As much as it pains me, I don't own Star Trek or its beautiful characters. That would be someone else's joy. Sorry this disclaimer is up so late. Please don't sue me.
I watch him from the corner of my eye. He doesn't know I do this, because I shield it through the mental bond we have created. To most it would seem like typical shore leave. But to me-it's torture.
My beloved is drunk again. There is nothing new about this. I once asked him why he does it, and his answer was some off-hand comment about how he is young; just 'blowing off steam.' I understand he must be under a great deal of pressure being the youngest captain in the Fleet, but it does not call for this type of reaction. Equally, his behavior should not call for this kind of reaction in me. But it does.
After he swallows one more shot, I risk a brief touch on his arm, coupled with an appeal through the bond. May we leave now? He grins at me and nods his head to the bartender, who refills the glass. I close my eyes briefly, and walk outside. I need to gather my wits and be alone, where my emotional reactions will not be seen by others.
It is night on Earth. After being on several diplomatic errands, the Enterprise had returned home, and Jim and I beamed down to San Francisco. We finished our paperwork and debriefings, and after changing into civilian clothes, we headed out for a night on the town. I don't know why I expected anything other than his typical behavior, but still I held the illogical hope he wouldn't end up in a bar tonight. Not again.
I have not told Jim how much his drinking bothers me. He has changed enough as it is to be with me. I feel guilty asking for more. But this is something I cannot ignore. It hurts too much. I cannot even speak of this to anyone; I am not just his bond-mate, I am his First Officer. To express concern about such behavior would bring his command into question, and I would rather suffer in silence than be the reason he loses his position. He has been through so much; he has proven himself time and time again. He deserves better than this.
I look up at the stars, and for a brief moment allow my gaze to turn towards 40 Eridani. After all this time, one would imagine I would stop looking for Vulcan. It is gone; kaiidth. However, every surviving Vulcan will forever look to the stars for home. It is part of who we are. Perhaps that is why my mind turns there now.
There is one person I could contact, but I am hesitant. Humans often make jokes about talking to themselves. I may be the only being that can actually do this. Ambassador Selek would not mind me contacting him. He would share my concern. And perhaps, he has been through this himself. Without another option, I open my communicator and request beam-up.
He watches me across the grainy connection. He is patient; so logical and yet so emotional. He has never stood in judgment of me, and even now he waits until I voice why I have contacted him.
"Ambassador," I begin, bowing my head in respect.
When I look up at him again, there is a distinct twinkle in his eyes. I now see what Jim is talking about when he mentions that I have this characteristic. He nods his head in return, and a small smile appears. We do not mention our relationship to others. It is confusing enough for me; I could not imagine explaining to another being that I have an alternate-albeit older-me out there.
"I have become… concerned… about my bond-mate." I waste no time with pleasantries. My heart lurches in my side and I pray Jim will understand why I am doing this. Selek's brow furrows and his eyes narrow.
"What causes this concern?" he responds.
What, indeed? How do I express this distaste?
I realize I am doing the Vulcan equivalent of pacing, and force my hands to stop moving. Thankfully they cannot be seen, but still it is shameful. Even now I cannot bring myself to speak the words, so I force them out before I can stop myself again.
"It is his drinking." There. I have said it. My heartbeat seems so fast, and yet I feel each distinct beat echo inside me. I am so distracted I almost miss the ambassador's response.
"The events he has been through have placed him in a much darker place than where my bond-mate was at his age." He pauses, and I know he is remembering his youth. "Many humans respond with this action as a method of coping. However, I understand how it can make you uncomfortable."
I shake my head. "I do not know why he must cope with problems in this manner when he could simply come and talk to me." I refuse to acknowledge the bitterness in my voice.
Selek tilts his head slightly, and releases a small sigh. "If it is happening more than you would like, and if it is bothering you this greatly, then I am not the one you need to be speaking with, tomasu." I want to protest, but he raises his hand. "Nor is it my place to become involved. This is a private issue, one that should be handled within the tel."
