Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even as a child, since he was old enough to comprehend the notion, Spock had been aware that something about him was…different, for lack of a better term. Something that set him apart from the other children, something that had never allowed him to touch them in the way a companion was supposed to. When he and T’pring had been betrothed as little more than teens, she had taken no interest in him. Quite frankly, the feeling was mutual. Spock had continued his life of solitude, wandering the open desert after class until the suns dipped below the horizon, replaced by the stars. 

She, on the other hand, had taken a liking to Stonn. The man, who was then little more than a boy, being as selective as he was, accepted T’Pring and rejected his assigned mate. When the latter girl had grown angry at the development, and even after she threw her punches and kicks, Spock knew it was his fault. The bloody lip, the broken arm, a shattered bond. It was all at his hands.

Perhaps that was why he loved Todd in the first place. He was a reminder of home. A home he had missed then, and still did now. Only this time, there was no need for him to force himself to stay where he belonged; there was no Vulcan to return to. He was ashamed of how sentimental he was on the matter, but New Vulcan was comprised of more sandstone than dunes and was always a few degrees cooler than his homeworld. Whatsmore, his own reason for forever returning had died with everything else. 

The stars of the night sky had beckoned him away, and the change in constellations did not call him back. On Earth, the moon had somehow always looked out of place, like it didn't belong at all. But he was not one to make that judgment, for they were one and the same. Cold, lifeless, and alone. Drifting forever through frigid silence.

And perhaps that was it, this strange trait he had been searching for all his life. Perhaps he had been born with heartache on his core, and it’d never let go, only grew bigger alongside him. Perhaps that was what made him so unloveable. Perhaps the constant mourning was what drove Todd‘s hand to strike the half-Vulcan’s face, to break his bones and soul.

From the moment Spock had slid his science blues over his head, over his wounds, he was nearly certain something in his very blood had changed. Some youthful innocence, the one that had cried all those nights and held onto love the same way a child holds onto their fear of ghosts, was as dead as the apparitions of the mind. Smothered by the fabric of time and the weight of his life-long melancholy, his eyes went dark and dull.

In his memories, there was no time between leaving Clarkson and following behind Number One, the First Officer of the Enterprise. The time aboard the shuttle and the day he’d had to settle in, a day he’d spent purging all trace of emotion from his body, were lost to oblivion and taken by his sorrow. The first thing that his mind could still recall was the thundering of his heart at the sight of a security officer, introduced to him as Ensign Hendroff, who looked a spitting image of Todd. As the rest of the group had greeted him chipperly, he had hung back beside the Commander, breath hitching in his throat. Senses on high, he’d practically felt Una’s gaze, looking over every detail of him until she memorized it. 

Her gaze had never quite broken. Every trip she took to the laboratories, every pass she made through the bunks lining the lower decks, she always lingered on him. What began as a curiosity for Spock, however, ended in an odd sort of paranoia. Having always been able to tell when he was being watched, it seemed that eyes were everywhere.

It was several weeks later, after he had discerned a route approximately 30% longer than the standard one back to his bed in order to avoid seeing Ensign Hendroff, that she spoke to him for the first time. Standing tall and still beside her in a turbo lift, as though she’d pounce if he moved. She was the one who brought them to a halt, the computer whistling at her request.

“Ensign Spock, correct?”

Caught entirely off guard, his focus having remained on staying silent, he spun himself around to face her as he rapidly reworked the preoccupation of his thoughts, “Yes, sir.”

Una chuckled at that, bemused by his mannerism, “You’ve been on the ship a couple of weeks now. How are you liking it? You were in my tour group, right?”

“Yes sir,” he responded to the last question first before addressing the others, “I have found the ship and my tasks manageable.”

She hummed, smiling a bit, “You remind me of myself, you know?”

Spock’s eyes widened imperceptibly, hands tucking behind his back in parade rest, half out of respect, half so she could not see their twitching, “I see.”

He did not know if that was a good thing or not.

“Listen, I’ve been watching you for a bit of time now,” she shifted the subject. He hoped that she did not sense his discomfort, “At your age, you are performing quite admirably, frankly for any age, you are. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but you never seem to take the same routes the other do around the ship so, it’s been a bit tricky.”

Guilt needled Spock’s skin, but he did not let it show, biting his cheek to keep it down.

She didn’t seem to notice, carrying on, “But anyway, I’ve talked to the Captain about you, and he told me that he personally asked you to join the crew. That’s the first time he’s done something like that, I’ll have you know. But what that means is that you are one brilliant kid. And I don’t think you belong shutting yourself in the labs all day. Neither does Captain Pike.”

Spock wasn’t sure how to respond, the discomfort under his skin only growing. There was a whisper in his head beckoning that she was lying.

Though he’d hoped the moment wouldn’t come, she finally addressed it, “Not the talkative sort, hm?”

The half-Vulcan blinked, “I…suppose not.”

“Well,” she patted his shoulder, “It’s not a problem, really.”

She leaned onto the button to restart the lift and the machine lurched into motion.

Una reached into her pocket pulling out an insignia, shining and new, “I’ll see you on the bridge tomorrow. 08:00 sharp, Lieutenant Spock.”

***

6 Years Later

***

Personal quarters were far different from the bunks Spock had spent his first months of Starfleet in. So close to the engine room that the dull hum turned to a buzz that could not be shut out, between all the people living so close, it had pulsated as if it were one living being. — Spock sat quietly in his quarters, dark as he liked but colder than he pleased, he made no move to change it. His thumb traced the swirl of his science badge, the one from all those years ago. It’d been battered and scuffed with time and missions gone wrong, the very original having to be repaired after a catastrophic first away mission. Despite Captain Pike’s offer to replace it entirely, he had not accepted. Perhaps it was from the fast-holding nostalgia, perhaps it was merely an illogical waste of material. He didn’t know.

Either way, it didn’t matter to him. It was among his kinder memories, and though it had taken on a bittersweetness with the corrosion of his grief-sick soul, it was something he did not let go of.

It was the only bright reminder of his life, at least from those times. All he could clearly recall from then was pain, an ache that had never quite gone away, only taking different forms. From the storm-ridden winter that he lost Clarkson to the fog-laden dawn after the death of his mother, this constant creaking in his bones could never be put to rest. Just when it turned to a whisper for the first time, Kirk died, and though he lived to tell the tale, he died nonetheless, and those still cornflower eyes were still stuck in Spock’s head. It was perhaps at that moment that he saw his Captain for the first time, having never looked another man in the eyes since he let the one he held closest down. And suddenly they weren’t hazel and harsh, but something he’d loved too late, rather than too much.

Spock curled into his body as the chill struck him in the same way it had the last time a body lay beside him. He would never be warmed by that man, never caressed in the way his skin craved. 

Some nights, Spock could still feel Todd constricting his throat and holding him down. The skin of his rough hands was burned into his thigh, and he could swear he still felt his lover’s hot breath everywhere he didn’t want it. It was hard to tell the difference between the nightmares and the past because every time he awoke it was the same as the first; the blind struggle to the cold tile of the bathroom and dizzying nausea. He had learned that in the face of imagined danger, he’d always run, but with nowhere to go, the adrenaline high wreaked havoc upon him, like a beast locked away. 

Once he gained back his grip for long enough to take in the breath filling his lungs, he collapsed to the floor and sat in the dark until the exhaustion grew stronger than the fear. Sometimes, he’d return to his bed but sleep would never come, while at others, he stayed on the tile until he woke again. Yet every time, every dusk that was taken, and every dawn that came too quickly, he would stand and move on. 

But he knew moving on wasn’t the right term. Moving on would mean it didn’t bother him. Moving on would mean that he could look at Hendroff and not see Todd in his likeness. Moving on would mean that Leonard’s muttering wouldn’t make him want to run. Moving on would mean that when Jim touched his shoulder, he wouldn’t flinch.

Moving on would mean that he’d sleep the next night. And that it wouldn’t take his legs giving out to make him stop running. That it wouldn’t take his aching joints from the excess gravity aboard the ship to feel grounded.

Spock’s grip grew tighter around the battered insignia, the tips at its base digging into his palms. To a strange part of him, the pain and exhaustion were mercies in a violent world, and to the other, he was merely waiting for the future in the past. Tears slipped down his cheeks without his permission, and he brushed them away with his wrists.

His vision, though bleary, only focused on that badge in his fingers, the inanimate metal that would never know its meaning. It was perhaps the only one he was not ashamed of, and though he would never know why it was given to him, what may have possessed Pike into thinking he was deserving of it, he sat quietly with the man’s decision and did not retort against it. 

The guilt began to creep in when they made him a Lieutenant Commander for his bravery. A Commander for his selflessness, First Officer for his loyalty. He wished they’d demote him for his cowardice, he wished they knew what his selfishness had ruined. He wished they hated him for everything he’d done, for the life he’d wrecked. But perhaps this was worse than anything they could throw at him, the tortuously slow decay the guilt wrought upon his body. 

So, in the darkness and quiet, in a life he did not deserve surrounded by people he was certain to hurt, he bit his cheek to silence his mind, nearly clawing his face dry. Spock returned the token of the past to its place in the drawer, ignoring the dizziness in his head as he stood.

Quietly as not to wake his Captain sleeping next door, he shuffled into the bathroom and washed his face off, keeping the water cold. He brushed over his irritated skin with powder the same color as his face, enough that the irritation was unseen but not so much that it was obvious. Though he did not have to hide bruises anymore, hiding the rash felt the same. To wake each day with joints screeching in pain and saying nothing was the same. It was as if nothing had ever changed to begin with. 

Pulling his science blues on and zipping up his boots, he crept down the dimly lit hallways. Amid the tail-end of Delta shift, there was an odd space of time between it and Alpha in which nothing happened. The ship pushed them further into the unknown, and the watch crews dozed at their stations, their bodies unwilling to go longer without the sweet touch of sleep. In a moment that there was no waking soul around, it seemed like everything and everyone was dead.

But perhaps, the deceased were kinder than ghosts.

Chapter Text

The labs were quiet at this hour. Nobody was stationed here for Delta shift, and those that did wander to check-in never stayed long. Between the darkness of biology and the creatures living there, it was an acquired taste to exist at that hour. Shrouded in darkness along with everything else, a black blanket only pierced by glowing eyes and chittering teeth, it was unnerving to most. 

But Spock had learned to befriend the dark and all that was out of view. Because perhaps if he could not see his wounds, his scars, they were not there. If they remained out of sight and out of mind for long enough, they would fade like the sun into dusk.

Yet it seemed that no matter how many times he hoped that oblivion would strike his core, tell him its secret to life - to death - it never came. He always lived with the past tormenting his mind. He always slept to grief’s lullaby and woke to trauma’s screams. His bones creaked despite their youth and his skin burned despite its toughness. It was for these flaws that he did not deserve love, that he had all of this coming. He had no right to complain, no entitlement to longing. 

And it was for this reason that he moved softly and without sound. Quietly making his way to the only glow of light in the dark, a warm orange in hue as it buzzed from a heating lamp. Snugly tucked underneath a terrarium lid, it brought warmth to an infantile wolverine, one native to Kantare, found alone and shivering one night. With the Enterprise having docked there to stock up on supplies, the band that found it surrendered the animal to them as none knew how to care for such an elusive species.

It’d been Spock’s executive decision to accept the offer, as they too, hadn’t the slightest idea how to care for it. Yet there was something about it, about how small and frail it was, how lonely its eyes were, that drew him to it. It was shameful, to have made such an emotion-charged decision, but the kit grew bigger with each time he woke up to feed it and had begun to stir at times, no longer deathly still.

Hope, he’d come to learn, was in short supply, and he did not find any lifeform to be undeserving of it. Especially not something so innocent, so fragile. He would not let that go. Not again.

He reached into one of the overhead compartments and pulled down the bottle he had fashioned for the cub, setting it on the counter as he combed through the fridge of specimens and feed, taking a small jug of a quartz-colored liquid, a viscous substance that he’d concocted in order to nourish the small creature the same way its mother would have, if only she were around. The motions he took to pour and swirl the milk were precise and practiced, not so much as a drop lapping over the edge. He secured the cap firmly, rolling a stool up to the counter and making his way to the warmer. Carefully as not to startle the kit, he removed the lamp and lid, setting them aside. With cold yet gentle hands, he took the creature that could be no longer than a standard padd, though significantly larger than when it had first arrived. He tucked it close to his chest, the kit yawning awake and tilting its head up to look at the half-Vulcan. 

Spock sat down, setting the wolverine on the counter, titling the suckle of the bottle towards its mouth: an offering it took without hesitation. Even with his iron control and all the training he had access to, there was still a foreign warmth in his chest as it squeaked and peeped, the sleepless nights he had spent with her playing in his mind, the moments he thought she was dead haunting the back of his mind, but for now, she was alive, and so was he.

***

It was too early when Jim’s alarm screeched its presence. He grumbled in warm sheets, hand moving blindly to snooze the alert. He shuffled up, hair mussed and eyes opening, though he did not wish they had to, he glared at the chronometer, still chirping. Kirk smacked a hand against it to cancel it, face dropping back into his pillow with a groan.

Jim shifted to look at the ceiling, so plain that it made him want to hang pictures on it instead of the walls. Quickly growing bored with this development, he gingerly rolled out of bed, blankets trailing in a mess behind him like a lover unwilling to have him leave.

Despite his general distaste for early mornings, James was of an odd sort; he would lament an early rise but soon as he began getting prepared for the day, the boundless energy he was notorious for would come all at once, and not die down until he slept that night.

He hummed an old earth song as he brushed his teeth, making his way his First Officer’s door in an odd dance. Kirk knocked, though was met with no answer. He tried again, slightly louder this time. Nothing.

He rinsed out his mouth, figuring the half-Vulcan must be in sciences again, tending to whatever needed it long before another soul could so much as try to help him. 

James sighed fondly, though it could certainly be self-destructive at times, he found Spock’s constant striving for perfection to be a touch endearing. He didn’t seem to understand that Kirk couldn’t possibly be any more impressed with him, already so infatuated with the man that his mind turned a mush of fuzz and euphoria at the mere prospect of his presence.

He continued to hum as he waltz out of the bathroom, replicating a few slices of toast and schmearing them with peanut butter. 

He had missed the Enterprise in his absence after Kahn; he was certain that they all had. Though spending so many weeks in the hospital was far from ideal, he’d thought that perhaps his stay in Iowa until their silver lady was ready would be a touch nostalgic. And though it was, he found that longing for the stars he had held at his core for so long had never left, finding himself outside every night, climbing on the roof like he did as a teenager. He remembered those nights, freezing in the winter but sticky in summer, often alone but sometimes with some near unknown body beside him. Two souls, together but not intertwined, drifting as they lay still. Waiting for someone worth holding on to.

James remembered nothing of his first awakening from deathly sleep, yet there was always something that came back, the bright light of morning in eyes that had slept through both dawn and dusk framing a soft fuzz around pale skin and midnight hair. But above all else, there were brown eyes, tragic and soft, steeled and melting all at once. He thought it was the codeine that made a man of the night look like the dawn, but when the moon rose and he looked the same kind of ethereal, Jim felt a part of him come alive.

Perhaps that was the reason for his vague melancholy as he took the lone walk to the bridge, having grown accustomed to the half-Vulcan’s company. Black and starry eyes that shone like morning, nothing in the galaxy could replace them.

In his thoughts, it felt almost as if Spock were right beside him. His spirit, though dark as the night, was speckled with constellations and as everlasting as the matter of the universe.

As the turbo lift doors opened and whistled his presence, Chekov turned to face him in his chair, “Keptin on ze bridge!”

The bridge crew turned to face him at attention, and the blond flashed them a smile, a nonverbal way of insisting that they no longer had to go through with such formalities. They turned back to their work, Chekov and Sulu laughing over something from the night prior, Nyota listening in fondly. He took up his place in the Captain’s chair, looking over his shoulder at Spock. Taken by the star-speckled screen of his station, he had only missed him by a few minutes. With a stray fur on his shoulder, James figured that his speculation had been correct: he had, in fact, been in sciences quite early that morning. 

Spock would never know why his body manifested itself in such fear around him. He and Clarkson looked nothing alike. In truth, nobody from the half-Vulcan’s past looked similar to his Captain. But nonetheless, his heart raced when they stood side by side, the blood seemingly draining from his head to his legs so he could run. Run from what, he didn’t know. It seemed he never would.

The hair on the back of his neck stood as Kirk rose from his chair, making a round around the bridge, checking each officer if any of them should need help. With no one in need of assistance, he made his way back, ending just behind Spock. He leaned in a bit, intrigued by the star charts and astral maps on his display. Spock felt his stomach turn under his gaze. 

It did not break and did not waver, and he did not know what he wanted. There was fear blurring the edges of his mind, his toe beginning to ghost the floor as he fought againt his instinct not to tap it. It felt colder than it had any right to be, the blood through his body getting ready to run.

What did he want?

What was he doing wrong?

It was like Jim could hear his thoughts, knew the mind was talking about him. The blond didn’t go back to his place, only looking closer.

Spock swallowed the fright in his throat like a drug, he didn’t care what it did to the inside of him. As long as James never saw it, never saw past his walls, never saw the pain, the blood, the ruins. He had become accustomed to this lonely existence. It was like his mother’s garden, roses and flowers growing in a world they were never meant to thrive in. Only one person may ever love it.

***

Between Captain Pike and Una, Spock was bound to have clung to this: Once you have learned something, once you have noticed it, there is no going back. Forever, it plays in the mind. Forever, it taunts the senses. 

Or perhaps it was Todd who taught him. Taught him to look over his shoulder, to watch his back. Never trust anyone, never hold another’s hand to stay upright. It was better to fall than it was to fly with false wings.

It didn’t matter, really. Because either way, he had learned to notice, he had learned to check behind him. He had learned to stand alone. That way, there was no knife coming for the spine, there was no hand to seize an unsuspecting throat.

So in truth, maybe it was not the threat of catastrophe nor the possibility of disaster that kept him on high alert on the bridge or turned away from sleep. Maybe he just didn’t like the way his back was turned from the point in which he worked or how his skin prickled whenever someone drew close. 

He had learned most of his lessons in the hardest way possible; everything came with blood, sweat, and tears, though he did not care for the latter in the slightest. All the nights spent awaiting the sight of Kirk’s eyes and all the moments he spent wishing to see his mother’s one last time were days spent wishing he could raise the dead. Sometimes, it seemed that all his body wanted was to follow in their footsteps. With every day that came and went like the ocean’s whitewater, the sharpest of his edges would not soften in the current. It refused to give up so much as a mineral flake to the river, nor would it take the hand of a savior from the shoreline, something that did not wish to live nor die. Something that did not wish to exist at all.

A bitterness so effortlessly soft and a sweetness turned grim, Spock could not make sense of it. One moment he was young, and the next, he still was, but so jaded that he may as well have been alive for millennia. He could remember the touch of his mother as she rocked him to sleep and Todd’s hands on him at the same time. The gentle pats on the shoulder that James gave felt like the strikes of his classmates. Everything gentle had turned on him, and everything rough knew him best.

Spock would never understand why it had to be this way, but a child-like piece of him would not stop asking.

Why did you stop loving him? 

What did he do to you? 

Why did you hurt him?

The half-Vulcan did not know. Perhaps the simplest answer was that he was afraid, terrified of what may come after the storm. Perhaps he’d learned that the calm before the storm was hardly that at all, having become akin to the choppy water and rocking of boats, the wind rustling through California pines and cypress. He knew to watch the horizon, damn the waves, and never look away from the sky. It would be far better to better to be taken by the cold waters of the Pacific than it would be to go with the wind’s ferocity.

Yet, even in a body battered by love, Spock did not know how to curl up and die. He did not know how to carry on with the softest thing that turned violent but his body still drug itself upright. It still stood without anyone’s help. He still moved with no one to see. It still slept in the cold of loneliness.

Chapter Text

Spock stood at attention just beyond the doors of the transporter room, awaiting their guests’ arrival. They would be meeting an array of representatives today, though all involved with a conflict that had risen on the border between two rather distant peoples; The Tulitans and Quansians were not unlike the Vulcans and Romulans, having evolved side by side but splitting as stress grew. Quite frankly, though a logical choice to prevent a potential civil war, it had worsened their situation by 87.3% when compared to if they had worked out their differences in another manner. 

But it was not his place to talk. He was well versed in the notion of giving up too early.

At least now, they were attempting to make some sort of peace with one another. Though both applied to be Federation member, the terms upon which they would be accepted had clearly stated there was to be no warring among neighbors if it could be avoided, yet the taunting thrown back and forth between the two had grown to far more than that. 

With the Enterprise nearest, as they always seemed to be, they had been requested to stop and delegate the talks, and by some miracle, try to simmer away the strain between the two parties. The half-Vulcan calculated the likelihood of such an outcome to be placed at a 5.8% chance. 

As the transporter glowed and swirled, leaving behind two parties of three each, it did not take telepathy to sense the tension between them. The previously calm and composed representatives took a glance at the opposing side, glaring and muttering under their breaths. 

The statistics in his mind dwindled lower and lower. 

Nonetheless, he welcomed them, “Greetings, I am Commander Spock. I will be escorting you today.”

Both groups looked him up and down, but it was the Quansians that spoke, “Send our thanks to your Captain for welcoming us on this day, if you will.”

Spock nodded, “I will be certain to relay your message to him. If you would please follow, I shall take you to the conference room.”

Spock pretended not to see the smug look that the Quansian representative shot at the Tulitans. As Jim would say, it was going to be a long day.

That, presumably, would not be the end of their frankly childish interactions, however. It seemed that neither group was so interested in conflict resolution as much as they were in upstaging the other, both leaders from the opposing sides making attempt to strike up conversation with the half-Vulcan, though they were clearly preoccupied with ensuring that their rival heard every last word of the discussion. Though rather foolishly, he had considered the possibility that they were truly concerned for their world, however, the moment the Tulitan representative began a woeful act of regret regarding the terrible risk the conflict posed to their admission to the Federation, it became rather obvious that he had ulterior motives. 

Had their acceptance been so greatly important to them, their squabble would have been resolved when Spock was but a child. It was the first and primary condition of their entry, and clearly held no importance to them.

The walk from the transporter room to the conference space was nothing short of aggravating, the half-Vulcan quickly coming on edge as they sidled up and leaned against him. It was all he could do not to flinch as they touched him, the unwanted feeling of their pride and conceit burning like poison on his skin. The Ensigns following behind hadn’t the faintest on what to do. Clad in blue and donning the same sort of badge as he, they knew him as well as the average crew member could. Yet, even then, it hardly took an expert to understand the simplest fact of the matter: Commander Spock, was not to be touched.

Why, was common knowledge, Vulcans, of course, was the most straightforward of answers. But perhaps to only constant to be found by an onlooker was the inherent strangeness of the Commander; an irregularity in his mannerism that did not carry throughout other Vulcans. What it was, no one knew, but he never seemed to push anyone from his person nor ask to make distance between them. He tensed and stayed the course even though he did not want it.

***

With an impressive speed, Spock’s prior concerns about the day seemed to prove themselves to be gross understatements. The back-and-forth shouting was beginning to give him a headache, both peoples feeling the need to express their thoughts as loudly as possible. A physical fight nearly broke out when they, rather ironically, came onto the topic of a ceasefire, causing the half-Vulcan to call in a security team to ensure there would be no such occurrences.

When Hendroff walked through the door leading his squad, the hair on the back of Spock’s neck stood as he only saw them from the corner of his eye. Silently, he shunned himself. He and Todd were two vastly different people, and neither had done anything to deserve his disdain.

And yet, as the Lieutenant stood side by side with the Commander, it was all he could do not to make a space between them, not to squirm under his watch. The half-Vulcan knew he had no right nor reason to be afraid, but nonetheless, he was.

He chose to redirect his attention back to mediating the debate, though such a position was ultimately unneeded - no one bothered to pay attention to his interjections anyway - he did not leave his assignment to head for the bridge. 

They yelled their way onto their pending application with Starfleet, one that had been dangling in nothingness for decades. It was at that that they finally went quiet.

Despite their words having died to silence, the Tulitans’ and Quansians’ argument was hardly over, merely at a break in which each group of representatives huddled and schemed. They kept glancing over their shoulders at the others, glaring, and returning to their compatriots. 

Though he was hardly one to talk, the whole ordeal seemed somewhat petty to Spock. The schism of their societies had only begun in response to a fickle disagreement, one that was lost to history entirely. In the briefing of his task, which was intended to supply all required knowledge, there was no set reason on why the peoples split,  but rather several theories that had not been confirmed nor denied by either species. In fact, when the sovereign of each government was questioned about it, the simple response was that they didn’t know.

They hadn’t gotten along and had given up, was the simplest answer. When the crew members involved with the task had heard that, they grumbled and groaned over it. Spock, on the other hand, felt guilt needling in his chest. He could not help but wonder what would hav e happened if he had managed to stay just a moment longer. Maybe, in the darkness, there was an epiphany to be found, even if it could only be seen in catacombs.

