first.
he touches you and you light on fire.
your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin.
the burns don't show, but it's hard to breathe with ash in your lungs.
it's hard to breathe. you're suffocating daily.
The connection is so strong, it sears you.
"Whoa there, Mister Spock," he chuckles as he steadies your arm that is clutching the tricorder, "you almost walked right over the cliff." He quirks a smile at you. "I don't wanna lose my First Officer over a bunch of flowers."
You stare at him, barely even managing to think past the haze of his mind pulling at you, drawing you in, and you glance at his fingers where they have wrapped around your wrist.
He follows your gaze and immediately retracts his hand, perhaps erroneously concluding that you disapprove of his breach of Vulcan cultural norm as he touches you, however accidentally. The truth is simply that you can barely even breathe at how you want so desperately to bind yourself to him.
It is illogical. It is dangerous.
It is everything you want and more.
You sway on your feet, heady and drunk at the discovery, and you raise a hand to forestall the Captain's aborted movement toward you, as he looks torn between worry and—you realise with a startling clench of your gut—yearning.
The intensity of the desire shocks you less than the surety of it. It should have been impossible—you are not even fully Vulcan—and yet at the same time it is almost poetic, the way it fits.
He is human, and it should not make sense, but it does. He is human, and he is the other half of who you are.
He is t'hy'la.
second.
it hurts to watch him. he shines. he's brighter than the sun.
he's too beautiful for your eyes. it's hard to look at him.
it's even harder to look away from him. you're going blind.
By all parameters, it is logical that the Captain is the most desirable being in the room. Perhaps even in the whole planet.
You watch as he engages in an intimate conversation with the Meridian princess, whose body language is loudly broadcasting interest. A quick glance around the room confirms how everyone is watching them with unabashed envy.
It is a predicament that you find yourself understanding, even empathising with. The Captain is not only handsome—he is beautiful. He is not only a man of position, but he deserves it, rightly so with his unparalleled intellect, limitless courage, and incomparable talents in both battle strategies and diplomatic tactics.
Most of all, the Captain is a good man. Possessing the fascinating dichotomy of being passionately protective and surprisingly gentle, he reminds you of a pack leader, one who will tear apart anything and anyone that dares to hurt what is his.
(You feel a flush suddenly rise to your cheeks and you furiously fight to control your physiological response at the idea of belonging to him.)
You watch him throw his head back in shameless laughter at something the princess has said, and you feel your heart soften at the sight. Though Vulcans are not prone to flights of fancy, your human side cannot help but conjure the vision of the Captain as royalty. It will be a fitting match, you concede without bitterness, should the Captain choose to wed a being of such status. You cannot imagine a better ruler: benevolent and kind, but also fair and just, stubborn to a fault, and unflinchingly brave.
One day, the Enterprise will be too small for a being of such vast potential, exceeding perhaps even that of Starfleet and the Federation.
Vulcans pride themselves in being grounded in reality, and so you forcefully refrain yourself from indulging in the alluring and impossible dream of being granted the privilege to spend a lifetime by his side. He is meant for something bigger than being a Starfleet Captain—bigger than perhaps the universe itself.
You are nothing more than merely a blip in his exceptional existence.
third.
your ears are tuned to his voice.
you could pick him out in a sea of thousands.
his voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull.
his voice makes everything else sound ugly.
The poison may have paralysed your entire body, but for once your hybrid physiology becomes a saving grace as your consciousness remains intact and fully functional. Unfortunately, it also proves to be a nearly insurmountable challenge even to a gifted physician such as Doctor McCoy; you are the only documented half-Vulcan half-human in existence, and there are no previous records or studies on how to treat a biology such as yours.
Perhaps there is an advantage to being immobile like this on the anti-grav stretcher they are using to transport you to Doctor McCoy's sickbay, as it allows you to concentrate instead on the sensations of your surroundings. Your sight is taken from you as you cannot open your eyes, but at least you can still hear.
