A/N: Star Trek, Kirk, Spock and various Starfleet personnel belongs to Paramount Viacom, and the coffee mentioned in the fic is the property of the Brazilian government.
As always, my profound (really profound. You could drop a penny into it and it wouldn't hit the bottom for days) gratitude to Dizdayn, who polishes off the rough edges of the story, and to anyone who has taken the time to review. On an aside note, did anyone read that article in Time about fanfiction? K/S got a mention - as did alien sex pollen. This fandom is absolutely famous. Notorious. Both. :D
IV. The Ambassadors
Alpha shift the next day began with the formal introduction of the two Federation-appointed ambassadors. Ambassador Robert Morrowith was on the comfortable side of sixty and looked like someone had drained ever ounce of liquid out of him. His skin was parchment dry, and his hair was a puffy, cloudy gray. He was short - Chekov cheerfully hovered around him, rejoicing in the fact that for once, he could look down his nose at somebody.
Ambassador Sorel, on the other hand, towered above everyone. He was austere, even for a Vulcan, and of indeterminable age. His eyes were the characteristic black of the Houses from the plains south of Shi'Khar. Upon seeing Spock, he nodded once and offered the Ta'al.
"Sochya, orishansu. Greetings from the House of your father."
Spock performed his own salutations, lifting his hand in response.
Morrowith was peering around the bridge with interest. "Oh, this is marvelous," he said. "I haven't been on a ship this large since the old Wayfarer models. Goodness, how time flies."
Chekov stepped a few feet to his right to allow Morrowith a clear view of the navigator's controls. "You haff flown many missions, yes?"
Morrowith smiled. "Da. It's been a while, though. Haven't been in the field since we negotiated the neutral zone with the Klingons. Don't know why we bothered, sometimes."
Sorel straightened a bit further. Spock could have used his spine to measure the dimensions of the ship. "Diplomacy is a cornerstone of democracy."
"So was the two-party system. Doesn't mean it's always a good idea." Morrowith fired back. "It is very gracious of you to accommodate us, though," he added to Kirk.
"Perhaps you would like a tour of the ship?" Kirk offered cordially, gesturing to the ambassadors that they should precede him down the corridor.
As the rest of the bridge crew gradually resumed their duties, Spock settled at his monitor and began familiarizing himself with the parameters of their mission.
The class M planet Phaeton Eta was located in the Callisto solar system. It was approximately a fifth the size of Earth with a slightly thinner atmosphere. Nonetheless, it contained a sufficiently high percentage of oxygen that humans could breathe unaided. The planet's proximity to the sun of Callisto, as well as that of the neighboring solar system, Arcas, rendered it a desert planet. During the day, the suns would bake the surface, and temperatures would rise to over seventy degrees Celsius. At night, anything on the surface would freeze. The crust of the planet was scarred with multiple large canyons where the rapidly changing temperatures had cracked and broken the rock.
Not much was known of the indigenous species; the Phaetans were still a pre-Warp civilization. Despite amazing technological advances in other fields, they had simply chosen not to expand beyond the borders of their home world. According to the Prime Directive, the Enterprise should have steered clear of the planet. An exception had been made at the behest of - Spock frowned at the screen - the Phaetans themselves. They'd picked up the signals off the Federation's communication net, tracelessly hacked them, and sent a very nice letter to the admiralty requesting diplomatic talks. Attached had been coordinates of their capital city and a blank file marked RSVP.
Spock wondered exactly what else they had picked up from the communications nets.
The morning passed with the analysis of the various geological, meteorological and biological threats to any humanoid visitors to Phaeton Eta. Spock read about canyon collapses, heat waves, sandstorms and arsenic-based fungi and took notes. When his break arrived, he forwarded the relevant files to McCoy, passed the conn to Nyota, and joined Sulu and Chekov for lunch. The navigator and the helmsman were thoroughly engrossed in a discussion about what to name Chekov's recently discovered asteroid ("I will call it Hikaru - like friend, is mostly hot air and holes."). When the negotiations devolved into a highly unprofessional bread fight, Spock left for the laboratory.
He was running simulations of the magnetic and gravitational fields of the planet when Kirk entered the room, ambassadors in tow.
"- these are our labs, which - oh, hi, Spock. We're just passing through."
"Captain, ambassadors," Spock acknowledged.
"We don't mean to be any disturbance," said Morrowith.
"Your presence is welcome," said Spock. "Perhaps you would care to examine the Hydroponics labs more closely - they are quite aesthetically pleasing. If I might borrow Ambassador Sorel for a moment, I would much enjoy an account of the state of the Vulcan colony."
He'd been wanting to talk to Sorel. Being in the company of someone who'd seen the new colony only served to increase his curiosity regarding T'Priah.
"The colony progresses," said Sorel. He gestured for Kirk and Morrowith to go on without him and clasped his hands behind his back, regarding Spock's simulations with interest. "Your models are not without merit," he admitted.
