A/N: There had to be more fallout between Kirk and Spock in the wake of Amok Time than we ever saw on screen. After all, one isn't almost strangled to death by your best friend – or almost strangles your best friend to death – without repercussions, right? In sickbay both were still shell-shocked by how things had turned out, but what happened later, when each had time to really think about what had transpired? Each would have their own hurdles and emotional baggage to overcome. How could either learn to trust the other – or himself – ever again?
This story was born out of ideas from a free write from several years ago entitled 'Nightmares' that was never completed, and was helped along by the song 'St. Christopher' (On My Way) by Michael Logen.
Beta: T'Paya and Elessar1201 both offered insight on this piece - sometimes diametrically opposed, sometimes on the same page, but they both helped me to make this better.
Perdition's Flames
The buzzer to his cabin stirred him out of his self-absorption and put a damper on the dark thoughts that had been consuming him. He depressed a switch, disengaging the lock. "Come," he called softly, butterflies dancing about his ribcage as he considered the identity of his unexpected guest.
The door slid aside to reveal his CMO, a bottle and two glasses in hand. Kirk sighed inwardly. Fortunately, he'd be spared having to deal with that for the moment.
"I come bearing gifts," the doctor announced, hefting the bottle and glasses and depositing them on the desk before Kirk.
The captain waved McCoy into the chair opposite his. "I'd ask what the occasion is, but I think we both know the answer to that already," he snapped, a little more gruffly than he intended.
The blue eyes instantly zeroed in on his. "Which is precisely why I thought you could use a drink," McCoy answered evenly, deftly filling the glasses. He held one out to his CO. Kirk grasped it, steadily holding the doctor's gaze, attempting to keep the turmoil raging within him from McCoy's discerning eyes.
The doctor raised his own glass. "Here's to you, Jim. Beats me how you always manage it – you're like the proverbial cat with nine lives – but I'm just glad you're still with us."
"This time I have you to thank for that," Kirk responded immediately, toasting the doctor as well and taking a quick swallow. He grimaced as the fiery liquid burned a path down his throat.
Silence settled over the room like a thick fog. Kirk was the first to break it. "How's Spock, Bones?" His voice was soft, resigned—and slightly hoarse.
"Honestly, I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since you two left sickbay, not that I expected to. I'm sure he's dealing with some pretty heavy guilt over what he almost did today." The doctor paused, sipping at his own drink. "You know he won't come to me with any problem that has even the barest hint of emotional overtones. However, I'm not surprised that the two of you haven't discussed it yet, either. This time, even your sheer force of will won't be able to overcome the fact that he's not ready to talk about it yet."
Frustration rose in Kirk like the surging of an angry sea; frustration that to his surprise was rapidly eclipsed by relief. It was unsettling. He was used to being in control at all times when it came to his feelings, not all over the map. He focused intently on the doctor's face. "It's certainly not for lack of trying on my part. I invited him to dine with me in my quarters tonight, hoping that we could clear the air, but he declined." Kirk swallowed, fighting against the anguish that had now shuffled to the fore. "Hell, at this point, I'm not even sure I'm ready," he admitted softly.
McCoy chewed his lower lip before answering. "He tried to kill you, Jim. You know as well as I do that he'll have a tough time coming to grips with that." A beat. "And so will you."
Kirk glanced sharply at the doctor but remained obstinately silent, finally dropping his gaze to the desk below.
"He tried to strangle you, Jim, and he almost succeeded. You mean to tell me that doesn't bother you, even a little?" McCoy asked gently.
Kirk looked away, drained his glass. Felt again the inexorable stricture of his windpipe, his futile attempts to draw breath as the world around him gradually faded from view. With a monumental effort he shook off these pervasive thoughts, refusing to allow them the upper hand. "I'd be a liar if I said it didn't give me pause, but I know it wasn't his fault, Bones. He couldn't control what was happening to him. If I blame anyone, it's T'Pring for putting him in that situation in the first place, or T'Pau for allowing it to happen. She was in charge, yet was deliberately vague about the details concerning the challenge until it was too late."
