A/N: So this is my companion piece to my other Star Trek fic, Fe x Cu, but doesn't exactly follow the same timeline. This can be a stand alone or you can read both, but to understand some references from Fe x Cu, then reading this would help. Basically, this is a fic that deals with a different Spock and Kirk from different universes in each chapter.

Hope you enjoy :)

Chapter 1: First Contact I

Although clusters of stars could be seen amongst the night sky, not a single moon could be seen. The planet had one, once upon a time, before it was knocked out of orbit before the Great Purge. An act of natural universal forces of course.

Above, tiny star lights ruled the dark atmosphere. They were unmatched in both brilliance and beauty—unmatched until a streak of azure double-crossed them all. And when it did, it did more than shatter the established hierarchy.

It pierced both the sky and a pair of dark eyes.

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A hooded figure came to a sudden halt, his feet slightly sinking into the sand below him. He took a breath of hot, dry air, however difficult it was, and brought a hand over his brows to shield the sunlight from his eyes. Squinting, he saw a dark form on top of a hill in the near distance and held his breath. Since travelling a month ago, and with the exception of last night's spectacle, he had not seen anything beyond sparse vegetation and a few animals. That dark form, based on its bulk, was neither plant nor animal, but it was better than nothing at that point in time. If that form was a sign that his journey would soon come to an end, then he would gladly approach it.

Despite the glaring hotness that surrounded him, the hooded figure pulled the layers of cloaks closer to him, making sure his face was wrapped properly save for the eyes. Any amount of skin exposed to the sun for more than two hours would surely blister. Exhaling, the hooded figure began his slow descend from the hill top he was on; a cloud of reddish dust trailing in his wake.

On this desert planet, an oasis is the treasure that everyone searches for. Surrounded by a land of suffering, the oasis is the hard-earned haven to its searchers. With its lush vegetation, tall trees, and fresh water, it is any desert traveller's dear companion. Some people find it in days; others find it after years of trekking across barren wastelands, while others may search their entire life and never come across it. What they find hasn't always been the same, but what they find has always been life-altering.

The travelling figure was looking for that life-altering experience, something that would answer all his questions about himself, an existence that he, and his people, could never quite accept. His birth was somewhat scandalous and shrouded with mystery. His childhood was not joyful. Even in adulthood, although he was accepted into the most prestigious science academy on the planet, he continued to feel discrimination and unwarranted hate from his people. In a culture that prized logic and disapproved of emotions, it was a stark and bitter contradiction. Yet, it was he who suffered.

He who was seen as the wrong-doer. Him and his mother.

After five minutes of crossing the distance between two hills, the hooded figure made the swift climb upwards. All the while, his dark eyes were trained on the form just at the top. He hoped, with every bone in his body, that his discovery was not a rotting carcass.

Against his father and his beloved mother's will, he had temporally taken leave of his senior studies at the Academy. They had told him that finding the oasis was only figurative language, of a legend that pre-dated the Great Teacher, and that he may not actually find one. It didn't matter. They did not know of his need. He was compelled to search for something greater—something that neither his family nor his studies could provide him. He could not stay in the capital and continue his life there. He felt that if he did, he would have died an uneventful and lonely death.

So, here he was out in the desert looking for an oasis. He could have tracked one beforehand, hired a guide, asked locals, but there would be no point. There would be less meaning to his trek if he did not do it all by himself. However, since his journey had started, his body did nothing but grow weary of the harsh environment. With too much time to think, his mind had grown bitter. And with nothing out of the ordinary, his spirit had dwindled. He had thought himself a fool for thinking he would actually gain from this traverse. But he did not want to give up.

With a final step, he reached the top and trained his reaction.

The dark form was really a body laying face down; an arm was extended pointing eastward. The body itself was covered in a swath of light-weight materials from the head down to the ankles. Unfamiliar make of shoes adorned the feet.

