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Logically, he knows he must leave, but that fact does not make the leaving any less difficult—not this time, at least. He has never really known, beyond the intellectual sense, what "being torn" means, not until this moment. He knows now, knows the choices: return with the huddled, freezing doctor to the man he calls captain, or remain with the beautiful woman to whom he has confessed his loneliness . . .?
"What are you waiting for?" the voice demands. "Hurry!"
And then a familiar feeling, one that he has experienced only in brief flickers, one that he could usually silence by the use of simple logistic rules: indecision.
McCoy is standing a few feet away, ever the watcher, his eyes seeing the surface and through it, beyond it, to the struggle beneath. Even with the way Spock's been acting towards him and his plummeting body temperature, he experiences a twinge of sympathy for the Vulcan, similar predicaments of his own rushing to mind.
His mouth twists up in a grimace at the irony of it all. Because of his Vulcan upbringing, whenever Spock discovers he feels, he must repress, he must reason, and now that he feels freely, uncontrollably, and has even enjoyed feeling, to the point where he shirks a return to logic, McCoy must force him into the very behavior that he so detests: repress, reason . . .
"C'mon, Spock!"
He grits his teeth, presumably against the cold, and reminds himself that he's doing it because of lives. Life—the thing he holds most sacred in the universe, the thing that can't be traded, not even for the newfound (or, he thinks wryly, newly acknowledged) emotions of the stone-faced Spock.
"You start ahead, doctor," Spock says, in a small attempt to quell McCoy's impatience. The futility of trying to do so registers, but only momentarily, as a file flashing across a computer screen.
McCoy battles a familiar rush of shame for his mental condemnations of Spock. The Vulcan's face is surely stone, but his eyes have been rendered in an entirely different substance. They make their way down Zarabeth's face, love and sorrow obvious in them.
The word illogical flickers across Spock's brain. Why subject yourself to her when it will only serve to make the parting more painful? Yet it is perfectly logical; he wants it—her—fiercely. The effect is like double vision, a wanting/not-wanting that is so strange, disorienting, that he can't cope with it. Finally the desire overwhelms him; he reaches up a trembling hand and captures a piece of flying hair, brushing it back behind her ear.
"I do not wish to part from you," he tells her, hands moving up to cup her chin.
You were never meant to meet me, she thinks, never meant to know me. Then she remembers how McCoy would have gone out on his own even if they hadn't followed, regardless of his health—fighting back to this Jim, back to his life. Her head shakes slightly, causing Spock's fingers to slip, but he rearranges them—restless, needing the movement.
No, she resolves. I will not steal from you what you love, McCoy. I will convince Spock to leave, because I know that your voice alone will not be enough. She looks up into the chestnut eyes with the knowledge that she will never look into them again if she goes through with it. She hasn't been this angry since Zorcon condemned her to this inhospitable place, and has especially never been so angry with herself. How selfish must I be? she wonders. I want him to stay so badly. I feel I almost deserve him as compensation for being marooned here. Nonetheless, I will remind him of the truth. It is my duty to McCoy.
"I cannot come." Her voice comes out clear and strong, despite her confliction. "If I go back, I will die!"
Certainly, that will be enough.
"What are you waiting for?" It's the other voice, the one from the portal, and her heart soars. Perhaps it calls will summon Spock, and she will not have to play a part in finalizing her own misery. "Hurry!"
"How much time do we have?" Spock calls, anguished—it is not entirely due to how loudly he has to speak to top the howling wind.
A star flashes brilliantly, nearly ready to go supernova, crying out for death.
Worried eyes, glued to a chronometer, count down seconds to the explosion.
An insistent Scotsman's voice: "Captain, ye've got to come aboord now."
"C'mon, Spock!" McCoy hisses. "Now!"
There is pain in Spock's face as he tries to tear himself away. Zarabeth! But McCoy . . . Zarabeth! McCoy!
Spock wrenches free a single hand, using it to twirl the doctor about and shove him roughly in the direction of the invisible portal. At first Zarabeth things that Spock simply didn't put enough strength behind it, but then she sees the uncertainty on McCoy's face as he staggers back from the cliff.
"Something's wrong!" he says.
The voice asks, "What's the matter? Why can't he get through?"
"I—I don't know," stammers another voice. It ignites vague familiarity in Zarabeth, but she can't place it exactly. "Unless . . . it's because they originally went through the portal together."