I swallow, and refuse to let the pain show on my face. He is telling me I have to face this alone, and in his answer I suspect he did not face this same problem. If I were human, I would say my hopes have been dashed.
"Thank you, tomasu-os. I will take my leave now," I reply and bow formally.
I wait for his usual chuckle he gives when I refer to him as 'old,' and when it does not come I look back up. His eyes seem sad. I see him swallow and look down, and I recognize the pain of memory. When he replies I know I was wrong before.
"It will not be easy. But it will be worth it." With those final words, he ends the transmission.
It is just before 0200, and the bars should be closing soon. I turn to head for the transporter room. If patterns hold true, Jim will not be able to make it back home without help. That help usually comes from me. If only I could help him in another way, without him resorting to ingesting massive amounts of toxins. We are still off-duty for the rest of today. Today, I tell myself. I will talk to him today. I let the transporter beam take hold of me and return me to Earth.
As I expected, the bars are closing and the patrons are exiting. They are all in various stages of intoxication, ranging from overly friendly to unable to form coherent sentences. I scan the crowd nervously, seeking out my other half. Then I see him. He has his arm around a petite woman, and he has his famous Kirk smile blazing at 1,000 watts. I refuse to accept how much it hurts to see him look at anyone but me in that way. I steady myself and weave into the rush of people.
"James." There is no love in my voice; it is flat and precise. His head swings in my direction and for a moment the smile I thought could get no brighter grows even more intense.
"Hey, Spock," he slurs. It is taking everything I have not to reach out and incapacitate him, for the sole purpose of venting my frustration. I shoot a glance between the woman and him, and choose the best words to get us out of this situation without embarrassing him.
"I would like to have a word with you, in private preferably."
The young woman reads my tone perfectly and extracts herself with a convenient excuse of finding her friends. Jim looks after her with an almost wolfish leer, then turns back to me and slaps me on the back. He knows that has always annoyed me, but I will let it pass given his current condition. We walk down the street to a more secluded area, and when he finally pauses I give him no time to talk. I pull out my communicator and ask for beam-up of myself and the captain. True to his nature, Mr. Scott does not ask questions. It is fortuitous that he is manning the transporter this shift.
As soon as we have rematerialized, Jim turns to me with a question on his lips, but again I give him no leeway. I walk briskly out of the room, giving him the option to follow or remain. I hear his unsteady gait behind me but I refuse to slow. On the lift, down the hall, to the door of my quarters I so rarely use anymore, I do not speak. When I enter my code and walk in, activating the lights for the first time in months, he stands in the hall. He is obviously still confused as to why I am in this room and not the one we have shared since our bonding a year ago.
I reach under the bunk for my spare meditation mat and unfold it. I light some leftover incense and settle myself on the floor. Taking several deep breaths, I consider what to do now. Do I just blurt out everything—all the pain and misery I have felt watching him try to destroy himself for the past three years? Or do I tap-dance around the issue until he picks up on the subject? I am granted a pardon from my ordeal, when he begins the discussion himself.
"I've pissed you off, I'm pretty sure. Whad d'I do this time?" He throws himself into the desk chair, swinging it back and forth in his typical manner. He studies me from beneath thick lashes and through bloodshot eyes. I believe he is not taking this situation seriously. I withhold my answer for the moment, choosing instead to continue focusing on my breathing. He grows curious and gives me a subtle mental poke through the bond.
What?
I choose to ignore that, as well. I will consider other factors right now, such as noticing the temperature in here is slightly below ship's normal, and entirely too cold for me. The lights are at 100%, in Terran normal spectrum, and it hurts my eyes, but that is acceptable. I am suffering mentally and now physically, and for reasons I dare not fathom I want my careless lover to suffer as well. After an amazingly long silence, I rise from my position on the floor and extinguish the incense. Without speaking a single word to him yet, I order the lights off and leave the room. I am heading towards our shared quarters now. I hear him trailing behind me and the cockiness has been replaced by confusion and some subtle hurt, and I have to block off my feelings of wholly inappropriate victory before he senses them.
