in his throat.  The irrational fear had receded somewhat for the moment, now that his attention was drawn to something else.   But it was not completely gone.  Spock was beginning to wonder if it would ever be completely gone.

Jim made a humming noise.  “If you need something, let me know, okay?  I mean,” he drew in a breath, “I mean, I know it’s not going to get magically all better but if I can- help, in any way.  Make things easier for you.  Let me know, okay?”

Spock exhaled.  “Vulcans process,” he hesitated.  “That is- we utilize meditation as a tool to process- events.”

Jim turned over, blankets rustling, bed creaking.  “You just do what you need to do,” he said.  “But if you, you know, need someone, tell me, okay?”

“That is not the Vulcan way,” said Spock.

“Maybe it should be,” said Jim.

“Jim . . .”

“Okay?”

Spock surrendered.  “As you wish,” he grumbled.  But inside, a small warmth flared.

On their twelfth day at sea, Spock was treated to his first, fleeting sight of the African coast.  They docked in Mombasa, and tried their best not to look suspicious as Uhura hurried them into a car and out to an airfield.  Spock decided he did not want to know how she avoided the requisite authorities.  He suspected a large sum of money must have exchanged hands at some point.

“We’re not even going to stay one night?” Jim whined, looking outside the car window as the city zipped by.  “I thought you said we were.”

“Don’t be an infant,” McCoy groused.  He turned to Spock, and helped him adjust his bandana over his ears and eyebrows.  Spock resisted the urge to bat his hands away.  At least this climate was tolerably warm, even if the resulting, yet necessary, headgear for a Vulcan in disguise looked foolish.  “I think people would notice a fugitive and an alien walking on the street.  At least in Scotland, this guy wearing a hat’s not going to look funny.”

“I’m not a fugitive here,” Jim pointed out, peering longingly at a line of palm trees and the light sparkling off the blue of the bay.

McCoy rolled his eyes.  “The Bureau’s got a long arm, Jim.  Do you really want to play with figuring out just how long it is?”

“I might,” Jim said.  “If it’d get me a few hours on the beach and a piña colada.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Uhura from the front seat.  “We’re getting on a plane in five hours.  Sorry.”

“What makes Scotland any more safer than anywhere else we’ve been?” Jim demanded.  He thumped his head against the glass window of the car.  “The E.U.’s not exactly buddy-buddy with the Bureau, but they’re still run by the same kind of assholes.”

Uhura smiled a very faint smile, but Spock could have sworn there was a new sparkle in her eye.  “It’s because Scott’s there,” she said.

“Of course there are Scotts there, it’s Scotland,” Jim replied, picking at the leather seat of the car.  Spock gave him a look of rebuke.  Jim put his hands back into his lap.

Uhura ran her hands through her hair.  “Not Scotts, plural,” she said, looking like Jim’s denseness was about to hit her last nerve.  “Montgomery Scott.  Anywhere he sets up shop is the safest place on Earth, period.”

“Okay,” Jim waved his hands a bit.  “Why?  What’s he do?”

“He’s an engineer.”

“Fascinating,” said Spock.

Jim slapped his hand to his forehead.  “What, seriously?  An engineer?”

Uhura glared at him a little.  “Trust me,” she said, turning her back on him to face front.  “He’s the best.”

“You know, I was kind of hoping you were going to say he was like, an ex secret agent or something.  Or an insanely rich businessman who no one could blackmail or threaten.”

“Just trust me, Kirk,” said Uhura with a sigh.  “Scotty’s got us covered.  He’s a miracle worker.”

Jim sighed again, gave the outside view one more forlorn look, then set to fixing the mistakes McCoy had made with Spock’s bandana.

“I don’t think red’s really your color,” Jim mused, as he tugged to keep the cloth over Spock’s ears and eyebrows.

“No?”  Spock kept his hands clenched around his pants legs, submitting to Jim’s adjustments as best he could.  Why must humans be so tactile?  His mother had not been so.

“Nah, I think you’d look better in blue,” Jim said.  “Set off your eyes a bit.”

“My eyes are brown,” replied Spock.  “Yours are blue. Therefore, should blue not be your color?”

Jim shrugged.

McCoy turned around to gaze incredulously at the pair of them.  Spock lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, Doctor?”

McCoy blinked and shook his head.  “Nothing,” he said.  “I just thought for a sec you- never mind.”

“What?” asked Jim.  He tugged at Spock’s bandana again.  “What did you think?”