"Spock, McCoy." It's the other voice again—the hrash, demanding one. "You can't get through unless you both go through at the same time."
It's like having his limbs suddenly severed. He is painfully aware of the lack of freedom—until now, he has taken it for granted. Everyone must get what they want, and now there is only one choice that will satisfy that requirement. Zarabeth sees that truth—in his eyes, or elsewhere, he doesn't know—and in her eyes is that same winking sparkle, but he does not recognize the cause of it until a tear streams down her cheek.
"Spock, McCoy," the voice urges, "hurry through the portal. Time is running out!"
Indeed it is, Spock thinks. I must act; make her understand that if I could make this choice without McCoy as a factor, I would choose to remain with her. He drives his lips down to hers and she accepts him, closing her eyes and savoring what she can, for the moment is all too short.
The kiss deepens.
The star grows impatient, fidgeting in flashes of light.
Two timelines compete, one wondering whether it will be allowed to be born, the other fearful that it will be wiped out to make way for the new.
"McCoy!" Kirk barks. "What's the holdup?"
"It's Spock!" he shouts, shifting the furs so he can reach out a hand and shield his eyes from the flying snow. He moves forward, takes the thin shoulder, shakes it. "We gotta go now, Spock, or we'll be stuck here forever!"
The Vulcan shrugs off the hand with a sharp jerk of his shoulder, betraying his strength in the fact that he doesn't consider the doctor enough of a threat to break the kiss.
"Spock!" the doctor insists. "We don't have any more time!"
"I'm beamin' yah up now, with er without the rest o' the party." The voice is thick, words tumbling out in a choppy brogue. "It's not safe down there any longuh, that star's aboot tah blow."
Kirk rams to communicator up to his mouth. "No, Mister Scott, that's an order!"
"Captain!" All pretense of calm disappears with the begging cry. "You'll die for shooer! Lemme beam yah up!"
He is gripping the communicator hard—thinking, figuring. The question is simple, really. Which does he value more: Spock and Bones, or his duty to the Enterprise?
"Scotty." He speaks quickly. "Listen. There's a machine here called an Atavacron which has the ability to transport whoever goes through it back to a certain time in this planet's past. That's why there were so few life-form readings—the entire population traveled back in time to escape the nova via the machine. Spock and McCoy went through, unaware of what it was, and are now trapped in this planet's ice age. I'm going in after them."
"But, sair!"
He tosses his head, angrily. "Now's not the time for defiance, engineer! I'm placing you in command of the ship."
"Tha's no way tah talk, sair! I'm beggin' yah—lemme beam yah up!"
A smile pulls bitterly, longingly at his lips. "No, Scotty, not this time . . . Promise me you'll take good care of her." His voice is incredibly gentle; it's his version of a whisper.
There's a ponderous silence from the other end. "Aye." With that one word, Scotty manages to convey everything—refusal, resistance, relucatance, and finally acceptance. He always was hardheaded (he'd be ashamed to call himself a Scot if he wasn't), and there is no other man in the universe whom he would obey at such a price but the one named James T. Kirk. The sorrow speaks helplessly over him; he knows no way to combat it.
"Get the ship out of here, Scotty," Kirk says, forcefully, casting his eyes to the floor as his fingers reach up to the lid of the communicator—unwilling, unready to cut the connection.
"Sair."
Mild surprise registers on his face, and before he can say anything, he hears, "Goo' luck."
He breaks out into a faint smile, the way he does when he's about to engage in some crazy gamble, do something impossibly dangerous, against the odds. It's the way he smiles when the adrenaline is pumping so hard that he can feel it pulsing at his temples, drumming in his chest, but he isn't getting the same thrill from it now—he 's just apprehensive, his heart flitting at his ribs. Funny. He always through defeat would feel much worse.
He doesn't have the time or words to thank Scotty for giving him that small smile, just tilts the communicator towards himself, allowing the top of it to clap quietly shut. Connection broken, he spins around and sees Mister Etos leafing frantically through the circular diskettes. His hands are a blur and the silverly disks glint as he pours through them, searching for the one Kirk knows he'll never find.
"Sorry," he says, even as he grasps the man firmly across the chest, "but you've got to come or you'll die."
"No!" Mister Etos grits out the words, thrashing around in a valiant attempt to free himself. "Let me go! Let me go to my family!"
A sharp little arrow of guilt jabs Kirk, and it is with that pain and the distraught man that he wrestles.