He met the doctor's eyes again, unable to quell the anger smoldering in his own. "And T'Pring was only concerned with what was best for her. She didn't even consider how it would affect Spock." He took a deep breath, reaching for calm. "Is that how things are normally conducted, or was it done simply because Spock is a hybrid? You heard him plead with T'Pau to forbid letting me participate, and she ridiculed him for it; implied that if he were a full-blooded Vulcan he wouldn't have done it." He worked to quash the bitterness the memory stirred in him. "Frankly, for all their talk of logic and non-violence, for all the airs they put on about being the most peaceful race in the galaxy, I expected more from them today. Spock would never behave like that. He always puts the good of others well before his own needs. It was totally uncalled for. There was no reason to make him suffer like that, especially in front of others."
"No argument here, Jim. You know me – I have a hard time understanding them at their most rational, but dealing with a bunch of irrational Vulcans? It boggles the mind."
A wave of doubt shot through Kirk like a phaser blast. McCoy had been right. He needed time to sort this through, too. When Spock had refused his invitation he'd been ashamed to admit that the most pressing emotion he'd felt was relief, not disappointment or concern. Despite the reasonable part of him knowing that Spock couldn't be held accountable for his actions, the prospect of spending time alone with the Vulcan had been rather intimidating. Today, for the first time, he had witnessed the awesome power of the Vulcan's great strength, unleashed and totally unrestrained. It had been a very sobering experience, and he realized he didn't like the feeling. Spock could snuff out his life with little more effort than snuffing out a candle. And yet, he knew Spock would never do so intentionally; would never harm anyone or anything unless his mental faculties were compromised. It didn't mean the potential wouldn't be there in the future, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now, all that mattered was making sure Spock knew in no uncertain terms that Kirk still believed in him; still wanted Spock in his life.
"I need to talk to him, Bones. Make him understand that I don't hold him responsible." Kirk climbed to his feet and was heading for the door to his cabin when McCoy's voice brought him up short.
"No! You need to give him some time; let him work through this on his own terms. If you want my expert medical opinion, it would be best to follow his lead and let him stew for a while. He'll discuss it with you when he's ready and not before. The more you push, the further you'll drive him away."
Kirk stopped, spun on his heel to face the doctor. "You know he'll beat himself up for this, Bones. He won't be able to forgive himself. It won't matter to him in the least that he wasn't in his right mind at the time."
Suddenly, the thought of losing Spock overwhelmed him. The fear and vulnerability that had plagued him earlier paled in comparison. He wouldn't allow that to happen, under any circumstances. "He needs to know that I've forgiven him at least."
"Agreed, but not just yet. Last week when I brought all of this to your attention you were the one who told me to leave him alone. 'That just sounds like Mister Spock in one of his contemplative phases,' you said, implying that I should let him work through whatever was eating him on his own."
"That was before he tried to kill me, Bones. You know as well as I do that he won't be able to get past that without some help."
"And what about you?" McCoy shifted in his seat. Concerned blue eyes met his. "Can you get past this?"
"I already have," Kirk stated flatly, and realized with a jolt that he meant it. "I … don't … hold … him … responsible … Bones," he assured the doctor assertively, leaning on the desk, garnering his CMO's gaze.
McCoy softened his tone. "I'm aware of that, Jim, but this is Spock we're talking about. His brain isn't wired like ours. Even if you tell him that now, he won't hear it, not really. Besides," McCoy continued, switching gears, "his hormones are still all out of whack. It'll take another twelve to twenty-four hours for things to start to settle down for him, and at least a week for everything to wash out of his system completely. There's no sense in talking to him until he can process what you're saying rationally."
Kirk reseated himself; cupped his chin in his fist. He hadn't considered that at all. Absently the fingers of his other hand grazed his chest. He shivered as he remembered the feel of the lirpa slicing through his flesh, the crazed eyes of the animal who had glared at him wearing his best friend's face. Forcing those images to the back of his mind he focused on McCoy again. "What do you mean by his hormone levels are too high? Is he a danger to the crew? Do I need to pull him from duty; confine him to his quarters?"
"I simply mean he's still emotionally compromised. The acute phase will be over in the next half day or so, with things tapering off during the course of the next week." McCoy leaned back in his chair, punctuating his words with the wave of a hand. "It's more akin to suffering through mood swings in a human rather than being violent. He'll have a much harder time of keeping his feelings in check than usual."
