When I materialize, I am in the Visitors Center for New Vulcan. The attendant looks up from his controls and gives me the ta'al.
"Peace and long life, Commander. Will your mate not be joining you?"
It catches me off-guard, even though I know it is considered proper to ask about a bonded pair in this fashion.
I have to stop myself from shaking my head as an answer. I have been around Terrans too long.
"Live long and prosper," I respond, "My bond-mate will not be able to join me this trip."
I return the ta'al and retrieve my belongings. The center is beautiful; if you take for granted the .037 difference in gravitational pull and the slightly-off red of the rock, you could almost imagine you are on Vulcan. Nostalgia is illogical. My mother would have approved, however.
I turn to the door. "I require transportation," I inform the young man as I prepare to leave. He reaches for the comm panel when a voice interrupts us.
"Not necessary."
I almost run into… myself, and we lock eyes and I know we are both highly amused.
"Ambassador," I greet him, bowing my head a fraction.
"Commander," he returns. "I was made aware of your upcoming visit and have asked your father for the honor of being your host. Does this meet with your satisfaction?" I sincerely hope my emotions are not as obvious as his. His eyes are laughing.
"Indeed. Most gracious." I nod to the attendant and continue with my host. His vehicle is close, and I have to remind myself he is much older than I, and slow my pace. We place my bag in the back area and enter the vehicle. As he performs his checks, he glances over at me.
"I am sure Jim will be fine," he assures me, and I feel the blood rushing to my face. It is unnerving the way he can read me. Relaxed in his presence, I allow myself to shrug.
"Doctor McCoy would tell you he excels in finding trouble where none previously existed, and I am usually the one who has to rescue him. A month is a long time," I retort.
A disapproving grunt is all I receive back. I turn to look out the window. The trip is not long, and we land close to his dwelling. It is modest, but quite tasteful.
He takes my belongings out of the back, and when I reach to help him he raises his eyebrow at me. Again, a familiar gesture—'I am not an invalid,' it has often communicated to either Jim or Leonard when they fuss over me. We enter the building and he places the bag in the guest room. When he returns, he has clothing in his hands. He unceremoniously dumps them in my hands and gestures back to my room.
"Change."
It is not a request.
"Why?" I answer. My inner self is telling me something is about to occur I will not enjoy.
He rolls his eyes, and I have to try not to laugh. "For me. Please."
I nod warily.
When I am in the room by myself and shut the door, I look at the clothes. They appear to be a tight, ripped pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming 'Party Animal.' My sense of unease grows. I allow myself the private thought that time has caught up with this version of me and do as he asks.
When I return to the living room, the drapes have been shut. There is a glass on the table, full of a dark brown liquid. I know what it is from both the smell and the large jug sitting beside it.
"Chocolate milk?" I venture. He enters from the kitchen and nods.
"We are going to perform an experiment."
"And to do this we must be…." I cannot fathom what this experiment is going to prove.
"Not we. You. If you are going to understand the baffling pull loss of control gives Jim, you must experience it first-hand. Drink." He nods to the glass and then leaves the room.
I stand absolutely still. This is beyond ridiculous. However, the use of the word 'experiment' appeals to the scientist in me. He would know that, too. It appears I am shrewd at any age.
I sit on the sofa and take a tentative sip. It does taste good; I have always had a weakness for milk, and every Vulcan child knows the naughtiness of consuming chocolate. I take a larger swallow and hear him returning from his bedroom. I almost choke on my surprise. He is now dressed similar to me. It is slightly unnerving.
"Faster," he urges, and I raise an eyebrow.
"You do realize this will not end pleasantly," I all but grumble.
He smirks. I take another drink and feel the shiver of the cold hitting my stomach, as well as a slight tingling in my head. He turns and sorts through some data chips, and finally slips one into a strange looking terminal. A loud, annoying form of music assaults me. I wince, and turn to glare at him.
"Aerosmith," he calls out above the noise. "One of Jim's favorites. You should recognize the song, as well."
It takes me a moment, but I do. 'Love In an Elevator.' The memory of Jim dancing around our quarters, pretending to play guitar, comes to mind and I laugh. Out loud. Startled, my eyebrows fly up at the same time as one of my hands covers my mouth.
He shakes his head, and walks in front of me, yanking my hand down.
"More," he commands. I take another deep drink, and this time the buzzing sensation intensifies. I close my eyes slightly and begin to nod my head in time with the beat of the drums. He sits in the chair across from me, and leans back. "How is Bones?"
"Bones is an idiot, but I love him anyway," I answer, and again blush violently.