"You can't go through!" Etos cries, frantically, seeing how near they're getting to the portal. "You haven't been prepared, and neither have your friends."
"All Kirk can manage to do in reply is growl. He jerks Etos around so roughly that he cries out, but his pain is ignored and he is steered towards the panel on the wall that controls the Atavacron. "Prepare us."
"No!" the man wails.
"Do it or we're dead!" Kirk snarls, thrusting him at it.
Mister Etos feels himself from the surface of the machine, grabs his robes, and yanks down the rumpled fabric with an air that can only be called snooty. The man then proceeds to huff at him. Unused to the disrespect, Kirk feels a flare of irritation and barely keeps himself from shouting at him to hurry up. It seems, however, that Mister Etos needs no more motivation, because he begins to fiddle with the panel.
Kirk paces restlessly at his back until he can stand it no longer. "Well?"
"Finished," Etos sniffs.
Kirk tackles him amidst the protests, launching them both across the threshold, and then there is what seems to be a storm, but is really only a series of scorching, lightning-like flashes of light.
A Vulcan has found himself unable to choose.
Time takes this moment to choose for him, saying, "This yesterday shall be his yesterday, and it shall be internal, inescapable, as it is with all."
A stately, beautiful ship jumps to warp, heeding the commandment.
The star sighs at the sudden release of life, expressed in roiling waves of light that leap outward like water, desperate to drown the silver ship.
One timeline fizzles out of existence, unfazed.
The other snakes out, reaching, groping at substance.
A kiss is completed.
Two men stagger suddenly out into a foreign planet's past and have a soft landing in the snow.
McCoy sputters. "What the—?" He doesn't bother finishing it, just groans out, "Spock!" at the sky.
Spock glances past Zarabeth's face and moves her gently aside to more clearly see the pile of bodies. Kirk's head lifts, revealing incriminating gold, infuriated eyes. The doctor shifts his weight uncertainly, looking as though he wants to run over and help him up, but that is forgotten when he notices there is not just one body, but two.
Kirk clambers to his feet, seemingly unaffected by the whirling snow, the bone-chilling cold. "Spock?
Mister Etos rolls over and moans, "My family . . ."
McCoy immediately kneels at his side, eyes sizing up his patient. Zarabeth drifts from Spock and appears next to him. "This is . . . Jim?" she asks, delicately, staring at the captain. McCoy, reaching out to find a spot to check Mister Etos' pulse, doesn't bother glancing up at her. "Yes, that's Jim," he says, shortly.
In return, Kirk studies the face of the short redhead and wonders at her sweet, child-like voice and the shiny line across one of her cheeks. Then the old man moans, recoiling in on himself as if in abdominal pain. McCoy's doctor's instincts have him grabbing the man's shoulders before he knows what he's doing, muttering, "Easy, easy . . . easy there."
Kirk crouches beside him, but Zarabeth remains standing, staring at the wide-eyed at the motionless, whimpering man as if she has just seen a ghost.
"Help me sit 'im up, Jim." It's an odd combination of an order and a request.
Kirk complies without thought, the man's welfare automatically taking precedence over everything else. Between the two of them, they pry him from his fetal position and prop him against the cliff face as best an unwilling jumbling of limp limbs can be propped. Mister Etos isn't hysterical or anything, but his hand is on his forehead in misery, and his small eyes are squinted shut. He's clearly lost in his own private world of grief.
Lowered there, side-by-side, Kirk and McCoy exchange a glance. Who is that woman? Why was he kissing her? Is that what took you so long? Why didn't you stop him? Why did he do it? McCoy's answer is just as silent. He rises slowly to his feet, leveling a steady stare of accusation at the Vulcan.
Instinctively, Spock reaches out a long, graceful arm, tugging Zarabeth back to him with the inexplicable feeling that her she is in danger and it is his duty to protect her. His eyes travel calmly over her face and they seem to exchange some silent communication of their own.
Naturally, it is the doctor who shatters the silence, and none too prettily. "Explain yourself, Spock! Explain to Jim!" he says, flinging a hand at the captain. He is trembling now, outraged at Spock's unruffled attitude.
It is with impatience that Kirk awaits the response, his eyes ablaze with something unnamable. Interestingly, Spock seems to sense the demand for a reply and looks at Kirk with dull, detached brown, even as he answers McCoy. "There is nothing to explain, doctor."