The doctor rubbed the back of his neck before continuing. "I've done some research – not that there's a whole lot of information out there on the subject, mind you – but what I've found indicates that he's beyond that violent stage now. He should be able to do his shifts without a problem, although he may ride some of the junior officers harder than usual." McCoy puffed out his cheeks. "Man, I'd hate to be in Chekov's shoes for the next week," the surgeon muttered under his breath. He grinned at Kirk. "However, you know as well as I do that the best medicine for Spock will be throwing himself into his work. It'll take a computer to heal a computer."
Kirk shot the doctor a stern look, watching with satisfaction as McCoy slipped into CMO mode once again. "Just don't go pushing his buttons, Jim – emotional buttons, that is. Give him some time to get himself back under control before you go charging in where angels – or the rest of us mere humans – fear to tread."
"All right, Bones – you win this round. I'll back off for now, but come tomorrow all bets are off."
oooOOOooo
He awoke, heart hammering in his side, a thin sheen of sweat covering his brow. The sweat was unusual, but not unexpected – in spite of (or perhaps due to) the events of today the flood of hormones coursing through his body was still at improperly high levels. While the immediate threat to his life had passed, it would take eight point three days for them to totally dissipate.
But this wasn't what had caused him to start from an exhausted sleep. It was the image – that image – horrifying and unbelievable, that had jolted him from an uneasy slumber. The same one he'd seen on the hot, red sands of his family's place of Koon-ut-kal-if-fee when the green haze clouding his vision had lifted and the creature within had fled his soul.
The deathly pale, gray face swam before his eyes, lifeless, lolling haphazardly in the strap of the ahn-woon wrapped tightly around its neck. He was engulfed by the acrid smell of singed velour and scorched human skin commingled with that of iron-based blood.
He sat up abruptly, brushing a shaking hand across his eyes, hoping to chase away that upon which he could not bear to look.
"Lights, twenty percent," he called into the gloom. The atypical tremor in his voice attested to just how deeply the dream had affected him. As the red illumination broke softly over the room, his eyes were drawn to his desk, the crushed computer terminal another stark reminder of just what he had been capable of doing in the throes of his unpredictable biology.
With mounting dread, he swung his feet to the floor; thrust himself up on wobbly legs which deposited him in the chair before his desk. He drew a steadying breath, glancing down at his hands – hands that had almost done the unthinkable today.
The hours that had passed since awakening from the frenzied emotional chaos of the Plak Tow had been a blur, along with the rapid shuffle of intense feelings that had bombarded him since that inconceivable moment. Horror, crippling remorse, resignation, elation, burning shame, and lastly fear.
While the others had long since passed, the fear continued to stalk him like a ravenous le-matya. No amount of meditation had been able to banish it. He had almost killed his captain, his friend. Suddenly he found it nearly impossible to breathe.
Was it really almost, or had he done the unthinkable? The images of that gray, lifeless face became juxtaposed with that of the smiling one he'd seen in sickbay, one constantly superseding the other until he was unsure which represented the true reality. As it were, his muddled brain attempted to find a simple, reasonable answer to that which for the moment remained maddeningly unclear. The logical portion of his brain argued that all he had to do was ask the computer for the captain's current location, but one glance at the destroyed interface on his desk highlighted the futility of that notion.
Another vision sprang to mind: They were in the turbolift after shift. Jim, displaying his utmost faith in Spock, had invited him to dine in the captain's quarters tonight. He'd immediately declined. He was not yet ready to face his captain, or to discuss what had almost happened. And neither was Jim, in spite of his captain's actions to the contrary. Spock had sensed the man's relief, Kirk's best efforts to conceal it notwithstanding. But was this an accurate representation of the facts, or merely wishful thinking on his part?
In his mind's eye, another scene played out:
"Live long and prosper, Spock."
"I shall do neither. I have killed my captain, and my friend."
Was this, or the image in the turbolift the correct one? Which signified the true reality? He found himself trembling again, his right hand shaking as if it had a will of its own, twitching uncontrollably as it had done for the past week.
Still not well, his mind told him. Still unable to process things logically. It made his uncertainty all that much more acute. He couldn't trust either memory. His subconscious and waking mind each offered a different version of reality.
There was only one way to discern the facts. A glance at his chronometer told him Jim would have long since gone to bed. Most assuredly, given the events of today, he was convinced McCoy would have insisted on it.