"They are simply calculations."
"Indeed. If I may?" He leaned over Spock's shoulder, examining the fluctuations more carefully. "Flawlessly logical," he said at length. "The Science Academy has lost a promising candidate."
Spock looked at the older Vulcan. His face was carefully blank, though Spock had hardly expected any different. "Starfleet seemed a more prudent choice at the time."
"Of course." Sorel inclined his head, conceding the point. "Have you had news recently from T'Priah? I believe the agricultural developments would interest you. The xeno-agronomists have engineered a hybrid of the sash-savas and the t'svai-arborea that will grow in T'Priah's calcium-heavy soil. I believe this development will be instrumental in the adaptation of further species..."
Spock listened with interest, occasionally asking to clarify a point. Sorel was a good talker - steering the conversation towards subjects he believed would interest Spock and giving a succinct report on the state of colonization. Occasionally Sarek or Ambassador Selek, alternative Spock's alter ego, would be mentioned, usually in conjunction with negotiations with the few Terran specialists allowed to aid in reconstruction or some particularly thorny scientific problem. It was an odd report to hear; the people were familiar, but the overall story sounded like it belonged in the pre-Surak times. If Spock hadn't witnessed the beginning of it himself, he would have been hard pressed to believe it.
After the destruction of Vulcan, the Enterprise had been the temporary home to the ragged, shell-shocked remnants of a dead planet. The population was devastated and the survivors, fractured. In the following weeks, many Vulcans had slipped into comas or madness, unequipped to deal with their mental and physical wounds.
According to Sorel, the roughly five thousand who hadn't succumbed to the mental backlash fell into three categories. Those who had brought their bond mate with them off the planet were shielded from the worst of the psychic backlash. The adepts of Kohlinar and the more devoted followers of the path of Surak sought refuge in logic and were in most cases able to meditate through the pain. The third group, the majority of the survivors, were left to deal with the trauma as best they could. The frequency of emotional outbursts had increased wildly. In their own way, the Vulcans were returning to their roots. They were a race of warriors, and they would fight as such. The only thing that had changed over the millennia was the enemy.
And there were enemies enough. Hunger and thirst was the first priority, shelter and sustenance. Sorel spoke mostly of these; you could combat them with science. As an okash-hakausu, Sorel had dealt with some of the mentally wounded. There were fights but only a few. The worst he'd seen had been a young geologist, Stonn, who'd spent a week drawing lines in the sand before anyone figured out they represented bonds. He'd taken a shovel, and on the shortest of the lines, he'd simply dug and dug and dug, until his hands blistered and bled and T'Linna, his House head, had to drag him out of the trench by force.
Conversing with another Vulcan was a skill Spock'd left to rust during his Academy years. It took him a few false tries and sidelong glances from Sorel to strike up the correct balance of interest, lack of emotion, formality and cordiality. He wasn't to ask questions outright; all he needed to know lay between the spoken words, implied, or indicated when a subject was hastily dropped.
"Reconstruction of the Academy of Science and the Lower Academy were not deemed immediately necessary."
There are not enough children left that they cannot be taught elsewhere. There won't be enough for years.
"Ah, yes, Ambassador Sarek has been an invaluable aid - the council finds him most adept at understanding the idiosyncrasies of the Federation delegations. Of course, many of the younger Vulcans are proving surprisingly adaptive as well-"
The older Vulcans are not happy accepting help. They see our culture weak, and they see the Federation leaving its imprint on an impressionable generation more likely to take the Delta shield than the circles and triangle of IDIC.
"Of course there have been advancements made in the field of biological architecture, but Professor Sanet has adopted a more agronomical focus, and as such, his research has largely benefited that field."
Food supplies are such a problem that other research with might have helped the colony has been put on hold until they are solved.
Once he'd reacquainted himself with the method of communication, Spock found it suspiciously easy to read the subtext. Sorel was hinting towards something else altogether.
"- the lack of available man power for vital projects -"
"Perhaps," Spock suggested, "we might discuss the issue preying on your mind without further preamble? I suspect your colleague will soon have finished his tour of the laboratories."
Sorel gave Spock a piercing glance, and Spock felt as though he'd failed some important test.
"Very well," said Sorel. "I see that Captain Kirk's proclivity for bluntness is a trait he shares with his crew. Vulcans are, as you know, a race whose reproduction is dominated by cycles: it is usual for a woman to carry no more than two or three children, if that, over a period of thirty years. This rate is ideal to sustain a healthy population. The fact remains, however, that we are not a healthy population. We are an endangered species in a universe that will err towards Darwin's conceptions of nature. Repopulation is essential to our survival."
Spock nodded slowly. "I see your concern. There are several Deltan geneticists affiliated with Starfleet who excel in their field; I can contact them on your behalf, if you wish -"
"We have geneticists of our own. There are already programs in place to encourage a higher birth rate, as well as intermarriage between the Houses to further a strong gene pool."
"I do not understand how I may assist you, then."