With nothing else to occupy your mind, you pick apart the voices: there is Doctor McCoy barking orders for Nurse Chapel to keep track of your vitals, Lieutenant Sulu frantically detailing to the doctor his knowledge about the plants from which the poison was made, Lieutenant Uhura on her communicator demanding deliveries of the chemical substances required to concoct an antidote, Lieutenant Commander Scott muttering under his breath the needed modifications in the warp core for the Enterprise to arrive at the nearest Starbase at the fastest possible time, Ensign Chekov already calculating the trajectories in a frenzied manner as Lieutenant Commander Scott bounces the ideas off of him.
Other familiar voices—that of the Enterprise crew—crash over your consciousness, wave after wave of varying depths of concern, nervousness, even fear. There is one voice, however, that remains silent—for the voice you hear is not spoken out loud.
Instead, you hear the Captain in your mind as he grasps your hand firmly, unheeding of the Vulcan etiquette he is usually so stringent in respecting.
Live for me, Spock.
You realise two things at once: first, the Captain must be marching beside the stretcher at a breakneck pace for him to have been able to keep up without letting go of your hand; and second, even with the Captain's thoughts bleeding through your touch telepathy, you cannot detect a single trace of any emotion other than determination.
Live for me.
There is no fear, no hesitation, no doubt—nothing but a single-minded will to save you.
Live, or I will tear the universe apart to bring you back.
There, the slightest wavering, fiercely suppressed before you can even pinpoint exactly what that emotion is—and then you hear, echoing in your mind and resonating down to your katra, loud and clear: Captain's orders.
And like any loyal First Officer, you have no choice but to follow.
Aye, Captain.
fourth.
the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in.
he is turning you into a cliched love-wrecked being.
you're drowning. always sinking.
down. down. down.
The memory of his eyes—vibrant and fond when he looks at you, radiant like the San Francisco sky in the summertime—becomes your anchor as white-hot pain shoots through your spine. It is the first time you are deeply grateful for the rigid Vulcan training you have had in suppressing emotions, as you successfully manage to keep from outwardly reacting, even as it feels like your cranium is being crushed.
The Talosian watches you keenly. "Your mental shields are quite difficult to breach, Vulcan."
You stare back dispassionately, forcing yourself to speak through gritted teeth. "You will not get to him through me."
"He is your t'hy'la," says the Talosian tonelessly, managing to glean as much from your mind—the unfulfilled bond is as glaring as a beacon and impossible to conceal—and your disgust is instinctual at how the sacred, ancient word sounds wrong on its tongue. You are unable to control the emotion in time, and it is broadcasted through the wires attached to your frame and to the machine the Talosian is reading. A flash of smug satisfaction crosses its pallid face.
"Why do you refuse to let him know? It does not seem logical to deprive yourself of this fulfilment." The Talosian lifts a brow. "Vulcans pride yourselves on logic, do you not?"
It is clear that the Talosian is baiting you, and you know you should not answer; yet the unexpected reminder of the aching emptiness borne from denying yourself for years—a yawning cavern that carves deeper into your katra with each passing day—succeeds in rendering you weak where the Talosians' mental torture has failed.
You cannot stop yourself from trembling as you speak. "There is no fulfilment in possessing him who has no wish to be bound. I will not take away his freedom of choice."
The Talosian tilts its head. "Even when he has the freedom to love another?"
The beeping spike of the machine's readings reflects the pain it shoots through your heart at the very thought. "I will not take away his chance at happiness for himself."
The Talosian steps closer, peering at you curiously now. "Even when you will die from the unfulfilled bond?"
Something in you hardens as you icily meet the Talosian's hollow gaze. "I would rather die than have my love for him be his prison."
Several heartbeats pass as the Talosian scrutinises you. "Noble," it finally declares, nodding to itself in observation. "Yet foolish."
"Oh, I totally agree."
Your head jerks up at the familiar voice, the sudden movement tugging at the wires clinging to your skull and sending sparks of pain through your nerves. Along with the agony comes a confusing mix of both elation and horror as you stare at the Captain, who is casually lounging by the entrance to the Talosians' laboratory.