“Never mind,” said McCoy, more firmly this time.

“Aw, come on, Bones,” Jim said.

“Do you really have to keep using that name?” McCoy asked wearily, covering his eyes as if to ward off a headache.  “It’s terrible.  People are going to think I’m a crazy who puts together skeletons from owl pellets for fun or something.”

“Wow, Bones, that’s a really specific thing for someone to think,” Jim said.

McCoy crossed his arms.  “Sulu asked me if I knew anything about owl pellets yesterday,” he muttered.  “It’s all your fault.”

“Oh, sorry,” Jim said, not sounding sorry at all.

McCoy jabbed a finger at him.  “Just for that, I’m going to inject you with influenza in your sleep.”

“You already gave me the vaccine for that,” said Jim.

“The ethics of your medical professionals seem somewhat lacking,” Spock observed to Jim.

McCoy choked a little.  “My ethics?  Do we really want to play this game, Mr. I’m-here-to-secretly-spy-on-a-whole-planet?”

“If Earth were capable of contacting the Vulcan High Command, then my presence here would not be a secret,” Spock said reasonably.

McCoy sputtered.

Jim winked at Spock.  “Let it alone.  Let him keep his delusions for a bit longer.”

“I can modify that influenza so it affects aliens too,” McCoy threatened.  “I didn’t take those samples of your blood for nothing.”

“Boys!” Uhura turned around.  “Come on, you’re distracting the driver.”

“It’s like she’s my mother,” Jim mused to the roof of the car.  “Like my mom, and also like the middle school principal.”

“What is a middle school?” queried Spock.

“Hell,” McCoy replied, while at the same time Jim said,

“Torture.”

Spock furrowed his eyebrows.  “I do not understand,” he admitted.

McCoy and Jim shared a glance.  “Do Vulcans go through puberty?” Jim asked finally.

“Oh my god,” said Uhura.  “You’re really going there.”

“Of a sort,” Spock said.  “You refer to the period between childhood and adult maturation, correct?”

“Erm, yes,” said Jim after a few seconds.

“What Jim here is trying to say is that human puberty is the most awkward and uncomfortable stage of a human’s life,” McCoy interrupted.  “Middle school is where we put all those awkward and uncomfortable humans until they can be released into the wild.”

“It’s basically like a holding cell,” Jim interjected.  He made a face.   “Well, maybe not quite, but yeah.  A holding cell.  To keep them from contaminating the rest of humanity.”

“Humans practice ritual segregation of their young?” Spock said, horrified.  “Is that not a primary time for brain development?”  No wonder Sol III had suffered so.

Uhura turned around again.  “Guys, you’re giving him the completely wrong idea,” she scolded.  “Spock, Middle School refers to one’s educational level.  Of course there are going to be hoards of pubescent children - it’s a school.  But they’re not separated from society.”

“They should be,” McCoy said under his breath.

“I see,” Spock said, silently relieved and also slightly ashamed of his gullibility.  Human society was just so peculiar.  It seemed nearly impossible to sort the facts from the wildly inaccurate conjectures.

“So - and this is from a purely medical standpoint, I assure you - what’s Vulcan puberty like?”

Spock was suddenly tongue-tied.

Jim, who had not asked the question but appeared to appreciate it nonetheless, beamed at McCoy, who awaited Spock’s answer, an expectant look written all over his face.

“Well,” said Spock, trying very hard not to think of the terrifying end result of male Vulcan puberty.  “The mind and body undergo many . . .” he cleared his throat.  “Ah, many hormonal changes.  A Vulcan female will develop mammary glands, while a Vulcan male-”

“Yeah, he definitely just said mammary glands,” Jim announced to the car at large as McCoy snorted with laughter.

“I do not see how different that is from human puberty.”  Spock glared a bit at Jim.  “Surely Nyota developed her mammary glands during- I do not understand why you are laughing, Jim.”

McCoy made an odd choking noise.  Uhura, whose eyes had widened at Spock’s words, now reached towards the back seat of the car to casually punch McCoy in the arm.

“That’s what you get for encouraging him.”

“Ow!” he said, rubbing it, but could not seem to stop small hiccups of laughter from escaping.

“Spock, you are the best,” Jim told him, still snickering.  “Never let anyone tell you different, okay?”

“Have I errored?” Spock asked Uhura, who at the moment seemed to be the sanest of the bunch, although Spock could tell that she too, was fighting hard not to laugh.

