Not An Island

by fourleggedfish

In the Classic episode "Immunity Syndrome," Spock felt the death of 400 Vulcans on a nearby ship so strongly that McCoy had to escort him off of the bridge. When the Narada destroyed Vulcan, billions died. There have to be long-term, serious consequences to that, especially for Spock, who shipped off with the Enterprise almost right away. K/S slash, slow-build.

1. Chapter 1

Prologue: Approximately 6 months into the first 5 year mission, post-Narada

The ship trembled all around them, and Spock watched chess pieces rattle and vibrate off of their assigned squares. He was aware of the grip that he had on the edge of the table, but not the force of that grip. The chess pieces tipped off the edges of the playing field and ricocheted off the table like pebbles shaken loose from the ceiling and falling to the floor. Spock found himself thinking, with no degree of rationality, that it was raining pawns.

Barring emergency situations or other duty-related circumstances, Spock engaged in chess matches with the captain every day after the conclusion of both of their shifts. Typically, this meant that they did not find joint time until after 2300 hours, since Kirk took command of alpha shift and Spock took beta, their logged time overlapping for an average of one point nine hours. Red Alert of course brought them both to the bridge no matter the hour, but for the most part, they spent the majority of their days working apart.

It was therefore puzzling to Spock, upon their post-Narada launch as officially commissioned officers of the Enterprise, that Kirk sought him out so often for off-duty socialization as well as for discussions relating to ship operations. They both had very little free time once they discharged their command duties, and yet Kirk chose to spend it with him rather than with his many other, more boisterous friends. Surely, Kirk found their company more engaging than that of a taciturn, withdrawn and socially inept (by human standards) Vulcan.

Spock himself did not feel that his own time was being taken from more worthy pursuits. He and Nyota did not see each other except in public areas of the ship, so he was not neglecting his friendship with her. Contrary to ship's rumor, he and Nyota did not have either an official or a long-standing romantic association. She had expressed her affection for him in the human fashion, and had later offered him what comfort she could, in a purely human fashion. Spock had accepted that offer, to a point. He was aware (after researching the library computer, admittedly), that his acceptance of her comfort had created an implication of romanticism and perhaps of intent to engage in a formal courtship. It was regrettable that he had not been aware of that at the time, but Nyota did not grudge him either his ignorance or his need. She was a remarkable woman, and Spock was glad to count her a friend. If he had felt any mental affinity for her, then perhaps he could have responded to her advances with more long-term intent. Kaiidth. Such was not for them to share.

In any case, Spock's time outside of duties, scientific pursuits and meditation was largely open, and Kirk took it upon himself for unknown reasons to occupy it. Spock had not been given firsthand knowledge of the phenomenon of 'friendship' before travelling to Earth. Even then, Nyota had been the first person to truly attempt it with him. Spock had thought this to be due to an oddity in Nyota's social construction, that she would choose to affiliate with such as him and somehow enjoy it. If she were not naturally kind, he would have assumed that she was using him either for his knowledge or for the influence granted by his status at the academy. In Spock's experience, his company was not pleasant or even desirable outside of necessity. Vulcans had merely tolerated him at best because he was too human in their eyes, and most other species avoided him because he was too Vulcan. Until Nyota.

James Kirk was nothing like Nyota. He was loud, obnoxious, manipulative, frighteningly brilliant in the same manner that Spock himself was but with no true checks on his energy or intents such as that afforded to Spock by his Vulcan upbringing. Above all else, however, Kirk was far too insistently outgoing to truly be an extroverted personality type. He was infuriating. Spock admitted that, Vulcan or no; James Kirk infuriated him with his illogic, and his breaches of Spock's personal boundaries, and his insufferable (affected and carefully calculated, he suspected) charm. It was incomprehensible to Spock how the man continued to function effectively. He suspected that a small degree of sociopathy would account for it, except that Kirk was definitely not a sociopath; Spock had been touched by him often enough to know. All humans were illogical, but Kirk was in a category all his own. Spock did not like it.

And yet, Spock accepted every single one of the chess invitations. And the meal invitations, the invitations to stroll about 'inspecting' the ship, that one invitation to 'camp out' in the aft observation deck, the invitations to have 'paperwork parties' in Kirk's quarters… Once, Spock had even agreed – and he would never know why – to accompany Jim to the arboretum at 0300 ship time just so that Kirk could walk about the greenery in his bare feet. Spock's continued casual association with him defied rational explanation. It was so prevalent that McCoy referred to Spock as Kirk's Vulcan shadow, and Nyota had actually asked at one point if they were courting. The very notion was ridiculous; Nyota had simply looked at him and then changed the subject when Spock informed her of this.

"Dammit," Kirk muttered. He flicked the sole remaining pawn from the desktop and Spock kept his eyes pointedly fixed on the now empty queen's level of the board. His ears continued to catch the clatter of the piece skittering away across the floor, a constant rattle of small, lightweight objects displaced by turbulence. With a sigh, Kirk suggested, "We could go use the magnetic set in Rec Room Three. I'm pretty sure we can both remember where all the pieces were."

Spock had already forgotten where all the pieces were. He hadn't even been paying attention to the game for the past ten point two minutes. The strategy he had initiated at opening moves required very little conscious input once set in motion. That was why he had chosen it. The deck continued to rumble for several more seconds before it subsided, leaving behind a startling hush. His breathing was not overloud in the stillness, but it was obviously faster and harsher than normal. In fact, it was the only thing that Spock could hear with any degree of clarity.

"Spock?"

Turbulence in a vacuum was not like turbulence in atmospheric flights, or earthquakes at ground level. Spatial turbulence was a thing unto itself. In an earthquake, one could throw oneself to the ground and know that even though it was shaking, it was still a solid foundation. Even in an aerial vehicle, one had the surety of decking, and the instability felt more like being shaken about the inside of a tin can than anything else. Turbulence from the inside of a starship felt as if the very fabric of space, in all dimensions, were shuddering apart along subatomic fault lines. An overly effusive description, but accurate nonetheless. Everything moved and vibrated and shook – even the air. It felt as if the spaces between the atoms in the marrow of his bones were vibrating and splintering at the strain. As if there were no stable place left. No steady core. No solid rock to use as an anchor that would not split apart in just another moment. It felt like the dying heave of a planet. No solid ground left to stand on, just a great crushing nothingness to grasp after in the dark.

"Spock."

Spock started and looked up. Jim's hand was on his arm, squeezing to gain his attention. When had he moved to Spock's side of the table?

Jim quirked an odd smile, but only on one side of his face. "I didn't think Vulcans got motion sick." He removed his hand with an apologetic gesture, palm directed toward Spock, and backed off a step.

Spock tilted his head back as Jim straightened, to maintain eye contact. That was an anchor of sorts. It had been two point two hours since they had encountered the ion storm which had just put a precipitous end to their nightly chess game. Inertial dampeners were not sufficient for quelling every roll of turbulence, which had been growing steadily worse since the middle of beta shift. They could not sustain a warp bubble amidst this degree of electromagnetic interference, and the storm was moving fast enough that the sublight drive would not be able to propel them past the boundary of the storm front without causing considerable damage to the propulsion system and the hull integrity of the ship. Once caught in the edge of it, they had no choice but to ride it out like a sailing ship at anchor. Spock had still not determined the reason for their failure to detect its formation or approach in the first place. Instrument error, perhaps. He would perform the necessary diagnostics after the ion storm passed so that this would not happen again.

"You need a hypo or something? Bones has been giving them out like candy since we hit the storm front."

Without even thinking about the words or what they entailed, Spock blurted out, "It feels like Vulcan."

What had made him do it would probably forever remain a mystery to Spock. Vulcans did not admit to emotion, not out loud. They did not seek reassurance. They did not leave themselves vulnerable on account of emotions. The only permissible sharing was between bondmates, and even then, the admission was for the bond alone, never for actual speech.

Kirk's initial reaction was to go still, standing over Spock's chair with his hands on his hips in the middle of a polite retreat from his invasion of Spock's personal space. Then his face changed in minute shifts that Spock could not interpret, and he sank down to balance on the balls of his feet, slightly lower than eye level with Spock. "Like…the last time you were there, you mean?"

To which other time would Spock be referring? He did not bother to reply, but focused his restless gaze on the table top and tried to recall the last configuration of chess pieces. He could not concentrate. This lapse was disgraceful; he was a Vulcan. He should not be affected like this; he should be able to control.

In his periphery, he could perceive snatches of movement as Kirk returned to his own side of the table. A moment later, he appeared again at Spock's side, this time with his chair in hand, which he had apparently dragged over without Spock noticing. Kirk set his chair next to Spock's, close enough that Spock would be able to feel his body heat once he sat. Kirk did not sit, however – not right away. He busied himself collecting chess pieces from the floor, deconstructing the chess board and removing it level by level from Spock's unseeing field of vision, and then he disappeared behind the room divider for several long minutes.

When Kirk returned, it was with a blanket draped over one arm and a steaming mug in each hand. He peeled Spock's fingers from the edge of the table and wrapped them around the mug of tea instead, then prodded him backwards until he ended up slumped in the chair rather than hunched over the tabletop, his shoulders curled inward, the mug of tea clutched to his chest. Steam rose in languid curls to bathe Spock's face, and he inhaled the warmth. He was always so cold since leaving Vulcan.

Kirk draped the quilt over Spock's lap and around his shoulders, then sat down next to him, gripping his own mug with a nonchalance that even Spock could identify as forced. They were both tense, uneasy with Spock's revelation. Had they been in any other situation, Spock would have retreated to his own quarters to meditate on this unexpected emotional outburst, but he did not wish to be alone. Spock was not accustomed to requiring another's company. It made him feel unbalanced to need in that fashion. An adult Vulcan should be self reliant; they underwent certain tests, rights of passage, to guarantee their ability to be so.

"You know," Kirk murmured, breaking into Spock's reverie with the force of a hammer shattering crystal in spite of the softness of his tone. "I still get twitchy when people use the word 'famine' around me."

Spock's lids lowered slowly, until he could no longer tell if he were caught in an aborted blink or were manifesting drowsiness. A sluggish sort of awareness stole over him as he processed Kirk's declaration and parsed it for relevance to the situation at hand. He could find none, so he dragged his eyes from the nothing he had been staring into and fixed them with a wavering focus on Kirk's form beside him.

"Sometimes, I even panic if somebody tells me I'm not allowed to eat when I'm hungry. Or that there's no more food, even if they just mean that there's no more right there, not that it's all gone." He shrugged, a gesture consisting of the lifting of one shoulder and the twitch of his opposite hand. "They don't mean it to sound malicious, but it does. There was this one time at the academy when I had a flu virus, and even though I was puking my guts out, I was hungry, you know? My stomach was empty and I could feel it, and I needed that feeling to go away. I was pretty much delirious with the fever, which didn't help. Bones caught me ordering something from the replicator – I don't even remember what it was – but he flipped out. You know how he is. Went off about how I'm an idiot, and I shouldn't be out of bed, and under no circumstances was I to eat anything without his medical say-so." Jim bobbed his head from side to side, a gesture which Spock understood to mean that he was mocking McCoy's attitude, though Spock wasn't sure in what manner. "Then he locked the replicator so I couldn't use it."

Spock blinked at the profile of the man beside him – his friend, who had not looked at him since taking his seat – and then allowed his head to dip down and around until he was staring into his tea mug again.

Jim nodded absently to himself, perhaps in affirmation or perhaps for no reason other than to bleed off nervous energy. "I could have hacked it, but it was like…in that moment, there was just him, and he was telling me that there was food, but I wasn't allowed to have it. I broke his nose and knocked out his left canine when I punched him. It was just…I needed to not be back there, not even mentally, and the only way I know how to do that is to make the hollow feeling in my stomach go away. It's not even about being hungry, it's just…the association, I suppose. Having an empty stomach just reminds me of all of the rest of it, and it's…it's a bad place to be."

Spock studied his tea with a gravity it did not deserve, his mind wandering in jagged fits over his perfect recall of Jim Kirk's Starfleet record. There was a classified portion dating from 2245 to 2247. Only certain admirals possessed the security clearance to access that portion of his record, but given the dates and Jim's confession, the content of that part was now obvious. He tilted his head and gazed at Kirk sideways. "You were on Tarsus IV."

Kirk's only response was a nod that appeared more like a bow of his head. He remained in that pose with his hands twisted about his un-sipped mug of coffee. "All I'm saying is that we all have something that just won't leave us. I take some kind of food with me wherever I go, and you don't like it when the deck shakes. We're none of us perfect, Spock. It's just part of who we are."

Spock continued to watch Kirk in the hope that he would meet his gaze, but Kirk refused to look away from his hands. Spock eventually gave up and settled in to watch his now tepid tea grow colder while intermittent tremors wracked the ship around them. When the trailing end of the storm finally passed them by five point six eight hours later, and the bridge announced the all clear, Kirk's only concession to their shared vigil was to accept the blanket that Spock handed back to him and smile. Spock offered no verbal thanks, but Jim did not seem to require such. They parted ways without further mention of the incident. The connection, however, remained.

---

Chapter 1: approximately one year into the first 5-year mission

"Doctor McCoy."

McCoy looked up from the PADDs spread across his desk, then rolled his eyes and groaned, "What's he done this time?"

Spock blinked once, surmised that McCoy assumed the Captain to be responsible for this visit, and straightened with his hands clasped behind his back. "You are in error. I am not here to discuss the Captain's behavior." Though it was a logical conclusion on McCoy's part since to Spock's recollection, he had only ever come here independent of medical orders due to one of the Captain's…peculiarities. "I am experiencing a medical problem."

"Oh! Well, then have yourself a seat, Commander."

There was no reason for the doctor to appear so thrilled, though perhaps relief would account for it. Spock had noticed that approximately 23% of the doctor's ongoing, chronic stress was either directly or indirectly caused by the captain. Spock took the seat at which McCoy had gestured, and folded his hands, waiting.

McCoy merely stared at him for thirty seven seconds, and then said, "Are you going to tell me what sort of medical problem you have, or am I supposed to guess?"

Spock opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. He needed the doctor's assistance, which would be less effective if Spock promoted the natural animosity with which McCoy regarded him. Plus, it was Spock's fault that McCoy was irritated this time; he was not overly familiar with the habits and behavioral protocols common in interactions with human doctors. The medics Spock had seen prior to this had either tended obvious physical injuries, or conducted routine physicals for inclusion in his Starfleet records, neither of which provided clues to the sort of non-formulaic interaction that Spock had initiated by coming here today. Had McCoy been a Vulcan healer, it would have been rude of Spock to begin the conversation himself. Then again, if he were to visit a healer, he would have been offered the ritualistic glass of water, a practice to which Humans did not adhere. Their cultures were very dissimilar. Even being raised by a human parent had not imparted the necessary knowledge of instinctive human interactions. Spock was, by choice and upbringing if not fully by biology, a Vulcan.

And now he was stalling, so he cleared his throat and told himself that he only did so because the act conveyed non-verbal contextual meaning to humans. "I have been…that is, I have noticed…" Why was this so difficult? If McCoy had been a Vulcan Healer…but he was not, so any further conjecture on that would serve no constructive purpose.

It was fascinating to watch McCoy's expression soften in response to his awkwardness. "Spock, I'm a doctor. I promise you, I've heard it all already."

Spock furrowed his brows. "You have?" He glanced aside and tried to determine if his symptoms would have been obvious enough to others to warrant their reporting them to the CMO. This was…unanticipated and disturbing, to think that he had been so affected that others had noticed. He looked back to McCoy, still perturbed, and inquired, "In that case, what treatment do you recommend?"

McCoy's reaction made no sense; he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand gestured between them in curt, emphatic movements that Spock had observed previously when the doctor's patience had been tried. "No. Spock, I mean I've heard all kinds of embarrassing things before, and I've treated all kinds of embarrassing conditions, so there's nothing you could say to shock me, and you don't need to be hesitant. I'm not here to judge you." He appeared to consider this, and then reluctantly qualified, "Well…not much, anyway. I reserve the right to call you an idiot if you deserve it."

Spock merely stared at him. "Vulcans do not experience embarrassment."

"Oh, for – fine, Spock. Fine. You're not embarrassed. Just – " Here, he flung both hands in Spock's direction as if throwing water or confetti at him. Spock suppressed the urge to draw back. "Just spit it out, already!"

Spock regarded McCoy warily. "Perhaps this is not a good time." He made to rise. "I will return when you are less pressed – "

"Spock, sit your ornery ass back down, and that's an order."

Spock sat back down, folded his hands, and waited.

After shaking his head in exasperation, mumbling unintelligibly, and heaving a frankly melodramatic sigh, McCoy adopted a frighteningly professional smile and said, "Now. Why don't you start by telling me your symptoms?"

Spock decided that it had been a mistake to come here, but it was too late to undo the action. "The symptoms are not that serious."

"And yet, here you are," McCoy pointed out.

Indeed. Spock took a deep breath. "I have been experiencing intermittent increases in my core body temperature which last for less than a minute but result in mild muscle weakness, perspiration, increased heart rate, shortness of breath, and dilation of the capillaries of the dermal layers of my face and chest. Occasionally, the sensations are accompanied by dizziness and a tingling sensation in the extremities. The episodes are not incapacitating, merely distracting. Afterwards, I feel disoriented and tired, and on nine of those occasions, I developed a headache which could not be resolved through meditation."

McCoy frowned, and Spock was relieved to note that he was taking the situation seriously and professionally. "How long has this been going on?"

"The first episode occurred sixteen days ago."

McCoy grunted and fished a PADD out from under a pile of patient records. He tapped a few notes onto the screen and then asked, "Frequency?"

"Three days lapsed between the first and second episodes. However, I have experienced the sensations twelve times in the past forty eight hour period, and I suspect that I have experienced episodes prior to this without having identified them as such."

McCoy looked up and pierced him with a scrutiny that would have made a non-Vulcan squirm. "Are you having an episode right now?"

Spock started to shake his head, then amended his response to a verbal one. Vulcans did not indulge in overt displays of non-verbal communication; body language left too many ambiguities that could be interpreted incorrectly on an erroneous inference. "Negative. The last one began on the bridge during my shift, lasted for approximately two minutes, and concluded when I entered the turbolift after shift change. I came directly here at that time."

"Approximately? You don't have an exact duration on that?"

Obviously, if he had been in possession of a more accurate figure, he would have imparted it at the proper time. He did wonder, however, whether McCoy asked out of spite or because Spock's failure to note the duration via his innate time sense should be considered another symptom. Spock merely blinked back and remained silent.

"Hm." McCoy looked down again with a frown and tapped out a few more notes. Then he scrolled through what Spock assumed was his official medical record, displayed several unidentifiable facial expressions, and then made another nonspecific sound. Humans were very noisy creatures. "Well, it could be a heart problem – an intermittent arrhythmia, most likely. I think we should start with that." He stood up and tucked the PADD under his arm, motioning for Spock to rise as well. "I'll run a blood panel too, see if maybe your electrolytes or hormones or something are off. It'll also rule out bacterial and viral infections. If that doesn't show us what's wrong, we'll move on to allergens, and if that still hasn't solved it, we'll check out the more obscure possibilities. Come on."

Spock followed him to an exam room and told himself that he was not concerned because he had no data as yet with which to form an opinion on the gravity of the situation. "I believe it would also be prudent to run a genome analysis, and to scan my genetic structure for mutation or degradation."

McCoy stopped what he was doing – setting instruments and sample kits out on trays – and gradually craned his neck to look over his shoulder. He gave Spock a strange look, his posture melting into something languid and altogether disturbing for the inconsistent sharpness in his eyes. "Now, I know you didn't just pull that suggestion outa your tight little green ass."

Spock allowed a single eyebrow to curve into an imperious arch.

"Right." McCoy turned to fully face him and crossed his arms over his chest. Even Spock, with his rather stunted comprehension of unspoken social cues, could identify that as a tacit refusal to continue with the examination until Spock explained himself. "Out with it. It's not like Vulcans tend toward hypochondria, so come on and tell me why you want me to sequence your DNA, of all things."

"I wish a comparison of my current code against that which was entered into Starfleet records upon my commission," Spock clarified, since McCoy's response did not seem to indicate comprehension of his original request. He attributed this to McCoy's more colloquial version of the Standard language. Spock had never been good at understanding non-literal phrases.

McCoy may have rolled his eyes in exasperation, but they fluttered shut first, so Spock could not tell for certain. He made an admirable show of not glaring at Spock with any overt display of emotion. "I'm not askin' you to reword your request, Spock; I got that part. What I want to know is why you want me to go through the hassle of doing such a thing." He was gesturing by this point, but only with one hand, palm raised and fingers furled into a shallow cup as if he were waiting for someone to place the correct response into his hand. His other arm remained curled over his chest, his hand grasping the opposite elbow.

"I have been warned of the instability of my genetic code," Spock replied, and though his tone was measured as per usual, he could tell that it held a note of challenge, as if he were daring McCoy to prove that it was not unstable. As if he needed McCoy to rise to that challenge. He would have to examine this behavioral aberration during his evening meditation.

From the blank expression on McCoy's face – an obvious affectation – he had caught on to the oddities of Spock's speech patterns as well. He understood perhaps more about that single sentence than did Spock himself. "By the doctors who engineered you?"

Spock dipped his head once. "Affirmative."

McCoy shifted on his feet and glanced away briefly before locking gazes with Spock again. Spock could not discern a purpose for his having looked aside. "What exactly did they tell you?"

"To be precise, they provided the warnings to my parents, not to myself directly." Spock quelled an annoying impulse to fidget, and then had to spend a moment suppressing the annoyance as well. "I was simply in the room on those occasions."

"Fine, okay." McCoy made a production of rolling his eyes. "What, pray tell, did you hear while they were talkin' over your head?" It was fascinating how McCoy could convey three different unspoken sentiments with a single facial expression – exasperation at Spock's speech patterns and pedantry, professionalism with its attendant care and patience, and poorly reserved judgment against the doctors of Spock's youth. And those three were in fact only the main emotional responses; there were hints of at least two others, but Spock was not skilled enough to identify them. Humans were so adept at blending, displaying, faking and obscuring their emotions, often all at the same time. It was no wonder Vulcans often found them so intriguing. And irritating.

Spock recognized that he was stalling again and disguising it as interest in McCoy's range of emotional expression. "It was impressed upon me at an early age that the process by which I was created was, and still is, experimental. There can be no guarantees about my health, longevity or development."

"Is that so."

Spock paused, startled at the note of…meanness?...in McCoy's statement. Those three words in that combination were normally used as a form of sarcasm in the inquisitive sense. And yet to the best of Spock's knowledge, the Doctor did not appear to be employing sarcasm at this time. "Yes," he replied even though he suspected that McCoy's remark had been rhetorical. "Four attempts were made to splice and sequence a viable hybrid genetic code before mine was formulated. I am the nineteenth iteration of that configuration. The previous eighteen were identical to mine, genetically, but cellular mitosis ceased for unknown reasons within several hours of conception."

Spock paused, weighed the merits of finishing that thought aloud due to possible emotional connotations, and then elected to disclose the rest of it in spite of that. McCoy was his Doctor. A Healer, even if not of the Vulcan healing arts. It was logical to disclose all relevant information to one's Healer, no matter the emotionality of those disclosures.

For a reason which lurked at the edges of Spock's conscious notice, unacknowledged and poorly formed, he drew himself up and squared his posture. It was a defiant pose. He let it remain as such. "It was always made clear to me that I am an experiment in genetic engineering. The experiment has not yet concluded as I am still alive, but in point of fact, my continued existence constitutes an outlier among the rest of the compiled data points. I am an anomalous result which has yet to be successfully duplicated."

McCoy just stared at him for a length of time which did not seem to correspond to the linear passage of a mere fourteen seconds. Then McCoy drew in a slow breath, measured to match the gradual bowing of his head, which carried his gaze down as well. It seemed to be an effort at control, much like the deep breathing exercises that Spock had integrated into his unconscious behaviors as a child. "A data point," he breathed softly, to himself. Abruptly, he shook himself from his fugue and turned back to the instrument tray. His movements remained efficient, but they carried an edge that had previously been absent. "Spock, do me a favor."

"What favor would you ask of me?"

Several hyposprays clattered to the surface of the tray with an unnecessary amount of force. "Don't ever tell me that story again."

Spock opened his mouth, found that he had no words with which to form a cogent response, and so pressed his lips back together. McCoy had not yet turned back to face him, but his shoulders betrayed far more in the way of emotions than Spock would have thought possible. The emotions themselves were indecipherable to him, but he recognized that they existed nonetheless. "I do not understand. You requested an explanation and I provided one."

"You – " McCoy stopped himself with a visible effort, his knuckles paling where he had shifted to grip either side of his tray. When he next spoke, there was venom in his voice that Spock could find no cause for, and he sounded on the brink of a tirade. It was more puzzling to Spock that McCoy restrained himself than that his volatile emotions had threatened eruption in the first place. "You are a living being. You are not an experiment, or a data point, or – or a god damn outlier!" He imbued the last word with such vitriol as to make it sound like a profanity.

Spock cocked his head and drew back a fraction. "But I am an outlier. And the method of my conception was experimental."

"No, the data is an outlier – not you! You are a sentient, infuriating son of a bitch!"

Spock flinched before he could stop himself, then forced himself back to calm, contemplative stillness.

"Never mind!" McCoy spat. He followed it up with a half-coherent litany of grumbled aspersions cast on Vulcans, their scientific methods, their physical appearance, and their general fitness to be called civilized beings.

Spock reacted to none of it, as he was well used to this borderline specist behavior from McCoy. In point of fact, he knew that McCoy was not actually specist or xenophobic, as many mistakenly thought him to be. He simply became frustrated with what he considered to be illogical behavior in other species. The irony of this knowledge was not lost on Spock. Actually, he found that it endeared McCoy to him somehow, even as Spock recognized that his most common response to McCoy was annoyance.

McCoy snatched up the tray and stalked over to the biobed. "Well, don't just stand there. Lay the hell down, you stupid bastard."

Normally, Spock would rebut that since his parents were properly bonded and wed at the time of his conception, he was not technically a bastard. However, it seemed unwise to test McCoy's patience at the moment, so he merely tucked this odd tirade away to be focused upon and dissected during his nightly meditation, and obeyed the order.