I am not responding in a proper manner at all. I finish my drink and set the glass back down, and he refills it. Nudging it towards me, he leans back again and seems to stretch.
"Logic is an important founding principle," he intones suddenly, and I snort.
"I'm sick of logic," I shoot back, and my mouth hangs open.
What was that?
I grab the glass in front of me and down half of it without breathing. It feels like it's getting hot in here. I tug my shirt off and toss it on the floor. He is watching, highly amused. Then Steven Tyler begins belting out 'Dude (Looks Like a Lady)' and I jump up.
"I love this song!" I shout, and begin to dance around. I feel so light, so happy. A small voice in the back of my mind tells me I am behaving like an idiot, and I logically tell it to shut up. I hear him chuckling, and shoot him a wide smile. "Why aren't you dancing?" I ask him. He continues to laugh and shakes his head.
"I am not as young as I used to be," he answers slyly. But it does not escape my attention that he is tapping his foot along with the music. I remember a move Jim has shown me, something dubiously labeled 'head banging.' It seems appropriate at this moment, and I begin to do so with great pleasure.
I continue dancing to the music, taking breaks to catch my breath and drink some more milk. Finally, I begin to get sleepy. I take another break, this time lying down on the couch. My head is propped up and I look over at my companion. His head is tilted, as if he is observing me for some reaction yet to be shown. At least, I believe that is what he is doing. He seems quite out of focus.
He gets up, and after turning off the music—to which I protest-asks me to go to the bathroom. I look at him, curious and yet somehow cross.
"No."
"Spock, you need to go to the bathroom. Now."
"Don't wanna," I pout.
He sighs and yanks me up by my wrist. I giggle.
"You're strong," I purr.
He shakes his head and thrusts me through the door. I stagger for a moment, and just as I turn to ask him why I'm here I feel the milk coming back up my throat. I whirl around to the toilet and begin to vomit uncontrollably.
When I can catch my breath, I look at him in alarm.
"What's happening?" Aside from Dr. McCoy's noxious potions, I rarely become sick to my stomach. He doesn't attempt to answer, and before I can ask again the process starts all over. Finally, I seem to be empty, and I curl up on the floor. He leans over me with a wet washcloth, rubbing my head gently.
"Do you think you can make it to your bed?" he asks softly. I nod miserably.
He helps me up, and when I finally lie down, I shiver. He places a blanket over me, and a small wastebasket beside the bed. At my raised eyebrow, he shrugs. I want to ask him about the experiment, and what its outcome was, but I realize the room is getting darker. I slip into unconsciousness in annoyance.
The light stabs my eyes, and I wince and try to pull the pillow over my throbbing head. From the kitchen I hear noises of dishes being moved around, and I shudder. Everything is so loud. Why is he so loud, so early? I take a tentative breath and swallow, and my tongue feels like it has been given a layer of fur.
He walks into the room.
"Are you finally awake?" he begins, and I frantically motion for him to lower his voice. Why is he shouting at me? I peek out from under the pillow.
"I am in need of medical assistance," I growl. He smiles in an almost evil way and shakes his head.
"Hangovers do not require a doctor. Only time to recover," he answers in a softer tone, and helps me out of bed. My head feels as if its weight has increased 4.2 times and I hold it carefully with one hand. "Would you like to shower now?"
I can only nod, and even that gesture brings great pain. He leads me to the bathroom and tells me he will bring me a towel and clean clothes. When he leaves I turn and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I look… horrible. My dark brown eyes are ringed with faint green, and I am both more pale and yet more flushed than I have been since contracting influenza during an away mission. My hair is sticking up in directions I have not previously seen.
I am beginning to become angry that he would allow me to go through this when I take another look at myself. Suddenly, I see Jim in the mirror, looking much as I do now, and I begin to understand the purpose of this experiment as I crawl into the shower.
When I am done, I get out and find some of the clothes I packed on the closed toilet lid. A towel is folded neatly on top of them. I dry off and dress, trying to keep my motions to a minimum as my head is still protesting my actions from the night before.
I find him at his kitchen table, reading a journal. As I make my way across the room, he puts it down and looks at me carefully.
"Are you still feeling unwell?" he ventures. I grunt back at him, and he nods, picking up the PADD again. "So you would have no problem avoiding a similar situation in the future," he begins.
"That would be most obvious," I snip. "To purposely cause one's self to be this ill is completely illogical." I sit at the table, looking around. Taking in the length of the shadows and brightness of the light, I realize it is mid-afternoon, at the earliest. "How long did I sleep?" I ask him crossly. He raises an eyebrow but does not look away from his reading.
