A/N: This story has been lying around for a while now. I started writing it several months ago only to have it grow wildly out of control - it developed a plot, and sprouted a whole set of issues for the characters to deal with. Writing a longer story is a whole different ballgame than a one shot and I wanted to do it justice, even if it meant taking down the first bit until I'd gotten the rest of the plot straightened out.

So: thanks to Argella and her lovely comments for keeping me writing. And a thousand thanks to Dizdayn, my wonderful beta, who put everything together just right and ironed out the commas. I owe you guys.

Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom.

I. Prelude to a Storm

"Well," bellowed the doctor, "isn't this just a lovely day for a picnic." Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and his uniform was soaked through. Spock could barely hear him over a nearby crack of thunder. It was pouring down with a vengeance, and he had been forced to shelter the belt-pouch for his tricorder under his waterproof science tunic.

Nearby, two ensigns stood huddled together, their teeth chattering. They stared intently at the beginning undergrowth fifteen feet away. They looked as though they were praying fervently that the other half of the away-team would emerge from the forest before something else did. Bones was keeping up a steady litany of muttered 'Goddamit, Jim's under his breath, and though Spock knew that logically neither curses nor prayers would make any difference he considered joining in.

"The electrical fluctuations are increasing in strength," Spock informed the group.

McCoy crossed his arms across his chest. "They've been increasing for hours. I'm not going anywhere without the captain."

Water dripped from Spock's hair into his eyes, and he wiped it away distractedly with the back of his hand. He moved a bit closer to McCoy to be able to talk to him without raising his voice.

"It was not my intention to abandon the captain. I was simply informing you of the continued development of our situation. I estimate a less than three-percent chance that communication with the Enterprise or the captain's team will be restored within the next few hours."

McCoy groaned. "We're all going to catch pneumonia. I told Jim to bring a tent or something - we need to find shelter. I don't have the time for an epidemic."

Spock glanced at the ensigns. They looked thoroughly uncomfortable. He himself was marginally better off, as he was wearing multiple layers of insulating clothing. Given that a temperature deemed 'pleasantly brisk' by humans was deemed 'I request a moment to fetch my mittens and temperature-controlled space suit, sir' by Vulcans, Spock had made a habit of dressing for the worst on away missions. Still, an insidious chill crept under his shirts. McCoy was right; pneumonia was a distinct risk.

Spock adjusted the strap of his tricorder distractedly, his mind running over the problem. They couldn't contact the Enterprise, or beam any supplies up or down. That left them only with what they had brought with them: two tricorders, four phasers, an emergency medical kit, some water, a flashlight and four field rations. The phasers could be used to start a fire or heat a boulder in a pinch but either of those options would require venturing into the forest for materials.

McCoy seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"Spock," he said his voice low. "The others should have been here two hours ago. It's possible that they found shelter when the rain began."

"But not likely," Spock said. "The irregular pattern of the topography and weather added to the dangerous nature of the fauna - it is probable that they are having problems of one sort or another."

McCoy sighed. "Yeah. Christ, I'm getting too old for this. If it were just you and me, I'd say we should risk the trouble and go in after Jim."

The tree branches creaked and moaned in the wind, and in the distance, a bolt of lightning struck. The brief flash illuminated the scene with preternatural clarity. One of the ensigns winced. The electricity in the air had Spock's hair on end, and a faint quiver in his body hummed along with the charged atmosphere. He found himself echoing McCoy's sentiment. The worrying and the waiting were grating on his patience, and his Vulcan instincts were clamoring for action. But with the captain gone, he was the ranking officer. McCoy could take responsibility for himself - and would hardly obey him if he deemed the order unreasonable, anyway - but the two remaining ensigns were young and untried. He couldn't drag them into unknown territory on the small chance that they might stumble upon the captain's party. His duty was first and foremost the survival of his group.

Spock inspected the edge of the woods critically. If some trouble had indeed befallen Kirk, the forest would be a thoroughly unsafe place to explore, even if it was just to gather dry branches. The frontier between the heavy undergrowth and the open field offered little shelter from the rain. It consisted mainly of thin young saplings - green wood, useful for making bows, not bonfires.

"What do you suggest?" asked Spock.