McCoy's initial tests proved inconclusive. Spock was instructed to maintain a log of the episodes and the symptoms experienced, as well as a record of all food and drink ingested to see if the culprit was a previously undiagnosed or adult-onset allergy. McCoy also fitted him with a biomonitor bracelet in the hopes of recording evidence of the reported symptoms. Since the episodes were so short in duration, it would be difficult for Spock to make it to sickbay in time for a scan before the symptoms abated.

McCoy also gave him a supply of copper supplements because even though it couldn't entirely account for his symptoms, Spock was slightly anemic due to his diet, which consisted mostly of replicated Terran flora and foodstuffs, none of which were high in copper content. It was logical to correct the deficiency so that any effects caused by that condition could be ruled out, thereby giving a clearer picture of what was truly wrong with him. He had to explain this to the captain over breakfast, since Kirk noticed him taking the pill after he consumed his fruit and oatmeal. The thought of Jim's obvious concern for his health left an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth. He did not wish the captain to worry about him; it would distract him from his proper duties. Spock resolved to minimize his discussions with Kirk regarding the state of his health so that this issue would not consume too much of the captain's valuable attention.

For the most part, the episodes of weakness and pseudo-fever came infrequently over the next several weeks. McCoy continued to monitor him, but the biosensors in the bracelet he wore under his uniform sleeve failed to pick up anything more alarming than occasional blips in his heart rate or minor irregularities in his breathing. Any of these could be easily attributed to his activities during the performance of his duties, and so Spock paid them little heed. After the passage of a full month without an episode, McCoy concluded that anemia had in fact been to blame, and that the severity of Spock's physical reactions to it had grown from some as yet unremarked quirk in his hybrid physiology. This explanation seemed too simplistic, but Spock had no alternative theory, and was therefore logically forced to accept it, at least for the time being.

"Spock?"

A slight jostling disrupted Spock's sleep and he grabbed the offending hand in a vice grip before his mind fully woke.

"Ow! Ow, Spock, seriously, you're gonna break my wrist."

Spock blinked at Jim's pinched features and tried to determine the reason for his having disturbed Spock's rest.

"I mean it…Spock," Kirk gasped. "You really need to let me go now. I swear, I'll never touch you again, just – "

"Piecrust promise." He loosened his fingers.

Kirk ceased struggling and gaped at him, then wrenched himself free and scooted out of arm's reach. He examined his wrist, poking at reddened patches that would no doubt bruise shortly, and then squinted at Spock. "Did you seriously just quote Mary Poppins?"

Spock pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall of the cave they had taken refuge in. "My mother was fond of Earth culture. She shared it with me." He studied their surroundings for evidence of a change in their situation, but everything appeared as it had when he had laid down to rest. "Why did you wake me?"

Kirk looked down at his hand and devoted far more focus to its range of movement than seemed warranted. "Sulu and Cupcake are due back any minute, and you were, um…not sleeping peacefully. I just thought, you didn't need them hearing…"

Several seconds passed and the sentence remained unfinished, so Spock raised his brows and prompted, "Yes?"

"I just know how those end, okay?" Kirk snapped, scrubbing his sleeve across his face in a vain attempt to remove some of the grime that had accumulated there when the flash flood had swept the away team into the bog at the bottom of the hill that led up to their cave. "I didn't think you'd want them around if it got any worse. That's…it's private, Spock. They don't have any right to hear."

Spock examined Kirk's statements and tried to correlate them with his knowledge of Kirk's thinking processes. Hesitantly, he clarified, "I was vocalizing in my sleep?"

Kirk fiddled at the air in Spock's direction and grumbled, "No big deal. Been there. We can pretend it didn't happen."

"Vulcans are not subject to nocturnal – "

"If you need to believe that, then fine, Spock. Let's just not talk about it anymore, okay?"

Spock had no recollection of the dream himself. "I apologize for having disturbed your own rest." Curious now to know what had so discomfited his captain, he inquired, "What was I saying?"

This seemed to upset Kirk even more and he cast a worried glance into the darkness to his left, where the cave opened into a large cathedral-like space and the ground dropped sheer away into the void. His voice a naked whisper in the musty dark, he replied, "You were talking to your mom."

Spock didn't react at first, and then he drew back sharply, straightening his posture in an almost violent manner. He knew that his voice would not be controlled if he spoke now, and yet he did so anyway. "Vulcans are not subject to nocturnal vocalizations." He plucked at the strap of his tricorder and snapped it open, his fingernails gouged into the casing as he stabbed the readout with his thumbs to bring up a scan of the chamber in which they sat. "There is a high concentration of lucite in these rocks. Furthermore, a subterranean river system appears to originate approximately three hundred meters below our current position."

"Look, I'm sorry – "

"The storm front has passed this ridge and is now travelling east over the mountain range. However, the planet's ionosphere is still negatively charged. We will not be able to contact the ship for another twenty two minutes, at least." He looked up to fix Kirk with a non-expression. "Lieutenants Sulu and Galloway are overdue; we should investigate their whereabouts in accordance with standard landing party procedure."

Kirk swallowed, his expression far too open for Spock to fathom. "Okay. I get it." His eyes fell and he made a point of clearing his throat; he seemed to gather his persona together in much the same way as Spock pulled his Vulcan training about him to allow his mind to think without emotional impediment. "Let's go find out what's keeping them, shall we?"

"Indeed." Spock rolled to his knees and then his feet, brushing dust from his uniform pants as he did so.

It was only later, after they found their missing crewmen laying about drunk off of the fumes given off by a decaying species of native flowering shrub, regained contact with the Enterprise and beamed back, that Spock felt able to rationally consider his apparent vocal indiscretions. He and Kirk were playing chess in Kirk's quarters. It had become a regular occurrence and Spock recognized that he enjoyed the pastime. It also fostered an easier rapport between them, an important quality in a command team. Also, an important element of friendship in the human custom. Spock knew that Kirk held the sort of regard for him that humans defined as friendship. What was not clear was whether or not Spock held Kirk in the kind of regard that defined friendship by the Vulcan term.

"Jim?"

Kirk blinked and gave Spock a distracted look before returning his attention to the board. "Hm?"

Spock hesitated because the question was not logical – the answer could serve no practical purpose. He wanted to know anyway. "Jim, what was I saying?" The air felt different after his voice faded out on the last syllable, but he could not identify the cause or the quality of the difference; he only knew that some undefined quality of the atmosphere had changed.

Kirk appeared not to have heard, but he betrayed the farce in the way he moved to shift his queen; his shoulders twisted, one forward with his arm as he reached, and the other back. It was a defensive posture meant to angle his soft underbelly away from an oncoming attack.

The mannerism was fascinating to watch. Did he know that he was doing it? Was it on purpose, or was the behavior so ingrained that his body did it without thought? Spock's attention flickered back to the board long enough to counter Kirk's move, and then he returned to his scrutiny of the man on the other side of the table.

Kirk had been watching him, but as soon as Spock made eye contact, Kirk broke it. He held a glass of liquor in his lap, clasped between both hands. Spock was not certain as to which variety it was, only that it smelled unpleasantly of ethanol and that Kirk suppressed a wince every time he sipped at it. After much contemplation, Kirk finally replied, "It wasn't anything bad. You were showing her something – valit-lar? You said it was for her, and I guess she wouldn't take it because you kept saying that she needed to keep it so she wouldn't be alone when she died. Then you said…" Kirk seemed to sink deeper into his chair, folding in at the shoulders as if taking shelter. "You told her not to cry for you anymore because it doesn't hurt when your age-mates call you a halfbreed; it's just the truth, and there's no logic to being hurt by an accurate appellation."

Though Spock had not thought that he had any expectations as to what he might have been dreaming about, he could not have predicted that. He contemplated the still chess board for a moment and then offered, "I have no recollection of the dream." Odd; his tone seemed one of disappointment.

"I remember reading somewhere that Vulcans don't dream like most other species do."

"That is true," Spock replied, but he offered no comment on the fact of his own dreaming. "We do not require REM sleep to maintain optimum neurological health. This is thought to be an evolutionary trait as falling too deeply asleep in the desert would have proven fatal." He shifted in his seat and then quelled the nervous fidget; he suspected that he had picked up such mannerisms from the humans around him, as he could not recall displaying such ticks until he had signed onto the Enterprise. "We do dream, however. On rare occasions, or when ill."

"You're not ill," Kirk pointed out.

Spock bit his lip; a mannerism that he had been hard-pressed to overcome as a child. He made no real effort to suppress it now. If Jim was indeed a friend, then it was appropriate to show some loosening of his controls when in private, but he was not certain as to the degree that would be considered appropriate by the standards of either of their species.

The silence only became apparent as stretched when Kirk broke it to ask, "What's a valit-lar?"

"It is a small rodent, native to Vulcan. They are – They were sometimes tamed as pets. I believe they would be analogous to a Terran chinchilla or rabbit, though the valit-lar has a scaled hide rather than a furred pelt." Spock paused, thought better of voicing anything else, and then allowed himself to admit softly, "I believe I miss her. Her absence is…tangible at times." He looked up, searching Jim's expression for something he could not put a name to. "Do you ever miss your father?"

Kirk pressed his lips into a reluctant expression, and reached out to nudge a bishop across the second level. "It's not the same, Spock. I never knew him, not like you knew your mother." He frowned into the middle distance, his eyes trained on some invisible point between them. "I can't say that I did or didn't love him; he was just a bedtime story to me. But I was mad at him a lot. For not being there, for dying. My grandparents told me once that he'd wanted to be in Starfleet since he was five years old. And when he had a choice – die for Starfleet, or live for me and my mom and Sam – he chose to die. It was like we weren't important enough to live for."

Spock caught himself shaking his head and stilled the movement. "That is not logical. Your father died in part to save your life. You and your mother were more important than Starfleet. He did not die for the sake of an organization – for an abstraction. He died so that his wife and son would not."

"I know," Kirk replied, his tone subdued. "I know that in my mind, Spock. Hell, I even know it here." He tapped his chest. "But that doesn't erase the fact that he wasn't there for me, and there were some times when I really needed him." His eyes flickered over the chess board, no doubt planning tactics even as he conducted an emotional conversation. "I don't miss him. You can't miss what you never had."

Silence closed in around them and Spock found himself frowning at the chess board, disturbed by Jim's assertions. Eventually, he had to ask, "How can you live like that?"

Evidently, Kirk had become lost in thought; he startled and looked up. "Like what?"

"You are connected to no one. You have no bonds to your living family, no consistent intimate partner, no bonded brothers or intimate friends. I do not understand how you can exist in such a void."

Kirk smiled at that, an easy and knowing upturn of his lips broken by a flash of teeth. "I'm not in a void, Spock. I have McCoy, for one." He hesitated, his eyes skimming Spock's face, then said, "You aren't in a void either, you know."

The implication took a moment, and then Spock's gaze dropped like a stone. In his mind, he recognized feeling flustered as well as cornered, and asserted mental controls to prevent an unnatural rise of color to his face.

His words careful, almost stumbling, Kirk pressed, "You do know that, don't you?"

Spock nodded quickly, human though the response was. "I am afraid that I have forgotten several pressing matters to which I must attend before retiring for the evening. May we postpone the remainder of our game?"

"Of course," Kirk replied. The way his eyes turned hooded seemed to indicate that he knew something which Spock did not.

"Then I will take my leave." Spock rose more quickly than usual and paced to the door.

Before he could palm it open, Kirk called, "Spock."

He almost did not respond. It would have been a simple matter to continue as if he had not heard Jim's call, but that would have been dishonest. Spock's fingers stopped short of the sensor and he slowly lowered his hand. He did not turn, however; he did not want to risk the possibility that his expression was not as controlled as it should be, that something in his too-human eyes would betray him.

"I mean it. You're not alone here – you're never alone. If you need company, if you need…anything…you can come to us."

That was incomprehensible to Spock, and a shiver ran through him as he tried to digest the emotion that this evoked. Though he could not identify it, he at least knew that it was a negative one. Anger? Affront? Abruptly, he demanded, "Why? You barely know me. You did not even like me when we met. Why would you offer this?"

Enough time passed that Spock concluded that he would receive no answer, and then Kirk sighed. "Because…maybe I know what it's like when you need somebody to offer, and no one does." A rustle of cloth betrayed some nervous gesture, perhaps a shrug, or half of one. "You deserve better than that."

Spock started to respond, found no words waiting for him, and settled on merely breathing steadily. To his mortification, the color that he had suppressed before rose to heat his cheeks. It had been years since he had lost control in such a manner, and even the shame that he felt at his reaction was an unacceptably indulgent emotional response. This was intolerable; Jim had done nothing to prompt such a violent reaction. Spock should be calm; he should be able to reply to his captain. He should not be so overcome.

"You don't have to stay any longer, Spock; it's alright if you need to go now."

Gratitude welled up in Spock's throat, but the only thing he seemed capable of was triggering the door sensor. As soon as the panel slid aside, he fled.

The corridors were still mostly empty as Spock navigated toward the mess hall. Alpha shift would not begin for another two point three hours, and most crewmen not currently on duty were still sleeping. Spock could almost feel them, a cloud of consciousness sequestered beyond each bulkhead, hints of life perceptible on a telepathic plane. It was not like the firm presence of Vulcan that had once sat immutable in the back of his mind, but even this indistinct shadow was a comfort of sorts.

Spock consulted his PADD in the turbolift, reviewing his agenda to confirm his recall and reading over the additional notes appended to the mission logs by the gamma shift commander. Their next mission was already underway; they had broken orbit of Pegasii-Beta II and were en route to the Janus system by way of Edian-Delta, where they were to conduct a pre-colonization survey of the temperate landmasses. After concluding the survey, the Enterprise was scheduled for a diplomatic visit to the inhabitants of Janus V, and afterwards to conduct a production and safety review of the operational facilities of the mining colony on Janus VI. This was to be followed by biannual physicals for all mining colony inhabitants, as required by Starfleet regulations. Upon completion of these duties, the crew would be given four days' shore leave.

The Enterprise's schedule for the next three weeks was what Kirk termed a "milk run" as it involved a low level of risk and would not require the participation of the entire crew. As such, he had scheduled a series of tactical drills which Spock needed to coordinate so as not to unduly disrupt the normal operation of the ship. The drills, which would involve tactical, engineering and command personnel, would afford his own science teams time to prepare for the survey and to wrap up any personal projects being conducted in the labs.

Upon reaching the corridor junction which led to the officer's mess, Spock stopped abruptly. He could hear two voices hushed in conversation at the other end of the hallway, the Captain and Doctor McCoy. To most other crewmen, their discussion would have been discrete and unintelligible, but Spock could hear them both clearly from where he stood. He would have continued on and simply ignored the conversation as politeness required, except that he heard his name a second time while he hesitated. Surely if they were talking about him in an open corridor, he had a right to know what they were saying. Spock resumed walking at his usual pace; subterfuge was not called for in this instance.

"…been off lately," Kirk was saying. "He seems so alone sometimes, and I'm just worried."

"I know you are, Jim. But he's fine, as far as I can medically – " McCoy broke off as Spock rounded the corner and shifted his entire affect from furtive to his usual antisocial manner. "It's five in the morning, Spock. Don't you sleep?"

"Vulcans require less sleep than humans. And as you are also awake at this hour, I find your statement hypocritical."

Kirk snorted and motioned toward the officer's mess. "Come on; I need coffee."

Spock stared openly at McCoy, trying to locate the residue of his previous expression – the one that implied guilt or fear at being caught. He could find no trace of it.

McCoy bristled and then examined himself for imperfections before snapping, "Take a holo; it lasts longer."

Spock arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Hey. Separate." Kirk inserted himself between them even though no confrontation had yet taken place, and motioned again at the officer's mess. "You can bicker over breakfast; I'm starving here."

"That is an exaggeration." The moment the remark left his lips, Spock had to fight an impulse to grimace and will down the heat of a blood rushing to color his face. After their conversation many months ago concerning Tarsus IV, such a callous remark should not have –

McCoy snorted. "I'll say." He rapped the back of his hand against Kirk's belly, ignoring Kirk's glare, and stated, "It's a good thing you spend so much time in the gym."

Kirk's nostril twitched and to Spock's mind, the expression on his face was either baleful or annoyed. Then again, perhaps it was neither; Kirk possessed a distressingly wide array of emotional responses even in common situations. He made no verbal response, however; merely offered a gesture that humans employed to invite casual companionship, and turned to enter the mess hall.

Spock hesitated, still expecting a negative reaction to his thoughtless comment, but none came. He slipped past Kirk, whose face was beginning to show renewed concern at Spock's behavior, and approached the queue at the food processors. Out of habit, he stood aside to allow the captain to precede him.

"So," McCoy opened, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he waited his turn behind Spock at the food processor. "I hear we're playing safety inspectors in a few weeks."

Kirk removed a tray from the processor, frowned at the food he had been provided, and then replied, "We get a stopover at Janus V first. The natives requested a visit since we'll be in their system anyway."

Spock punched his selection into the processor and clasped his hands behind his back while the computer completed his order. "They have concerns?"

"They supply the Federation mining colony on Janus VI with basic necessities on occasion, and are apparently unhappy with the compensation they receive." Kirk tapped his foot against a chair leg, his tray balanced in his hands, clearly impatient to begin eating. "Ore holds no value on their world, so no matter how much the miners pay them…"

"Twice nothing is still nothing," McCoy quipped. It sounded rhythmic, like a quote of some sort.

Spock filed the adage away for future reference, its meaning apparent to him for once, as it was a mathematical statement. "Our information on the inhabitants of Janus V is spare. They are an insular culture, non-violent but wary of outworlders. Their cultural readings suggest a lack of xenophobia, however; they are simply uninterested in the activities of the galactic community."

"Mmm." Kirk's eyes unfocused, distracting Spock from the appearance of his food tray. "They may not be xenophobic, but I'm betting they're good and stuck up."

Spock blinked as he parsed that statement for meaning. "I beg your pardon?"

McCoy went to nudge Spock with an elbow and stopped himself at the last second. "Some of us want to eat sometime this year, Spock. Take your damn food and get out of the way."

Six months ago, McCoy's tone and word choices would have offended him, but he understood now that McCoy meant no disrespect or harm, and so ignored the outburst.

"Superior," Kirk told Spock. "They stay out of outside matters because they find us below them."

"Ah. Arrogant." Spock collected his breakfast and threaded his way to a table.

"They're also telepaths," McCoy called over his shoulder, at Spock's departing back.

"I am aware of that fact," Spock replied; he did not bother adding that he was aware of all recorded data on the native inhabitants of Janus V, as he possessed a perfect recall and had reviewed the files just this morning. Instead, he paused to inspect the available tables, chose the one which had most recently been wiped down by the cleaning staff, and sat. "You will no doubt find them disturbing, Captain."

"Oh? I don't know about that, Mister Spock." Kirk slid into the chair opposite him, leaving McCoy behind to await his food selection. "I don't find you disturbing, after all."

"My primary mode of communication is verbal," Spock countered. "The inhabitants of Janus V have only vestigial vocal cords, and must therefore communicate directly mind-to-mind." He picked up a spoon and stirred his oatmeal. Briefly, he felt a pang of longing for actual mut grainmeal, but like Vulcan itself, the plant staple was no more. That line of thought was not constructive, and the moment he realized his indulgence, Spock tamped it down. Oatmeal was a perfectly acceptable substitute, and tasted nearly the same; there was no logic in preferring one over the other.

"They already agreed to use a signing language with us," Kirk told him, distracted the consummation of his own morning meal. "Though Uhura mentioned that there are colors to it as well? In any case, they understand spoken Federation Standard; they don't have ears, but they can interpret the vibrations of the sounds of our speech. Uhura can translate their responses for us. It's a considerate gesture on their part."

McCoy arrived then, settling into a chair perpendicular to them both in time to overhear Kirk's response. "Well, good. You know what I think about telepaths."

Spock swirled his oatmeal around some more and then turned the spoon to scrape the sides of the bowl.

"Bones, has anybody told you that you can be a real dick sometimes?"

A moment passed in silence and then Spock raised his eyes to give Kirk a blank look. "There is no need to reprimand the Doctor on my behalf, Captain. Many humans find the idea of telepathic contact repulsive." He returned to his oatmeal, which seemed to be even more tasteless than usual. Replicated food never seemed to have the right flavor or texture, but its purpose was to provide nutrition, not enjoyment. Still, he could not help but recall how his mother had disdained the use of a replicator in their home on Vulcan. How she had removed it from its power source and used it to store dish towels rather than for its intended purpose. Sarek had always frowned upon seeing it, Vulcan or no.

"Shit," McCoy mumbled. "Spock, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"I have no knowledge of your actual meaning, as I am not privy to your thoughts." Spock debated a moment on saying more, and then an unaccustomed sense of pettiness made him add, "Nor would I wish to be. The idea of being inside of yours repulses me." He set his spoon in the bowl immediately after and unhanded it. "There is a replicator malfunction. This selection does not meet specifications."

Even Spock could sense how uncomfortable the silence became, and then McCoy heaved an overly emotional sigh, setting aside his utensils as he did so. "Spock, I'm sorry for what I said. It was mean-spirited, and I wasn't thinking when I said it."

Spock felt his cheek twitch and sniffed to clear his nasal passages to make it seem less of an emotional response. It was not an emotional response anyway; his cheek itched. "To apologize is not logical. The prior statement cannot be erased, therefore your words are meaningless. And you have not ceased to regard telepaths with negative emotion, so in addition, the attempt at an apology is misleading at best."

In Spock's periphery, McCoy straightened in his seat and bristled. "Dammit, Spock! I know you know what an apology is for – you can't possibly tell me that you don't know exactly what remorse feels like! For once, will you just drop the stuffy Vulcan act – "

"Doctor McCoy, stand down!" Kirk pounded a fist on the table between them to emphasize the order.

The entire mess hall fell silent at that, and Spock imagined that he could hear the heartbeats of his table companions as they forcibly breathed to calm themselves. At length, Spock roused himself enough to place his napkin on the table beside his now unwanted breakfast. Then he rose without looking at either of them. "I accept your apology, Doctor. Please excuse me."

Spock left the mess hall without bussing his tray, but not fast enough to avoid hearing Kirk hiss at McCoy, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" It did not matter. McCoy had expressed his opinion on a topic, and no one had decreed that all other beings in the vicinity had to share or approve of that opinion. This was why the Federation guaranteed freedom of speech to its citizens. No one could expect that all of the trillions of beings in the galaxy would be of one mind on all things. McCoy was free to have any opinion he wished of telepaths, so long as he acted out no crimes as a result.

Still. Spock thought that if he were to feel any emotional response to the Doctor's beliefs, it should be anger, or perhaps disappointment at a lack of appreciation for the principles of IDIC. Not sadness.

Kirk conducted himself as if nothing untoward had occurred in the mess hall that morning, which puzzled Spock. Normally, Kirk was a very empathic man, possessed of an irritating degree of consideration for the emotional well-being of his crew members – even of Spock, in spite of repeated reminders as to the nature of Vulcan emotional control. He also insisted on far more decorum than Spock had anticipated at the inception of their five-year mission, meaning that in addition to further overtures meant to allay any emotional discomfort he may believe Spock to be suffering from, Spock expected a reprimand of some degree for his own participation in the scene created in the mess hall. The senior staff could not be seen to be at odds with each other in front of the crew. They must present a united front and settle any personal disputes in a more private venue.

Neither expected outcome occurred, and when alpha shift drew to a close with their arrival at the Edian system projected for 0400 the next morning, Spock began to wonder if Kirk's indifference should concern him. Had the incident been more serious or disruptive than Spock realized? Would the reprimand be formal and written rather than verbal? Would it appear in his personnel file that he had been emotionally compromised again, and this time by nothing more than a passing comment made by a colleague over the morning meal? The odd crawling sensation in his intestines must be what humans referred to as anxiety. It was most unpleasant.

Spock turned his station over to his replacement at 1800 hours and logged himself off duty. As he passed the captain's chair on his way to the turbolift, he glanced at the back of Kirk's head and tried to ignore how his pace slowed. Kirk normally addressed him at this point to say good evening, or to reiterate plans to meet later in a social setting. It was an unnecessary habit, as Spock had informed the captain on numerous occasions, and yet Kirk's breaking of it perturbed him.

He entered the turbolift and took hold of the control bar, only to quell an impulse to start when Kirk darted unexpectedly inside with him as the doors hissed shut. "You're coming with me."

Spock glanced at him and then faced forward again. "Yes sir. May I inquire as to the consequences you have chosen in response to my conduct this morning?"

Kirk blinked a few times and then twisted to face Spock with his arm partially twisted behind him on the control rod. "What?"

"In the mess hall. I acted inappropriately."

"When?" Kirk demanded.

This was not what Spock had expected. Surely Kirk did not mean that he failed to recall the events which transpired over breakfast. "I was…unprofessional. The Doctor is free to verbally express any personal opinion he wishes while off duty. I had no right to react offense – "

"Spock, shut up." Kirk faced forward again, one foot now tapping anxiously at the wall panel near the floor.

Spock swallowed and tried to identify his additional error, for he had clearly made one. Even accounting for the irrationality of human social interactions, however, he could not isolate any particular moment since shift's end that could explain why Kirk now seemed so agitated that he was actually beginning to sweat at the effort of maintaining his professionalism.

By the time they arrived on deck eight, officer's quarters, Spock was calculating the odds that his abdominal discomfort would result in ulceration. It was a most undesirable state of being, and he resolved to put sufficient emotional controls in place during his evening meditation to prevent the sensation from ever recurring. He hardly wanted to suffer physical damage over a matter of emotions which should not have affected him in the first place.

Kirk led the way to his own quarters and stood aside to allow Spock to enter, then palmed the door panel and instituted a privacy lock. He sighed, arms crossed as he angled himself back to lean an alarming amount of his upper body weight against the bulkhead.

Spock swallowed and stood to attention. This silent regard could not herald anything minor. It was a human tactic intended to instill shame and nervousness in an individual as a prelude to a reprimand; he recognized it from his own command training, and utilized it regularly. Spock had clearly committed more serious an offense than he had realized. Again, he tried in vain to identify the transgression so that he would have some idea of what to expect.

