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Spock likes to think he is prepared for anything. Not even two hours into alpha shift, he is proven wrong yet again. He is minding the scanners when an emotion, that is not his own, hits him in the back like a cannon ball and he almost doubles over in pain. It’s the captain, can be no one else. This isn’t supposed to happen, he thinks, I should not be able to know these things.
“How long has this been going on?” Kirk asks someone. Spock does not turn around to see whom.
“About half an hour, sir. We’re working on it, but they might be out of order for some time yet.” An unfamiliar voice. Young, a little raspy through the intercom.
“How long is that, would you reckon?” Kirk asks.
“Um. I can’t say. Three days at the most.”
“Days?” The anxious stabbing feeling returns, worse.
“We’d have to go through every replicator on the ship to locate the issue, and there are-”
“Yes, yes, alright. Get back to work, ensign.”
“Right away, sir.”
Kirk sighs.
“Mister Spock?”
“Captain?” Spock raises his head.
“How long until we reach the next star base?”
“We have one point four days, precisely, to Liberandum. Accounting for the mission there, and additional time from there to star base fifty six, between two and three days.”
Kirk nods. “The replicators are out. How much food and water do you estimate the labs can synthesise manually?”
“Approximately three point six meals for each crewman. Not unlimited water, but enough to last us until we reach the planet.”
“Alright, thank you. Uhura?”
“Yes, captain?”
“Send a message down to the labs, the sooner they start the better.”
“Yes, captain.”
Five silent minutes pass in which Spock surveys radiation levels and debris. And tries to find a logical explanation as to why he can still feel the captain’s agitation like electricity through his nerves. An explanation, mind, that does not contain the words “in love” or, worse, “bonded”.
Then the intercom buzzes and the ensign from earlier reports, voice light and bouncing: “Sir, we found the problem! The recycling mechanism in the main mess hall replicators had overheated and fused to the command transmitters, which short-circuited the entire system! Everything else should be up and running in ten minutes tops, but we might have to replace the replicators that caused this at the next star base.”
“Well done, ensign Park. Thank you. Make a note of that, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Warm sunshine on his back, Spock does not need to look up to know the captain is smiling in relief.
Spock locates Kirk instantly upon entering the mess hall, sitting opposite McCoy at a table close to the wall. This is a skill he has been honing without meaning to. For practical reasons, mostly. And there is, of course, the issue , but he makes sure not to dwell on it. Spock keeps an eye on his friends’ table as he grabs his lunch of dumplings and a side of edamame and earth lentils. He brings his tray over and places it next to McCoy’s.
They greet him and he responds with a nod.
“Say, Spock,” the doctor says, “you didn’t happen to hear about the incident with the pitcher fluid from one of your little scientists?”
Spock raises an eyebrow. “I did not. Please elaborate.”
McCoy laughs. “Well, I could’ve guessed they wouldn’a’told ya. So, picture this, eleven hundred hours, lieutenant Ling is conducting her study on carnivorous plants found on Rigel, right, and then one of the cadets we picked up, of course it’s a damn cadet, goes ‘hey lieutenant, you need to go check these amphibians out, we think they’re about to lay eggs’, and you know the-”
“Who was it? Should I talk to them?” Kirk interrupts.
The doctor waves a dismissive hand. “No need, he already got scolded enough for a lifetime.”
The captain gives the doctor a knowing smile. “Not by you, I suppose?”
McCoy snorts and continues as if he never heard him. “So then his friend -”
They eat and talk for several minutes before Spock feels concern crease his brow.
“Are you not having any vegetables, captain?” Spock asks, gesturing at Kirk’s bowl of lamb stew and rice.
“So what if I’m not?” the captain’s response is almost four percent louder than usual. Upset .
“I was merely asking. Your vitamin intake is increasingly concerning.”
It is logical to worry about a friend, if he is aware of my reason for asking he understands it is not maliciously intended, Spock soothes himself. Kirk does not seem to take kindly to this comment. Perhaps I should have raised the question in private, or reworded it, or-
“See, even Spock knows an unbalanced diet when he sees one!” McCoy says with a wry smile. Spock considers responding, but merely nods in agreement.
“It’s bad enough with Bones on my case all the time, now you?” Kirk is grabbing his fork just a fraction too hard. His mouth is a tight line.
“I did not mean to cause offence.”
This must be something more than lunch, even more than the lingering stress from the incident from earlier .
Spock chances asking: “Is something wrong?”
Kirk deflates a little. Spock would describe him as looking both apprehensive and… vulnerable is perhaps the right word.
“It’s… We can…” His eyes flick around the room. Too many people listening? “I’ll tell you later, okay?”
“Alright.”
“Spock here. May I come in?”
Kirk laughs a little as he beckons Spock into his quarters, but he looks tired.
“Should’ve known you’d take me up on it.”
Spock does not comment on this.
“Tea?” the captain asks, back turned to Spock.
“Please,” Spock responds, knowing full well the captain is stalling for time.
Kirk makes two cups of tea, peppermint and licorice for Spock, coltsfoot for himself. They sit down by the chess board. It feels like a parody of their usual evenings together, there is a tension radiating from Kirk. It reminds Spock of the charged air before a thunderstorm, it makes the hair on his arms stand on end.
“I upset you in some manner during lunch today,” Spock begins, “I would… like to know what I did, so it does not happen again.”
Kirk sighs. “It’s not your fault, really, just a bad day, it’s nothing.” The captain waves his hand loosely in the air and smiles in a detached sort of way.