***

The prickle in Spock’s throat when Hendroff had entered the room had never gone away, it had only waxed and never wanned. It was something he was never able to shake nor justly explain. The Lieutenant, however, had only ever known this sort of behavior from the Commander and did not question it. Odd as it was, it could be easily concluded that the reason was that the half-Vulcan simply was that way: odd.

 Spock asked for what he needed from him and gave the instructions required, precisely what was essential to carry out the task, nothing more, nothing less. He stalked the corners of their shared spaces like a cat and stood still as a statue whenever they were found side by side.

Hendroff didn’t ask about the twitching of his fingers nor the steeling of his expression, as far as he was concerned, that was Commander Spock, and there was nothing more to it. 

He vaguely recalled the first time he’d ever seen him as an Ensign, noticed what he’d been trained to notice, memorize each and every crew member to weed out whomever may not belong there. The half-Vulcan, however, made such a task rather difficult. He never behaved the same way as other Ensigns, never followed the same paths. Though, even after all that time, not much had physically changed; clean-cut black hair and brown eyes, lean and considerably short by Vulcan standards, he was distinct from the rest of the crew.

Even with his peculiar characteristics, he looked nothing like anyone else on the ship, or in Starfleet for that matter. Once he’d noticed him, it was fairly easy to spot him in a crowd. Of course, if one looked hard enough to find him initially, which was the trickiest part. 

However, even with this system of recognition, Hendroff had never managed to shake the feeling that the Commander did not trust him. It didn’t affect his work, obviously, but there was forever a lingering thought that beckoned the possibility. 

***

It was 19:00 by the time the visiting parties left, leaving the group of officers responsible for them both relieved and rather exhausted, the day proving itself to be lengthy and taxing. Spock didn’t bother spreading out the debrief, only dismissing the group and starting off to his own quarters to finish the assignment. He had no problem with late nights as they were rather customary for him. Though his several positions aboard the Enterprise offered no visible end to that trend, he voiced no grievances on the matter. He enjoyed dusk, quiet with thoughtful silence, it was a kind of muse. 

Through all the scrapes and bruises of his life, with every creak in his bones, the only constant he had ever known was the stars. How something forever changing could stand still, Spock would never know. Perhaps it was one of the few things he would not ponder nor question, only watch with a silent mind. 

His quarters, though of standard size were home to a rather large window, the constellations lulling him to sleep and remaining at his side through the nightmares. Although he would never see the halo they created above his head, like a flower crown in April, it was made with all the love the universe could weave into its eternal hands. Yet like a wreath of spring, the adorned could not see it.

He keyed in the code to open the door, not bothering to turn on the lights. This way, he felt like a part of the cosmos itself. He slid off his boots at the entryway and sat on the edge of his bed, his quarters too small to fit a desk. He rubbed the corner of his eyes, brushing away the sleep that ebbed in his peripherals. His fingers came away slightly chalky, taking the pale concealer he’d applied that morning with them. The rash on his skin was something he had grown used to; used to seeing, used to hiding. Though it once bothered him to no end, it did not have such power anymore. It was constant as destruction, but like the shattering of everything, he cared for it no more than when it first arrived.

A heavy breath left his lips, the thought crossing his mind to remove the make-up and shower off before he began working. Just as he rose, however, a knocking came from the door. He stood still for but a moment, cocking his head and making his way over. The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the eternal light that was James Kirk, beaming bright and strong. 

Ah, he should have known.

“Captain,” he greeted, standing in parade rest, “May I assist you?”

Jim shrugged, “Fancy a game of chess?”

Spock’s eyes widened imperceptibly, and though he knew he now had a considerable amount of work to do, he had never found himself able to deny Kirk such a request, “I would be amenable to that, I suppose.”

The blond’s slime grew impossibly brighter at that, “See you back out here in five?”

Spock nodded, and Jim skipped off for the door right beside them, disappearing into the room. The half-Vulcan sighed, though he wasn’t sure as to why. 

He slid on his boots and ran neatening fingers through the few knots in his hair, making his way out and standing at the wall between the two rooms. He had been sharing space with him for 1 year, 20 days, and 5 hours now, and frankly, he did not mind. Though Kirk was not the quietest of neighbors, there was something in the constant noise that the dark thoughts did not like, and made a habit of hiding from. It was a rare peace that he would not take for granted.

***

Perhaps the only moments in which Spock had ever found his Captain to be both still and silent were in the sort such as these: sat across from one another in a rec room, one secluded from the prying eyes of the crew where they could not be found. Amid the blond’s focus, for an unusual second, the auroras inside him stood still; a snapshot of the galaxy and all its wonders.

Within a moment, that borealis was swirling again, the stillness was gone as quickly as it had come. 

Jim moved his piece, snagging one of the half-Vulcan’s rooks, “Your move, Commander.”

Spock observed the board with a sort of consideration that only he could wield, an odd cross between the unknown and impossibly familiar, the game was one he excelled at. It was a spectacle that was aw-spiring to behold, the care in his hands that brushed each piece, the perfection in which each turn was executed. Though he had not noticed it the first nor second time, Jim had come to see the glint in the half-Vulcan’s eyes as they played, a sort of thoughtfulness that was only summoned for these games, a sense of foresight, perhaps. There was never a strategy nor play he could not see through, no matter how topsy-turvy James was, there was never a game with him that was not a close call. 

Jim couldn’t help but stare, skin the color of a full moon and hair the same shade as its backdrop; freckles faint stars on a foggy night and lips curved gently as Saturn’s rings, the half-Vulcan may as well have been the night sky personified. A constant to the lonely and a call sign to the lost, though he may never see his reflection through the pull of the waves, Kirk knew that the cosmos ran in veins. It seemed that his very blood was made from the stars themselves, as inseparable as a nebula to chaos.

Spock made his move, capturing one of the Captain’s knights and gesturing to the blond to make his move.

James felt the universe in his chest burn a bit brighter.

Chapter Text

The incense Spock had lit was burning low, the scent of distinctly Vulcan spice crossing over with the vague smell of smoke. The half-Vulcan sat one leg atop the other on his meditation mat; it had been nearly 3 hours now that he had remained this way, 2.1x longer than usual. His mind was preoccupied, this statistic duly noted before being filed away.

Under the haze of exhaustion, a fog he often found himself amid, his Katra moved nothing more to its rightful places. In this moment, the spirit of his soul and his body sat apart, two different beings with two different lives, uncertain of what to do with the dark tangle that sat before them. Memories and regrets, hope worn thin, everything from when the bad thing happened, everything he wanted to forget. Yet past its spines and claws, its teeth and tongue, every attempt to cast it out brought its soft core to its surface, and Spock hadn’t the power to show it cruelty. 

The quiet nights he and Todd had spent together, the first moment on the bathroom floor, when Spock felt that warmth in his chest for the first time. The moments when Clarkson almost, maybe loved him. Loved him in a way that nothing in the cosmos could live up to, loved him in a way that mattered. Loved him in a way that took all the man’s hate and anger and turned it into passion, passion that possibly, just this once, wouldn’t burn him.

But all that was wishful thinking, and nothing more. As Spock’s hand drifted near it, a box he may as well have borrowed from Pandora herself, he could not touch it. Not softly nor roughly. As he drew closer to it, the past came in flashes; pain, love, hate, a desperate kind of hope, it was all he knew anymore. 

As he saw hazel eyes looking down at him, he shook his head in a sharp inhale, and suddenly, he was no longer there. He was in his quarters, dark and alone. He took a shaking breath, steeling himself so he would not rub a hand down his face. 

Spock snuffed out the incense and candles, trembling as he stood with joints aching in retortion. His eyes could only focus on the abyss beyond the glass; it was a familiar sight, the stars. So alone yet so close, forever living and forever dying. Everything and nothing, all at once.

***

Spock was not used to the sound nor sight of life, even after all his time on the Enterprise . Vulcan was vast and barren, and its cities were never quite as loud as those of other planets. Shi’khar never had the pulse of a beating heart, never had the chorus of the living’s breath. Straight lines to the monorail, couples side by side; people clad in robes, the edges of the fabric as perfect as the knots that tied them. It seemed only fate that something crooked as he would never get along with that machine.

Caveon XI was not like that, and Cannatis, doubly so. Home to the Palacids, it was a loud and bustling metropolis built taller and wider every year. Spock was used to the sights and sounds of foreign worlds, though he had never managed to tune out the sheer noise of a city. However, heightened senses certainly didn’t help matters and he could practically feel the low rumble of the subway beneath them in his bones.

Upon hearing that the Enterprise would be near, their leader, Macatan, had insisted that the Captain and First Officer visit their world; a kind of welcoming to the sector, it seemed. Jim had taken their offer graciously, always excited to stretch his legs. Spock, however, who was wary and poorly equipped for social-political matters, had kept himself and his discomfort quiet like the dead. As they walked through the city towards the government building they were set to meet in, he could still feel the undertones of disgust within the eyes of all that they passed. Every man, woman, and child who watched the band of officers pass lingered a moment longer on his pale complexion, sight tracing the foreign curve of his ears. 

It was not his choice, to accept it or not. He had learned as a child that he was deplorable. He did not have a grace with words like Nyota and did not have Jim’s sunny charisma. He could not comfort the sick and wounded like Leonard nor radiate Chekov’s brightness. He was ill-mannered and borderline insufferable, and he regretted the misfortune of the ambassadors that awaited their arrival; that horrible luck they had in which to meet him. Though it would break his mother’s heart, but certainly never faze Sarek, he silently apologized for his existence and all he had wrought upon the ones he loved.

As they neared the towering skyscraper, ambassadors standing cheerfully at its entrance, this lifelong solitude bowed yet another time, exposing the back of its head for the gun; You were not meant to live, it whispered, You do not deserve to die.

You are condemned to exist. They are not. Do not force your weight upon them.

Spock bit his lip, not allowing himself to reply. There was nothing to say. There was no repentance, there was no acceptance. For the truth is what it is, no matter which way the winds of the soul care to blow. It was for this reason that as they stopped before their host and Jim bade them a good day, he stood at attention without a word. He had learned the hard way that the lesser was not to speak until spoken to. Always, always the hard way.

He did not hear what Macatan said, asking Kirk about all the sights that embodied their pride, to which the Captain smiled and assured them they had seen, leaving out the factoid that it had only been in quick passing. It was not a lie, but a common vagueness that assisted in matters such as these - they often hadn’t any time to sightsee, and despite James’s excitement, he never liked to leave his silver lady for long.

Spock watched the blond in the same way he always did, intrigued, yet distant. His optimism reminded him of his mother’s shine, a light to rival the Vulcanian sun. He noted this and added it to what may as well be his mental file on Jim, before stowing it away. He had found that ever since the academy, he had begun to take closer notes of those around him; their mannerisms, likes and dislikes, general personalities along with whatever additional bits he may happen upon.

He called it observation, Gaila called it paranoia. Nyota always got between the two when the topic came up, and though it never morphed into an argument, she saw the way that the half-Vulcan would shrink at the Orion’s words; though Gaila never meant to corner him, it seemed that he could see Todd at every word about the man. A specter of the past, come back to haunt the present.

Spock never seemed to realize it when he was consumed by his thoughts. Perhaps that was the point. Nonetheless, as he stood still, eyes glazed and mind in a different place, he was only startled out of it when he felt the sudden warmth of a body pull close to him, one hand on his hip as the other patter his opposite shoulder. Before he had time to react, before that dreaded tendency to freeze melted away, it was over. Looking a touch ruffled in its wake, he watched as the merry ambassador peeled off spinning around to face Spock, oblivious to what his actions left behind.

The Palacids were tactile people, and though to the half-Vulcan’s detriment, pushing someone away mid-greeting would be rude.  He swallowed thickly, raising a ta’al.

The ambassadors looked a touch confused for a moment, but Jim, quickly taking to this, leaned over and gave a brief explanation. At that, they were beaming again, headed inside with the command pair behind them.

As though the last encounter had taught him nothing, Spock found his mind wandering once more. This time, they came to his hands. Though barely noticeable, his hands still held the smallest of tremors. It could not be seen by anyone unless they spent a considerable amount of time looking very, very closely, but Spock, now Spock was unfortunate enough to live with himself, and couldn’t go a minute without seeing it. He wondered if he ever went to see his father if he would notice too. The half-Vulcan estimated a 3.7% chance that he would. He never paid much attention to his son. Spock wondered if that was a mercy.

He shook himself from his mind, reminding himself of how unprofessional it was to, quote on quote, “zone out”, in the midst of a mission. In his gut, however, he wished he never had. The spot that Macatan had touched burned. Not literally, and possibly not metaphorically either. Perhaps all this was to say that it felt like someone was still touching him. He could still feel the pulse of something alive crossed with the heartbeat of pain, his hip throbbing like it’d be bruised.

Though it didn’t feel like the ambassador’s touch anymore. It felt like Todd’s.

***

Perhaps the best word that Spock knew to describe the Palacids was vibrant. They sang and danced with impossible vitality, their clothing and costumes were electric hues and striking patterns. They played songs on somewhat curious instruments, though the most commonly used ones appeared as something similar to a drum, ukulele, and xylophone. However, they produced vastly different sounds, thanks to their alternate construction.

They played these loudly and with pride, a trio among the musicians singing in their native language. Spock was not one for this sort of scene. It reminded him too much of the academy. Even as the courtyard was illuminated by yellow light, he could still feel Clarkson’s hands on him, still smell the alcohol on his breath. He thought that if he closed his eyes, he’d see him there. He had taken to blinking 18.9% less than he had prior to this ponderance.

The thoughts were not screaming in his head this time, more like a gentle whisper, a quiet reminder. This was a conversation between friends, who stood at the outskirts of the world in the only place they could hear each other. 

When he glanced back out at the shaking beads and feathers, all neon and bright, his eyes only settled on plain yellow: Jim.

The blond appeared to be enjoying himself, a fact for which he was grateful. Kirk could never stay in one place for long, always squirming around or pacing on the bridge, though the latter was less common.

The half-Vulcan hadn’t been lost in thought so much as there was merely a lapse in his attention when his Captain approached him. Between the noise and colors, all too loud and too bright for his senses, he’d taken to focusing on a single tile amid all the sensory input. There was nothing intriguing about it, but it’d been carefully chosen so as to offer the illusion that he was indeed watching the dancers and not the floor, though he was unsure as to how well he was pulling that aspect of it off.

“Not really your scene, huh?”

Spock flinched slightly at the sudden voice, looking to his side, “Captain.”

“Commander,” Kirk smiled, leaning against the wall beside his First Officer, “Guess I should have guessed you’d be a bit of a wallflower.”

The half-Vulcan raised an eyebrow, “I am not a species of flora, Captain.”

Jim laughed a bit, a jovial sound, small but untamed, “It’s an expression. And call me Jim, please.”

“We are on duty.”

“Eh,” he shrugged, “Arguable.”

They exchanged no more words after that, with only the blond contributing small talk to the silence loosely strung between them. Yet, even as Kirk smiled and chatted, something turned in Spock’s gut. Something like dread or guilt. He could feel that mass of spines inside him waking up, he could hear the music distorting into nothing more than noise. The laughter of the attendees felt as if it were turning on him, and at that moment, he did not have to close his eyes to see a figure towering over him. Hazel eyes and brown hair, drunk and lustful and angry all at the same time.

The half-Vulcan knew he was not there. Knew there was no way for him to be. But if that was true then why could he hear him? Why was he looking dead into Clarkson’s chest, too ashamed to meet his eyes? Too scared, too wrapped up in the past to know that if he looked up, he would only see the stars.

***

Though he had already spent an arguably excessive amount of time meditating that day, the half-Vulcan pondered if he may find peace in a moment more. He watched the ceiling, gravity oppressing sore joints and bones. He’d washed away the makeup on his face, took a sonic shower, and cleaned himself up to sleep. Yet sleep never came. He’d foregone the temptation to check the time; he knew it’d help with nothing. He was too tired for his mind to tell whether dawn was closer than dusk now, or if late had become early.

The bed cradling his body felt impossibly soft, a kinder breed of taunting as even that was not enough to push his constant mind quiet. His eyelids fluttered as they struggled to stay open, awake, and exhausted like nothing before.

Spock flipped to his side, arms cradling his stomach as it turned, sick with memories and worn weak by time. In this melancholy midnight, he breathed in and out; once, twice, again. It did not calm him. He could feel hands on his hip, closed around his throat, hot breath on his neck, and cold sheets around him.

He could still see Todd when he closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

Despite his reputation, if you were to ask, most would say that Leonard McCoy is a patient person. He was one of the best doctors in Starfleet, a position he never would have reached without leaving a good impression. However, everyone’s patience runs out at some point or another. Or rather, at some person, or another.

For McCoy, the source of this drain was no mystery and should come as no surprise to much of anyone: none other than Captain James Tiberius Kirk, and his First Officer, S’chn T’gai Spock. 

Both had missed scheduled appointments a few days prior, and simply not in the mood to chase the blond down with hypos, he’d chose to tackle Spock first. Luckily, the half-Vulcan rarely missed these - he was just in the habit of going about his day with gaping wounds and terrible illnesses, so McCoy at least had some sort of reason on his side.

Reason or not, Leonard heaved a sigh, taking a tricorder on his way out of medical, “Chapel, would you hold down the fort while I’m gone?”

“Yessir,” she called back, having grown used to the man’s tendency to pop in and out, always ready to make a house visit if needed, be it a prompted one or not.

McCoy tuned his tricorder to match the half-Vulcan’s odd biology as he walked, a preparation he had learned to make before rather than after gathering vitals. Taking the device's strap, he slung it over his shoulder as he came to an open terminal, keying in Spock’s serial number.

“Commander Spock is currently located in laboratory 5, room 2,” the automated voice reported.
The doctor thanked the machine before leaving, despite the fact that the computer didn’t know nor care about it, it was something the doctor always did. His mama had taught him to be polite, of course, sentient beings or not.

Leonard clicked his tongue as he read over the rundown of Spock’s visit for the day; he was due for new scans, meaning that McCoy would have to get him back to medbay, a task he knew to be far easier said than done.

He looked up from his padd at the ping of a turbo-lift, stepping aside so its occupants could get off before getting in himself. He was joined by a Lieutenant, one clad in the same blue as he, but with a science badge: Lieutenant Marlena Moreau, he believed, Spock’s right hand.

Catching his gaze, she smiled, “Hello, Doctor McCoy.”

“Lieutenant,” he greeted.

Her eyes flicked to the keypad, her deck already selected, “What brings you to the labs today, sir?”

“I’m here to kidnap your boss,” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

She giggled, “Good luck with that, sir.”

Leonard scoffed a laugh, “I’m gonna need it.”

The lift pinged again, the door sliding open to let them out. Marlena waved goodbye, heading to her assignment. 

As he made his way to laboratory 5, he found himself reminded of why he never pursued Starfleet’s science track: just watching everyone with odd glowing substances and strange animals got him on edge; one wrong move and you’d be in sickbay with a space porcupine’s spines in you, and those were coated in lord knows what. 

It was around all those critters that McCoy’s eye caught the half-Vulcan, standing at one of the counters, split from the main space in this separate room, though there were large windows to give it the feeling as if it were a part of the greater area. The doctor prepared himself for whatever “logical” argument Spock had to throw at him, making his way through the door, allowing it to slide shut behind him.

***

Spock would admit that he found the science labs aboard the Enterprise peaceful, perhaps even pleasant, depending on when and who may ask. It did not matter what the night prior had brought nor the day’s encounters, the constant chittering of biology and dull hum within the chem labs were havens, though only to those who would consider the very possibility. Used to the constant noise of his mind and the static of the past, it was not hard for the half-Vulcan to get used to. Dare he say it felt like home, to use a human expression. Though, like most sayings, that was not entirely true. This was gentle, calm. Home - his mind - was not.

He had been here, in the only peaceful house he knew, since before dawn once again. It had taken far longer and more energy than he would like to admit, but once he’d managed to stand against the nausea and dizziness of trauma long past, he’d made his way down to the labs once more.

He watched the crew slowly trickle in, at first, one by one, but as it grew later, they began to come in pairs and triads, some already bright and lively on caffeine while others still watched the world with bleary eyes and spoke to the fading night in yawns. It was not an uncommon sight, to see their Commander already well underway before a shift began. As the space had begun to fill, gloves and goggles were donned with others milling about to feed their resident creatures, Spock had secluded himself in the room with their wolverine once more. He had received several comments from his officers that he should name it, but that was not an attachment he wanted in any great capacity, nor did he have any ideas.

Nonetheless, she squeaked and peeped as she toddled across her enclosure, paws up on the glass as she recognized the Commander, connecting his scent with food, with shelter, like she would have her mother. Spock, who knew what it was like to be stripped away from the woman that raised him, used the utmost care when he took the kit in his hands, touching her like she was made of porcelain: gentle and soft, with a small hint of fear. Yet this was all the creature knew to be him, and she did not judge him. She did not care.

It took but a moment for him to become engrossed in this. As she suckled on her bottle, held in his hand, which always quivered ever so slightly, the trust she had for her eyes to slip shut was a trust that broke something within the half-Vulcan. To choose to love was something he knew he couldn’t do, something he wasn’t brave enough for.

Not anymore.

Despite the prick of his ears and sharp eyes, Spock did not notice the figure approaching him until they were right behind him, and when they called his name, too wrapped up in loneliness, he flinched.

Leonard was just as surprised as the half-Vulcan when he jumped, feeling the wind of it go by as Spock whipped around.

There was only a flicker more in his eyes that spark was smothered, “Doctor.”

“Commander,” he responded, “I need to steal you for a moment”

Spock tilted his head, “I do not see what aspect of your career would entail a kidnapping. Frankly, such an act appears counterintuitive to your line of work.”

McCoy huffed, “You, Mr. Spock, need to come with me.”

“Elaborate.”

“Well, according to my job description, I’m meant to monitor the health and wellbeing of the crew, meaning every crew member needs a routine physical to be cleared for duty,” McCoy iterated, knowing it was obvious to the half-Vulcan, but still trying to make a point, “And Mr. Spock, you missed yours, so if you don’t come with me, I can take you off the duty roster until you do.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, to which the doctor furrowed his. It was a low move, going for the throat with his sense of duty, but if it got results, so be it. He could be impossibly and irritatingly stubborn, but luckily, McCoy could wield a bit of that precious logic when he needed to.

The half-Vulcan hesitated for a moment before he turned back around, cleaning up the space and returning the kit to her terrarium, warm and soft, like the mother she lost. His hands, cold and furless, could never measure up to that love.

He turned back and stood at parade rest, awaiting the doctor.

Leonard took his stilling as a prompt, he headed back to the infirmary.

***

Spock did not like sickbay. The bright lights and sharp smell of disinfectant gave him a needling headache, often on top of whichever aches were already present. Additionally, though he knew through and through that Leonard’s only intention was to help, he hated the prodding and poking, the constant questioning if he was really okay, and the seeming meaninglessness of privacy. He worried with every moment that McCoy would find the ghosts that haunted his body; something he couldn’t convince the man was a natural part of him. When Spock said Vulcans couldn’t lie, it, in it of itself, was something of a falsehood. They could not lie in the same way as many others, which was the more accurate way to describe it. However, Spock was half-human and strange. What had started as a simple fib to avoid confrontation was growing into a tangle of mistruths and a bind of shame.

With every visit, he always intended to come clean, as the good doctor might say, but every time he tried, he could feel Todd gripping his shoulder, he could see that Vulcan doctor from the embassy. The words died before they lived.

He awaited Leonard’s return quietly, the man had left to grab something, presumably a hypo or a similar thing. Even though he was alone, it was all he could do not to swing his feet at the edge of the bed. His boots did not touch the floor this way, and the anxiety that he hated was coursing his veins. He had never known how to tamp it down nor quiet it, he couldn’t help but replay the moment in the lab over and over. He didn’t know what to say if McCoy were to ask, he didn’t know how to explain the past he’d hidden, the life and lies behind that flinch.

Nor did he want to.

“Sorry that took so long,” Leonard slid back the curtain surrounding the bed, only to pass through and shut it again.

He held up what appeared to be a scanner, “Chapel was using it.”

Spock’s blood ran cold at the sight of it before heat, hot enough to burn him, coursed through his body. The deception was snapping and snarling inside him.

McCoy powered the device on, syncing the settings with those of his tricorder, “Lie down for me, would you?”

Spock bit the inside of his lip but did as he was told. He overlapped his arms over his middle, focusing on staring at the ceiling, uncomfortable as he lay supine.

“Arms at your sides, please,” Leonard requested.

The half-Vulcan did as told, feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable in this way. Luckily, the stillness of his body, even excessive for him, made McCoy’s task far easier; an unmoving patient was much easier to work on than a fidgety one.

Perhaps what Spock didn’t know, was the way in which Leonard took notice. He didn’t have to be Jim to recognize the mistrust in the half-Vulcan’s face, and he didn’t need to be a touch telepath to feel his discomfort. He was a doctor, and that was enough.