"At ease," Kirk admonished gently. "You aren't in trouble."

"Then may I inquire as to the reason for the formality of this encounter?" Spock considered the way that Kirk glanced aside in response to his question. "Has a negative event taken place?"

"No, Spock. I don't have bad news for you." His posture changed, softening in an unquantifiable manner, and he gestured to the chairs they usually occupied when playing chess. "Why don't you sit down. I'd like to talk to you."

Spock flicked his gaze to the offered chair but made no move toward it. "Captain, I am aware that my conduct and performance has been erratic of late, and I would like to assure you that I will remedy the situation immediately. I understand the need to maintain order within the chain of command, and so I will accept any reprimand you deem appropriate. There is no need for an explanation, and you need not fear that this will affect my regard for you as..." Spock trailed off, partly because he realized that he was dangerous close to a ramble, but more due to the expression materializing on his captain's face.

"…as a friend?" Kirk offered, his expression hopeful.

Spock swallowed, his fingers tightening momentarily behind his back. He should not have presumed to even begin that sentence, but neither could he lie with Kirk watching him in that manner. "Yes, sir."

His tone neutral, Kirk asked, "Are you afraid I don't return that sentiment?"

Automatically, Spock replied, "Fear is an emotion." He tried to maintain eye contact, but could not. With his eyes trained resolutely on the chair behind Kirk, he started to explain, "I do not intend to take liberties…" But he was uncertain of how to finish that thought, so instead, he stated, "You are my commanding officer. Your behavior toward me reflects that; you are kind to all of your subordinates, often to a fault. You forgive many things which a more seasoned commander would not due to your awareness of the events which led to your holding command over men and women who were very recently your equals and classmates. I assure you that there is no need to make special allowances for my behavior, however. If my performance is unsatisfactory, it should be corrected. Any…affection…or additional responsibility you may feel – "

"Do you think that I'm going easy on you because I'm fond of you, Mister Spock? Or because I feel sorry for you?"

Spock shut his mouth, blinked a few times, and then admitted, "I do not know. Are you?"

Kirk turned away and heaved an alarmingly deep sigh. "Your performance is exemplary as always. That's not why I'm worried, and it's not why I brought you here."

"I assure you, there is no need for concern. I am quite well, sir."

A huff of air sounded from where Kirk continued to regard the bulkhead with his back to Spock. "McCoy has brought some concerns to me. Nothing specific," he hurried to add, pivoting back so that most of his body was still angled away while still able to look at Spock sidelong. "But it's on top of some things that I've been noticing too. I am worried, Spock. And I think that it's justified. This past year hasn't been easy for any of us, and if you think that I don't notice the strain you're under, then… Spock, if you needed help – any sort of help – would you ask for it?"

Spock straightened, and for a moment, he wondered why he felt threatened by Kirk's words. "Am I correct in my assumption that this is on the record, sir?"

Wary now, Kirk turned fully toward him, his posture stiff and alert. "Why? Would it make a difference if we were off?"

"No, sir. I simply wished for clarification."

Kirk stared at him for long enough, his expression inscrutable, that Spock felt himself tensing further. "McCoy said you've been having episodes, that it's possible that something's wrong with you." He took a cautious step forward and Spock backed away from the hand that Kirk had raised in his direction. He probably had not meant to touch Spock – humans made such gestures quite often without competing them. Kirk withdrew anyway, putting the table between them as if he understood that the barrier was perhaps necessary. "You can talk to me, you know. On or off the record. About anything."

"I speak to you quite often, Captain." Spock knew that he was being deliberately obtuse, and also that it was unworthy of him, and yet he continued on. "Are there additional topics which you would like me to discuss?"

Kirk's face changed, and for a moment, Spock could feel the disappointment radiating off of him. It was not pleasant, and he felt shame for having induced it. "You know what I mean."

"I do not," Spock countered.

It was unexpected, how clearly Kirk's expression conveyed that he knew how blatantly Spock had just lied. "Alright, Commander." Even the words themselves sounded of sadness and a peculiar brand of defeat. "If that's what you need."

Spock's throat convulsed into an unanticipated swallow at the backwash of emotion that Kirk's statement provoked. For a moment, he experienced the strongest urge to refute that – to state in no uncertain terms that it was not what he needed. Even more inexplicably, he wanted to shout at Jim that he should know that. The urge passed, though, and Spock noted that in the wake of it, he felt faintly ill. "May I be excused, Captain? I am in need of meditation, and I have several reports to review before I retire for the evening."

Kirk bit his lip and nodded. "Of course. I'm sorry to have kept you. Dismissed."

Spock left without another word, though he lingered for a long moment in the corridor with his back to the closed door of Kirk's quarters, pondering the irrational urge to go back.

Edian-Delta IV had been deemed free of sentient life and relatively safe. It was also the first opportunity afforded them for a planet-side away mission for nearly two months, and as a result, they had an abundance of volunteers for the survey. Their responsibilities included little of true import beyond cataloguing the native flora, a simple task for any Starfleet officer, but Spock's performance still suffered enough that the captain noticed. Less than ten minutes after beaming down, Spock had suffered an episode. It had been weeks since the last one, and he had almost mistaken it for a reaction to something in the air or an allergy. After it passed, Spock continued with his duties, but then another one came, and another, and another one after that.

Spock had managed to make himself scarce the first few times he felt his face flush and his ears grow hot, but the fifth time, Kirk was talking and following him around with a specimen collection kit, and Spock had already used the call-of-nature excuse once that hour. He lowered himself to one knee in front of a yellow flower – a weed that grew all over the surface of this region of the continent – and tried to make it look as if the flower had absorbed his attention as he fought the urge to start panting. As the atmosphere contained a more than sufficient quantity of oxygen, there was no cause for the way his lungs fought to labor after the abundant air.

Kirk stood over him, facing the other direction, and let out a long, satisfied exhale. "It smells like springtime, Spock. Sun and water and chlorophyll. Did the wind on Vulcan ever smell like this?"

"Only near the poles during the brief rainy season." Spock stared unseeing at the tricorder display and sank his free hand into the grass to steady himself. He almost felt nauseous. The sensation fluttering about in his abdomen was most uncomfortable.

"Mm," Kirk replied, distracted by…whatever typically distracted him. There were so many possibilities with him. Spock could not focus enough to determine the exact object of his attention right now. "Hey, there's a spring feeding a river further ahead. We already have like ten of those dandelion things; come on. We should see if they have any fresh water crustaceans or arthropods." He paused and his voice sounded strange to Spock's ears when he softened it to add, "Or frogs."

Was that the tone that humans labeled as 'wistful'? Or perhaps 'nostalgic,' in remembrance of a youth that could not be recaptured? The thought of a tiny version of James Kirk catching frogs on Earth was a strange one, but also…the only descriptor that came to mind was sepia, and that made little sense to Spock in this context. The imagined image of a boy-Jim sparked a chain of recollections for him. As a boy on Vulcan, Spock had often occupied himself by digging valit-lar from their nests in the desert. His mother had not appreciated his bringing all of his finds back to the house, but she had smiled at his enthusiasm anyway. Spock had ceased such excavations when he turned seven; such activities were unworthy of the future husband of T'Pring. Or so T'Pring's clan mother had told him.

"You do realize that the probability of this planet having developed amphibians similar enough to Earth's to be called 'frogs' approaches nil. Your desire to search for such a life form is illogical."

Kirk made an exasperated sound. "It's not meant to be logical, Spock. It's – humans do that, you know. We look for familiar things in alien environments."

"You anthropomorphize and then humanize objects which should be taken on their own merits."

"Do you enjoy crushing every iota of fun I might get out of survey duty?"

Spock paused long enough to acknowledge that Kirk was correct about his intentions in responding to the frog comment in such a manner. He would need to meditate on the cause of this lapse. If nothing else, the odd sensations rebelling against his control were causing him to behave irrationally, and with temper. This was not acceptable. At the same time, he recognized that a portion of those emotions consisted of various shades of jealousy. Jim had been permitted to have fun as a child. He had been permitted to hunt frogs and enjoy it. He had never been castigated for it or told that his enjoyment at any pastime was unseemly for a boy of five. Or seven, or twelve, or –

Kirk sighed and Spock listened to him kick at pebbles and undergrowth. "Are you done over there yet?"

"One moment," Spock replied, fiddling with the tricorder. His knees felt weak; if he tried to stand now, he was sure to stumble, and that would alert Kirk to his condition. He only hoped that Kirk was not standing at an angle that would allow him to see the tricorder's readout, since he had locked the display to prevent an accidental erasure of data.

Kirk paced about, toeing at loose rocks and twigs, touching various non-poisonous plants and even poking some sort of insect hive with a stick. Spock considered asking him to leave the insects alone, but when he tipped his head to peer over at Kirk's crouched form, he found himself breathless instead. Sweat prickled all over his body and a hot flash swept through him so unexpectedly that he must have made some noise.

"Spock?"

Spock gulped in hard, labored breaths, tricorder forgotten, and gradually folded over until his forehead touched the cool grass. And that was bliss because he was so hot all of a sudden and the shaded greenery felt so refreshing…

Rapid thumps of bootsteps carried Kirk over to his bowed form, and a hand landed like a brand on Spock's shoulder. "What's wrong? What happened? Did something sting you?"

Spock felt his communicator buzzing against his hip and blinked his eyes open, too overcome to really take heed of it. His heart felt like a tattered ship's sail in a sustained wind, fluttery-thump and ragged in his side, and he couldn't really focus because he felt like his head was about to float away from the rest of him. His respirations were harsh in his own ears and yet distant because there was blood rushing past his ear drums in a near-deafening roar, and he was trembling now and too hot, and it was all he could do to crumple over on his side without making any unnecessary noises.

Kirk's communicator chirped as he activated it and called for McCoy, his hand shifting down to rest between Spock's shoulder blades. "Bones, we have a medical emergency."

Before Kirk could say anything more, McCoy's voice came back like an echo in a tin can. "Are you with Spock? I just got an alarm on his biomonitor, and I can't raise him."

"Yeah, he collapsed taking some readings. Where are you?"

"Original beam down point. I've got a fix on you. Is he lucid?"

Kirk leaned over him and Spock swallowed hard as his stomach roiled. Oddly enough, he didn't feel as if he would regurgitate any of its contents, and yet there was an uncomfortable heat low in his abdomen that caused his throat to constrict. "He's conscious, and flushed." Kirk ran the back of a knuckle over Spock's cheek and Spock shuddered and jerked with a sharp whimper. Sparkles and prickles of sensation danced across the surface of his skin like tiny needles in the wake of Kirk's touch. It wasn't pain, but it wasn't pleasant either, and it made the burn in his abdomen more pronounced. "Kind of warm to the touch. I can't tell if he's hotter than normal, though – he's still cooler than me. Sweating pretty badly, too, but he's shivering like he's cold."

Spock licked his lips because his mouth felt dry, like it was stuffed with cotton, only to find that he was actually salivating more than usual. He blinked a trickle of perspiration from his eyes as he counted his respirations – shallow and rapid and…he lost count. Inconsequential. All of his symptoms seemed to show signs of imminent vomiting. It had been so long since he had been ill that he must have forgotten what it felt like, exactly; he was going to be sick. That must have been it. Kirk was rubbing circles in the center of his back in a manner that he imagined was supposed to sooth according to human social norms, but it only intensified his discomfort. He felt as if a banked coal were nestled inside of him, somewhere below his navel. The flush worsened and yes, he was definitely going to be sick in a moment. He felt vertigo more sharply than he had thought possible, and tried to anchor himself to an awareness of his surroundings. The realization that he could not nearly pushed him to outright panic.

Kirk grabbed at his shoulder as he started to pull himself back up onto his knees. "Hey, no – stay put. McCoy's on his way."

"I am…going to – " Spock tried to say more, but he had to let his forehead drop back down as a wave of sickening heat coursed though him, back rounding in response to the way the billowing in his stomach seemed to drop lower. He had managed to get his knees back under himself, and he must have communicated enough for Kirk to understand because now there were hands supporting him around his midsection. Spock tried to pull away, crawl forward so that he wouldn't make a mess of the Captain's uniform too, but Kirk dragged him back and held him more tightly. Spock's breath caught, and then he groaned as the muscles in his lower back tightened, sending a rush of pressure up his spine to momentarily steal his vision. He tried swallowing to alleviate the immediate threat of illness.

"Okay," Kirk soothed, one arm around Spock's waist and the other rubbing his back again, up between his scapulae.

It must have been solely a human gesture because all it did to Spock was make him want to squirm away. He couldn't remember his mother ever engaging in such an act when he had been ill as a child. Spock braced his knees more widely on the ground to compensate for his uncertain balance and felt his teeth clack a few times as he shivered and quaked from the nausea. It wasn't nearly as unpleasant as he remembered it being when he had been much younger and prone to catching Terran flu viruses; he was grateful for that much. As long as he remained still and kept his head down, he felt that he would be able to maintain control over his gastrointestinal system, though he ceded the possibility that he might pass out from the way he was breathing. He didn't have enough energy to prevent himself from hyperventilating, or from tearing up clumps of hopelessly crushed vegetation when his hands involuntarily clenched. The chlorophyll stained bright green splotches into his palms like patches of sunburn. He could feel the muscles of his stomach and abdomen begin to cramp from the tension.

Just when Spock suspected that he would indeed lose consciousness, McCoy arrived in a flurry of too much multidirectional energy; it grated on his every sense. Spock heard the doctor snap something about heart rate and blood pressure, and when he felt the sharp sting against his neck of a hypospray, he welcomed the blackness.

Spock woke in sickbay feeling muzzy and hypersensitive. When he peeled his eyes open, everything looked too bright, like splinters across his vision. He clenched his eyes shut again in an act of self preservation, but the light continued to stab at his brain through his eyelids.

Somewhere off to his left, McCoy murmured, "It's just the sedative wearing off. Your stupid hybrid biology acts like it's coming off a bender every time I medicate you."

Spock should have a smart comeback for that. Nothing came to mind, though.

McCoy sighed as if his failure to respond in kind were evidence of just how ill he was. Perhaps it was. "How are you feeling?"

Like death warmed over, he thought automatically. What a curious human expression. He understood the meaning behind it now, even if it employed excessive hyperbole and was too overly dramatic to justify his using it aloud. Instead, he said, "I would like to protest the excessive level of illumination." And then he suppressed the urge to cringe at the way his words slurred together.

There was fondness in McCoy's voice when he replied, "Lights are at thirty percent, Spock. It's not excessive."

"Oh." He hadn't meant to say that out loud; the vocalization served no purpose. Superfluous speech was to be avoided as it was not logical to speak without clear intent. He risked slitting his eyes open again and winced as the brightness smeared across his field of vision.

"Well," McCoy sighed, moving and rustling about in the background. "Your heart rate returned to normal shortly after I sedated you. The rest of your readings took about half an hour to normalize. I'm thinking this is some sort of chronic condition, but don't ask me what triggered it. I'd like you to remain here overnight for observation, and we'll discuss options in the morning."

"Very well." Spock squinted up at the sickbay ceiling and waited for his mental controls to correct the conditions leading in the general direction of a migraine. Some of the pounding faded from the forefront of his conscious mind and he felt the tension in the muscles around his eyes begin to loosen. "Have you finished the analysis of my genetic code?"

From somewhere beyond Spock's feet, McCoy replied, "Prelim's all done. There's no degradation and no damage to the genetic structure beyond what you'd expect to find in a being exposed to the mild levels of radiation found in a space-faring environment. And the damage we did find isn't across the board; it looks like it's confined to a few cells here and there, not a factor permeating your entire body. It's not anywhere near severe enough to affect your health." He shuffled back into Spock's range of vision, Feinberger extended. "Hold still." He began to wave it in slow arcs over Spock's forehead, eyes fixed on the readings displayed on the monitors above Spock's bed. "You know, your DNA is like a friggin' work of art? I'm thinking maybe that's the problem. Naturally bred life forms have a lot of junk cluttering up their genetic code – extras, copies, some throwbacks, some time-released sequences that just never get triggered in modern times or whose triggers were bred out of the species eons ago. You don't have any of that." McCoy snapped the Feinberger into his palm with a flick of the wrist and fingers, then leaned over him a bit, brows puckered as he studied Spock. "Your pupils are a bit constricted."

"I am experiencing a mild headache," Spock confessed.

"And you're using your hoodoo to cut off the pain receptors, aren't you."

The doctor's intonation did not suggest that his statement was intended as an actual question. Spock identified the rhetorical usage and remained silent.

McCoy rolled his eyes as he straightened, thereby removing himself from Spock's field of vision. "Thought so. I really wish you wouldn't do that. If you don't tell me what you're feeling, I can't get an accurate picture of your symptoms."

"You are correct, of course." Spock recognized an impulse to curl protectively around himself and dispelled it. "I will report such things to you in future."

"Oh, goodie." McCoy sighed quietly over in the corner by his instrument cabinet, then walked back in Spock's direction. "Anyway, I was thinking that with our imperfect understanding of so-called junk DNA, it's possible that some minor components were left out of your spliced code – something that maybe activates so rarely that we've never captured it in experiments. Or maybe something with a trigger so off the wall that we haven't even thought to test for it. And maybe the effects of that absence are cumulative, like a yearly clean-up switch or something cyclic that's never activated in you, which would explain why you're only now showing symptoms. It had to build up to a threshold point."

Spock breathed. Slowly. "An interesting hypothesis." He laced his fingers together over his stomach.

"Bah," McCoy grunted. "It's just an idea, and not even a very good one. Spock…" He placed his hands on the edge of the biobed next to Spock's hip and leaned forward to catch his eye. "Look, the truth is that you're healthy. Based on everything I'm capable of testing for or looking at, you're just dandy. If this really is something physiological – something genetic like I've just suggested – then trying to find it will be like….like looking for one specific needle in a needle-stack."

Spock arched an eyebrow. "I do not believe that you have employed that euphemism correctly."

"I employed it just fine, you dang literal-minded Vulcan. And anyway, you're missin' my point."

"Which is?"

McCoy studied him, and the care with which he appeared to be choosing his approach puzzled Spock. Gently, McCoy asked, "Is it possible this isn't physiological?"

Spock felt an eyebrow twitch and then flicker upwards as he considered this. "You believe the cause to be environmental? We have ruled out food allergies or contaminants as a source. The remaining factors are airborne allergens or contaminants, surfactants and other chemicals used throughout the ship, cleaning supplies, materials used in the manufacture of ship components, deliberate attempts at poison – "

"Psychological," McCoy cut in. He sucked in a deeper, perhaps preparatory breath as he watched Spock's face first go blank and then turn disapproving. "Spock, I think it's psychological."

"You are mistaken. Vulcans do not – "

"Oh, poppycock! Let's just leave out the part where you aren't entirely Vulcan, shall we?"

Spock frowned, which was not an acceptable response, and then slackened his features again.

McCoy kept going as if Spock's reactions were not relevant. "You are one of only ten thousand survivors of a telepathic species that once numbered in the billions. You had almost every single bond and peripheral link you've ever formed ripped outa your skull without any sort of warning, and I know that there was some sort of psychic net or cloud or…or diaspora, or whatever, that you were all connected through, which is now gone. That causes trauma, Spock. Ongoing trauma, which you have not sought any kind of treatment for. Telepaths like you aren't supposed to be alone in their heads – there are biological precedents in nature, not to mention specific studies on Vulcans who lose either some or all of their bonds in a sudden fashion, or who have been isolated from telepathic contact. Do you really think you're the only one suffering? I know you've been readin' the reports from the temporary settlement. You must be aware of how bad it is for some of them."

"I assure you, my mental health is adequate."

"Is it?" McCoy shot back. "Because I'm not all that sanguine about your state of mind, to tell you the truth. The way you've been actin' since the Narada isn't natural. You aren't in shock, and you should be. You spent, what, a few hours mulling things over after Jim provoked your inner savage? And then nothing. You don't talk about Vulcan, you don't react when somebody else talks about Vulcan. At all. You don't even stiffen up like you're suppressing a reaction. It's like you're a damn automaton, Spock, and as much as I'd like to accuse you of being an unfeeling bastard, I do know better. So maybe you can explain to me why you're suddenly a picture of perfect indifference."

Spock glared at McCoy, but he was reasonably certain that to the doctor, his expression remained cold and impassive, as he preferred it. "Perhaps my hybrid genetics afforded me some protection from the shock of the destruction of my home planet. Or perhaps my bonds were weaker than a full-blooded Vulcan's, or not as numerous, and so their loss did not harm me as severely as it did others. Perhaps my mind was not as fully connected to the collective unconscious and so was more shielded from the backlash and dissolution of that psychic field. Perhaps I simply do not care as I am Vulcan and I follow the mind rules, and excessive displays of grief and disbelief are not logical, and indulging in them would be against my interpretation of the tenets of Surak." Spock stopped, breathing more heavily than was warranted, and checked himself. Anger. He compartmentalized it for later contemplation and returned his gaze, once again controlled, to McCoy. "Perhaps I am simply not traumatized. I have been trained as a Starfleet officer to disassociate from events so that I may continue to act effectively as an officer. This is a complement to my training as a Vulcan. I was uniquely prepared to weather this experience."

McCoy merely looked at him, and he appeared… Spock wasn't sure, actually. "Yeah," McCoy breathed. "Perhaps. Or you could just be havin' anxiety attacks. Some kind of PTSD."

"Your hypothesis presumes an emotional reaction. I am not anxious."

"Would you know it if you were?"

Spock opened his mouth, paused to genuinely consider that question, then closed it again. No, he would not necessarily know if he were. Assuming that the emotion escaped his controls to begin with, he was not certain that he would know it as anxiety, since he did not think that he could subjectively describe that emotional state if asked. And if it did not escape his controls, he would never know. In the event that the emotion was buried deeply enough to remain hidden from him even during meditation, were it to grow to a certain threshold strength, it could conceivably manifest itself physically.

He tried to recall his mental state on the planet, analyzing his behavior during and between the episodes he had experienced during the mission. Though he could identify and categorize several instances of atypical behavior, he connected them with efforts to conceal his physical state. To his recollection, his behavior had not altered prior to the episodes, only after. That did not mean that there weren't precursors, however; merely that he was incapable of identifying any at this time. It was scientifically impossible to prove a negative.

"Spock?"

Spock looked up, and though he felt nothing, he was not entirely certain that his face reflected it this time. Odd. Was this what humans referred to when they claimed an emotional feeling of numbness? "Yes, Doctor?"

"You do know there's a difference between control and repression, right?"

Of course he did. Theoretically. In practice, however, he was beginning to have serious doubts as to the efficacy and quality of his training as a child, because simple control should not be so precarious a thing as Spock had always found it to be. "I…" Spock found himself without an ordered thought and stopped.

His voice soft enough to avoid breaking too harshly into Spock's ruminations, McCoy enjoined, "At least think about what I've said. I'm not askin' you to go all gung-ho about therapy and new age hippie healing circles. Just don't rule out an emotional trigger, okay?"

Spock slanted his eyes to McCoy's, took in the cast of his features and a host of expressions too subtle for Spock to interpret. He could recognize nothing except an odd kind of concern, much as he had seen on his mother's face when he had come home from school with bloodied knuckles and nose and refused to speak of it, much less act as if he were hurt. And since he refused to hurt, she would hurt for him. It was an almost resigned sort of worry, as if McCoy knew better than to think Spock would accept his help, and yet could not stop himself from offering. Oddly enough, seeing this expression on McCoy's face induced the same vague sense of shame in Spock that his mother's had. He simultaneously disliked it and was glad of it. This reaction was not logical, and yet it was familiar.

"I will consider your words," Spock replied, guarded and unable to conceal it.

McCoy gave a single, curt nod. "That's all I'm asking. You're confined to the ship for the duration of the survey mission, just in case the cause was environmental. I'll let you know if the samples turn up anything that affects Vulcan physiology." Then he retreated to allow Spock to rest.

The natives of Janus V were short, squat, two-legged creatures well-adapted to the high gravity of their planet. They referred to themselves simply as The Children. Their skin consisted of hard, armor-plated coverings similar to earth armadillos. They possessed compound eyes which could extend beyond their sockets on short stalks of ganglionic nerve bundles, and they consumed nutrients via absorption through the skin while immersed in geothermic pools of mineral-rich slurry. They reproduced by the laying of eggs in caches consisting of thousands at a time. Most never hatched. According to their lore, their ancestors had gone a thousand years between hatchings, and the eggs would lay dormant until the proper time. Now, the unhatched eggs simply died and dried out into round lumps like geodes, the insides crystallized and the outer shells calcified into stone.

Captain Kirk appeared wary of their movements and did not seem able to decide how to react when they touched him, which was understandable as their limbs were very hard and their surface texture unpleasantly cold and rough. The Children were endlessly amused by Kirk's discomfort and awkward attempts to communicate with the help of Uhura, a tricorder and a universal translator. Spock knew this because they told him so and gladly shared their mirth with him. In fact, they were not xenophobic at all, and Spock noted this correction to the official record on the species. Their minds were bright and open, guileless, filled with joy and life and happiness to meet others who were not like them. They found Spock fascinating and wished that they had aural devices like his ears so that they could hear the tinkling of their own limbs when they moved, and compare it to the bell sounds that Spock shared with his mind in return. They told him the legends of their ancestors and the story of the Chamber of Ages that they believed had given rise to their race, many thousands of years ago on another planet all together. He made extensive notes on the multi-legged silicate life forms that The Children claimed mystical descent from, and they exchanged theories on how they may have come to inhabit a planet that they obviously did not evolve on.

Spock caught himself regarding his crewmates with pity for the brightness that they could not perceive all around them, owing to their lack of strong telepathic abilities. When Kirk and Uhura looked at the surface of the planet, they saw only geological formations in shades of greys shot through with an occasional vein of crystal or raw metal. Spock, however, could see all of the colors on the spectrum of sight available to The Children, and it threatened to steal his breath in spite of his emotional controls. Their art was vibrant and complex despite the fact that it was indistinguishable from the surrounding rock formations when Spock attempted to view it for himself, through his own eyes. But that did not matter, as they freely shared the view through their own with him.

