Chapter Text
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 achieve 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’. But he still stands head and shoulders above other Vulcan children, if not literally then at least figuratively.
He has also earned the grudging respect of many of his classmates. (Not all of them, 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 is a descriptive exercise to help the schoolchildren develop their Standard. The class has taken it in turns describing each other – stoically and logically of course. (Given his classmates’ demeanours, Spock wonders whether 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, but 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 respect there as well.
Sybok had told him that morning, with some amusement, that at Spock’s age he had been erroneously described as “appropriately dedicated to the Disciplines” and that the classmate had then been 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 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 has never been called average in his life.
Despite his best efforts, the words circle around his mind for the rest of the day, and Spock finds himself being drawn to them repeatedly during his meditation that evening.
Surely his classmate meant height? No: he is currently among the tallest in his class. It can only really be applied in one sense, and he hates –
No.
Spock takes a deep breath, shifts on his meditation mat, and focusses on breathing in the incense.
Vulcans do not hate. Especially not a mere 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, thinks he has wiped all expression from his face.
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 excessively indulge.
oOo
Spock's upward trajectory continues steadily in matters of intellect. He continues to impress his instructors and remains at the top of his class. His parents are undeniably proud. His mother seems to delight in his increased musical ability, and often asks him to practice with her. His father, meanwhile, seems determined to fully evaluate his son's chess and programming abilities, and alternates between showing him a new bit of programming and thoroughly decimating his chess pieces.
(“You are an able opponent, but you must master your illogical techniques more fully, my son.”)
Yet despite this success, Spock continues to be preoccupied by his physical performance. This is not helped by the fact that he is constantly reminded of it wherever he goes, even by his parents.
There is always something to criticise about his body. Some days, it seems he falls short of an ‘ideal posture’, while on others he is ‘stiff’. Occasionally, he is ‘excessively straight-faced’; more frequently ‘fidgety’. But always he is “unexpected”, and Spock takes this to mean he is slow and weak.
It also seems to Spock that more and more of his classmates agree with this. Indeed, once he starts going through puberty (a horrible Human word) –
No. Not ‘horrible’; a statement of fact. He is half Human, therefore he experiences some elements of Human puberty.
– Once he begins experiencing puberty, the physical differences become more apparent, and his classmates cannot contain their scientific curiosity. He often finds himself chased, cornered with no instructors present and made to lift heavy objects or forced to jump to reach ‘misplaced’ possessions. In addition, there is a surprising amount of outright physical contact involved; he is pushed, tripped and, in one memorable case, outright punched.
His only source of satisfaction on that last one is that the classmate in question had not expected quite so strong a returning punch, and had been too slow to avoid it.
So yes, it is fair to say that the general opinion is that, while performing well, he is being outstripped by his peers in matters of physical development. To such an extent that it merits physical intervention despite cultural norms.
He hates himself for it.
No. It is illogical to hate oneself for one's nature.
Spock breathes in deeply, holds the breath.
Holds it. Imagines following the trajectory of the wafting incense, remembers the smell from his last breath in.
Holds it.
Slowly blows it out.
Tries to ignore the feeling of his stomach rumbling. He has taken to throwing away the unhealthiest part of his school provisions as of late – something that his mother calls ‘potato chips’. She seems adamant that he needs some unhealthy Human foods in his diet ‘to combat all those damn vegetables’, but he theorised that it was not helping his physical performance.
He does not want to upset her, however, so he simply disposes of them discreetly on his journey to school each morning. He has not yet determined a way of avoiding them when she is present, but he can already feel the difference. He feels lighter, more energised. He finds himself getting out of breath less and feeling significantly less drowsy.
He draws in a deep breath, triggering another round of rumbling.
No matter. It will soon be time for the evening meal.
oOo
Cutting out potato chips doesn't feel like enough.
Perhaps in retrospect he should have realised this – after all, they in fact only made up a small portion of his diet, and one bag only really accounts for 11% of a Human's recommended daily intake of fat (4% if considering saturated fat). He isn't really certain how it applies to him personally. No one is, though they do not like to admit it.
So is it really that surprising, given how little was in them relatively speaking, that Spock still feels slow and weak and large compared to his classmates?
It is odd, to feel so weak and large at the same time. It is a question that he often ponders during his evening meditations. Is he bigger? He isn't sure, sometimes; it often seems to him that the older he becomes, the less objective and the more emotional. Is this also part of puberty? This strange emotionalism and feeling that everyone is watching his every move?
It is most unsettling.
Of course, he remembers as he shifts on his meditation mat, people are actually watching. He is Sarek’s son; his development is important.
Only son, now. Sybok has been disinherited after professing his disdain for the Disciplines.
Spock sighs, sharper than he intended, and he has to steady himself emotionally.
Steady. Steady. Slowly, perfectly, methodically. That is the way forward. No missteps. No mistakes.
Slowly, perfectly, methodically.
So, he methodically applies his brain to the problem at hand. He is slower than his classmates, weaker, perhaps even physically bigger. Vulcans do have a denser muscular structure, meaning that his classmates can look slimmer than Humans but be physically superior. At the moment, he seems to be leaning more towards a Human adolescent (‘a jock’, as his mother might say). He is not comfortable with this.
No. It is a statement of fact. Do not proscribe emotion to it.
Spock breathes in deeply. Pictures the smoke of the incense. Holds his breath. Holds it. Holds it.
His stomach rumbles, he feels light-headed. He continues to hold.
Perhaps… perhaps his muscles are bulkier. He is strong, athletic. His half-Human heritage simply makes him look bigger for less.
His breath whooshes out of him uncontrolled.
He breathes in again automatically.
It makes him look bigger for less. At least, at the moment. He can only hope –
No. Emotional. Forbidden. Statements of fact only.
He can only predict that his Vulcan peers will soon match him in this regard, going off his observations of older Vulcan males like his father. His father is stocky, muscled, more solid somehow than his adolescent classmates. Perhaps Spock has simply reached that point sooner, owing to his slightly shorter lifespan?
He breathes out again.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
He rises to his feet, hunger still growling in the pit of his stomach, his abdomen clenching in pain, and steps off the mat.
Always 'perhaps'. He is ‘uncharted territory’. The first. He will just need to formulate a hypothesis, and hope –
No. Control.
– that he will soon fall back within normal parameters.