“We’ll have to explain some other time,” Uhura said, as McCoy began to wheeze.  “For god’s sake McCoy, control yourself.”

“Can’t,” McCoy gasped.  “Oh god, I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.”

“I am gratified to have been the source of your amusement,” said Spock darkly.

Jim patted him on the shoulder.  Spock accepted it, mostly because he was squished between Jim and McCoy and had nowhere to escape.

“Us too,” he smiled.  Then frowned.  “Damn it, Spock, your bandana’s slipped down again.  We're going to have to glue it to your face or something.”

“Please do not,” Spock said, feeling a completely logical spike of alarm.

“Hold still,” ordered Jim.  He fidgeted with it some more.

“It’s fine, Jim,” McCoy said.  “Quit fussing with it.  We’re getting to the airfield soon anyway, right?”

“About two minutes,” said Uhura.

“I’m not fussing.”

“Okay fine, then stop pawing at Spock.  He’s going to think all humans are like you, god forbid.”

“I think I was just insulted,” Jim said to Spock.

“Potentially,” Spock agreed.

“That’s harsh, isn’t it?”

“Cry me a river,” said McCoy.

Spock turned to him.  “I believe that is physically impossible, Doctor.”  He blinked, suddenly uncertain.  “Unless there are certain aspects of human physiology which I have so far been made unaware?  I do not think so . . . Jim, why are you laughing again?”

“Oh, thank god we’re here,” said Uhura in an obvious tone of relief.  “I’m never riding in a car with you lunatics again ever,” she added, as Jim’s choked sniggers turned into general hysterics.

“You need an access code to even get into this place?” McCoy asked, as Uhura fished something out of her pocket and flashed it to the guard at the gate.

She shrugged.  “It’s a private airfield,” she said.  “So, yeah.  Why not?”

“Are we going to be flying in a cargo plane?”  McCoy said, the idea suddenly occurring to him.  “I don’t want to fly with livestock.  They smell.”

Uhura gave him a look of disdain.  “Of course not,” she said.  “We’re taking the jet.”  The car stopped and she hopped out, waving to someone waiting outside the hangar.

“Oh,” McCoy said weakly, staring after her.  “I see.  We’re just taking the jet.  Right.”

“I bet I could fly the jet,” Jim said.

“It seems pertinent to mention that the last time you flew an aircraft, it crashed into a mountainside,” said Spock.

“Oh come on, the nav. system and the engine were- oh my god,” he stopped.  “Did you just make a joke at my expense?”

“Vulcans do not joke.”

“I think that’s a yes,” said Jim, peering at Spock.  “Careful, keep it up and you might start showing your emotions.”

“There is no cause for insults,” Spock huffed, sliding himself out of the car after Jim.  He trailed McCoy and Jim to the hangar, where Uhura was already talking animatedly with someone at the entrance.  Behind them, Spock heard the sounds of another couple of cars pulling out, and the familiar voices of Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov as they too, piled out.

“And maybe it is in Southern Russia where everyone speaks Chinese,” Chekov was saying, “But in Moscow it is still Russian.  My Mandarin is the worst.”

“Guess it’s lucky for you that math is universal then, isn’t it?” Sulu replied.

Chekov crinkled a grin at him, “Da, very lucky.”  He spotted Spock ahead of them and called out, “Please Mr. Spock, we need you to settle a question for us.”

Spock halted, letting McCoy and Jim disappear into the hangar, and allowing Sulu and Chekov catch up to him.  They were both perspiring, Spock noticed.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked politely.

“Mr. Spock, you are not hot?” Chekov panted as they reached him.  “Why, he is as cool as a zucchini!”

“Cucumber,” said Sulu.

Chekov turned a bit redder, “Cucumber,” he repeated.  “Yes, I see there is alliteration there.  That makes sense.”

“You had a question?” Spock said, patiently.

Chekov blinked.  “Ah, yes,” he exclaimed.  “Hikaru and I were wondering what it is you do on . . .” he frowned, “Wulcan?”

“Vulcan,” said Spock.

Chekov nodded.  “Yes, Wulcan.  What is it you do there?  Why is it they sent you here?  Hikaru was thinking that you are perhaps military, or a diplomat.  I told him no, Wulcans sound peaceful and scientific - you are always asking questions Mr. Spock, which is why I think so - so I was thinking that you are maybe a scientist?  An anthropologist or sociologist?”