Spock's interactions with The Children reached the point that he had ceased speaking altogether by the end of the day. It did not occur to him that anything odd was happening until he found himself staring at Kirk, awaiting a response to the invitation he had relayed from The Children for the Enterprise landing party to remain with them through the night. He was forced to repeat himself aloud, but only after Kirk's face had transformed with concern and a hint of suspicion at Spock's expectant, silent confusion.

Even after the verbal invitation had been relayed, Kirk continued to regard Spock with a troubled expression as he replied, "Please tell them that we are grateful for the offer, but that the environment here is…a little harsh for our kind. We would need more than the supplies we brought to be comfortable for the night."

Beside Kirk, Uhura had long since ceased attempts to act as main translator, since Spock had so quickly taken to the task himself. The Children seemed to prefer him to mechanical devices anyway, as communicating with him, a fellow telepath, was natural to them. However, Uhura, too, looked upon Spock with a shadow of concern for his odd behavior, and it made him uneasy to watch her trade worried glances with Kirk in the silence of body language that The Children did not recognize as a form of communication and that Spock still experienced difficulty interpreting.

Spock nodded to Kirk and peered down at the cluster of beings arrayed about his legs. They reached to just above his waist when standing at ease, and Spock could easily reach to rest his palm over the shoulder of the one nearest to him. Its thoughts were a bright tinkle of glass ornaments glittering in his mind, its disposition too full of goodness to react in any way but understanding at the decline of their invitation. The Children understood the reluctance of their visitors, and laughed merrily at how dull their planet appeared to outside eyes. It made their home special to them, to be so beautiful only when The Children looked at it. They would welcome the landing party back in the morning, when the sun rose again.

When Spock materialized back in the transporter room of the Enterprise, he immediately missed the cluster of vibrant minds at his feet. He blamed the rapid onset of a migraine on the periodic transporter sickness that all frequent users suffered from now an again.

The Enterprise spent three days at Janus V before breaking orbit to journey to the mining colony on the next planet. Spock retired to his quarters at his usual time after a game of chess with the captain, upon which he had not been able to focus. He felt fatigued and attributed it to the long days of telepathic communication, to which he was not accustomed. Rather than attempt his nightly meditations, Spock sat on the foot of his bed and massaged his temples, trying to dispel the headache that seemed impervious to his usual biofeedback controls. He soon gave up the attempt and crawled into his bunk, reasoning that a solid night's sleep would be of more benefit at this point than further mental exertions.

The inspection of Janus VI began as soon as they made orbit the next day. The colony was newly established and had only begun regular mining operations that month. Beyond verifying the functioning parameters of the equipment and life support systems, and checking the stability of the compound itself, there was little for the Enterprise to do. Spock's presence was required on the bridge coordinating inspection and engineering teams, and as such, he was not afforded ample time to recover from the overexposure to telepathic contact with The Children. He was aware of the abruptness of his manner, and also of the fact that the junior officers seemed to be avoiding him whenever possible, but he was unable to help this. His headache had failed to abate, and though he had consumed his usual meal upon waking, it sat ill in his stomach.

He probably should have gone to sickbay to report his symptoms to the doctor, but the Captain insisted on Spock's presence on the surface for a dinner reception at the conclusion of beta shift. His physical condition was not so serious that it merited immediate attention, though he second-guessed his conclusion when the tingle of the transporter beam releasing him onto Janus VI left him momentarily disoriented and dizzy enough that he immediately excused himself to the head so that he could sit down until it passed. He resolved to report to sick bay in the morning before commencing his duty shift, and in the mean time, avoided the food table set up at the informal reception. Thankfully, Kirk did not notice, or if he did, he assumed that Spock had already eaten.

Spock awoke groggy the next morning, and unnaturally; his door chime sounded again before he had even managed to pry his eyes open all the way. He fumbled for his innate time sense but it eluded him, and when he attempted to roll onto his side so that he could rise to answer the door, his stomach clenched into an unanticipated, roiling wave of nausea. The door chime sounded a third time, but he was too busy panting to pay it much heed other than to wonder if a programmed sound byte could be described as having an emotional component, because he was struck by the fanciful urge to describe the chime as increasingly impatient.

Finally, a dull pounding betrayed the striking of a fist against the bulkhead, and Spock started at the realization that he had been slipping back into unconsciousness. He could hear Jim calling his name, and it occurred to him in a sluggish fashion that his current condition should alarm him. He could hear the deafening roar of silence in his head like waves in a vacuum, a great void of nothing threaded throughout the gaps in his own consciousness.

The swish of the door opening betrayed the use of an override code, and Spock pried his eyelids apart as if they were gummed in a tacky residue. Jim swam into his field of vision and Spock lunged to feel something solid in his hands, though in actuality his movements could barely be described as a flop and a feeble grasping. The vertigo lessened for a moment once he had his fingers tangled in the hem of Jim's uniform tunic, but the nausea and the burning in his abdomen only got worse. He heard himself trying to warn Jim that he was going to be violently ill, but Jim merely punched the intercom and called for a medical team before sitting down and cupping his hand over the crown of Spock's head. Spock pressed his face into the crease between the bedding and Jim's thigh, shivering and swallowing and hiccupping and hoping that the pressure building behind his eyes and in his head would just explode and get it all over with. He couldn't do this. It was too much, it hurt too much.

"…med team is on its way. Just be sick if you have to – it's alright. I'm not leaving." Hands touched his face, and with it came brightworryfriend.

Spock scrabbled to hang on to the fleeting impression of feeling, of otherness and not-alone that came from the touch of another's mind, however brief, but Jim retracted his hand and gripped Spock's shoulder instead, a warmth through the fabric of his sleep clothes but dull for the lack of a mind behind it. It felt as though the deck were tipping back and forth like a board on a fulcrum. Spock had seen such a thing on Earth. Human children played on them. He could not imagine why they would wish to – the lurching sensation was not pleasant. Was that, perhaps, why the children shrieked when their parents put them on the contraption?

"That's a see-saw, Spock." Jim's hand was in his hair now. When had he moved it? It was strangely soothing. "They yell because it's fun."

Not fun. Disturbing. Jim must be mistaken.

"Did those aliens do something to you? Spock, I can hear everything you're thinking."

Mother put him on a swing once. She had taken him to Earth to visit her family there. They had shunned her, and she had taken him to a park because he was old enough to understand what they said and she did not want him to hear them say the half-breed words. He heard them anyway because everyone always forgot that his ears were Vulcan, and even in whispers, they couldn't speak quietly enough.

God, he was just a child, how could they – "Spock, the med team's here. I have to get out of their way."

No. Nononono –

"Bones, his mind's gone all weird – I can hear him."

Spock grabbed for Jim's retreating form, blurry at the edges of his vision but gold and warm enough to know him by.

"It's alright, Jim, just let us have him."

"I'm trying! Spock, you have to let go. Come on, buddy."

Going to be sick, he's going to be sick, and Jim is leaving, and he cannot breathe properly and it's too hot, he likes the heat, but it's too hot, and he's shivering from the cold, and Mother insists he will like the swing but he doesn't and he wants to go home, he wants to go home, he's never been away from Vulcan before, it's cold and wet and at least when the other Vulcans don't like him, they keep it to themselves and stay away from him –

"Dammit, Bones, just give him a hypo or something!"

"Spock, hold still!"

"Shit – "

He felt the gastric acid burning a path up his esophagus and then he was choking, and Jim was a blur of yellow gold receding from him, and everything went black.

"Just breathe, Spock. Don't try to sit up yet."

Spock blinked, eyes slit against the harsh light of sickbay, and ignored how McCoy's hand pressed against his chest to reinforce his order. Everything felt strange. Muted. He did not like it.

"You're probably feeling a bit disoriented," McCoy went on, his voice hushed and yet grating somehow in the wrongness of it. "I gave you a psi-blocker, so that's normal. Your neural activity was off the charts when we found you. Now, just stay put for a minute while I get some readings."

The moment McCoy removed his hand, Spock shoved himself into a seated position and blinked at the dull quality of the room. "This room has gone flat," he announced, though the logic of saying so escaped him. Surely, McCoy was already aware of this malfunction.

A loud breath drew Spock's attention to his left, where McCoy stood scowling at him. "Will you lay down, you ornery hobgoblin? I'm trying to figure out what's going on with you here. For a while there, I was sure you were gonna start seizing."

Spock tipped his head to one side, cognizant that the manner in which he stared was considered rude in human culture, and yet unable to look away from the spectacle of Doctor McCoy washed free of color. In fact, he was so…so dimensionless. Certainly this could not be the real McCoy. The real McCoy was full of colors and textures and substance. This being – this entire place, in fact – lacked even the most basic substance. It was an illusion. An alien presence must have been at work. Perhaps they were not cognizant of the imperfections in their recreated sickbay and were unaware that Spock could see through the deception. "Who are you? Why have you brought me here?"

Pseudo-McCoy looked up sharply from its medical scanner readout and furrowed its brow. "What do you mean, who am I?"

"You have taken on the appearance of Doctor McCoy of the Enterprise, but clearly, you are not he." Spock cast a more critical eye around the med bay and noted that aside from the flat and colorless aspect of the room, it was a very detailed and accurate facsimile of the Enterprise's medical facility. "Where have you taken me? What are your intentions?"

"You…" Pseudo-McCoy's hands dropped, the Feinberger in one hand and a hypospray in the other. It squinted a bit at Spock, glanced aside, and then made deliberate eye contact. "Spock, we're on the Enterprise."

"No." Spock studied the being before him, and in spite of himself, he found the craftsmanship of this illusion to be superb. The being had even assimilated McCoy's body language and unspoken mannerisms. How long must they have had the Enterprise under surveillance to be able to manage such a detailed recreation? "My shipmates are no doubt searching for me. You would do well to return me to them unharmed."

One of pseudo-McCoy's eyebrows twitched. "Fascinating." The other eyebrow ticked as well. "To coin a phrase. I know that Vulcans can experience a range of debilitating side effects when cut off from their telepathy, but I never expected Capgras Syndrome." It took a cautious step closer to the biobed. "You really think that I'm not Leonard McCoy?"

Spock tensed as pseudo-McCoy drew closer, aware of the hypospray that the imposter still held in one hand. It could contain any number of chemical agents from a sedative to a truth serum. In his current physical and mental state, Spock doubted his ability to resist the effects of the latter. "I know that you are not. Drop this farce immediately and state your intentions."

"Alright, just calm down." Pseudo-McCoy backed away again, its hands held up in the air in the human gesture of harmless intent. "I'm just going to call the captain down here, okay?"

"As you wish." In spite of the imposter's seemingly passive behavior, Spock refused to let his guard down. It still had not revealed the purpose of kidnapping him like this, but perhaps that was something that the 'captain' would have to explain. Upon hearing pseudo-McCoy contact 'Jim' at the comm unit, Spock bristled. It appeared that these beings, whoever they were, intended to press this charade even though Spock had already seen through the deception. The intimation that Spock was simple minded enough to be persuaded by yet another facsimile, this time of his friend and captain, rankled. He blamed his emotionalism on a side effect of whatever agent must have served to bring him to this place.

After pseudo-McCoy closed the communications channel, it once again approached Spock, though it remained well outside of arm's reach this time. "I'm just going to go out into the corridor to explain the situation to the captain before he comes in, alright?"

Spock narrowed his eyes, aware that his expression conveyed a particular brand of distaste for these proceedings. "Do as you must. But I warn you that the Federation does not take kindly to the unwarranted kidnapping of its officers."

"I'll keep that in mind," pseudo-McCoy replied, and its tone was far too wry and patronizing for Spock's liking. It sobered quickly, however. "Promise me you won't try to leave this room. It's…well, it's for your own safety. The others might not understand this, um…unique situation."

Spock afforded the request a moment's thought, then nodded. It could be considered a reasonable request under the circumstances, and while the presence of the being before him implied a certain level of dishonesty, it had not attempted violence against him. He was not being restrained, and the being appeared non-hostile, even caring. Spock decided to reserve judgment. It was possible that there was a logical explanation for his being here. Perhaps these beings did not exist on a corporeal plane, and this flat place represented an attempt at communicating with him in the only manner of which they were capable. Perhaps they assumed the likenesses of his shipmates because they had no other reference from which to draw a physical form. "I will remain here until you return."

"Good," pseudo-McCoy breathed. It sounded relieved. "Thank you."

Spock nodded, just a slight dip of his head, but he felt a rising sense of unease. This was not McCoy. This was not the Enterprise. And yet… Aside from the flatness and the lack of texture, everything seemed too perfectly placed and acted out, too right to be a forgery, all the way down to the hum of the engines that he could feel thrumming through the metal beneath his fingertips. But it had to be a forgery. There was substance to some things, but not the right substance, and not in the right places. How could an alien race create such accurate replicas of sounds and scents – intangible things – and yet fail to suitably mimic sight? It was not logical.

From outside the room came the sound of an air-pressurized door swishing open, and then closed again. Spock watched the pseudo-McCoy retreat into the corridor, and then a low hum of voices reached his ears, indistinct and, for lack of a better word, fuzzy. It disoriented him further and on reflex, Spock reached to ground himself, reached in the telepathic sense to anchor himself within the shapes cast even by the psi-null minds of his shipmates. He should have been able to sense them, no matter any distance that may have separated them. Perhaps the impression would be imprecise, faint, below the threshold of conscious recognition, but at least the sense of their existence should have been there.

It was not. Spock reached, and felt nothing.

The biobed monitor behind him bleeped at the change in his rate of respiration, and then again as it registered the rise in his heart rate. The imitation doctor had mentioned a psi-blocker, but why would it have given him one? What purpose could have been served by cutting him off from awareness of his shipmates unless there were something that it did not want Spock to know? What if he had not been given a psi-blocker, but some other drug? Or perhaps he had not been given anything at all, and the reason for Spock's failure to sense his shipmates was not due to illness or the strangeness of the space they now occupied, but to the fact that they no longer existed to be sensed. It was not a logical conclusion. Spock had absolutely no evidence to back it up, and yet he knew – he knew, he could feel it in the abrupt emptiness of his mind – that they must be dead. All of them. They were dead like Vulcan-that-was. Their consciousness had ceased.

A recollection came to him unbidden of a past mission undertaken with then-Captain Pike, and of the illusions that the inhabitants of Talos IV could conjure at will, so detailed and yet flawed, the lack of dimension obvious in hindsight. Like this place. Like this flat, colorless place with no depth, like these beings that aspired so well to mimic the substance that they could never have.

Spock looked up when pseudo-McCoy reappeared in the doorway, its features creased as the real Doctor's would have been to see the aberrations in the readout above the biobed. Another figure appeared behind it, and Spock's stomach performed an unpleasant lurch at the resemblance to his captain. "Hey, Spock."

Why did it have to look like Jim? Why did it have to speak to him in Jim's voice, and look at him with Jim's eyes and smile at him with Jim's face? Why him – why choose Spock's friend's image to confront him with? Why –

"Whoa, there." Pseudo-McCoy put a hand on fake-Jim's arm to stop him coming any closer, and Spock flared his nostrils at the way this – this imposter Jim's face fell into tense lines. Just like his Jim's face would have done when encountering an unexpected threat.

Fake-Jim took what appeared to be an involuntary step backwards and Spock felt the hairs raise on his arms and the back of his neck. He could hear himself growling, a threatening, animal sound deep in his chest. "What have you done with them?" he demanded, and he might have been horrified at the snarl to his words if he had not been so disoriented, so – so furious.

This imitation Kirk recovered its bravado and straightened, and the affectation was so like Jim's that Spock bristled at the pain of knowing that this echo was probably all that was left of his own captain. "What do you mean?" fake-Kirk asked. "With who?"

"The crew of the Enterprise," Spock replied, his voice clipped and savage as a Vulcan's should not be. "Do you intend to kill me as well?"

"Kill - what? Spock, no! No one's dead. Look." Fake-Kirk held its hands out in a gesture of supplication and Spock recoiled with his teeth bared. At any other time, he would have been appalled at his behavior, but surely this cause was sufficient. "Spock, listen to me. I know you're frightened right now. I know…I know where you are. It's like the deck's shaking, and it takes you to that place when it's all…it's all falling apart around you, and you don't want to be there. Like the famine. I know that feeling, Spock, remember? I know exactly where you are right now, and I am asking you – I'm telling you – to trust me. You can't recognize me because your telepathy isn't working right now, but it's me, Spock. It's Jim."

Spock felt himself trembling. He felt the solidity of the wall at his back and the harsh quality of the air grating his windpipe as he breathed too quickly, his respirations shallow. He could not recall getting to his feet, but he had done so, and had also moved to put the biobed between them as a barrier. There was panic stuck in his throat. It would suffocate him if he allowed it to. He would choke on the flatness and the no-colors and the wrong. The real Jim was vibrancy and textures and glows and warm thoughts, and he was Spock's friend, couldn't they see that? This creature, this – this thing with his captain's face was not real, it was not Jim, it could never be Jim because it lacked everything.

The words, when they came, were more of a howl than a sentence – a lematya dying of thirst in the desert. "You are not Jim Kirk!" And he watched the facsimile's face fall as if Spock's words had wounded it.

"Spock – "

"No!"

"Listen to me! Spock, just – just breathe, okay? Look at this logically."

"Tell me what you have done with them." Spock felt recycled air whistling through his teeth as he bared them again. On the surface, he strove to present menace and strength. Inside, he felt like a Terran kitten arching its back to hiss at a pit bull.

"God. Spock, nothing. We're all – they are all fine, I swear."

Spock's nostrils flared as the scent of his friend reached him, and a prickling began to irritate the corners of his eyes. "Then stop looking like him! You have no right to look like him, he is not yours to look like – he is mine!"

In hindsight, it was probably fortunate for McCoy that Spock had failed to notice his surreptitious progress around the room, and the sedative had already entered his system by the time he registered the hiss and sting of a hypospray. He fought anyway, weakly and with too little coordination or forethought to be effective. The imposters subdued him with ease, his limbs intercepted before they could strike the floor and his head cradled carefully against a hard chest resonant with the slow, plodding beat of a human heart. More lies, this sound. Another illusion meant to trick him. Another cruel echo of what was irretrievably lost.

But then his nose caught a whiff of Jim, a scent long since imprinted in his mind, and though his telepathy remained hobbled, the smell of it glowed warm and golden like his friend. Fake…it's not him, they replicated it…how did they know? Where did they find the scent of him to bring here? Spock had not felt alone in so many months that to feel it now was… He had forgotten. Somehow, being a member of the Enterprise crew, he had forgotten that he was supposed to be alone. Just an experiment. Illogical to grow attached. He knew that. He was not supposed to be reliant on the presence of others; he was Vulcan, and Vulcan was gone, and his continued existence could not be explained by scientific means.

The fight drained out of him, chemical calm and words that aspired to be Jim's voice, vibrating through the chest cavity of a body too insubstantial to be human. "You'll be fine – it's fine. It will be out of your system in a few hours, Spock; I promise."

But it wasn't fine. In his mind, Vulcan imploded, sucked into a pinprick in space, a billion lives gone, lost to a singularity, a quantum phenomenon that had no dimension, no space, no substance – just like this illusory ship and this fake friend. Consciousness excised, severed from the rest of the universe, not dead – no, it didn't even take long enough for most of them to die before existence ceased. The physics of a black hole. Time frozen at the event horizon, everything beyond just…not, anymore. Nothing. No death, just…the complete cessation of entropy. And all of the things that used to exist simply didn't after that. Gone as if they never had been, but physics stated that inside, beyond the event horizon, they were frozen, stuck forever at the moment of death. And not even thoughts could escape. From the outside, there was nothing, not even…tearing, not…destruction, merely…merely absence.

"I might be able to reverse the effects. Flush it from his system faster."

"Then do it! Dammit, Bones – you don't understand what this is like for him. He thinks we're all dead, and he's alone here!"

Pseudo-McCoy's reply faded as Spock's consciousness quickly drowned under the onslaught of drugs in his system. At least when Vulcan ceased to be, the missing did not suffer the end of all that they had been. Perhaps he had never left them after all. No one knew what laid beyond the gravitational horizon of a black hole. He might still be there, and the Enterprise – his life on the ship – all a dream borne from the nothingness that abounds when all things, even time, cease. He would rather be dead than caught here in limbo forever. Was this why human lore called it purgatory? Why, Spock thought, was he forced to linger like this?

Spock woke feeling tired and nauseous two days later, his body rebelling against the excessive use of chemical medications in true Vulcan form. After he went through the extremely harrowing ordeal of dry heaving over the edge of the biobed, McCoy set about conducting a thorough physical. Spock could recognize his surroundings now that the psi-blocker was out of his system, and McCoy, though more somber than Spock was accustomed to seeing him, no longer appeared washed of color and bled dry of substance.

Spock's memory of the last time he had woken was…disconcerting, and left him with the irrational urge to flee the sickbay. The mortification he felt at his previous behavior was not logical. He had been drugged and incapable of rational thinking. Reminding himself of this did not help. He gathered his awareness of the ship around himself like a thermal blanket and huddled on the biobed while McCoy conducted his scans, attempting to subdue his rebellious mind, to no avail. The memories of waking with his body hobbled by chemicals, the anguish of believing his shipmates dead and himself utterly alone, unsettled him too much, as did the understanding that he might have caused serious harm to Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy, had they not managed to subdue him. There had been no recognition whatsoever. Spock recalled looking at Jim and not knowing him, hearing Jim's words and believing them to be a lie told by an imposter.

Spock could not concentrate, and even though he could once again sense companionship and life all around him, it did little to dispel the lingering horror at the thought that one day, its absence might not be an illusion. The feeling, the…the emotion of believing them gone would not leave him. It was an illuminating experience, and an unforgettable one, to be given the knowledge of what it would be like to lose them all. To be left in isolation. To mourn them and know that nothing he could ever do would bring them back. The echo of Jim's mannerisms in a body not his, the cruelty of seeing him and knowing – knowing – that he was not…

Spock understood, now, what it meant to be haunted by an experience. He thought of his mother and wondered why her death – which was not the delusion of a drugged mind – did not haunt him thus. Or perhaps it did, and McCoy was right to question his emotional wellbeing. Since he could not rationalize the experience, he fought to put it from his mind altogether for the present, though not before it occurred to him to wonder if his own non-existence would feel as terrifying to his shipmates as it felt within himself when others ceased to exist.

"Spock. Are you listenin' to me, Commander?"

Reality, the present moment, knifed through Spock's thoughts. He tried to quell the way his body started, but all he accomplished was making it seem that he had flinched at McCoy's words. "My apologies, Doctor. I was distracted."

"I'll say." Doctor McCoy pulled a stool over and sat himself directly in the center of Spock's field of vision. "I was just saying that I have a theory about what's been going on with you."

"Indeed?" Spock focused on the man before him, momentarily perturbed to find that his pupils seemed unable to hold the clarity of McCoy's visual appearance. The drugs had not completely left his system, then, or else his body was still adjusting back to its standard parameters. Meditation and a reinforcement of his biofeedback mechanisms would assist the process. In the mean time, he paid exaggerated attention to McCoy's voice so as to minimize the amount of information that may not make its way into his normally perfect recall. "Please continue."

McCoy studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Well, it's like this. Vulcans are considered touch telepaths, right?"

Spock nodded, though he was not certain that McCoy actually required a response. It was difficult for him to identify rhetorical questions.

"But if you want to get technical, there is no such thing as a touch telepath, strictly speaking. Vulcans have distance telepathy too. It's weak compared to most other telepathic or empathic species, but it's there. The touch aspect of it is more of a misunderstanding of your evolutionary progression. The Vulcan nervous system has unusually high concentrations of nerve bundles and nerve endings in places like the fingertips, certain areas of your faces, your spinal cord…things like that. I'm willing to bet that the original reason for that had less to do with 'touch' telepathy and more to do with mating rites. All of those places I just mentioned are erogenous zones for Vulcans. It's a nice coincidence that the concentration of nerve endings also allows for the enhanced transmission of thoughts when you touch each other at those points."

"This is a common understanding," Spock confirmed. "But I am uncertain as to why you have chosen to bring it up now."

At any other time, such a remark from Spock would have served to raise McCoy's ire; he disliked being told that his conclusions were obvious to others. Contrary to expectations, he merely said, "I'm gettin' to that part. My point is that I bought into the popular understanding, and I've been treating you as if the distance telepathy doesn't exist. Vulcans have a degree of collective consciousness. Or had one. And it's gone now; there aren't enough of you left to sustain it over long distances. That's why the Vulcan survivors are having such a hard time coping, and why they tend to gather so close together now. All except you."

Spock started to reply, stopped himself when he realized that he intended to speak harshly and with a sudden onset of emotion, and then refrained from frowning. It took an inordinate amount of force to make his voice level enough to simply state, "Please elaborate."

Somehow, McCoy seemed to know that he had nearly provoked Spock to violent words. He made a conciliatory gesture before explaining, "They're all going through a form of withdrawal, which is natural. Vulcans are supposed to have that background hum in their minds at all times - you've evolved into that, and living without it is like breathing with only one lung. But up until recently, you haven't shown any signs of strain from it. When you first came in here with symptoms, I thought that you were just suffering psychological aftereffects – which you are, as far as I'm concerned, and don't look at me like that."

Spock shut his mouth and blanked his face again.

"But it's not just psychological. You weren't showing signs because somehow, maybe because of the additional stress that you were under during the fight with the Narada, you managed to latch onto something else to fill that psychic void. It's subtle, but it's there, and it's been insulating you from the more serious effects of Vulcan's destruction."

The silence following that statement was likely meant to allow Spock time to process and follow McCoy's logic. "You are referring to the crew of the Enterprise?"

"That's it in a bushel basket," McCoy confirmed. He seemed unaware that the colloquialism made it more difficult for Spock to understand his meaning. "Humans emit a low-level psionic field even though most of us are psi-null. The crew of this ship, however, was sort of…forged together, let's say, by the shared trauma of the battle with the Narada. It's common for humans to form intangible bonds - to permanently strengthen the shared psionic field - in those sorts of situations, and while it's not an exact paralell to the Vulcan shared consciousness, it's apparently close enough. You followed right along with us. That's why your symptoms have been subtle to nonexistent, and it's also why you get worse when you leave the ship. It's withdrawal, Spock. Whatever you get from being surrounded by your shipmates, it's enough to fill that need for telepathic connection that all telepaths have. And the second you pass beyond range of it, you can feel its loss that much more keenly. The Children must have been like a binge for you, and when we moved beyond your telepathic range of the planet, you started to go through withdrawal almost immediately."

