Rating: 18

Pairing: Spock/Chapel

Part 2

When he woke, he was alone. He had no idea how many hours or even days he had slept. The mess of clothes on the floor was gone, and the blankets were folded neatly across the bottom of the mattress, and there was a fresh, folded uniform sitting on the chair beside the bed. He realised that it was the intercom that had woken him, and he reached out to press the button, as much to stop the insistent beeping as anything else. His hands were shaking again.

'Yes,' he said tiredly. He could feel the burning setting up again in his bones and blood. He didn't think he could take any more needless distractions without breaking down into fury again. How many Vulcans went through this, he wondered. How many waited almost to the point of self-destruction, instead of having some logically arranged encounter the instant the first symptom appeared? Had his father ever felt this aching, shivering, debilitating pain, or the crazed burning in his brain?

He realised he hadn't been listening to a word said to him through the intercom.

'I am sorry,' he said. 'Please repeat.'

'We are an hour from Vulcan, Mr Spock,' Lieutenant Uhura said with a tone of infinite patience. 'Captain wanted me to let you know.'

'Thank you, Lieutenant,' Spock said wearily. 'Spock out.'

On a whim he opened a channel to Nurse Chapel's quarters, but there was no reply, and he had no intention of embarrassing either of them by calling sick bay. He closed his eyes and opened them again, gazing at the intercom in gratitude for it being voice-only. He had forgotten that he was still naked, unwashed, his body hair stuck to his skin in dried curls where the sweat had evaporated. His hand rasped on his chin against stubble, and his head-hair was unusually tousled, matted like the rest of him with dried sweat. What a picture he must have presented…

He swallowed hard. His mouth was so dry his tongue felt twice its normal size, and his throat was sore as if he had been screaming. He reached out unthinkingly to take a gulp from the glass of water beside his bed, before realising that *she* must have left it there for just that moment. He could still taste her in his mouth, the flavours only intensified by the water he had just swallowed. The taste made his mind cloud over with need, and he hated himself for the fact that the need was not for her, but just for any female. She had helped him – the evidence of that was the fact that he was not dead – but the burning was coming back, as strong as ever.

He gathered together his strength, standing and trying to muster as much control as possible to quell the shaking in his hands and arms, the insistent, irritable twitches of his face and neck. He noticed small things as he looked around his cabin – the fact that the bowl of soup had been cleaned away, the few detached shards of his crushed computer screen removed, the surfaces cleaned and objects put back where they belonged. It smelt clean in here, rather than the air being suffused with the week-long stench of fever-sweat and uncleanliness. He had not had the presence of mind to turn on the air-conditioning, but she obviously had.

He pulled his thoughts together. An hour. He had an hour to make himself presentable, and the more he dwelled on her the more he undid his ability to control.

He moved into the bathroom that he shared with the captain. Here, at least, had stayed relatively ordered, with Kirk to watch over it. Jim must have wondered over the past week what on earth had happened to his impeccable first officer to make him so careless.

*She* had been in here too. The towels were slightly damp on the rail, and – he could smell her, too. His eyes caught sight of a gold strand on the floor of the shower. He bent to pick it up, gazing at it for a second in a moment of most illogical sentimentality, before dropping it in the bin. After a moment's thought he threw the towels in the laundry chute too, and replaced them with fresh ones. Perhaps there would be lipstick on them, or makeup. Had she left here with her face natural, her hair unstyled? Had she used his brush and stood before his mirror trying to make herself look presentable?

He shook himself from these drifts of sentimentality and looked around the bathroom again for signs of her presence, but he couldn't see any other evidence of her being here. He had never done this before – never had an encounter that he had tried to keep secret. Jim, he knew, would spot the signs of a woman being in here almost without trying. Without even speaking to him about it – just by looking at him – he would know who, and why.

He stepped into the shower, and let the cool water run over his hot skin. It was a glorious feeling. He reached for the soap – and fumbled and dropped it. He reached for a cloth, and dropped that too. Finally he found a brush belonging to the captain that had a strap to put his hand through, and with shaking fingers he applied some of the captain's shower gel to it. He scoured away the salt of his sweat and the crusted remnants of semen and saliva, finding a perverse pleasure in the pain of the bristles on his sensitive skin. Perhaps some would call this evidence of a good night. It felt odd to him. He had never been so abandoned in his behaviour to do such things, and especially to do such things and then just sleep without any form of cleansing between.