"How should I know? I've got a goddamn snowball's chance in Hell of finding the captain, but it's better than sittin' around here, huddling and waiting for the weather to blow itself out." McCoy aimed a vicious kick at the grass. "What the flying saints were we expecting to find down here, anyway? If I've told Jim once, I've told him a thousand times - there ain't nothing but disease and danger in space-"

"Excuse me, sir," piped one of the ensigns. She was the taller of the two, and wearing a blue tunic similar to Spock's. McCoy and Spock both turned to look at her, and she shifted uncomfortably under the sudden attention. "I, um - the grass. I used to be a Girl Scout. Back on Earth, I mean, and we'd build stuff..."

"Spit it out, Ensign," McCoy ordered.

"If we could build a basic framework from branches, we could cover it with sod to get out of the rain."

The other ensign straightened a little. "Yeah. Yeah, we could. Hey, that's a good idea." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I haven't got any string to tie the branches, but maybe we could use shoelaces -"

Spock sorted through his memories of the crew rosters for their names. "Ensign... Cooper, is it not?"

The shorter one brightened at the mention of his name.

"One of Scotty's," McCoy supplied helpfully, as if the red shirt and proclivity for constructing out of unusual materials hadn't given it away.

Spock sighed and shed his outer tunic. He pressed it into Cooper's outstretched hands.

"Starfleet uniform does not currently include shoelaces, but you should be able to fabricate suitable ropes from this. Ensign Haymes, if you would instruct Doctor McCoy in how to best excavate lumps of sod? Excellent suggestion."

Haymes beamed, and Spock made a note to examine her file more carefully. Improvisation was a useful skill in the field, even if her self-confidence would require some cultivation.

"You're not going out looking for the others alone," McCoy said firmly.

Spock tried his best to look innocent. "I am going to harvest some of the saplings for the framework," he said stiffly. "My superior strength makes me the logical choice for that task."

"You do that," said McCoy, eyeing him suspiciously. "Just don't go gettin' any ideas about running off, now."

McCoy, for all that Spock disagreed with him, was not unintelligent. Spock snapped the nascent trees as close to the roots as he could, trying to make the breaks clean, though his mind was elsewhere. The woods, dark and beckoning on his left, weighed more and more heavily in his thoughts each passing minute. The captain would hardly miss the appointed meeting time if he had any choice in the matter, and two hours ago the storm had been a faint shade of what it was now. Some unknown beast might have attacked the other half of the landing party. They might be trapped by the weather, cold and wet. They might be hurt, and in need of medical assistance. Jim might be hurt.

Such speculation was illogical and led to nothing but unfounded worries.

Gathering his saplings into his arms, Spock straightened. He shut his eyes for a moment and tried to drown out all external stimuli. It was the first step in the ritual meditation, a mental dance he'd once been able to perform without conscious effort.

There is a storm howling, he told himself, but you cannot hear it. The rain is falling, but it cannot touch you. Nothing beyond the border of your presence exists. There is only the serenity of your mind. Only you.

Carefully, as though he were handling a live animal, he located the fear and worry in his thoughts. They were bubbling just below the surface, leaking through and poisoning his subconscious. He made an effort to gather them and, with all his force, pushed them downward behind the mental walls he maintained to keep his emotions at bay. The walls gave way readily. This close to his emotional core, he couldn't repress a stab of concern.

His barriers were translucent and worn paper thin, the membrane of an egg instead of a complete shell.

He'd been aware of his deteriorating control since the destruction of Vulcan - he'd found it difficult to focus on his meditation, and he'd had to work increasingly harder to maintain his customary logic. At first, he'd assumed it was a temporary thing. Change was universally hard, and Spock could imagine few situations more difficult to assimilate than the twin loss of his mother and his home planet.

Vulcans rarely spoke unless there was a need to and valued privacy greatly. Despite this, they were social creatures - the need for a pack, a family, lay deeply embedded in their genetic code. Mated Vulcans and Vulcans with many familial bonds had a greater chance of survival on a hostile desert planet. Solitary Vulcans rarely lived long enough to pass on their genes. The implementation of the teachings of Surak and subsequent urbanization of Vulcan had led to a far greater network of bonds than previously, and the Vulcan mind adapted to encompass the complex system of friendships, alliances, families and sympathies that evolved.