Spock analyzed McCoy's theory for a minute, and found his conclusions sound. The broader implications of it, however, were not encouraging. "Then I am in danger whenever I am parted from the ship?"

McCoy's expression turned apologetic. "Right now, yes. To a point. Edian Delta gave off a very strong magnetic field; it likely interfered with your telepathy more than usual, which is why you were so badly affected there. But you've been fine on shore leaves and planetary expeditions up until now, so I can't really say for sure."

Spock nodded. "And your recommended treatment?"

At that, McCoy laced his fingers together and looked down. "I don't have one yet. I'm not an expert on Vulcan telepathy; I wouldn't know where to begin. But I've got some calls in, and I'm working on it. For now, we'll have to play it by ear. If you go planet side, I'll monitor your condition, and at the first sign of trouble, you return to the ship, no but's about it."

Again, Spock nodded. "Logical," he agreed, though his actual thought was more along the lines of inadequate.

McCoy, of course, did not notice; he went on without pause. "Now, since we're on the subject…I want to talk about Jim's effect on you."

Spock could feel his heart begin to kick into a higher gear and forced himself back to calm. "The captain?"

"Do you know any other Jims?" McCoy snapped. "Don't play coy. I'm not the only one who's noticed that you go all grabby-hands for him when you're having an episode. You want to tell me about that?"

All of Spock's shields slammed down without his conscious input. "Specify."

"Don't go getting' all defensive on me, Spock. It's just a question."

"Are you accusing me of something?" Spock demanded.

"Should I be? Now relax, Commander. It's a reasonable inquiry."

"My relationship with the captain is purely professional. As the command team of the Enterprise, we are required to work closely together, and to have personal knowledge of each other in order to function most efficiently."

McCoy sighed and shook his head, his gaze breaking away from Spock's as he did so. "Consider this on the record, Commander, and tell me about your relationship with Jimwhen you're both off duty. Are you friends?"

Spock felt his cheek twitch and identified the tick as one spawned from annoyance. "I do not see how my personal life is any of your business, Doctor."

"Everything is my business, Spock - I'm the CMO on this ship. I can pry into your masturbatory habits if I want to."

Spock bristled. "That is neither pertinent nor appropriate. I can report you for sexual harrassment - "

"Go right ahead! Do you remember what you were yellin' while you were off of your head in here, Spock? Because I do! Now, I know what it sounded like from my end of that scene, so why don't you just answer the question. Are you Jim Kirk's friend?"

Spock made no reply, his face set in stone through no design of his own.

"There's no harm in considering him a friend. He'd be flattered."

"Are we finished, Doctor?"

Under his breath, McCoy grumbled, "Jesus, you're ornery." Aloud, he merely said, "This is not over, so you think about how to answer that question, you hear me? I'm releasing you to light duty starting with beta shift tomorrow. Continue wearing the biomonitor, and report any unusual symptoms immediately. Understood?"

"Yes, Doctor."

With an incomprehensible mumble, McCoy slipped off of the stool and flapped his hand in Spock's direction. "You're dismissed. There's a clean uniform in the head."

Spock deliberately turned his back on the Doctor as he left the room.

---

Chapter 2

Spock found himself grateful for the captain's forbearance in not seeking to discuss Spock's…problem at the first possible opportunity. Spock knew that the captain had been informed as to his condition only because regulations required that McCoy immediately report any medical conditions amongst the crew that could affect the captain's command decisions, such as landing party detail. This was regrettable yet necessary. It would have been easier for Spock to manage his affliction without an audience, as it were, but Kaiidth. His status as an officer mandated otherwise.

In an effort to further understand his condition, Spock set up a research schedule that he assumed would run parallel to McCoy's medical research. Not much literature on bonds, bonding and the collective consciousness of Vulcan society survived his planet's destruction as most of the material had been stored only in printed form in places like clan archives, and in the oral histories passed down through the matriarchal lines of the clans that maintained an unbroken genealogy from before the time of Surak. Once the practice of logic and restraint took hold, talk of the many different forms of bonding and psychic or telepathic communication gave way to consideration of only the mating bond and the parental bonds as healthy expressions of telepathic contact. All others were considered superfluous at best, and at worst, a method by which passions could be enflamed beyond the logic and learned safeguards of modern Vulcan society.

Spock also set himself a more rigorous meditation regimen, and incorporated more stringent techniques into his usual controls and shields. This would, he hoped, serve to lessen or eliminate altogether the "withdrawal" episodes. By necessity, this method also required Spock to severely limit his casual interactions with the captain in order to minimize Spock's reliance on him. McCoy had made the point that Spock seemed to reach for Jim physically whenever the episodes assailed him; it reasoned, then, that there was a telepathic component both to Spock's need and to the reassurance that Jim was able to offer. This crutch was not acceptable, and it impinged on the captain's independence. Allowing it to go on was not an option, and could later cause significant harm to them both.

More and more often, Spock found himself replaying McCoy's words in his head, weeks old now: You do know there's a difference between control and repression, right? When he finally decided to meditate on the question, the only answer he could find was another question: What does McCoy think I am repressing? Spock spent days on the problem, and every time he reached that same conclusion, the same resultant question, his thoughts turned to Jim and the warmfriend smell of him, followed by a recollection of the way his own mind felt whenever Jim accidentally touched it.

There must be something wrong with him. Not only had he telepathically latched onto the crew of a starship in violation of their mental liberty – a crime on Vulcan that even in modern times was considered unforgivable – but parts of him craved attachment to his friend in manners and depths – with degrees of need – that Spock could not quantify, and that he evidently could not entirely control. McCoy may have been right in his theory of withdrawal at the loss of sustained telepathic contact – the hypothesis was sound enough – but Spock should not have found himself in this situation with Jim as a result of that. His actions were not natural. No other Vulcan had behaved thus in the wake of Nero, whether consciously or instinctively; their continued suffering was proof of that.

Spock considered that his mental and telepathic instability must have a root cause; he would not be in this conundrum otherwise. No other Vulcan had escaped the telepathic backlash or the longterm effects of their near extinction and isolation. Spock was like no other Vulcan; his genetic code consisted of 17% human DNA. Some mutation, some instability or contaminant, had led to his successful conception and in vitro growth where all other zygotes before and after him had died. No one had ever been able to identify that mutation; Spock was the only one of his kind. Scientifically, mathematically, his existence should not be possible. And yet here he sat. There had to be a reason for that. If he were normal, healthy – if were not an unrepeatable and therefore failed experiment – then he should, by rights, be either suffering or dead like all of the others who had escaped Vulcan.

There was something wrong with him. Perhaps if he shared his findings with McCoy, their joint efforts would lead to a solution faster.

"Spock… I don't even know where to start."

Spock refrained from twitching an eyebrow at that, as McCoy's haphazard approach to conversation was expected. "If you prefer, I will leave you to review the materials, and return after you have been given sufficient time to put your thoughts in the proper order."

The frown that graced McCoy's face actually caused Spock to lean away. To distract from that, he clasped his hands behind his back and transitioned into an at-ease military stance as if he had intended that all along. McCoy glanced again at the compuslate that Spock had handed him, and then narrowed his eyes at Spock. "Did you just imply that I need extra time to figure out where to start?"

"Is that not an accurate assessment? You just stated – "

"I can't tell if you're being a smartass or not." McCoy took to ignoring him while he scrolled once again through the data that Spock had compiled from the results of his research. In Spock's experience, the speed at which he scanned the literature and summary was far beyond what the human mind was capable of absorbing visually. Perhaps McCoy was also an anomaly of some sort?

Spock took a step closer to McCoy's desk. "I assure you, I am in earnest. I am aware that physiologically, the human brain processes information at a rate of – "

"I am not entertaining this notion," McCoy interrupted, dumping the compuslate on top of a pile of several others as if it smelled objectionable. "Spock, sit down and listen to me."

Spock gave in to the urge to look down his nose at McCoy's obstinance, and remained standing.

McCoy gave it right back in kind. "Do I have to make it an order, Commander?"

"It is a perfectly viable interpretation of the given facts, coupled with my own knowledge of Vulcan telepathic bond forms and – "

"Oh, for Pete's sake! This is worse than the genetic code thing you were obsessed over."

That did not dignify a response, so Spock continued his original argument. "I have compiled all available information on the nature of Vulcan telepathy and bonding behavior. My own situation proves that I am deviant in that regard."

"I am not isolating you – "

"To do otherwise could put the ship at risk."

" – and I refuse to label you a danger to this ship based on this bullshit explanation you've concocted! You aren't doing anything harmful to anyone except yourself! Spock, you will sit down right now, or so help me, I will relieve you of duty for being ridiculous."

Spock flared his nostrils. "That is not an acceptable reason for relieving a commanding officer of duty. If ridiculousness were a valid standard, then the captain would be able to retain his command for no more than seven minutes at a time."

It was interesting to note how McCoy's face crinkled and twitched the way it normally did when smiling, though his mouth maintained a firm, straight line. More gently this time, he enjoined, "Sit, please. And let me talk to you about this."

Stubborn for no readily discernable reason, Spock crossed his arms over his chest and told him, "Everything I have to say on the subject is in my report."

"What, this? You're calling it a report now?" McCoy picked up the discarded compuslate, wriggled it in the air, and then dropped it into the waste container beside his desk. "Maybe you should try using some science next time."

Spock did not sigh as he looked away, but an undiscerning observer may have mistaken the change in his breathing pattern for an emotional exhalation. "You are mocking me."

McCoy sat up suddenly, his habitual slouch sloughed off like a mere affectation, and jabbed his index finger in Spock's direction. "Spock, I'm not mocking you, you green…" He seemed to stumble over finding a suitable disparagement before sighing abruptly and dropping his hand in favor of cradling his head in his palms, elbows propped on the desk. He seemed defeated all of a sudden, but Spock could see no precipitating factor for it. Without lifting his face, McCoy said, "Spock, I am worried about you. Very, seriously worried about your state of mind, and this – this poppycock treatise of yours just proves it. Can we please just leave off the bickering and pretend that we know how to be professional in a room together?"

The moment of silence seemed oppressive, like a nothing-moment in space. Spock sat down and clasped his hands in his lap, then stared at them for good measure. Hesitantly, he offered, "I too dislike the animosity between us."

"Oil and water, Jim says. I suppose he's got a point."

Spock eyed him and considered remaining silent, but he felt a pressing need to share his thought. "My mother said something similar of myself and my father. She also said that when mixed together and set over a flame, oil will prevent water from boiling over."

One side of McCoy's mouth quirked; it had the strange effect of making him seem softer. "Smart lady."

"She was a teacher." Spock looked down quickly in an effort to abort the flinch that he nearly gave at the thought. "It is only basic science. Oil is less dense than water, and has a higher boiling point. There is nothing profound in making a metaphor of a basic precept of physics."

"Says who? We take all sorts of lessons from nature."

Sarek, Spock wanted to reply. Instead, he recited,"With the proper application of logic in everyday life, there is no need for abstraction. Logic eliminates the need for symbolic understanding of a problem."

McCoy's face smoothed out. "Now, that doesn't sound like you at all." Without giving Spock time to retort, he continued, "You aren't defective, Spock. The fact that you don't react to telepathic or psionic stimuli like a typical Vulcan 100% of the time is not proof that something is wrong. You're a hybrid. At the risk of sounding like I'm mocking you, it is illogical to conclude that your body should fall within the normal test range of only one of your genetic parent species."

"The majority of my genetic make-up is Vulcan, and of the two sets of chromosomes from which I am comprised, the human traits are recessive. I express 100% of the Vulcan genetic material with which I am endowed."

"And what about the leftover chromosomes?"

Spock felt himself tick. "I beg your pardon?"

McCoy widened his eyes as if suppressing his initial, perhaps unprofessional response. "Humans have forty-six chromosomes – twenty-three from each parent. Vulcans only have thirty-eight. And you, my pointy-eared friend, have forty-two. Now, maybe it's true that you express all of the Vulcan traits out of the 19 sets that match up, but do you really think that those four extra human chromosomes have no affect on your biology?"

Spock blinked, and then chose to address only one portion of that since he had no coherent response to the rest. "I am not your friend."

It took a moment, but McCoy's face did eventually go blank. He said nothing for nearly a minute, staring Spock straight in the eye the whole time, and then he shook his head. His gaze came to rest on a shelving unit to the left of his desk. "I'll go over your notes and return my written response by the end of alpha tomorrow. Dismissed."

This was not the reaction that Spock had expected, nor was it the one he had sought after. "I merely state fact, Doctor. We are colleagues and crewmates. But I do not socialize with you in any context which could be classified as – "

"Just get out, Spock."

The words were so calmly delivered, so blunt and…tired?...that after staring at McCoy for several more seconds in bewilderment, Spock did as he was asked. He left.

McCoy's promised rebuttal showed up in Spock's message queue exactly on schedule, two hours into beta shift, just as Jim turned command over to him and left the bridge. The response was…impressive, to say the least. McCoy had taken each and every one of Spock's premises and conclusions, and shredded them in the driest scientific terms possible. It was very Vulcan, actually; Spock could appreciate the artistry of it. Immediately after his shift ended, he began crafting a rebuttal.

Four days and four sets of counterarguments with McCoy later, Kirk stormed into the mess hall where Spock sat writing out chemical formulae in his latest response, grabbed the compuslate out from under his nose, scanned it for content, and then dumped it down the disposal chute. "This has got to stop. I don't know what you did to my Chief Medical Officer to start this pissing contest, but it's gone too far. He's scaring nurses."

Annoyed, Spock folded his hands on the tabletop; he had been nearly finished with that. "I merely presented the doctor with a theory as to the cause of my affliction. It need not concern you, Captain."

Kirk gave him the sort of look that made Spock feel as if the static charge in the air had increased. "So your medical condition explains why the two of you have gone all swords at sunset with the dueling thesis papers? Not buying it. And yes, it does concern me. Two of my officers are having some sort of passive-aggressive public shouting match via science, and everyone on board has noticed. Do you think that's professional? Do you think that it sets a good example for your subordinates?"

Spock swallowed. Was that how others viewed this academic exercise? "No, sir."

Kirk tipped his head and regarded Spock sidelong. "That sounded like a question, Commander. Are you uncertain?"

"No, sir." Spock wished he could pinpoint the exact moment when Kirk had gone from rebel cadet with a command, to Captain James T. Kirk perfectly at ease with his authority. To be on the receiving end of his fully developed command presence was disconcerting. Spock knew full well that in spite of Vulcan control, he looked like 'a deer in the headlights.' He was also exceedingly thankful that the mess hall was otherwise empty at this hour.

Something in Spock's affect must have clued Kirk in, because he took a deep, deliberate breath and then sat down. Without looking at Spock, Kirk said, "You didn't realize this was a problem, did you."

Spock left off watching Kirk and focused on his knuckles. "Doctor McCoy and I did have a misunderstanding? But I was not aware that it had continued. He replied to my theories."

"That doesn't mean that everything's hunky-dory, Spock."

Spock mouthed hunky-dory to himself, and then shook his head at Kirk to indicate his non-comprehension.

Kirk jabbed a thumb into his forehead in exasperation and then explained, "It doesn't mean that the misunderstanding is resolved."

"But he engaged in academic discourse with me. His responses were clearly well-formed and intelligently written. Why would he do so if he were still angry at something that I previously said to him?"

"That's what I meant by passive-aggressive," Kirk told him, his voice dry.

Spock considered this, and then admitted, "I am not entirely certain that I understand how to apply that term in this context."

Kirk visibly bit his lip. Rather than explain, he asked, "What was the original misunderstanding about?"

The tabletop was not as clean as it should have been; Spock made a mental note to speak with the chief steward about this. They were still alone in the mess hall. Spock wished that they could conduct this conversation in a more private location. Or better yet, not have it at all.

"Commander."

Spock flinched. The reaction was unintended. "We argued about the scientific validity of my theories concerning Vulcan bond forms, in the course of which I reminded him that I was not his friend."

Nothing came from the other side of the table for several seconds, and then, "Jesus, Spock. Why the hell would you say that?"

Spock slid his hands from the table and clasped them in his lap. He looked up. "Mockery does not suit an officer of his rank, especially while engaged with a patient in a medical setting. I corrected him."

Kirk started to shake his head, aborted the motion, and then looked down. His eyebrows went up. "Why do you think that whatever he said was not genuine?"

"He is a doctor."

Kirk's eyes narrowed; it appeared as if something previously amiss were now making sense for him. "And?"

Spock forced himself to check his own response, as it was clearly lacking substance of some sort from Kirk's point of view. "He is Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise, and as such, my primary care physician."

"Okay." Kirk waived his hands for silence and then framed them around the air between him. "I want to get this clear. Is it because he is a doctor, or because he is your doctor, that you think he's lying about feelings of friendship for you?"

Spock's initial reaction was to protest that no substantial difference existed between the two. But Kirk was not lacking in either intelligence or insight, and he had on many past occasions been able to see motives to Spock's actions that Spock himself had not been aware of. He stared at Kirk, then away to the left, and then back. "I may have been irrational in my recent interactions with Doctor McCoy."

Kirk nodded, his eyes soft the way they usually were when he looked at Spock. "There are degrees of friendship, you know. Humans use that word for all kinds of different relationships."

"I am aware of that." His research on that front was either inadequate or outdated. The speed at which human social conventions evolved had served to both fascinate and annoy him ever since his acceptance to the academy.

"Good. You'll settle this with him, then?"

"Yes, sir." Spock nodded as if his words required reinforcement. "I will attend to it immediately." He started to rise, but Kirk had extended his hand, palm down, the moment that Spock scooted his chair back. "There is something else you wish to discuss?"

Kirk let his hand descend to the tabletop. "Yeah, but not as your captain. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course," Spock assured him.

Kirk nodded, took a breath, and then asked, "Did I do something?"

Spock blinked. "Sir?"

"Jim, Spock. This is a 'Jim" conversation."

"Yes, Jim."

Kirk's eye twitched – an interesting facial tick – and then ignored what he evidently thought to be an unacceptable response from Spock. "It's just that I haven't seen you outside of ship's operation for over three weeks, and it's not like we're too busy for down time right now. You don't even come to the mess for breakfast anymore. I feel like you're avoiding me."

Spock swallowed and tried to determine how best to answer without lying to spare Jim's feeling.

He must have taken too long to reply because Jim asked, "Did I do something to make you uncomfortable with me? If I did, you're supposed to tell me so that I can make it right, or not do it anymore, or whatever. That's, like, bro-code."

Alarmed, Spock resolved to obtain the text of this code as soon as possible. He had not known that such a guide existed; it could have proven useful in the past.

Kirk's mouth appeared to be fighting between exasperation and a smile. "There's no actual written code, Spock. It's just a saying. Relax."

Spock squinted into the middle distance. "I see. Captain – "

"Jim."

"Yes." Spock hesitated. "Jim, I find… I am concerned… You do not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. I am not…stable…telepathically. I could do you serious harm."

Kirk scoffed. "How, exactly? McCoy explained his theory that the Enterprise crew is acting like some kind of surrogate psionic field for you. And he told me, very loudly, why your conviction that you pose some sort of a danger to the rest of us is bullshit. So if that's what you're worried about – "

"You do not understand. You are warm, Jim. You, specifically. You smell of light when I am not paying attention."

For a very long moment, Kirk did nothing but breathe. "And that's bad?"

Spock fidgeted, noticed what he was doing, and stopped immediately. "Yes. I could become dependant on you. I could learn to rely on you to provide that."

Unexpectedly, Kirk laughed.

Bristling, Spock snapped, "I am not making jest."

"Spock – " Kirk wrested himself back under control, but the mirth did not entirely fade. "Spock, that's friendship. That's what it means. You're supposed to take comfort from the presence of your friends, especially if you're hurt or suffering."

Spock frowned. "I fail to see how this is normal. Nyota has been a friend for longer than I have known you, and she never enticed me thus." From a scientific standpoint, he knew that this argument was weak; one data point could not be used to extrapolate a whole.

Kirk's resultant smile seemed a helpless thing, as if Spock were too irrestible to permit any other expression. "Okay, just for your information, you shouldn't use words like 'entice' in this context."

"But that is what you do to me," Spock protested.

Kirk shook his head, but really, it was more like an uncoordinated head bobble. "Yeah, but to humans, that word has sexual overtones."

"Ah." Spock nodded, pensive. "I was not aware."

"I thought not." Kirk sighed. "Okay, look. I've been doing some research on Vulcan social behaviors, so I kind of think that I understand what you're saying here."

Spock raised an eyebrow but maintained his silence, though his abdominal cavity seemed to expand by a greater percentage than what the inhalation of air accounted for. Jim had been trying to understand his culture? Even Nyota, for all that she knew his language, had never attempted that. She had assumed that he should adapt to human behavior. Everyone Spock had met since coming to Earth, in fact, had expected that, with some very few exceptions.

Kirk seemed unaware of Spock's suddenly racing thoughts. "I don't really know how Vulcans get to this – I got the impression that there wasn't, like, a verbal discussion or anything since you're all telepaths, so – here it is. We went through hell together, and we blew up a really bad guy together, and now we're commanding a starship together. I think that means that in Vulcan terms, we sort of have a connection anyway. And I'm cool with that. So, whatever you need from me, Spock, that's fine. I'll give it, okay? Humans believe the same damn thing, and you're welcome to it."

Surely Kirk did not understand what he had just said. "Under the circumstances, I require further clarification."

Kirk shrugged; this evidently annoyed him. "I miss you, Spock. We're friends. We're supposed to trust each other not to get pissed off or laugh at each other for things we can't control. And we're supposed to rely on each other. I read up on pre-reform Vulcan – it's the only place where you guys discuss stuff like this. It's like warrior brothers. We fought each other, and then we fought a common enemy and we saved each others' lives, and then we worked together to save everybody else too. We're a team, we rely on each other for support, and we trust each other. That's what the Vulcan word for friendship is supposed to describe, right? When two guys are like that with each other?"

Spock tipped his head to the side. "Not…exactly, but the description will suit for the purposes of your explanation."

"Okay, good," Kirk exhorted. "So… are we good? You'll stop acting like you're a pariah or something?"

Spock nodded, his bottom lip caught in his teeth. His abdomen still hurt, midway down his right side, like it was too full of organs.

"Thank god." Kirk got to his feet, hesitated, and then gave Spock an awkward pat on the shoulder.

Spock craned his neck to look up at Jim.

"We're not judging you for what you're going through, you know. You're too hard on yourself."

No suitable counterpoint came to mind, or at least not one that Jim would agree with. A Vulcan should rely on logic, not on an emotional attachment to a friend. Saying that would only serve to aggravate Jim, though, so Spock said, "I will dine in the officer's mess tomorrow morning."

A slow smile appeared on Kirk's face. "Then I'll see you there. Mission briefing at 0930, don't forget."

Spock sniffed. "I do not forget, Captain."

The smile became an outright grin, and Spock only noticed that Kirk's hand was still on his shoulder because he chose that moment to finally remove it. "Sleep tight, Commander."

As Kirk walked from the mess hall, Spock murmured, "Don't let the bedbugs bite," under his breath where Kirk would not hear it.

Spock anticipated finding McCoy in his office prior to alpha shift as the doctor routinely reviewed the gamma shift reports before breaking fast with the other officers. He nodded to the passing medical personnel as he made his way toward the back corner of sickbay. In instances such as this, Spock had noticed that humans would peek around the open door jamb or rap their knuckles against the bulkhead to announce themselves. Spock chose the latter route and then waited while McCoy finished whatever he was doing before looking at Spock.

"So," McCoy drawled, leaning back in his chair. "My scientific method finally warrants an in-person response?"

"No, Doctor." Spock straightened up and trained his eyes on the wall over McCoy's head. "I came to apologize."

McCoy snorted. "I thought apologies were illogical."

Spock considered retorting in kind, but that would be both juvenile and counter to his current purpose. "As you once pointed out, I know exactly what remorse feels like." He swallowed and made himself look at McCoy. "I had not realized that my behavior toward you was emotional in nature. I apologize for giving offense."

McCoy studied him for a moment, and then sighed as he indicated the chair on Spock's side of the desk. "Apology accepted. I'm sorry too. I reacted unprofessionally, took your words personally when I shoulda been lookin' at this like a doctor. You just piss me off so much sometimes that I can't help it."

Though doubtful as to the sincerity of McCoy's remorse, especially considering that last bit, Spock stated, "Your apology is also accepted." He sat down and blinked a few times at McCoy. "And you were partially correct about the…anxiety." The word left a bitter taste in his mouth, but Spock did not seek to reduce its import. "I do not trust healers, and I believe that I may have transferred this aversion to my interactions with you."

"What, you mean like Vulcan Healers?" McCoy thankfully did not seek to embarrass him by addressing the statement before that.

Spock nodded.

Unnecessarily, McCoy pointed out, "I'm not a Vulcan Healer, Spock."

"Agreed. But you are the human counterpart."

McCoy grimaced, but the expression did not last long. "I can understand that, I think. Healers and Vulcan geneticists – they've probably treated you like a lab rat all your life. It's natural that you'd come to dislike them."

Spock shook his head. "Though that is an accurate assessment, that is not what I meant. I was emotional as a child. The aberrations in my behavior had to be corrected on numerous occasions."

For some reason, McCoy paled at that. It was a fascinating thing to watch. "When you say corrected, Spock…you mean Mind Healers, specifically?"

"Adepts in the arts, yes. Kholinaru. My father's clan counts…counted many skilled Healers among its ranks. As my behavior was frequently erratic, and as living in a house with a human complicated my training and often compromised my control as a Vulcan – "

"Stop right there," McCoy interrupted, his hands held up as if to ward off any further speech. "Spock, are you sayin' that every time your human side acted up, some voodoo Vulcan stuck his fingers in your head and – what, started rearranging things in there?"

Spock took up a more dignified posture where he sat. "It was necessary for my controls to be reinforced on multiple occasions, as I was unable to maintain them on my own. This is normal for a young Vulcan whose emotional expression proves troublesome."

