A mostly comedy dramedy in three parts.


"I will be unable to meet with you on Starbase 6 as previously arranged," T'Pring tells him. No preamble. Direct, as usual. She is not calling from her apartment in Shi'Kahr nor from the home of her family.

Is that a hotel room?

"I scheduled leave," he says. He'd spent the past two weeks evading questions, ignoring speculation, quashing rumors, and enduring jests from crewmates about why he'd actually requested shore leave on Starbase 6 of all places.

"You are disappointed." The condescending forbearance she reserves just for him is particularly galling. The fact that she has been rude and inconsiderate does not seem to enter the equation for her.

"Had you informed me sooner than three hours before we were to meet, I could have made other arrangements."

"You still have three hours in which to make other arrangements." Her look is bland. He suspects willful incomprehension, as if she has forgotten it was her idea to meet here in the first place.

The Enterprise had been scheduled for maintenance on Starbase 6. T'Pring had relatives on Starbase 6 with whom she could stay. She'd reached out to him.

He'd scheduled leave.

"Your reason for cancelling?"

"The Gene Ontology Convention has accepted my paper."

Spock is aware of no fewer than eight research papers and proposals T'Pring has submitted to various universities, seminars, and publications. "Which paper?"

"On the sequence polymorphisms of recently discovered invasive phytoplanktons in the Voroth Sea."

Her enthusiasm flares briefly in his mind like a small but tasteful pyrotechnic display. He has been living amongst openly emotive beings for some time. Certain social responses are habitually ingrained, but he knows better than to offer congratulations to her. She needs no additional reasons to think him too human.

"Though I have not read your research in this area, based on your skills and expertise I am certain the acceptance of your work is well-deserved."

She inclines her head graciously. In his mind, another sensation, the ephemeral suggestion of preening self-regard. He realizes her pride, her excitement about her paper – this is the first time in five years he's truly sensed her presence through their bond. They conversed sporadically, but the bond itself had become like the buzz of an insect at his ear, easily brushed away.

A shadow of movement behind her draws his attention. Someone else is in the room – an adult male, judging by bulk.

"Where are you, currently?"

"Utopia Planitia. The convention is being held here. I present my findings four days from now and we arrived early to prepare."

Four days to prepare seems … excessive. "We?"

"My colleague and I."

Before he can ask if said colleague is the man in her room, she's searching his face and mind for hints jealousy or possessiveness. He's angry not jealous, but that is easy enough to hide from her. He's had a lot of practice repressing anger over the years.

Seeing no evidence of untoward emotion, T'Pring realigns her spinal column and adjusts her shoulders so that her torso elongates, exposing the supple column of her throat above the high collar of her tunic. A plait of dark hair, interwoven with jade-colored ribbon, falls over her left shoulder and curls into the space between her breasts.

Spock is certain, based on observation, that his human crewmates would find T'Pring physically attractive. She is objectively beautiful by the standards of several humanoid species, with symmetrical features and a lithe, well-proportioned feminine form. Also (and by Vulcan standards, more importantly), she is intelligent, healthy, and from a prominent, respected family. Of course, his family line has its antecedents in the time before the Awakening. His great-grandmother is T'Pau. He is descended from Surak. It is useful to remind himself in moments such as these, that it is she who made a fortunate match and not the other way around.

He and T'Pring had gotten along well when they were younger, sharing overlapping interests and secret ambitions to pursue those interests despite parental decrees to the contrary. She would still be amiable and more consistently communicative if not for that single act she could not pardon – his rejection of admission to the VSA to join Starfleet. A decision not only reckless and emotionally motivated in her view, but also a significant moral failing in one with whom she was expected to build a future.

He thought her suggestion they meet and spend companionable time together meant they were finally moving past it, but her next statement belies that possibility.

"Spock. It has been brought to my attention that your matroclinous inheritance might make it difficult for you to refrain from or relinquish engaging in sexual congress during an extended tour of duty."

For a moment he is too astonished to respond. It is a ridiculous and patently untrue assumption. Aside from the fact that his phenotype is very much the result of paternal inheritance, humans can go decades, an entire lifetime without engaging in sexual congress at all – which is more than can be said of Vulcans.