As soon as he was finished, he prompted the half-Vulcan, “You can sit up now.” 

McCoy looked at the results, adopting that focused sway many did when they removed their minds from their surroundings, too preoccupied with whatever lie in their hands to give anything else thought. On any other day, Spock would have promptly asked if he could go, yet in this moment, the guilt kept him still. It’d take an idiot not to see through the doctor’s prior implications in the lab: he had forgotten an appointment, and this was its replacement. 

However, this made him feel no better, now shame simply joined in the swirling discomfort inside him, amplifying the ache in his bones. Spock’s body never took emotion well, and he still felt nauseous and lightheaded from the night before. He didn’t know if this discomfort was to be pinned on the absence of food in his stomach, a commonly forgotten task,  or the overabundance of oxygen in the air, a difference from the atmosphere of old Vulcan that his lungs detested.

Yet as Leonard spoke, it felt like the opposite, and suddenly, that oxygen was gone, “Spock, there’s something I think we need to discuss.”

The half-Vulcan gave no verbal response, only looked at the doctor intently. It was a reply he had trained himself into back at the academy, having quickly come to see that his words were not wanted, let alone valued.

McCoy, who knew Spock deceptively well, took the cue without issue, passing Spock the padd, “Do you know what’s iffy about that scan?”

Spock, who never cared about or for the dual blood in his veins, and whose mind was too muddled with the past and pain to think, only looked up at the southern doctor and awaited his response.

Leonard pointed at the screen with his stylus, most notably his knees, hands, and spine, “We see this a lot of arthritis patients - severe arthritis patients - but it's always been there for you. The first time we met, you told me that it was just how you worked, to paraphrase. However, in the respect to similarity to arthritis, it's gotten worse.”

“I do not understand was you are attempting to convey,” Spock said as the guilt turned inside him over and over, unable to rest. 

Liar, liar, liar, the voice in his head hissed.

McCoy looked up so the half-Vulcan could look him in the eyes if he wanted to, “I think that you may not have been entirely truthful with me the times I’ve asked about it in the past.”

Despite the man’s position, the half-Vulcan could not meet his gaze, though half-blood seemed a more accurate descriptor. Vulcans did not lie, and he was a liar. He always had been.

Leonard crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, though he didn’t seem angry. Spock chose not to take his own word for it; he was wrong every time he tried to tell what was happening in the human mind.

“Spock, if you’re in pain, I can help, but you have to tell me first,” McCoy gestured to him, “I don’t know how long you’ve been hiding this or how it's affecting you, but it can’t be pleasant.”

“It is not inhibited my ability to complete tasks expected of me,” Spock countered him, “As such, to spend an excessive amount of time on the matter would be illogical.”

Leonard sighed, thinking of how exactly to counter the Commander's signature argument, “Inhibit and affect are two very different things, and frankly, I don’t care about your duties. You’re my patient, and what matters to me is your health and quality of life.”

“So,” McCoy took up his padd, pulling up his notes for Spock’s file, “Are you in pain?”

No, the voice in Spock’s head snarled, Tell him no.

His fingers cried out as he clasped his hands, his back moaned like something ancient. The lies screamed over and over, that bramble so tangled that it choked itself out, scrabbling for breath at every last second. It lived in a constant state of asphyxiation, never able to speak the truth it owed the deceived but always getting just enough breath to cough out another mistruth.

In truth, Leonard didn’t really need an answer. He knew Spock to be an awful liar, always thinking too hard before the event. In this moment, he stayed silent for too long, a wordless confirmation of the doctor’s hypothesis. But that theory had been proven time and time again and still didn’t matter to the spitfire surgeon, gone soft for the man that was once his greatest interlocutor, he wanted to hear it from him.

It was far harder to heal someone who didn’t want to be healed; the mind could sabotage the body if it pleased, and that self-inflicted punishment was near impossible to work around. The resistance missed nothing but the most skillfully crafted lies, and McCoy was not in the business of sugarcoating the truth. He knew Spock wasn’t either.

It was as if Spock could hear him thinking - maybe he could, because at the doctor’s mental conclusion, their eyes finally met. Leonard had never seen irises so full of guilt.

“I am in… mild discomfort,” Spock managed to get out.

Leonard typed it into his padd, and the half-Vulcan was something of surprised at the southern doctor’s lack of smugness. He was not cold but calm, gentle in the way he didn’t deserve.

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst pain possible and one being none at all, how would you rate the severity of your pain?” McCoy asked, entering another line to record it.

Spock bit the inside of his cheek, “Three.”

The guilt cut him again. He knew it was a lie, a downplay, and a deception. 

“Do you consent to treatment?” Leonard looked up from his device, meeting his patient’s eyes again, “Do note that with your alternate biology, this could take a while and will be some trial and error. Not everything will work, and some things may make you feel worse, but we’ll stop those things immediately if they come about.”

The lie, though broken, was still sharp, shattered glass on bare feet. It was digging into him, and what came out, though the product of falsehood, was true.

“No, I do not, doctor. To spend time and equipment on a trivial issue is a waste.”

In a way that seemed so natural it was as if it were second nature, a retort began to crawl its way up McCoy’s throat, but he snuffed it out like a downpour to fire. For a rare moment, Leonard felt himself soften towards the half-Vulcan. Something about his eyes, the softness that betrayed them, looked so impossibly young. 

“Okay,” Leonard tapped the response into his padd, sliding back the curtain so his patient could leave, “If you change your mind, the offer always stands.”

***

The rec rooms were not where Spock had intended to spend his evening. Loud and bright, many of them were not geared towards the comfort of more sensitive species, like himself. However, he had grown used to such accommodations, or rather, lack thereof, and did not let his discomfort show. He covered it with his mask of apathy and told it to stay put, to stay silent.

Had he gone through with his plans for the evening, the initial ones, that was, he would’ve most certainly found himself in his quarters, meditating and pushing down his pain. Yet when he’d left medbay and promptly found himself face to face with Nyota, her’s bright and cheerful, his in a facade too firm to convince anyone, he didn’t know how to tell her no when she’d asked him to come. She spent most of her evenings here, or in another one of the densely populated rooms, accompanied by Gaila or Nurse Chapel to sing and play for the occupants of the space. 

With both Gaila and Christine preoccupied for the evening, she had come to him. Why she cared, he would never know, but the genuine sweetness in her voice was something he was never good at taking, something he never knew how to respond to. Logically, he knew that if she cared this much, she would want his truth, but the human half of him was never sure how to decline someone so kind. 

And alas, here he was. This was not the first time she had requested him, wanted him. Between the silk of her voice and the melancholy sound of his harp, it seemed the only time Spock was well-liked by the crew. Uhura had assured him otherwise, but he knew it to be a lie. He was not easy to get along with, and that was a simple fact. So perhaps, without certainty of this and belief in his good, the only reason he accompanied her was that he was simply calmed by her presence and liked the sound. Not of people, but of home, both Earth and Vulcan. He only felt truly a part of both in these moments.

Perhaps that was why the absence of this feeling cut so deep. 

Spock plucked at the strings of his lyre, watching his fingers, those delicate things, so brutally shattered and carelessly fixed. He didn’t see what the matter was with them, nor with the rest of his creaking body. Yes, it would ache in the mornings and cramp in the evenings, but he had never known this an oddity. It was what it was, and remain that way as far as he could see.

Swallowed by his thoughts, in too deep to notice the lack of a sky, the water he knew not how to tread took his awareness. Though his eyes read the sheet music before them, they registered nothing, and as Nyota’s voice reached its sweet trill, his fingers went wrong. The deviation in the melody went unnoticed by most, but not Uhura; she knew his steadfast pace and errorless skill - mistakes were not in his nature.

Throughout the remainder of the night, her senses were on high for the half-Vulcan and half-Vulcan only. She did her best not to make that fact so apparent, but as she noticed each and every slip-up, every abnormal misstep, she found that she could not. But for once, and for this reason, the unseeing look in Spock’s eyes, glazed and out of touch, was one she was thankful for. 

***

As it grew late, the crew began to trickle from their gatherings, the population of their rooms and halls dwindling to but a few stragglers. As the constant buzz of chatter fell away, as did Nyota’s voice, beautifully and slowly, with only a drunken pair left watching them, whimsically as they looked into each other's hazy eyes. Spock's fingers, with both tips and joints sore from the hours he’d spent plucking his lyre, seemed almost grateful for the end of their performance. His legs, however, hadn’t cared for the crisscrossed posture and creaked as he stood.

“Good evening, Nyota,” he bade her, headed to leave.

“Spock,” she stopped him with a hand on the shoulder, “Hey, can I talk to you for a moment before you go?”

The half-Vulcan nodded, giving her his full attention.

“You alright? You seemed a bit distracted tonight.”

Spock shunned himself internally, “I am adequate, Nyota. There is no cause for concern.”

Uhura raised her eyebrows, too well-versed in his worst moments to be so easily fooled.

“I was merely engrossed in thought,” he assured her, “I am fine.”

“C’mon,” she gestured for him to follow her, the pair making their way down the halls. Once they were out of the rec room, clear of any prying eyes or ears, she continued, “What were you thinking about?”

The sickness of shame was quick to twist his insides, acutely aware of the fact that there was no lying to Nyota. If not due to the sheer weight of deceiving her, it was her cleverness that did not allow for it.

It was harder than it should have been to speak, “Doctor McCoy appears to be concerned for an aspect of my health.”

“And do you agree with him?” she tilted her head.

“I believe he is hyperbolizing the severity of my condition. It is not significantly affecting my ability to perform as an officer and to spend time treating such a trivial inconvenience is illogical and wasteful of both time and supplies.”

Uhura gave him a knowing look. Rarely did he respond with more words than necessary, going into excess was illogical, after all. If what he spoke was true, if he believed it through and through, the inquiry would have been a mere yes or no. It hurt her heart, to see how difficult it was for him to ask for help, often border lining on impossible.

Spock, whose mind was like no other, knew this too. It was the matter of admitting it that choked him, charged by the trauma of the past and fear of the future.

It was because of this, that his voice came out soft, not wanting anyone else to hear, even though the halls were empty, “The pain is manageable, it is no cause for concern.”

“How long has this been going on now?” she asked.

He was quiet for a moment too long, the second of chagrin that shone through the cracks in his mask, “It has been present since the academy.”

The vagueness only solidified Nyota’s coming point, “Then maybe it’s not so manageable, Spock. Leonard can help if you let him.”

Spock bit his lip, fingers twitching rather painfully. He didn’t like to think it was from the incident at the academy. It was easier to believe it came from the same pressure that seemed to be crushing his joints. Neither had a discerned cause, and Spock chose to think that they were of the same breed. He had learned to leave them alone. It was easier that way.

***

It was quiet in sickbay this early. Leonard had chosen to arrive rather early, prepare charts and hypos for the day. He hummed to himself, an old earth song that Jim had played during their poker game the night before. It was in this way, absorbed by the methodical nature of it all, that he hadn’t expected a visitor, a bit surprised when he turned around to be met with a thin figure, clad in blue. He didn’t have to ask Spock why he was there.

After all these years of work, he knew how to read even the coldest of faces. Though the half-Vulcan took a moment longer than the rest of his patients, he could arrive at a conclusion nonetheless. When he did, it took no words to confirm.

He gave a small smile, “Come in, Commander.”

Chapter Text

Jim was hardly the oblivious sort. Someway, somehow, he almost always knew the truth behind someone’s eyes. He’d never known the wondering of love until he’d met his First Officer.

His body like a willow tree and skin like the moon, Spock was somewhere between familiar and foreign, an enigma crafted by the universe herself. Those first months they’d spent side by side were a puzzle; a mystery that constantly kept the Captain guessing. Yet since the first time he found himself pulled away from death by the half-Vulcan, something blurry was made clear. What, he wouldn’t discover until tragedy riddled them again, found on opposite sides of safety glass, radiation biting into bone, his First Officer’s mask of steel shattered and permafrost melting from his eyes.

It seemed like the first time he’d really looked at them. Dark brown and soft, melancholy and scarred. In that moment, Spock had looked too young to carry that weight, and he’d never looked older since. The missing edge of a frayed masterpiece, seen only in glimpses through guarded brambles. It was in that moment that James Tiberius Kirk fell in love. Truly, for what may have been the first time, and he hoped to be the last. Some creaking in his dying heart, its last moments spent adoring before it fell still. When he found it beating again, laid in a hospital bed, it was still just as enamored. When he looked to his side and found the half-Vulcan asleep in a chair beside him, it broke its bounds and soared. 

Never again, did it come down.

***

Though it was not a common circumstance, every now and then, on days such as this, routine calmed enough that Spock had the opportunity to spend a shift in the labs, rather than on the bridge. The change of pace, though not spent alone, was something of a pleasant one. He and Gaila had remained quite close even after he left, and he would admit to being rather pleased when she’d joined both he and Uhura aboard the Enterprise . With both of them a part of the science division, it seemed only logical that they may work together. 

Though “work”, was not always the most accurate descriptor in the Orion’s case, as she had quite an affinity for chatting with the half-Vulcan. Even if he didn’t prove to be the most engaged in conversation as he was working, she didn’t much mind his quietness. 

As of now, she was recounting a rather interesting away mission, as she had with many of her other friends, talking animatedly with her hands and laughing at her own punchlines. Though the affair did not seem to be of the comedic sort, the half-Vulcan had known his human coworkers to find humor amid poor circumstances, and had recognized similar behavior throughout other colleagues as well, human or not. It was a rather confusing notion, but he didn’t think it wise to question it, as he estimated an 82.7% chance that such inquiry would only lead to more puzzlement.

She peeked over the half-Vulcan’s shoulder, observing him as he assisted a wounded parakeet-like bird in preening itself, “And what about you? Any notable missions recently?

“Define notable,” he requested, knowing the word to change in meaning rather often.

Gaila shrugged, “I don’t know, I guess anything interesting, weird people, plants, animals. Whatever.”

“Labelling native cultures, fauna, or flora as ‘weird’ may result in diplomatic tensions,” he said, gently removing a loose feather from the avian's underbelly.

She smiled, “I guess you’re right. So I take it as a no, then?”

“Perhaps so,” he said, still not entirely clear on what she’d been searching for.

Gaila did not subsequently pick up another topic, choosing to turn and gaze out the windows lining the room. In the main area, the door slid open to welcome another officer, this time, one clad in red: Nyota. Long black hair tied up cleanly, the woman smiled at the Lieutenant that requested her presence as she made her way to a new artifact, one with engravings that anyone have yet to decipher. The way she looked at the shard of tile was almost playful, like the mosaic was an old friend, merely offering her a puzzle.

The Orion watched her, equally captivated by her work and Uhura herself. 

She let out a sigh, which piqued Spock’s focused attention. He did not have to look up and see the communications officer to know that she was there. Her skill was indeed mesmerizing, and though he did not commonly have the time nor opportunity to behold it, the often bustling labs would always get a touch quieter whenever Nyota was around, once chatty ensigns quieting in what seemed to be pure awe.

“You may make your way over, if you so desire,” Spock told Gaila, “I am not in need of assistance.”

Gaila hummed in response, but didn’t move. The half-Vulcan did not press it, not wanting for her to feel cast away and having seen this rather odd mannerism from her before, as well as many other colleagues. It seemed a common thing, in which someone would divert all attention and energy to merely watching, fascinated into stillness by whatever caught their eye.

Spock was not entirely foreign to the concept, sometimes finding his gaze locked onto his Captain when he talked, though it only ever happened with Jim. He’d chosen not to analyze what it could mean. He did not want to know.

In this quiet, Gaila, however, already understood what lived inside her, what lay on her soul. And despite her tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve, this, did not see daylight. It lay in the dark, and though touched near constantly, it was never acted on. Because the pulse in her chest got faster every time she saw Nyota, and with each passing day she seemed to shine more brilliantly than the last. But the stars cannot be touched. She’d seen the wounds that came of contact with constellations scorched into Spock’s skin, and she could not face the burns herself.

***

Despite his work in the lab, Spock was still timely as ever in regards to his arrival for Beta shift. Ironically, it was Jim, who had arrived in the morning, who was running a tad late, having been caught in a conversation with an ensign in the mess. As the bridge doors slid open to let the leader of their silver lady through, Chekov announced his presence as always. Though to be late was illogical, the half-Vulcan tried to push down a vague kind of fondness, or more so intrigue for the blond’s ability to, quote on quote, “chat up,” even the most fearful of officers. Kirk was hardly an imposing figure, but there was a natural sort of fear that struck lower-ranking officers when being looked in the face by their superiors.

It was the same charisma that made up his political history, detailed the ebb and flow that came off him with each negotiation, the same sort of awe that came upon nationals struck his officers with Nyota; the fascination of mastery. Though in Kirk’s case, it may be his confidence that struck them. Unyielding and fearless, even in the face or palm of death. It was somehow both Spock’s greatest admiration and among his biggest fears, for he knew the blond would risk his own life if it meant another could prosper a bit more soundly. The only way he had found to counteract this cycle was to put his own life down before James had a chance. He called it the logical choice when questioned, but inside, he knew it was nothing more than an emotion-ridden binding of souls, a half-threatening promise to die at his side in the name of life.

Yet each time one of their eyes fluttered open in sickbay, the other was there. Ever since the day Kahn contested their faith in one another, Kirk, who could never turn away a dare took on that challenge once more, paid the price he’d always been warned of. It wouldn’t be unfair to say it was truly Spock who came into debt, all those weeks spent at the bedside of a near-dead man, praying to a God he didn’t believe in for a miracle he didn’t think existed.

Ever since the moment his Captain opened his eyes and returned home from the dead, there was a flutter in Spock’s heart that he knew all too well. A thing that only led him to hell, that liked the warmth too much to bring him back to the surface, liked it too much to know it was being burned. The half-Vulcan, had scars both metaphorical and literal, had barely managed to drag his bleeding body from the depths, and still missed the ones who hurt him. And Surak, he knew it was wrong. 

Never again, would he warm himself with fire. It’d be far better to freeze in darkness, than burn in the light. That was the silent promise he’d made to himself the first night he’d spent in the stars. The constellations would be the last thing he loved. No matter how his midnight soul craved a gentle touch, he would go without knowing one.

***

Not long after the end of Beta shift, Spock’s comm sounded; a message from Dr. McCoy, requesting he come to sickbay. The half-Vulcan bit back a sigh, putting out the incense he had lit and rising from his meditation mat. His bones creaked as he moved, like they were begging him to stay. 

His thoughts began to swirl as he made his way, a whirlpool of water he didn’t know how to tread. The unnatural bombardment of worry and what-ifs began to come: anxiety, fear, regret.

Spock knew this better than he knew himself, this triad cycle that fueled itself, charged its own life, and was too stubborn to die. They reminded him of grief and made him call up his dead, They undermined his control and made his emotions bleed out. Yet, as he reached the medbay doors, printed with its cross to represent harbingers of hope, he pushed down the beast constricting his throat and promised it may take him later. It would always take that offer, yet it would never be late to return.

Even then, the leader of that pack was ruthless and unbound, the worry that played on his mind at night, the one haunting his dreams. It cared not for a truce, it would be there either way, before and after.

Don’t let him see, it warned as Spock’s skin burned under its disguise, I will not forgive you.

The half-Vulcan heeded the warning, it took little to hold him back and everything to push him forward. This, however, was the way he knew himself to be. There was no question, no squabble of the mind. If the fear wanted his head down, there it would remain.

The anxiety grumbled as a sweetly-accented voice came, “Hey Spock, come on over.”

Leonard.

The dread gripped his shoulder, digging its claws into flesh. It didn’t need words.

The half-Vulcan approached the doctor, who patted the biobed beside him, sliding the curtains shut. Spock sat where instructed, holding his spine straight despite the lack of support, despite the pain.

McCoy waved a tricorder over him, “How are you feeling today?”

Spock bit back the truth, “I am adequate.”

Leonard hummed, “Well, this should be a quick visit.”

He picked up a hypo from a tray, configuring the settings, “I concocted this little thing as our first step to try and fix up your joints. It's based on a pretty common arthritis medication, but with a few tweaks to suit you. You haven’t had anything in this drug class, so I’m gonna keep you here for 15 or so minutes in case you go into anaphylaxis or something. From there, I need you to keep a really good eye on how you’re feeling, physically, emotionally, the whole caboodle. If you notice something’s off, you come to me right away, m’kay?”

The half-Vulcan nodded, biting the inside of his lip.

The doctor seemed satisfied with that response, approaching his patient and tugging down the collar of his shirt a bit, as well as the thermal layer beneath it. Spock took a breath, not allowing himself to wince at the tight pinch the needle brought to his skin. 

“All done,” Leonard announced, discarding the used hypo.

The doctor brushed off his hands despite the fact that they were never dirty, a response that Spock had commonly noticed among his colleagues. 

McCoy settled in a chair beside the bed, setting a timer, “If you were to have a serious allergic reaction, it’d most likely happen now or within a few minutes, hence why I’m keeping you here. But, like I said before, you could still have a negative response to it later. I’ll check in on you to see how you’re doing.”

Spock nodded rather than spoke. McCoy repeated his previous precautions again before leaving to care for another patient, though asked a nurse to check in on the Commander sporadically. It’d felt far long when the timer went off, and he was free to go.  The moment he was in the turbo lift, secluded from sight, the anxiety demanded what was promised.

***

Jim fluffed and combed his hair one final time, taking a good look in the mirror for any stray strands he may not have noticed. He straightened out his uniform, making his way from the bathroom into his quarters. Though he certainly looked forward to his chess games with his First Officer, tonight, he was excited, one could go so far as to say ecstatic, even.

Butterflies tickled his insides, not out of nervousness but an inability to contain themselves. Kirk went so far as to stretch before opening the door, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to calm himself a bit. Nonetheless, his mood still remained light and chipper. 

Smiling at those who walked past him, the Captain made his way to rec room 7, one that a fair number of officers had no idea existed, making it perfect for their purposes. Though James wouldn’t mind playing in a more crowded room, he knew Spock to become rather on-edge around crowds, which often prevented him from entering the trance of thought the blond always loved to watch. The way his eyes would focus on the board and nothing else, how he could practically see the gears turning in the half-Vulcan’s head, Kirk, though ever competitive, didn’t mind losing to that in the slightest.

He sighed whimsically just thinking about it. The giddiness rose again as he imagined.

As he approached the bulkhead, he did his best to tamp down the elation behind his ribs, though it still swelled as the door opened, finding the half-Vulcan sat in his usual spot, taking the black pieces of the chessboard to be his as they had since their first time together.

“Captain,” he greeted.

“Commander,” James smiled, “And please, call me Jim. We’re off the clock.”

“I will endeavor to.”

Kirk nodded, making his first move. Spock contemplated the board, making his in response. As they played, James did his best to make light chatter, though he’d come to notice that the half-Vulcan wasn't especially skilled at multitasking if socialization was involved as one of said tasks. If Bones were here, he’d probably call Jim out on being nervous, but the blond preferred to think that he was waiting for the right moment.

He began to wonder if he’d missed that moment as they both stood to leave, after several hours. He’d intended to slide it into their chatter, but it had never become anything more than small talk.  It almost seemed as if the cosmos themselves could hear his thoughts, the room becoming bathed in an orange glow as a solar flare broke from a star. They were not close enough to be struck by it, but Kirk swore he could still feel its warmth. Spock looked at it, always mesmerized by the things he had seen dozens of times before.

“Hey, Spock?”

The half-Vulcan looked at Jim upon hearing his name, tearing his eyes from the spectacle, “Yes, Jim?”

“I, I was wondering if you wanted to do something again, another time. I don’t know, maybe play chess again or something?” he fumbled.

Spock tipped his head, “I believe you have previously suggested that we partake in chess on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, respectively.”

Part of Kirk laughed on the inside, ever endeared by his First Officer’s mannerisms.

“How do I say this…” Jim sighed, scratching the back of his neck, “I guess I was wondering if I could take you out sometime, if you’re up to it.”

The half-Vulcan’s eyes widened a fraction.

He did not what to believe he was present. He did not want to believe he was here. 

Don’t , the voice in his head warned, gentle for the first time, Don’t do this.

In the screaming silence of nothing, the world around the half-Vulcan turned to a blur; an undecided place between past and present, time somehow ceased to exist for a moment. He could feel the breath struggle in and out of his lungs, he could see Jim’s cornflower eyes lose their shine. The only thing in focus was the tall form of Todd Clarkson, and that sickening grin he cast over at him. Perhaps the worst part of it all was the truth: once more, and once again, he was not there. 

There was only Jim. His Captain. His friend… his friend who wanted to be more.

And that man, blond and standing tall, knew his First Officer better than anyone. He began to wonder if this was a mistake, “I mean, like, it’s fine if you don’t want to, you don’t have to worry about it.”