"So normal," McCoy all but growled, "apparently, that you have difficulty trusting anybody who even reminds you of a Vulcan Mind Healer?"

It irritated Spock that McCoy always seemed to feel a need to spell emotionalisms out with an exactitude normally reserved for mathematics. "The experiences were…disquieting."

"In what way?" McCoy asked.

Spock eyed the openness on his face. "I believe that this is what the captain refers to as your armchair expression."

McCoy almost smiled at that; it was a near miss, to go by the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "Nobody likes me when I use my psychology degree. It's enough to give a man a complex." He sobered quickly after that. "Why were the experiences disquieting? Did you resist the Healers?"

Spock looked down. Curiously enough, he found that when he tried to swallow, he could not. "On most occasions, I did not believe their intervention to be necessary." When McCoy said nothing to that, Spock added, "I did not instigate the encounters with my agemates, and yet the full-blooded Vulcans involved were not subjected to correction as I was. They suffered no consequences at all for their conduct. Their behavior was never expected to change, regardless of the fact that it was just as emotional as my own."

"I never did like bullies." The rustle of items on the desk drew Spock's attention; McCoy had pulled out a datapad and made a few brief notations as Spock watched. Once he finished, he looked up. "What were these sessions like – the corrections. Can you describe what they did?"

"They reinforced my shielding and my emotional controls."

"Yes, but how?" McCoy pressed.

"They…blocked the emotions that instigated my outbursts, and imposed acceptable behavioral patterns over those volatile ones which I had formed naturally."

It appeared as if McCoy wanted to say undiplomatic things in response to that, judging by the way he clenched his jaw long enough to stab his stylus at the datapad. "Why not just teach you to control the emotions like other Vulcans?"

Spock had to remind himself to blink; humans often found it disquieting when Vulcans did not. "I was…difficult. I would not accept blame for my transgressions."

McCoy looked down again and made a face backed by an emotion that Spock could not identify. "Okay. Here's what I'm getting from this. You got into altercations with other Vulcans when you were a child. They were never punished, but you were, so the altercations continued. Spock, I'm gonna ask this, and I want you to just answer yes or no, alright?"

Suspicious, Spock nonetheless replied, "Yes, Doctor."

"The Healers…when you resisted them…did they withdraw, or did they force their way in?"

Spock swallowed. "Their task was to – "

"Yes or no, Spock. Did they force themselves on you?"

"My father instructed them to assist me in building suitable shielding and controls since I was not able to do so on my own. I was a minor child and subject to his will, as were they in relation to me."

McCoy merely looked him and repeated, "Did they withdraw when you resisted them?"

Spock blinked, tried to swallow again, sniffed, and felt his cheek twitch. "No." The room smelled of antiseptic and the old creamed coffee congealing in the cup beside McCoy's elbow.

"How long did this go on?"

"It is perfectly normal in Vulcan society for a difficult child to be corrected by his elders in such a fashion," Spock informed him. As McCoy appeared to be ignoring that, Spock said, "I was five the first time. I broke the nose of another child in my age group. Intervention was necessary to curb my violent tendencies. You would no doubt agree, as you have been witness to my loss of control on more than one occasion. As I grew older, I naturally came to understand the importance of logic and no longer resisted the Healers' assistance in teaching me to properly apply and follow the mind rules."

Strange; McCoy appeared to be exerting considerable effort to maintain his blank, calm expression. "What did your mother think of all this?"

"Her input was not appropriate in such matters." Since this failed to erase the peculiar look on McCoy's face, Spock elaborated. "Such a developmental progression is typical of Vulcan children. The young are unable to comprehend the importance of Surak's teachings, and the reasons for following them. They also have neither the maturity nor the telepathic capacity for control that adults have; it must be imposed on them from a young age, until such time as they are capable of the discipline necessary to manage themselves."

"Was any consideration given to your human traits?"

"As my genetic expression is Vulcan, I was raised as a Vulcan."

"And yet your cerebral configuration deviates from the Vulcan norm. It probably has something to do with those extra human chromosomes we talked about before. I'd call that a flaw in this genetic expression theory. Did anybody ever account for that?"

Spock frowned. "It is true that I am a much stronger telepath than is typical of my race, but my abilities still fall within accepted parameters."

"I meant physically, Spock – your brain is not like other Vulcans'."

"…affirmative. But it bears far more resemblance to the Vulcan configuration than the human."

"That's a no, then," McCoy divined. "Nobody accounted for it when they went mucking about in your head."

"The differences are minor enough as to make it unlikely that this would have any effect on me, either for good or for ill. A difference that makes no difference is no difference."

McCoy shook his head. "It's butterflies and chaos theory, Spock. You can't say for sure that there's no effect; you don't know."

"Neither do you," Spock returned. He regretted it immediately, as it merely served to illustrate his emotional state, and was not constructive in the least.

"That's true," McCoy allowed, and then his affect changed altogether. "Look, it's about that time; Jim's probably waiting for us in the mess by now." He paused to eye Spock across the desk. "You are joining us, right? No more hiding out to stop yourself from feelin' the warm-fuzzies?"

Spock straightened primly, thrown off guard by this sudden change in atmosphere and subject matter. "The captain informed you of our discussion last night?"

"Only the basics. We weren't the only people who noticed you actin' strange, Commander. Jim just let me know that he worked things out with you."

Spock deflated, which only meant that his muscles lost the excess tension not necessary for the maintenance of his posture. "I see. I was not aware that others had noticed my aberrant behavior."

"I didn't say it was aberrant, Spock; I said you were actin' strange. This is a starship. Everybody notices when the First Officer is not alright."

"I will keep this in mind," Spock assured him. "And yes, I promised Jim that I would be present at breakfast in the officer's mess today."

"Good." McCoy swept his datapads into an untidy pile next to his monitor, and stood up. "You're still seven kilos under your ideal weight; three more, and I start monitoring your meal card, Commander; I expect to see you every morning for breakfast from now on, and so does Jim."

This should have irritated Spock, being ordered about as if he were incapable of seeing to his own basic needs. Instead, he felt warmer for it. Jim had been correct: McCoy was a friend, it just wasn't as obvious or in the same form as it was with Jim. "Understood, Doctor. I will endeavor not to disappoint either one of you."

McCoy glanced at him, did a double take, and then scowled. "Don't ever get twinkly-eyed at me again. It's creepy."

Spock immediately shut down the unintended facial expression, but he could not understand why McCoy flinched as soon as he noticed.

Spock typically sparred with the captain once a week, as duty and mission requirements allowed. It assisted both of them in maintaining peak combat efficiency, as well as providing Kirk with the opportunity to hone skills for use against beings of superior strength and speed. Spock, in turn, learned to anticipate the more eclectic style of an opponent who did not fight logically. Overall, he deemed them to be almost equally matched in spite of Spock's higher muscle density, and therefore the sessions were mutually beneficial.

It seemed that the captain's motives in engaging Spock in these sessions were built on other justifications, however. In part, Spock suspected that Kirk insisted on the sessions in order to keep Spock from spending what he considered to be too much time alone in his quarters. This concern for his wellbeing was touching, if misplaced. Spock did not require looking after, but as Kirk did not make his motivations obvious, Spock had no grounds for objection. Kirk routinely referred to their matches as 'team building exercises,' and told Spock that not every first officer was afforded an opportunity to regularly 'kick his superior's ass.' To Spock's recollection, he had never struck the captain's posterior with his foot, but he refrained from saying so since Kirk seemed to know this as well.

Spock had eventually recognized this as a joke, but not until after he had consulted the Enterprise's etymological databanks for the slang usage of that phrase. Federation Standard English was very different from colloquial Terran English. Apparently, his exposure to his mother's language in the course of his upbringing had not fully instilled in him the proper use of colorful metaphor in day-to-day interactions with humans. Spock remedied this deficiency in his knowledge immediately, and found that Kirk became amused at Spock's continued (feigned) ignorance of these fanciful phrases.

It was not logical for Spock to continue acting as if he were unaware of the meaning of Kirk's speech, and yet he did so because his captain enjoyed catching him unaware. Spock's duty as first officer was, among other things, to help safeguard the captain's physical and mental health. Humor served the latter purpose among humans by decreasing stress. Therefore, Spock saw no compelling reason to cease his actions in this regard. He was, after all, living among humans; in some things, he must by necessity adapt to their ways.

On a positive note, Spock had not experienced an episode in three months, not since The Incident with the psi-blocker. McCoy had been diligent in monitoring his condition, and only once so far had Spock been unable to complete an away team mission. He had been disappointed by that event, as he had been in command of the survey team and the captain had been forced to reassign it to Sulu, but Jim had distracted him with a math challenge chess marathon where each player had to complete a mathematical proof in under three minutes in order to be allowed to make his move on the board. Jim was surprisingly good at it; Spock had not managed to win the game until after Sulu and his team returned from the planet.

In any case, it was during one of their routine sparring sessions that Spock began to notice his heart rate accelerating beyond that which was justified by his physical exertion. Since commencing this exercise, Spock had been consistent and reserved in his defense as Kirk made every attempt to pin him, so it took him by surprise to realize that he was short of breath and sweating. Usually, due to a combination of the cool temperature at which the gym environmental controls were set and Spock's natural desert-bred reticence to loss of moisture through the pores of his skin, his exertion levels during a sparring session were not sufficient to cause these reactions.

Kirk danced back and bounced on the balls of his feet, out of Spock's reach on the edge of the mat. "What's the matter, Spock? Wearing you out?"

"Hardly," Spock replied, and yet he felt…shaky. Overexerted. He sidestepped and then dropped into a defensive stance. "And your attempt to distract me has not succeeded."

Kirk grinned and circled him, balancing playfully on the line that marked the boundary of their playing field. He bit his bottom lip and tilted his head as if appraising something that he wished to purchase. "Hm…"

Spock flushed; he could feel the heat bloom across his cheeks and down his neck, spreading beneath the black t-shirt he wore to all matches with Kirk. It distracted him long enough for Kirk to notice, and he was therefore unprepared for the body that slammed into him, shoulder bearing him down to the mat in a rush of kinetic energy.

Kirk sat on his stomach, pinning him back by the shoulders, and crowed, "Ha!"

A single drop of human sweat hung precariously at the end of Kirk's nose, and Spock fixated on it, his hands open and lax, palms up on the mat. He wasn't sure if he truly could not breathe properly, or if it only felt like he couldn't because his heart was fluttering so erratically within his ribcage. Against the inside of Kirk's thigh. He felt…suffocated, suddenly, by the negligible weight of his commanding officer.

Kirk's jubilation faded when Spock failed to react as expected. "Hey. Are you okay? I took you down pretty hard."

Spock twitched at the sound of Kirk's voice, but otherwise remained still. "I believe I am merely winded."

Kirk raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, okay; I'll buy that." He slipped off to one side and swung his leg away, twisting about to sit cross-legged beside Spock instead of on him. "Sorry."

Spock's fingers curled in toward his palms and he felt his eyes closing of their own accord. He felt strange. Heavy. And…still too hot.

"Spock?" Kirk shifted on the mat beside him, and Spock felt rather than saw him lean over him. "Seriously…you're looking a little greener than usual. And I mean that literally. You never flush like that."

"I am uninjured, Captain." Except he wasn't, really. He was getting more light-headed by the second, and that strange, not-quite-sick burning had taken up residence in his abdomen. Kirk's limbs scrabbled against the floor as Spock swallowed, eyes still shut against…he had no idea what. The warm skin of Kirk's fingers came to rest against the inside of Spock's elbow – insatiable human need for tactile reassurance. Something unnamable within Spock's body surged in shock to be touched so, and he stiffened to contain it. Kirk touched him often, but usually through the protective insulation of clothing. This touch was bare skin; Spock had not been prepared for it. It overwhelmed his other symptoms and for a moment, subsumed them in his focus and solidified in the back of his mind before tapering off in a swirl of nausea and a flash of glittering migraine auras as the contact ceased, taking the almost-anchored feeling with it. The only thing left in its wake was a kind of vibration all over his body.

And then Kirk chuckled. "Oh," he said as if he understood everything – as if Spock's incapacitation made absolute sense. "No worries, Mister Spock. It happens to the best of us."

Spock's brows drew into a furrow between his eyes as he blinked them open. Jim had climbed to his feet and was wandering about on the other side of the room, not looking at Spock in the same manner that he didn't look when they had to change clothing in shared space, or otherwise offer an illusion of privacy in order to preserve certain social conventions associated with the idea of privacy. Spock certainly understood the concept of privacy and personal space – it was endemic to Vulcan culture – but he could not puzzle out the reason for Jim's adherence to the human version of it now. Humans did not view illness as a reason for granting privacy, but rather as an opportunity for lending assistance and empathy. Was Jim trying to respect the Vulcan ideal instead?

The curious feeling of weightlessness, a side effect of the over-oxygenation of his blood caused by rapid breathing and the sudden increase in his heart rate, subsided for the most part. Spock felt as if it could return at any moment, were he to move too quickly. The sick heat crawling over the surface of his skin remained, however, as did the heavy discomfort that rested low in his abdomen. He rolled his head to the left without lifting it so that he could better see Kirk occupying himself on the other side of the room.

As if he could feel Spock's eyes resting on him, Kirk glanced over his shoulder and offered a sheepish smile. "Do you want to call it quits for the night? I know it's probably not something you're used to, considering I don't think it's happened before when we've sparred."

Spock blinked at him and planted his left foot flat on the mat, knee raised in a pose that he recognized as defensive without really understanding his desire to move in that manner. He didn't want to end their session, but he ceded to the logic of doing so. "That is probably for the best. I can then see Doctor McCoy before he retires for the night."

Kirk frowned at him, confused. "Why? Have you been ill again? I thought that McCoy had all of that under control."

"Negative; I have been quite well." Spock pushed himself over onto his side and propped himself up on one hand. "But he should be made aware of this latest episode so that he can make note of it in my medical file."

"Wait." Kirk raised both hands as if to both ward Spock off and gesture at him to remain where he was. "What do you mean, he should note it in your file?" Then he balked in a curious, forward-moving manner, stuttering his feet against the edge of the mat. "Hold it – this is one of those episodes that you started seeing him about?" He summed up Spock's entire person with one slash of his arm. "I mean, everything else aside – the telepathy thing and the getting sick, and all of that – this is one of your two-minute 'episodes'?"

Spock pulled his legs around and folded them on the mat in front of himself. "Affirmative." Mostly. At first, it had been typical of the low-level withdrawal symptoms that he had become accustomed to, but it had changed during the spar, and then whatever Kirk had done by touching his bare skin afterwards had put a stop to the worst of it. "Why do you… You are laughing at me."

"No," Kirk chuckled as he ambled back over and lowered himself to his knees in front of Spock. "No, I promise, I'm not laughing at you. I'm…totally going to give Bones shit about it later, but no, Spock. I thought you went to Bones because you were having more of the anxiety attacks, or because your telepathy was doing weird shit again."

Spock regarded him with what was probably a disproportionate level of severity. "As I told Doctor McCoy, I am not subject to attacks of anxiety; I merely become…overly perturbed at times." To the best of his knowledge; he could be wrong. And yet he did not qualify his denial with that additional information.

Kirk gave him a sidelong look, appeared to debate arguing, and then merely shrugged. "Right, not now. It's not like the ion storm now." Before Spock could retort, he leaned forward and Spock didn't have time to avoid the hands that came to rest suddenly on both of his shoulders. At least he touched through fabric this time. "But this? You actually think you're sick?"

Annoyed now, Spock knocked his hands away and tried to look dignified rather than affronted. He perceived a dim impression from Jim, filtered to mental grays by the lack of physical contact, of an inflated, spined Terran fish. It merely served to further irritate Spock. "I assure you, I would not have consulted Doctor McCoy on the matter if I believed myself to be in perfect health." Kirk snorted again, and Spock wondered just how rude it would be if he stood and walked out, considering that his own rudeness would be in counterpoint to Kirk's. The two acts should mathematically cancel out, if mathematics could be applied to social interactions, but humans believed that 'two wrongs don't make a right.' Vulcans believed similarly. It was irksome. "I fail to see what you find so amusing, sir."

"Okay." Kirk held his hands up in a gesture of capitulation. It mollified Spock a bit. "Okay, no, you're right. I'm being insensitive." He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, cleared his throat, and then regarded Spock with his composure intact. "Okay. I'm not sure exactly how it works for Vulcans since it doesn't look like you got hard. So, I'm assuming that this sort of thing isn't supposed to happen this way for you? And that's why you've been seeing McCoy about it? I mean, it's not like Bones told me everything about what's going on with you; I'm on need-to-know unless you decide otherwise."

Spock regarded him blankly. "I do not understand. At what should I have become difficult?"

Kirk twitched forward with some sort of emotional exclamation that appeared not to reach the point of vocalization. "No, not…not difficult, Spock. Hard."

"Yes." Spock stared at him a moment longer. "Are these two words not synonymous in this context?"

"Are you serious? Don't answer that; it was rhetorical."

Spock shut his mouth and subsided in his posture.

Kirk scrubbed a hand through his hair as he appeared to need several moments to either gather his thoughts or overcome some brand of minor shock at Spock's ignorance. It was gratifying to know that Kirk regarded his intellect so highly as to openly display surprise at Spock's failure to understand him.

On a related topic, this conversation did at least serve to show Spock that Kirk knew of his 'jokes' concerning colloquialisms, and appreciated them as such; he could clearly tell the difference between Spock's feigned ignorance and genuine confusion. Spock tallied that effort up as a success in his assimilation of human social custom and turned his attention back to his flustered captain. Surely there was no cause for such emotionalism? Teaching moments were to be offered freely and appreciated as such. Although, that was a Vulcan attitude; perhaps humans viewed such moments between equals or near-equals in a different light.

"Alright." Kirk inhaled deeply and let it out in a sigh. "There's no politically correct way to say this, so don't take offense."

Though it seemed a superfluous action, Spock nodded at him to continue.

"Okay. What I mean is, becoming aroused during physical exertion, especially when there's a lot of body contact involved, is not a big deal. Maybe it is for Vulcans, but for humans, it's normal. And you're half human. So I really think that maybe you're overreacting a bit here with the whole medical inquisition thing."

Curious; Spock didn't need to put forth any effort to keep his face blank. "I beg your pardon?"

"Look, I know you're pretty young as far as Vulcans go. Erm…developmentally, that is. Humans typically go through this stage when they're teenagers, so believe me – I get it. It's inconvenient as all fuck sometimes, but it's nothing you've got to hide. Well, most of the time. When you're off duty, or… I mean, if it's showing then obviously you can't just…dammit. Okay. Here's the thing." He held his hands out in front of himself as if he could frame the words he wanted in his hands, his eyes unfocused and directed at a corner of the ceiling. His obvious difficulty would have been comical if Spock were inclined to think of things in that manner. Without coming to a resolution on phraseology, he abruptly dropped his hands and heaved a sigh. "Didn't your parents give you this talk when you were a kid?"

"I assure you, my parents have never spoken to me in such a disorganized manner."

Kirk dropped his eyes to Spock and scowled. "No, really. The Talk, Spock. You know?"

Spock shook his head, further bewildered by the implied capitalizations and Jim's odd quotation gesture. "I do not know."

Kirk backpedalled abruptly and waved his hands about again in agitation. "The sex talk, Spock!"

"Ah." Spock sat back and straightened himself into a more suitable posture for long term discussion, vaguely uncomfortable at the thought that Jim knew about Pon Farr and intended to speak about it now in relation to Spock's ongoing condition. "Yes, my father provided this information to me, and I can state with confidence that it has no bearing on the current situation."

"Why does it feel like we're talking about two completely different things?"

Spock frowned at him as much as he ever did.

"Spock, I could feel it. I can kind of feel it now." He made a shushing gesture for no apparent reason, frantic all of a sudden in his need to stop Spock from speaking even though Spock had made no movement to indicate that he intended to do so. "It's just that I was touching you, and it was bare skin and fingers, and we're right up in each other's space now. I'm sure you didn't mean to, but you must have let it overflow or something. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to invade your privacy or anything, but – "

"I do not understand." Yes, it was rude to interrupt someone, but he needed Kirk to stop babbling for a moment.

Kirk's teeth clacked as he shut his mouth, and then he peered harder at Spock. He shook his head in a series of negative gestures as he hesitantly clarified, "You didn't realize that you were aroused just now?"

Spock blinked, aware that his mouth was hanging open but unable to do anything to rectify the oversight. Finally, he repeated, his tone an odd combination of force and shaking quiet, "I do not understand."

They stared at each other for seventeen seconds in absolute silence, and then Kirk declared, "Bullshit."

Spock jerked his chin to one side and then aborted the remainder of the impulse to shake his head to convey his bewilderment.

Kirk's brows flew up toward his hairline, and then his face abruptly folded in disbelief. "Spock, you can't be serious."

"I assure you, I am not feigning ignorance." Spock balked faintly at the weak and pitchy quality of his own voice and withdrew to frown down at his tightly clasped hands. He had not been aware of leaning toward the captain at any point during their conversation.

In Spock's periphery, Kirk rolled his gaze off to one side as if to better contemplate this predicament, one hand absently scratching at his calf. "Huh." He grimaced at nothing and then started picking at the hem of his exercise shorts. "This is awkward."

"I concur." How could he have not known? Jim had to be incorrect. He was not a telepath; he could have misinterpreted the spillover from Spock, humanizing alien things again in an attempt to relate to them.

But then again, Spock was not, physiologically speaking, a mature Vulcan male. These sensations were largely unknown to him. Beyond the signs of an approaching rut cycle, which he had been taught about in a textbook fashion, he knew little of his own body in regards to…to…sexual matters. He knew his anatomy, and he understood the mechanics of intercourse as applied to a large number of species, but he had not anticipated a need for further practical information until – if – his Time came. And even then, as he understood it, instinct would take over, so there was no logic in further study of the subject, especially since he had been estranged from his intended bondmate up until her death on Vulcan. Learning such things from another, while his intended lived and waited for him, would have been unconscionable and cruel.

"Jim?" Spock looked up and found Kirk regarding him openly if with a modicum of discomfort for the subject matter of their conversation. "Are you certain that the sensation I experienced was arousal?"

Kirk's face turned an interesting shade of pink as he ducked his head and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah, Spock. Positive."

As if he really needed the clarification at this point, he pressed, "By you? I am aroused by you?"

"Well, I guess? I mean, it might not be me, specifically. It could have been the fighting…"

"But…I do not understand." Logically, there was no need to continue repeating that, and yet it seemed the most sensible thing for him to utter every time he opened his mouth. Hoping for further explanation, he added, "The incident was not pleasant. It was upsetting and caused sensations similar to those experienced before one becomes physically ill."

Kirk shrugged a bit, but in a completely noncommittal way. Usually, Kirk's shrugs were meant as gestures of dismissal; this one meant something else. "Yeah, it can be a bit like that sometimes."

"All of the time?" Spock pressed. He was leaning forward again and had to curb the movement before he entered the sphere of proximity that humans usually took to be intimidating. None of the odd episodes had born any relation to what he expected arousal to feel like. He had wanted nothing more than for the unaccustomed feelings to cease.

Kirk froze, his eyes flickering to Spock's briefly, and then he exclaimed, "I think you were right before. You should go see McCoy."

"But you have just explained that my predicament is not medical in nature." Spock watched Kirk climb quickly to his feet and then go about tidying the room for the next users. "Captain?"

"Yeah, see, this isn't really the kind of conversation I'm comfortable having with my first officer. It's really more McCoy's area."

Spock's features turned pensive as he rose to a standing position. "I am causing you discomfort over a sexual matter." He recognized an impulse to apologize. "You are invoking protocols meant to convey that you feel unduly pressured to engage in a conversation which – "

"Oh my god! Spock, you are not sexually harassing me. Stop."

Spock drew back, unable to prevent himself from assuming a mildly defensive stance. "Then I do not unders – "

"Will you – " Kirk put his hands up next to his own temples and pinched his thumbs and forefingers in some sort of gesture of exasperation that Spock was not familiar with. " – quit saying that! I know you don't understand – that's the problem! Don't you get it? No – no, don't; that was rhetorical again. Just – " He faced his palm toward Spock and shook it at him. Apparently, that gesture was meant to complete his last aborted command.

Spock crossed his arms and regarded him as he would a small and incomprehensible child, but he obediently refrained from all attempts to further the conversation.

Kirk huffed as if he were the one being inconvenienced here. "Thank you."

Unable to help himself, Spock told him, "You are being unreasonable."

Kirk grabbed his hair in both hands, disordered it, and then stalked over to start rolling up the mat they had used even though Spock was still standing on it.

"You are in possession of facts which I lack," Spock pressed. Kirk always did know how best to provoke him to fits of annoyance. Perhaps this was a practical demonstration of the Terran adage familiarity breeds contempt. "You have already indicated that you are capable of providing me with this information, and yet you are withholding it for no logical reason that I am able to ascertain, other than that you state you are not comfortable discussing it with me."

"Oh, for crying out loud." Kirk tossed the mat back to the floor – Spock hadn't moved off of it anyway, so trying to put it away would have been pointless.

"However, I have overheard you discussing topics of a sexual nature with forty eight different crewmembers on one hundred and eighteen separate occasions, and you displayed no similar discomfort with them."

"You're a stubborn ass, you know that?"

Spock ignored that assertion, as it had no bearing on the matter at hand. "You also employ flirtatious behavior in forty eight percent of your interactions with crewmembers, dignitaries, superior officers – "

"Excuse me – I what!?"

" – and this does not even take into account the numerous innuendos and jokes that you routinely engage in that contain either implicitly or explicitly sexual subject matter."

"I do not flirt with my crew!"

"Therefore, I must conclude that your aversion to this discussion has to do with me specifically, and not the subject matter itself, in which case I demand to know why you would single me out as the only person thus far with whom you refuse to engage in a – "

"Because I want to have sex with you!"

Spock let his jaw hang open in the middle of his next intended word, which had already shriveled somewhere behind his tongue. Eventually, closing his mouth struck him as a good idea, so he did. Close his mouth, that is.

Kirk was still standing with his arms flung out to either side, an expansive and passively challenging gesture. "Are you happy now?"