Another wave of need flooded over him and he pressed his forehead against the shower screen, a low moan escaping his lips. Just touching between his legs to wash had aroused him. He had to force himself not to bring himself the relief he craved. It was illogical to even try. He knew from the past week of experience that it would not help anyway.

Oh, this was becoming interminable. He would promise anything to T'Pring just to gain relief. He would give her his inheritance, his title. She held his mind in thrall, and it was intolerable.

'Spock…'

He almost jumped out of his skin, the shock causing him to snap, 'Can I not have the slightest privacy?' He clenched his fists, trying to shake the red confusion out of his mind. 'I – apologise, Captain,' he said in a more controlled voice. 'I am not myself.'

'You weren't answering your intercom,' Kirk said with the tone of voice reserved for the sick – the sick of mind more than the sick of body. 'We're half an hour from Vulcan. I wanted to see you were on top of things.'

Spock heaved in breath, turning to see that his captain was standing with his back to the transparent shower screen, resolutely staring at the wall.

'I have been *trying* to get *on top of things*, as you say,' Spock said, a part of him registering the school-boy humour of that statement considering earlier events with Miss Chapel.

He turned the shower off and stood in the dripping silence. What was it about this time that just stripped layer upon layer of dignity from him, to the point that he was standing naked in the shower in a state of arousal, with his captain just inches away through a clear pane of glass? What would come next would only be worse. Losing control in front of an assembly of Vulcan dignitaries… Behaving like an animal in heat with a woman he had not seen since he was seven… Two thousand years of Vulcan civilisation, a lifetime of control over his body and mind, and everything was reduced to the whim of a handful of chemicals surging in his veins.

Jim reached forward for a towel, then handed it awkwardly around the screen to Spock, keeping his eyes firmly averted. Spock dried himself off, then wrapped the towel securely around his waist. Thankfully his captain's presence had acted like cold water to his arousal, and he stepped out of the shower with minimal embarrassment.

'I thought you might need help to shave,' Kirk continued. 'I know you use a real razor, and with your hands shaking like that…'

'Yes, thank you,' Spock said distractedly. He hadn't even thought of that. Appearing on Vulcan with his face covered in nicks and cuts would not have been a good idea.

'You think you can hold still for me?' Kirk asked, turning towards the shelf where Spock kept his small amount of toiletries. He glanced back at Spock, registering his distraction, and said, 'I'll tell you what – I'll use mine. Less chance of cutting you that way.'

Spock nodded, and sat down on the closed toilet lid, trying to stay composed as Kirk carefully shaved the stubble from his face, and then dried and brushed his hair. There was a certain indignity in allowing his captain to perform this service – but perhaps not his best friend, the one who he intended to request as his *lak noy*, the best man to his upcoming betrothal. Indeed, it was traditional for him to perform just this service. In the haze he had forgotten.

'Do you need my help to dress?' Kirk asked in a tone of concern.

Spock stood up slowly. He lifted his hands, assessing the trembling. 'Perhaps,' he nodded.

'Will you be all right to beam down?' Kirk asked in concern as they walked through to Spock's quarters.

Spock locked eyes with him. 'I must be.'

'These clothes here?' Kirk asked, picking up the neatly folded uniform from the chair by his bed.

Spock experienced a moment of indecision that would usually be settled almost before he was aware of it. Did he wear his dress uniform? If this were a traditional human ceremony he would be, certainly. But the thought of wearing that starched, restrictive tunic, in his condition and in Vulcan's heat, was abhorrent to him. Would it be disrespectful to T'Pring to appear in regular uniform? Did he care?

'Yes,' he murmured finally. 'Yes, those clothes there.'

They smelt of her… He could smell her scent as Kirk unfolded the top and trousers. Could Jim smell it too, or was it just his current hypersensitivity that made smells like solid walls, sounds like sonic booms, sights and touch an overwhelming jumble of stimulation? Kirk didn't react to the scent of her perfume – it must just have been him.

'Do you need anything, Spock?' Kirk asked carefully as he helped the Vulcan dress. 'A drink perhaps – something from my quarters?'

'That – would not be helpful,' Spock told him. The tremors were running down his back, down the backs of his legs, through the bones and nerves of his arms. The closer he came to the end of this the harder it was to control it. Alcohol would only lessen the small amount of control he had.