“Jim.” Spock says. “Please tell me what’s bothering you.”
Their eyes finally meet. Clink goes Jim’s tea cup against the saucer. It does not rattle. He takes a breath as if beginning to speak, then lets it out again. He tries again. Again. Finally: “I don’t know.”
“You were bothered when I criticised your choice of lunch,” Spock reminds him gently.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just… was.” Jim reaches again for his cup and wraps his hands around it, blows absently at the steam.
“Alright.” Spock is quiet for a minute. Takes a sip of his tea.
“ Is it weird?” Jim says suddenly. “I mean, you and Bones think so, but do you think it’s… a problem? What I eat?”
Spock thinks it over. Is it, really? There are worse things, but most importantly he is upset. To treat the symptom would be wise, but I would rather alleviate the source of it…
“Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not, but in any case, the cause for it seems to bring you more discomfort than the effect,” he says finally.
Jim gives a long, deep sigh.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly, “it just feels safe to be full. That’s it, I suppose.”
“Safe?” Spock enquires.
“Like, I won’t have to worry about when I’m going to eat next.” Jim studiously avoids looking at Spock, eyes fixed on the chess board instead.
“Ah,” Spock says softly.
His mind leaps to pictures of a small boy, bruised, bloody and malnourished, explaining stone faced to a starfleet officer in detail how his friends died. Spock sees his bony hands close around the first bread he’s seen in weeks and think never again. Never again. He looks at his friend and sees him now, grown, slowly sipping his tea as to avoid eye contact. The only logical thing to ask is: “Is there anything I can do to make you feel more safe?”
The question seems to catch the captain off guard. He stops his hand mid air, so still the surface of his tea does not ripple. Spock sees fear, soft sepia brown, and hope, green like terran summer, mix perfectly, twist and dance, in his friend’s eyes. Jim opens his mouth to speak and closes it again. Spock hopes their accidental telepathic link goes both ways when he thinks please, let me help, let me help, let me help! so hard he’s unsure if he’s said it out loud. Illogical .
After thirty five seconds Jim says, voice quiet:
“I don’t know, Spock.”
Anything you ask, I would do for you is on the tip of Spock’s tongue. He bites it instead. It stings. He starts mentally listing options: he could make a daily report of the closest planets with food edible to humans, he could stash protein bars around the bridge, he could learn the ins and outs of building a replicator from scratch in under thirty minutes, he could-
“Could I get a hug? Sorry, that’s-”
“Yes.”
Spock stands up instantly and walks around the table. Jim rises slowly, almost collapses against Spock’s chest. Spock wraps his arms around his friend, holds him as close as he can. Jim buries his face in Spock’s shoulder, breathes in deeply. His eyelashes flutter closed against Spock’s neck and his heart beats steady.
And his mind- it’s impossible to keep out. A lifetime of vulcan discipline is not enough to stop Jim Kirk, it seems. Warm presence ever roaming, searching. Tendrils of consciousness reaching out like roots searching to take hold. Spock pulls back his own mind like a snail into its shell. It’s strange. Unprecedented. His every defence mechanism is failing, walls crumbling, shields buckling, tearing, melting. Jim strides onwards, arms still wrapped tight around Spock’s back. Does he know what he’s doing?
His question is answered a moment later when their minds make contact with a violent clarity, like seeing properly for the first time.
Oh! Jim thinks, surprised. I know it’s you, how do I know it’s you?
You know me, Spock answers simply, therefore you know my mind. Do you wish to disengage? I did not do this on purpose.
A wave of something cold, sparkling frost in the morning. As clear a no as any. Spock relaxes a fraction.
I do not wish it either.
Hesitation stirs in Jim’s mind.
Can I ask you something?
Anything. This time he’s powerless to stop it.
Can you… hold me here as well?
I will do my best.
Spock stays with his friend through half the night holding him in his arms and in his mind. When Jim grows weary, they sit down. Spock feels the pain within him, just out of reach. He doesn’t dare ask to touch it, but it sits there, and he sits with it, hand above a hot stove. Instead they show each other all the safe parts of how they work inside. Jim’s mind feels like the sort of controlled chaos Spock associates with terran jazz music, the way absolute discipline allows him to improvise, adapt, change. His mind is agile, stretches and bends, twists into new connections and constellations. Jim is evidently pleased with this observation. And he thinks, in turn, that Spock’s mind feels exactly how the library felt to him when he was a child. He does not need to remind Spock that he loves the library.
When Jim finally falls asleep, head still on Spock’s shoulder, it’s with a promise of dreams that are kind.
Spock removes his captain’s boots and pulls the blanket snug around him before he leaves.
At six hundred hours Spock wakes up and, before he washes up and gets dressed, sends a message to Jim’s quarters. It reads: “If you are amenable, I would like us to have breakfast together.” They often do, but it feels especially important today. Spock hears a response arrive as he washes his face, and he just has time to comb his hair before he buzzes Jim into his quarters. Jim eyes the table where Spock has placed two bowls of oatmeal with diced apple, cinnamon and brown sugar. It’s not what they usually have, either of them, but Spock knows of breakfast on the porch in Iowa, many years ago. He’s been there, tasted the sweet cow milk, felt the first crisp autumn breeze on Jim’s rosy cheeks.
“Good morning, Spock.” The captain sounds well rested. Good.
“Good morning. Would you care for some coffee?”
“Please.”