Spock glared at him and then snapped, "No. You are still in possession of information which I lack."

"What – " Kirk let his arms flop down to dangle at his sides. " – is wrong with you?"

And that really was the last straw, because Spock had been trying to figure that out for months. "I don't know!"

Kirk stumbled backwards at the outburst and froze, regarding Spock with open trepidation, as if expecting an assault.

For his own part, Spock bit hard at his lip to contain any further unwarranted displays of emotion and tried to convince himself that he did not need to keep his hands balled into fists like this. It was an aggressive pose, and he did not mean to threaten Kirk no matter how irritating it was to know that he was withholding vital information from Spock for trivial reasons.

Kirk seemed to read something in Spock's posture that Spock himself was not aware of because he softened considerably and stepped closer, his hands open at his sides. Non-threatening. It was in pointed contrast to Spock's continued aggression and closed stance. "You're really upset about this," Kirk said gently.

"Your statement is redundant." Spock shut his eyes as soon as he noted the tremble of his own voice. He was shaking. Rage, perhaps. Other things as well. "There is no logic in stating the obvious. It is a waste of time and breath."

Warm human fingers slid up over Spock's trapezius. From a Vulcan, the gesture would be an implicit threat and a warning to control himself before the matter was taken into someone else's hands. Humans used it to convey a sense of camaraderie and to comfort; it was like saying, You are not alone. Let me help. Spock could even hear the words bridging the empty spaces gaping between them. Let me help. No one had touched him like that in what felt like months. Kirk brushed against his arm sometimes in passing, but nothing more. Spock had read once that humans required physical contact in order to survive – that its lack caused physical instabilities and detriment to the human body. This thought seemed out of place here even though some part of him seemed to consider it relevant.

Kirk put his other hand on Spock as well, on the opposite shoulder, framing Spock's neck. "Hey. Slow breaths, Spock." Easy there, buddy – you're freaking me out a bit here.

Spock twitched at the unspoken words bleeding into him through the inadequate buffer of his shirt, an accidental transference. "I am not ill?" He couldn't help it; he needed someone to confirm that much in plain language, at least.

"No, I don't think you are," Kirk replied. "Not over this, anyway." The words carried in puffs of air across Spock's face; he was standing very close, then. "Just…very young in some ways."

Spock gave a jerky nod and then gulped down a breath in an effort to arrest the wild beating of his heart. This level of emotional turmoil was unanticipated. He had not realized how concerned he truly was by the episodes and the uncertainty inherent in not really knowing when they would strike or how to prevent them. The oversight could not be repeated. He would have to meditate on the matter to determine how he missed the signs of building stress within himself. McCoy had been correct about the anxiety. Spock did not want him to find out.

"I'm sorry," Kirk murmured at some point later; Spock's internal clock had ceased to function, but it normalized with a moment's focus. "I didn't realize you were this upset. I wouldn't have been so flippant about it if I had."

This was not Kirk's fault. This was Spock's oversight. He should have recognized the problem himself, and then this backlog of stressful emotions never would have formed, and this outburst would not have occurred, and perhaps with this additional knowledge, a treatment could have been devised to assist in controlling his telepathy so that he did not have to abandon crewmates on away teams on account of an upset stomach –

Kirk's hands tightened on either side of Spock's head. "Calm, Spock. Come on; you were doing pretty well for a minute there." He hesitated, then asked, "Should I stop touching you? If I'm making this harder for you, just – "

Spock seized at Kirk's fingers without fully processing his own intent to do so and pressed them back in place. "No – "

"Okay," Kirk soothed quickly. He tightened his hands again where they had at some point migrated up to cup Spock's skull, fingers threaded around ears and tickling toward his nape. Kirk's thumbs rubbed gentle, tiny circles into the skin at the hinges of Spock's jaw. "Not going anywhere."

Spock nodded but kept his hands pressed over Kirk's because…he wasn't sure why. He needed…something…

Kirk glided closer, his higher body heat radiating against Spock. "Just relax a bit. It's no big deal." Trust me, trust me, trust me like I trust you, Spock, come on. I would never hurt you, just let me help.

Suddenly, it was very important that Kirk understand things. Not specific things, really, but…things. Spock deplored this imprecision, and this uncontrollable shaking, and the emotions contributing to both. "They did not expect me to survive to viable birth. No hybrid had before me. As a child, they kept telling my parents to expect my premature death. They said that my genetic code was not stable and that defects would appear and accumulate without cease. Sarek repeatedly cautioned my mother not to become emotionally attached to me; he did not stop doing so until I reached my twelfth year. The human immune factors in my blood should not be compatible with the Vulcan base substance. I should be allergic to myself. They said – "

"Jesus, Spock." Kirk loosened one hand, and for a moment, Spock panicked – he actually panicked – thinking that Kirk was pulling away, that he would be denied this. "You've spent the past, what, year and a half thinking you were finally dying?" The absent hand reappeared against Spock's flank, and even though Spock flinched pretty violently, he also surged into the arm offering a fuller embrace. "Whoa, okay." Kirk let their bodies press together at awkward angles, and only then did Spock become fully cognizant of how much control he had lost over himself.

"I thought it was happening," Spock confessed, his mouth pressed against the soft cotton covering Jim's shoulder. His eyes were open now and he blinked unseeing at the bulkhead near the door. "I could find no explanation for the breakdown in my telepathic processes, or for how I could become so attached to the ship that I risked severe illness any time I chose to leave it, or why your presence should make such a difference in the severity of my symptoms, and Doctor McCoy could find no medical solution – " He frowned against Jim's shoulder, concerned to note his own rapidly building tension. "I am…I am being irrational. This is an emotional episode."

Kirk laughed gently and Spock shivered at the puff of air rushing past his ear. He let Kirk wrap a hand over the back of his neck as if to hold a shying animal in place. Kirk's other arm completed its migration around the middle of Spock's back and there was a certain security in having it braced there, tucked beneath his shoulder blades. "Yeah, it's an emotional episode. I won't tell anyone."

That was a joke; there was amusement beneath Jim's skin. But it was also a promise. "You are the missing variable," Spock told him. Told his shirt, to be accurate. "I am not bonded in some way to the ship. It is my ability to sense you, specifically, which governs the episodes."

"Well, we've been through a lot together," Kirk offered. "And you've said before that we're pretty compatible, mentally."

Spock frowned harder and allowed himself to be fit more firmly against Kirk's body. The strange burning had returned; it pulsed below his navel and he felt faint and ill and angry all at once. "I have been using you as a focal point without your consent."

"Hey, no. I told you that you could have anything you needed from the friendship, remember? Spock, you lost everything to Nero. I'm honored that you could rely on me to get you through that, okay?"

Spock nosed at the cotton-covered shoulder pressed against his face. "You are not angry? A Vulcan would be angry at such a violation."

"Good thing I'm human, then." Kirk radiated concern and affection everywhere they touched. "It terrifies me to read the reports from New Vulcan and think that you could end up like that one of these days. Now I know that you won't. I can stop you from going from out of your mind at the silence. Do you really think I could be angry knowing that?"

"No." Spock dug his fingers into the hard blade of a shoulder. "It is not in your nature to withhold compassion."

Kirk nodded, and qualified, "Not from you." Given enough time, Spock might have pondered the import of that statement, but before he could properly digest it, an exasperated exclamation of, God, you're repressed, wafted across the surface of Spock's mind.

"I am not repressed," Spock snarled in response. He recognized the irony, of course, but refused to retract his statement.

Kirk patted him in an almost patronizing fashion, but before Spock could give vent to an irrational degree of irritation, Kirk began to disentangle himself. Spock stiffened at the rejection but Kirk only withdrew far enough to be able to look him in the eye. "Spock. If I do anything you don't want, you need to tell me."

Spock allowed his eyebrows to pull inward, his confusion plain on his face.

"I mean it," Kirk insisted, and it suddenly seemed very urgent that he get his point across. "Anything, Spock. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." Spock answered out of habit, but there was a gravity to Kirk's demeanor that shook his composure even further than what he had already managed to do to himself.

Kirk nodded, an unnecessary acknowledgement, and then raised both hands to cup Spock's face. Thoughts in midform filtered between them. Could be dead, so many killed themselves, shock at the quiet, he must feel so alone. He studied Spock's features for a moment, which merely added to Spock's anxiety, and then he leaned closer until Spock was breathing Kirk's exhaled air. He liked that part – inhaling gaseous molecules that came directly from inside of Jim. Was this a human comfort ritual? It was similar to what Nyota had done on several occasions. Kirk offered a non-verbal inquiry and they made eye contact. In the midst of that distraction, Kirk's lips pressed against the corner of Spock's mouth.

Spock's entire frame seized up like an old rusted cogwheel clock. He blinked, and the interval was long enough to change the focus of his gaze. Ah. Yes, Nyota had kissed him as well in her offerings of emotional comfort, but not like this; her offerings were aggressive with an element of claiming – of social ritual and courtship. Perhaps the difference was due to Kirk's being male? Spock now peered past Kirk's left ear, not really seeing the bulkhead over his shoulder. Was he breathing anymore? The floating, poorly-oxygenated-blood feeling had tumbled back into being. Kirk's thumbnails traced delicate lines down the softest parts of Spock's cheeks, and Spock felt his face tightening as he processed this sensation. His legs were no longer entirely steady and he felt strangely cold, but burning like dry ice.

"Okay?" Kirk whispered, just a breath of worded air.

Spock closed his mouth; at least his lips had only been slightly parted in emotional reaction. Surprise? Yes, surprise; Kirk's action had been unexpected. Spock swallowed and felt his nostrils flaring as Kirk's breath continued to bathe his face. His reaction to Kirk differed from his reaction to Nyota. Was it a qualitative difference? Or one having to do with his stronger mental affinity for Kirk? He must examine this more closely; obviously, there were nuances to this particular human comforting ritual that Spock did not understand beyond a basic, instinctive level. He had thought that kissing was primarily a courting behavior for humans, though there were exceptions for family and close friends. His mother had kissed him as a child.

Kirk evidently took his silence as some form of consent; he closed the distance between them again, pressing his lips to the same place on Spock's face but holding there for several heartbeats this time. Spock's gaze slid further to the left as he analyzed his own reactions. Lack of reactions, actually. Vulcans did not kiss thus. There was no reaction in his body aside from the continuance of his reactions from before Kirk had kissed him: he continued to tremble, and the sick heat like heartburn remained, roiling low on his right side. Kirk pulled back again, but he withdrew only point eight inches where before he had backed away a full four point three. One of his thumbs migrated to scrape over the place where his lips had just been. Spock wondered when he had moved to grip Kirk's arms just above each elbow.

Kirk breathed some sort of non-syllabic affirmation and bent his head so that he could nose at Spock's cheek. What did this mean in human terms? Was this supposed to be pleasurable? The hand that had previously been caressing the right side of Spock's face pressed against his skin with slightly more pressure, skimming backwards, and when Kirk's middle finger slid firmly up behind Spock's ear – that caused a reaction. Spock inhaled sharply and unevenly, his eyes widening before his face tightened into lines normally reserved for intense concentration. The vague permeation of Jim's mind brushing against his in a shapeless billowing haze made him dizzy, and he wanted…no, needed it, he needed not to be cold like this anymore, and Jim was so warm…

Spock felt himself tipping his head back, pressing against Kirk's hand to increase the pressure, and when his lips parted this time, a faint groan whispered from his throat.

"Yes," Kirk breathed as if witnessing the perfect breaking of a delicate thing. He rubbed his finger against Spock's mastoid bone, his thumb digging into the cartilage folded around his aural cavity, thumb nail caught along the rim as Kirk traced a steady line toward the pointed tip.

Spock straightened as if run through by a live current, peripherally aware that his toes had curled inside the soft shoes he wore for sparring. He twisted to worm his way farther into the grasp of the fingers splayed all over his right ear, clutched at Kirk's shirt and tried not to fall off of his own feet as he stumbled, knees buckling momentarily at the ebbing wave of sensations that he did not know how to process or overcome. Physical, mental, all blended into one and stuck tight in his throat.

Kirk slipped his free hand under Spock's arm and around his back to help brace him, all the while rubbing and tracing fingers around and over the sensitive cartilage of his right ear. "You really like that," he breathed, sounding incredulous, and his exhalation wisped past the hollow of Spock's left ear, a warm, teasing billow of moist air.

It sent Spock shuddering hard into some sort of paroxysm, and he gouged the toes of his right foot into the mat as he sucked in several rapid, harsh breaths in quick succession, one after another until he could no longer tell whether his dizziness was due to over-oxygenation or the things that Kirk was doing to him – the simple fact that Kirk existed with him. He could feel what his own skin felt like to the skin of Kirk's fingers.

Spock grabbed at Kirk's shoulder and dug his nails in, resetting his feet to steady himself only to suddenly give into the urge to push himself against Kirk's body and squirm against the heat that bloomed there. Kirk was still pinching and squeezing and rubbing at his ear, and Spock kept gasping at the unexpected sensations, sparks that seemed to skip from his ear to his spine and then radiate down to the small of his back until it finally grew so intense that he grabbed at Kirk with both hands, desperate for more /harder/stop/wait/please! and let out a hoarse, garbled cry like a distressed animal.

Everything stopped suddenly enough to send Spock's senses reeling even as he sagged and had to hang onto Kirk to keep from collapsing to the mat. He buried his nose in Kirk's shoulder only because his head suddenly felt so heavy that he could not keep it up, and he couldn't blink to reduce the burn of dry corneas because his eyes were too wide with the shock of the whole thing. Kirk had a firm grip on him, so he did not concern himself with the possibility that he might fall after all. They were swaying slightly, back and forth – Kirk's doing, and Spock's lungs were all but shuddering with…with residual reaction to…this…

Kirk shifted and combed his fingers through Spock's hair, gentling him as he came down from whatever high Kirk had inflicted on him. "Shh…okay…okay…"

Spock listened to these meaningless words long enough to realize that they were meant as a response of some sort to the sounds that he himself was still making as he trembled and tried to suppress the billowing, pulsing heat spreading unchecked in a flush all over the surface of his body. He sounded as if his lungs were filled with fluid and he was still breathing in spite of it, and he was whimpering the way he had once heard a small Terran dog whimper when left alone in a closed room. It was too much. Too much sensory input, too many new feelings invading his body, and not just the emotional ones but the physical as well. He felt as if his skin were an organism unto itself, and every one of his nerve endings screamed for it to be sedated.

"Sorry," Kirk murmured. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you."

Spock reset his feet so that he wasn't balanced quite so precariously anymore, and continued to sway back and forth to the rhythm of Kirk's body. He should not be indulging like this. His behavior was irrational and shameful, and completely against fraternization regulations. And…he kind of wanted to throw up.

As if reluctant to hear the actual answer to his question, Kirk asked, "How do you feel?"

Spock meant to reply your question is imprecise, or this inquiry is irrelevant, but he couldn't seem to make his tongue work properly. Instead of responding, he forced his eyes closed and gave into the impulse to fill his lungs with the scent that clung to Kirk's shirt. It left him feeling lightheaded and that peculiar burn at the bottom of his abdomen flared hotly.

This must have been an acceptable form of response in Terran terms, unbeknownst to Spock, because Kirk tightened his grip and stifled a laugh against Spock's neck. "That good?"

Prickles of heat were spreading all over his body in a fever flush that threatened to bleed darkness into the edges of his vision. His skin crawled with thoughts and impressions and sensations that were not his own, too many and too fast to be sorted or identified or even blocked. If Jim was feeling good things, Spock could not tell; he felt only his own discomfort and the heaviness and a vague sense of having been violated.

It was imperative that Spock answer with words this time because otherwise, Jim might get the wrong idea about their interactions thus far. "While I find our current activity agreeable, I must warn you that there is a high probability of my becoming physically ill within the next minute." He couldn't find it in himself to be more precise right then.

Kirk stuttered into stillness and then tugged Spock off of himself in a manner reminiscent of prying a squid from one's chest. He held Spock at arm's length and examined him critically before announcing, "Right. Locker room."

Spock was indeed ill in the locker room. Not in the stall as a human would be, but in the shower area. Vulcans had a reduced gag reflex in comparison to most humanoid species – an evolutionary trait designed to reduce the severity of dehydration during illness in a desert-dwelling species. They were therefore more prone to choking on their own vomit when they did become ill in that manner. Jim stayed with him to make sure that didn't happen, and some distant part of Spock's brain had the temerity to point out the similarities between his current position – forehead to the tiled floor, rear end raised to maximize the assistance of gravity in the process, like a Terran feline – and a common human sexual position. He was not amused.

Once Spock was finished, abdominal muscles sore and throat raw from the acidy of his own bile, he collapsed onto his side and allowed himself the comfort of curling into a ball while he caught his breath.

"Should I call for a med team?" Kirk sounded more upset than seemed necessary. "Shit, why didn't you tell me to stop?" To himself, he muttered, "Only you could give a Vulcan a panic attack, JT. That's just fucking brilliant."

"I did not experience a panic attack," Spock rasped. The itch in his throat made him cough several times, lung-wracking paroxysms that hurt more than he was willing to admit. "I was simply unprepared for the intensity of that experience."

Kirk shook his head. "You know, according to standard protocol, this is a medical emergency. I made a Vulcan throw up, Spock."

"I am not unduly affected."

"Not unduly affected? You're laying in a shower stall next to a puddle of your own sick, hyperventilating, because I touched you!"

"It will pass."

Kirk regarded him incredulously and then shifted his focus to the ceiling instead.

"Jim." Once Spock had regained his attention, he tried to explain, "This is not your fault. As I am primarily a touch telepath, I am occasionally overwhelmed by unexpected physical contact. In addition, as I have stated in the past, our minds are strongly attuned and highly compatible, resulting in a more intense degree of interaction which is naturally difficult for me to block. I will acclimate as my mind becomes accustomed to you, and next time, I will have a better idea of what to expect."

Kirk nodded, sighed, and seemed to reach a decision that he found unpleasant. "There won't be a next time, Spock. I overstepped my boundaries, both as your friend and as your commanding officer." He glanced over long enough to take in the sight of Spock curled up and shivering on the shower stall floor. He must have made a pitiable sight because Kirk looked even more guilty when he added, "I'm sorry. I never should have started this."

Spock blinked and then, perhaps irrationally, protested, "But I did not ask you to stop."

Kirk nodded, but his words were not those of agreement. "You never should have been in a position to have to ask." He averted his gaze in favor of examining his own hands as if they had caused offense. "I mean, god – Spock, I'm actually well aware of the fact that you're considered underaged by Vulcan standards."

"I am half human," Spock reminded him. "By human standards, I am well past the age of consent."

"You didn't even know what you were feeling until I told you!" Kirk burst out.

Spock recoiled and then pushed himself into a sitting position. "This matters to you? That I have no previous experience in sexual matters?"

"No! Spock, what matters to me is that the way you behaved…" He trailed off helplessly and scrubbed both hands into his hair before admitting in a tiny voice, "I feel like I just molested a kid. You were scared and upset, and you trusted me, and I took advantage of that to the point where you threw up from it."

Spock's mouth worked silently for several seconds, and then he countered, "But I am an adult. You did nothing to which I did not consent."

Kirk shook his head, the movement more violent than the circumstances called for. "You don't get it."

"Only because you have failed to provide an adequate explanation. Is it because we share a friendship? Is sexual behavior frowned upon between human male friends?"

Under his breath, Kirk mumbled, "Fuck."

Spock gave him a moment to fret because humans occasionally seemed to need that for some reason that escaped him. Then he said, "Jim, I would like to understand your reasoning in this matter."

Kirk looked at him without lifting his head, his eyes bleak as if he were looking at the most morally reprehensible thing he had ever done. At first, Spock thought that he would refuse further conversation on this subject – again – but something seemed to give in Kirk's expression. "Spock, there's a reason why the letter of the law calls it informed consent, and not just permission to have at it. It's like those license agreements that pop up whenever you download a computer program for personal use. You click accept because you want to use the program, but you have no idea what you just agreed to in order to get it."

Spock ducked his head to better allow Kirk to see the severity with which he regarded this information. "Jim, are you confessing to entering into contractual agreements without reading the clauses by which you are expected to abide?"

Kirk threw his hands up. "That is not the point I was trying to make! And by the way, no one reads those, Spock; it's a waste of time."

"I always read the terms of any agreement by which I am legally bound to abide. It is irresponsible and illogical to sign your name to a contract you have not read and do not understand simply to secure the use of a computer program."

"Yes!" Kirk pointed seven fingers at him. "That's exactly what I mean. Do you get it now?"

"Jim, how many licensing agreements have you signed without first reading their contents?"

Kirk dropped his arms as if Spock still weren't seeing his point. Which made no sense since Spock had no trouble following the thread of this particular conversation.

Spock spent a moment contemplating the dilemma. "It may be possible to obtain copies of the most relevant agreements, if not every agreement you have ever signed. We would only need to determine which programs you make use of, and rule out those that were provided as part of the basic core set of programs installed on all pertinent devices by Starfleet."

When Spock looked up to gauge Kirk's agreeability to this plan of action, it was to find Kirk pinching the bridge of his nose, head shaking despondently. "Spock…forget I ever mentioned the license agreements."

Spock frowned. "But Captain – "

"That's an order."

"…yes, sir."

"So, the point I was trying to make," Kirk continued, his words forced as if he were suppressing a strong emotion which threatened to contaminate the words, "is that for humans, there is a strong cultural and biological aversion to doing what I just did. You understand cultural conditioning, Spock. You're like the walking handbook for it."

Spock narrowed his eyes because he could not be certain, but he suspected that at least part of that statement was either insulting or inflammatory. "I must have misunderstood this statement, because it implies that there is a natural human aversion to pursuing opportunities for sexual intercourse, and this is patently untrue."

Kirk twisted his mouth up to one side in an expression that Spock had come to understand signified an odd blend of fondness, exasperation, impatience, and a profound lack of amusement that was paradoxically considered comical in some fashion. "Are you trying to be funny, Mister Spock?"

"Never," Spock replied with utter sincerity. Then he abruptly frowned, but he was unable to identify the source of his unease. "Sir, if I have behaved in some manner which is considered unacceptable – "

He broke off as Kirk's hands landed heavily on both of his shoulders, and lifted his gaze in an effort to read Kirk's expression or body language. The cues given off were…confusing, and in contradiction with the emotions that he felt through Kirk's grasp. Kirk's face appeared open and sincere, and above all, friendly. If Spock had not been able to sense the shame and fear and uncertainty, as well as the residue of lust beneath that exterior, he would never have suspected that the facial expression was false. Perhaps he should revise his conclusion concerning Jim's possible sociopathic tendencies.

"Spock, listen. I know that you don't think apologies are necessary, but I apologize. For this whole thing. And I really do think that you should talk to McCoy about it. Not me. Let's just say I have a conflict of interest in the matter."

"Because you harbor a sexual interest in me."

"Yeah." Kirk appeared sheepish – he radiated unease. "And I don't trust myself not to take advantage of the situation."

"Your moral character precludes this possibility."

"Not so much, Spock, but thanks."

"But – "

"See McCoy. That's an order."

Indeed, it was; Spock could hear that in the hardening of tone as well as feel the push toward obeisance that Kirk's voice naturally conveyed. In spite of that, Spock admitted, "I am no longer comfortable with the thought of discussing this issue with Doctor McCoy. It is no longer a purely medical matter. To Vulcans, any discussion of one's sexuality is considered deeply personal and…shameful. Especially if there are complications with one's sexual behavior, or deviations from the norm. Finding myself unintentionally aroused at any time not connected to my natural mating cycle or the activities of a bonded mate constitutes an aberration that… Jim, I do not enjoy the necessary level of personal relations with Doctor McCoy to enable any degree of openness with him. A discussion would not produce the desired results."

Kirk studied him for a moment, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he parsed all of this out. "So, you're saying that talking to Doctor McCoy would be too embarrassing?"

Spock nodded, but qualified that with, "If it is necessary to interpret my assertions emotionally, then yes; I cannot speak with him."

"But you can speak with me." Kirk had cocked his head and now eyed Spock sidelong as if the differing visual angle would reveal any unspoken truths.

"Yes." Spock nodded again and became abruptly aware of the hot human hands still gripping his shoulders like brands. "You have stated on multiple occasions that we are friends by the human definition of that relationship, and you made an argument for the Vulcan definition as well. If this is true, then in the absence of an elder male family member or a bonded brother, I may speak to you of these matters without shame."

"That's…" Kirk seemed to weigh several answers for their appropriateness in this situation, and then settled on, "…weird. But…flattering. In a weird way."

Spock arched an eyebrow, convinced that this response did at least constitute an honest appraisal of Kirk's opinion on the matter. It also matched his outward facial expression this time. "Then we may speak further on this matter?"

Kirk bit the inside of his cheek and finally released Spock after patting the outsides of his arms a few times. Spock had seen humans do this before; it seemed to be a gesture of comfort as well as capitulation. Emotionally, Kirk was reluctant; that was the last thing Spock sensed from him before Kirk removed himself from immediate physical proximity. "I need some distance on it, okay? Just…not right now."

"Understood. I will await your further broaching of the subject."

"Right." Kirk absently chewed on a thumbnail as he ambled away, clearly preoccupied.

Spock did not anticipate a quick resolution to the matter, but he was nothing if not patient, even when he did not like the thought of waiting and saw no logical reason for the delay. Humans were not always logical, however, and for some reason, in this context, that fact did not annoy Spock as it normally would have. It was not necessarily a good thing, mainly because it constituted a deviation from his normal behavior. Spock resolved to examine his emotional controls at the first available opportunity; they had shattered far too easily under Kirk's influence this evening. In the mean time, he allowed Kirk to assist in cleaning up the mess he had made of the shower stall. It seemed to assuage some of Kirk's guilt, at least.

A full Terran month passed and Kirk did not approach Spock for what Kirk had referred to, if only in a moment of jest, as The Talk. This seemed unusual, as Kirk had been quite reliable in other aspects of their friendship, until Spock recalled that some peculiar human social rituals required a polite 'brush-off' in order to end a subject of discussion permanently without offending either party, and without need to resort to a blunt and final refusal, which in human interactions was often considered unacceptably rude. Humans were expected to understand the noncommittal end agreement and then allow time lapsed to render the issue 'forgotten.' The majority of the exchange was supposed to be implied rather than explicitly stated. Spock blamed this for his failure to recognize the interaction as a 'brush-off.'