"Seventeen point three eight hours." His answer, as precise as mine always are, frustrates me. I see now why Dr. McCoy grumbles when I give these types of responses.
I glare at him.
"I usually provide Jim with a detox hypo, or aspirin, barring that." I realize I am complaining. Whining, actually. He places his PADD down again and rises with a small sigh. Going through a cabinet, he returns with a small bottle. I take it, and he reappears a moment later with a tall glass of water. Swallowing the pills, I close my eyes.
"If your desire was for me to understand Jim's actions, you have failed. There is no purpose to doing this repeatedly."
"You did not enjoy yourself last night?"
"No, I would say I did not." My eyes open when he snorts. "Honestly. Involuntary regurgitation is not enjoyable, in the slightest."
"Ah. But before that?" I search my mind, and cannot place to what he is referring. He nods, as if expecting this. He taps out a sequence on his PADD, and then hands it to me. "Here."
I watch in horror as I see myself dancing to loud music, and grinning without any reserve. I seem to have removed my shirt at some point. I am ungraceful, uninhibited, and most undignified. Yet, I seem to be very enthusiastic about the dancing part. I say the first thing on my mind.
"You recorded me." It is as much of an accusation as it sounds.
"Yes. However, it will not be seen by anyone else. I will delete it now," he offers, reaching across the table. I pull it away cautiously.
"Perhaps not immediately." When I look up, he has his head tilted and a small frown. "What if Jim was to see this? To see that I do, in fact, understand the allure of intoxication?"
"It could be seen as a gesture of understanding. However, an equal gesture must be made in return," he answers. Now it is my turn to be confused, and my head tilts in the same tell-tale manner.
"You are implying he should attempt to enjoy himself without resorting to mind-altering substances?"
"Quite."
"Indeed. In that case," I begin, "this should be given to him at a more appropriate time." He nods. I realize I am hungry, and yet somehow reluctant to eat.
"Do you have any bread for toast?" I ask him politely. He smiles and gets up again.
We are walking through New Vulcan two weeks later, touring the shops, when I begin to feel slightly dizzy. Thinking to myself that I have spent too much time on a starship and not enough on a planet, I ignore it. Then I stumble into Selek, and he catches me.
"Are you feeling unwell, tomasu?" I shake my head in an attempt to clear it.
"I do not know the cause, however I am feeling disorientated," I admit.
He looks me over and I see his eyes narrow. Before I have the opportunity to ask him what he has observed, a tremendous pain bludgeons my mind and I am left reeling. Something has happened to Jim. The bond is not responding anymore.
"Jim," I gasp out weakly. Selek places me on a bench and begins to meld with me to steady me.
/What has happened?/ I ask.
/Your bond has been disrupted. Jim has apparently found that trouble you predicted./
/Is that why I feel so faint?/
He nods in the meld. /We should return home. Dr. McCoy may be trying to reach you./ He releases me from the meld gently, and then walks me briskly back to his vehicle.
I am scared, although I won't admit it. Jim always has to get hurt in the worst possible fashion and then be allergic to everything that would treat his injuries. It has kept Dr. McCoy busy finding appropriate treatments ever since he became CMO.
I enter the house and head straight for the comm. station. There are no messages. I try to contact the ship and get static, although the line does connect.
"This is Commander Spock. Are you in distress?" I ask over and over, however, the communications officer doesn't have the necessary power boost to answer. Finally, I shut it off. Selek is watching me warily.
"They do not respond," I offer weakly. He nods.
"They may be out of range for this type of communication," he offers. "Go rest. If anyone contacts you I will wake you up immediately." I nod and enter my room. However, rest will not help the ache in my heart and mind. I set up my meditation area and sink to the ground.
Please, Jim, be alive.
Two days later I receive word that the Enterprise will be docking at Starbase One for repairs. I take the opportunity to comm. Dr. McCoy.
"Leonard," I greet him. His normally expressive face is drawn, and I can tell he has not slept much at all in the past few days.
"I knew I'd hear from you sooner or later," he opens. "Damn fool! We went on a first contact mission only to find out they're courting the Klingons too. The Klingons open fire on us for encroaching on their sovereign territory, and in the midst of it all, Scotty goes down."
He pauses to take a drink of water.
"Jim was stuck on the surface with these morons, and they informed him he must drink a potion that seals the deal. Wouldn't you know he's allergic to it? He had plenty, and they signed the deal with us. But that was when the reaction started. Fell and cracked his skull a good one. Didn't tell me about that," he finishes lamely.