While a portion of his brain argued that if he had killed Kirk he'd be in the brig now, not his quarters, there was a part of him that still needed the irrational, purely emotional reassurance that his captain was still alive, still breathing. Rising to his feet he padded toward the bathroom he shared with Jim. His footfalls were muffled by the thin layer of carpet blanketing the floor of his quarters. The transition to cold durasteel underfoot alerted his addled brain to the fact that he had crossed the threshold and entered the common space.
Once again, his logical side snapped at him. And just what is it you are planning to do? Enter his cabin without permission? Wake the man from a sorely-needed rest to assuage your feelings of culpability? Given your reprehensible behavior down on the planet, can you imagine how he'd feel to awaken and find you hovering over him? Has he not suffered enough already at your hands for one day?
Brought up short by these thoughts he stopped in front of the sink, leaning heavily on arms thrust out before him. His hands were splayed over the countertop, supporting an upper torso that had suddenly become unbearably heavy, as if the ship's gravity had abruptly been increased five-fold.
His breath now exploded from his lungs in short, hitched gasps. He turned on the faucet, splashing cool water over his face and the back of his neck in an effort to regain some modicum of control. Lifting his head, he was not surprised to see the look of shame, interspersed with fear, in the eyes that met his in the mirror.
No, he wouldn't wake Jim – he'd certainly put the man through enough for one day – but there was a way to satisfy himself that his captain had not perished.
Approaching the door that led to Jim's quarters, he was careful not to trip the sensor. He knew without question the lock on the other side would not be engaged. He pressed a sensitive ear to the smooth surface and was rewarded with the sound of soft snores emanating from the space beyond. Relief swept through him like a tidal wave. A little raspier than usual – no doubt due to the bruising Kirk's trachea had surely suffered – they provided more comfort than he would have believed possible. Despite the fact that the events of today had played out in the worst way imaginable, against all odds and in spite of Spock's actions, this man had survived.
He closed his eyes briefly, unable to find the right words to silently express his sincere gratitude to McCoy. Had it not been for the doctor's swift, well-planned intervention, the outcome would have been quite different. His knees weakened at the prospect of what might have been.
Satisfied at last, he turned on his heel, making his way back to his own room. Ignoring the small voice echoing in his brain that said he feared going back to sleep because of what else he might see, might be forced to relive, he knelt before his asenoi. Now that he knew the truth, meditation was the only way for him to begin the healing process; to determine his next course of action. And he surely dreaded where that path might lead him.
oooOOOooo
Kirk observed the back of his first officer's head from the confines of the command chair. He felt conflicted, adrift; uncertain of how to proceed. Alpha shift was already half over and they'd barely spoken more than a few words to each other. Heeding McCoy's advice from the previous evening he'd done his best to give the Vulcan some space. He'd not ascended to the science officer's station for a consult on the current status of the ship, and Spock had not slipped down to the center ring of the bridge to stand unobtrusively beside his captain's chair.
Kirk glanced around him. It was unusually quiet, as if the crew sensed the tension between the two; were unnerved by that which they didn't fully understand, and were reluctant to add to it somehow.
Inevitably, Kirk's eyes strayed to Spock again. He could read the emotional distress in the set of his first's shoulders, the skin stretched tautly between them like the strings of a Vulcan lyre. I can't do this, no matter what McCoy says! By avoiding Spock, he was not letting the Vulcan work through things on his own, but was feeding into what he was sure was Spock's belief that the captain was somehow repulsed by his presence; that he couldn't stand to be in the Vulcan's company. Kirk needed to stop this—now—before Spock became so mired in self-recrimination that the captain would be unable to draw him back from the depths of his bottomless guilt.
Launching himself from the command chair he bounded up the two steps to the science station.
"Report, Mister Spock," he asked crisply, noting with dismay the slight flinching of the dark head.
"We are on course, on schedule, bound for Altair VI. At current speed, we should reach our destination in four point six hours."
Spock had not turned to face him; had only acknowledged his captain's presence by responding woodenly to the direct question posed to him. It was now or never. Once they reached the planet the two of them would be tied up in diplomatic functions for days; would be expected to be active participants in all of the official state functions, especially given that the Enterprise had arrived late to the festivities. Something needed to be done immediately, before they passed the point of no return.
"Mister Spock, I'd like to go over the itinerary of events we'll be expected to attend once we reach the planet. Meet me in my quarters in ten minutes with the report, please."
