Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek: 2009.

AN: I took some minor liberties with Vulcan biology, so if that tees you off, don't read.

Rain in the Desert

Vulcans cannot cry. Their lacrimal apparatus, the system by which tears are created and drained, evolved to be highly efficient so as to not allow excess fluids to leave the eye, a logical trait for a species that lives on a planet consisting mostly of desert. Lived, Spock hastily corrected, berating himself for forgetting, especially while standing in front of the memorial mourning Vulcan's destruction.

Quite ironically, the structure was called Vulcan's Tears. It was technically named the Vulcan Memorial Wall, but it had been nicknamed so due to the fact that it had rained every day during its lengthy construction, likely because it was built in the San Francisco area which experienced abnormal weather patterns from the effects of Nero's ship for almost a year.

Spock stepped closer to it, admiring the workmanship. The memorial was built of sandstone in a pleasing reddish-brown color, strikingly similar to the rock formations found in Vulcan's deserts. That was probably intentional, once he considered it for a moment. The names of the victims had been etched into the surface, all six billion of them, to form a detailed geological map of the former planet. There was a small computer at the western end to look up the deceased in detail, but Spock wasn't concerned with that.

He idly sidestepped a bouquet of muktok flowers, which had probably been left there for the Betazoid diplomatic party whose ship had been sucked into the black hole. He walked along the wall until he reached the image of the Vulcan's Forge canyon where his mother's name had been carved. He ran his fingers over the wall, trying to find her name, but he couldn't. There were so many.

Spock stared at the engraving, unable to look away for some reason. He touched the stone where his home city ShiKahr would have been. Suddenly, he felt a streak of water on his right cheek. He looked up, expecting rain, but there was nothing. The skies were clear. A second streak ran down his left cheek. He touched his face. Vulcans cannot cry, Spock reminded himself.

His nose started dripping mucus. His breath came out in wrenching, hiccup-like gasps. His legs began to feel weak. He fell to his knees, letting his head rest against the wall. More water seeped from his eyes, spilling onto the stone like warm sea spray. Vulcans cannot cry. It is illogical since they lack the biological structures needed to perform the action.

He heard footsteps behind him, Starfleet-issue boots harshly echoing off the pavement. No splashing sounds, he noted, so it couldn't have started raining. He must be crying then, even of if he shouldn't be able to.

The person came closer and stopped next to him, crouching down to his level. A hand rested on his shoulder. Spock tensed, and then relaxed minutely; secure in the knowledge that only one person would touch him with such culturally-ignorant impunity. The hand shifted, to be replaced by an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Spock leaned into the command gold-clad body slightly, feeling weak from the odd sensations plaguing his body that had somehow slipped through his control. The hand slipped to his back, awkwardly rubbing circles in a way that presumably was meant to be soothing. At that gentle, jerky, completely alien touch, Spock gave up all semblance of control over his emotions.

So, in the middle of the day in downtown San Francisco, where anyone could see, Spock, son of Sarek and Amanda, hid his face in Jim Kirk's shirt and, for the first time in his life, he cried.