Compared to the link between bondmates, the familial bonds were weak. They were forged and broke continuously and required no great compatibility between minds. No emotion, thought or feeling was conveyed through them, barring a faint sensation of presence. The link between mated Vulcans was something else altogether - the difference between seeing a photo of a person and meeting that person in the flesh.

With the destruction of Vulcan, Spock not only lost all but a handful of his familial bonds but the link to his prospective bondmate as well.

Granted, he'd only met T'Pring on two occasions and never lowered the shields surrounding his end of the bond. He'd taken her presence in his head for granted. Now, he finally understood why the Vulcan elders were so insistent that all young Vulcans bond. Her absence had left a void in his mind - a black hole, similar to where his home planet used to be. It drained his mental shields steadily. He had to fight to repress unwanted thoughts, and when he accidentally touched his crewmates, he would catch flickers of emotion off their skin.

Spock gritted his teeth. He'd been a conflicted child, but he had overcome his difficulties. This... emptiness would pass. Perhaps he could research more advanced methods of control.

He took a deep breath and turned his back on the forest.

Between them, it didn't take the landing party long to erect a small shelter of bent and woven saplings and cover it with turf. Cooper had torn Spock's shirt into quite serviceable strips of cloth, which, combined with the simple construction, made the improvised bivouac strong enough to resist the heavy rain. There was barely enough room for all four of them under it. Mud from the sod and the ground beneath them soaked into their clothes. Spock could feel McCoy's arm shivering along his side. After a few minutes had passed, the shivers abated a little. The landing party huddled together, conserving what body heat they had, making sure to keep out of the wind.

"Wish I had a bottle of Saurian brandy," McCoy muttered. "I should'a seen this coming when I joined the fleet."

Spock couldn't fault him for his lack of preparedness. This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, either - Vulcans were descended from a race of desert-living felidae, and if there was anything he hated more than being cold, it was being cold, wet and helpless. He should take steps to prevent this from happening again. Obviously, four shirts wasn't enough. He'd need some sort of polymer coating on his uniform boots as well and a more detailed weather report. He'd convince the captain that beaming down with the landing party was illogical, and failing that (he estimated a 0,0023% chance of success) he'd outfit Kirk with a tracker collar that wasn't affected by electromagnetic surges in the atmosphere.

Spock liked independence - another legacy from his felidae ancestors - and power in moderation suited this desire perfectly. As first officer, the captain was required to listen to his opinions and respect them. He could get away with a good deal that the rest of the crew couldn't, and had command over the entire Science department. He had access to some of the best equipment in Starfleet, and fascinating new things to study with it. He was content. If Jim died, he would be required to spend a lot less time in the labs and a lot more time ordering people around. It was not an exciting prospect.

The problem was, while Spock was a good enough planner to keep most people out of trouble, somehow Jim Kirk seemed to anticipate the most likely result, in a most Vulcan manner, and then go to great lengths to ensure the exact opposite outcome. If a mission was expected to go peacefully, the captain could be sure to discover the one thing that set off the latent murderous streak of the Pacifist Kitten-Cuddlers of Elysia IV. Conversely, if you needed a peace treaty negotiated with a horde of raving, tentacled eldritch horrors, you'd want Kirk to spearhead the effort. Spock, like any good scientist, had founded this theory in personal observations.

He had tried to get the Starfleet admiralty to recognize that Kirk was a liability, emotional and rebellious - not suited for command. Kirk had become the youngest captain in Federation history.

He had marooned Kirk on an inhospitable ice planet. Kirk had discovered the two men in the known universe who could conspire to invent transwarp beaming before its time, to send him right back to the Enterprise.

He had tried to kill Kirk with his bare hands. Spock was sitting on a planet at the far edge of civilization trying to figure out how to keep the captain alive long enough to collect on his pension.

And worse, he was pretty sure that somewhere during the long hours of work and bored, deep-space conversations on the bridge, he'd begun to enjoy Kirk's company. Keeping Kirk alive to avoid captaincy was an excellent motivation for his concern. He wasn't quite sure if it was the only one anymore.

The minutes inched by. Spock alternated between watching the forest and his tricorder for signs of life.

"It's still getting worse," Haymes said.

McCoy snorted. "Well, it's a good thing you science types are around to tell us. Dunno what -"

There was a blinding flash from somewhere nearby, followed by a resounding crack that set their ears ringing. The people in the shelter exhaled, tension fading rapidly after the initial shock.