Spock spun to face him, a look of near-panic on his face. Kirk could almost see him reasoning it out. The Vulcan knew, as did he, that the information was already in the ship's data base, freely accessible to anyone with the proper clearance. The captain didn't need Spock to retrieve it for him. The mask of non-emotion slammed into place. Spock's features melted once again into the undecipherable.
Kirk could hear the resignation in the deep baritone as the Vulcan answered in a defeated voice: "Acknowledged, sir." Long fingers danced over Spock's console as his first called forth the upcoming schedule of events.
Kirk turned and headed for the turbolift, his mind racing.
oooOOOooo
He hesitated outside the door, rehearsing in his head what he planned to say. He knew without question this meeting was not about the itinerary for the Altair VI festivities. He fairly vibrated with trepidation; willed himself to be still. I am in control of my emotions. It must be his decision and not Jim's. Somehow that would make it easier to bear.
Gathering himself he pressed the buzzer, stepping in front of the sensor as the lock disengaged with an audible click. Kirk was seated at his desk and motioned Spock into the empty chair across from him. Ignoring the tacit command, the Vulcan chose to remain standing. "I have brought the information you requested, Captain," he said, holding out several brightly colored tapes.
Kirk's expression shifted; the façade of command evaporated, replaced by sincere warmth and affection. Spock swallowed, keeping his own face under tight control. He did not deserve such loyalty from a man he had clearly wronged. A devious grin crept onto his captain's face. "Thank you, Mister Spock, but I think we both know that's not what I want to discuss." He gestured to the chair once again. "Please, have a seat." This time Spock complied, perched on the edge of the chair, his spine rigid.
"Seems to me, we need to clear the air—" Kirk began.
"Captain, I should like to request an immediate transfer," Spock stated forcefully, eyes downcast, uncharacteristically interrupting his CO.
"Request denied," Kirk growled back instantly.
Spock's head snapped up at that. "Jim, please—"
"Don't. Running won't solve anything. We need to work through this."
"I do not understand. I tried to kill you, Captain, and would have succeeded had it not been for McCoy's intervention." He sighed audibly. "To my mind, there is nothing to work through. I have proven myself to be a danger to you, someone no longer worthy of your trust. Under those circumstances I can no longer remain here."
"I'm sorry, Spock, but I don't see it that way." Again, the Vulcan looked away; was gripped by utter disbelief. Surely he had pushed this man beyond the limits of friendship? One could only be expected to tolerate so much. And yet, Jim continued to speak, proving the depth of his commitment to the man sitting across from him. "Maybe you didn't hear me a few days ago, or given everything that was going on you just weren't listening." Spock could feel the intensity of Kirk's gaze upon him. "You're the best first officer in the fleet, and I'm not willing to lose you, for any reason." Kirk's force of will was almost palpable. It drew Spock's eyes unerringly to the determined hazel ones.
"But, Captain—"
"I don't hold you responsible, Spock. It wasn't your fault," Kirk stated with unshakable conviction.
"It was my hands that were holding the ahn-woon," Spock countered. That admission cost him dearly. His throat closed.
"Agreed, but you weren't in control at that moment."
"And what will happen the next time I am not in control, and hold your life in my hands?" the Vulcan asked softly, eyes averted.
"Really? That's your argument? Surely you realize the illogic of that statement? You think you're the only one who might kill one of us? I've got news for you, Spock—space is a dangerous place. Any one of the crew could be overcome by something we don't understand and murder any or all of us. Don't you remember Psi 2000? The entire research team went berserk and killed each other because of something they didn't understand. McCoy accidentally shot himself full of cordrazine a few months back. Who knows what he would have done in that altered state if he hadn't beamed himself down to the surface of the planet? And what of the neural neutralizer we found on Tantalus? Doctor Adams could just as easily have used the device to instruct me to murder you, Bones, or to cause the ship to burn up in the planet's atmosphere, killing everyone aboard."
Kirk leapt to his feet as if hurled out of his chair by an electric shock. The motion drew Spock's attention. "Besides, even in the throes of the blood fever you pleaded for my life. Don't you remember? I can't blame you for carrying out that which others could so easily have stopped. Others who weren't physically compromised at the moment." He paced in front of Spock like a caged tiger. Kirk's face darkened and Spock realized the captain was angry—but not with him.