“You are partially correct,” Spock said.  “I am a scientist.”

Chekov turned to give Sulu, standing beside him with his arms crossed, a look of triumph.

“However, I was trained in the physical sciences, particularly physics, computer science, astronomy, and chemistry,” Spock added.

Sulu stuck his hands into the pockets of his ratty cargo shorts.  He adjusted the sunglasses slipping down his sweaty nose.  “You’re a physicist,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would they send a physicist?”

Spock weighed his options.  He could not lie, but neither had he told any of these idealistic young humans the truth about his bloodline.  He decided to prevaricate.  “My father is a well known diplomat,” Spock said.  “I was thus exposed to many different cultures during my youth.  I also had made a study of some human languages, which necessarily included cultural studies.”

Sulu made a face, “My father is a civil engineer, but I doubt I could even build you a model bridge that wouldn’t collapse.  Why would you study human languages?  We’re not even space faring - well, not like you guys.”

“My father emphasized the study of diplomacy beginning at a very young age.”  He looked far away for a moment, then could not help adding, “Of course, my elder brother actively avoided mastering any of it, so perhaps there is some truth in what you say.”

“Maybe,” agreed Sulu.  Chekov, having lost his sunglasses over the side of the container ship, squinted at him, shading his eyes.

“You are a mystery, Mr. Spock,” he declared.  “It that a Wulcan past time?  To be mysterious?”

“No,” said Spock, very firmly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jim, walking up behind them.  He slung a companionable arm around Spock’s shoulders.  Spock went rigid.  So tactile!  Why must he be so tactile?  “I bet it is.  When we were in Death Valley together, did I tell you?”  He leaned over to speak to Sulu and Chekov.  “He spent a whole week wearing the same stupid hat.  Never told me why, refused to talk about it, refused to take it off, even when he slept.”

“You've mentioned,” said Sulu, voice as dry as the dirt around them.

“Of course, I get why now,” Jim continued, motioning towards Spock’s ears.  The end of his finger flicked by the tip of Spock’s ear.  Spock’s cheeks felt hot.  “And also there’s the eyebrows, although I guess you could have shaped those.”

“Yes,” said Chekov, halfway glancing at the entrance to the flight hangar.  “We should probably go to the plane.”

“He wouldn’t even let me watch him set up the tent,” Jim groused, as they started walking.  He slipped his arm off of Spock’s shoulders.  Without it, Spock now felt peculiarly light, as if it had been keeping him grounded.  “I bet it was super high tech or something and you didn’t want me to know,” he said accusingly.

“It was a Vulcan tent,” Spock said.  “Although we attempted to make it resemble its Terran counterparts.”

Jim snapped his fingers.  “I knew it was weird that we didn’t broil alive when we slept there during the day.”

Spock almost-frowned.  “Your tents do not modulate their inside temperature?”

“Not very well,” said Sulu.

“They’re like ovens,” said Jim.

Spock’s eyebrows drew together.  “A design flaw, then.  Thank you for bringing it to my attention.  Why did you never mention this before?”

Jim rolled his eyes.  “Spock, we were trying not to die in the desert.  I kind of had other things to think about besides wonder why the tent wasn’t a death trap.  I was just grateful that I could sleep when the time came.”

“I see,” Spock said, though the slight pursing of his lips and the bit of gleam in his eyes made Jim wonder if he was already planning modifications to his next fake Earth tent.

They walked into the hanger.  Inside was shaded, and about ten degrees cooler than the outside due to the large fans set up around the edges of the room.  Uhura walked towards them.  Her loose jeans were only in slightly better shape than Sulu’s shorts, and the flared out ends billowed a bit in the fans’ breeze.

“Sorry about the heat,” she said.  “Since the hanger’s open-air we can’t have any climate controls but those,” she pointed to the fans.

“Where is the jet?” Chekov asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with his arm.

She jerked her chin towards the opening at the other end of the hanger.  “It’s on the tarmac outside already,” she said.  She pointed at the smaller planes inside.  “These are just getting fixed up.”

Spock examined the airplanes with open interest.  They were dissimilar in shape to Vulcan transports, looking like nothing more than hollow metal tubes, though aerodynamic enough.  He felt a twinge of apprehension at flying in one, which he immediately forced down.

“Don’t worry,” Jim consoled him, “It won’t be like my plane.  Uhura Enterprises has enough money to make sure their planes don’t break down and crash.”