They sit down across from each other. Jim pours milk into his bowl with a soft smile. The room is awash with golden waves of what Spock would describe as love if he didn’t know better. Appreciation , perhaps. Companionship .
“Have you had time to read the briefing for the mission?” Spock asks. He knows the answer, of course, but he wants to ease into the subject.
“Yeah, bad harvest, what’s left of the crop makes people sick, risk of mass starvation, I know.” Jim gestures with his spoon as he ticks off the facts. His body is as relaxed as before, but there is a new emotion present. The hairs on the back of Spock’s neck stand up. Apprehension .
“Will this be difficult for you?” Spock dares to ask.
“Spock, come on, I’ll be fine . We’re just bringing them rations and taking samples aboard for analysis, pretty hard to screw that up.” Jim smiles in a way that should be reassuring, but Spock knows better. He waits a moment, takes a sip of tea.
“I am aware it will not impact your performance. What I am asking is if it will cause you distress, and if so, if there is anything I can do to soothe it.”
“It’s…” Jim seems almost on the verge of honesty, but settles on “I’ll manage, promise.”
Spock nods. Jim’s stubborn streak is what it is, there is no point in arguing further. But Spock is nothing if not stubborn himself.
He lets the subject go for the moment and asks instead “I presume you also read up on the planet’s history. I find it fascinating that the liberati, in only fifteen years of contact with the federation, have already adopted Earth philosophy as their mode of government.”
“Marx, huh.” Jim gives a wry smile. “Sure would be interesting to show him what he’s accomplished. I mean, uniting all workers on Earth is a pretty lofty goal, but a whole other planet? Can you imagine?”
“Indeed.”
Jim chews in silent thought a moment before speaking “I agree it’s interesting how adaptable they are. Most people wouldn’t change their whole system just like that, now would they? It seems to have worked out pretty good for them, though.”
Spock takes a bite before answering. “It may be that flexibility is to their benefit as a society, but I am not sure. Perhaps, if they had instead been exposed to a totalitarian philosophy, they would have changed just as readily.”
Jim tilts his head to the side in thought. “You think so, Spock?”
“I do not know. But it is an interesting thought.”
“Agreed.” Jim takes a sip of coffee before speaking again. “Hey, did you see the article I sent you on parallel evolution in medicinal science?”
“I did. I have only had time to read half of it as of yet, but so far it has been enlightening. Thank you.”
The rest of their breakfast is spent in discussion of lighter, easier, subjects, but Spock does not forget where they started. He will not overstep any mental boundaries, but he will keep a human eye out for his friend.
The landing party is beamed down on a sort of prairie, grass and other low vegetation stretching out for several flat kilometres in each direction towards the near endless sea. In the distance tower-like buildings rise up in great spirals. Kirk shields his eyes against the sunlight and surveys the area. Spock quickly checks over their surroundings before again returning his attention to his captain. In the distance, three figures come towards them.
“Are you the crew of the Enterprise?” one of them calls out.
“Yes! You are of the people of Liberandum, I presume?” Kirk replies.
“Correct! I am the Representative. These are the Agricultural Expert and the Logistics Advisor.” A woman’s voice.
The figures have come closer and the landing party can make out their axolotl-like appearance and flowing clothing in shades of ultramarine and lapis blue.
“We are eternally grateful for your speedy arrival,” the Representative says. “The situation is dire. We have rations for three, maybe four days more, but most of them are contaminated as well, and it appears to be spreading fast.”
She stands a few steps in front of the others, and the net of sea shells and glass beads clinks softly around her shoulders as she moves.
“We will do everything we can.” Kirk says. Spock wonders if their hosts can see the earnest hope and promise behind his words, or if Spock is simply so used to reading him. The captain gestures with his whole arm when he says: “This is my science officer, mister Spock.”
Spock nods in greeting before asking: “May we have a look at your crops?”
“You may, but there is not much to see,” the Agricultural Expert says with an anxious sweep of his tail.
“Do you have any theories as to what has caused the harvest to fail?” Spock asks him.
“We believed at first it might be root rot, we are coming into the rain season and the ground is very wet, but the roots are unharmed. Then we believed it to be the-” The universal translator cuts out for a moment and lets the landing party hear something like two pieces of felt rubbing together.
“Sorry, what’s that? Our translator can’t seem to handle it.” Kirk gives an apologetic smile.
“Oh, it’s not an issue, it’s a type of pest common here. It usually eats the leaves on steppe apples, our primary food source. But we found no trace of them. Now we are at a standstill and our people are starving,” the Agricultural Expert says.
“You will of course get access to all our resources, and any hands on help you may need,” the Representative adds.
“May I show you to the fields?” the Logistics Advisor asks.
Kirk nods. “Thank you. Spock, take the research team. I’ll go get Scotty some coordinates to send provisions to.”
The replicated food arrives from the Enterprise. Spock pays it no mind and continues analysing the readings he’s taken from the soil. They’ve beamed down sufficient equipment to do some of the necessary tests, and the labs housed in the planet’s large underground city are adequate. Still, he keeps in contact with the ship’s labs for further testing. Kirk stands by with the city’s Chief Biologist to aid him if needed. And then suddenly the young nurse Spock brought comes running with a grave sense of urgency. She stops abruptly in the doorway to the lab, breathing hard.
“Sir! People are developing the same illness that arose from the local food, only from the provisions provided by the Enterprise!”
She looks at Spock as if he might give her a miracle solution on the spot. Kirk looks to him as well, hands on his hips. He furrows his brow as he speaks.