The voice is drab, and the response more out of obligation that necessity. By now, each of them knows what stance the other will take, and what their arguments will be, but that foresight has never been enough to keep Spock and McCoy from going at it, and this time is no different.
"That—" McCoy stomps forward, forcing Spock to look at him now, and jabs a finger at his face. "That is where you're wrong, Spock! Jim just lost the Enuhprize, I can't get back home, and this man's life is ruined! All for what you decided you wanted! So much for logic, huh?"
"Bones," Kirk says then, voice low and dangerous. It's a scold, and he can practically see McCoy flush with a new wave of defiance, adding to the already-burning blaze.
"For God sakes, Jim, this isn't the time. I don't care if the planet's made him crazy; that was a selfishthing to do!" He bores a deliberate, melting stare into Spock. "And we're the ones that are going to suffer for it!"
"The planet's made him crazy?" Kirk entertains the idea for a moment, then says simply, "Explain."
Surprisingly, McCoy still has enough sense left to try to gather together the scraps of his temper and answer his superior. Before he can manage it, however, Spock speaks up quietly.
"Captain . . . I regret to inform you that this planet has—" He pauses, obviously searching for a word. "—altered my usual perceptions and mentalities. I am not myself. I realize this, and yet there is little I can do to correct it. Doctor McCoy has hypothesized that it is the time period we are now in that is the cause of this sudden change."
"Yep." The doctor jerks his head in a tight, unhappy nod. "Planet's done something to him—the time. He doesn't have the Vulcan disciplines of control; they haven't even been invented yet. From what little I know of Vulcan history, every last one of the pointy-eared devils on that planet's fighting each other right now."
"Surak would not yet have arrived and presented the philosophies of logic to my people," Spock explains, almost apologetically.
McCoy isn't done. "But that should only have affected the Vulcan part of him—the logical, computerized, controlling part of him. That would explain why he's publicly displaying affection for Zarabeth. Under normal circumstances . . ." He smirks, a wicked gleam in his eyes because he's just realized what a delicious opportunity this is to embarrass Spock. "He'd control whatever he feels for her . . . and in my opinion, Jim, it's pure lust, not anything like the Spock we know."
Kirk raises his eyebrows at the Vulcan, who has his arm wrapped around the redhead. "Is it, Spock?"
"I do not know, Jim." The answer is simple and immediate, startling them all.
Zarabeth drops her eyes and searches silently for the Vulcan's warm hand. When she finds it buried in the fure, she clutches it, thinking, You do love me, Spock, you just don't know it yet. You acted before you knew what it was you felt, but you will come to realize it eventually. I will not take your words to heart; I will not let them wound me, because I know the truth. The truth is in you, but you cannot name it . . .
To the others, it is not the answer that is so startling as is Spock's unchanging sincerity, his truthfulness. It's innocent in a way that is almost unsettling, and Kirk hasn't missed the way that he is being lightly, almost timidly addressed as "Jim."
It's almost as if he's afraid I'll punish him, but that can't be what it is. Spock isn't afraid to anything except his human half that I'm aware of. And what does he have to fear now that it's loose? As paralyzing as it must be to him, he has to accept it, move past it . . . Will having it out in the open help him deal with it, he wonders, or cause him to suppress it all the more?
"So you don't even have a reason for what you did?" Kirk is truly angry now.
"I . . . did not want to leave Zarabeth," he says, haltingly, pressing his shoulder into her own. She glances up at him and relaxes slightly, looking the epitome of calm. "As you may have observed, captain, this is not a very hospitable place, and Zarabeth has lived here alone for longer than is healthy for any sentient life-form. I did not desire to leave her alone again."
"But what of your duty, Spock? Your Starfleet pledges—do they mean nothing?"
"They do not mean nothing." Spock's tone says he is insulted, and Kirk flinches—maybe that wasn't the nicest of terms. "They simply did not cross my mind." There is awe, almost, in his face.
"Fine time to develop a memory problem," McCoy growls, and Kirk doesn't admonish him.
"Spock . . . I don't believe that. I won't believe that. You've always had an excellent memory. Why would something that important, so deeply engrained in you, suddenly slip your mind?"
"That's what I was trying to tell you, Jim!" McCoy intones. "The Vulcan part of him's let the human part loose! What I don't understand is if it's true, and his human side is merely being expressed, wouldn't he have cared enough not to strand us on this godforsaken planet where we don't belong, in some long-past sliver of time?"