Spock narrowed his eyes.  “You are less than reassuring,” he said.  “Also, I was not worrying.  It is illogical to worry about what may happen.  Kaiidth.”

Jim gave him a little half smile.  “Just wanted to make sure,” he said lightly.

The plane was indeed on the tarmac.  After they had boarded, Spock blinked in surprise at the luxuriously appointed inside.  The chairs were wide-backed and cushioned, a deep blue in color.  There were lights and computer screens, and lavatories.  He noticed McCoy make a beeline for a small black receptacle fastened to the floor.  It opened at the press of his palm, and McCoy rummaged through it before emerging triumphant with a small bottle of amber colored liquid.  He wiggled back into his seat, opening it and taking a long gulp.

“It’s like a hotel, Leonard,” said Uhura, who had boarded last and had also spent some time conversing with the pilots.  “You take anything from the mini-fridge, you’re going to have to pay for it later.”

McCoy took another sip, then looked at the bottle in his hand in distrust.  “You had better be joking,” he said, craning his neck to speak to her.

She gave an enigmatic shrug.  “We’ll see,” she said, as the plane started to rumble.  She sat next to a woman with dark hair, who Spock had not yet spoken to, though he knew from his time aboard the ship that her name was Marlena.  Jim, emerging from the lavatory, sat next to Spock, across from McCoy and Sulu.

Despite Spock’s earlier words, he did spend a significant amount of time during the flight postulating just when and how the airplane would fail.  Even a hint of turbulence had him taking a meditative breath and repeating to himself that although humans’ spaceflight capabilities were meager, they had mastered in-atmosphere flight well over three hundred years ago.

Kirk leaned over to whisper in his ear.  “Hey, are you okay?  You look a little pale.”

“This airplane is very primitive in design,” Spock said.

Jim patted his hand reassuringly.  Spock looked down at it, then up at Jim, who smiled, completely unaware of the Vulcan social conventions he was trampling all over.  “Could be worse,” he said, with a jerk of his shoulder toward McCoy.  “Could be in his shoes.”

If Spock was pale, McCoy looked positively green (a color Spock had been assured did not usually occur on humans).  He gripped his bottle in one hand and the armrest with the other, clutching so fiercely at it that his knuckles were white.  His face was beaded with sweat, his eyes closed, and his lips moving soundlessly in some variety of mantra.  Or perhaps it was a prayer.

“I do not believe that the doctor and I wear the same size footwear,” Spock stated.

Jim shook his head, another smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  “Idiom,” he said.  “Means you could be experiencing what he is.”

“Ah,” said Spock.  He snuck another glance at McCoy.  Sulu was holding out a white paper bag to him with an expression of resignation.  McCoy snatched it from his hand, eyes still shut, before returning his hand to its previous place on the armrest.   “I believe my own state of affairs is quite preferable.”

“Hates to fly,” Jim said.  “Told me he was in a plane crash when he was little.”

“Jim, that does not put me at ease,” Spock said.

“Oh,” Jim looked a bit guilty.  “Sorry.  Isn’t fear illogical though?”

Spock stiffened, and pulled his arm away from where it had been touching Jim’s through the fabric of their clothing.  “It is a normal response to stimuli,” he said.  “What is illogical is to allow it to control one’s actions.”

“Oh,” said Jim, looking both apologetic and ill at ease.  “Sorry.”

“There is no offense where none is taken,” Spock said, somewhat grudgingly.

Jim’s breath huffed out in something that could have been called a laugh.  “And you never take offense,” he said, reaching out to adjust Spock’s bandana once more.  Spock intercepted his hand, and lowered it.

“If the cause was sufficient, one might,” Spock allowed, lifting his hand away from Jim’s.

Jim’s eyes twinkled.  “Never with me though,” he practically crowed, poking Spock in the shoulder.

“Apparently so,” Spock sighed.  Jim was beginning to remind him to some extent of Sybok during his stranger moods.  He wondered how this might bode for their future.

“Admit it, you like me.  You’re glad you saved my life.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Jim leaned back in his seat.  “I’ll get you to say it one of these days,” he said.

Spock inclined his head.  “I look forward to your future attempts.  I am sure that they will prove to be most fascinating.”

Jim got out his data pad and clicked it open.  “I think that’s your favorite word.  Besides ‘illogical,’ that is.”

“It is illogical to favor one word over another.”