“Spock, do you think it could be airborne? Completely unrelated to the food, even?”
Spock looks down at his screen again. He believes there is a connection, something out of the ordinary with the readings from the steppe apple fields.
“I am not sure, captain. There may be something in the air that is reacting with the food matter. I will keep it in mind.”
Spock returns above ground to confer with the Agricultural Expert. He is in the middle of a field, directing his people to take samples for analysis down to the underground labs.
“Are you aware of any trading parties that might have carried an illness or pest to your planet?” Spock asks the Agricultural Expert. He shakes his head so the ferns on his head wave back and forth.
“We only regularly trade with the felians, but they’re a very sanitary people, we wouldn’t accuse them-”
“We are not, at present, accusing anyone of anything. Introducing an illness or invasive species is seldom done on purpose. How long have you been in contact with Felis III?”
The Agricultural Expert raises his front legs placatingly. The shells around his wrists click together. “Just over a month, but I assure you, they would never do this to-”
“You have already said so.”
He makes a sound Spock most closely associates with frustrated humans, then quickly diverts to: “So there’s an invasive species?”
Spock lets just a touch of weariness slip into his reply. “I will send my test results to the lab for further analysis. My tricorder is getting a life reading of point zero zero three where there should be none, but this is just on the edge of a margin of error. Until we get a response I cannot be sure.”
The Agricultural expert draws breath as if to speak but seems to change his mind, and just waves goodbye to Spock as he heads back underground.
“It is a mite,” Spock says, standing in the doorway to the labs.
Kirk looks up from his PADD.
“A mite?”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s the felian spring hopper , similar in both size and shape to the dust mites found on earth, whose debris causes an allergic reaction in some humans. The important difference between the two cases is, however, not the mite.”
“Do you mean there’s something to do with the liberati that’s causing this illness? Some intolerance?” The captain stands up and walks over to Spock.
“Precisely.”
“How would that account for the crop failing?” he asks.
“It is not a priority at this moment, but the plant life seems to be almost corroding , as if the mite debris were acidic. It may be dangerous for us as well,” Spock replies. Kirk nods.
“I assume you’re already testing everything you can to counteract it. I’ll ask instead, out of curiosity, how did it get here?”
“You are correct, we are. As for how it got here, it is unlikely to have been through the trade shipments. They are routinely sterilised and checked for any infestations. My estimation is they were brought here in the feathers of a guest or ambassador from Felis III. Simply put, no one thought to check there.”
“So, an honest mistake?” There is a flash of something very small and very scared in Kirk’s eyes, then it’s gone.
“An honest mistake, captain,” Spock says gently.
“Right,” says the captain, and Spock knows for certain his thoughts are elsewhere.
He also knows what he needs to say next, but waits a few moments longer still. “Captain, we are likely unable to beam up without bringing the mites with us.”
Kirk nods.
“Alright, is there any possibility to bring down something to eat?”
“As long as we consume our rations within five point seven minutes of beaming them down, we should not see any adverse effects.”
“Good. Inform the rest of the landing party, I’ll find us a place to stay the night.”
Rooms are arranged for them down a newly dug out corridor where no one has moved in yet. The Representative leads them there through elegantly arched hallways, their walls and floors both tiled in intricate patterns. Spock recognises depictions of local wildlife in stark lapis blue against white.
“The population has grown exponentially these last fifteen years,” the Representative explains, “We still have a bit to go, but the goal is to provide quarters for those, too, who wish to live alone.”
Kirk accepts a tour of the local residential area as Spock thanks her and quickly returns to his work. From where he is sitting he can hear a storm picking up speed outside. When he takes a break to stretch his legs he has a chance to watch it roll towards him over the horizon, deep blue bordering on purple. It reminds him vaguely of home. He returns again to his work.
Forty five minutes later he returns to the surface to collect any of his team foolish enough to stay outside. Even from the labs he can hear the wind whistling and the rain pelting the stone of the towers. The sky leans closer as if to suffocate anyone on the ground, and it takes some effort to remain standing in the harsh wind.
Safe to say, everyone has long since returned indoors. Except Spock knows the captain isn’t underground, and it is with a lurch of something close enough to pass for nausea he pinpoints his location at the edge of the fields.
Each step forward is its own battle. He struggles to make out anything through the rain, but he feels the tug of terror in his gut leading him forward like a fish hook. His face stings and he covers his eyes with his hand as he pushes through the torrent. He reasons sight would not help him and besides, the feeling of something gnawing at his abdomen guides him well enough. Eventually he makes physical contact with the source. That is to say, he blindly walks straight into his captain.
“Spock?” Jim says.
Spock keeps his body pressed to Jim’s, afraid of losing him in the rain again. Illogical . His friend’s whole body is quivering from the cold and he feels so very, very small.
“I am here.”
“ Spock .” His name becomes a plea, a prayer somehow, in the captain’s mouth.
“Please, allow me to take you inside.”
Jim does not respond at first, just curls his shaking body into Spock’s chest. Spock wraps his arms around him, runs his hands up and down his back. He means for it to be soothing, but it feels more like checking for injury. He apparently thinks this hard enough for Jim to let out a snort. That is alright then, it is not so bad he cannot laugh .
“Yes, you’re right, let’s go indoors.” He says finally.
Arms around each other they push through the rain, back inside.