Curiosity getting the better of him, the hooded figure slowly bent down and put a hand to the body's shoulder. Inhaling and holding his breath, he pushed the body with surprisingly great ease until it was on its back. He had feared hollowed eyes and a face half-chewed out by desert inhabitants. Instead, the face he was met with was unlike any other. The eyebrows were strangely shaped and comparatively lighter than his own. Even the facial structure was not characteristically oblong like his people. The skin was moist, flushed red, but other than that, there were no signs of decay or being a victim other than the desert's. It was unusual, that colour and state of the skin's complexion. Was it some kind of disease?

The body too was strange. Light and smaller than most men—was this creature a woman? No, even most women were heavier than this one and more feminine too. What kind of person was this? The face looked mature, masculine…so not a child either but a man then?

Heart beating faster than normal, the hooded-figure brought two fingers to the stranger's side of the neck just below the jaw line and pressed.

Tha-thump…Tha-thump.

However slight the pulse was, he still felt it and his spirit that had been dying rekindled. He withdrew his hand and quickly moved to shield the face from the sun, resting the head on his lap. Foreign or not, whoever this individual was, he was still alive and as the hooded figure valued life of any kind, he would not allow this stranger to die in his presence.

There were symptoms of dehydration: fatigue, dry lips, tight skin, and perhaps the unusual red flush, but to whether these were mild or severe, the hooded figure wouldn't know. He would not meld with the stranger to find out, but either way, he knew what to do. Unhooking a flask from his belt he unscrewed it. Then he carefully ripped a piece of cloth from his cloak and dampened it before patting it gently on the stranger's face, neck, and wrist. Lastly, he put the flask to the stranger's mouth, held open by his fingers, and tilted it slightly so only a small amount could be poured out.

When the stranger coughed and groaned, he noted the deep voice and capped the flask. It was enough for now. Taking the damp cloth, he set it on the stranger's forehead and asked, "Don't move or speak. You must conserve your energy." His own voice croaked from lack of use. The stranger did not answer, only moaned a bit more and tried to open his eyes.

The hooded-figure watched with interest at the stranger's rebellious effort. He wiped the damp cloth from the forehead down to the stranger's cheek, and was about to move to the other before he abruptly stopped. The stranger's eyes had been fluttering before, but now they were wide open, looking directly into his as if half-dazed.

In all twenty-one memorable years of his life, never had the hooded figure seen such a pair of eyes. On this planet alone, they were rare colours only matched by lapis sea stones from ancient oceans past. One could view those artefacts in the National Museum, or a private collection, yet here was a set of equivalent splendor in the flesh.

They strangely invoked a sense of contentment within him, as if he was lying in a hammock back at home, swung by the wind and warmed by the sun.

At such a thought, the hooded figure swiftly discarded it and blinked back at the stranger's face. The stranger gazed curiously up at him with what appeared to be wonder. His lips mumbled words but they were too incoherent for the hooded figure to decipher.

"Do not speak," he repeated, but not unkindly. He reopened the flask and put it to the stranger's mouth once more. He withdrew it before too much could be taken and capped it. Giving too much water too quickly would do more damage than good in the stranger's condition. Placing it back on his belt, he wrapped the stranger's face loosely so only that the eyes, now closed, were exposed, before coming around, crouching, and pulling the stranger up on to his back. He securely placed the stranger's arms around his neck, allowed the head to rest on his shoulders, and grasped the stranger firmly behind his knees before hoisting the individual up.

As expected, the stranger was light and the hooded figure heard another mumble in his ears. Yet again, it was incoherent and he paid it no heed as he looked around. Up until then, he had been wandering aimlessly, walking where he intuitively thought he should head until last night. Since meeting this stranger, however, he knew for the second time without a doubt where to go.

If following the direction of the blue streak brought him to this man, then hopefully this man's hand would point him to the next destination. Wherever that may be.

Feeling rejuvenated and having found a new purpose, the hooded figure began his journey east.