"He is stupid, let me tell you," he drawls at the shell-shocked Talosian as he gestures at you offhandedly. You stare in disbelief, half-praying that he is merely an illusion that your torture-weakened mind has conjured, fear compressing your lungs at the thought of the Captain being so reckless about his own safety. "Mister Spock here believes that just because he and I aren't bonded—which, by the way, he hasn't even given me the choice to accept—he thinks that I can't find him."
The lilting playfulness of the words belies the dangerous undercurrent to the Captain's tone. Unperturbed, the Talosian meets his steely gaze. "You are not connected through the unfulfilled bond, which is the reason why I could not detect your location in his mind. Therefore, the reverse should have been impossible as well." The Talosian looks intrigued. "How did you manage to find the Vulcan?"
All faux teasing suddenly drops from the Captain's countenance. "You messed with his mind?"
"Unsuccessfully," the Talosian comments airily—and oh, that thoughtless answer is only fuelling the rage in the Captain's eyes, stormy and electrifying as they now bore into yours.
"Tell me you're not hurt, Spock."
The command is worded cleverly, because the Captain is not merely asking about your current state, but he is daring you to deny him the truth.
"Spock." There is an edge to his voice now: tightly-controlled and barely-leashed fury. "Tell me you're not hurt."
You close your eyes briefly, willing yourself to let go of the control you have been taught all your life to harness, and when you open them, you allow the abject and heartfelt apology to be channelled in your gaze as you softly reply: "I cannot."
Something inside him breaks at that, and he whispers your name, reverent and longing as he moves toward you.
"We are not yet done studying the Vulcan," the Talosian interjects, breaking the spell. "You cannot touch him."
The Captain stops. He stares. "I can't touch him?" He laughs, suddenly, loud and hysterical. "I can't touch him?"
Abruptly, the Captain strides forward until his face is mere inches away from the wide-eyed Talosian.
"I'm his t'hy'la," he hisses coldly. "I'm the only one allowed to touch him."
You blink as the Talosian suddenly drops to a heap on the floor.
"And you should've known…" the Captain replaces his phaser in its holster and quietly looks up from the unconscious body by his feet. "… that I'll always find you, Spock."
He catches your gaze, and holds—and in that breathless moment, you have finally lost the battle.
He smiles—an unspoken acceptance of your surrender—and softly declares:
"There's nowhere in the universe you can go where I can't follow."
fifth.
you know him. you love him.
through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you'd find him.
you'd never leave him. you love him. till death do you part.
He slides the data padd towards you and waits.
You stare at it. Despite the intense curiosity niggling at you, you merely look up at him, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. The corner of his mouth quirks, and he explains: "It's my medical file."
Startled, you shrink back as you retract your hand that is hovering above the screen. "This is… an immense breach of your privacy."
His smile softens into sadness. "Not when it's being freely offered."
The weight of the words carry heavy layers of meaning that are not lost on you. You swallow, trying to quell the rapid beating of your heart. "Please," he coaxes as he senses your hesitation. "Look at it, Spock."
Your fingers shake as you pick up the padd. You scroll through the screen, hyperaware of the way he shuffles closer. "Look at that," he murmurs, his breath ghosting the skin of your neck, making you shiver. "I'm completely psi-null."
This is not new information to you—humans as a species have no telepathic abilities—and so the presentation of this fact seems both redundant and unnecessary. "Why are you showing me this?"
You make the mistake of turning your head to look at him—and your breath catches at how close he is.
You cannot find it in yourself to pull away.
His eyes are both fond and wistful as they rove over your features, seemingly committing them to memory—as if he might not get the chance again.
As if he is bracing himself for the worst.
"Because you're Vulcan," he gently teases, even as you can detect the nerves underneath all that bravado. "And Vulcans thrive on logic. And this," he tilts his chin toward the padd, "is empirical evidence that it's not the bond that keeps me here with you."
It is a human idiom, but in that moment, you can categorically swear that it truly does feel like your heart has stopped.
"Jim," you breathe helplessly.
You see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, too, and it strangely comforts you to know that you are not alone in this feeling, somewhere between exhilaration and terror. "I can't feel the bond, Spock," he says softly. "Not unless you allow me to, and you've definitely been diligent in keeping it that way." His eyes flit away from yours. "It used to hurt, actually. Thinking you didn't want this."