Kirk presses a hand back, silencing McCoy, and takes a step forward. "What were you thinking?" The voice is fierce, but with hurt, and elicits no reaction.
Why is he afraid to answer?
"Spock . . ." He says it softly this time.
"As I said, I could not have left Zarabeth alone in this place, devoid of company, for a second time. As she has confessed to me, it is a torment to live in such a way. I did not desire that she be tormented." His attention shifts to something behind Kirk. "Also, doctor, I should express that I did not desire that you be stranded here against your wishes. It seems, however, that my farewell lasted longer than I intended."
"Spock, I warned you!" I told you we had to go; you didn't listen! You pushed me!"
"Doctor, I have repeatedly told you that I am not myself. I have freely admitted my guilt, but it is obvious that this does not satisfy you. What more do you require?"
"Everything!" McCoy shoots back, undaunted. "Gimme back my life! Give Jim back his ship! give this man back his family! What made you think you had the right—?"
"Quiet, Bones."
"Jim—"
"I said quiet!" It's a bellow. Kirk's tightly contained temper has burst loose, and the doctor's mouth snaps shut in surprise. I didn't mean to push that hard. Ignoring the stares, Kirk advances, visibly reigning himself in. "Spock." It is clearly a plea. "You must've known I'd come after you. . . ."
And you didn't care what would happen if I did? He doesn't say it, but to Spock the question is apparent. It is as if they are facing each other across the chessboard, Kirk having made the first move by revealing how he feels—something that, as first officer, he nows intimately as a hate of his captain's. That Kirk has chosen to make himself vulnerable now, in front of McCoy and Zarabeth, indicates that there is a serious sproblem.
Outwardly, Spock might have been standing in the briefing room providing an update on the status of the Enterprise for all he appeared to care. Though he was wrapped in tumbling furs and his dark hair was nearly gray with frost, he maintained the appearance that he was narration another mundane report. The Vulcan's façade was so perfect that he was even deceiving the doctor, which both pleased and alarmed him.
At Kirk's side, McCoy was practically twitching with anger and concern and the knowledge that Spock's indifference was tearing his captain apart. He had no idea that the darkness in Spock's eyes was remorse for his action and pity for the victims, not cold, controlled anger at being questioned.
To Spock, the ability to keep his emotions unexpressed meant he could control who had awareness of them. It was, in some small way, comforting to know that they could only see what he allowed them. This, in turn, gave him a small amout of power over the situation, but also a nagging feeling of indecency, unworthiness. Kirk and McCoy were expressing their feelings honestly; why was he not doing the same?
"Gentlemen, I am aware of what I would have chosen had I been myself. I would have gone back, even desired I, but it appears that my human impulses were too strong. I could not submit to my 'true self' as soon as I would have liked."
"Spock." Kirk pushes it away, forces himself not to care. "I want to know what you thought would happen if you stayed."
"Jim . . . I did not know you would come through the portal."
"Well, I did." Hands on hips, he eyes the Vulcan. "Anything to say to that?"
There is a silence. "I cannot change the past, captain."
"You're in the past, Spock," McCoy says, wryly. He steps forward, placing a hand on Kirk's shoulder and waiting patiently to speak, though it is obvious to Spock that he is ready to burst. He glances at the Vulcan. "Jim, we've gotta get this man inside. He's not got enough layers on against this now and neither do you." He doesn't mention the fact that he himself is chilled and it's proving difficult to stop the tremors running up and down his body. Kirk feels a tug at his arm. "C'mon."
The captain's eyes do not stray from Spock's, however, and the look he gives the Vulcan is a dark one. "We'll finish this discussion later, Mister Spock. For now, I would appreciate your help with Mister E—"
Spock drops Zarabeth's hand, crosses to the body which has slumped backward against the face of the cliff, and kneels, hoisting it easily in his arms.
"—tos," Kirk finishes, somewhat lamely.
"The cave is in this direction," Spock says, voice rigid. "Follow me." He links hands with Zarabeth and she allows herself to be pulled away.
McCoy clutches his furs more firmly, gives a crusty "hmph," and tries not to appear as exasperated as he actually is, especially because the captain is looking at him out of the corner of his eye.
Kirk crosses his arms tightly over his chest and realizes, for the first time, just how cold it is here . . . But even that frigidity cannot compare to the knowledge that if he were to flip out his communicator and speak to his ship, his words would be sent to the empty sky and never return—eternally unanswered.
I have more parts written, I just have yet to upload them. :)