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It was a shorter journey than he had expected, one in which involved reaching the destination two hours before sundown. He was very glad now that he had not gone north, his earlier intended path. If he had, who knew where he would have ended up?

Long, fringed tree leaves could be seen in the short distance. Its image did not waver, so the hooded figure knew that what he was seeing was no mirage. Slowly, he began to approach it.

Over the last five hours, the body he had been carrying grew heavier and heavier, despite its initial lightweight. His arms were cramping, but not once did he think of abandoning the stranger. Of course, logic dictated that his own survival was more important and that he should leave the individual immediately. However, the hooded figure had more than self-preservation in mind. He wanted the oasis, yes, but now he wanted it more for the stranger.

The five water flasks that he had left home with were now depleted. He had used up three in his month of travel, but the stranger was not built like he was. That was blindingly evident. They had to stop five times so that the stranger could rehydrate and cool down, and that was when the two flasks were emptied. The stranger's health did not improve much, but it was clear that he needed more water and a cool place to rest.

Reaching the oasis had grown more imperative in the last hour, so, when the hooded figure saw the fringed trees in the distance, relief swept over him.

When he finally reached the shaded grounds, he did not drop the stranger. His eyes swept over the greenery and continued forward. While admiring the flora and fauna, he was also watchful of any hostile inhabitants. Everything appeared peaceful however.

It didn't take long to find the center of the oasis, where a small pond and most of the vegetation were gathered. The hooded figure carefully placed the stranger in the shade against a nearby tree so that the head was upright. Then he unwound the cloth covering his own face and swung it over his shoulder before unwrapping the stranger's. His hand froze when all the head gear was completely off.

For the first time, the stranger's head and face was revealed in its entirety. Not only were the eyebrows abnormal, but so was the dark golden hair and the rounded ears. The hooded figure felt like a child again as curiosity took hold of him.

He crouched, unashamedly reaching forward to run his hand through the stranger's hair. He revelled in the half-soft texture and the unique hair colour. It reminded him of his adorable furry pet back home, which he missed dearly now that he thought about it. Next, his fingers held the tip of the stranger's ears. With wonder, he traced it with his thumb, bent it with his index and middle finger, and then raised his brows. He was surprised for three reasons: one, the ears were extremely flexible, second was that they were round with no scars, and thirdly, they seemed familiar as if he had seen them before. However, whatever the state, the rounded feature was the real thing.

Gradually, bit by bit, as if mesmerized, his fingers dragged across the stranger's face. He could feel warmth permeate his skin, felt the stranger's course brows, his firm nose, and the tips of the stranger's mouth. The colour, the texture—everything was alien, but it was thrilling to touch nonetheless. When a rough cough escaped through the stranger's lips, the hooded figure sharply pulled his hand back and immediately felt guilty. He shouldn't have indulged in all those touches. It was unacceptable behaviour.

The journey must have done something to him.

Standing up stiffly, he walked over to the body of water just a few feet away and dipped his hand in. He drank it with caution; deciding it was safe enough, he filled a flask and dampened the cloth that he took hanging over his shoulder. He did not forget the reason he was here.

He made his way back to the stranger and as indifferently as he could, ignored the half-lidded eyes and wiped the stranger's face and neck. He left the towel on top of the stranger's head as he began to remove the cloak wrapped around the stranger's body. What he found beneath surprised him. The stranger wore a synthetic yellow top and black slim fitting pants below. Just as the stranger's face was foreign, so were his clothes. What culture here wore such a fashion?

Upon closer inspection, there was a pointed arched symbol on the stranger's left chest—another added mystery. The crouching figure left it to ponder another time, choosing instead to wipe the stranger's wrist and ankles after the odd shoes and foot covering were pulled off. He went back to the pool, filled all his flasks, rewetted the towels and returned to repeat the process in addition to rehydrating the stranger.