Entering the new room, I order the lights to 50%. The combination of Terran and Vulcan hues is more pleasing, but I still wish to feel pain. I have never considered myself a masochist until now. The room temperature is comfortable for both of us, and I find myself irritated by this fact. The living area is decorated with personal effects of both of ours. His beautiful antique book collection. My father's ahn-woon and lirpa. Holos of our families intermixed on shelves as though to encourage them to mingle in real life.
He is standing in the door, leaning on the edge and staring at me in complete confusion now. Coming unhinged, I grab the closest holo and throw it at him with all my strength. It shatters against the wall by his head, but does not give me the reaction I desire.
He simply blinks at me and utters a "Huh?"
I have to make him see; I have to make him understand that I hurt. My eyes search the room, and return to the books. That should work. Next to fly towards him is the copy of Treasure Island he has been reading. It tumbles through the air, pages fluttering, and strikes him on the shoulder. I expect he will be angry about the mistreatment of such a precious antique. His face is a darker shade of red now, and it has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he has imbibed.
"Jesus fucking Christ, what is with you?" he finally demands thickly, and takes a deep breath before calling out a code I never expected to hear. Code Gold: Captain in distress. Security will be here soon. I am no longer an angry Vulcan facing his wayward lover; I am Commander Spock, First Officer, who has assaulted Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. The shame overrides my previous anger, and I become very still. I will accept my punishment—both professional and personal.
As security floods the hall, I manage to send one last emotion through the bond—sorrow—before turning myself over to the guards. I explain as patiently as possible that I have assaulted the Captain and must be placed in the brig. Were it any other situation, the looks of disbelief on their faces would have amused me. I gather what is left of my dignity and walk calmly ahead. They fall in behind me. It crosses my mind to reprimand them for not keeping dominion over their prisoner, but that falls outside of my jurisdiction now. I have managed to end my career in Starfleet and my marriage in one fatal move.
Mr. Scott comes barreling out of the turbo lift, followed closely by Dr. McCoy. The shock and worry is all too obvious.
"Wha' happened, Mr. Spock? We heard the code-"
Doctor McCoy adds to Mr. Scott's statement; as he usually adds to everything, "-dammit, man, what the hell is going on-"
I permit myself a small shake of the head and enter the waiting lift. Security can answer those questions. A curious quiet is settling in my being; dullness is coating my senses. In the edge of my memories, I know Dr. McCoy would diagnose this as shock. It does not matter anymore. In fact, I cannot think of a single thing that matters. I am empty, and nothing will ever touch me again.
The voices reach me from a dark tunnel, and I am beyond caring. My eyes are closed, and I am trying to make myself as comfortable as possible on the bench in the brig. The soft hum of the force field, outside human hearing range, fades. Someone has entered my cell. I do not bother looking. If Jim is following Starfleet regulations, it will be Dr. McCoy.
For once, he does not banter with me. He passes his scanner over my body, professional in every aspect. I wonder if he hates me as much as Jim does now. Finally, he puts his tools away and kneels beside me.
"Spock…." He seems at a loss for words.
As there was no question, I give no response. I feel his cool, talented hand close on mine, and his emotions enter me. He is not angry; at least, not at me. There is concern, compassion, and not a small amount of surprise. Thought things were going better for you two. He wants a reason, an explanation for my behavior. He may be the last person I can talk to before the trial, and even though our conversation may be recorded, I trust him to not reveal what I am about to tell him.
Opening my eyes, I turn my head towards him. His smooth hazel eyes seem remote.
"Doctor."
He nods, silently asking me to let go.