“Uh huh.”  Jim was clearly distracted at this point, tongue between his teeth as he scrolled through something on his pad.

Spock was beginning to wonder if their conversation had ceased, and was contemplating accessing his own, borrowed data pad to read up on Earth history, when Jim spoke again.

“You ever heard of chess?”

Spock straightened up from where he had been reaching into his bag.  “Negative.”

Jim moved a bit in his chair, bringing his data pad’s screen into Spock’s line of vision.  On it, there was an image of an eight by eight, checkered board, with sixteen small black figures lined up one side, and sixteen small white figures lined up on the other.

“I assume this is the ‘chess’ to which you refer?” Spock inquired.  “Am I to surmise that this is a game of sorts?”

Jim nodded.  “It’s a pretty logical game,” he said.  “Thought you might like to learn.  Humans have been playing it for centuries.  There’s all sorts of rules and strategies.”

“What are its origins?”

Jim screwed up his face.  “Um, you know I’m not sure?  Let me look.”  He took his data pad back, and typed something into it.  “Hmm, says it originated in India around the sixth century in the Common Era, and modern tournaments began in the mid-nineteenth century.”

“Fa-” Spock caught himself.  “Interesting,” he said instead.

Jim’s eyes gleamed.  “Want to play?  It’s going to be a long flight.”

“I am not adverse to learning,” said Spock.  “What is the ultimate purpose of the game?”

The corners of Jim’s eyes crinkled.  “The main point is to capture your opponent’s king,” he began, indicating the piece.  He stopped.  “Wait, maybe I should name all the pieces.”

“That would, perhaps, be of assistance,” Spock said.

Jim tilted his head.  “I’m beginning to get this feeling that Vulcans only keep that zen face so they can sass their human friends without being caught,” he mused, as he zoomed in on the pieces on the screen.

Spock sat up straighter, “The mastering of emotions is the cornerstone of modern Vulcan civilization,” he said, not quite frowning.

“Uh huh,” Jim said.  “You didn’t say ‘Vulcans don’t have friends,’ this time,” he added.  He pointed at a piece.  “Now, this is the queen.  She’s the most important, because she can move any way she wants, in whatever way she wants.”

Unsure of how to respond to Jim’s earlier comment, Spock kept silent.  The Vulcan definition and allowance of friendship was murky.  But if Spock was to have any peace during his time spent among these humans - and among this particular human - it appeared that he would need to clear the water.

Spock lost his first game of chess spectacularly.  And his second.  And his third.

“I do not understand,” he muttered, staring at the ruins of his pieces after their fourth game.  “This appears to be a game of logic.  Humans are innately less logical than Vulcans.  My losses do not make sense.”

“There is an element of strategy you employ against the person you play with,” Jim shrugged.  “Also, I have a pretty high ranking.  Don’t feel bad, you’re doing well for a beginner.”

“Vulcans do not ‘feel bad’” Spock corrected automatically.  His eyebrows drew together.  “You neglected to mention a high ranking during our previous conversations,”

“Would it have made a difference?” Jim asked, setting up the pieces again.

Spock considered this.  “I suppose not.”

“Thought so,” Jim said.  He clasped Spock by the shoulder with one hand, and shook him a little.  “You’re really doing great, Spock,” he said, face very earnest.  “We’ve just got to play some more games, and maybe you should read up on some strategy, but after that you’ll be playing like a pro in no time!”

“Jim, please cease manhandling me,” Spock said through gritted teeth, having learned over their time on the container ship that Jim responded best to direct commands.  Perhaps it was time for another treatise on Vulcan cultural mores?  He was certain he had mentioned important details such as his comfortable level of touch, but it was also extremely likely that he had been too subtle about it.

Jim released him.  “Sorry,” he said, cheeks turning red.  “I keep forgetting.”

Spock decided to let it go.  “I am to play white?”

“Loser gets white,” Jim said.

“I shall be playing white for the next millennium,” Spock muttered to himself in Vulcan.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Spock said.  He moved a pawn forward two spaces.  “Your turn.”

After two more games, Jim grew fatigued and fell asleep, lightly snoring in the chair next to him.  Assured his companion was oblivious to the world, Spock pulled out his data pad and began searching for chess strategies.  Honestly, it was intolerable, a Vulcan losing out to a human at a game of logic.  Determined to win their next game, he located a likely set of instructions and strategies, and began to read.

“I bet you’re researching chess strategies,” Jim yawned several hours later, as they began to descend.