That scent was driving him crazy… He could barely see through the red mist that had descended in his brain. 'Another,' he muttered, stripping the clothes off with clumsy fingers and stumbling to the laundry chute. It wasn't until all the clothes had disappeared into the wall that the scent cleared and he could think again, and he realised that he was standing naked in his cabin with Kirk staring at him through bewildered eyes.

'I – cannot wear those clothes. They smell,' he forced himself to explain.

Although that was barely explanation enough, Kirk simply nodded, and found a new set of clothes, helping him to dress again with inexhaustible patience.

'Better?' Kirk asked. There was a note of humour in his voice, as if he thought Spock was being amusingly eccentric.

Spock nodded mutely. These clothes smelt of detergent, and the inside of his drawers – but thankfully not of *woman* or of Christine or anything like that. He sat heavily in the chair behind his desk, closing his eyes and resting his forehead down onto his folded hands on the desk.

'Spock, are you all right?'

He almost screamed, *Shut up – just let me be*, but instead he took a moment to calm the completely irrational surge of anger, and said carefully. 'I need a moment, Captain – to compose myself.'

'Of course,' Kirk murmured. He had obviously seen that near loss of control, but he said nothing about it. When the intercom beeped he answered it instantly, saying in a low voice, 'Kirk here. Make it quick.'

'Five minutes to Vulcan orbit, captain,' Uhura's smooth voice replied.

Spock didn't know if they were deliberately only having Uhura use the intercom to his cabin, but he knew if it had been Sulu's low voice or Chekov's accent he would have broken yet another intercom point. He pulled in a deep breath, and struggled to calm his mind again.

Kirk waited in silence, until finally Spock straightened up, his face rigidly composed into a controlled mask.

'I am ready, Captain,' he said. If he concentrated he could even stop his hands from shaking.

'Just a moment,' Kirk said, going to the door and pressing the button to open it. 'Bones, come on in here.'

Spock stiffened, a sense of betrayal flooding through him swiftly, before he managed to quell it with the rationale for McCoy's presence. McCoy came through the door with his scanner already held out before him, and Spock drew in breath, forcing himself not to object.

'Just bear with me, Spock,' McCoy said in an unusually kind tone. 'I have to see you're fit to beam down.'

A tremor of panic ran through him. 'I *must* beam down,' he said in a low, dangerous voice. 'You cannot prevent it.'

McCoy arched an eyebrow. 'As CMO, I can – but I'm not going to. The aim of this jaunt is to get you well. I just need to see if you need medical assistance on beam down or not.'

'I do not,' Spock said flatly, clenching his hands behind his back.

'No, I can see that,' McCoy said, analysing his readings. 'Have you been meditating, Spock?'

Spock shook his head stiffly. He would have paid for the ability to meditate over the last week, but he had barely been able to sit still long enough even to begin.

'Well, I'd say two days ago, you were *this* close to having a heart attack,' McCoy said, measuring about half an inch between his finger and thumb. 'Now, I'd say you're about *this* close,' he said, widening the gap a little.

'Perhaps – my proximity to Vulcan,' Spock said carefully, aware that lying or misdirection often failed dismally with Dr McCoy. The doctor only nodded. He knew so little about this condition, Spock realised, he could tell him almost anything as long as it was plausible.

'And talking of Vulcan,' Kirk said in a more buoyant tone. 'Come on, Spock. We'd better get up to the bridge.

Spock nodded stiffly, silently grateful at the change of subject.

'So let me understand this,' McCoy said in an undertone as they left Spock's quarters. 'When you beam down, you have some kind of prearrangement with – a lady?'

Spock nodded silently, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead of himself, not least to keep his mind focussed on control. No matter how far he had broken down in his quarters, out here he was the First Officer of the Enterprise, and he had a standard of dignity to maintain.

'And you have to – er – ' McCoy trailed off, looking surprisingly embarrassed for a doctor.

'Yes,' Spock murmured.

'We don't have to – '

'*No*, Doctor,' Spock said swiftly.

An awkward silence fell, but it was clear that he would have to bring himself to talk about this – after all, he did intend that the doctor stay at his side through at least the preliminary stages of the ceremony.

They stepped into the turbolift and Kirk twisted the handle on the wall, ordering, 'Bridge.'