Spock tucked his hands behind his back; they still shook, they still ached, “I… I have a prior engagement.”

His eyes drifted to the ghost behind Kirk’s shoulder, “I apologize.”

Jim looked disappointed for a only moment, but he lit up again, giving Spock a pat on the arm, “It’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The half-Vulcan nodded stiffly, the human smiling once more before making his way out the door. Spock didn’t have it in him to take back his words. He wasn’t strong enough to fight a specter. Once he was alone, he look up and into the eyes of time long past: they were hazel and loveless, incapable of holding the stars.

“I am sorry,” Spock whispered.

This time, he didn’t know who it was for.

***

There was something about stars that Gaila had always loved. Something about auroras that calmed her, and something about flares that charged the flame that sustained her, burning bright and strong at her core. It was this that she could only imagine being what lie behind her sudden bravery. The bravery to march from her quarters and find Nyota, the words she’d meant to say for years barely held back on her tongue.

At this hour, with the main rec rooms devoid of her heavenly presence, she could only guess that she was in medbay, tending those who needed healing of the heart rather than the body. Her heart beat so strongly that she could only imagine this is what it felt like to fly; weightless and determined, like the divine among the mortal.

She nearly ran to medbay, skidding through the doors.

“Where’s Uhura?” she asked one of the nurses.

Slightly started by the clamored entrance, the man pointed meekly to the left. Gaila looked to the spot, spotting Nyota’s black ponytail drifting behind her as she disappeared behind a curtain.

“Thanks,” she said to the nurse, headed for it.

The words rose in Gaila’s throat, unwilling and unable to be kept quiet any longer. Her hands wanted to feel Nyota’s, warm and soft, she had spent so long only watching that the yearning could nearly suffocate her. Always watching, never touching, she should have known this was doomed.

She peeked around the curtain, quiet and soft so as not to disturb the patient. Yet there was no healing soul in that bed. Just Nyota leaned against the edge of it as Chapel pressed a kiss to her lips.

Gaila felt the blood in her veins run cold. She felt the burn of the constellations. She felt Icarus’s agony.

It was too late, now. She was too late. As her heart filled heavy with regret, the sort she knew to live on Spock’s, she turned and left without a sound. Nobody noticed she had come, let alone that she had gone. Her wings melted as she crashed into the sea.

***

It was late when someone knocked on Spock’s door. He looked to the tiny foyer from where he lay on his bed, an arm previously draped over his eyes. At the second rapping, he stood, the weight of regret and melancholy in his chest seemed enough to pull him to the floor. He scrubbed his eyes dry of the tears he had no right to have wept, hoping, though illogical, that his room was too dark for anyone to notice. He hoped it was too late for anyone to care.

The door slid open as he unlocked it, and he found himself face to face with Gaila. Her eyes looked the same as his, only hazier. He imagined that the bottle in her hand had something to do with that.

“Can I come in?” she asked quietly.

Spock nodded, stepping aside and shutting the door behind her.

The Orion shuffled in, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. The half-Vulcan came to her side, taking a place beside her.

“I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

“Pardon?” Spock’s brows knitted slightly. 

“Tried to tell the person I love how I feel,” she took a swig from the bottle, “And now I’m here.”

“I see,” he responded quietly. He could still see the disappointment in Jim’s eyes. What’d been there for a second was preserved for eternity.

Gaila, who knew him better than anyone, looked at her friend as he went quiet. She could see the rash on his skin, the way his cheeks glistened in the starlight. 

“You were crying.”

“Pardon?” Spock said again.

She put a hand to his cheek, running over it gently with her fingers, coming away slightly damp, “I take it you had a shitty night too.”

The half-Vulcan looked away from her, favoring the floor beneath his feet.

After a minute of silence, Gaila offered him the bottle of alcohol in her hand. He shook his head, and she shrugged in response. They remained in silence until it came down like the weight of the world on their shoulders. In a rare moment, grown tired by years of torment, Spock cracked first, “Jim requested I accompany him for a date.”

Gaila nearly choked on the vodka, the burn of alcohol stung already, making it far more painful. She shook her head, trying to reorient herself, “And I take it you turned him down.”

“Yes,” Spock said quietly, ashamed.

A beat of silence passed before a mirthless laugh left Gaila’s lips, “Maybe the two of us just weren’t meant for this,  y’know?”

Spock looked to her, “I do not understand what you are referring to.”

“Love,” she sighed, almost whimsically, “Neither of us gets it.”

The half-Vulcan found a twinge of confusion.

“You have had many partners,” Spock tried to comfort her.

“Yeah, but,” she shrugged, taking another drink from the bottle before continuing, “It’s never been anything real, Spock. Lust and love are two really different things. I’ve had practically everyone I’ve ever wanted but nobody that I’ve really like, wanted wanted.”

The half-Vulcan’s brow knitted, “I do not understand.”

“Slut, whore, skank, that’s where all of that comes from,” she shook her head, “I’ve only ever been a fling for people, and the one person I really wish I was with doesn’t feel that way.”

Spock felt her words too deep for ease. Yet here, now, they were far beyond the comfortable. Perhaps he’d never known love at all. Maybe even that first day, Todd had only ever wanted him. Never, ever, loved him. And now, the first person who did, he turned away.

“If I may,” Spock asked carefully, “Who do you wish to court?”

Gaila gave a small laugh at his words, though the sound was soft and broken, “Ny. I’ve always loved her. But it’s never gonna happen. I thought it might, but, not anymore.”

She fell backward, her back hitting the bed with a dull thump. 

She took another swig from the half-drunk bottle of vodka, “We’re just too fucked up for this sort of stuff, I guess.”

 Spock, who never comprehended this nor the meaning behind it, had no choice but to understand. And in that moment, their souls understood each other like never before. 

Chapter Text

Spock’s eyes opened slowly, and as awareness came, as did the tight knots in his bones. He pushed down a groan as he shuffled up, and it took no more than a simple glance to soon recognize that he was on the floor. Gaila lay beside him, laid out and still asleep, while it seemed he had drifted off sitting up, which accounted for the excess stiffness in his body.

He could vaguely recall moving from the bed when Gaila had to throw up, too drunk and sobbing too hard when he brought her back from the bathroom to maneuver her, they had situated themselves there like broken children in the night.

Painfully, he stood, pressing his hands to his lower back in an attempt to crack it, though still leaving it sore. He glanced over to the time, 05:00. He wouldn’t have to report for duty until 07:00, but, taken by the empty liquor bottle still resting near the Orion, he would have to get her situated first. For her sake, most ideally in her quarters. He turned and took his day’s uniform from its drawer, slipping into the bathroom in order to dress and prepare himself for the day, though not before moving Gaila so she could lay atop the sheets of his bed, which was still far softer than the floor.

As he prepared himself, after sliding on his shirt, he leaned closer to the mirror, looking at the irritated splotches on his face, squirming at the discomfort. He had yet to recognize a cause, yet as more work and obligations loomed, as well as the unnatural fear of seeing McCoy for yet another check-in, it seemed to worsen. Still, he brushed makeup over it and hid it from view. When he saw the twitching irritation had found its way to his hands, the half-Vulcan swallowed thickly, knowing that with protocol, he could not hide it. Without another option, he ignored his own pain and left to care for another.

***

Luckily, there were few awake and milling about the ship at this hour. As Spock carried Gaila back to her quarters, the Orion still out cold in his arms, there were no gossiping Ensigns or chatty Lieutenants to draw their own conclusions about the sight.

He keyed in the entry code to her room as he reached her quarters - she had given it to him near immediately after her arrival to the Enterprise - and the door slid open with a quiet hiss. The space was not much bigger than his own, though it was much more decorated. Starfleet had since begun encouraging officers to make their quarters a personalized space, though Spock failed to see the reason behind it. Why, he didn’t know. Gaila never thought it was as simple as not wanting to. He never understood that logic, though could never make an argument of his own.

The half-Vulcan laid her onto her bed, fluffing the sheets a bit around her. He unzipped her boots, sliding them off her feet and setting them by the door. He went to her closet and sifted through the unkempt drawers at the bottom until he found her pajamas, folding them and setting them on her nightstand for whenever she may wake. Getting a glass of water from the small replicator, he set that beside it.

Spock took the padd from her desk, scribbling out a short note, and leaving it with the other things. He took a final look over the room, ensuring that all was in order for her when she woke. He looked back to her, a pang of melancholy guilt in his chest as he remembered her words from the night before, the voice she had said them in. If they were true, perhaps it was why they’d found each other; they were two lonely souls with nowhere left to run.

***

The environment of  Miktiv II was nothing like Vulcan, nor its replacement; snow-laden and enrobed with freezing forests, mountains made walls between all those who lived there. As the glow of the transporter faded, Spock nestled a bit deeper into his coat, the chill still biting into him despite the added layer. They stood just beyond the gates of a rather lavish village, the home to the extravagant capital.

The away team fell into formation, Captain and First Officer side by side with the pair of Lieutenants behind them. As Spock scanned the area, he could feel Jim watching him for a moment too long, and remorse began to turn inside him. The prior night played on repeat in his head: his words, his voice. The shock, the shame, all of it.

But now was not the time for emotions nor sentiment. He knew that Kirk did not think the same way as he did, nor was he one to put off feeling until the last moment. The half-Vulcan wondered why Jim cared at all, knowing that this love was not something he had earned. He hoped that his Captain didn’t feel hurt or betrayed, only lived oblivious to what he’d just escaped.

If he did, the blond certainly didn’t show it, only leaned to his First Officer, who was nothing more than that, “Anything up? Have you gotten word from the council?”

“I do not believe there is anything current ‘up’, Captain. However, it was requested by her majesty that we await her arrival here.”

Jim chuckled at the first part, though responded to the second, “Well, it looks like we’ll just wait for our host then.”

Spock nodded.

The half-Vulcan, who always knew when someone was watching him, spent the 13.57 minutes they waited hyperaware of Kirk’s glances at him, and all too conscious of the longing in his eyes. It was not supposed to be this way. His Captain was not supposed to love him. He deserved far better than anything Spock could give him. He had noticed this tendency, one distinctly human, to chase after something simply because they saw it in perfect light. The sunset could make even the most ruined things look beautiful, and trick the onlooker into wanting.

It was a siren’s song, and though without the fatality, one may argue that this search for a lie was far worse than any death. He did not want to drag his Captain into the deep.

He looked around, searching for anything to take his focus from Kirk, when he saw a grand procession approaching them. Both he and James spotted it at the same time, signaling the tandem Lieutenants to stand at attention. 

The group of servants carried a palanquin, their sovereign sat primly atop it. She tilted her head at the sight of her guests, a smile spread across her dark blue lips. Something in Spock turned, though he could not put his finger on why. This was not the sickening knot of guilt, but something entirely different. 

With near-white skin and navy hair, she was enrobed with clothes the same rich blue, adorned in silver accents and a sleek circlet atop her head. She raised a hand to signal her party to stop, the guards walking alongside standing between the procession and away team.

“Captain Kirk,” she greeted, her voice silky.

“Queen Khekto,” Kirk bowed, the rest of the team following suit, “It is an honor.”

Jim turned to gesture to the rest of the group, “If I may-”

“You may not,” she interrupted, that smile still playing at her lips.

Spock didn’t know if it was the unnerve or the rashing irritation, but his skin prickled as she spoke. Though his watch began to wander to his Captain, he would not allow it to, remaining fixed on the queen. As Khekto looked over the group, she met his dark eyes.

“Captain Kirk, is this your squire?” she asked, her gaze not breaking from Spock’s.

Jim looked to his First Officer, and the half-Vulcan felt the stab of guilt’s blade as he looked into the blond’s eyes. Longing. Love.

“No, m’lady. This is Commander Spock, he is my First Officer,” Kirk introduced him.

There was the edge of pride in his voice as James spoke his name, and it was that very edge that cut Spock again. He did not deserve it.

She raised an eyebrow, “And is he your council?”

“Yes,” Jim said without a second thought, “He advises my decisions and helps me with their execution.”

The woman hummed, thinking for a moment before he spoke, only this time, it was to a pair of her guardsmen, “Escort them to the palace.”

They nodded dutifully, her servants turning to carry the palanquin back into town. A duo of guards followed her, and the addressed two remained behind. They cast a withering glare at the away team before convening behind them, marching forward to guide the quartet through the gates.

The stone streets were lined with people, all watching as the procession made its way back to the towering palace in the center. Children clung to their parents as the parade came through, the market that had been buzzing but a few moments ago gone quiet. They eyed their visitors warily, and as the dread in Spock’s body tightened, Kirk began to feel the same way within his own chest. 

Khekto didn’t seem to pay much mind to this mannerism, never calling to stop nor introducing the foreigners. The half-Vulcan felt as though he were crawling in his skin as the grand doors opened, feeding straight into a lavish grand hall, where the queen parted from her servants, taking up her place on her throne, shining silver and blanketed with lush fabrics.

“Captain Kirk,” she finally addressed him again, “What is your business here today?”

Jim cleared his throat, taking a step forward, but never straying out of arm’s reach from his First Officer, “My team and myself are here today on behalf of the United Federation of Planets. We received a transmission from your council, they seemed to have concerns that a coup is forming. We’re here to help with a diplomatic resolution to this issue.”

The queen hummed, looking the away team up and down, “And you believe your meager crew to be strong enough to put down this uprising, why?”

Kirk stumbled for a moment at the question, but he didn’t let it show, “Well, this is among the best team Starfleet has to offer. I trust my officers with my life and they’ve done countless diplomatic missions before; this task should be a cinch for them.”

She narrowed her eyes at them a bit.

“Something the matter, your highness?” Jim asked, noticing her shift.

“You suggest a diplomatic resolution to this?”

“Yes,” the Captain said confidently, hiding the dawning realization within him: Queen Khekto did not intend for a peaceful end to this scuffle, “I believe that we can solve this without violence.”

The queen appeared unconvinced, opening her mouth to speak when she was cut off by the shattering of glass. All whipped around to look at the massive windows lining the hall, each shattering one after another as darkly clad rebels poured in. The room fell into chaos, guardsmen rushing for their queen as Captain and First Officer drew phasers.

“Lieutenants, hold them off!” Kirk shouted, the pair nodding and pulling out their own weapons, “Commander Spock, protect the queen.”

The half-Vulcan nodded, dodging and weaving across the room for the monarch, urgency rising as a band of intruders bared down on Khekto’s guards, leaving them occupied and the woman unprotected. Just as she was about to meet the same fate, the flash of a phaser took down her assailant. 

Spock wasted no time getting to her, “Queen Khekto, we must get you to safety.”

She nodded, looking around fearfully the grand doors were kicked open, royal guards coming in droves to take on the invaders. She stuck close to the half-Vulcan as they ducked behind what little cover there was, nearly making it to the door when an especially large-set rebel stopped before them. Spock pulled the trigger on his phaser once more, but the shot only made the man before them twitch. 

A sick laugh left his lips, a hand swiping through the air to grab the Commander, but missed as Spock ducked, a swift kick swept the attacker’s legs out from under them. The half-Vulcan spun around to get the queen, only to be met without her. He looked around urgently to find her when something pinched his neck. 

He felt the strength in his body give way, the shaking of his hands making his phaser slip from his fingers. The hair on his skin stood pin-straight as cold fingers touched his face, and a body stopped him from hitting the floor. His eyes flicked up to see the queen’s, the muscular assailant standing without hostility beside her.

“Sh, sh,” She hushed him as he opened his mouth to speak, “We wouldn’t want to make this harder.”

Spock tried to get away, but he could not pull off much more than a pathetic wiggle. The pain on his skin and in his body amplified until it drown out everything else, the world swirling in his vision as he felt himself lifted off the ground.

He heard someone call his name: Jim only noticing too late, the blond still breaking into an all-out sprint after him. He weaved his way through the fray but wasn’t fast enough to catch up. 

Kirk yelled after him again, and as the half-Vulcan put all his might into a response, trying to move, he was met with a hard hit to the head. His vision swam between sight and darkness, fading to black at the sound of the grand doors shutting out the chaos. The cold bite of dread was the last thing he felt.

***

Kirk had turned just in time to see his First Officer be carried off; his body limp and unresisting, the fear and adrenaline he lacked found its way into his Captain’s veins. The blond stunned down his opponent with all his strength, making a mad dash after the half-Vulcan.

“Spock!” he shouted, shoving his way through the crowd, “Spock!”

Frantically, he raised his weapon, aiming for a chandelier in hopes in may block the exit, but just as he pulled the trigger, he was shoved to the ground. The shot was thrown off, it only struck the ceiling.

Kirk wrestled off his attacker, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, throwing punches and kicks where he had to, but his mind tunneled to focus only on his First Officer. It took an eternity too long by the time he reached the door, barrelling through only to be met with the bare patio, devoid of any traces of the half-Vulcan. Jim cursed as he looked around, searching desperately for any footprint of clue, mind rushing to whenever Spock may have gone. The door burst open as a rebel made his way through, headed for the Captain when he heard one of the Lieutenants shout. It was too late by the time he turned, and a shock through his body brought darkness.

***

As the Captain’s eyes fluttered open, a high-pitched ringing in his ears, what dull pain there was in his body subsided; he’d found that perhaps one of the few advantages to dying and being brought back to life was this oddly quickly healing time of his. Sometimes, it felt wrong. Like a wound was the body’s way of asking for a moment of peace, now ignored by the very blood in its veins.

Above him was only a blank white ceiling, that feature being all it took for the blond to realize he was in sickbay. The sterile smell came next, then, McCoy’s voice.

“Hey kid,” the southern doctor touched his shoulder, flicking a light on and off in each eye, “Jim, are you with us?”

Kirk waved his hand in response, pushing himself up and shaking the sleep from his head. Leonard huffed a sigh, setting his instruments down on the bedside table.

“What happened,” he groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.”

“Y'all got ambushed and someone took Lieutenant Reeve’s phaser. You’ve been stunned  for the past few hours.”

Jim was about to open his mouth and ask where his First Officer was, noticing his uncharacteristic absence when the memories came rushing back.

His confusion turned to concern, though for the exact same cause, “Bones, where’s Spock?”

A look came onto McCoy’s face, something like sympathy, tinged with guilt, “We don’t know. Lieutenant Jose said that he was captured.”

Kirk fell back against the bed, running his hands down his face, “Fuck.”

“Jim-”

“We’re going back for him,” Kirk’s energy found itself revitalized, sliding off the bed in determination.

“Jim,” Leonard tried again.

“Where’s my comm? I need Sulu to prep an away team, stat.”

“Jim!”

“What is it?” the blond turned, an edge of irritation in his voice.

“Starfleet…Starfleet’s tellin’ us not to go back for him.”

Jim’s blood ran cold, “What?”

“The queen called Starfleet and told 'em if we bother them any more there’ll be a war. An admiral told Sulu to cut our losses and leave him,” the very words looked painful for the doctor to say, “They had us hit warp 7 out the system.”

Anger festered in Jim’s core, snarling and snapping, it burned and smoldered like nothing else. 

Kirk’s eyes narrowed, “We’re getting him back.”

***

The cold was the first thing to come through Spock’s wake; an irrevocable chill in his bones, the freeze that sunk into his stinging fingertips. His head lulled, and his cheek was met with the softness of skin that had never known callouses, and though they too were glacial, the air was far more so, and they felt as though they were burning him.

A voice came, “Commander, eyes open, please.”

That was not his Captain’s voice. But it was an order, and something in Spock’s mind worked faster and better than anything else to follow through with it. Eyelids heavy and lashes thick with sleep, it far harder than it should have been. Slowly, they opened, and though his vision was unfocused, all it beheld was a blur of grey.

However, it did not stay that way for long. The touch came again, snaking fingertips under his chin, the feeling of vulnerability coming fast as his neck became exposed and unprotected. The swirling grey became mixed with blue, though coming into focus. His eyes widened as it did, mind stumbling only for a moment as memories hit harder than they had a right to.

Queen Khekto smiled as the haze dissipated from the half-Vulcan’s dark eyes, “Hello. So kind of you to finally join us.”

Spock’s stomach turned, but he steeled himself so she could not see. His body ached from the fight, knees creaked as they were folded underneath him, and his neck was nearly unmovably stiff from yet another unsupported sleep. He did not show that either. But this, he was used to hiding and didn’t have the slightest issue in doing so. 

The woman rose from her kneel in front of him, daintily brushing off her hand on the cloth a servant presented her, “I’m not here to kill you. That’s perhaps the last thing I want. But I don’t care for foreword all too much either. With that in mind, let’s get to the point, shall we?”

“Your Federation has ties to the Quansians. They are among my greatest enemies and the largest threats to my people. Luckily, they just love to boast about their every move with Starfleet and sent us a rather detailed transmission of their last correspondence with you.”

She leaned down in front of him, their noses mere millimeters apart and eyes locked, “Several days ago you spent hours with both the Tulitans and Quansians, hours they spent arguing about just about everything, including defense systems. The Tulitans are my allies, Commander. I want you to tell me what the Quansians said, as well as their standing with the Federation. Do that for me, and I won’t be forced to escalate this.”

She did not move from her place, and Spock did not speak. Seconds stretched into minutes, and the queen grew bored of the silence.

“We can do this the easy way,” she stroked a hand down his cheek, smiling at how he tensed, “Or the hard way. It’s your choice.”

The half-Vulcan swallowed thickly, “S’chn T’gai Spock, Commander, SS928 - 2943CEC.”

Khekto looked disappointed for only a moment before she turned, receiving a fabric-wrapped item from her guard, removing the covering like it were something alive, innocent, and small. Too young to know darkness. It was not.

It glinted in the light, a thin silver blade, no longer than her hand. She drew so close that their foreheads nearly touched, digging the knife into Spock’s cheek, a quick and fluid motion left a cut. It burned as it opened and hurt as the blood began to drip out, but the half-Vulcan did not break his gaze, and neither did she. 

The corners of her lip upturned, “Oh, we’re going to have some fun.”

Chapter Text

Gaila’s head ached as her eyes opened. Though the lights were not on, it was still brighter than sleep. Shuffling up, she raked a hand through her hair, taking in her surroundings, and realizing she was in her quarters. She was confused until she looked to her side, her nightstand and its contents catching her eye. 

A smile, soft as the morning light on Earth, came to her lips; pajamas and a glass of water, accompanied by a padd with a note written in Spock’s distinct handwriting. For a moment, the gentleness of everything took away the hangover as she read the short letter:

I will return at 18:00 should you require assistance.

- Spock

The Orion’s eyes went to the chronometer: it was about 16:30 now. Taking a glimpse at the time stamp on the message, it seemed that she’d been asleep for quite some time. She sipped from the glass the half-Vulcan left her, making her way to the bathroom. Digging through the cabinet and taking a dose of pain medication, she shed her worn uniform and turned on the shower. Opting for water rather than sonic, its warmth and rhythmic pattering against her bare skin were heavenly. 

Its end came all too soon once she’d deemed herself clean, and in its absence, the ache from her head to her feet returned. She imagined that she’d spent the night on Spock’s floor, the last memory being that of crying on his shoulder as they curled up beside his bed rather than on it. Before that, it could be described most simply as their souls finding solace in one anothers’ sadnesses; two lonely things lost in the night, unable to map the stars.

Dressing in the clothes the half-Vulcan left for her, she checked the time again; he would be arriving in about 15 minutes. She chuckled a bit a the lack of precision in her estimate, imagining Spock’s voice speaking the exact time - down to point of a second - in which he would get there.

Yet as the minutes ticked by, the memories trickling back into her mind, the ache in her heart returned, and Spock never came. As five minutes grew to ten, she assumed he was held up on the bridge. As fifteen came to twenty, she began to wonder what was keeping him. When minutes stretched into an hour, the worry would not be silenced any longer. Spock had impeccable punctuality and was never late without notification, and even those instances were far and few between.

As he rose from her bed for the second time, the pain and fatigue in her body came full force, no longer caring for a tapered entrance. She took up her padd and returned to her original place.

There was no message from him, no comm. She double-checked his note, confirming the time before taking matters into her own hands and choosing to contact him herself. When even that went unread and unresponded, resolution became stronger than discomfort.

It was not uncommon to see someone walking the halls out of uniform at this hour, and the Orion most certainly was not the only one on the ship donning loungewear. 

Gaila kept a sharp eye for Spock as she made her way to his quarters, knowing him to take on the rather impressive ability to disappear in a crowd, despite his distinct appearance from the rest of the crew. With no sight of him by the time she reached his door, even having taken a detour through sciences, she knocked. When there came no response, she tried again. Nothing.

“What brings you here?”

Gaila nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden voice, whipping around to see whoever it was. She shouldn’t have been surprised when she was met with blond hair and blue eyes, his voice always holding a warmth like no other: Jim.

“Where’s Spock?” she asked, skipping the pleasantries.

There was a sudden change in the Captain’s demeanor, his signature light dimming. He keyed in the code to his room, gesturing for her to follow behind as he entered. The Orion followed, but the worry turning inside her grew into a beast. It was a sort of revelation she’d never wanted, coming to understand Spock so much, far too quickly for anyone’s comfort. She wondered how he lived with this, and part of her didn’t want the answer.