"I can assure you that is not the case. Your source is misinformed."

Just off-screen and to her right, the unknown colleague interrupts and T'Pring quickly mutes the sound and turns away. When she engages the audio and turns back to face Spock again, her brows are delicately furrowed, the only sign of the irritation he knows she's experiencing.

"Nevertheless," she says, "given the number of years you intend to serve in Starfleet, and given that you have not expressed an interest in completing our marital bond before it becomes physically imperative for you to do so," – if it ever does is the thing left unsaid – "I am willing to permit you to explore other options for companionship."

Spock is suddenly reminded of an overheard conversation – Ensign Tooey lamenting her human girlfriend's desire to "open-up" the relationship as a sign of its ultimate demise.

"Perhaps a small pet. My matroclinous inheritance likes domestic felines."

"Sarcasm did not serve you well in our youth, Spock, and it is thoroughly wasted on me. I intended no insult to your mother's race. I merely accept and acknowledge those areas where it might prove challenging for you and offer a solution without acrimony."

"You are most generous. Can I assume this permission to explore other options extends to you as well?"

"If conditions present themselves."

"Have they?"

She lowers her gaze, eyelashes casting soft shadows over occipital bones. "Spock. It is likely you will be compelled to come home within six years. You may even choose to return to me before that time." She raises her eyes again and it is clear she no longer has any expectation of that happening. "Regardless, at some point in the future our lives will be inextricably bound together. We will complete our marital bond as tradition dictates. But it is clear neither of us is ready to do so now. Surely you see how my interim proposal will benefit us both in the long term?"

He tries and fails not to sigh. What a fitting example of situational irony this is.

One hundred and thirty-two days ago on Earth, at the Moon-Viewing garden in Golden Gate Park, he told Leila Kalomi he was incapable of returning her interest in the manner she desired. Incapable.

He could have told her that he was not free to return her interest, that he was bonded, betrothed, engaged, promised in marriage, affianced, pledged, committed to another person – any of those words or phrases might have lessened the suffering he caused her, might have made him seem an honorable person rather than a cold and dispassionate one. And would have been true. But that would have meant admitting to himself an attraction, a surge of interest, the temptation to reciprocate both her regard and sexual interest; admit his desire, however brief, to betray his Vulcan heritage and his duty to this very woman who is, right now, giving him tacit permission to do just that.

Below the table, where T'Pring cannot see, his fists unclench one finger at a time. By the time his hands lie open in his lap his mind is closed to her. He meets her gaze across the chasm of space with icy equanimity.

"Though I cannot fault your logic overall, this was not a decision mutually arrived at, but one that you endeavored to thrust upon me using fallacious reasoning and false assumptions about my character. It was unworthy of you, and an insult to me."

"Spock—"

"I am signing off now."

"Sp—"

Her image dissolves. He takes a moment to process the interaction, then goes to his meditation mat, lights the asenoi and rocks back into the lesh'riq position. He examines his behavior with T'Pring and determines how logic could have improved their interaction. He examines the emotions that arose, and why, before submerging them once more.

He will not interact with T'Pring again unless that most Vulcan of biological imperative's compels him to do so. And if that biological imperative never occurs, he will consider it the greatest gift his matroclinous inheritance ever gave him.


Though usually Number One chose to eat alone and let people come to her if they dared, she placed her platter of fries (or chips depending on who was manning the galley), salad greens, and a non-alcoholic beer on the table across from Spock and sat down.

He did not look particularly receptive to the prospect of sharing his table, especially as the mess hall was sparsely occupied due to all the shore leave going on. He wouldn't tell her that of course, because, well, he was no fool. She was the first officer and he'd only been promoted to junior grade lieutenant a year ago.

"Surprised to see you still here, Mr. Spock, after all the trouble you went through to get away for a few days."

"I requested two days leave, Commander, not 'a few.'"

Looked like the pedantry stick was going to be extra-far up his ass this afternoon.

"Well one of those days is today if I'm not mistaken." She reached for a shaker of hot pepper blend – a Vulcan brand she found delightfully fiery – and showered her fries with it. "Change in plans?"