All the way through the tiled corridors Spock runs his mind over all the features of their temporary living quarters, in search of anything and everything that might make Jim slightly more comfortable. The amphibian nature of their hosts proves useful, as every apartment is outfitted with a shallow pool. “For sleeping in”, the Representative has informed them, but also very useful for balancing the body temperature of a very cold and wet human. Possibly a very cold and wet vulcan as well, but this is not Spock’s primary concern.
Jim has his head tucked close in the juncture between Spock’s neck and shoulder. It’s a comfort to feel him breathe, unreasonable as that is; there is no reason for him not to be. Still, it instils a sense of safety in Spock. He lowers his friend to sit on the ottoman next to the pool as he checks the temperature of the water, turns it up slightly.
“You need to get warm.” There is no response. Spock moves onto his knees before his captain. “Here, let me help you,” he says, pulling Jim’s boots off and propping them against the wall. Jim shakes his head as if to clear it.
“Thank you,” he says, and pulls the rest of his soaking uniform off.
Spock quickly strips as well. Throughout it all Jim is almost catatonic, eyes distant and unseeing. It is not like him, Spock thinks. He, as usual, ignores the urge to take Jim in his arms, and sinks into the warm water instead.
As the feeling returns to Spock’s hands he realises he does not know when he lost it. He dunks his head under the water momentarily, to feel the numb tips of his ears come back to a normal temperature. He stays just a moment longer than he needs to, listens to the rush of blood in his ears, the beat of his own heart. He knows of a human myth about hearing the ocean in a seashell. His mother told it to him once. It is… charming, in a childish sort of way. Spock centres himself and pulls his head up, feeling a bit foolish for having to blink so much water out of his eyes, and sinks properly into the water. Were he prone to such displays, he would sigh in contentment. Spock pushes his shoulder against Jim’s in comfort. When his friend leans their heads together, though, all he feels is fear .
“Do you wish to talk about it?” he asks as gently as he can.
“Not really,” is Jim’s soft response. His eyes are closed, brows drawn together.
“Would you care to talk about something else?” Spock tries.
“Mm.” The sound is noncommittal, but Jim pushes his head closer to Spock’s neck.
“Anything in particular?” Spock prompts.
“Eh, I don’t know. Anything, really.” Jim bites his lip, thinks for a moment. “What sort of games did you play as a kid?” His voice is croaky and a little sad.
Spock raises an eyebrow in surprise, but answers:
“I did not, perhaps, play as you would define it. I would dance, as all vulcan children do, and play music and draw, to some extent. I enjoyed taking long walks, at night when the air had cooled, or early in the morning before the sun rose. I am… not certain if other children my age played together, but I was always alone.” Jim sends out a tendril of sympathy, completely devoid of pity. It wraps tenderly around something in Spock he did not know was hurting. It stays there, hand in hand with his heart. He continues.
“I also made a valiant attempt to teach my pet sehlat calculus. When my mother found out, she explained he was not able to understand me. I was very upset at the time, but I cannot recall why.”
Jim laughs, not unkindly. Spock leans his head on top of his. The warmth of his skin seeps through his wet hair to Spock’s cheek.
“Maybe you felt bad for him, since you liked calculus so much and he couldn’t learn it,” Jim suggests
“A logical conclusion.” Spock nods “What about you, Jim?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. I liked walking and exploring, too. I would find things, egg shells, bones, rocks, plants, and I’d bring them home and ask Sam about them. Eventually he showed me how to use a flora to identify plants.”
“I see.”
“I read a lot, too. Sometimes I would forget to eat because I got so into a book. Did you ever get like that?”
“Frequently.” The corners of Spock’s mouth curl up a little.
They sit head to head for a moment, just breathing in the steam together.
“Jim, were you a lonely child?”
“Yeah. I think I was. Think I became a pretty lonely adult, too.”
There is so much Spock wants to say. Whatever happens, you will not need to be lonely again, not as long as I am alive. Too much, too quickly.
“I believe I did as well,” he says instead. It is the truth.
Jim breathes in as if to speak. Swallows. Starts anew.
“Spock. I’m really glad we found each other.”
“As am I.”
He does not say he believes their katra were drawn together. That they were fated to meet.
They stay in the pool, in silence, until their body temperatures are back to normal. Then they dry off and get dressed for bed. They eat a quick dinner and sit down together on the sleeping mat that’s been provided, to read the day’s reports. Spock keeps an eye on Jim, still. It seems the storm has passed, in here at least, and yet he still needs to tell him about-
“I wanted to speak with you about… something I have… noticed.” Spock folds his hands in his lap, presses his shoulder to Jim’s, like before.
“Is everything alright, Spock?” Worry . Spock wishes to soothe it.
“Yes. There is no cause for concern. I merely wanted to inform you of something. But perhaps this is not a good time.”
“Well, hey, no, now you’ve got me curious. Out with it!” From the tone of his voice, Jim’s cheeks must be dimpled with a small smile.
“I have been picking up vague transmissions of your emotions,” Spock says hesitantly.
“Sounds pretty normal to me. I mean, as far as I know, you’re still a telepath,” Jim shrugs.
“Even when we are not touching,” Spock clarifies. “When the replicators went out, I could sense your unease from halfway across the bridge. This has been going on for three weeks, two days, and half an hour.”
“Three… since we visited Vulcan?”
“Yes. Or rather since we came back, though I am uncertain as to the significance of that-”
“When we- when you found out I was alive?” Jim says, voice hazy.
“Yes.”
“Huh.” Jim seems to think about that for a moment before concluding: “That must be really uncomfortable, I’m sorry, Spock.”