"I could not handle it anymore," I whisper. "For all the pain and uncertainty I expected with being bonded to a human, I was unprepared to stand beside him as he constantly harms himself in a childish attempt to run away from responsibility." I lower my gaze to my hands. "I was scared," I admit.
"What happened down there?" he whispers back, even though we both know the outline.
He was the one responsible for making sure Jim survived the Academy; if it weren't for his intervention Jim might not have ended up on the Enterprise, and the Federation would have suffered more than just the destruction of Vulcan.
A bitter chuckle rumbles in my throat. "Nothing we are not used to, Leonard."
The use of his first name has always been a signal between us. It means I am talking to him as my husband's best friend, not as a fellow officer. He shifts his legs to fold beneath him, and with a curt jerk of his head he orders the security ensigns to leave. Although it is against regulations, this whole morning has been an ordeal for everyone. They nod gratefully and walk away.
"You mean he got trashed and made a move on someone, and you just stood there and took it?" he asks when we are alone.
I cannot speak for fear of hearing the pain in my voice, so I simply nod. He shakes his head and mutters several curses. He closes his eyes and rubs them violently. It occurs to me he is still in his pajamas and robe; he did not have time to dress when the Code Gold came across, and probably has not left Jim's side in the aftermath.
"You are tired. This can wait for another time," I offer. His eyes snap open and now they burn with fury. I have seen him look like this before, as he goes face to face with Death in the age-old struggle to save a patient. It means he is on a mission, and will not be deterred at any cost.
"Listen, Spock," he growls. "If Jimmy-boy thinks I'm gonna let you roll over and take this, he's sadly mistaken. Hell, you didn't do nothin' that hasn't crossed my mind more than once the past five years." He scoots closer, and for a moment I feel like a young child conspiring with a friend. "Look, I know it's not the most desirable method, but I can make this drop off the record. All I have to say is that you were-"
"—emotionally compromised," I finish for him. At his astonishment, I raise an eyebrow. "I have had some time to think, Leonard."
I had considered this possibility, but I threw it out when I realized they would want to know what had emotionally compromised me, and I would be forced to answer honestly, under oath. My opinion that the Captain of the flagship of the Federation is a drunken playboy would be used against him to strip him of his ship. And although he has told me he would more than willingly sacrifice his ship for me, I will not put him in that situation if I can help it.
"Then what do you want to do, Spock? Lord, just tell me and I'll do whatever I can. I'll pull every fuckin' string in Starfleet if I have to. Just-" He breaks off and I see the tell-tale signs of glistening eyes and pursed lips that mean he is getting overly emotional. I reach out and he clasps my hand hard. "Tell me what you need," he finishes.
I answer in a steady voice, even though it tears me apart speak of this.
"I would like you to expedite my discharge from Starfleet, and arrange for my transportation back to New Vulcan."
He gasps.
"Are you out of your ever-lovin' Vulcan mind?" he cries. "Don't you realize if I put this through you'll be kicked out dishonorably?"
I do not bother speaking, because after serving with Leonard McCoy for years now, I know he is far from finished. He lurches to his feet and points an accusatory finger at me.
"I don't know what kind of 'I'm-an-unemotional-Vulcan' crap this is, but I'm not gonna be a part of it." He begins to pace, and it reminds me so vividly of Jim my chest hurts. "My recommendation will be that you be given extended leave, on New Vulcan if you want, but you're gonna take some time off and pull yourself together or so help me I'll knock the sense back in both of you with my fists!"
He sweeps his equipment off the floor and stalks out of the cell, but not before turning to me again and uttering the most heart-wrenching statement I have heard him give since Jim and I bonded.
"That son of a bitch is lucky he survived long enough to find you, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you walk away from him now just 'cause it ain't all roses."
With that, he leaves. The force field returns, and I am once again left alone with my thoughts.
Afternoon means another visitor.