Spock closed down his pad, but not before bookmarking his page.  “I trust you rested well?”

“Like a baby,” Jim said.  He squinted at the window.  “Looks like we’re going down.”

“Thank god,” mumbled McCoy from across the way.  He nudged at Sulu, who had fallen asleep slumped against him, and was now drooling on his shoulder.  “Get up.”

Sulu grumbled something, eyes still squeezed shut.

McCoy elbowed him.  “There’s only one person in my life allowed to drool on me like this, and it sure ain’t you.  Now wake the fuck up.”

“Yeah?” Sulu rubbed at his eyes.  “Who, Kirk?  Cause he’s always doing it.”

“I do not!” Jim defended.

McCoy’s eyes went flinty and then unspeakably soft.  “My daughter,” he said shortly.

Sulu immediately sat up, looking more awake and also guilty, if Spock was reading the expression correctly.  Spock interrupted his stuttered apology.

“I did not know you had a daughter,” he said to McCoy.  McCoy clenched his fists, gaze moving to the rest of the inhabitants in the plane, who were either asleep, or pretending not to listen.

“She’s gone,” he said finally.  “It’s no secret.”  He looked away.

“She is deceased?” Spock asked attempting to be delicate although, from the strangled noise Jim made next to him, he suspected he had failed in that regard.

McCoy scrubbed his face with his hands, and took the last remaining sip of the bottle he had opened at the beginning of the flight.  “She’s not dead,” he said harshly, slamming the bottle down.  Next to him, Sulu flinched.  “She disappeared.”

Spock looked at Jim, “I do not understand.”

Jim shrugged, looking uncomfortable, his mouth in a thin line.  “Kids disappear sometimes,” he said.  “They’ll go outside and not come back.  Sometimes just gone from their bedrooms.  It’s fucked up, been going on for years and years.”

“And the authorities do not investigate these disappearances?”

“Hell,” McCoy said with a ferocity to his demeanor that Spock had not yet seen.  “I know who took her.  Vanished two days after I turned the Bureau down, the first time, didn’t she?  That’s why I-” he broke off, staring moodily out the port window at the lights of the cities below.  “Well, you know.” He gestured at Uhura, and the rest of the Resistance by proxy.  “Fuck ‘em.”

Spock could do nothing but nod.

The silence in the plane was now uncomfortable, and Spock was glad when the co-pilot announced their descent into the city of Edinburgh.  Jim’s demeanor brightened a bit, and he lunged for his bag.  Spock watched him with a tolerant sort of trepidation.

“Here you go!” Jim said, brandishing a knitted cap.  “It’s already mid-September, so it’s starting to get kind of cold at night.  Plus, best way to hide your ears.”

Spock stared at it.  “The design is- what function do the feline ears on the cap serve?”

Jim opened his mouth, but Uhura beat him to it.  “God, Kirk.  I told you not to take that stupid hat.  Here’s a beanie for you.”  She produced another, black and green and much more streamlined, hat to wear, and tossed it to Spock.  “Kirk just thinks it’d be funny to see you wear something so ridiculous.”

Nodding his thanks, Spock removed the hated bandana and pulled the black and green hat over his ears and eyebrows.  He swiveled around to eye Jim, who was attempting to look innocent.

“Not funny,” Jim protested, “Hilarious.”

“I see,” Spock said, looking down his nose at Jim.  “This is more of your human teasing?”

“Nothing gets past you,” Jim grinned.  He folded the hat.  “It could have been kind of cute.  Match the ears.”

“I’m going to gag,” said McCoy in an undertone to Sulu.  Spock, blessed with Vulcan hearing, understood him anyway, but figured McCoy’s confessions as to his physiological ailments were none of his concern.

“We are landing?” Chekov questioned from across the isle.

Uhura nodded.  “Should be about ten minutes, I think.”

“Oh good,” Chekov said.  He tilted his head to the side.  “You have arranged things with the authorities, yes?” he asked, the tightness to his voice betraying him the slightest bit.

“Of course,” Uhura said.

Chekov relaxed back into his seat.  “Oh good,” he said.  “I have missed talking to Mr. Scott.  It would be a shame if I could only speak to him from a jail cell.”

Spock’s eyebrow went up.

Jim winked at him.  “Revolutionaries, Spock.  Remember?  Not criminals.”

Casting a long look over the motley collection of humans, Spock did not deign to reply.

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