“There is no need for apology. It has yet to cause me discomfort. And besides, it is not your fault.”
“But, I mean, isn’t it… I feel rather a lot, don’t I?” Self deprecation? Unacceptable!
“You do. It brings me some comfort. Through this…” Spock makes a conscious effort not to accidentally let the word bond past his lips “connection, I am able to ascertain your location and general well-being.”
Jim shifts.
“Oh.” A brief pause. “And… in what situations… can you usually feel someone’s emotions without touching them?”
“I experienced the phenomenon briefly with T’Pring, just after we had been bonded, but I have yet to do so at this level with anyone else.”
“Right but, general ‘you’, Spock.”
Spock swallows before answering.
“Vulcans can usually only sense the thoughts and emotions of their bond mates.”
“Right. Right.” Jim wets his lips with his tongue. He seems to steel himself before speaking. “Spock, have we bonded?”
Gentle, scared and curious hazel eyes meet liquid brown and find their sentiments mirrored. Spock takes a deep breath. It shakes a little.
“I would not rule out the possibility.”
“No?” Hope, glimmering dew at sunrise, fills Jim’s voice. It fills Spock’s throat, the air around them. It glows deep, deep orange, and perhaps the fire of it is to blame for the heat in the tips of Spock’s ears as he says: “There is no other possible cause that I know of.”
“Oh.” Jim says, face aglow with an emotion Spock would not dare label joy . “Can you… tell what sort of bond it is?”
“That is for us to decide. It would, if you wished, also be possible to sever it.”
“Right. Right.”
Hesitant fear floats iridescent like oil.
“Why are you afraid?” Spock asks, unsure if he’s allowed to point it out.
“Because… I mean, you’ve seen what a mess I am, all that would be in your head too.”
“And everything I am would be in yours . Does that frighten you?”
“Never.” Jim’s answer is firm and instantaneous.
“As unafraid as you are, I am.”
“Spock, come on, think this through.”
Jim grabs Spock by the biceps as if to shake him and at the same time thinks, entirely to himself, if you got hurt I could never live with myself.
Almost annoyed, Spock thinks: There is no being more precious to me in all the universe, your presence in my mind would only bring me joy .
Out loud he says: “Your concern is undue.”
Jim’s lips curl up at the corners as he says: “There’s no need to sweet talk me, mister. I already like you well enough.” He heard. Embarrassment, coiled tight in his chest, ready to leap.
“I was not-”
“I know.” Jim says, smile gentling. “So you want it, I want it… It’s settled, right?” He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them, they are set and serious. “But if we… commit to this bond, or however you’d put it, there’s something you should know. I mean, you’d find out eventually, but I want to tell you myself.”
“Alright.”
Jim closes his eyes before speaking, hands still on Spock’s arms. He presses his lips together, then looks at Spock with the full force of his sharp focus.
“Spock. I am in love with you.” The world seems to hold its breath. “And I have been for a very long time.” Spock is painfully aware of every beat of his heart. “And I don’t think I could ever stop loving you if I tried. I’m sorry.”
The utter remorse on his friend’s face makes Spock want to kiss him. The human way, the vulcan way, it does not matter. But Jim needs to see , needs to know .
“Jim. May I mind meld with you?”
“Alright.”
Jim closes his kind, sad eyes as Spock places his fingers reverently over his psi points. Jim’s long eyelashes flutter over the sensitive skin of Spock’s palm and he nearly shivers. He closes his eyes and slips into his friend’s mind, as open to him as his own. Strange . Stranger still is the way Jim’s mind almost dances upon sensing him there. Flickering flames of consciousness reaching out, seeking to touch, to hold. Spock draws himself closer, lets himself be swept away into the cascade of sensation that is Jim’s mind. The feeling is that of being tugged into a whirlpool, or a vortex, but Spock feels only warmth and a slight tingling of excitement, too distracted to tamp it down.
It is hypnotic, mesmerising, magnetic. He whirls closer, almost without meaning to, to the centre of Jim’s being, as Jim is pulled into his. Memories flash past in an instant, leaves in the wind, yet leaving impressions in his mind as if they’d always been his. Memories that he feels reshape the core of who he is for the moment he touches them.
He recognises himself in them for several clipped instances. On the bridge, eating lunch, reading lab reports. He sees himself through Jim’s perception, sees his own clever brown eyes survey the chessboard between them: Calculating. Amused. Warm. Familiar . He sees Jim watching him rewire the navigation console, is overcome with such adoration for his own hands in that moment, practised and practical, that he feels faint.
And finally, he is uncertain who he is.
The minds that were before have slotted perfectly into each other to form one mechanism. It’s like a heart, it thinks, or a very clever machine with only one purpose: to love. It begins to roam the mind it is, to retrieve any thought, any feeling, any memory. It recalls its mother’s kind eyes, but not what colour they are. It recalls exploring sand dunes cold to the touch, grass plains and lakes, all at once, in a single memory. It feels worn pages of favourite books under its fingertips. Every language it ever spoke is stirred together until it doesn’t matter what it feels like on the tongue. It brings to the surface a hundred deaths, a hundred sorrows. It remembers with clarity a loneliness so ancient it’s only noticeable in contrast to this.
This.
This, to never be parted again. It never will be, it is sure of it. This perfect togetherness. The pain filters through the love and becomes harmless. No less painful, but less alone. It stretches as wide, and as tall as it goes. Great lion, a thousand burning suns are eclipsed by it. It soothes every wound with its gentle tongue, bounds through the stars at the speed of thought, of being. It solves every problem put to it, decodes every cipher. It dreams every dream, and lives it. And it laughs, and sings, and dances because it finally is.