Then, an unearthly groaning cut through the storm followed by the crash of falling rock and breaking trees.

Spock was on his feet before his brain caught up, phaser in hand. McCoy was a little slower, but he took the time to slide the notch on his weapon from 'stun' to 'kill'.

"I'm going after Jim, regulations be damned," he informed Spock through clenched teeth.

"Ensign Haymes, Ensign Cooper. You will remain here until contact with the Enterprise can be reestablished. The doctor and I-"

Pure, primal fear rushed through Spock's body like wildfire, choking off his voice. His vision swam. The ground was soft beneath him, and he clutched at it desperately, nails scrabbling at the mud. Make it stop, make it stop, please, oh -

As quickly as it had come, the feeling was gone.

"Spock! Goddammit, man -" McCoy was on his knees next to him, supporting him. The doctor ran his tricorder over Spock's body, trying to locate the problem. Spock batted his hand away. The attack hadn't been physical, or a psychic assault from some entity with a high Esper rating and an axe to grind, he'd have recognized the feeling of an intruding mind instantly, but neither did the fear originate with him. It had been an echo, a mirror reaction, triggered by... what?

"I am perfectly healthy," he gasped.

"Bullshit. You hit the dirt like you'd been dropped; you're not fine."

"I am fine," Spock snarled. Instantly, he realized his slip and continued in a more neutral tone of voice. "I am fine. I simply picked up - resonance, of a sort, of a crew member's mind."

"Jim."

Spock nodded.

"Your mind voodoo works over distance?"

No, thought Spock. Vulcans are touch-telepaths. We can only sense the minds of others through skin contact. To communicate over distance requires at least the initial stages of a mating bond. What I just experienced - that was none of Jim's doing. He is psi-null.

Spock nodded.

McCoy stared. "Find him," he said, simply.

Biting back his doubts, Spock settled into a more comfortable position. Something was wrong. The panic was gone, leaving only occasional spikes of unrest. Still, he felt sick and weak as if he'd just run a marathon. Gently, he probed his mind for the familial bond to Jim.

Behind the mental barriers, Spock's katra swirled. It was black as night, with only a faint blue overtone to distinguish it from the void of his severed bonds. Entwined with the edges of his katra were the bonds that had survived the cataclysm of Vulcan. They were fragile and hair-thin, glowing faintly with the light of Spock's memories. However, one stood out from the tangle - easily twice the size of the others. As Spock watched, a tremor ran the length of it, making the golden-red colors flicker like the flame of a candle.

With only the slightest of hesitations, Spock reached out to touch it.

The bond was warm. Spock usually avoided contact with his bonds. They were firmly anchored below his layers of Surakian logic - a place in his mind he was not comfortable with visiting regularly. And the void was so terribly close and present. A Terran idiom claimed that all wounds would heal in time, and that was exactly what Spock intended to give it: time and as much distance as possible.

In this case, however, distance was not an option.

Focusing his thoughts, he poured the barest measure of conscience into the bond. The results were instant.

Distantly, Spock felt his breath catch in his chest. Oh. Oh.

He'd wondered how Jim had been able to provoke him so easily after Delta Vega.

At least this explained the spasm of fear - Jim wasn't secretly a virtuoso telepath. Spock's own mind had sensed some distress, and instinctively sent out a warning. It was defending itself against the loss of another bond; the strongest he now possessed. Jim's mind was highly compatible with his own, to a degree where a full bond would be possible, if unthinkable. Spock sighed. Of course, any bond of Kirk's could only lead to complications and unwanted, emotional decisions. Based on past patterns, he should have predicted the unpredictable.

But now was no time for reprimands. The strength of their connection offered an opportunity and a dilemma. As it was, the bond was simply not clear enough that Spock could use it to locate Jim. Rationally, Spock should inform McCoy of this fact, and they could search for their friend by more traditional means.

Or.

Jim might be dead by the time they got to him. They might not find him at all. If Spock strengthened the bond, he would not only be able to track his friend, he would be able to pick up on basic shifts in his emotions and mental state and prepare for any proximal dangers. It would be an unforgivable breach of Jim's privacy to engage him in the initial stages of a mating bond without his express consent, but Spock was almost completely certain he would prefer having his emotions read unknowingly to premature death.

