A/N: So sorry this is late! Half of my digestive system decided to quit and take a four day nap which was, needless to say, time-occupying. But I hath returned with another chapter! Happy early Christmas! I plan to make the chapters longer than they have been thus far, but it usually depends on the content of the chapter. Certain things just go better separately, I suppose. Enjoy some angst!
The captain had invited Spock to partake in the pastime known as 'chess' for the fifth time: an occurrence that had been increasing in frequency since the first query four months in to his command of the Enterprise. Spock, having previously engaged in the intellectual game with his mother pre-Starfleet, was uncertain as to whether or not the blond and loquacious captain would prove a challenging opponent. He was surpr—he found it fascinating when Kirk managed to prove a rather difficult challenger, and very nearly lost the first match. The captain utilized an altogether illogical approach to the game and repeatedly appeared to make moves entirely by whimsy. By the time Spock declared "checkmate", he had determined that the captain would have made the same claim within three moves. Peculiar.
On this occasion, the captain opened the door to his quarters almost immediately after Spock rand the buzzer for entry. A bright smile stretched across his features. "Spock! You're just in time!"
Kirk had requested they meet at 20:00. It was currently 19:59 and thirty-six point oh-nine seconds.
"Of course, Captain," Spock replied, nonchalantly.
With a snort of mirth, the captain stepped back, allowing his first officer to enter. "Of course, Commander," he returned, blue eyes flashing with humor. "Would you care for some tea? I was going to get a coffee, myself," he stuck out his tongue in a notably childlike gesture. "Replicated coffee sucks, but I'll take anything with caffeine."
"That would be acceptable," Spock stood at rest while Kirk moved to the replicator in the corner. The captain's quarters, the half-vulcan had noticed upon first granted entry, was what Nyota would describe as 'organized chaos.' While the design of the room was beyond Spock's logic, it no doubt had some sort of system to Kirk.
The first element that caught his attention that time had been the large quantity of Terran antique books on the shelves. All crewmembers kept certain 'souvenirs' or articles of their home planets, even Spock, and Kirk was no exception. But Spock had been fascinated with the captain's choice. Not that he had any doubt that James T. Kirk was an intelligent being; he'd learned as much when going through his files as a cadet before the disciplinary hearing. The human's grades had been exceptional, especially in terms of the difficulty of the classes he was taking. Warp Core Physics, although seldom the choice of command-track students, was one of many extra-curricular lectures the cadet regularly attended.
However, Spock hadn't quite expected this level of… sentimentality that came with the captain's hobby. His collection was extensive, from weathered copies of Shakespeare to fantasy works that more resembled old tomes. When the captain had first caught his XO examining the volumes he'd chucked somewhat self-deprecatingly.
"Surprised that I can actually read?"
Spock had quirked an eyebrow. "I assure you that was never among my doubts, sir. Indeed you have proved most capable at reading the reports I've sent you."
Kirk gasped, "Did you just make a joke?"
"Vulcans do not 'joke'."
"Right," the captain had chuckled. "And Bones doesn't cuss."
This time, however, Spock only spared a fleeting glance at the books, and instead focused his attention on the captain's desk. Surprisingly uncluttered, it did bear a spectacular pile of PADDS, no doubt teeming with paperwork.
"Looks like I'll be pulling another all-nighter."
Spock fluidly turned around to face the captain, who had quietly approached him, handing Spock his usual Vulcan tea. It was only programmed in two replicators on the entire ship: Spock's and the captain's.
Accepting the beverage with murmured gratitudes, Spock looked more closely as the captain. His broad shoulders were hunched, and his eyes a window to his stress, curtained by dark circles and sunken. He looked for all the world his twenty-seven years of age.
The captain sighed as he melted into his chair. "Are you going to tell me I need to sleep? Bones already nags me twelve times a day," he said tiredly.
"Captain, I merely intended to inquire about the last time you achieved two or more hours of REM sleep."
Kirk laughed. "That's the same thing," he shifted in his seat to resume set up of the chess game, which he was probably interrupted in attempt to do before, when Spock rang.
Spock raised a brow. "It is most beneficial and important that you get your rest, Captain. You are irreplaceable to the ship and its crew."
Grunting the captain replied in a lower tone, "I thought part of the job of First Officer was to be my replacement."
Carefully noting the emotion in the captain's voice, Spock cautiously interjected. "Only in the undesirable case of death or emotional compromise, Captain. And I find myself thinking that I wouldn't quite live up to your singular performance in the role."
The words had an ameliorative effect on the drained human, causing his eyes to flash with cerulean happiness as he beamed at the Vulcan. Spock always found the amount of expression other humanoids allowed to be perturbing, but when utilized by the captain, it had a warming influence on the atmosphere of the ship. "Thanks, Spock," he smiled. "I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."
Spock ducked his head slightly, an unconscious attempt to avoid emotionalism, "Well, I suggest that for tonight we postpone our chess match and instead collaborate on surmounting the considerable pile of PADD work on the desk, Captain."
"Sounds like a brilliant idea, Spock. And you really ought to call me Jim."
"Jim."
