Jim Kirk awoke to the worst headache he had ever experienced. It felt like someone had taken an axe to his skull. He sat up in the bed, trying to remember what had happened.

There'd been that diplomatic mission on Adarak IV, him and Spock, and there'd been some sort of ceremonial dinner... They'd had to drink something, wine or some shit, and it'd tasted weird, and then... His memory ended abruptly. Did he have an allergic reaction to it or something? That would suck, if he fainted at a state dinner in front of everyone. Or... There'd been that weird taste, almost chemical or something. And now he was in some random place he'd never seen before, and he had a headache, and, dammit, this better not be an abduction, because if Bones heard he gotten himself fucking abducted by aliens he would never hear the end of it.

Jim blinked blearily, trying to make out his surroundings. It was dark and dingy, outfitted like an ancient hotel room. Creaky bed, banged-up nightstand, too-dim light, and a doorway that looked like it led to a bathroom; he could just dimly make out a mirror. There was another door, too, though it didn't really fit in; it was much more high tech. It also had a force field blocking it. He opened a drawer on the nightstand, feeling it over, but he found nothing except a surprisingly sharp stray nail.

Ouch. He'd pricked his finger (apparently the room also had sharp edges). A single drop of blood was welling up, and he licked it off thoughtlessly. He knew immediately something was wrong. The taste of the blood was strange, yet somehow familiar. Like old pennies or something. Pennies. Copper.

He felt a rush of panic for a second, but he pushed it aside. Getting worked up wouldn't do any good. Instead he strode purposefully over to the bathroom, though he thought he already knew what he would see. It still didn't prepare him for the shock of seeing a young Vulcan looking back at him. He closed his eyes, hard, as if he could wish away the image, but he knew it wouldn't work. When it didn't, he leaned closer, trying to make out his new features.

The eyebrows were the most dramatic change, he decided. They distorted the rest of his features, gave a new twist to all his expressions, a fact he certainly did not come to know because he spent a good half hour making faces in the mirror. His eyes had changed, too, to a deep, unsettling brown, which was weird, because he'd seen blue-eyed Vulcans before. The ears are almost the most subtle of changes, tucked away on the side of his head. It was funny, that the Vulcans' most defining trait is the least obvious, and he almost wanted to laugh, but for some reason, it didn't feel right.

It was a few hours after that when one of his captors arrived, carrying a bowl of food. Jim toyed with the idea of trying a nerve pinch, but since all he knew was that it was aimed at a region best described as "neckish," he doubted his odds would be very good. A hundred to one? A thousand to one? He forced himself not to play with numbers, to focus on the Adaran.

"I want to see Spock," he insisted. His voice sounded a little different, too; tighter, more controlled. He certainly didn't sound as pissed off as he felt.

The Adaran just stared at him, as if a lab rat had started talking. "Why do you wish this?" he asked at last in heavily-accented Standard.

"Spock is my first officer; it is my duty to ensure that he's alright," Jim replied easily, though he had to wonder where 'ensure' came from.

The Adaran looked nervous, and leaving the food on the table, pulled out a communicator. He jabbered in his native tongue on it for a few minutes, while Jim examined the bowl. Plomeek soup. Hilarious. "All right," the Adaran said at last. "You may see your friend." There was something unpleasant about his grin.

Jim was handcuffed and dragged down an equally dreary hallway. After five minutes, he was shoved into another room, almost identical to his. A silent figure sat on the bed, head down. "Spock?" he said aloud. "You OK?"

"I am physically unhurt, if that is the meaning of your overly vague inquiry," replied Spock. There was a slight quaver to his voice, an unfamiliar unsteadiness. He did not look up.

"Did they, um, do you, too?"

"Yes. I would have expected you to infer that based on your own changes and my rather less controlled behavior." It was almost enough to make Jim laugh, that anyone can speak so clinically and not consider themselves controlled, but once again, he didn't feel the urge.

"Let me have a look at least, you know, make sure you're okay."

"That is unnecessary," Spock replied, still not looking at him.

"Spock, let me see you, and that's a goddamned order," snapped Jim. Spock looked up sharply, and their eyes met. Fuck, thought Jim. He really was human – straight, flat eyebrows, normal, blunt ears, and a pair of bright blue eyes that looked all too familiar. There were other changes, too, though, more subtle ones, like the way his lips moved sometimes, or the warm pink tones Jim hadn't even noticed weren't there before. They spent a few moments just staring each other, taking in all the differences.

"I have been formulating a theory, Captain," Spock said, breaking the silence at last, those blue eyes that should have been Jim's watching him carefully. "I have observed that I feel anxious, uncomfortable, ashamed…" He broke off.

"It's fine. It's totally natural for you to feel weird, I mean, those aliens fucking abducted us, and they screwed up your body which is probably like, rape, or something, and plus you've probably got a complex about it or some shit - "

Spock shook his head, almost fiercely. "You do not understand my meaning. I feel. Captain, I do not wish to intrude on you, but I must ask – how do you feel?"

It took Jim a few seconds to realize he had no answer to that question.