There were means to terminate a mating bond, especially a tentative one.

Thus decided, Spock called up every memory of Jim he could summon. A quick, easy smile. Sprawled in the captain's chair. Hands on the armrest. Tapping. Blue eyes, refulgent, and blue human veins below the skin. Rain was running into his eyes. He screwed them shut, willing everything but Jim out of his mind. Jim eating a sandwich obscenely. Jim on the stand at the Kobayashi Maru trial. Jim bruised and panting, struggling, clawing at Spock's hands on his throat. Jim's arm pressed against his in the turbolift. A breath at the nape of his neck as Jim bends to look over his shoulder.

The bond sparked, beckoning him deeper.

Warmth, frustration, friendship. Jim, in the storm. Lost, but not. Parted and never parted, two halves of the same whole. My mind to yours, my thoughts to yours, one and together, always -

It was like walking from the dark into a brightly lit room. Suddenly, Spock wasn't alone anymore. He knew Jim was there as he knew that gravity existed, inevitable and timeless. His dark blue katra intertwined happily with Jim's golden-red, forming a slender whipcord. It was joy, pure and simple, the respite from the crushing emptiness. Spock thought he might be humming from the sheer relief.

Then, reality came crashing back. Jim wasn't safe. The emotions being projected his way weren't 'happy, so glad my first officer psychically assaulted me,' but a stew of grief, pain and a dazed, shell-shocked numbness.

Spock sent whatever reassurance he could muster in Jim's general direction then shielded all but the most necessary parts of the bond. He shouldn't take advantage.

Spock's eyes snapped open. McCoy was staring at him with equal parts suspicion and hope.

Explanations would take up precious time.

"Follow," Spock commanded and took off running. He trusted that McCoy would obey. He plunged headfirst into the forest. Branches whipped at his legs as he hurled through clusters of vines and bushes. He tried to maintain his footing on the muddy and irregular terrain. Occasionally a rock or root would snag his foot, and he'd tumble forward, caught in his own momentum. The rain was a weak, broken drizzle beneath the trees, but the heavy foliage and cloudy gloom made for terrible visibility regardless. McCoy was hard on his heels, and Spock made sure not to gain more than a few yards so that the doctor would not lose sight of him. He was panting heavily, and he was well aware that they were making more noise than advisable given the circumstances.

Still, theoretically forging a mating bond to your captain and actually doing it were two entirely different beasts. Spock hadn't predicted the urgency his Vulcan instincts called up when his bondmate - the thought made him wince - was in danger. It was all he could do to keep his feet in check and a firm hold on his phaser when his hindbrain was calling out for blood, death and barehanded mutilation of whatever threat dared to encroach upon his mate.

Spock forced up more shields around the bond and focused on his path.

When Jim was less than a few yards away, he slowed to a jog. Beckoning McCoy closer with one hand, he read the jumble of Jim's emotions. Dull agony, but no fresh terror. No imminent threat, probably. Spock crouched and began moving softly forward, keeping his eyes and ears open. It was a struggle to keep the slow pace, but logically, it was the safe thing to do. If he spooked some alien predator, it might simply snatch up its prey and run.

"I'll cover you," McCoy muttered under his breath. "How far?"

Spock slid forward, parting the branches to reveal an unexpected clearing. The ground sloped dramatically and was peppered with large boulders. Mud covered everything in an inch-deep layer of grime. On the left, there was a steep cluster of cliffs. At the far edge of the clearing, the ground dropped and vanished abruptly into a deep ravine. Spock looked away from the edge, trying not to think of slipping, and falling...

A flash of silver and red from the cliffs, and then a voice snarled:

"Show yourself."

McCoy raised his hands slowly. "Ensign M'Lin, this is Doctor McCoy and Commander Spock. Is the captain there?"

There was a broken sob, and M'Lin emerged from behind a large boulder. "Yes. Yes, he's here. Oh, thank God - Dale and Larrees -" She collapsed into the mud, looking up a McCoy with an expression of pure relief. Her red shirt was torn and battered. "You're here," she said simply.

"Jesus," McCoy muttered. He tilted her head gently with two fingers. Running down the side of her neck was a wide, bleeding gash. It continued down across her back, partially obscured by her hair. Her tunic was roughly torn and frayed around it, and it looked as though she hadn't been mauled by a beast as much as dragged across sandpaper. Immersed as he was in his instincts, Spock could smell the blood from where he stood.