The answering silence, thought logically to be expected, held some amount of hurt. Silence was something Spock appreciated greatly in the bustling and hectic life on the Enterprise, and he often took refuge in his quarters for meditation whereas others opted to commune in one of the various rec rooms. But the way his voice echoed hollowly off the walls of the office was…unsettling.
Raising his chin and gaze, Spock straightened and once again returned to parade rest.
"Captain. There is little to report for today, other than the culmination of the latest trial on my person. The charges of misconduct and disobeying direct Starfleet Orders were nearly entirely dropped and lightened to a minor suspension of instructor reputability at the Academy," a slight pause. "I find myself…conflicted, sir. While part of me is grateful, logically, for the light punishment, there is some apprehension as to whether I am deserving of such sparing."
The space that should have contained an encouragement to continue remained empty.
"I have killed a being before he could be brought to trial for his crimes, caused the deaths of 97 crewmembers with my captaining under Khan's onslaught, and allowed that attacker to then cause even more deaths in the city. I do not feel as though I have been properly reprimanded," the word 'feel' caught awkwardly in the half-vulcan's throat, what with its disuse. Much like his mother, though, the captain had never judged Spock for admitting as much. "Captain, my actions have led to your predicament, and its finality due solely to my emotional compromise in the face of Khan."
The captain's visage, usually animated and light, remained stony and expressionless—his eyes cloaked with cold lids, unable to share their color. Spock swallowed. He still felt the illogic of speaking to a dead man, but he returned to the medical room nonetheless.
"Though it is illogical to wish for a differentiation in events that have already come to pass: I do. Capt—Jim, I wish I could try again," Spock's voice was tinged with surprise as this occurred to him. After a moment he cleared his throat.
"Nyota has become increasingly distant in regards to our relationship and I believe she has several negative emotions towards me at the moment. Not the least of which being fear. Of all those to witness my…lapse in control…" shaking his head Spock continued. "Dr. McCoy also appears troubled, and he has every right to dislike me. After all—"
Spock cut off when his Vulcan-hearing picked up the tap of footsteps in the tile hallway. When the door hissed open to reveal a startled Leonard McCoy, he had already turned and slipped past him.
"Doctor."
"Wha-? Spock?" the doctor sputtered. "What are you doing here?"
Making sure to pull his features into a steady mask of control, Spock faced the human. "Simply visiting, Doctor. I assure you I have not touched nor tampered with any of the machinery. Good day."
"'Visiting'? What do you—" but the commander had already recommenced his gait and turned the corner to the lift.
Upon exiting the premises, Spock observed that during his stop at the medical compound, the dark clouds had begun releasing a steady downpour of rain, bringing nearly all rescue and construction efforts to a reluctant halt. Upon reaching his temporary housing, Spock quickly and meticulously dried off his clothing and hair. Looking quite the opposite of the usual Vulcan composure, he observed the dismal nature of the apartment. The single light fixture yielded little light through a thick coat of grime, and the replicator looked at least four standard issue models behind. The furniture was sparse, a single narrow bed and a plain table. Thus far Spock had only unpacked his meditation mats and incense, while everything else remained untouched. It was the best the 'fleet could currently offer, even to someone of his rank and esteem, but Spock cared little for the discomfort.
Although Vulcans could go weeks without sleep under stress, Spock was feeling the weight of 8.61 days of without proper rest upon his shoulders. After checking his communicator and ascertaining that there were no issues that immediately required his expertise, he made his way wearily over to the bed and lowered himself onto the mattress. And there, fully dressed in his fatigues and on top of the sheets, he fell into a dream.
The wind screams past Spock's ears, but it is drowned out by the screaming in his head. The wailing is echoed in every bit of his telepathic voice and only increases in volume with each gratifying blow to the man named Khan. Every little pained noise spurs milliseconds of relief before falling back behind the wave of rage and grief.
You!
Spock's fist connects with Khan's jaw with an audible crack.
You took Jim!
A quick kick to the abdomen is followed by an uppercut.
You hurt him
Khan crashes to the hull of the craft and huffs a moan of pain. Spock rewards him with a crushing blow to his fibula.
You lied to him
The punches fall without pattern now, just a storm.
You killed him!
And suddenly the whistling stops, and the city fades as Khan turns slowly to face Spock.
And the bleeding features are that of Jim's.
And even then, Spock cannot stop the final blow from colliding with his temple, spilling precious red over his vision.
Choking out a gasp, Spock startled awake. Breaths chased each other in and out of his lungs feverishly as he struggled to regain his composure. 'Nightmare' was a term given to particularly unpleasant dreams which came about during sleep by various chemicals in the brain; thought nothing harmful, they were an uncannily human occurrence.
Once the racing in his side settled to the typical Vulcan heartbeat, Spock allowed himself as glace at the timepiece on the wall. He'd only managed to sleep 2.58 hours, and didn't plan to invest any more time to the practice.
A blinking light on his communicator informed him of a message from Nyota.
~~~ Spock, I was wondering if we could talk about something. Meet me for dinner at 16:30?
A/N: I'm telling you, they're gonna get longer. In the meantime, review?