'It is obvious that you have surmised my problem, Doctor,' Spock said awkwardly, trying his hardest not to have to look at the man. 'My compliments on your insight.' He turned his attention to Kirk instead. 'Captain, there is a thing that happens to Vulcans at this time,' he began, focussing his eyes intently on the crack between the lift doors. He was having to hang onto the handle just to keep himself grounded in the moving chamber. 'Almost an insanity, which you would no doubt find distasteful.'

'Will I?' Kirk asked. There was a look of humour on his face. Spock had to acknowledge that most of his behaviour over the last week smacked of insanity. 'You've been most patient with my kinds of madness.'

'Then – would you beam down to the planet's surface and stand with me?' he asked in an unusually hesitant tone. 'There is a brief ceremony.'

'Is it permitted?' Kirk asked curiously. The Vulcans were not known for their openness to outworlders, especially at their oddly logic-free ceremonies.

'It is my right,' Spock said, still keeping his gaze rigidly on the doors. 'By tradition, the male is accompanied by his closest friends.'

'Thank you, Mr Spock,' Kirk said. A look of pride had suffused his face, but he thankfully refrained from any gushing sentimentality at that statement.

Finally Spock forced himself to look directly at the doctor. He had treated McCoy abysmally over the past few days – he knew that. 'I – also request McCoy accompany me,' he asked carefully.

McCoy looked at him with a naked surprise on his face that was swiftly replaced with honest friendship. 'I shall be honoured, sir,' he said.

******

They were obviously late. Even as they entered the bridge Uhura was saying, 'Captain. We're standing by on Vulcan hailing frequencies, sir.'

'Open the channel, Lieutenant,' Kirk said quickly, and Uhura touched the correct buttons, barely having to look away from the three officers. Everyone on the bridge was obviously alive with curiosity about this unorthodox diversion to Vulcan.

'Vulcan Space Central,' Kirk said clearly. 'This is the USS Enterprise requesting permission to assume standard orbit.

'USS Enterprise from Vulcan Space Central.' Even though the voice was that of a stranger, it sounded wonderfully familiar to Spock. It was Vulcan, and as such it was home. 'Permission granted. And from all of Vulcan, welcome. Is Commander Spock with you?'

Spock steeled himself to speak. He had to keep himself steady. It would just be another few hours now, before the beginning of the end.

'This is Spock.' Inwardly he was surprised at how very normal he had managed to sound.

'Standby to activate your central viewer, please.'

The turbolift doors opened. Even though Spock did not move a muscle to look he knew instantly that it was Nurse Chapel. No. Christine. After what he had done he had to think of her by her given name. After all, it was the one request she had made of him.

His eyes were fixed on the viewscreen before him, but he could feel her just behind him, to his left. He could not allow himself even the tiniest reaction. Every biological instinct in his body was urging him to break down and rush to take what he needed. It was even more imperative now that he remain controlled. He heard her ask something, but it was as if his hearing was muffled with water, and he could make out none of her words.

The sight of T'Pring on the viewscreen almost threatened to twist his mind in two. It was *her* - the representative of cold, pure, unemotional Vulcan, the one that his mind was joined to, the one who offered a place for his lust, who set him on fire, who chilled him to the centre of his body with her perfect logic.

'Spock, it is I.'

Her voice was like a single note on a musical instrument. Clear, resonant, perfect – and completely lacking in melody. Spock matched it with the lack of emotion in his own voice, sounding off the ritual phrase that he had learnt thirty years ago and never forgotten.

'T'Pring, parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. We meet at the appointed place.'

'Spock, parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. I await you.'

Spock was almost startled at how void she had made that phrase. For a moment the cold thought ran through him, almost instantly dispelled, that he could not bear to spend the rest of his life joined with this woman.

She faded from the screen, leaving him suddenly conscious of the humans around him. Then Uhura spoke.

'She's lovely, Mister Spock. Who is she?'

He did not want to speak. But it was vastly illogical to deny the truth, so he said flatly, 'She is T'Pring. My wife.'

The shock ran through the bridge – but most of all he could feel it from *her* - the shock, the betrayal, a crashing wave of sadness – all emotions he could not acknowledge, but desperately wanted to. It was no use now. His fate was set in stone. He was facing irrevocably toward Vulcan, and he could not turn around.

******