Again, there were more murmurs and the hooded figure began to wonder if the stranger endured some form of brain damage from the dehydration. He hoped that wasn't the case. A conversation, after a month without intelligent contact, would be warmly welcomed.

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Light drained from the skies as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Amongst the darkening land, only a small fire could be seen amongst shadows and silhouettes. It cast its yellow-orange glow on the wet towels that hung on low tree branches, and it cast its flickering light on the two figures near the base of its blaze. One individual lay motionlessly on the ground with layers of cloth over his body. The other individual sat tending to the fire, close to the immobile figure's feet. Shades of black danced across the sitting person's face, defining a pair of deep set eyes, thin lips, subtle cheekbones, slanted brows below cropped bangs, and curved pointed ears that stopped just above his temple.

Since arriving at the oasis, the sitting figure had wondered more than once if his journey was complete. He had arrived safely, with the stranger in tow which he was glad of, but was there more? There were many questions he wanted answered, surprisingly nothing about himself but rather the fellow that slept soundly beside him. Like where did he come from? How did he come to the desert? Was he looking for the oasis the same reason he was? Why were his eyes so bright? Was it a mutation or a genetic trait? What was wrong with his ears? If they weren't mutilated, then why were they so small and round?

He mentally sighed, realizing many of his questions revolved around the stranger's features.

Exhaling, the sitting figure saw his breath mist in the air and pulled his cloak closer to himself. After the sun had fallen, the temperature had rapidly decreased. He tried not to frown. More than being baked during the day, it was the night that he could not endure. For more than thirty days, he had lay sleepless shivering and fearing in darkness. He did not want to admit it, but being alone in the harshest of conditions can do a number on one's nerves. Not even the stars that lit the sky comforted him, for they only made him yearn for the light of day even more.

However, his insomnia proved useful when he caught light streaking through the previous night. It determined his route that morning. The stars may dazzle but they were not guides.

Chatter-chatter…chit-chatter-chatter.

He turned to the figure on the floor and saw that the stranger's mouth was moving slightly. Standing up, he shuffled over and realized the stranger's teeth were clacking rapidly together.

"He's cold," the other figure murmured, worried. Even with all the cloaks on the stranger, shakes could be seen throughout the body. Their many interactions had already proven that out of the two, the resting one was physically weaker.

Without hesitation, the weary individual lifted the edges of the cloaks on the farthest side from the fire and silently slid in beside the stranger. He lay on his side, his back keeping the cold darkness at bay, while he pressed close to the stranger's body. Adjusting his arm so his head could comfortably lay on it, for the next few minutes, he stared at the stranger's face from his slightly elevated position. Eventually, the teeth chattering and shivers from the sleeping body stopped altogether and he unwittingly felt better knowing that he himself was the cause.

As he listened to the sounds of crackling wood and light breathing, slumber snuck up on him and felled his eyes.

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A field of gold bowed to the wind…winged creatures marked an aquamarine sky…a night peppered with stars and a moon in the sky.

A sense of longing.

Voices. Laughter. People with rounded ears. Floating machines.

A feeling of deep loneliness.

But not his own.

What dream is this?

Whose dream is this?

Something shook his shoulder and an aggressive voice reached his sharp ears from the other side. Yes, reality—he must return to reality.

He sluggishly sat up, eyes blinking sleepily; his vision still hazy.

He hadn't slept that well in a long time, even when he was home.

By the coolness still in the air and the faint light of day, he concluded that it was early morning. Then he heard the same voice again, somewhat farther, and looked to its direction. Rubbing sleep from his face, he saw the stranger standing opposite of him in the dark shade. A pile of ashes in the centre divided them.

Again, there was that aggressive voice, similar to an angry child before they are taught control. Despite the danger that could follow when it is expressed by an adult, the freshly woken figure could not help and stare at the lively stranger. The shadowed individual was clearly well, and very cautious, based on the distance he placed between them. How had it not occurred to the sitting individual that this stranger could potentially be harmful? More importantly, why were the stranger's words still incoherent?