Ignoring the doctor and the ensign, he moved to the cliffs.

"There," M'Lin gasped. "Over there. He was trying to - to help." McCoy shushed her and unclasped his portable medkit from his belt.

Spock felt Jim before he saw him, a dimple in the fabric of the universe, drawing him in. His friend was stretched on the ground. He was streaked with irregular splotches of red and brown. His eyes were closed. Spock dropped to his knees, seeking out a pulse. Jim's heart was beating, but the flow of blood was irregular and faint. Possessively, Spock examined Jim's prone body for signs of damage. It was ridiculously easy to discover the cause of the pain radiating along the bond; Jim's leg was trapped beneath a huge boulder. Spock scraped a little at the ground surrounding it. The earth was porous and soft, and though the leg was probably broken in several places, there was a good chance it hadn't been crushed altogether.

McCoy appeared at Spock's shoulder as though he'd been called. His eyes went wide and flickered between Spock, Jim and the boulder. Carefully, he bent down next to Spock and examined Jim's leg.

"I can't do much," he said. "I've got some painkillers, but that's all. We're going to have to wait for proper medical supplies. M'Lin's wound needs a dermal regenerator, too. She's resting, but we've got to get her out of the rain." Pulling out a hypo, he exposed Jim's jugular and pressed. Jim's body twitched reflexively, and he emitted a soft moan. McCoy gave Spock an odd look and inched away from him.

"For Christ's sakes, calm down. I'm doing Jim a favor."

"I am aware of that."

"No, you're growling, like you're some goddamn stray dog."

Spock stopped and reassessed his priorities. The threat to Jim was not of the sort that could be fought and killed. Logic would be helpful in this situation. Instinctive knowledge of how to gut humanoids with his bare hands wouldn't.

"Vulcans do not growl." He tapped at the boulder. "We need to shift this. Jim cannot stay here; the ledge is far too exposed."

"Don't bullshit me. I'll sedate you if I have to." McCoy ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "I can't say I don't agree with you on the exposed thing, though. Seems like the others took shelter in the cliffs and got surprised when lightning brought the whole thing down on their heads. Don't want to know what that says about the force of the lightning in this hellhole. It isn't healthy to be around here. How do you propose we go about it?"

"Give me a moment. I shall endeavor to remove the stone."

"We'll do it together. Jim hasn't been trapped long enough for crush syndrome to be an issue, but I'd like to make a tourniquet all the same. And we'll need some fluids..." The doctor went, presumably to search his kit for supplies.

Spock gently tore the seams of Jim's regulation trousers, exposing his damaged leg up to mid-thigh. For some reason, Jim's shirts were frequent martyrs to the Starfleet cause. Anything from a slight breeze to sparring practice would damage them irreparably. Spock had seen Jim's torso many times before, but the legs were new. He allowed himself a more thorough examination of the pattern of bruises speckling the skin like Rorschach ink stains. Jim was strong and healthy. If they managed to get him safely to shelter and keep him hydrated until help arrived, he would most likely be fine. He'd have to spend some time on crutches. Even though sub-dermal regenerators rapidly sped up the rate at which bone and muscle healed, it was not instantaneous. But Jim would walk again. His leg would regain its natural color. Spock gently brushed a fingertip along the slight hill of the knee.

"Spock," Jim gasped. "Hey."

Spock started, feeling illogically guilty. He was reminded of the time his mother had caught him staring at the solution to a puzzle cube before he'd solved it, the lure of instantaneous knowledge stronger than the challenge. Jim was staring at him hazily. He'd lifted his head an inch or two off the mud.

"Do not move," Spock commanded.

"I thought you were here. I could taste you or something. You taste different." Jim frowned. "No, that doesn't sound right. You smelled - oh, that's worse. You smell good, Spock. Don't worry about it."

Spock stripped off another layer of shirt, folding it neatly and tucking it under Jim's head. "You are on painkillers. Perhaps it would be best if you did not attempt to speak."

"My leg. It feels odd. Numb." Jim paused thoughtfully. "Spock, my leg is trapped under a fucking rock."