"An unforeseen lack of them. Sir."

He listlessly pushed a spoon into the remnants of something resembling grainy chocolate mousse. The slope of the bowl's interior was stained with the hot pepper condiment. Chocolate and chili – an excellent combination in her book. It seemed to be doing nothing for Spock. The sigh that came out of him surprised them both.

"Might I have my leave rescinded, Commander?"

"Why? We're already scrambling to find things for the scheduled people to do. Lots of redundant maintenance going on around here."

"That would be acceptable."

She quickly swallowed the fry she'd been talking around, feeling the power of about 800,000 scoville units follow it down. A swig of beer and then, "Spock. No."

"Sir?"

"No. You're not going to waste time and brain matter on scut work for two days. I have no idea why you of all people requested shore leave at a place that's mostly maintenance hubs, bars, and brothels, but you had to put up with a lot of crap to get it, so go use it."

"But the reason for the request is no longer applicable. What would I do in a bar or a brothel?" The moment it was out of his mouth he wanted them both to pretend he it hadn't said it.

"I wasn't suggesting either. Look. You've got the free time. Why not take the opportunity to do something you want to do with it? Maybe I can sweet talk the CSO into giving you a few hours in the astrophysics lab for your own research. You could finish up that paper you were going to submit— what?"

"I've been scooped."

"Oh. Well. That truly sucks. Who was it?" She stabs a piece of lettuce with a fork. "Tamsin Blishwara? Dr. Gerkand?"

"Neither. I would prefer not to dwell on it."

"All right. How about—"

"Commander. Please. Revoke my leave. Redundant maintenance work would be a welcome respite."

"I don't want you moping around the ship for two days!"

"Then I will remain in my quarters until I can return to duty."

No point arguing that Vulcans don't mope when proposing moping in one's quarters instead.

"Oh, for the love of— Spock, beam down for shore leave right now. Go watch your idiot crewmates perform drunken karaoke. That's an order."

She lowered her head like a bull over her lunch and waved off whatever he was about to say with a sharp gesture. "I don't want to see you on this ship again before 2200 tomorrow. Now get."


The first bar off the transporter station was called The Last Call – as unsurprising a name as it was uninspired. Although some people probably enjoyed their intoxicants at this bar when they first disembarked, they were more likely to indulge in "one for the road" on their way back to their ships. As shore leave was only a few hours underway, none of his crewmates were within. He almost hadn't bothered to check.

As he walked past various establishments (not all of them drinking establishments), he wondered how loosely he could interpret the commander's orders. Must he watch crewmates perform karaoke to adhere, or simply engage in some form of social interaction with them for an allotted time? Did they have to be intoxicated for it to count?

He'd debated the legitimacy of the orders. Not out loud. Not to her face. That would have been … unwise. He could have taken it to the captain, but he'd discovered long ago (through observation rather than experience, thankfully) that these were the sort of disputes Captain Pike considered frivolous and in the category of "tattling like a six year old" which would inevitably call into question how the complainant managed to become a commissioned officer in the first place. He also suspected the Captain would consider Number One's order to be in Spock's best interests and "good for him." It was therefore prudent to follow such orders until they were technically fulfilled. He simply had to locate any one of his crewmates performing karaoke, watch them do it for the duration of one song, then leave.

But that presented the problem of what to do after. If he were prohibited from returning to the Enterprise before tomorrow at 2200, how would he occupy himself? He had not booked accommodations on the starbase itself, intending to return to his quarters each evening after spending the day with T'Pring. Whatever accommodations could be had at this late date would be prohibitively expensive or … unsavory.

He tamped down his irritation. There was no benefit to be had from dwelling on present circumstances. Quickly reciting the first doctrine of logic, he squared his shoulders, and took a cleansing breath (somewhat impeded by the smells coming off the food court), before embarking on a search for karaoke venues in the base's entertainment hub.


A/N: In the original series, Spock hadn't seen Leila Kalomi for six years, so I've taken a little liberty with the timeline. Also, I don't hate T'Pring. Also, Spock will never perform karaoke. Never.