The newly-awoken figure frowned, not knowing how to respond to the other individual who obviously wanted answers. Perhaps, all this time, the 'incoherent' murmurs and mumbles he had heard was actually another language. Did the stranger not speak standard? Or was this some other variation? A dialect of some sort?

"Speak slower," he tried. Perhaps he could pick up similar sounding phrases.

There was silence, then a rapid response in unrecognizable syllables from the stranger.

Perplexed, the pointed-eared fellow blankly stared back at him and tilted his head to the side. "Unfortunately, I do not understand you."

Unfortunate indeed. He had not wished this. The intelligent conversation he had been looking forward to was already gone before it could even develop.

However, all was not lost. There were always other ways to communicate.

With painstaking care, the sitting figure reached for one of the flasks near the fire. At the motion, however, the stranger stepped back defensively. Freezing, the sitting individual stilled his movement and trained his eyes on the stranger's, hoping to convey that he meant no harm. It was like the first time he reached out to his pet, an abandoned wild he continued his movement until his hand clasped around the flask. He slowly opened it, without looking away from the stranger's, and took a gulp from it. Intent on making peace, he held it away from his body, silently offering it to the other fellow even though there was a pool of water just a few feet away.

Wearily, the stranger lightly touched his own throat, which was most likely parched no doubt, and wetted his lips. He frowned before slowly approaching the offered flask.

Not wanting to betray any trust that could be building between the two, the sitting figure tried to look obedient, passive—anything to bring the stranger closer to him—but he continued to boldly stare at the approaching individual. He did not know how to look away for with every step the stranger took, it brought him out of the shadows and into the orange cast of dawn. The stranger's hair glowed and his eyes appeared clear, like first morning dew. It reminded the outstretched individual of the windswept golden fields in his dream.

And just like that, the flask disappeared from his hand.

Raising his brows, the sitting figure looked at his palm, wondering at what point had the flask left his fingers without him feeling or seeing it. Deciding that his lack of self-control in front of this stranger was just getting ridiculous, he stared at the ashes in front of him instead. As he tried regaining his bearings, he heard a heavy thump beside him and knew the stranger was sitting beside him. Three gulping sounds succeeded that and it took every ounce of control for the pointed-eared individual to not turn his head and watch. He could imagine it—his acute hearing practically allowed him to visualize those noises. The stranger's act of rehydrating himself, in his mind, was slow, sensual, almost perverse…

Thunk!

The flask was placed between them, to gain his attention presumably. Bemused, the sitting figure chanced a glance at the stranger, wondering what the individual intended to do. He patiently watched as suspicion disappeared from the stranger's eyes and something akin to determination replaced it. After a moment of silence, in which bright eyes roamed over him, the stranger cleared his throat and lightly placed a hand to his chest. He said only one word.

Figuring the man wanted him to repeat after him, the sitting individual gave it a shot.

"…Zh-hymn?"

Was that how it should go? He wasn't familiar with the combination of syllables he had just heard. His own variation sounded too broken, too sharp.

Nonetheless, the stranger's eyes lit up and his lips almost curved. He shook his head fervently before settling down and repeated the word more loudly and slowly.

Determined to impress and naturally determined to do well in everything he did, the pointy-eared figure licked his lips, cleared his throat, slackened his jaws, and then tried again.

"Jim," he said more boldly and stared at the stranger, looking for confirmation. When he saw the enthusiastic nod and the full upturn of lips, his fingers nearly numbed. He did very well then, but what did this word Jim mean? A greeting? Some form of truce? A reference to oneself?

The stranger repeated the word with more casualness, without the exaggerated pronunciations, and motioned to himself. With the same hand, he gestured towards the other figure with an open palm and raised his brows in expectation.

Ah. So it is the latter, the other figure thought. He half-turned to the stranger and placed a hand to his chest, the same as he had seen the stranger do, and said one word as well.

"Spock."

My name is Spock.