Spock bit back a smile at the deadpan delivery. A Jim on painkillers was a relaxed, indifferent Jim, and though he retained his fondness for Terran profanity, there was no real emotion behind it. Leg. Fucking. Rock. As though he were reading from a list of spare parts.

A finger poked at the corner of Spock's mouth.

"Stop that," said Jim.

Spock removed his hand with perhaps a bit more vehemence than necessary. "To what are you referring?"

"When you're smiling but not. It's selfish. You keep all the smile to yourself." As if illustrating his point, Jim's face lit up in a weak grin. "Bones! You came, too! Man - hey, you've got blood on you." The grin drained as quickly as it had come, replaced by a frown and a wrinkled forehead. "How about the others?"

"Ensign M'Lin will be getting into fresh trouble soon enough," said McCoy. He tied a cloth tightly about Jim's leg, restricting the blood flow. "There. That should keep the waste products from your leg from mugging your kidneys all at once. If you'd lend a hand, Mr. Spock-"

"S'not an answer," said Jim.

"They're dead, Jim," McCoy said, not without compassion.

Jim closed his eyes, and leaned back. "Get me out of here," he said.

Spock braced himself as well as he could on the slippery terrain, and put one shoulder to the rock. It would not budge, and McCoy joined him, swearing and groaning. Their feet dug trenches in the ground, until, after an inch of mud, they hit stone. That made it easier to find purchase, and they put renewed effort into the task. The weight of the rock, however, was greater than their combined strength.

"We could chip away at it with our phasers," McCoy suggested.

"Phasers were built with organic entities in mind, not stones. We would hardly make much of an impact. Furthermore, the slivers we would succeed in removing would be propelled from the rock at high speed. We would be able to retreat to a safe distance, but the captain does not have that luxury."

"A lever, then."

Spock looked meaningfully at the doctor, then the forest.

"Dammit man, I'm the doctor. You go find a branch."

"I have superior strength. My Vulcan genes afford me a better chance of lifting the boulder enough to afford us a better purchase for your lever."

"You're the one with the telepathic GPS. Weak, human me might get lost."

Spock was distantly aware of his hands curling into fists. Mine, said the pre-Surak instincts. I am not leaving. This time, he caught the low growl as it emanated from his chest.

At that moment, lightning proved it wasn't the garden variety from Earth and struck the same place twice.

The blast flung Spock and McCoy across the ledge. Spock's skull smacked heavily against a tree trunk. Bright spots danced across his vision from the impact and the flash. He blinked, trying to clear his sight. He was on his back, and something wet and warm was running down his forehead. His ears were ringing. He righted himself, tumbled and then got up again. McCoy was a splash of blue, unmoving and half-covered by a bush. The ledge had changed dramatically, a new crowd of rocks borne along by a torrent of water down the slope to the gorge.

A mud slide. Pent-up water and earth previously dammed by the cliffs, released by their destruction. The sight made Spock dizzy. His heart was racing.

Desperately, he tore at his shields, reaching for the bond with Jim. The boulder they had tried to shift was moving towards the long fall. And there, a few feet behind it, Jim. He was awake and casting about desperately for something to hold on to. Spock lunged for him without thinking, struggling to resist the tide of water and dirt. Jim managed to pull himself a few feet, biting his lip against the pain of his broken leg. Painkillers could only do so much.

Spock clasped Jim's shoulder, anchoring him against the tide. Jim wrapped a muddy hand around Spock's arm, clinging to him. Taking care not to further injure the leg, Spock linked his arms around Jim's chest and dragged him towards the forest. It was safer - lifting him would raise their combined center of mass, making Spock likely to lose his balance on the uneven footing. Below his palm, he could feel Jim's heart racing.

"Almost there, Jim," Spock said. Jim winced whenever the rough ground snagged at his injuries.

They were almost at the forest when Jim touched Spock's wrist.

"M'Lin!"

The captain made a quick, abortive movement, jerking roughly towards the precipice. Spock snatched at the collar of his shirt, which came away in his grasp. Jim didn't get far. He couldn't walk, let alone run, and he ended on his belly. His eyes were fixed on the ensign struggling weakly against the tide, almost at the edge.

"Get to the forest," Spock ordered. He didn't wait to see if the captain complied.