"Then we beam him up, and he decides to help engineering with their problems. Those Klingon bastards are still firing at us, and he takes another knock on the head. This one more severe. He went out and we haven't been able to get him to respond for two days. I'm sorry, Spock."
I nod my head. "I will be there shortly."
"You're still on medical leave, Spock," McCoy growls at me. "There's nothin' you can do here."
"I belong with my T'hy'la," I counter just as severely. He just sighs and waves his hand.
"Don't mind me, I'm just the fuckin' CMO, I don't have a say here," he answers, and signs off.
I turn around and find Selek watching me. His face is calm, and I envy his peace at this time. It is then that I notice he is holding my luggage in one hand.
"We have 13.23 minutes to reach the shuttle hanger," he informs me. Relief floods me that he at least understands. We leave with haste.
When we reach the shuttle hanger, I get out and gather my belongings. It is then that I notice he has packed a bag for himself as well. I am thankful he is going with me, for I am an emotional wreck—for a Vulcan—at this time. I watch warily for anyone to say anything, but Selek informs me word has gotten around that my bond-mate has been severely injured and I am going to be with him. At times, it is advantageous to live in a close community. We launch smoothly and soon the trip will be over.
What will I find when I get there? Will Jim wake up? Will he survive this injury? Will Dr. McCoy have the proper medicine in time? All these questions and more fill my mind. I feel the emptiness that is where Jim's consciousness usually stays, and it hurts.
When the shuttle lands in the Enterprise's bay, I leave as soon as I am able and head straight for sickbay. I am greeted by Nurse Chapel, who has been watching Jim all morning.
"There's no change, Mr. Spock," she speaks softly. "He's in a private room."
She indicates the room and moves away. I enter the room and have to take another breath, for the smell of disinfectants and sterilization overpowers me. Jim is on a bed, surrounded by medical equipment. An old-fashioned IV drips in his arm; I remember this is because his reactions to medications are so severe that he must be fully hydrated to survive them. The monitors beep and hum quietly above him.
"Oh, Jim," I whisper. I sit by his side and take a taped and tubed up hand in mine. His color has blanched, and it hurts me to think of how bad the damage could be. Finally, I can stand it no more and stand, placing my fingers on his psi points.
/Jim?/
/…/
There is something there, but it isn't answering. This concerns me.
/Jim?/
/Go away./ He is at least speaking to me now. However, his mental voice is very strained, and I can feel waves of anguish coming from him.
/Jim, why are you upset?/
/I screwed everything up, Spock. I always screw everything up. I thought I was helping, in engineering, and instead I got three Ensigns killed. You always tell me that I've got to accept my limitations and I didn't and see what happened? This is why you left, because you knew this would happen. You knew I would screw up and now it's over isn't it?/
/I did no such thing,/ I respond tightly. /I left because I had to learn not to control you. I am a better partner now for you. I am not leaving you,/ I answer, holding his essence tight against me. /Come back to us, Jim./
I feel the essence pulling away, and then his eyelashes begin to flutter. Hearing the change in the monitors, I break the meld and wait for Dr. McCoy's usual grand entrance.
"Jim, you would pick the most inconvenient time to regain consciousness," the Southern voice starts as he enters the room, scanner in hand. "Oh, hi Spock, didn't know you had come back," he drawls with sarcasm. He examines Jim carefully, starting with his head. "Y'all been doing that Vulcan mumbo-jumbo?" he asks crossly. I nod, not wanting to earn his wrath with my usual precision answers. "Cracked his skull open and you want to go poking around in there. The things love will drive a man to do," he concedes. "Well, you had a severe concussion and tearing of an artery, but you'll live." McCoy helps Jim sit up a little further on the bed.
"How long was I out?" It is always Jim's first question.
"A while-"
"—Three days." We glare at each other and Jim laughs.
"Things can't be that bad if the two of you are going at it," he admits. "I'm hungry," he adds. As Dr. McCoy leaves to find some food for Jim, I reach into my bag that is sitting by the bed and pull out a data PADD. Now may be a good time for some lightness.
"I have learned much while we were apart," I begin. He smiles at me.
"You would have to make vacation a learning experience."
I hand him the PADD. I sit back as he pushes play, and watch his face move from shock to confusion and finally settles on absolute euphoria.
"Oh my God, Spock, you were wasted! And you were dancing to Aerosmith!" He seems positively thrilled at this.