But, for now, she had more pressing questions, “Jim, where’s Spock?”

Kirk looked at her, eyes somehow both sad and angry, a stormy sort of emotion that she’d only seen in him a handful of times.

“He…he was captured,” the blond said after what felt like an eternity of silence, “Queen Khekto, on Miktiv II. She tricked us.”

Gaila’s fear washed away, replaced by growing fury, “Then what the hell are we doing all the fucking way out here?”

Jim’s silence returned. Gaila was not in the mood to wait on him.

“What are we doing out here?” she growled.

Kirk stumbled over his words again, and the Orion snapped, “Fucking answer me!”

“Starfleet doesn’t want us to go back for him!” Jim shouted back, “So now we’re halfway across the galaxy with my fucking First Officer trapped on some frozen rock for who knows what reason!”

The pair locked eyes, teeth gritted and fists clenched. In truth, neither was angry with the other, but with nowhere left to go, that fury refused to be kept locked away.

“And you’re seriously just going to let them get away with that?” Gaila asked darkly.

“No,” Jim hissed, “But I need a fucking plan first. I’m not trying to start a war.”

“Then plan faster,” she snarled.

Kirk’s eyes narrowed, knowing that by Starfleet’s criteria, the Orion didn’t have any right to speak to him that way, but by his standards, Gaila had always had some sort of power like no other. She was always more than what the eye had to offer, and part of him felt ashamed for having never truly found what lie beneath, only ever another hand on her skin. He knew what it was like to only be seen as a body; it was how he used to look at himself. The constant need to prove that the trauma hadn’t really cut that deep, only to fall into the chasm it’d etched into him. It’d taken so many years to claw his way back to daylight, so much time and effort to become who he was. He was proud of that and had every right to be. But he had been avoiding the ones he’d left in the dark for too long. And even from their short time together, he knew that Gaila couldn’t live nor sleep in pitch blackness. Be it the shine of the stars or the glow of streetlamps, she always needed some proof of light.

“I…I’m trying, Gaila. I promise,” he said, sounding half desperate for her to believe him.

When his blue gaze fell, something in her’s softened. They stood in silence, having never spoken all too much since the academy, and having left on poor terms. Yet there was something that the Orion could not bring her fury down upon in the Captain, something begging and quiet; something innocent and small. A piece that the man before her had managed to shield from all his darknesses, from all the trauma of his past. And something in her begged for it to be spared. 

She had watched Spock and the final leaving of his innocence. There was nothing she could have done for him - nothing to make it stay. The obligation of regret would not allow her to take that young thing from a worn soul. This, she would not touch, she would not strike.

“I’ll leave you to it,” her voice sounded lost, “He’s my best friend too, Jim. Just bring him home.”

Kirk looked up, brows knitting.

The Orion raised an eyebrow, “What?”

The blond opened his mouth to speak but shut it. He shook his head once as he tried again, “I didn’t know that. That he was your friend.”

“Is,” she said stiffly, anger rising again alongside her fear, “Is, not was.”

“Is,” Jim corrected himself.

They lingered in silence a moment longer, neither wanting to be alone, but neither sure if they wanted the other for company.

Gaila was the first to make a move, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Jim nodded, eyes full of hurt, but not for her. The Orion knew this well enough by now, the unmistakable glint of love. The undeniable shimmer of heartbreak. As she turned to leave, she felt her spirit aching; aching for its losses, all the chances she’d taken too late. Something inside her yelled for her not to let the ones she loved fall to the same blade. And gods, she knew that Spock had been slashed enough times. 

“You know he’s worth it, Jim,” Gaila stopped in the doorway, “He’s worth a war.”

Jim’s voice was soft, “You’re goddamn right he is.”

***

The time that had come before the blackout was blurred in Spock's mind. One moment conscious, and the next, he simply was not. Logically, he should have been able to discern how the woman standing above him knocked him out - be it by ordering a guard to strike him or administering another dose of the sedative she captured him with. And yet, he found himself unable. Though awake, he had yet to open his eyes again. Why, he didn’t know, but some appallingly human part of him entertained the possibility that he had only dreamed the circumstances of his capture, and he was still asleep beside Gaila in his quarters.

Reality was not so kind, and his senses would not lie to him. He could feel the ache in his body, the cold around him. The stone under his knees was harsh and hard, the cut over his cheekbone still ebbing. Now was not the time for child’s play, nor ludicrous fantasies. When Spock opened his eyes, it was so dark that they may as well have been shut. Still, he looked around to the best of his ability.

He could tell even without vision that he was curled up on cobblestone, and by the metallic click that came with each movement, as well as the weight, that his hands were shackled, the chains firmly rooted in the wall. The half-Vulcan tugged against them, but they would not budge. Unable to go much further than a few feet, he swept a leg out into the darkness, the toe of his boot brushing against bars after being fully extended. The space he determined to be a cell, was no larger than 8 feet across.

Spock did his best to drown out all other sensations in favor of focusing on what he may hear, sitting completely upright as if it would improve the matter. All he received in response was a rhythmic dripping, water finding its way to a puddle. His sigh was inaudible as he sunk back down, making another attempt at squinting to try and see. The half-Vulcan’s vision was well adapted for the dark, but without windows or a discernible light source, his efforts ended in vain. He found himself wondering just how long it had been since the moment with Khekto; what had she done to him? Where had she gone? 

The soreness in his bones was beyond its standard, and he found himself wondering what else had happened, what else he couldn’t recall. The rash on his hands burned like it had a secret, like it knew something he didn’t. Spock’s mind stopped itself, whipping its own back. Giving sentience to whatever he deemed fit was illogical and childish. He hadn’t the time to play such games, nor the leverage. To be swallowed up by his thoughts, here and now, was dangerous. 

As his senses returned from their flippant excursion, a loud bang came from the distance. Even with nothing to see, Spock perked up.

Within an instant, light bathed the space; a cell, indeed, it's front bordered by a hallway. Spock, from his partially fixed position, could not get close enough to the bars to see its beginning or end. Even then, he could still see cells lining both walls, the ones he could see across from him with inmates entirely from Miktiv II. The half-Vulcan speculated that the talk of a coup had not entirely been a falsity, but it had indeed been put down prior to their arrival.

The sound within grew as the inmates awoke, breathing, shouting, muttering, all of it. The only thing that quieted the quick-coming ruckus was the sound of footsteps, echoing down the hallway as they grew closer. Spock did not have to wait long before he saw their visitor: none other than Queen Khekto herself. 

She stopped in front of the half-Vulcan’s cell, smiling at him as she always seemed to. It unnerved him greatly. Perhaps, that was the point.

She turned to the guards, “If you please, Commander Spock and I have a little chat to continue.”

The pair nodded dutifully, wedging a key into the lock. Once it was released, the door was pushed open. One advanced inside; swiftly and without warning, they secured the half-Vulcan in a headlock as the other removed the shackles from around his wrists, replacing them with a set of cuffs. The queen appeared just as chipper as before, though the rest of the inmates did not share in her mirth. Some eyed the half-Vulcan, something like trepidation in their gazes. Others looked away like he was a horror too grotesque to behold. It brought the dread back into his gut, turning like something sick.

He did not let it show, steeling himself to blankness, even his eyes, which he had always been reminded over and over were so very human, went dull. Following behind the queen and her posse, it became rather obvious by the extent of the corridors and windowless cell after cell that the establishment was constructed underground. It seemed a common choice of design among those who were aware of the unjustness of their actions.

After climbing a steep set of stairs, there came the first sign of the living world: an icy draft coming in from an unseen spot down the hallway, presumably leading outside and into the frozen landscape that covered the planet. But that was not where he was headed. Though never one for the cold, as they left the wind and returned to stillness, there was a kind of odd grief in his bones; a longing for home.

However, he could not dwell. Here and now, any straying from reality could have unforeseen consequences. What those outcomes were, the half-Vulcan had no way of knowing. Part of him did not want to find out. Yet, as they reached their destination, stopping in a small room, lined with tables of objects sharp and blunt, he could imagine what may come.

The queen caught him looking, and her voice was far too sweet, “Impressive, isn’t it?”

She nodded to a guard. The man returned the motion in confirmation, approaching their prisoner and swiftly kicking his legs out from under him. With his hands tied and unable to maneuver himself, he met the stone floor mercilessly, seeing stars where the ceiling should have been once his sore body made contact. He was offered but half a moment of stillness before he was pulled again, the cuffs on his wrists removed and replaced with scratchy rope, bound so tightly that the bruise that was come was not a question so much as an assurance. With his hands behind his back and legs tucked beneath him, the vulnerability made his skin crawl.

Despite his best attempts, Khekto seemed to know and did so with great pleasure, “Let’s try this again, shall we Commander?”

She tipped her head, “I’d suggest that you make the most of this. You’re not all too much fun unconscious so I think I’ll keep you awake this time.”

She ran a finger over his face, digging into the cut on his cheek with her fingernail, scraping the dried blood away alongside the beginning of its scab. She hummed as blood began to bead at the wound’s edge, holding out her other hand towards her sentries. Without words, they handed her the silver blade from before. With the same movement, she inflicted a near-identical injury on the other side.

“Now, you’re perfect,” she purred, “So let’s get started, shall we?”

Passing back the blade, she toyed with her hair, “Do you remember what I asked for, or do you need a reminder?”

Spock did and said nothing, his only movements being those to track her in the circle she walked around him.

“Tsk, tsk, Spock. I thought you were better than that,” she chastised, “But, I will be so kind as to remind you.”

“Let’s start with a simple one,” she tapped the tip of his nose,  “I want to know the grounds on which the Federation stands with the Quansians. Let’s begin with that.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, “Pending acceptances are public record. It is illogical to take a hostage over such a topic.”

“Perhaps,” she combed through his hair with her fingers, “But what they don’t tell you is what happens behind closed doors. You can’t blame me for being cautious. I wouldn’t want to start a fight if I can avoid it.”

“And,” Khekto leaned close to him, “No single officer is worth a war, Commander. Even, and especially, you. But you knew that already, I’m sure. It’s only logical.”

“Nobody’s coming for you. So, what do you have to lose? You’ll never make it back to Earth for the court-martial.”

Spock swallowed thickly, calling up what little bravery he harbored, “There is a considerable likelihood that you will use any provided knowledge in a manner that will endanger lives. As an officer of Starfleet, I am to endeavor to avoid such a result.”

A small laugh crept up from the queen’s throat, “Oh Spock, so noble. But, I must say, I thought you’d be more Vulcan than this.”

Why her words struck him in his lungs, Spock didn’t know, but he did not allow it to show. He bit the inside of his lip.

“I’ve met a few Starfleet officers,” she inspected her fingernails, “They didn’t share in your so-called endeavor. But do you want to know what I think?”

Khekto took one of his wrists, pulling up his sleeve. She dug her nails into the flesh, ripping down on it. As blood met the air, the jagged wound burned like acid. The half-Vulcan’s breath caught in his throat, teeth gritting at the unexpected intensity of the pain.

“I think that you lie about duty and logic to cover for what you fear,” the queen took a cloth from one of her guards, cleaning her hands, “I can see through you, Commander. You’re living a tainted fantasy. Protocol doesn’t keep you alive. Instincts do. And instinct rules the Federation. You don’t have a place among them. You know that too.”

When the half-Vulcan didn’t respond again, her fingers curled into a fist, thrown with unanticipated force. In its wake, Spock found his vision blurred then focused, dizzy then stilled. The newly opened cut on his cheek screeched at the strike, the blood that it’d barely managed to clot coming down again. Khekto’s hand constricted around his neck with the same strength.

“Do not ignore me,” she warned, her watch locking with wide brown eyes, the fear behind them barely concealed.

“You seem smart, Commander Spock,” the way she said it sounded like a compliment, “The last Starfleet officers I had here didn’t last more than a few days. So maybe, your protocol and logic will keep you alive. Be reasonable, and you won’t suffer too bad.”

Her grip released, breath rushing back into the half-Vulcan’s lungs. The past ghosted where her hold had been, and when Spock looked up, it was not Khekto who stood over him. With hazel eyes and a withering glare, it was someone far more familiar.

“Return him to his cell,” the queen ordered, “I believe we will be hosting the Tulitans tonight.”

The guardsmen nodded, holding their prisoner back as they returned the shackles to his wrists. They yanked the half-Vulcan to his feet, the room swimming rather suddenly in his vision.

Despite the sway to his stand, Khekto still looked back at him before she’d made her way out, “And let him rest. He’ll be needing it.”

The same steadfast shake of the head came as their response, and before Spock could discern the meaning behind the words, the heel of a palm was slammed into the back of his head, black blotting his vision into darkness. Even after his eyes slipped shut, he could still see Clarkson’s specter standing over him. Spock’s neck still ached like he’d been the one to constrict it.

***

James had decided to stop checking the chronometer beside him. As the minutes ticked by and grew into hours, there was no point in checking the time. It would continue to grow later, and he would continue his endeavor. It reminded him of the half-Vulcan; Spock always seemed to make himself scarce after shift, always locked away in his quarters to work. He was quiet, barely perceptible. Yet it still felt as if there was some chasmic silence engulfing the Captian, some lack of life across the wall. His heart ached for its return the same way his hands ached for stillness. He’d been typing and scribbling for longer than he cared to admit, making increasingly desperate attempts to concoct a plan to retrieve his First Officer.

Though, he had not gone this long without some success. In fact, he had a rather feasible plan, but with Starfleet’s stance on the conflict, there would be no retrieving the half-Vulcan on their watch. He was aware of several teams that’d been specially formulated for these sorts of tasks and suspected that their assistance would be indispensable should they wish to avoid a far greater conflict. Yet Kirk had yet to decide how to go about requesting one, knowing that anything sent along standard comm lines would have him and the rest of the Enterprise docked so fast it’d make his head spin. 

If Spock were here, the blond knew he’d say he was emotionally compromised. But of course, if the Commander were standing next to him, he wouldn’t be. Kirk combed through his memories, trying to figure a point of contact, specifically one that he could trust not to snitch. He knew more people than most - predominantly those he’d had one (or a few) night stands with, but he’d left on good terms with the majority of them. 

The guilt came as he reminded himself where Gaila stood on that matter. Part of him still remained surprised at her connection to Spock. He’d always figured they knew each other through Nyota, but the Orion could never seem to be riled by anything short of the things that touched her to the core. The family she’d made for herself was something she held so close to her heart that she’d sooner have that life-giving organ ripped from her chest than lose the ones she loved. He hadn’t known the half-Vulcan to be a part of that sacred camaraderie.

It was in this way, trying to picture Gaila’s face in all the ways he’d seen it, trying to find something other than lust in either of their eyes, that it came to him. He only took a moment for his eyes to widen at the memory before he lurched back over his padd, tapping in the name as fast as his tired fingers would allow. 

Captain Melina Garcia. Dark black hair tied into a bun and sun-kissed skin, even after all this time, even the mere picture on her file wielded the crinkle at the corner of her eyes and unmistakable spunk in her smile. Kirk could practically hear her accent and the sound her clear voice took on whenever excitement would rise in her throat. Wickedly loyal and unshakably brave, it’d seemed only natural for the Federation to assign her to a recovery team. 

As Jim opened a tab to contact her, the words flew faster into the message than they formed in his mind, like his very fingers already knew what to say. Always knowing Garcia to be ever vigilant and ready, the blond only had to wait a few minutes before his comm began to ring. 

He filled the device open, but not before speaking to himself, “We’re coming, Spock.”

***

There was a sound in the dark. Constant and high-pitched, it caused Spock’s head to ache something awful. In an odd moment, the stakes surrounding him seemed to fall away, replaced by his failing attempt to keep his eyes shut. Yet this would not allow itself to be ignored. Between that and the dripping of water, the same sort as before, dark brown eyes fluttered open against their wanting. The sound through his ears left as though it’d never been there, replaced by the chattering of the prison blocks.

The cold metal on his wrists was already growing familiar, and a mildewed tinge to the air confirmed that the half-Vulcan had been returned to his cell, as per the queen’s request. Spock inhaled sharply through his nose when he shifted, a shock of pain sent through his very bones. A hard blink made the cuts on his cheeks crack, and the brushing of his shirt against his now wounded arm burned.

As he looked up, he met the eyes of the woman in the cell parallel to his. She looked at him with almost broken eyes for only a moment, then with a slight shake of her head, turned away. A loud clang came from down the hall, pitching the hall into darkness and silence. Spock laid back against the cold wall. The past beckoned in his mind like a warning.

Chapter Text

It was growing late aboard the Enterprise . Most of the crew was already fast asleep; even Gamma shift was beginning to doze off at their stations. With little happening, Kirk felt no need to wake the vast majority of them, only giving the transporter attendant a slight shake to the shoulder to rouse her from a light slumber. 

Sleep was quick to leave her mind at the whir of the pads, the swirling golden light waking her like dawn. The Ensign configured the levers and dials of her console, particles coming back to their whole.

“Captain Kirk,” was the first voice to grace the night, the same tone a smile, “Burning the midnight oil, I see.”

“Captain Garcia,” Jim greeted, “It’s good to see you.”

A sort of brightness bloomed in Kirk’s chest. Though it was hardly the same as that of the half-Vulcan, the stability of having a steadfast mind beside him had grown comforting with time. The moment Melina agreed to this off-the-books mission, the Captain had let out a breath of relief, though he knew he never should have doubted it. This would not be her first mission that weaseled out of the Federation’s watch, nor would it be her last.

As she stepped down from the transporter pad, her steps came with confidence, head held high.

 “This is my crew,” Melina smiled, turning to gesture to the band that’d accompanied her, two Ensigns, and a Lieutenant. As the blond gave them an approving nod, he could not help but find familiarity in the Lieutenant’s face; the man looked rather similar to their own Lieutenant Hendroff.

Garcia found the man’s unwavering gaze, taking it as a prompt, “Ensign Yu, Ensign Quail, and Lieutenant Clarkson.”

Kirk finally looked away, “Yeah, it’s a pleasure.”

They lingered for only a moment more before Melina nudged Jim with her elbow, garnering his attention, “Let’s go get you your Commander Spock back.”

As one Captain nodded to the other, they made their way into the empty hall. With the visiting Ensigns too preoccupied with the luster of the flagship, nobody noticed the bitterness in the Lieutenant’s glare. His hands tightened into fists as he followed behind.

***

In the darkness and silence of the night, Spock had managed to fall asleep. Though his body ached and his skin burned, though the specters of the years that’d passed repeated themselves behind his eyelids, the half-Vulcan managed to sleep until the lights came back on. As noise returned in a crescendo, it became rather clear that the rest of the inmates spent the time same as he. He didn’t know if they too were removed from their cells come dawn, but it seemed that he would not find out, the monarch once again appearing outside his cell, accompanied by her guards.

As they removed him from his cell once more, the watch of the woman across from him caught his once more. She lingered for a moment, taking in his cut cheekbones and the bruises that had come of the punch and the chokehold. None of the wounds seemed to bother her, like she’d seen them a hundred times before. Spock, who too was well acquainted with pain, paid no mind to the blemishes. He knew these better than most.

***

Khekto was quick to return to her work, striking the half-Vulcan with a bat-like object, not a moment after he’d been bound once again. The crack that came at the impact accompanied a shooting pain through his ribs. It was all he could do not the squeak, a sharp inhale barely enough to keep himself silent.

If anything, the queen was only encouraged by this, “So tough.”

She ran a hand over his cheeks, ghosting the skin just enough the send a shiver down the Commander’s spine. That too brought a satisfied glint into the woman’s eyes, “And yet so fragile.”

The queen hummed, delivering another blow to the same spot as before. This time, with bone already splintered, the pain escaped Spock’s throat and green blossomed over the cobalt of his shirt. Khekto relished the sound and sight, her hand returned to her captive’s face, a finger tracing his jawline.

“Tell me, Commander. Why is this so easy for you? Who hurt you? Who lied?”

She knelt to meet his height, “Why do you still trust them? No one is coming, my dear. Be logical, would you? There’s no point in keeping this up.”

They locked eyes in silence, the several minutes they remained this way passing like eternities. Khekto let out a sigh, standing and making her way to one of the tables. She was quick to make her selection, turning back with a hypo in her hand.

“Spock, I am giving you one more chance. Tell me the status between the Federation and Quansians, and I won’t have to do this,” her tone was almost apologetic.

The half-Vulcan eyed the needle, swallowing thickly before softening his tense muscles, hanging his head. He said nothing. There was no retort, no assurance of his strength. Only silence and waiting. When the ghosts in his mind beckoned like lost gods, he did not fold his hands in prayer, he did not kneel for a savior. He’d never believed in anything like it, and if there truly was some heavenly being above them, he harbored it no love. What a petty thing it is, to hate because of loneliness, but he had spent so many nights trapped with himself without help from the divine that he knew his screams fell on deaf ears.

The syringe pinched as it went in, and Spock could nearly feel its contents disperse into him. An odd sensation, discomfort under his skin. Yet it was nothing out of the ordinary. He’d never felt right with his own skeleton.

As his vision blurred and his mind began to feel fuzzy, Khekto stroked his hair, nearly lovingly, “I admire your strength, Spock. I can’t deny that. But I don’t like to dance around my requests, and you’ve given me no other choice.”

Spock sight swam, not between light and dark, but between motion and stillness. The world took on an odd sway, the pain throughout his body rising to his skull. It seemed the headache would be the worst of the storm inside until lighting struck his chest, his body coming to the thunder’s roar of pain. His muscles tensed against their will, clenching too tight as the fractures that’d come of his ribs screeched out. Fleeting control scrabbled for purchase in his mind, but the slope had grown too slick. 

The half-Vulcan trembled something awful, the sounds of agony escaping his throat despite his best attempts.

The queen’s fingers took hold of his raven hair, craning his head up to look at her, “Tell me what I want, Spock. Tell me and this can all be over.”

Though Spock felt his strength fading, his mind clawed its way to memory, imagining the Quansian people, unsuspecting and innocent. But even this, came at a cost. The familiar call sign of the suffering rang out, followed by a past he could not seem to forget; hazel eyes and calloused hands, the sound of a striking fist and ruination of something young, though not of something naive. Somehow, the loneliness he found in the absence of another, even if all his companionship brought was pain, was worse than any poison.

He would not allow another to know the same misery. Not if he could stop it.

“Just say it, Commander,” Khekto yanked his head, “I’m losing my patience.”

“No,” he managed to get out, “No.”

The queen went quiet for a moment, searching his dark brown eyes. They were desperate, begging, even. Like something that’d never had the strength to get that syllable out when it mattered. Let alone something that’d known its respect.

Her lips upturned. She’d never even had to try. He’d always been something broken.

***

Captain Kirk had never come to the bridge that day, Sulu serving in his place. Rather, the blond had been holed away in his ready-room since the midnight dawn of Delta shift, alongside Captain Garcia and her team. Tireless in their efforts to ensure the safe recovery of their First Officer, not one member of the Enterprise crew doubted the importance of the mission, nor of Jim’s priorities.

Yet the same could not be said for Melina’s. Only speaking up to shoot something down was Lieutenant Clarkson, never bothering with a solution to any plan’s shortcomings. Kirk found himself growing tired of the game as embarrassment rose in Garcia; it seemed that the Ensigns were becoming rather irate as well.

Just as Clarkson finished yet another rant, which had taken several personal stabs at his fellow crewmates, he seemed rather pleased with himself, almost as if he were daring them to come up with another, quote on quote, “mindless plan.”

It seemed that the Ensigns were about to take up the challenge when James huffed, “Well, Lieutenant, do you have anything aside from criticism to offer?”

“I’m just doing my best to be logical with this,” Todd said, his tone rather hostile, “That’s what your Commander would do.”

Before Jim could snap back, Ensign Yu took initiative, coming between the two, “Captain Kirk, maybe it would help to focus on what we know about the palace. He was captured there, correct?”

Kirk gritted his teeth, staring the Lieutenant down for a moment before sighing, letting go of his grip on the conflict between them, “Yes, he was.”

“Where are you going with this?” Garcia asked, not challenging her so much as showing a genuine interest.

Yu gestured with her hands, “If we keep logic in mind as Commander Spock would, as well as use Captain Kirk’s knowledge, and then couple it with what we know from past missions, we can make a hypothesis of sorts and form a plan. Turning on each other isn’t going to help.”

Jim leaned back against the desk, “Not bad, Ensign.”

The woman nodded in thanks. 

Quail followed her lead, “Most monarchs who take hostages rarely go all too far from their kingdoms. Leaving could let a rival group take power, which none of them can afford. Some don’t even leave their palaces. The trick is finding where they hold their prisoners.”

“A simple perimeter scan should do it,” Yu chimed in again, “Most of these holding places are too heavily fortified to give an exact location, but it’ll tell us whether he’s still be held there or not.”