You heart spasms in protest. "My desires are irrelevant," you rush to say as you desperately chase his gaze, refusing to let him hide the pain you can clearly see. "I will not have you bound to me against your will."
He lets out a shaky exhale before he turns to you with a smile. "I understand that now." The naked warmth and unbridled affection in his gaze is dazzling, it almost hurts to look at him. "Which is why I need you to understand this."
He reaches out, hesitating only for a moment before he is seized with the courage you have always strongly admired in him, and grasps your hand.
Trembling, you watch as he lifts it to his mouth and presses his lips against your fingertips. Sparks of heat sizzle through your groin at the intimate caress, reminiscent of the electricity shooting throughout your body during your time at Talos, except this is the kind of fire that you do not want to stop.
"It's not the bond that makes me want you," he rasps, his teeth grazing the skin of your knuckles, making your spine tingle at the sensation. "It's not the bond that makes me want to kill anyone who hurts you—and I almost did, Spock. Those Talosians had the gall to mess with a mental link that was supposed to be mine alone." He doesn't even bother to hide the blatant possessiveness in his tone, and it fills you with a thrill that makes you shudder.
He notices, of course, as is his wont, and he gentles his ministrations, turning your hand over to bestow a kiss in the centre of your palm. Your fingers curl inward to cup his face, returning the gesture that is both tender and proprietary.
"It's not the bond that makes me stay, Spock," he entreats softly. "I'm here because I want to be here. With you."
You blink as he ducks his head suddenly, dislodging your hand and disrupting the contented haze that has settled over you both as he insistently hands over the forgotten data padd.
"And this," he declares determinedly. "This is what I willingly choose."
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you take the padd from him. Sensing your disappointment at the interruption, he smiles in amusement as he props his chin on your shoulder so you can look at the screen together.
"Look at my vitals," he murmurs, "and tell me what it means."
Your gaze skims over his truly astounding list of allergies to focus on the most recent series of physical examinations he has had with Doctor McCoy.
You stare at the results. You quickly read it three more times in succession just to be certain. You can feel him watching you, gauging your reaction carefully.
Finally, you put down the padd. "Impossible," you flatly declare.
He buries his grin on the crook of your neck. "Wasn't it you who said, and I quote, 'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be'—"
"'The truth'," you finish quietly. You shake your head, unable to process the illogic of it. "Jim, if these findings are indeed irrefutable, then it means—"
"I haven't aged since I died."
You shift to face him fully, disentangling yourself from the comforting circle of his arms. He looks back at you with a kind of patience and calm acceptance that is at odds with the shocking discovery that has rocked the foundations of your entire worldview—and has irrevocably impacted your future with him.
"Khan was over three hundred years old when we found him," he reminds you. "Whatever was genetically engineered in his blood made him stop ageing. Bones is understandably unwilling to run further tests on Khan and his crew while they're in an induced coma, because despite the fact that they're genocidal bastards—"
"Jim," you chide gently.
"It's unethical," Jim continues, grinning at you wryly. "Because they can't give their consent. Which is why, for the sake of Bones' scientific pursuits—which I think even you would have encouraged, Spock—I instead volunteered myself."
You straighten stiffly in your seat. "Jim," you repeat slowly, comprehension finally dawning on you.
His expression turns contemplative as he motions at the padd. "Those are the results of the tests. Whatever is in Khan's blood is in mine now too, when you brought me back from the dead. It remains to be seen whether it's an elixir for immortality, or at least something close to that, which seems—"
"Unlikely, but not impossible." You take a deep breath as you reluctantly pick up the padd and scroll through the readings once more, which of course remains unchanged from the last time you checked them. "Not according to these results."
He chuckles at the way you grudgingly concede. "Whatever it is, it's enough to make me stop ageing indefinitely."
Your eyes flicker to his as he reaches out to brush the fringes of your hair. "Ambassador Spock told me the story of how he was the one who died when he encountered Khan in their universe." His fingers delicately trace the curve of your ear, and your eyes flutter at half-mast at the tender, erotic sensation. "And how it was Admiral Kirk who brought him back from the dead."