"Look, McCoy told me your hormone levels are still too high, and may still be preventing you from seeing things logically," Kirk continued, softer now. "I just want to reassure you that I in no way hold you responsible." He paused, searching the Vulcan's face. "That we're okay."
Spock dropped his eyes, unable to meet the compassion and trust shining in the hazel ones. Once again, he was amazed by Kirk's capacity for forgiveness. It seemed that in a few short hours Jim had conquered that which still eluded Spock. Last evening Kirk may have still been experiencing some misgivings about what had happened, but that certainly wasn't the case now. The Vulcan marveled at his human friend's mastery over himself.
"Spock, look at me."
The Vulcan found himself unable to deny that request.
"It's okay, really. I know you're not quite yourself yet, so I won't push you anymore." Kirk hesitated, clearly choosing his next words carefully. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that no matter what you're still important to me, both professionally and personally."
Spock closed his eyes briefly, touched profoundly in places he could not name by that candid declaration of support.
"And now, I order you to report to sickbay," his captain continued, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"Sickbay?"
"Yes. I want McCoy to monitor your hormone levels, at least for the next few days. I don't want any more surprises."
Spock climbed slowly to his feet, knowing that to argue would be futile. He headed for the door. Before reaching it, he stopped. "Jim?" he said, still not facing his captain.
"Yes, Spock?" Open. Vulnerable. Trusting.
At last the Vulcan turned, seeing for himself the unconditional acceptance he could feel radiating throughout the room.
"Thank you."
Kirk simply nodded in response, flashing a lopsided grin. It was almost as if he knew that saying anything else would have brought what vestiges of emotional control Spock had left tumbling down in an instant. The Vulcan headed for the door once again, crossing the threshold and entering the busy corridor beyond.
oooOOOooo
Eight days later.
Kirk was in his quarters, his desk littered with numerous PADDs. The last week had been a whirlwind of activity, the many functions he'd attended on Altair VI blurring together until he could no longer separate one from the next. But it had been a great success for the Federation. The new president's inauguration had gone off without a hitch, smoothing over relations that had been strained due to decades of interplanetary war. Both sides were on the same page now, and were looking forward to many years of peace and cooperation between their two worlds.
During that week running the ship had been secondary. The day-to-day tasks and paperwork had piled up and he was paying the price for it now. Unfortunately, he still found himself unable to concentrate fully on the reports spread out before him. As they'd done every day during the last week, his thoughts drifted to his first officer.
Once they'd arrived at Altair VI McCoy had informed him that Spock's hormone levels were still too high. Kirk had insisted that the Vulcan remain on the ship, citing a minor illness as the reason for the second-in-command's absence. After a few days they had dropped to acceptable levels, but while that had allowed Spock to participate in the various proceedings, as Kirk had feared their grueling schedule didn't permit them any one-on-one time.
To the casual observer nothing would have seemed amiss, but this unwarranted – at least to his mind – emotional strain that had cropped up between them left Kirk feeling powerless, helpless, out of sorts. His gut instinct was to go to the Vulcan but he had promised restraint and would wait for Spock to make the first move. They had left Altair yesterday bound for their next mission and still his first had not sought him out.
And he might not Kirk reasoned. Spock balked at discussing delicate, personal issues between them under the best of circumstances. Chances were their conversation of last week would be their only one on the matter.
Kirk reached for his coffee, took a long sip. Perhaps that had been enough. He must have gotten through to Spock. At least there was no more talk of a transfer. That in itself indicated that Spock must have made some progress in coming to terms with what had transpired on Vulcan. And according to McCoy's findings from earlier today, Spock's bodily functions were now within normal limits.
The two of them had shared a meal last night and even worked out together this morning before shift, but these things had both taken place in public venues which didn't permit any deep, personal interaction between them. He was toying with the idea of inviting Spock to his quarters for a game of chess when the buzzer to his cabin sounded.
"Come."
The door swished open, his first officer silhouetted in the light spilling in from the corridor.
"Spock, come in," Kirk said warmly. "I was just thinking about you. Weren't your ears burning?"
"My ears, sir?" Spock asked, the model of confusion.
Kirk chuckled. "An old Earth idiom." He waved a hand dismissively in the air. "Never mind. What can I do for you?"
"I have been consulting the ship's data base and noted that a number of weekly reports requiring the captain's attention have yet to be filed. It was my intention to see if there is anything I can do to assist you, sir."