“A small drone would be easier to snoop around with,” Kirk joined, “I’m sure Lieutenant Hendroff won’t mind us taking one out for an off-the-books spin.”

“Well, it seems to me that we’ve got the start of a plan,” Melina mused, pleased.

“And what if he’s not there?” Clarkson interjected.

The hope that’d risen among them sank with his voice. All eyes turned.

“C’mon, I’m not the bad guy here,” he groused, “What if he’s really not there? Khekto could’ve sold him to a slave trader and have him halfway to the Neutral Zone by now.”

Kirk found himself devoid of patience for the man, “Lieutenant, tell me, have you ever met Commander Spock?”

“Yes,” Todd replied, half smug, “I have. I know him very, very well.”

“Then you should know that if you were in his place, I guarantee, he’d go back for you,” Jim assured, though his voice was not comforting, “And yes, he’d consider the possibility of failure, but he wouldn’t let that stop him.”

“Now,” Kirk finished, “We have a plan to execute, and we’ll do it with or without you. It's your choice which it is.”

Both Captains and Ensigns went back to work after a tense moment of silence, queuing up a schematic of the town, divulging entry and exits. However, that was not the focus of the Lieutenant’s mind. Rather, it was the words of but a few moments before:

He’d go back for you.

This, Clarkson did not doubt. He’d always known. But to him, it was not a strength. The half-Vulcan had always been too meek to be bold, too quiet to scream. That loyalty was nothing but weakness.

***

Blood smudged the floor, some of it had dried, while other areas were fresh. The poison put into Spock’s veins had yet to leave, muscles cramping and aching as they wore themselves out. His once pristine blue shirt was now smattered with green, similar to the cobblestone under his creaking knees, but set apart by the tears in the fabric.

Khekto had only found interest in his sudden bravery for but a moment, swiftly cutting it off with a strike to the temple. After that, his vision swam the line between light and dark, but never when black. This half-ways awareness made the torture to follow blend into one mass, bludgeons crossing with cuts, scrapes, and bruises becoming one and the same. 

He’d lost consciousness only once, and though he didn’t know for how long, he could only imagine he’d been gone for but a few moments; swiftly awoken with a splash of freezing water, run a faded emerald as it mixed with the blood running down his temple and lip, washing away the little makeup that clung to his irritated skin.

The queen had taken an immediate interest in this imperfection, teasing and taunting, the scabs yet to turn scars shingled away by an expertly wielded dagger. Yet this service was not without cost either, it's due paid in pain.

When the first wave of the toxin wore off, awareness came ringing in his ears, stewing the ache in his skull.

Khekto’s voice penetrated it, “Oh Commander. I must say, I’m impressed. Nobody’s lasted this long before. And yet you haven’t uttered a word. But, it’s only a matter of time.”

Spock took a breath to speak, but the agony in his ribcage retorted its movement, sending a merciless stab of pain through him, the only sound to leave his mouth but that of pain.

“Do you know why people squeal to me?” she asked, “Do you know why they break?”

The half-Vulcan didn’t respond, but it was of no consequence to her, “It’s because I know something they don’t. I know something that ruins them. Do you want to know what I know about you?”

Spock raised his head, blood and water dripping from his face.

“Your crew left you, Commander,” she said sweetly, “They’re halfway across the galaxy. They aren’t coming back.”

The queen took a padd from a guard, showing it to her captive. A red dot flashed at the center of the screen, slowly drifting away.

It felt as though the ice in the landscape beyond those had breached into his heart.

“The Enterprise ,” she said, “Your precious crew. They’re gone, Spock. They left.”

The half-Vulcan’s breath hitched his throat, and despite the vertigo that plagued him, he shook his head, almost as if he were trying to shake the possibility from his mind; a desperate cling to what he knew. After all these years, he would have thought that the unknown would not scare him, yet here he was: terrified of oblivion.

“Nobody is coming,” she hissed.

Spock felt sick. It was the simplest way of putting it. No poetry nor prose could turn it beautiful. The world swirling in his vision and in his head, some kind of reminder of the past; people tended to leave him, be it to go on with their adventures or make their way to the other side. It seemed only destiny that his end would be this way.

When the voice in his head, sounding so much like a child, despite the cruelties it had reaped, cried, begging for the possibility that Kirk would come. Trauma’s beast showed it no mercy, only the sights he’d seen and what he’d made it through.

Spock was never meant to survive his conception, but now, he’d live nearly as long as a full-blooded Vulcan. And that was far longer than anyone he ever loved had or would. It was this prophecy of the future that simply made it easier to be alone. It may be desolate, but at least at their ends, it wouldn’t tear him apart.

That was if he didn’t annihilate himself first.

It was this cycle of self-destruction that wrought his loneliness, that invoked the isolation. 

And within a moment, that voice was no longer small and weeping, Nobody is coming.

It screamed. Silent tears began to track down the half-Vulcan’s face, the saltwater burning his wounds.

“Oh love,” she said softly, “You’ve survived so much, haven’t you? All of it just for this. They never cared, Spock. Nobody did.”

When her hand returned to stroke his hair, some shameful part of the half-Vulcan unwound to it. Unfamiliar with the touch of something gentle, even cruelty wielded tremendous grace.

“I must thank you, Spock, really.”

The half-Vulcan’s dampened eyes searched her face. Something desperate looking for something kind. He knew it wasn’t there. It never had been, and never would be. Amanda had always said that you could recognize someone with just that, yet irises and sclera had been to look all too similar in everyone he saw. If Spock stared long enough, Todd would always be looking back at him. Towering and tantalizing, he knew nothing else.

“I never had to get into your head, Spock,” her soft hands tilted up his bleeding face, “You did it all for me.”

Spock dropped his head as she let go, mind too heavy with the past to hold it anymore. He didn’t listen to what Khekto said to her guards, only the voice in his head.

They’re gone.

They’re gone.

When the strike came to the back of the neck, darkness felt like mercy.

***

It’d taken two hours for Starfleet to realize the Enterprise had strayed off course. Longer than their most pessimistic estimation, but shorter than their most optimistic. As Uhura was bombarded with transmissions, each one coming from a higher branch than the last, she ignored each and every one, focusing instead on the stranger sitting in Spock’s place. 

She’d yet to see the crew brought aboard to retrieve the half-Vulcan, the whole group, accompanied by Kirk, having been shut away in the ready room for hour after hour, the door only opened by a security officer to deliver a retrieve a drone. The bridge, usual chattering, and bubbling with life, had gone quiet. Though Spock would never join in unless spoken to, his absence cut irreparably deep. Nyota had found herself pouring over what few signals she could find coming from Miktiv II, Sulu sat stiffly in the Captain’s chair. Even Chekov’s brightness had dimmed. 

When they were sent a science officer from the labs to replace their Spock, Uhura had found herself hoping it’d be Gaila, wanting nothing more than to comfort her friend. Yet when an unfamiliar Lieutenant-Commander came onto the bridge, she would dare to say she felt disappointed. Though usually relishing in the opportunity to meet a new face, she hadn’t the energy to spare. Save for the beeps and hums of consoles, no one spoke a word.

Another transmission whistled into Nyota’s earpiece, addressed by Starfleet Command. She ignored it like all the rest, imagining the sound of Spock’s voice. He would call this illogical. She called it family.

***

A sound rang high-pitched in Spock’s ears, the concrete wall on his skin coming into tandem. Though he’d never enjoyed those sensations, in a strange moment, he didn’t mind them. The sound drowned out the whispers of the mind. The cold soothed the pain. 

He remained with his eyes shut until they gave him no choice but to flutter open. His bones creaked. His skin burned. It felt like he’d known it all his life. Vision blurring to focus on the world around him, the cell no longer wrought claustrophobia, but gifted safety instead.

The half-Vulcan gave himself a gentle push to shift himself upright but quickly found the slouch to be a mercy, a stab immediately ripping through his ribcage, whipping through his wounds. He bit his lip bloody in a single go to suppress the whine in his throat.

His muscles tensed, and he did not feel the need to think. The poison’s second wind would be upon him soon. 

He made another attempt to move, bracing himself for the feeling to come when a voice came softly, “I’d be careful if I were you.”

The half-Vulcan looked up, the woman across from his cell leaning against her wall.

“You’ve been out cold for a while. That poison she gave you is only going to get worse the more you move.”

The half-Vulcan considered her words; what for, he didn’t know. He nodded in acknowledgment, yet the toxin’s promise came through his spine, needling into his skull. The mere contracting of muscle to sit up made barely-scabbed wounds tear open, bringing a hiss to Spock’s breath.

“Most people don’t make it as long as you have,” she said, “Khekto’ll probably leave you alone for a bit. She doesn’t get people like you all too often. She doesn’t want to kill you.”

“Sit back, relax, if you can,” the woman advised, “You’ll be here for the rest of your life.”

That sparked something in Spock’s veins, and though it brought the same grieving ache that’d snapped him, there was a still a desperate piece that refused to believe, “Negative, I-”

“Nobody gets out of here alive, Commander Spock,” the woman cut him off, voice husked like it’d once been far bigger, “It ain’t worth fighting for. I used to be pretty damn stubborn myself, but… let’s just say it wasn’t worth it.”

“Tell her what she wants, and she won’t kill you. If you’re lucky, she’ll just leave you here to rot with me.”

Simply keeping his eyes open was painful, but something in the half-Vulcan refused to back down. He pulled himself to the bars, his words graveled like hers, “There are innocent lives at risk should Queen Khekto be permitted to follow through with her plan.”

“There always has been,” she bit back, taking on a sudden hostility, “I get it, Commander, I’m not saying you shouldn’t save the lives you can, but there’s been plenty of lives that your Starfleet has considered expendable, and now, you’re one of them. The sooner you get that through your head, the better. My people have always been that way to the Federation, so if you need help, allow me and I’ll do it for you.”

Spock let her words sit in his aching mind, and the guilt burned from inside. It was an illogical wish, to save any and all souls from tragedy, but knowing all too well how a hand could slip from another, he knew it was not possible.

“We were unaware of the state of your people as we are not commonly required in this sector,” the half-Vulcan broke off in a cough, one that he felt in every bone, every muscle, a quake that bit down to his core, “Queen Khekto has evaded discovery rather adeptly.”

“Yeah,” the woman sighed, leaning up against the cell door.

They sat in mournful silence, the sort that was far too heavy for words to lift. Yet, beneath grief and submission, there was a boldness that’d yet to be quashed; 

“It was my wife.”

Spock turned his head, the movement sending pain all through his spine, “Pardon?”

“Khekto killed my wife. I’ve always wanted revenge, yet I’ve never gotten the chance. You don’t know what you have until it's too late, Commander.”

“If you’re going to bust out of here, then you better make it. Everyone in here needs that kind of hope. Or at least a little bit of crazy,” she said, almost fond,  “Don’t miss your shot. Second chances rarely come.”

Again, the half-Vulcan found himself unable to directly respond. The sorrow living on his soul creaked Todd’s name. What was the little brightness that still lived inside burned brighter at the thought of the sun. And though they were not a star, he shone just as bright. Jim, in all his holy light, was something in the cosmos that he could touch, that he could hear. An embodiment of the galaxy, of the star-filled void. And for the first time, it was the universe that made his heart ache in his chest. Solar flares beckoned to him again.

Find us, they called, Come home.

Chapter Text

The only light that pierced midnight was that of a street lamp outside. Even though the trees blew in the wind of an oncoming storm, they made no sound. Spock couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or not - locked somewhere in between, aware but paralyzed. The bedsheets were near freezing as hazel eyes looked down on him like a beast to its prey, yet just as it was about to bite, the world went dark as though all the stars died at once.

When they flickered back to life, he was on tile, cold and unforgiving, yet somehow comforting all in the same moment. A strip of light ran no more than 3 feet wide, fanning out as it drew closer to him, though fading as it drifted from its home. It seemed almost peaceful until a clamor came from behind, the yellow glow retreated as a door flung open, bathing the whole space in something bright as sunlight. The half-Vulcan was allowed to reel for all but a moment before he was yanked to his feet by a vice grip on his wrist. 

He knew the hands that seized him like nothing else. Calloused and familiar, there was no mistaking them. As the fear rose in his throat, some instinct inside tried to get away, but was met with a hold that tightened with every motion.

He barely had time to look into the eyes of the man he once loved before a fist struck him. The force brought him to the floor, but that was not the conclusion. He barely had a moment to orient himself before a boot came down on his ribcage.

Time held no reign here, the bones were broken and his shirt bloody. When the second stomp came, Spock curled into a ball and closed his eyes, bracing for the only thing he knew to be love.

***

Spock had barely noticed that he’d fallen asleep until he woke with a sharp breath, the clamor of the lights taking the hall out of darkness. His body shook, but this was far more gentle than the locking of muscles. As the half-Vulcan shook off sleep, still leaning up against the bars, the woman across him was the same. He could only imagine that they’d spent the night mourning their dead and their lost. Yet nothing was for certain, his mind betraying him in an absence of memories. As he felt his muscles begin to tense and settle more severely, he imagined it could not have been too long. Either that or the poison put into his veins was a far greater beast than anything he’d fathomed.

The woman - who he had never learned the name of - shifted in the same way she always seemed to as the corridor of captives stirred to life. The half-Vulcan prepared himself for the queen’s arrival, anxiety turning his insides, not knowing what was to come of the day. Perhaps the only assurance offered to him was pain. 

As the chorus of the imprisoned rose, Spock found the fear in his system to be far stronger than that of the days prior. As his body cracked and moaned, he was ashamed to admit that he did not know how much longer he would be capable of holding out this way; unsure whether or not he could keep secrets for much longer. 

He tried to recall his desperate daydream of the Quansians, of their innocence. Even that, was shrouded in a haze. He could endure pain, that much, he knew. But he’d been going for so long silencing what was meant to scream. Nothing can remain caged forever. Not even the mind, not even nightmares. Everything would force itself to be seen one day. Even the meek could grow sick of being small and become giants.

But the truth, now the truth was far less patient. Spock was lucky to be good at keeping secrets. On no world was he thought to be chatty, in no life was he deemed a tale-teller. He could slip away in the night and no one would know. So long as he returned by dawn, what he did under the watch of the stars was unknown by any creature. Even Gaila was left oblivious to his movements in the dark. Though she’d tried, and though her heart burned for knowledge, he would not tell her. 

So perhaps, by some stroke of a fictitious miracle, the thought of constellations would save the ones his failure threatened. Having never known how to comfort himself, let alone someone else, he should not have been surprised when his thoughts did nothing to calm him. As he awaited Khekto’s arrival despite his fellow inmate’s assurances from the night prior, he didn’t know if his nerves were frayed so much as they were shorted entirely. The worry plagued him, shamefully out of control and untamed.

He could not tell if the dizzying spin in his mind was of its design or not. Perhaps most likely, it was a cross between it and injury. His thoughts were muddled, what was normally a clear pool turned into a marsh. It was this too that dazed the clock inside his head, unable to distinguish minutes and seconds, unsure of how long he’d been in this fortress, though half-ways certain that Khekto was late. It seemed some desperate part of him longed for that, as the alternative suggested that he was so ridden with anxiety that his once pristinely organized mind was stretched so thin that it’d tripped itself sometime between past, present, and future.

In any case, what he perceived to be minutes stretched on without end. Even the ruckus of the corridor died down for a moment, all confused by the tardiness of the guards and their queen. Though always clinging to a routine, be it one that helped him or hurt him, part of the half-Vulcan huffed a sigh of relief, even though the breath sent his vision spinning; he was unsure how much more he could stomach, and every moment that offered respite was sacred.

Yet when everything went silent, that turning returned to him, a gut feeling of dread. He could sense the same feeling all around him, so strong that it was practically brushing up against him. And beneath it lay fear; so strong that it was difficult to believe it was secondary, but perhaps its constant nature was what made it that way. Something that everyone around him knew like the backs of their hands, so well memorized that life without it was unknown. Though the shudder coming into his hands was not of such a breed, it was so familiar that it seemed that way.

The moment that stillness came over every soul around him, the seconds stretched into millennia.

Yet in truth, seconds were still seconds, and they passed in but a blink of an eye.

The hall riled again at the sound of a door slamming open, followed by phaser fine. Excitement filled the air; when a shot missed and burned its stop on the outer wall, just missing the bars of the half-Vulcan’s cell, a cross of euphoria and panic rose. The cacophony of sound came alive once more, banging against cell doors and shouting towards the conflict.

Spock’s ears pricked, his worn body pressing itself as close to the bars as he could muster, searching the noise for that which emanate from the end of the hall, trying to determine what was going on. It only took all of a moment to hear an acquainted shout. He could not make out who or what, but there was an undeniable familiarity in the sound, one he could not ignore.

When another shot was dodged, a blue ray of light hissed at it struck the floor, the tell-tale of Federation phasers. A hope that’d been absent since he was a cadet meekly rose inside. It was not the same as the fear still coursing his system, but it’d been gone so long that there was no other option but to welcome it home with love. Even if the chaos around him made his head hurt like nothing else, even if his vision danced a blurry line, even if every bone in his body ached a wounded song, he could not ignore it.

“Spock!”

The half-Vulcan whipped his head up, the familiar voice back again. This time, it was one he knew better than anything else.

Jim.

“Commander Spock!” the blond called, his run coming to a halt just in front of his First Officer’s cell. When blue eyes caught brown, there was something beyond friendship in the Captain’s.

“Spock!” he beamed, shooting the lock on the door, the bars creaking open.

Before the half-Vulcan could manage to stand, Kirk was on the ground beside him, picking the locks to the cuffs chaining his wrists, pulling him into a hug without thought. Part of Spock softened into it, and though the other half grimaced at him like the disgrace he’d always been, somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

It was over all too soon, and for the first time in far longer than he could recall, Spock longed for touch to last a moment longer. But they hadn’t the time.

“C’mon, we need to get you to Bones,” James patted his back lightly.

Something like instinct forgot the wounds that’d been littered over his body entirely, like all that could be seen was the horrid rash of his face, “My wounds are superficial.”

James’s eyebrows knitted, “Spock, you’re all scraped up and bleeding, you need to see him.”

“I am fine,” the half-Vulcan assured him, trying to keep a hand away from his ribcage.

Kirk searched his eyes, brown and exhausted, pained but hiding it. Hiding it like it was all he’d ever done, all he’d ever known. 

“Please, Spock. Just let him take a look. For me?”

The ghost of a sigh left Spock’s lips, the most he could do without invoking the pain shot around his lungs, “Would you deem it an order, Captain?”

Jim gave him a soft pat on the back again, yet even that brought pain. He knew it only by the tensing of muscles beneath his band, the stillness that was forced through them far too much to be natural. Kirk could hear the shouts and fire of Garcia and her crew from down the corridor, the conflict they found themselves in growing more severe. They had to get moving.

“Sure,” the blond was already pulling the half-Vulcan’s arm over his shoulder.

They only managed to stand half-ways before Spock dropped.

“Spock?” Jim’s voice held an edge of alarm.

Spock’s head spun violently, more so than all the times before. He could feel each and every muscle in his body cramp all at once, the worst of anything that’d ever come before.

“I am fine,” the half-Vulcan mumbled, sounding faint, “I…am fine…”

Spock’s vision swam, a shallow breath hitching in his throat. There was a moment between light and dark, blurred and unsteady, only hands in his sight, trying to get a hold of him. It lasted only a second before night came to his eyes.

***

The entire infiltration felt like a blur. One moment, Jim had found himself and Captain Garcia’s crew pouring over their plan, and the next, he was running down weaving halls, pursued by Queen Khekto’s guard. The relief had nearly overwhelmed him when he found the half-Vulcan, but it was not without the tinge of worry at his bruised and beaten sight. It’d only intensified when he fainted in his arms. Sitting in the Captain's chair was not done without anxiety. 

Though the retrieval had gone almost without a hitch, save for one slip-up by Lieutenant Clarkson (a mistake the man blamed Ensign Yu for). Yet, that was only half the battle. He’d still ignored and disobeyed direct orders from Starfleet brass, and could still be court-martialed over it. In addition, they’d been gunning for him and Spock for years, such a young command team that the council was either disproportionately worried or entirely jealous, most all of the admirals having been ex-captains. This slip-up could be all they would need.

Their vague disliking for Spock didn’t help either - they didn’t like someone who always seemed to be right, nor someone who could easily be deemed smarter than them. Frankly, Jim found it xenophobic, yet Spock, who still strongly believed in equality for people of all species, never seemed to share in his concern. It’d shocked Kirk the first time, seeming rather self-contradictory when compared to his ideals, but now, he couldn’t help but feel confused. 

Putting the xenophobia aside (if that was truly possible), Jim hoped that their work was enough to keep them both aboard the Enterprise . When they weren’t down on the half-Vulcan for his mere existence, command seemed decently fond of him, predominantly due to the fact that he rarely broke their rules, and kept to the prime directive. This mission posed a great risk to both he and the half-Vulcan, not to mention the potential war it could start on Miktiv II, be it a civil or with the Federation. 

And somehow, even under all that, he couldn’t shake Spock from his thoughts. The sight of him bloodied and quivering in that place, of the room they’d passed filled with green-splattered knives and bats, something ignited inside Kirk was ignited.

He spent every moment of his command watching out for his crew, and with a member so important that he’d risk losing that captaincy for him, there was a kind of overdrive that he hadn’t known since he was a teenager. Some unshakable protectiveness that would only wane in death. Even with all that was walking the line, all that risked being lost, the half-Vulcan was most important. He was safe now, and that was all that counted. 

Even though Spock had turned down the Captain’s romantic advance, Kirk found himself still falling more in love. He wished he could stop, but he couldn’t find out how. He wanted to protect Spock with every ounce of his being, and the cost of this concern was infatuation. If someone asked, he would say that he didn’t care about the rejected offer, that they’d go on as friends and nothing more. But that’d be a lie. In truth, he was disappointed, having hoped that he and Spock would share a nice evening in his quarters, have dinner, and maybe play a little chess. When he’d watched his First Officer be taken from the transporter room, unconscious on a gurney, his heart had been beating too fast, too hard for someone who was only a friend.

But he’d respect Spock’s choice; the half-Vulcan didn’t owe him anything, let alone his heart, for any reason. And yet, even with the logic that was so sacred to the Commander, the Captain did not find respite. With emotion ridden with unyielding fondness as well, Jim came to the conclusion that this was perhaps the first time he’d ever truly been in love, and he would be learning the hard way that it was not always returned. Or perhaps, simply not in the same manner. He knew Spock had a platonic affection for him; no matter how hard the half-Vulcan tried to hide it, that much always showed. There was simply no other explanation that would fit his devotion. 

Make no mistake, it meant just as much as any romance to Jim. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. His heart just ached for something more. He didn’t know how to stop it.

***

Clarkson’s eyes followed the nurse’s movements until she left. The hums and beeps of medical equipment from all around rose into a gentle chorus. Arms crossed as he stood at the bedside, he glared at the half-Vulcan laid up in the biobed. An IV running to his arm and wired to machines that he didn’t know the purpose of, Spock looked just as helpless as he’d always known him to be. 

One would never guess that they’d spent years apart. Spock’s face hadn’t aged even the slightest, still pale and rashed, the only difference being the notable addition of the cuts and bruises that the queen had added. How, he didn’t know. Frankly, he didn’t care. 

He hadn’t come for this, but rather, to speak what he couldn’t say when the half-Vulcan was conscious. There was something so irritatingly wounded about Spock’s eyes, all the rest of his stone cold, all but that. He hated looking at them, he hated the way they would shimmer in the light, reflect the stars. They always held something too big for someone with so little to offer the world. Lopsided and disproportionate, some nights, he would watch Spock and wonder how he managed to do much of anything right.

He’d spent too long looking into them, and his patience had worn itself out.

Todd approached the bed, reaching out to brush Spock's jawline with his thumb. It felt the same, his skin was cold, soft. He was the same man as before. No matter what anyone else had to say, he was unchanged; pathetic and lonesome, small and quiet.

Clarkson’s hand moved to his pricked ear, tracing the outside. Even in this drug-induced sleep, he shivered all the same. A smile of familiarity came to the human’s face at the twitch. It was not of the loving sort.

“Always running, always hiding” he chided to his once lover’s sleeping body.

His voice was nearly fond, “And so, so, pathetic.”

The hands Spock could still feel on his skin fiddled with the controls of the line and the needle run into the half-Vulcan’s arm, the machine giving a small whistle as it did as instructed, cutting off the flow of painkiller into its patient’s veins.

“For what you did to me,” Todd  smiled, “I’d consider you lucky.”

“You deserve so much worse,” he hissed, loud enough for venom, but too quiet for the medical officers milling about to hear, “You’re just like everyone else. Playing the victim to make me look bad. Well, I’m not taking you shit anymore.”

Clarkson stiffed when he heard the curtain slide, looking over his shoulder. A brunette nurse peeked her head through, “Visiting hours will be over in a few minutes, sir.”