The separate beings that are Jim and Spock gently untangle their minds from one another and find, when they open their eyes, they are pressed together forehead to forehead.
“You love me,” Jim says, smiling.
“And you, me,” Spock replies.
There is no questioning it.
Jim dreams again. It begins the same way this specific restless dream always does. He’s thirteen years old and looking out over a field of wilted crops, so as to not see the bodies. Sooner or later he has to turn around, he knows. But for just a moment, he can pretend it was just a bad harvest. And he knows, too, that when he turns around he will feel that sickly sweet honey in his nose, in his throat, choking him, filling every- something has changed. The dream is not its usual self.
There is a sense of peace within him when he turns to face Spock’s outstretched hand and take it. And there is peace in Spock’s face as well.
“We face it together,” he says.
Jim nods in answer.
“We face it together.”
Spock allows the next morning to start slowly. He is content and relaxed, curled around Jim’s back, their hands entwined. He feels his friend’s heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breathing, the soft skin of his back against his bare chest. The room is pitch black save for the bioluminescent plants in their sconces on the wall. As he waits for Jim to wake, Spock ponders the associations others may have to colours. He believes a human might describe the blue tinted green glow of the plants as eerie or cold, while someone born and raised on Liberandum would likely think of it as cosy. He does not have an opinion himself, of course. The lights are merely lights and have only practical significance, but he does find some aesthetic appreciation for the shape of the leaves.
Jim stirs, awake in an instant. One day, Spock hopes, he might let himself wake slowly. One day he might be certain, even in sleep, that he is safe. Jim turns around, dislodges himself for a moment to latch even tighter onto Spock with both arms and legs. His skin is cool to the touch, his hands on Spock’s back firm but gentle.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Spock replies, “did you sleep well?”
“I did. Thank you. But you can stay in your own dreams if you want, right? If it gets too much?”
“I can, but I would rather be with you. Another time, I will show you how to go into my dreams. They are, as a rule, more peaceful than yours.”
Jim snorts and tucks his head under Spock’s chin.
“Oh, really?”
Spock recognizes the sarcasm laced in his voice and chooses to ignore it. “Really,” he says.
“Thanks, again,” Jim smiles against Spock’s collarbone.
“You are welcome.”
They take their breakfast in efficient silence, before their beamed down sandwiches can spoil. As he eats, Spock allows himself to appreciate the sight of his friend. Cross legged on the bed, in only his underwear and attempting to shove an entire bread roll into his mouth at once, Spock thinks no being has ever been more beautiful. Before they leave the apartment, Spock raises a tentative hand to Jim’s face in question. Jim holds it to his cheek as he leans in for a kiss.
“You seem happy. Something good happen?” Kirk asks.
“Did I make an expression?” Spock asks, concerned.
Kirk taps the side of his head with a smile.
“Ah.”
“Well, are you?” he asks again.
“I am pleased with the results of our efforts. We have located a possible antidote. The liberati scientists are preparing and testing it as we speak. I asked to oversee the proceedings, but they assured me it was not necessary.”
“Well, then you have all the time in the world to tell me how you did it.”
“Indeed, captain.”
They walk back to their temporary lodgings, arms almost brushing.
“I figured there must be something preventing the felians from taking ill, so lieutenant Amin and nurse Sheha analysed the samples of felian DNA stored in our computer banks,” Spock begins.
“Oh? I suppose you found some sort of antidote in there?”
“Not quite, but we did get a lead as to where in their bodies it might be produced, a special gland behind the nasal canal, which is quite oddly shaped in felians due to their atmosphere’s-”
Kirk gives a fond smile at Spock’s digression.
“Apologies.”
“No, no. No need to apologise. Go on.”
Kirk opens the door to their quarters and Spock follows him inside.
“We were able to send a message to Felis III last night, asking them for further details on the gland and the substance it produces. The response arrived this morning, and we managed to convert it into a vaccine fifteen minutes ago.”
Kirk nods serenely, and just smiles. There is a need, somewhere under the surface. Spock tests a theory.
“Would you like a hug?” he asks.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Jim says, already wrapping his arms around Spock’s waist. Have I already managed to be negligent?
“I’m sorry, I-”
Jim’s voice is muffled against Spock’s shoulder when he says: “It’s an earth saying. It just means yes, please .”
The thanks from the liberati is simple, but meaningful: steppe apple seeds.
“As we will not go without, neither will you,” the representative tells Kirk as she places them in his outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” he says, and Spock would deny it if asked, but he does believe the captain’s eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
The liberati scientists and medical personnel take farewell of their temporary coworkers, and the Enterprise crew beams out, onto the next.
Spock runs a reverent hand through Jim’s tangled and sweaty hair. His bondmate is resting his head on his own crossed arms, splayed halfway across Spock’s body. Every last bit of them is tangled together; Jim’s leg hooked around Spock’s hip, Spock’s arms around Jim’s torso. Jim’s eyes are closed, long eyelashes fanned out across his cheek. He is pliant, soft, sated. Spock cups his cheek, thinks is this really the best time? Thinks, yes. Yes it is.
“Eventually you will need to speak about it,” he says quietly.
Jim does not stir, does not even open his eyes. Remains as softly relaxed as before.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m going to try.”
“I am glad to hear it, ashayam.”