As I am not expecting the doctor to return, and I would have known if it were Jim, I do not bother identifying who it is. The being enters, lays something by my bench, and leaves just as quietly. The curiosity finally overrides my apathy, and I roll over to see what my unexpected gift is.
It is Jim's Discman. I am puzzled, because I know it was not Jim here, so who would give me something so personal to the captain? There is a note tucked inside the lid, and when I open it my lips part in shock. The script is Vulcan.
When I was fighting with my Jim over this, our Leonard gave me this song to listen to. He told me he did not want to lose either of us, and would be here for us no matter what. I suggest you listen to the words carefully. Your Leonard wants you to talk to me. I will be waiting for you when you arrive.
I hesitate and look up to see if the guards are watching. They have given me as much privacy as possible since my arrival. I slip the headphones on, adjust the volume down, and push play. After the first few lines, I close my eyes and let the silent tears track down my face.
"Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness…."
Jim arrives later that evening, to release me from the brig. The Admiralty has decided I have something Terrans refer to as post-traumatic stress disorder from the destruction of my home and the loss of my mother. Leonard apparently painted a picture of stoicism and devotion to duty taking its toll, and requested I be allowed to spend a standard month on New Vulcan. The board agreed quickly, and all charges were dropped. Knowing the good doctor, they will disappear altogether.
I move quietly through our quarters. Jim has not spoken to me outside of official capacity since this whole nightmare began. He sits on our bed, not meeting my eyes when I look in his direction. There are so many things I want to tell him, but I cannot put them in proper order. I do not even think I have the right to speak to him anymore. Neither of us has approached the other through the bond. My stubborn side rears itself, and I tell myself I will not be the one to break the silence. But one more glance at him shows the exhaustion and sorrow on his face, and I feel my resolve come undone.
T'hy'la….
He jerks his head up, and his eyes are full of hope and pain at the same time. He stands slowly, and walks forward with a hand raised, two fingers outstretched. I smile weakly and return the kiss.
Oh, Spock, I'm so sorry….
He collapses in my arms, and I hold him tight against my chest. He is shaking with emotion, and I feel fiercely protective. It is only with me that he allows his façade of bravado and control to crumble; just as it is only in his presence I would laugh or cry. I am crying inside now.
Please don't leave me, God, I'll do anything, please don't leave me, he pleads. I push him away gently and raise his chin with my fingertips.
"I am not leaving you forever, Jim. I am simply following orders of the Chief Medical Officer to take an extended leave. A… vacation… I believe would be the appropriate word." I raise my eyebrow and tilt my head, and he smiles at me even as tears continue down his cheeks. He nods, and I continue packing.
"Are you staying with your father?" he inquires as he begins to help me gather the last of the things I wish to take with me.
I shake my head.
"Father is still busy continuing to campaign for aid to rebuild Vulcan society. I will be staying with-" A gentle, honest smile surfaces on my face. "I will be staying with an old friend of yours." He nods and I catch a brief flare of guilt through the link.
"Did you get whatever Bones was supposed to give you from him?" he asks me. The final puzzle piece falls into place and I know who was in my presence that afternoon. Either the doctor has improved on his 'snooping skills,' or I was truly not aware of my surroundings. I nod, and reach into my duffel bag. I have packed the disc separately, but I can return his equipment to him now.
He turns it over in his hands. "He gave you my Discman? What did you listen to?" I take a moment to choose my phrasing carefully.
"It was a musical piece by the group 'The Fray.' Its title is 'How to Save a Life.' I found it…" I pause to remember fondly, "…most educational." The comm chimes and Nyota tells us we are approaching New Vulcan. Jim squeezes my hand and nods sharply at the door.
"You'd better get going. I wouldn't want to have to explain to you why you're late."
It is the kind of joke we have traded often in private about our closest confidant. His voice is rough but affectionate and I realize there may be hope for us after all. I pull him to me and kiss him gently, then turn away. It will be a long month away from him. I hope I am a better man when I return. I hope we both are.