When he realized what had actually occurred in the locker room, Spock's initial reaction was anger followed by a sense of betrayal at what he, as a Vulcan, saw as a false promise of aid. A lie. In retrospect, Kirk had committed to nothing when he had stated that he required 'distance' concerning Spock's request; Spock had simply made an assumption which he recognized now to have been in error. It left him unsure of how to proceed, not least because of the vehemence of his emotional reactions to being denied in this manner, and over a subject about which Spock truly did need guidance. He resolved to meditate further on the issue, and also made a mental note to always require blunt statements of intent when conversing with humans.

Even after copious efforts to meditate on the incident, Spock could not dispel the emotion of anger in association with Kirk's unwillingness to assist him. Some part of him recognized that a loss of trust had occurred at knowing that he had requested help on what was to him a troubling and deeply personal matter, and not only had he been dismissed, but Kirk had done so in an underhanded manner. This behavior ran counter to what Kirk had told him was the definition of friendship. Spock would be slow to trust Kirk again in any similar situation in the future, and that saddened him. He had wanted to believe that the friendship his elder counterpart had mentioned would indeed enrich and define parts of his life. Spock did not see how that could be possible when Kirk could so easily refuse him such paltry aid as a mere conversation.

It was nothing new to Spock, however – being unable to rely on another. He had always understood that he would have to be unfailing in his self-sufficiency. It was something that Vulcans learned young, and being somewhat ostracized for being only half-Vulcan, Spock had more need than most to ensure his own ability to survive unaided. He had been remiss in allowing himself to forget this - in allowing anyone, even Jim, to convince him that there were other options.

In a further blow to Spock's emotional control, Kirk stopped scheduling sparring sessions with him. He also reduced their time spent alone in quarters and insisted that when they play chess or take meals together, they do so in one of the mess halls or crew recreation rooms. Spock knew intellectually that these changes were manifestations of the 'distance' that Kirk had stated he required, and not a cessation of caring for Spock's wellbeing. It was jarring nonetheless, and Spock found that without spending his free time in Kirk's company, he had very little to do outside of the performance of his duties.

Though Spock knew that the change in routine was not his fault, per se, the emotionality of the matter was not that simple. Spock's actions and his inability to maintain control over his own body had led to the situation where Kirk felt distance to be necessary. Therefore, it was Spock's fault that Kirk could no longer trust them to be alone together – could no longer promote any sort of platonic intimacy between them. Spock had, in effect, ruined what had been fast turning into the most important and intense personal relationship he had ever experienced, and all because of his shortcomings as a Vulcan – his lack of control. If he had been able to sufficiently discipline his mind and body as all Vulcans are taught from infancy, none of this would have occurred and Kirk would still consider him a close and privileged friend. Without that relationship to rely on, Spock found himself lonely in a way he had not felt since first leaving Vulcan.

Perhaps these myriad things were what led Spock to the bar on Meridian Prime during shore leave nearly two months after the sparring and locker room incident. There were no cultural attractions near enough to the Fleet base to allow him sufficient time for an exploration as the ship would only be in orbit for twenty-four hours. In a farce of McCoy's authority as CMO, he had ordered Spock to take shore leave anyway, even after Spock had explained that nothing within the proximate radius of their approved beam down point could attract his interest. Spock wasn't sure what McCoy expected him to do when he knew as well as Spock that bars and brothels and dance clubs added to Spock's stress levels rather than alleviating them. Surely McCoy realized that making Spock take leave under these circumstances would be detrimental to him?

McCoy had insisted, of course; he could be quite resistant to logic when the mood struck him. So Spock had transported down as ordered on the first rotation, illogically hoping that he could find a quiet coffee house or deli off the main thoroughfare where his Vulcan senses would not be too sorely taxed until such time as he could return to the ship without incurring McCoy's wrath.

What he found instead was a bar decorated in an Oriental Terran theme with overtones of the less flamboyantly sexual of Orion artistic forms. It was actually quite tasteful, plush and comfortable without being gaudy, and the patrons seemed to be as interested in peace and quiet as Spock. He appropriated a dim booth along one wall – little more than a nook with a low table and cushions on the floor for sitting cross-legged – and was immediately presented with a menu and a glass of iced water.

It seemed that the staff catered very carefully to their clientele, as he obviously held a menu different from the one given to the Edosians at the next table. All of the items on Spock's menu were Vulcan drinks and dishes, with a small selection of beverages from other worlds that would be well received by the Vulcan palate. Spock allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at having found this venue; it would serve adequately. Even without a forced shore leave, he would have chosen to patronize this establishment, had he known of its existence beforehand.

The venue quickly reached capacity, but the atmosphere remained the same. Spock noted that once a certain number of patrons had entered, all others were turned away at the door to preserve the air of calm and solitude. Only when someone left were others allowed in. This was logical; Spock had grown accustomed to the manner in which humans milled about in bars and restaurants, occupying all available free space, hovering until tables were vacated. To find an establishment run along more considerate lines was refreshing.

After consuming a bowl of cooked Vulcan mut grain flavored with various nuts and fruits, well worth the expense for the rarity of the dish post-Nero, Spock vacated his table and moved to take a seat at the bar in the next room. This part of the establishment was also well appointed without being crowded or pretentious. There were few humans present, which Spock found intriguing since the Fleet base's population as well as its ship traffic was primarily Terran in origin. He received several long looks upon being identified as Vulcan, but nothing untoward or excessive.

Being an endangered species was still a novel thing to him. On the Enterprise, no one remarked upon his race; he was simply Spock, their First Officer. It still took him by surprise, whenever he travelled off the ship, to be singled out as a member of a dying breed. It was also unsettling, no matter how polite those around him tried to be. For instance, though no one openly studied him after he ordered his second drink, several patrons were dwelling on thoughts of Vulcan with enough concentration that Spock could tell even without touching them. It wasn't that he could hear words or see pictures of thoughts in others' minds; rather, he could sense that their notice and concentration lingered where their eyes did not.

Also, there was speculation on what a Vulcan could be doing on the base in the first place, and why he would have come alone to this club. None of the speculation seemed malicious; he was simply a rare sight. Several other patrons nodded at him where he sat on a stool at the bar with a glass of yon-savaas juice, but none approached him. The respect for privacy ran too high here to allow them to bother him without a clear signal that he desired company. All Spock wanted was to wait out his allotted leave time and then beam back to the ship.

About an hour after Spock arrived, an instrumental quartet set up in a far corner of the bar area and began to play soft, relaxing music. More patrons migrated in to listen, which was how Spock found himself seated beside a Betazoid male. Spock was not sure how it came about precisely, but they ended up speaking at length about warp theory. In no time at all, Spock was telling the man about his time spent teaching at Starfleet Academy. The knowledge that the Betazoid was using his talents to steer the conversation to common topics that would hold Spock's interest bothered him less than it should have. To Vulcan sensibilities, this was a breach of etiquette at best for the use of telepathy, and an invasion or attack at worst. But Betazoids were not Vulcans, were they? Such behavior was normal for a Betazoid – a cultural difference between their species – and therefore, IDIC applied. Spock elected to honor that rather than attempt to inflict Vulcan social ideals on an alien. Their ability to interact in a peaceful and civilized manner was to be celebrated. And besides, it was…agreeable to be in close proximity to an open and welcoming mind. It seemed as if he had not felt that since his rift with Kirk.

Towards the end of the performance set, Spock finally began to realize why the Betazoid had taken an interest in him to begin with. Spock's heart and respiration rates were elevated, and though he had initially attributed his slight flush to the high ambient temperature of the room, it actually arose from within. The warmth in his abdomen was not due to the presence of good, unreplicated food, but to the low hum of latent arousal. Spock was having an episode, and the Betazoid had noticed. Spock ceased speaking abruptly as this realization rushed over him.

"Ah." The Betazoid – he had introduced himself as Ta'lan – smiled indulgently and set his drink on the bar. "I wasn't sure at first. Vulcans can be very hard to read at times."

Spock threw him an openly suspicious glance. "Please clarify."

"I wasn't sure if you were looking for companionship for the evening or not," Ta'lan replied easily. He gestured as if summing up Spock's entire existence in the sweep of one hand. "I could tell that you were…well, that parts of you were looking, but as I said, Vulcans are hard to read. I understand now that you were unaware and I apologize if my interest has offended you."

"You have not offended me," Spock hurried to say. He wasn't sure why he did it; Ta'lan had been politely preparing to leave now that he had identified his misunderstanding, but…Spock did not want him to go yet. Their conversation had been stimulating, and perhaps as a fellow telepath, Ta'lan could be…instructive...pleasant company? An opportunity. "And I am not necessarily uninterested." He felt a giddy rush of unidentifiable emotions similar to what he experienced when taking risky actions during landing party maneuvers. Excitement, wariness, fight or flight – Spock tamped them down. Such displays were unseemly.

Ta'lan had already settled back down onto his stool, however, and he leaned farther into Spock's personal space this time. "Forgive me, but I couldn't help sensing some other things just now. You're really quite new at this, aren't you." His gaze traveled down Spock's body in a manner that made Spock straighten with a hint of discomfort. Other parts of him tightened in response to being so openly appraised.

Spock hedged, "I am unpracticed, but…" He took one last moment to consider just how illogical and out of character his actions were, and how potentially dangerous, then finished, "I am willing to learn."

Things progressed surprisingly fast after that. Ta'lan insisted on paying for Spock's drinks, and Spock allowed it as the provision of food and drink, or the purchase thereof, was a common component of courtship rituals in a majority of known species. The transient nature of this particular courtship did not affect the ritual's relevance to the situation. After leaving the establishment, Spock followed Ta'lan down several thoroughfares until they reached the residential section of the base. Ta'lan was a local, then; this bore little on their association to each other, but it was still worth noting. If Spock was apprehensive about what he was doing, the emotion did not make itself known beyond his controls. Ta'lan led him to a small apartment situated on a street corner and surrounded by parkland. It was quiet and tasteful in its simplicity.

Once inside, Spock began to see the sense in being nervous even if he did not yet quite feel that way. Ta'lan's unit was located up five flights of stairs – there was a lift, but it appeared to be out of order. He could not help analyzing the building for tactical purposes – layout, number of units, blind corners and escape routes. As soon as he realized what he was doing, Spock forced himself to stop. Ta'lan was capable of overhearing these analyses and Spock did not wish to offend him by seeming suspicious of his motives. Thus far, he had done nothing worthy of Spock's distrust.

Spock entered the apartment without hesitation and took in the minor details – sparse furnishings, obviously low income but impeccably maintained and clean enough even for a Vulcan's fastidious tendencies. Spock inwardly approved.

"Here," Ta'lan said, breaking into Spock's quiet examination of the flat. He approached slowly with one hand extended and stopped before he actually touched, his palm facing upward in silent invitation. "May I?"

The intent was clear both in body language and in the air about him that only another empath or a telepath would be able to sense. Spock hesitated because this undertaking was very unlike him, but he was already here and he was curious, and Ta'lan seemed an acceptable enough person. Spock turned to face him, resolute, and nodded. "You may."

Ta'lan smiled suggestively and stepped into Spock's personal space, his hand cutting a straight path to cupping Spock's jaw. "You are very young, Spock. I can sense that."

Spock swallowed and pressed eagerly into the hand. He could almost feel the amorphous shape of Ta'lan's mind reaching out to pluck at his own. The craving that Spock felt to allow him access frightened him with its strength. "I would prefer if you refrained from overt probing of my thoughts or emotions." He gave several small, successive flinches as Ta'lan's hand skimmed down the tendons in his neck and around to cup the base of his skull. This was nothing like the one time that Jim had touched him thus. Jim's touch had been noninvasive and warm.

"I'll try not to be too forceful about it," Ta'lan replied, but…that was not an agreement, merely a statement that he would not be obvious about what he was doing. "I can smell your interest," he breathed abruptly, referring to the somewhat unique scent of male Vulcan pheromones that had infiltrated the air around them.

Spock could smell it himself; it tasted thick on his tongue and left a residue behind in the back of his throat. Curious that he had not noticed it before, in the sparring room with Jim. Perhaps it had been more subtle then, as he had felt ill rather than excited. "Is it pleasing to you?" Spock wasn't trying to be coy; he was genuinely curious to know the answer. To his mind, the scent of his own arousal was rather off-putting.

Ta'lan's face broke in a wide smile. The expression seemed to have predatory overtones. "It is extremely pleasing to me." As if to prove this, he ducked his face in toward Spock's neck and inhaled. "Mmm. You are a rare treat."

Spock inhaled sharply as he was tugged forward by the hand at the back of his head, gentle though it was. He felt doused in a sharp want that permeated the air around them; the sensation made him want to...to move and rub and give in, and this alarmed him.

"Shh…" Ta'lan lifted his other hand, fingers paired in the Vulcan way, and traced them over Spock's lips. "Don't worry so much. I'll make sure you enjoy yourself."

The caress made Spock shudder, but it didn't really feel all that pleasant. He chose not to return the gesture. That heat in his belly had turned sharper, almost bitter. He closed his eyes momentarily, seeking out the reason for this, but could find no aberration in his own physical processes.

"You're thinking too much about it," Ta'lan told him, his voice sharper now than it had been. "Just relax." He left off running his fingers over Spock's face and instead rubbed gently at Spock's chest before slipping that arm around his waist. "Close your eyes, Spock. Let me make you feel good."

Spock did as instructed. It was only logical. He had followed Ta'lan here for this express purpose, even though now, he began to seriously question the wisdom of this endeavor. It was long past time for doubt, however, and as Ta'lan was the experienced party, Spock should follow his lead. Cool lips began to press and nip along Spock's jaw, dipping down to his throat, and Spock tensed. This was not something a Vulcan would normally allow; biting was a threatening gesture –one meant to indicate dominance. Vulcan males were still occasionally known to become violent over issues of dominance. Or over possession of a mate.

Ta'lan must have sensed Spock's sudden apprehension, not to mention feeling him stiffen, and left off nibbling at him. He pressed closer, aligning their bodies from shoulders to knees. His hands slipped up beneath the hem of Spock's shirt and he began to systematically press his fingers at intervals along the knobs of Spock's spine. It was pleasant; Spock's nerves began to tingle in response.

A chuckle roused Spock from a pleasant haze that he had been unaware of falling prey to. "Zenoanatomy is a hobby of mine. Most species have pressure points and nerve clusters that can be stimulated mentally by a sexual partner to release certain neurochemicals into the bloodstream." He massaged gently at the base of Spock's skull and Spock tipped his head back to gain more of the sensation. "Are you enjoying it?"

Spock blinked and swallowed sluggishly. "Yes," he responded. He felt drowsy and relaxed, almost drunk, and found it difficult to recall why this might be a bad idea. Tentative, Spock slipped his arms around Ta'lan's back, as he had done with Jim in the sparring room, and dug his fingertips into the soft divots beneath Ta'lan's shoulder blades. The pads of his fingers tingled at the friction of warm skin. His respirations turned ragged and shallow as he fought to keep his eyes open. A curious, billowing sort of heat had started to coil in his groin and lower back. He could not be certain as to whether this sensation were pleasurable or not, but it made his knees feel pleasantly weak, and his lungs caught on the tattered edges of each inhalation.

"Yes," Ta'lan hissed. He clutched Spock closer and tongued along his ear, which sent Spock into tiny paroxysms. "Is that good too?"

His breath gusted over Spock's moistened ear tip, wrenching a sudden moan from Spock's lips. Surely, he must have already sensed the answer to that, but if he required verbal confirmation, so be it. With some difficulty, Spock replied, "That is acceptable." The burning in his abdomen ignited. It felt like a pressure stuck aching low in his gut, and it was starting to make him feel nauseous. Spock told himself that it was normal, and that it would pass even as he caught a hint of the taste of copper in the back of his throat.

In the mean time, Ta'lan had finished with Spock's ear and was pulling him toward the sofa that Spock had inventoried upon arrival. Their legs bumped into it sooner than Spock expected, and he allowed Ta'lan to turn him around. "Put your hands here," he instructed, guiding Spock by the wrists to hold onto the back of the couch.

Spock obediently grasped the rough fabric, but he twisted around so that he could look at Ta'lan. "What do you intend to do?"

Ta'lan smiled, and the expression was somehow less friendly and open than it had been at the bar. "You'll see. Eyes forward."

Once Spock faced away again, Ta'lan grasped him by the hips and rubbed his thumbs along the waistband of Spock's pants. Spock startled at that; he had expected less overtly sexual intimacy this early in the encounter. Then Ta'lan's thumbs met in the center of his back and pushed upward past his coccyx.

Spock jumped but Ta'lan anticipated this reaction and followed him as he shied closer to the back of the couch. "Relax, my young Vulcan." He leaned closer and covered Spock's back with his chest, thumbs still pressed to Spock's chenesi, stimulating and massaging them into a more active state and releasing a flood of Vulcan hormones and pheromones in the process. Ta'lan inhaled deeply, openly relishing the scent of it, and murmured, "Trust me."

There was something downright predatory in both Ta'lan's words and the aura he gave off, but Spock was too busy shivering and jerking as talented thumbs stimulated his lower back. He arched his spine but twitched in discomfort as Ta'lan's soft laugh washed over him. They were rocking gently in time with each dig of Ta'lan's thumbs, but it was…uncomfortable. There was pleasure, of course there was, but Spock didn't like the way it was making him feel – as if his control were about to shatter and no one would catch him when he fell at the loss of it. Why had he come here? It had seemed like a good idea at the bar, had it not? Or had he been influenced telepathically? His shields had not been as strong as they should have been, and Ta'lan had read him with ease the entire time they had been talking. For all Spock knew, the Betazoid could have been doing more than just steering the conversation. But surely, no civilized being would take advantage like that? Especially not an empath. Any discomfort on Spock's part would negatively affect his partner.

Spock could sense hunger from Ta'lan, and it worked on him like a bucket of cold water. Regardless of how Ta'lan had convinced him to come here, Spock had made the decision himself, but that did not mean that he had further choice in the matter. It was true that he lacked experience and perspective in sexual matters, but he was pretty sure that he did not want this to progress any further, not with a strange alien on forced shore leave. This could turn out to be a highly pleasurable experience, but Spock had no obligation to see it through, and he owed Ta'lan nothing but what he chose to give. And he did not want to give this.

"Wait," Spock groaned as the flush stole over him in a wave of prickling heat. He gripped the couch as tightly as he could because at least it provided a balance point, and the stimulation had sent him up on his toes at some point. Pleasure crackled up his spine and then dropped to join that sharp, pitted heat that rested beneath his navel. It ached somewhere deep inside of him, and he didn't like it – it felt wrong and intrusive. "Wait!"

Ta'lan stopped massaging his chenesi, but he remained pressed to Spock's back. Rather than letting go, he encircled Spock's chest and waist with both arms, molding them closer. More of that uncomfortable hunger bled over via this contact and Spock jerked in an ineffectual bid to get away from it.

"No, no, no," Ta'lan crooned, into his ear. A moment later, he shushed Spock again and resumed nibbling the sensitive shell of cartilage until the nerves felt raw from overstimulation.

Spock squirmed and tried to pry Ta'lan's arms away, to little avail; the majority of his focus had been diverted to the overwhelming feel of someone else's physical sensations pressing against his own nervous system. Ta'lan was highly aroused, and the mental emanations stabbed at Spock like a physical sensation. It was making him feel sick again.

"Calm down," Ta'lan soothed. He skimmed the backs of his knuckles over Spock's cheek and Spock flung his head away. Ta'lan rubbed his collar bones instead, his other arm tightening around Spock's waist. "Just calm down, Spock. I know how to make this good for you, if you'll let me."

"I do not w-wish to continue," Spock replied. He was breathing too quickly and he knew that he was in danger of hyperventilating, but every time a new sensation hit him, he lost the tenuous threads of his control over that process. He also realized that the manner in which he continued to move in counterpoint to Ta'lan's caresses could be misleading, but he seemed unable to control those responses as well, and he wanted to stop.

"Everyone gets nervous their first time," Ta'lan informed him, and now there was impatience bleeding through the hunger and arousal.

Control, Spock needed control but he couldn't seem to find it; there was too much going on outside of him. It was instinctive for a Vulcan to seek distance and solitude when telepathically overwhelmed. Spock could clearly recall being a child and being hustled out of his father's way after one of Sybok's outbursts had pierced Sarek's shielding. He himself had never been so affected by the emotionality or the loudness of the minds around him, as long as no one touched him, but now there was concentrated contact and deliberate intrusion by a telepath with chaotic and disruptive mental patterns. Their minds were not complimentary, they were not compatible, and it needed to stop – he needed to make it stop.

Spock had no idea he had lashed out until he was stumbling and grasping for the door panel. Behind him, Ta'lan cursed and picked himself up off the floor, brushing broken trinkets from his clothes. It was cowardly to run, and illogical. Spock was a Vulcan; he possessed twice the Betazoid's physical strength, and under ideal conditions, was the stronger mentally as well. Plus, he had now assaulted a civilian and caused property damage – the shelves behind Ta'lan were broken from where Spock had hurled him into them. There would be repercussions for fleeing the scene of a crime.

Ta'lan had regained his feet by the time all of these thoughts completed their whirl through Spock's head. Residual hunger hovered in an ethereal cloud around him, colored like starvation, which was not logical but was nonetheless true. Ta'lan was angry and he knew things about this situation that Spock did not. Spock's control had been compromised – he had been at least momentarily overpowered, and it reasoned that Ta'lan could accomplish this again. Every corner of Spock's hind brain screamed at him to get away and find a safe, dark place – he should not be here – bad things would happen if he remained. It was not an emotional response, not fear, but a primitive survival instinct. There was a man approaching him who could reach into his thoughts and render him docile with a touch, who could manipulate and influence him, and who was now very, very angry at being denied.

Spock clawed at the door controls until the panel slid aside, and fled.

His time sense had failed him. Dawn was breaking and Spock would have been missed on the Enterprise by now. He had also lost his bearings and seemed to be wandering at random through a semi industrial district. Several people ambled past him on the street and Spock cringed at the thought of allowing any of them close enough to ask for directions back to the base. His nerves still felt raw and there were stark grey whispers of wants and thoughts and intents left over from Ta'lan as if they had been shoved under his skin and left to fester. Several times, he actually had to stop himself from scratching at his arms and the backs of his hands to get them out. He did not know what had happened to his communicator, only that he did not have it, and using a public terminal would have necessitated going into a crowded building and interacting with people. At least he had not yet been physically ill, though he suspected that this was a near thing as the tumbling burn in his gut had shifted to something far more insidious as he walked.

A ground car slowed next to him and kept pace for a few moments, nearly silent on anti-grav propulsion engines. Spock registered its presence in his periphery, kept walking, and then abruptly stopped to face it. The call letters of local law enforcement glittered along the side panel in Federation Standard as well as in Common Vulcan script and Official Andorian characters. Spock wondered if this was what Kirk had once referred to as 'the sinking feeling' one experienced upon knowing that they would soon be caught.

An older man leaned out of the car's window and eyed him for a moment, assessing. He seemed 'on the level,' as Jim would say. "You wouldn't happen to be Commander Spock, would you?"

Spock nodded, resolved to face the consequences of his crimes with dignity, but when the officer opened his door and stepped onto the sidewalk, Spock scuttled backward without conscious intent.

"Whoa." The officer held his hands up and out in a gesture meant to imply that he was not threatening.

But he was threatening – he had emotions and thoughts and Spock could feel the trickle of them reaching across the pavement like creeping, grasping things – "Desist!"

The officer hooked his thumbs into his belt and leaned back against the side of his vehicle. "No one's gonna touch you, sir. I've been looking for you all night, you know. The other tenants called in an altercation, said they saw somebody run off. It took some doing, but Ta'lan told me what happened eventually." He paused and tilted his head at Spock, who was now backed against the durasteel wall of a building. "Do you need a medic?"

Spock laced his hands together and stared at them for a moment as if they had just grown into being a few moments before. He shoved his knuckles against his lips, then dropped them again to answer, "No." If this man was not going to detain him, then he need not remain. Spock shoved away from the building and resumed walking.

"Commander."

Spock halted at the tone, the obedience ingrained even though this man was not a member of Starfleet.

"You're going the wrong way, sir."

Spock blinked a few times and then turned around, only to be brought up short when he noticed that the officer had started following him and was now blocking his path. "Excuse me," Spock said, and waited for the man to move.

"Let me give you a lift," the officer offered, still planted firmly in Spock's path. "You won't make your rendezvous before departure if you walk back."

Spock squinted. The rising sun was brighter than what he had become accustomed to, serving on a starship. And this man was concerned. It radiated from him the same way that heat did from the pavement stones. He swallowed and finally made an effort at eye contact. "I will pay for the damage I caused. There were broken…ornaments and…glass things. I will replace them."

The officer looked away to contain some emotional reaction. When he met Spock's eyes again, he was composed and once again calm in his open concern. It washed over Spock in a warm, soothing wave. He must have had experience in dealing with telepaths, to be able to project so well. "You aren't being charged with a crime, Commander. I just want to be sure you make it home safe. Your captain is mighty worried about you."

"Jim?" Spock studied the officer, searching for tells, and it seemed that the man understood this because he allowed the intrusion. If Spock had wanted to, he could have taken surface thoughts even without touching him; the officer had left himself open. Spock did not accept the invitation. It would have been unethical, and the officer's willingness was proof enough of his good intentions. "I will accompany you."

Relief invaded the space between them. Spock stepped back from it and then hugged himself as if he could hold that relatively harmless emotion in as a balm against the ones Ta'lan had left behind. He allowed himself to be herded into the police vehicle, scrunched up against the door to maintain what physical distance he could, and stared unseeing out the window while the officer drove. He should have been concerned by his own complacency, but he was too exhausted and sick to his stomach, and he still hadn't found a dark place to recover in. He was shivering but not from cold; he accepted the blanket the officer offered anyway and curled around it in the passenger seat. It smelled of nothing at all. Spock pressed his face into it and let the darkness come.