Kirk dropped his eyes to the unruly pile on his desk. "Yeah, well, I'm a little behind on those," he admitted sheepishly. "I could definitely use some help, if it's not too much trouble." Kirk lifted his gaze slowly to his first.
"I shall be delighted, sir," Spock said, sinking into the empty chair before the desk and reaching for one of the numerous PADDs.
They worked steadily for half an hour, poring over page after page of fuel consumption reports, shift assignments and leave requests for various personnel, as well as a large number of requisition forms from a wide variety of departments from sickbay on down to the galley. Things felt normal and comfortable between them, but nevertheless Kirk found himself unable to hold his tongue.
"You look well, Mister Spock. McCoy filled me in on your progress, and in his words you're back to your 'strait-laced, robotic, computerized self.'"
Spock glanced up, his face a blank. "Please remind me to thank the doctor for his gracious compliment."
Kirk snickered at that, but his mood quickly sobered. "But seriously, Spock—how are you?"
"I am well, Jim, thanks to you." Spock paused, unmistakably wrestling with his next observation. "You were correct in your earlier assessment. I am now able to view events logically and fully comprehend the wisdom of your words."
"Why Spock—for once you're seeing things my way. How magnanimous of you," Kirk teased.
Spock chose not to answer, but Kirk noted a green tinge steal over his first's features.
The captain's voice became serious, no hint of the previous levity present. "Well, I can't think of anyone I'd prefer to have at my side. I'd put my life in your hands every day of the week and twice on Sunday."
Spock's eyes met his squarely. "It is my duty to protect you," the Vulcan responded with certainty.
Kirk couldn't help but grin. That simple admission, and what was omitted from it, spoke volumes. They'd beaten this. Their friendship would survive. But there was something else he needed to know; another, darker issue gnawing at the back of his mind. Swallowing his embarrassment, he forged ahead. "Spock, there's still one thing I have to ask you."
The Vulcan lifted an eyebrow expectantly; waited patiently for Kirk to continue.
"What about Pon Farr? Is that done now for seven years, or do I have to worry about a recurrence anytime soon?"
Spock cleared his throat; focused his attention on a point just beyond Kirk's left shoulder. "I am uncertain at this juncture, sir. There is no data for one surviving Pon Farr without consummation, except among the masters at Gol. Nor is there data for what to expect when hybrid physiology is involved. It seems I am the archetype."
"Well, McCoy's given you a clean bill of health, at least. We'll go with that for now, but if things change, I expect you to inform me right away. I don't want to get caught with my britches down again."
"Understood, Captain."
A moment of silence ensued—the relaxed, easy silence that defined the bonds of brotherhood between men. "Frankly, I'm just glad you're still here." Kirk's eyes bored into Spock's, willing him to grasp the significance of that statement.
"As am I, Jim." As the brown eyes held his gaze, Kirk read the multitude of meanings and feelings hidden in those words and knew that he had been understood. He grinned in response.
"I don't know about you, but I'm starved. Paperwork always makes me ravenous. What's say we raid the officer's mess?" Kirk suggested, beginning to stack the PADDs into neat piles on his desk. "We've finished a good portion of these. The rest can wait until tomorrow."
"That would be agreeable, Captain," Spock replied. He placed his PADDs alongside Kirk's and climbed to his feet.
They were headed for the door when Kirk glanced sideways at his first. "Just don't tell McCoy, all right? He's already been on my case about how much I ate while on Altair VI. No point in adding fuel to the fire."
Spock lifted an eyebrow, an almost-smile fluttering about the corners of his mouth. "That goes without saying, Jim."
St. Christopher by Michael Logen
Calling on Saint Christopher,
Gonna need some help tonight.
For the long, dark road ahead
On my way back to the light.
'Cuz the path is so unclear
And I'm not sure who to be.
All I know is I can't stay here.
Won't you please watch over me?
'Cuz I'm on my way.
Yes, I'm on my way.
Yeah, I'm on my way.
Now.
It can get so lonely here.
Still I know I'm not alone.
Do we learn to face our fears
Before they carve our names in stone?
Names in stone.
Well, I'm on my way.
Yeah, I'm on my way.
Well, I'm on my way.
Now.
Calling on Saint Christopher,
Gonna need some help tonight.
To my mind, Kirk is St. Christopher in this song. ;-)