Jim tilts his head to the side. Opens his curious hazel eyes.
“A-sha-yam?”
Spock bites his lip. When did I become so shy? And yet so bold?
“It means beloved ,” he replies.
“Ah.” Jim says with a rosy-cheeked smile. Then he looks thoughtful again. “It’s going to take a while, I think.”
“That is understandable. It is a great sorrow.”
Jim traces patterns in the hair on Spock’s bare chest. Then he splays his entire hand out, looks up, and says:
“Spock, do you know how to eat an elephant?”
“Pardon?”
Jim purses his lips. “Uh, it’s the largest land living animal on earth, they’re grey and have really big ears and-”
Spock cuts him off. “I have heard of the elephant, but I fail to see why you would ask me how I would eat it.”
“You can just say you don’t know, you know,” Jim pouts, but not without humour.
Spock raises an eyebrow. “Is this the set up for a joke or proverb?”
Jim nods enthusiastically.
“No, I do not know how to eat an elephant,” Spock concedes.
“You cut it into smaller pieces first,” Jim says.
Spock blinks and then says slowly: “I see. And the elephant is a metaphor for your traumatic memories.”
Jim nods again. “Uh-huh. It’s from a saying Uhura taught me.”
“I see,” Spock says again, fondly. “You may tell her I think it is a useful proverb.”
“I will,” Jim smiles.
Under the blazing sun of a small, humid planet, where nothing is yet named and the water glistens like cut glass, Spock places a hand on his captain’s shoulder. He reflects it is the first time he does this as a gesture of love. He doubts it will be the last. Lithe muscle moves under his palm as Kirk turns his head to look at him questioningly.
“It seems we have some time to ourselves. Will you join me for a walk?” Spock asks.
“I’d thought you wanted to have a look at those minerals in the water?”
Curious golden eyes blink up at him.
“There are more ways to explore than to gather data. Come.”
As soon as they are out of sight from the rest of the landing party, Jim takes Spock’s hand. It lets Spock feel even stronger than before Jim’s almost giddy excitement at seeing something no human has ever seen. Spock gets to witness, through Jim’s eyes, the same bright eyed wonder he feels himself at the sight of the alien flora. The large reddish plants that sway in the wind above them seem so much like giant grass and broadleaf plantain, Jim envisions the two of them as Earth insects. A beetle and a grasshopper. Spock sends warm amusement through the bond and Jim turns to him, smile a little sheepish.
“It’s easier than I thought to forget you can hear me,” he says.
“Apologies, I will keep my shields up. You should not have to censor your thoughts.”
Jim waves a dismissive hand.
“No, no, I don’t mind. I want to share everything with you.” His voice is easy, casual. Like the weight of the word everything does not register in his ears.
Spock senses some warm feeling blow through his heart like a desert storm and recognizes it as his own. He feels no shame for it, just stops dead on the track and, hand on Jim’s neck, kisses him softly. Jim melts against him, parts his lips a little. Spock thinks the same wind is howling in them both. Finally, Spock pulls away to just look at his friend. The untameable curl over his forehead moves gently with each breath Spock lets out through his nose. A small smile plays over his soft mouth and his remarkable eyelashes flutter a little against his cheek. He is indescribably beautiful , Spock thinks.
“Well, mister Spock, what was that for?” Jim says, voice breathless, eyes still closed.
“I love you,” Spock says simply.
“I love you, too,” Jim says, and they continue walking.
“Please, take a seat.”
Spock indicates a rock with his hand and Jim sits down, legs crossed and face expectant. Above them leaves in fuchsia, vermillion and iron rich blood red rustle in the warm breeze.
“I have analysed the contents of the different fruits available to us in this region of the planet. They are all edible, to both of us.”
Spock kneels to pick drop shaped white berries from a rust coloured bush with leaves larger than his hands.
“I believe these berries might taste the best out of them,” he says.
Jim leans closer, hands on the edge of the rock.
“Then let’s save them for last,” he says.
Spock tilts his head to the side.
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t know, it just feels good to end on a high note. Don’t you ever do things like that? Save the best bite of your sandwich for last?”
“I do not believe I do,” Spock says. Jim shrugs with a smile. “However,” Spock continues, “I can understand the sentiment, and I will get us something else to start with.”
Spock picks a large, almost black, fruit with a hard shell. He finds the divot where the petals have long since fallen off and breaks it apart with his hands. It splits evenly down the centre. He hands half to Jim who, foregoing propriety, immediately begins to dig the soft flesh out with his fingers. Spock sees no reason to do it any differently. The fruit is soft, almost like persimmon. Spock swirls the foreign fruit around his mouth, catalogues each taste, every sensation of sticky juice on his lips. The fruit is sweet, but just underneath that it’s tart, like matcha, or maybe green tea, or-
“Do you think God works like that, too?” Jim says.
Spock opens his eyes. Chews the last piece in his mouth.
“Like what?”
“Like… he gets all the bad bits out of the way before you get to the really good parts?” Jim says.
“I cannot say for certain, but…”
I think, I believe, I know you are the turning point. I cannot imagine a future in which I both know you and am unhappy.
Perhaps Spock says it out loud. Perhaps the thought transferred through their bond. Perhaps the sentiment was so clearly written in the lines of his face. Vulnerable, human , enough to make a lesser vulcan turn away. And perhaps Jim did not need to know the exact phrasing of Spock’s thought to understand its meaning. It does not matter, in the end. The important part is Jim knows what he’s agreeing to when he nods and says:
“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”