"I did it as an experiment, to understand what it means to lose control. I understand now why you seek so often to loosen your inhibitions. However, there is a time and a place." I don't want this to turn into a lecture so I stop there.
"God, Spock, don't I know it. I'm horrified at what I did before you left. It's just so hard, being a Captain and having all that responsibility, and knowing you could lose your crewmembers at any time. And those three Ensigns…" he trails off. I grip his hand tightly.
"Those Ensigns were helped greatly by you, and did not die in vain. Do not place blame upon you for their deaths." We sit quietly waiting for Dr. McCoy, who is more than likely taking his time so we can have time to ourselves.
Finally he comes through the door with great flourish, holding a tray of decidedly Southern food and a familiar bowl.
"Soul food for the good little boy, and plomeek soup for the other good little boy who probably hasn't eaten since this began." I shake my head and hold up my hand, but he insists. "Swear under oath you've eaten since Jim got sick, and I'll take it away." I cannot do this, so I accept his gracious gift.
"Tell us, Spock, how was your vacation?" the doctor intones.
I see the light come back on in Jim's eyes and for a moment I want our little secret to stay between us. But the joy he would have in telling the story would be dampened, so I sit back and continue eating with grace.
"Spock had to go and prove he loves me all over again," is all Jim says.
McCoy sighs dramatically and gets up.
"Well if you two are gonna get lovey-dovey on me, I'm outta here." But he winks at me and I know he understands.
I remind myself to thank him later. My father often told me thanks are illogical, but humans enjoy them so much and appreciate them even more.
"Can I leave, Bones?"
"Sure, kiddo. Nothing rough for inside a week, just to be sure."
With that the doctor is gone. Jim puts his tray aside and begins dressing as fast as possible. When he is ready we leave for our quarters, since it is well into Beta shift by now.
"I got a surprise for you, too, Spock," Jim whispers.
I am a little shocked; he had no warning I would be back this soon, what could he have planned? He opens the door to our quarters and runs to the computer.
"You got to turn around and close your eyes." I do so, knowing something this important to Jim would carry these instructions.
There is the sound of rustling fabric and grunts, then the computer being accessed. When music begins, I give a start.
"Okay, open your eyes and turn around!"
He has changed into his favorite blue jeans and a t-shirt that says "Lucky Man" on it, and is carrying his hairbrush like a microphone. He has serenaded me before, so this is nothing new. However, I have not heard this song before.
"My baby, he don't talk sweet
He ain't go much to say.
But he loves me, loves me, loves me
I know that he loves me anyway.
And maybe he don't dress fine
But I don't really mind.
Because every time he pulls me near
I just wanna cheer
Let's hear it for the boy!
Let's give the boy a hand
Let's hear it for my baby
You know you gotta understand
Maybe he's no Romeo
But he's my lovin' one man show
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa
Let's hear it for the boy!
As Jim dances around me, I am reminded of the pain I have endured, and how it is moments like this that tell me I would do it all over again. The love he is sending me through the bond, the sheer happiness he is giving me, they make it all worth it. I permit myself a smile as he finishes his song.
"What'd ya think?"
"I think, T'hy'la, that you have overworked yourself against doctor's orders. So now we will sit quietly and talk about our time apart and what we have both learned."
"Okay, that sounds good to me," he answers, putting down the hairbrush and turning off the computer. We sit quietly on the sofa; fingers intertwined, and talk until our stomachs tell us it is dinner time. Another evening meal together, but this time everything is different. We are, in fact, better men.
A different shore leave, months later. We enter the bar and Jim looks around for a moment before spotting the rest of the bridge crew. We make our way over to them and sit down in the booth with them. They are all laughing and trading stories of what they plan to do with the rest of leave. A waitress comes up and speaks to Jim. He orders, and turns back to the group. I must trust him, so I do not ask to know what he ordered. I order spiced tea.
The waitress returns and hands Jim a cup, and hands me my tea. I look over at him, and he winks at me.
"Jim, do you not think you get enough coffee on the ship?" I hear Dr. McCoy ask him.
"There's no such thing as enough coffee," is his enigmatic answer.
I love you, Spock.
I love you too, T'hy'la.
So ends our journey through a particularly rough place, and we are stronger for having been down this road. I may have had to stay up all night, but I got to save a life.
[A/N: Thank you first to my patient, calm, amazing beta spockslovechild. Many of these edits have been made because of influence from family and friends. Thank you to Day for giving me a much more interesting reaction from a drunken Kirk, and thank you to Mauldren, for simply listening. "Let's Hear It for the Boy" is for you.]