“Oh, I won’t be much longer,” he smiled coyly.

The woman nodded, leaving the two alone.

“This isn’t over,” he growled, “Pet.”

***

Gaila rushed through the halls, making her best attempt at a beeline to medbay, a task made far more difficult by the masses of crewmembers milling about just after their shifts. She bobbed and weaved her way through, ushering quick apologies to those she bumped, but never stopping. 

She practically fell through the doors, breath heavy as she cursed the days she’d skipped cardio. 

It didn’t take words, only a look at one of the ensigns, who returned with apologetic eyes, “Sorry, Gaila. Visiting hours are up.”

She hung her head with a groan, still hunched over from the exertion.

“Come back tomorrow morning,” they patted the Orion’s back, “It shouldn’t be crowded and he might be awake by then.”

Gaila wanted to fight it, but didn’t, sighing defeatedly, “Okay. But if he needs an overnight buddy, call me, will you?”

The nurse stuttered, the color on their cheeks deepening “Um, uh-”

“As  a friend,” Gaila flitted her hand, “Not like that.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, for sure,” they still had a bit of a blush, “Sorry, I just-”
“I know, I know,” the Orion waved it off good-naturedly, “Reputations are reputations. Happens to the best of us.”

The pair remained in the lobby, the ensign still trying to give a flustered apology until their comm pinged, their companions awaiting their arrival in the mess hall. Once they took their leave, Gaila for herself alone. She looked over to the curtain-shrouded beds of sickbay, knowing Spock was sleeping peacefully.

“Sweet dreams,” she wished him softly, turning and making her way out.

As she walked the halls, heading nowhere in particular, the memories of the past would not leave her. Seeing him wounded never got easier, but only knowing and never beholding was far worse. She did not want him to face the pain alone again. He’d spent so long without a confidant, the honor that struck her core when he’d trusted her was one that proved itself far greater than any other. How precious it was, to hear a quiet soul speak, to see the guarded with their heart open. Though she knew it hurt for him, and though she too felt a terrible ache, there was no pain that could overtake its beauty.

Too engrossed in her thoughts, Gaila was not watching the hall in front of her, vision went blurry, and her senses tuned out the world. Her pace quickened, like something within channeled the energy of her core. It was with this speed, her gait long and fast, that she collided with another body, moving like a crashing comet.

When they struck, she expected momentum to push her back, but she was stopped by hands gripping he arms, loose for a moment, and then constricting the next.

When she opened her eyes, having squeezed them shut out of some kind of instinct, the backward motion arrived, her feet moving before her thoughts, breaking from the hold and putting distance between them. There was no way to mistake him. Not after all that he’d done.

Her voice was vicious, “Todd? What the hell are you doing here?”

Clarkson matched her venom, “I think I can ask you the same question.”

“I asked first,” she growled.

“Unlike you,” he tapped her nose, “I was here to help get Spock back, while you hung back and didn’t do shit for him. Even after all he’s done to me, I still have the decency to help him. And somehow he still picked you.”

Gaila gritted her teeth, “After all he’s done to you? You’re actually psychotic! You think that he’s in the wrong? The guy you abused, is wrong for getting away from what you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he snarled, “I only ever did what I knew was best for him! He needed to learn, and that’s what I did! All I ever did was to help him!”

Gaila huffed, massaging her temples, “I can’t even wrap my head around that. I don’t think Nyota could even understand. Y’know, because she doesn’t speak idiot.”

The Orion grabbed the Lieutenant’s shirt with unanticipated strength, pulling him down to her level, speaking quietly enough for only him to hear, a task made easier said than done as crew stopped to watch the spectacle, “You fucking raped him, Clarkson. And as long as he’s on my watch, you’re never touching him again.”

Todd didn’t care to be discreet, the anger rising in his chest, hard and fast, coming in like something crashing.

“You don’t know what happened!” Clarkson roared, ripping away from her, “Spock just pulls the victim card because he changed his mind after the fact! He’s just trying to make you feel sorry for him and make me look bad!”

Todd did not stop there, “He’s just a petty sob story!”

She twitched at his words, standing a bit taller and puffing her chest. With the conflict set in the middle of the hall, what was once a curious few had grown into a substantial crowd, clogging the flow of foot traffic, making the group of spectators only grow in size. Veins too full of rage, the Orion barely noticed them. 

“You think this is a good idea?” Gaila challenged, “Crossing an Orion? What are we famous for, huh?”

She answered her own question before Todd had a chance at a crude retort, “Stabbing anyone and everyone in the back. Keep testing me and you’ll fucking regret it.”

The man bared his teeth, “That’s big talk, even for you.”

“Try me,” she growled.

“Spock,” he leaned to meet her height, their noses only millimeters apart, “Is a fucking liar.”

Gaila huffed, the breath turning into a mirthless giggle, growing into laughter. The crowd eyed her warily as she carded a hand through her hair. When she stopped she shook her head, smiling at the man standing opposite her.

Clarkson seemed just as confused as the spectators surrounding them, and it was like this that he didn’t see the fist to his gut coming. He slipped back, balking for only a moment before charging his interlocutor, but she dodged him without issue, coming from behind and kicking the backs of his knees in a single motion. The crowd took a cautious step back as the two turned to grab the other’s arms at the same time, remaining tense for all but a moment, their short stillness was broken by a swift strike to Gaila’s face. 

She stumbled back, bringing a hand to her now bleeding lip. She wiped the blood off with the back of her hand, smiling like something crazy. Gaila bolted forward, landing a punch straight to Clarkson’s cheek, not giving him so much as a second to recoil before delivering a brutal uppercut to his chin. Todd had just barely recovered when the Orion came around again, nearly subject to a fourth running but saved by the thundering of boots from either side, a pair of arms holding him back, another set securing the Orion. Still, they snarled at each other, pulling against the grip of the security officers. The crowd had come alive with shouts and whispers, but as a final set of footsteps neared, they all went quiet, skittering off to their initial destinations. Both Gaila and Todd looked to the source, coming from behind the human.

With a rather unforgiving expression, Jim came to a stop in the small space between the two. Clarkson didn’t seem to care about the glare he gave him, rolling his eyes at the Captain. When Kirk looked to Gaila, the anger did not whither, smoldering inside and unable to be put out. When she looked at Todd’s now bleeding face, there wasn’t a bit of remorse inside her.

***

Standing outside of Kirk’s ready room, Gaila felt almost like a child, awaiting the scrutiny of a teacher. She could hear shouting from inside, and with nothing else to do, she eavesdropped. The bridge crew, however, had only stared for a moment, exchanging glances when the trio had first come in before resuming their tasks. Though as hard as they tried, their attempts to act like they weren’t distracted were rather futile, an air of awkwardness hanging over them.

The doors muffled a great deal of what was being said within, making listening in a rather difficult task for the rest of the staff, but with her proximity, simple for Gaila. From the sounds of it, Jim had entered a state that she found rather unsettling, usually consisting of his generally chipper demeanor turning to something cold and flat, any emotion that riddled him stewing inside. It was this way that made it fairly obvious that the shouting was coming from Clarkson, who’d never been able to hold his temper. Gaila knew that factoid well. Spock knew it better.

It felt like an eternity as she leaned against the wall, the early hours of Gamma shift coming back from dinner to take up their posts. As they came to replace the much more seasoned standard crew, their confused glances made it obvious that they were rather inexperienced with the daytime drama that came about the ship.

Luckily, Gaila didn’t have to wait long, only a few minutes passing before the doors hissed open, Todd stomping out and still very much pissed off. The Orion peeked into the room, Jim leaning against the desk, a hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. She didn’t want to test him when he was clearly irritated, coming in and allowing the doors to shut behind her. 

“Captain…”

Jim wasn’t in the mood for formalities, “Gaila, what the fuck? What the hell was that about?”

“Sir, I-”

“Not sir,” he interrupted her, “You never call me sir.”

She sighed, “Jim, I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m not sorry about what I did. You can’t make me sorry. And I’d do it again.”

Kirk groaned, “Gaila, this can’t happen. You can’t just deck someone in the hall because you feel like it. Yes, Lieutenant Clarkson is admittedly annoying, I can’t deny that, but that’s not a reason for something like this.”

“Oh, so you want a reason?” Gaila’s voice took on an edge of hostility. She knew that Jim hadn’t done anything for her to get mad over, but even this small protection that he veiled over Todd was enough to set her off.

“Yes, I do,” Kirk sensed it, taking it up himself.

She put a finger to her chest, “I did what I did because he hurt the kindest person I know. And he ruined them. They’ll never be the same again. And gods, I know broken things can come back beautiful, but they didn’t deserve what happened to them. And they’re always gonna have scars. And I think it's wrong that the people who pick everyone else up when they fall have to bite the bullet every fucking time.”

Jim’s brows knitted, softening a bit. Before he could get a word in Gaila picked up, “So forgive me, Captain, if I refuse to watch the people I love get hurt.”

“That’s not what I meant, Gaila,” he stressed, “I didn’t know.”

“Well now you do,” she snapped.

In the silence that came between them, the Orion’s anger did not fade. She was sick of watching Spock be walked over, and she was sick of him choosing to hide from the world. There was nothing left for him to gain from the darkness, having spent so long blanketed by it that they knew each other like the stars knew oblivion. The only remorse inside her came from wishing that she’d done something sooner. Wishing that she’d taken him by the wrist and pulled him into the light; shielded his eyes from the sun if she had to but never let the caverns of his mind take him again.

Even without words, there was some mutual understanding between her and the Captain; some non-verbal knowing that something they both loved was being shrouded by a starless night. The difference stood that Kirk hadn’t the slightest idea who, but his drive to help them was no weaker.

“Gaila, who is it?”

The Orion nearly responded, but closed her mouth before words could leave. Spock trusted few, and what that faith offered was dark; the sharpest things that stabbed at him in his sleep, and in the day. Perhaps the most integral part of it was knowing that his secrets would be safe. He had so many, most of which Gaila didn’t know, but the ones she did could split the Earth, so heavy inside him that it was as if he carried the universe on his shoulders.

And yet, there was a softness to him whenever he told of it; an unspoken begging. She could see him in her mind, his eyes silently praying to the nothingness of space that the scars at his core would remain unchanged. He never liked to be touched without warning, and she could not force that upon him. He’d spent too much time tangled in lies and she could not betray him.

“I think you know,” Gaila spoke softly.

Jim looked somewhere between frustrated and confused, “I really don’t.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she assured him, turning to leave, “I’ve never met a kinder soul. And I doubt you have either.”

***

All Spock could sense was pain. Why he hadn’t anticipated it, he didn’t know, but the hazy memory of Kirk’s face had felt like some sort of promise of comfort. Yet his bones ached through and through, and when he cracked his eyes just barely open against the will of his pounding headache, which would surely morph into a migraine, it was nearly impossible to believe that he was laid out on a biobed. His ribs screamed and joints cracked at small awakening movements. And IV snaked into his arm, the site in which it pierced his skin itching.

The soreness was nearly worse than the initial injury, stiff like something ancient. There was a strange sensation that lay underneath, however, a kind of weight that drug him down, a weakness at his core. A twitch to find just what it may be sent a shock of pain running through him, and though he tried not to, a sound of pain escaped his lips. His eyes slipped shut again, pinching at the corners as he pressed his head back against the pillow, trying to smother the groan crawling up his throat. His finger gripped tightly to the blankets as the ache came to rest in his shattered ribs, feeling as if it had a pulse of its own.

As the readout of his heartbeat quickened, the machine gave a whine, not the blaring he was accustomed to, but certainly enough to grab attention. Why the half-Vulcan found himself dreading the moment that McCoy pushed open the curtain, he didn’t know. Nonetheless, a wave of relief seemed to wash over the southern doctor, but he did not allow that to slow his work.

Spock watched as he moved, feeling utterly pathetic as he lay, making a feeble endeavor to sit up. Leonard was alerted by the uncommon hiss of pain from his patient, turning as the half-Vulcan stopped mid-attempt, ghosting his broken ribs with a hand.

McCoy eased him back down, “You’re gonna be pretty sore, Spock. Take it easy.”

He looked to the machines at the head of the bed, “But it shouldn’t be this bad…”

The doctor’s eyes wandered to the line leading into the half-Vulcan’s arm, coming around the other side of the bed to inspect it. He made a small tutting noise as he adjusted the output, and once satisfied, returned to Spock’s opposite side. He shone a light in his patient’s eyes, who winced as it came. As Leonard pulled up a chair, mounting it backward (an odd tendency that Spock had noted in him) he sighed.

“Spock, what’s going on?”

The half-Vulcan shook his head in a cat-like manner, his headache showing the brief light shone into his irises no mercy. His voice was rough from disuse, “Pardon?”

“Your pain meds,” McCoy pointed to the machine he’d fixed, “Why’d you turn them off?”

Spock blinked, confused.

Leonard, in his endless patience, awaited a response for longer than Spock had anticipated. 

When several minutes passed in silence, the doctor’s tone was not scrutinizing, “Do you remember doing it at all?”

“No,” the half-Vulcan rasped. Frankly, he hadn’t a clue more than the doctor, perhaps even less so. It was uncommon for him, even after injury, to have a lapse in his memory. Though the details of his rescue were fuzzier than he would have pleased, he was certain he would have recalled waking, what trauma he did take to the head not seeming enough to have such a severe impact. 

This seemed to cross McCoy’s mind as well, standing and retrieving a tricorder from a drawer, waving it in the vicinity of his skull. Though his face certainly had its share of cuts and bruises, there was no surface damage that suggested a concussion. He’d had a sort of toxin in his system causing muscle spams, which certainly would account for his headache, but hadn’t seemed to be something that’d cause amnesia, let alone something so selective.

Leonard hummed, “I’ll look into it.”

The doctor turned, taking up a hypospray and pressing it into Spock’s neck, “For now, you just need to rest.”

As much as Spock detested such an assignment, he didn’t have the energy in him to fight, what was left in him having swiftly been put to work suppressing the pain. However, though it had been but a few minutes, he could already feel the morphine leech into his veins, tiredness spreading through him like ink blots on a page. He did not enjoy the feeling, and though he found himself unable to be certain whether or not it was he who turned their flow away, he could not blame himself for doing so.

It had a tendency to compromise his control and make him more suggestible than usual; though it turned him no more talkative than what was standard for him, the words that did leave his mouth were not always thought through. He’d yet to say anything rude, as far as he was aware, but the crossroad it made of his mannerism was odd. Gaila once said she’d heard him singing, though quietly, the lullaby that was once his mother’s, translated from Standard when he was born and sung to him every night for years. The moment lived as a dull memory in his mind, his voice was never as sweet as hers. 

What he didn’t commonly recall were the moments that Nyota had seen him cry in his sleep, a lamentation so soft and so quiet that no other could hear it. She said that he’d whisper to himself in Vulcanian, the sound spliced and sometimes backward, a muttering that not even she could understand. Though always searching the stars for more knowledge, this was something that Uhura would make no attempt to decode. It was a secret for midnight, a serenade for something without a pulse. She was never meant to know, and she found peace in its strangeness.

The half-Vulcan had never understood what she meant, having only ever known a substitute for tranquility, but to the steady monitor of his heartbeat and of those around him, there was an overwhelming feeling of life around him. Between it and the drowsiness coming into his veins, his eyes slipped shut again.

***

When Spock woke in the morning, it was nothing like the first time. His whole body was practically numb, the lack of pain feeling odd. Wrong, almost. He would have thought about it more had it not been for the sudden jolt of excitement coming from beside him. He opened his eyes, an odd stuffiness in his skull, the headache tamped down but not entirely gone, he tipped his head to the side: Gaia

She smiled at him, radiating joy, “I tried to come and visit you last night but I got off shift too late. So I figured that I’d come before.”

The half-Vulcan shuffled to sit up, still feeling oddly weak but taking the opportunity to break from a supine position. He looked at the Orion and quickly noted her somewhat unkempt appearance. She’d never been good at early mornings, but there was a shade to her cheek that he found strange. It took all but a moment of analyzing to note a cut on her lip as well, the blood, green like his, blending in with her skin.

“You have sustained several facial injuries,” he reported.

She giggled, “Uh, yeah. I guess I did.”

“Might I inquire as to how?” Spock asked, noting only after he’d said it that his response time was a touch too fast to be categorized as normal.

It was now that Gaila became slightly awkward, scratching the back of her neck as though there was something she didn’t wish to disclose. It was a touch suspicious, but Spock wrangled just enough control not to note his finding aloud.

He didn’t have to speak, however. The Orion knew better than most just what Todd meant to the half-Vulcan, and if he was on the ship, she’d rather Spock hear it from her before stumbling upon him in the hallways.

“I…uh…” she struggled to find the best way to say it, “Todd…Todd’s on the ship.”

Spock’s blood ran cold, pupils constricting as his eyes widened. He felt sick, and it seemed rather unlikely that the medications were at fault. He had questions, too many, but could not find the words to speak. He opened his mouth with the intention to ask, but found himself utterly useless in that respect, no sound coming out.

Gaila saw his toil, choosing to answer to spare him the effort, “We kinda got in a fight.”

That, however, only seemed to intensify his worry, the bruise on her cheek and scraped knuckles clicking in his mind, though he wished they hadn’t, “He assaulted you?”

The Orion laughed nervously, “Okay, uh, technically , I swung first.”

“Gaila, such an act of violence could potentially result in-”

“Suspension from duty,” she finished his sentence, “I know, I know.”

“I - I just couldn’t let him get away with it, okay?” she tried to clarify, “I think he deserved so much worse but I knew that you’d be even more upset about that, but I couldn’t just let him go without consequences.”

Before he could respond again, Gaila added to her explanation, “And yes, Jim knows, he and a couple of security officers broke it up.”

It was at the mention of Jim that the only bit of remorse struck her. She hadn’t explicitly told him about Spock and Clarkson, but it was only a matter of time before he figured it out. 

Spock, however, seemed to have already guessed, “You told him of my connection to Todd?”

“Not in detail,” she said awkwardly, “But he’ll probably figure it out.”

A ghost of a sigh left Spock’s lips, eyes going glassy in the way the Orion knew to spell out a spiral of worry.

“I’m sorry, Spock,” she tried, “I - it just came out and I said it before I thought. I didn’t use your name but - gods, I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize,” he said, dejected but trying his best to be sincere, “You did what you believed to be right.”

When his sentence finished, Gaila did not pick up the trail of words. They remained silent for several minutes, Spock becoming engrossed in his worries but voiced none of them. Something ached in Gaila’s heart. When she’d told the Captain that he’d figure it out soon enough, she thought he may have figured it out already. A kind of dawning realization that’d come to his eyes, one full of love that she had only ever seen him give to Spock. It was in every pat to the shoulder, every touch that fell onto the half-Vulcan’s sensitive body.

She shooed away the longing inside her for such affection, a channeled it into her words, “Spock, he loves you. And if he cares about you as much as I think he does, he’s not going to push you into telling him, but he’s always gonna be there if you want to.”

There was a melancholy that struck Spock to the core at her words. Jim. His Captain. His friend. The one he knew he wanted and pushed away. The past rang like a cracked bell through his mind, flashes of what he thought was love, but only proved to be pain. And then there was James. Soft, and bright, he shone like the sunset of his homeworld, and though its sandstone was gone, the delicate warmth of the coming night was something Spock still felt on his skin. And it came every time Kirk looked at him.

When he looked at Gaila, her gentle eyes and the face he’d known in his darkest moment, guilt took up the place pain often sat in his bones. The night they’d spent together, the Orion drunk and sobbing, not having known that the one she cared for the most would slip so easily out of reach, he could see how she saw Nyota, and he could not bring himself to take what she longed for. It felt like some act of abandonment, like leaving the one who trusted him to brave the cold by herself.

It was as if she could read his mind, “Tell him that you love him. I know you do. He’s a good person, I promise. What happened with Clarkson won’t happen again.”

“I do not wish to leave you,” Spock said, his voice so soft it was as if he’d truly be going somewhere.

The Orion rested a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle, “You’re not. You never could. Jim’s like the goddamn sun. He always has been. When I say you deserve him, that is the highest honor I can give you.”

Gaila wrapped her arms around him, holding him close like the night she learned of the nightmare she hadn’t seen, “Rest in his light, Spock.”

Chapter Text

Though it’d happened under several conditions, Spock was not forced to remain in sickbay for an extended period of time. After the unsolved ordeal with his pain medications, Leonard had concluded that it was most likely the disorientation that often plagued the half-Vulcan when he was in medbay, and figured that with his lack of life-threatening injuries, he could return to his quarters so long as he didn’t go the bridge (a term that Leonard had sold with the threat of keeping him inpatient for several weeks). Frankly, for the first time, Spock felt an odd absence of rebellion at such a statement, taking the opportunity and prescribed painkillers without any back-lip.

His quarters were dark and warm, a combination that reduced the intensity of his headache. With no room for a desk, Spock sat cross-legged at the edge of his bed completing what few assignments had been given to him. Though hoping was illogical, he wished that Jim may delegate more work to him, having found a strange block between himself and meditation. He didn’t care to spend days sleeping for hours on end, and work was perhaps his only hobby. He’d been grateful - possibly too grateful - when an article written by one of his science Lieutenants whistled into his padd, along with a short message requesting him to proofread the work. 

However, despite the strain that such work would sometimes put on his mind, challenging his l’tak teri to rear its ugly head, this was, as a human might say, his element. Which is to say that he’d hardly noticed the hours that had gone by, having not been able to focus for so long in quite some time. Having been subject to a once-over with a dermal regenerator prior to his discharge, the rash on his face and arms was gone for now, and without it, was no longer a distraction. His mind was so taken by thought that he’d just barely heard the knock that came at his door.  It’d taken him too long to register the sound, his mind only coming to at the second rapping. He was quick to stand, too quick as the world spun in his vision, and made his way to the door. Unlocking it, it slid open to reveal Kirk’s gentle smile looking back at him.

Still trying to catch up to the present, he had to suppress the touch of surprise, “Captain. May I assist you?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, “I just came to check in on you. I hadn’t heard from you or Bones all day.”

Spock panicked internally for a moment, “I apologize, did I miss a communication?”

“Oh, no no no,” Kirk waved a hand, “I guess you’re usually just a little defiant with this stuff. I thought I’d see you on the bridge.”

The half-Vulcan still seemed confused, unsure whether or not his absence was positive or negative. The blond seemed to sense it, giving him a good-natured pat on the back, “Don’t worry, it’s a good thing. You need time to rest and heal.”

Spock gave a quick nod before he realized the deficit in his manners, “I apologize, would you like to come in?”

Kirk didn’t seem to mind the momentary lapse, “Sure.”

The half-Vulcan turned, allowing Jim to come through the door, “Lights to 50%.”

Spock winced, starting to regret giving the order, but knowing that Jim would not care for his typically dark environment. The Captain, however, knew Spock better than the half-Vulcan believed and saw through his mask.

“Headache?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

Jim shrugged, “Your lights were off and now you look like you’re in pain. I take it that you have a headache.”

Spock did not want to bring Kirk any guilt or discomfort, “It is not severe.”

James saw through him, giving a soft smile, “Lights, 20%”

The room dimmed, dulling the edge of the hurt in the half-Vulcan’s skull. The blond’s eyes wandered to the padd resting atop the blankets, endearment warming his core. As problematic as it could be, he’d always found Spock’s unyielding capacity to work cute. He knew that he shouldn’t glorify something so unhealthy, but the half-Vulcan’s unwavering focus and constant persistence were undeniable.

“Anyhow,” Kirk leaned against the bulkhead that lead to their shared restroom, “I wanted to apologize for not coming by while you were in medbay. I meant to but then the admirals called to rip me a new one. But hey, we’ve still got the ship so how bad could it really be?”

Spock nodded, having always admired Jim’s constant optimism. Yet it’d never come without the whisper of worry in his chest. He loved the people he’d made his family like he’d lost one. Spock had spent long enough being hated that he could see it in another’s eyes when they suffered the same. Kirk had a kind of resilience that only came of unimaginable ruin. And the half-Vulcan’s katra ached to know what’d been burned, what’d been wrecked.

“Also, on that topic,” Jim’s demeanor turned a bit awkward, “Uh, I don’t know if you already heard about this, but there’s some discipline stuff we need to discuss. There was a fight.”

Spock was fairly certain he knew what was coming, “Might I presume the conflict to be that between Lieutenant Gaila Vro and Todd Clarkson?”

“Yes, actually,” James didn’t know why he was surprised that his First Officer already knew. Spock was never one to partake in gossip, while at the same time was highly observant, making for an odd tandem in which he would be either entirely oblivious or impossibly well-versed in the happenings of the crew’s lives after hours.

Kirk was curious, “How’d you hear about that?”

“Gaila came to visit me during the duration of my stay in sickbay. She briefed me on the incident,” Spock reported.

Why Jim felt guilty, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d never come by to visit his Commander, or perhaps it was the Orion that riddled him with regret, “Yeah. A couple of security officers broke it up and called me. From what I can gather, Gaila swung first.”