Stripping off the second-to-last of his shirts, he waded through the mud towards the ravine, forcing his eyes to stay on Ensign M'Lin. She had the same misty look in her eyes as Jim, and he presumed she was on painkillers as well. Her neck was bleeding freely, the ends of bandage still wrapped around her shoulder. Then ends were frayed where they'd been torn by a sharp cliff. She was dazed, thrashing about halfheartedly, beyond panic. Defying every instinct in his body, Spock forced himself closer to the edge. Suddenly, the line of the precipice was all he could see. It was hypnotic - the water, pulling him towards the inevitable fall. His heart sped. Spock bit his lip, using the sharp pain to focus. He was being illogical. He gathered his fear in his thoughts and forced it past his mental shields.

The shields, already worn and strained, cracked.

Adrenaline instantly rushed through him, summoned by the paralyzing terror that was the first thing through the breach. The world blurred, twisting out of focus. M'Lin's shirt and hair blazed with their own radiance, and the ravine was a dark and endless void.

Sparks of light swirling like fireflies. Orange ground, breaking apart beneath his feet. He reaches desperately for her hand, her face suspended in time before him. Then, the rock breaks, and she plunges down, into nothing. A gravitational singularity - sooner or later, he's always drawn back to this. He's still reaching. A year later, his hand is still outstretched, waiting for her.

Spock blinked, trying to clear the memories from his vision. His shirt was still in his hand. The ravine was calling him, commanding his complete attention, and he dropped to his knees, averting his eyes. Water swirled past his shins, pulling, no match for Vulcan strength, but strong enough to make him feel like he was falling already. He stretched out, letting his shirt flow along with the current, keeping one sleeve firmly in his grasp.

"Ensign!" he called.

M'Lin snapped to attention, her gaze flickering from Spock to the impromptu rope. Near the edge, the push of the water was that much stronger, and Spock dug his feet against the rock as best he could, preparing for the added weight of the ensign. M'Lin managed to snag the sleeve just in time, her legs kicking in thin air. Her eyes were wide, and she was panting. Spock began hauling her in, offering a prayer to anyone listening that his waterproof undershirt was stronger than Kirk's command golds. It was excruciatingly slow, but M'Lin inched away from the precipice. Ripples spread in a 'v' behind her, and she tucked in her elbows and knees in an attempt to minimize her drag. Spock focused on the task, trying not to think of her feet, hovering hundreds of feet above the ground. From his vantage point, he could make out the landscape far below. Crags like jagged knives, half hidden by the rain, sloping into dense green vegetation. He blinked, and looked away.

A large branch floated by. Several of the smaller twigs caught in M'Lin's tangled hair, and scratched along her back. She winced, twisting to avoid it. Spock saw it coming before she did: a fresh pulse of water from the rain higher up on the cliffs. The wave caught her in the side, flipping her onto her back. Spock slid a few inches, propelled by the increased force of the water. The shirtsleeve slid through M'Lin's hands, slippery with mud and blood.

She cried out, lunged for it, and managed to grasp on with her left. Her shoulder spasmed under the strain, her wound pulled at a painful angle.

"Commander," she gasped.

Spock would replay that moment over and over. He had a split-second's window to reach out, to cover the distance to the precipice and drag her away.

Cliffs crumbling, the world breaking apart at the seams - Spock was dragged under by terror and memory, and for an instant, he wavered.

That was enough. M'Lin's grip faltered. The current pulled her beyond his reach, and she was gone.

Spock stared in horror at the edge, at the dark handprints on his shirt. He let it go, useless as it was, watched it float over the precipice like a flag taken by the wind. The water temperature seemed to have dropped. He was shivering.

Slowly, he gathered himself. The forest seemed infinitely far away. Spock crossed the ledge in a daze, occasionally sliding a few feet backwards. It might have taken a while; he wasn't sure. He began to notice odd things. He wasn't sure if it was the tree-trunk blow to the head, or the crack in his barriers, but the wind in the leaves sounded like voices. The rain was no longer pelting but touching his face with a thousand cool fingertips, seeking entry to his mind.

When he felt roots beneath his feet, he stopped. McCoy was a few feet ahead, chest rising and falling evenly. Jim had curled up beside him, sheltering him from the wind with his body. Spock allowed himself to collapse next to them, his hand on Kirk's wrist to monitor his vitals. He was unconscious within moments.