You clasp your fingers around his wrist to gently pull his hand away; you silence his protest as you mirror his earlier gesture and kiss the inside of his palm, delighting in his gasp and the shudder you can feel wracking his frame. "That does sound exactly like something you would do." You allow a hint of teasing to bleed through. "Your stubbornness is a constant in every reality, it seems."
"As is your annoying tendency to sacrifice yourself," he teases back, and you let your gaze soften as you caress his cheek with the back of your hand. "Spock," he murmurs, breathily now, "I… I don't really believe in fate. I never did. But…"
He catches your hand in both of his and sets it on his lap. He threads your fingers together, rubbing soothing circles on your skin as he continues softly. "The universe keeps giving us second chances. To be together. Now we finally have a chance to do it right, and... it doesn't seem logical to waste that chance."
He looks intently into your eyes. "Vulcans have a lifespan three times longer than that of a human, right?"
"That is correct," you confirm. "However, given that I am only half-Vulcan, the duration is significantly lower than the average Vulcan."
He smiles, unabashedly delighted and shamelessly adoring. "That's perfect, then. Because I now get to live just a little bit longer than the average human."
He lowers his gaze and looks up at you from beneath his lashes, uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden. "That makes us… a logical match, don't you think?"
All your life you have wondered how someone as rigidly committed to the Vulcan way as Ambassador Sarek has been able to turn against the teachings of his own people to marry Amanda Grayson.
Looking at your t'hy'la now, you realise: there has never been an easier decision.
Not when it is a perfect union of of logic—and love.
"Spock, sweetheart, you can't keep me hanging here. You're gonna kill me with the suspense."
You laugh, suddenly, startling him into a bewildered look of awe at the unexpected sound—and you savour his wide-eyed surprise as you grasp his shoulders in both of your hands to pull him closer.
"Captain," you murmur, a hair's breadth away from his lips, "may I have the permission to kiss you?"
And never to be outdone, he smirks and roughly rejoins: "Commander, it is hereby ordered that you kiss me in every way possible."
And like any loyal First Officer—and a hopelessly in love bondmate—you endeavour to do just that.
Vulcans require less sleep than humans, so it does not surprise you to find him still sleeping when you wake.
You rise to a sitting position, careful not to jostle your bedmate. You take the time to admire his naked form as he lies on his stomach atop your sheets; he refuses to sleep under them in the heat of the room. His skin is still dewy from exertion, and you allow your gaze to linger on the delectable curve of his buttocks—the part of his anatomy that you have extensively enjoyed throughout the night.
A smug, self-satisfied smirk crosses your lips. The Captain did say 'every way possible', and you are nothing if not completely thorough.
Still, no matter how much your beautiful new bondmate is a pleasing source of distraction, you have not forgotten your duties to the Enterprise, and you set about preparing for your morning ablutions as you are scheduled to report to the bridge in twenty-six minutes. Today you are on Alpha, while he is on Beta, so you are content to let him rest a little bit longer. He needs to gain back his energy; after all, you have exhausted him.
The smirk widens.
You pick up the discarded clothing on the floor—mostly his, and you wrinkle your nose in distaste: you have to teach him how to fold his clothes properly. You walk over to the laundry chute to slide the clothes in, before you pause as your gaze is arrested by an object on your desk.
It is your journal, you realise. You have developed the habit of scribbling your less-than-logical thoughts on it—a practice you have picked up from your mother, fond as she was of writing with pen and paper, rather than typing on a padd.
You do not remember setting it on your desk, however, nor do you recall leaving it open like that. Intrigued, and also admittedly confused, you walk over to your desk to check on it.
It is open on the latest entry: a poem you have been writing over the years. You have never found a fitting way to conclude it, and nothing ever felt quite right, and so you have simply left it unfinished.
Until now.
Heart full to bursting, you trace your fingers over the handwriting that is not your own.
Jim had already woken up before you. And he had taken it upon himself to finish writing what you never could.
sixth.
he loves you, too.