“That is correct,” Spock confirmed, hoping that both his and Gaila’s honesty would result in a more desirable outcome for all parties involved; he did not wish to see the Orion be kicked from the ship, or worse, Starfleet altogether.

“However, she also told me that Lieutenant Clarkson hurt someone she knew pretty badly. She didn’t tell me who, when, or why, but whatever the answer to all that is, there’s still a duality to this that we can’t ignore.”

The half-Vulcan nodded but said nothing. He hoped Kirk didn’t notice the tensing of his muscles or dilation of his pupils; standing allowed an out for the nervous spark beginning to make its way through his veins, but he didn’t know how long it would be satisfied.

“But,” Jim crossed his arms, “Something still has to be done.”

“Indeed,” Spock muttered, guilt sowing in his stomach.  He knew it should be him to face the consequences, having been the reason for Gaila’s actions. He bit his tongue, not knowing if it was to shut himself up or to will himself to speak. He was afraid and couldn’t stop it; he didn’t know how. He always seemed to talk at the worst times and say nothing when he needed to. Here, and now, he had no idea what to do. The codeine that coddled his fractures and hushed his worn joints fogged his mind, leaving him unable to weigh outcomes, not a single digit of probability adding up. 

“I was thinking that maybe they should do some kind of a task together, find some common ground,” Jim spoke.

“That seems to be an acceptable outcome,” the half-Vulcan breathed an internal sigh of relief. Most other captains would have invoked a harsher punishment, however, considering the relationship that strained the chasm between the Orion and Clarkson, this could prove to be just as bad. 

Jim nodded, remaining silent for a moment before letting out a heavy breath, rousing the half-Vulcan’s attention. Kirk noticed, looking up to meet Spock’s eyes, “Sorry, I’m just kinda lost in thought I guess.”

The half-Vulcan tipped his head, “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Jim shrugged, “What Gaila said just stuck with me. The way she talked, it was like the person Clarkson hurt is someone I know. I know what it's like to be hurt by someone, and if one of my friends has suffered like that… I don’t know, I just want to help them.”

The shame only strengthened inside Spock, burning hot in his diaphragm. He gritted his teeth as he tried to keep a cough down.

“I just feel helpless, y’know?” Kirk gestured with a hand, “Nobody deserves shitty people in their life.”

Spock nodded, though he did not fully agree. It’d been long enough that he knew he deserved every snarl and every bruise that’d come to him, every grip that strangled his throat, and every handprint that’d been burned into his skin. 

Kirk carried on, lightening the conversation as he told of his call with the admirals. Though it’d been serious and hardly a joking matter, Spock had found that his Captain paid them no mind. He was, as a human might say, a free spirit, and impossible to keep down. The half-Vulcan let himself become lost in the sound of Jim’s voice, the way it rose and fell like a song. Despite the medication that coursed through him, this was the first moment he felt his muscles soften, the stiff tenseness inside depart. When he looked at Kirk, who lived like he was his own galaxy, Spock revolved in his light.

***

Gamma shift was well underway by the time Kirk bade Spock farewell, taking his leave as a shortcut through their shared bathroom and into his quarters. The mirth in his veins waned once he was alone, and why, he was fairly certain he knew. There was something that’d shifted in his First Officer when he mentioned the conflict between Clarkson and Gaila, something too grotesque to be mere concern.

He’d known Spock long enough to see through at least a layer of his mask, but this; this had nearly permeated through it. He’d tensed, gone rigid and silent. He was often quiet, of course, but what’d come over him was far more than what was normal, like he was afraid. His mind wouldn’t cease in its scrambling, reaching and lunging for anything to grip, trying to evade what it knew.

Yet the effort was in vain. He could hear Gaila’s voice in his head: I’ve never met a kinder soul.

He remembered sitting up late on the observation deck, sobbing into his knees as Spock sat beside him. He rattled off about the hell that’d stood in place of childhood, the starvation that replaced joy. The half-Vulcan remained with him until the blond had become too tired to carry on. Upon which, Spock picked him up and carried him back to his quarters, settling his Captain in for the night before retreating to his own room.

He remembered all the times he’d woken in sickbay before the donation of Kahn’s blood into him, his body still breakable and vulnerable, but no less stubborn. Spock stayed with him until Leonard shooed him out. Even then, he’d always send updates from the bridge, just as Jim liked.

He remembered the time after the transfusion, in which Kirk found himself barely able to rise in bed, let alone go to see his First Officer. But that hadn’t mattered: the half-Vulcan barely left his room for a month, only ever going to get the blond another blanket, or whatever else he needed. He hadn’t even spent the entire time with his Captain’s lively company, having stayed for the first two weeks beside a man in a coma, barely sleeping for the worry that he’d wake up alone was stronger than the exhaustion. Kirk would never forget the moment he opened his eyes, the world dark outside and Spock dozing in the chair at his bedside, desperately trying to stay awake. When James’s blue eyes met his, it was like dawn had come at midnight, and Kirk had never known a gaze so gentle.

But these memories, the kind that filled him with light and made his inside fuzzy, were not to last. There was a sudden epiphany, a moment in which the pieces of this cracked picture shifted into place. How had he not seen it before?

When he’d asked Clarkson if he knew Spock, that response aligned too well for comfort. 

I know him very, very well.

The malice that laced the words coursed a shiver down Jim’s spine, and the dread grew larger in his chest. How had he not seen it before?

The way Spock’s spine went rigid at every touch, how he’d always make himself smaller every time he was backed into a corner, even if they were only sparing and Kirk would never hurt him. There was something in his eyes each time Jim was drunk, his every miscalculated movement causing the half-Vulcan to flinch. It was those sorts of memories that came with the hangover - a recollection of his childhood, reflected in someone else. 

It was that past that made him feel as though he should have seen it before now. How had he not? He knew what came of the beaten, he was among them, after all. He knew the twitches, the fear. Perhaps it was that which prevented him from speaking. The worry of knowing that another had suffered the same hell. 

But why did it have to be Spock?

Was there ever a time that he’d known peace? Or was his existence just a battle, and never the ceasefire? 

Jim flipped open his communicator, sending off a message before pocketing it, and making his way out of his quarters. It was getting late, but Gaila had been charged with watching over Spock’s wolverine while he was on medical leave, and if she had half the dedication as her friend, she’d still be there. When he thought of the Orion, he wondered how much she’d seen. Clearly, she knew something more than he did about Spock and Clarkson - she never would have said something if she didn’t. But his mind still wouldn’t cease in its racing, frantic for what she knew, and not knowing how to ask Spock. 

When he arrived at the science deck, most labs were dark, save for a single room in biology. Kirk made his way over, seeing the distinct ginger flounce of Gaila’s hair from behind. He knocked on the bulkhead, but she didn’t jump. 

She carefully picked up the small wolverine, placing it back in its terrarium and securing it shut. Gaila looked at him expectantly. Silence with her felt unnatural.

She broke it first, “I got your message.”

“It was Spock, wasn’t it?”

“See? You figured it out,” she leaned against the counter.

“What did he have to do with Clarkson, Gaila?” Jim asked, his tone harder than he intended it to be.

“What do you think they had to do with each other?” 

Jim wasn’t in the mood for a guessing game, but knew that convincing Gaila just to tell him would be far more tedious, “They were… friends? Good friends?”

“No,” was Gaila’s only hint.

Kirk huffed, trying to rack his brain with whatever he had. When he stumbled upon a second answer, his blood ran cold and he prayed it wasn’t right, “Were they together?”

The Orion looked something akin to mournful as she nodded, “Smart boy.”

“No,” Jim didn’t want to believe it, “No, that can’t be true.”

“It is, Jim,” she assured him.

“But when? Why?” the Captain’s mind was engrossed by a flurry of thoughts; questions, memories, trying to recall if he’d ever seen the signs.

In an odd moment, Gaila, who was often spunkier, exuded calmness in a manner that he’d only seen in his First Officer, “They were dating at the academy. It didn’t go very well for Spock.”

“No shit,” Jim snapped, raking a hand through his hair.

He sighed, trying to center himself before speaking again. None of this was Gaila’s fault, and she’d done nothing to deserve his anger. If anything, she should be the one growling at him. He’d spent so much time around Spock - around her friend - that he knew he should have seen it in him. There is a kind of fear, a kind of melancholy, that lives inside the ones who have known corrupted love. It is a wound like no other, a crack in the soul. 

Kirk had spent years of his life with affection that only came in bursts and never lasted long enough. In turn, he’d loved very few around him. In no way was one trauma worse than the other, but rather, two different breeds of pain that reaped in different ways. Perhaps the biggest alteration was that Spock had loved the one who wrought his nightmares. And when one has gone so long without love, they will cling to whatever has survived the storm, even if its fragments stab in. Jim knew this too, having spent so many years beside a different body each night, trying to find the one that filled his splintered soul with their warmth.

The guilt came when he realized that a body, colder than his, was what healed him. He’d never had to touch him. He’d never had to touch Spock. His presence, emanating the peace Jim had falsely assumed went to his core, calmed in a way like no other. Yet the half-Vulcan didn’t feel the same way. It wasn’t fair to force his feelings upon another, but the terrible duality was that he didn’t deserve to live in silence either. As realization settled in, he could not imagine so much as trying to utter those sacred words to his First Officer. 

What was it like the last time someone voiced their love to him? 

What kind of trust could be left over after that?

Would he think James was lying?

It was as if Gaila could hear his thoughts, “He’ll hear you out, Jim. If there’s something you need to tell him.”

Kirk didn’t want to spill to Gaila, knowing that they were hardly close enough for that. Frankly, after what’d happened with the Kobayashi Maru, he knew that was something he rightfully deserved, “No, it’s nothing.”

The Orion crossed her arms, “You love him. And you’re scared to say those words to his face.”

James was truthfully surprised - Gaila was good with these things, mostly on account of her many social connections, but that tie between them was one that they let rot and wither with resentment, “How’d you know?”

“Oh, please,” Gaila rolled her eyes, “Aside from it being incredibly obvious, I’m Spock’s best friend.”

Kirk was a touch embarrassed, “He told you?”

She raised an eyebrow, “Why is that so surprising?”

“I don’t know,” Jim was growing more flustered, “I guess I just never knew you two were friends before. But, opposites attract, I guess.”

“You would know,” Gaila’s tone was soft in a way that was seldom directed towards him, “You’re close to him too.”

The blond sighed, “Yeah, but, not like that.”

The Orion was quiet for a moment, weighing what to do. Though she was never one to forget, it would not kill her to forgive. She knew that the tension between her and the Captain was often upsetting to the half-Vulcan, even if he never voiced it. Yet she could not disclose all of the sacred secrets Spock had entrusted to her.

She took a deep breath, “You just need to be upfront about it. If he doesn’t feel the same, so be it, but at least you’re not dancing around each other anymore.”

Jim hummed, it was not a bad idea, but some selfish part of him wanted more than anything for his First Officer to feel the same. He’d been in love with him for so long, having slipped in ever so softly, a gentle crescendo that’d come with each shot they’d taken for each other, every nighttime chess game. Ever since Kirk had begun to respect the Commander, he’d found galaxies in his eyes, and a constellation of scars on his hands. It seemed impossible to fall out of love with him like he had his own gravity. James felt no need to break that pull. Such a delicate force, the security that came of it wrapped like a safety blanket around the blond.

Kirk didn’t believe he’d ever be able to let it go.

***

Spock sat quietly at the edge of a biobed. Leonard had requested that he come first thing in the morning the night prior, and though it was to be expected, there was an unshakable worry in the half-Vulcan’s veins. As his mind had become preoccupied with all the work he need to catch up on, in addition to the stress that came from merely walking the halls, fearful that he’d run into Todd, the rash was quick to return, as was the makeup to hide it. In addition, having found the painkillers to be interfering with his mental capacity, he’d ceased taking them. It was not in violation of the agreement between him and Doctor McCoy; he no longer needed them, and it was illogical to continue. Though he had some pain from his injuries, it was not enough to constitute such a potent drug, and the ache in his joints was not worth the daze.

He did not have to wait long before hearing McCoy’s distinct accent, “Good morning, Spock.”

The half-Vulcan nodded in response.

Leonard shut the curtain behind him, shielding them from the other happenings of sickbay, “So, how have you been feeling?”

“I am Vulcan. I do not ‘feel’,” Spock droned.

“That’s not what I meant,” Leonard sighed, “How’s your pain?”

“Manageable.”

McCoy opened up his padd, “Are you still taking the medication I prescribed?”

“Negative,” Spock reported, “It was unnecessary and therefore illogical to continue.”

“Fine then,” The doctor didn’t try to fight it, knowing that this sort of Spock-ish rebellion was bound to happen. He took his victories for this go-around and settled. Besides, this wasn’t the entirety of why he’d called his often wayward patient in.

McCoy pulled a chair to face Spock, taking a seat, “There’s actually something different I wanted to discuss with you today.”

The half-Vulcan tipped his head, awaiting whatever Leonard had to say.

He took the prompt as intended, “I know that as far as things go, you’ve never really had an easy life, and you’ve got a lot of trauma, most of which I assume is unresolved. And, I get the feeling that other things’ve happened to you, and you’re just not really letting on about it, even though it needs to get out.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, not entirely certain as to what he was on about.

Leonard propped a leg atop his knee, “Spock, what I’m getting at is that I think that therapy would be beneficial for you.”

At Spock’s silence and lack of even a  subtle reaction, the doctor clarified, “Like talk therapy. With a psychiatrist.”

That, on the other hand, garnered a response. The slight knitting of his brow and subtle down-turn of his lips, something most wouldn’t have noticed, but Leonard had been observing him long enough to tell. Going through the death and revival of your best friend with someone tended to do that to people.

“I am not in need of such services,” the half-Vulcan said a touch too quickly.

McCoy let out a soft sigh, “Listen, I’m not going to force you into anything right now, but if I think that all of this repressed stuff is interfering with your ability to work and get along with other people, I have the clearance to make you do it. I don’t want to threaten you with this, but you need to know that there’s that possibility.”

“It is not affecting my capacity to complete my duties,” Spock said, voice devoid of emotion.

Leonard had become familiar with this tendency; locking up and shutting out his human half, or at least, more so than usual, whenever he was confronted with something that may impede his control. He didn’t like pushing his patients - even Spock - into treatments they didn’t want to attend. But he knew both his line of work and the half-Vulcan well enough by now to see that something more than what he’d seen had happened to him.

McCoy leaned back, trying to relax as much as he could, hoping it’d rub off on the Commander, “Spock, frankly, I’m not worried about your duties. I’m worried about you. No matter what you go through, I know you can still work at a science station. My concern is in the social aspect of your life.”

Spock bit the inside of his cheek, not liking where this was going, “I am fulfilled by my interpersonal relationships.”

Leonard raised his eyebrows, “I know you don’t like beating around the bush any more than I do, so I’m going to be blunt here: you are the most antisocial person I’ve ever met. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with being an introvert, but you’re a long way beyond that. You know as well as I do that there needs to be a bond between commanding officers and subordinates for a successful partnership, and I’ve watched you avoid crew gatherings and functions in a dozen different ways.”

There was an edge of bitterness to the half-Vulcan’s voice, though small enough to barely be noticeable, “I am not a recluse, Doctor.”

“And that’s not what I’m trying to say,” Leonard clarified, “But what I am getting at is that you isolate yourself.”

Spock wanted to retort, but a voice in his head whispered that a counterargument would be a lie. Yet at the same time, the accusations did not compute. He spoke to Jim as well as Nyota and Gaila. He spent time beyond work hours with them.

It was as though McCoy could hear his patient's thoughts, “Spock, you’ve come a long way since I’ve met you, don’t doubt that. But you still have a long way to go, and a lot of unresolved stuff. It’s not going to be quick or easy, but if I’m sure of anything, it’s that you’re willing to take on a challenge. Now, you don’t have to give me a response today, but I’d like you to think about it.”

The half-Vulcan nodded, his mind already racing. Nonetheless, his mask remained uncracked, holding itself together with little more than an illogical faith. The doctor said something more, but Spock didn’t hear it. When he was allowed to leave, he did so, but the faces in the hall went unseen. He reached the bridge with little more than instinct, taking up his station and awaiting his tasks and orders. Even Jim’s arrival and all the sacred light it brought did not shake his daze.

Where was the logic in spewing his past to a stranger? Why even take the time and spend the energy on something that he’d learned to live with? If it didn’t bother him like it used to, why cast it out? The trauma had become as much a piece of him as his heart to his veins; to spend time on something so trivial was illogical. 

Yet even as he turned to work, his thoughts taunted him. His vision fooled him each time the turbolift slid open, waiting to see Todd walk through them. It was always how Spock pictured him: in that bloodstained doorway, always coming or going, never staying. But it didn’t really matter. He’d gotten used to it.

***

Jim had requested that they play chess after their shift. Spock, finding himself exhausted for no apparent reason, declined. Instead, he sat cross-legged on his meditation mat, the scent of incense unusually absent after he’d found himself too tired to be bothered with it. In a similar sense, while many Vulcans preferred to meditate in the dull glow of candlelight, Spock was not among them. Rather, he often found himself in darkness with only the glimmer of starlight to accompany him. This way, he felt the ebbing energy of the universe itself, as though he had a place, rather than being an unwanted piece to a machine he’d never asked to be a part of.

Today, the trance that came from his meditation was fickle, drifting just out of reach. It was an uncommon occurrence, mind you, with the retreat into his mind often being a peaceful one. It would seem rather counterintuitive if one took its vicious demeanor into account, but here, both Spock and his thoughts existed on the same plane. Here, one did not taunt the other with the trauma of the past nor force him to call upon his ghosts.

But today, it was unruly and insubordinate. It flashed the possibilities of the future behind his eyelids: meeting Todd in the hallway, a relapse of the man’s hate. There were hundreds of outcomes, each seemingly worse than the last. When the half-Vulcan could take the touch of calloused hands and sight of hazel eyes no longer, he snapped out of the thin veil that’d rested over him, breath hitching as the static world around him came back.

The half-Vulcan, in wake of his stupor, let out a soft sigh, rising from the floor. His bones creaked as they always did, and at this moment, Spock did not bemoan them. They were a reminder of the constants throughout his life, and though most were painful, the ache was one he had grown accustomed to. They constantly beckoned that things have been far worse, and this was not his darkest moment. It was an odd kind of comfort, but comfort no less.

Spock rolled up his meditation mat, returning it to the drawer beneath his bed. He settled atop the sheets, the mattresses in standard crew quarters were not the most luxurious, but he’d grown used to being less than the best and could live with it all the same. Despite the ache in his bones, he reached up to the ceiling with an open palm in the same way he would as a child. Perhaps the only time the atmosphere looked the same as that of his lost home was in these moments. A dark sky was a dark sky, and Spock welcomed the night like no other.

It was in this way, imagining the past as though it could be the future that drowsiness came heavily to his eyes. All too acquainted with insomnia, Spock took this small mercy without the thought of what may mock him in unconsciousness and allowed his eyes to slip shut.

***

Spock could barely remember the nightmare. All that remained were flashes of color and the blur of movement, but more noticeably, an unshakeable quiver in his bones; fear that’d festered inside him for years, brought up by his subconscious in the dead of night. He couldn’t recall if he’d torn the sheets off once he’d woken or not, but the only clarity his body offered was that of the sickness twisting and turning his insides. The blind struggle to the bathroom felt both fleeting and impossibly slow, the slump against the cabinet the only proof of a stopping point, even though his head spun as though he were still moving - whipped around and around again and again.

The half-Vulcan ducked his head over the wastebin, heaving up only stomach acid. But that rejection still was not enough for his body to convince itself that it was purged of the fear, keeping Spock hunched over on the ground, tears unyielding in their pursuit down his face. A small whimper left his throat, his aching spine screeching out at the awful posture. The only feeling in his body was pain, ubiquitous and constant, each organ and joint, every muscle and bone was penetrated to their core.

He didn’t know how long he remained that way either, his sense of time was nothing but ruins. Like the astral clock of a ravaged world, so broken and shattered that even the constellations left it behind. All he knew was that in the echoing midst of his dark and pain, light akin to the sun surrounded him all at once. Then, the touch of something kind on his shoulder. Or rather, someone.

Shaking, Spock picked himself up, and found  Jim’s eyes, in their cerulean glory, held a cross between horror and concern.

His breath picked up again with the sickness in his stomach, but he still found himself unable to move. The illness crossed with guilt, the white static in his mind bombarded by a slew of questions that he did not have the strength to implore; why was he here? Had Spock woken him? Would he leave if he asked?

When the flicker of bravery that may have allowed the half-Vulcan to ask came, it was smothered ruthlessly by another wave of nausea, dry heaving into the trash can again, Kirk’s gentle hand stroking his back.

When the bout was over as quickly as it had begun, Jim, ever talkative and curious said nothing. It was strange for someone like him to exist quietly, but alas, here he was. There was no small talk nor fidgeting, only him. Spock did not like it. He’d become accustomed to the Captain’s voice and his constant motion. It reminded him of the home he’d lost; a dry wind blowing to sweep up the sand, the landscape looking different with every dawn and every dusk. Warm and bright in a way that Spock had thought nothing could replicate, he did not mind Jim proving him wrong.

How he sustained himself in a daydream of the dead for so long, he didn’t know, but in the wake of the gentle strokes of Kirk’s hand, sleep, that ever-elusive beast, fluttered in his eyelids until darkness came.

***

When Spock came to, he did not recall much of the night before. The memories dripped in slowly until his eyes opened, finding himself lying on the bathroom floor. Yet this was not like most times. This time, it was not unyielding tile upon which his bones rested but the soft warmth of another body. It was with this gentleness that violence came; a rush of memories so strong that it arrived with a concussive current. Caught in a riptide, Spock yanked himself away from Kirk like he was the shore, the blond’s soft snoring halting sharply, taking a deep inhale as he came to.

“Spock?” he mumbled, blinking several times, “What…why…?”

It only took a moment before he too was struck with realization. For Jim, however, it was not such a violent epiphany. It was soft - gentle, even - like that knowing had been there since the dawn of time and would remain until the end. Blue eyes found brown, and each gaze lingered for a moment too long. The half-Vulcan met it with fear; the shameful olive blush on his cheeks and cat-like twitch of his ear. But James met it with grace. He met it with a hand extended outwards, and his heart on his sleeve.

When Spock did not understand the reach as an invitation, Kirk gave a soft smile, words utterly useless in this world. Neither man knew what time it was, but it could not have been before 05:00. And in this time, when nothing and no one was alive, two lost boys found solace in one another; sat on a cold floor as each silently reminisced on the lives of trauma, the peace that followed in its wake was odd, if not out of place. Yet it didn’t matter.

The half-Vulcan looked back to the hand that remained outstretched, endlessly patient. His fingers, spindly and shaking, found their way to calloused warmth. This time, the roughness didn’t feel like a touch of death; a life sentence could be seen in two different ways.

“There you go,” Kirk said softly, the words sounding something like praise.

The half-Vulcan could only panic for a moment before ebbing rushes of calm found their way through skin, their interlocking hands becoming something like cables, bringing life to what was dead.

“Why?” Spock asked quietly.

“Because I love you,” Jim’s hand tightened ever so slightly, the pressure just enough for comfort but not so tight that the half-Vulcan could not escape if he wanted to,  “And god, I’ve tried to hide it but I can’t. You don’t have to love me back; it's okay. But I just need you to know because I can’t keep it pent up inside anymore.”

His First Officer searched his eyes, for what he couldn’t be certain, but the voices in his head beckoned that he was lying. How could it be true? How could someone love him: a halfbreed, a mistake? A waste of space, a lying snake. How?

But if he’d learned anything, it was that the heart he tried to smother and silence was capable of affection, too capable. It loved anything that touched him softly, anything that didn’t bare its teeth at the sight of him. It was stupid and uncontrolled, but it didn’t frolic so much as it danced, peaceful and fluid like something delicate. It was the one part of him that was not armored, as much as he knew it should be caged. Yet he could never bring himself to do it. 

When he looked into Kirk’s eyes, it rose like a phoenix from the rubble within, and against all odds, still soared on clipped wings. 

“I…” Spock’s voice faded to silence for all but a moment, the sudden loss of the strength he needed to speak in the wake of shock.

But it was not lost for long, “I love you as well.”

A soft smile came to Jim’s lips, a cross of adoration and relief. His eyes flicked to Spock’s cracked lips for all but a moment before returning to meet his gentle gaze.

“Can I kiss you?” the Captain asked.

His First Officer’s thoughts came to a halt. Never asked such a question before, he remained voiceless in surprise for a moment, “If you wish.”

The contact was delicate, Jim’s warm lips against his, slow and steady. Spock would admit that this was something he didn’t know how to do, having never gotten the ask for it himself. The feeling that came with it blossomed like a cool dawn in his chest, something new yet familiar. For once, he didn’t feel the need to analyze it, only the want to remain.