"There has been some fear that further variation in the gene pool may be required to combat genetic diseases. The first law of survival is adaption, and however little the council likes it, certain concessions must be made to improve upon the birth rate. I understand that you are the first human-vulcan genetic hybrid?"
"Affirmative. As my Father will attest -" Spock paused and carefully set down the planetary diagrams he'd been holding. "The first hybrid?"
"According to the records of the clinic that facilitated your birth, your DNA is evenly divided between human and Vulcan, despite the fact that your Vulcan traits are heavily dominant. Our knowledge in the area has progressed since then. Genetics should be able to achieve targeted traits such as a human period of gestation and certain innate immunities in hybrids with as little as 2-3% human DNA."
"The council approves of this?"
"Opinions are divided on the issue, but I fear necessity may force our hand. Your voice would be a welcome addition to the debate, Commander Spock. Perhaps you could facilitate the process of reaching the correct conclusion."
Spock barely bit back his reply in time; if they wanted an example of hybridism, they should ask Ambassador Selek. Of course, that would destroy the anonymity of the alternate Spock. Additionally, if Sorel wanted someone who could convince the council that human DNA would not make Vulcans susceptible to emotion, the Ambassador would be a poor choice.
Sorel read Spock's silence as hesitation. "I ask only that you stand by the example you have set."
Certainly, Spock had been an example all his life. His childhood years, he'd been the "why you shouldn't", a discouragement to all the potential parents of human-Vulcan hybrids: your child will grow up emotionally compromised. Now, he was to be the "why you should". The hybrid children could be of use despite their intrinsic flaw. They could grow up to add variation to the gene pool and be scientists in their spare time. It reminded him of Terran history lessons on the rationing during the world- and eugenics wars. There hadn't been enough coffee to go around, so people watered it down with acorns, roast chicory roots or beets. If it looked like coffee and tasted like coffee, who'd be able to tell the difference?
Everyone, that was who. If they'd had a choice, they never would have wanted it. No matter how you prepared it, a root would never be a bean, and after the treatment, the roasting and the boiling, it would be useless for anything else. It was forever stuck as a substitute, something not-quite either, the next best thing.
Spock wouldn't wish hybridism on his worst enemy. He fought a daily battle to even think in the correct manner. The council would have to find another way of increasing the population.
"Unfortunately," said Spock, "my work requires me to remain with Starfleet, for the time being. The casualties to the fleet at the Battle of Vulcan were severe, and until a suitable replacement is found, I cannot conscientiously leave my duties."
He offered up a model of weather patterns on the planet and hoped that Sorel would accept the change of subject. The Ambassador examined it, pronounced it passable, and returned to the previous topic of discussion.
"I have no doubt. Nonetheless, your unique talents would prove a valuable asset to the colony."
"My 'unique talents' are the reason I elected to pursue a career in Starfleet," Spock said archly.
"Ah. Understandable. Though I ask you to consider if you have not been rash to deny the entire race the benefit of your experience on the strength of past insults."
"I serve Vulcan how best, I deem, I may."
"It is unwise to let an important decision be made with little consideration. Context sways the best of us. Would you do us the honor of meditating on the request before denying it outright?"
That much, he could promise. Spock nodded.
Sorel quirked a brow, and a bit of the ice went out of his expression. "Thank you. Now, about your meteorological data -"
Ten minutes passed before Kirk and Morrowith returned. The latter looked like a child at Christmas, practically incandescent with excitement. He had a long scratch along his forearm and several smaller ones on his hands. "It isn't often you see them outside of Rigel, you know? They don't like leaving their native soil. How you got them to grow at all is beyond me. God knows, I've tried." He chuckled fondly. "Temperamental little prima donnas."
Kirk put a hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Our pilot waters them with champagne and literature. They're partial to Sun Tzu."
"I see. Perhaps we will have the chance to speak to this gentleman later?"
Kirk nodded. "Sure. He'll be off duty soon."
Sorel inclined his head to Spock. "An interesting conversation, Commander. I trust we will be able to continue it at some later moment."
Spock watched Kirk herd his flock of two towards the door and silently marveled at the fact that the Captain hadn't snapped and told them to tell Starfleet to go to hell. Curiously, he dipped a thought below his shields.
Boredom, frustration, anger, more frustration, then… excitement? The starship captain who was willing to play chess with a Vulcan to rid himself of just a small part of the diplomatic sawdust foisted on him would not feel excitement in such a situation. There was only one conclusion to draw, namely that Spock's shields were faulty. His own emotions must have colored his readings. Occam's Razor: The most likely solution was usually the right one, and mind reading wasn't an exact science - or exactly a science, especially given the linguistic barriers. More data was needed to reach a scientifically solid conclusion; once more, then, in Vulcan.
Thrap, reshan, tepor'es, aitlu -
Aitlu?
Desire. To need and wish. Hunger -
It was utterly incongruous with the situation, even for Kirk. A mistranslation. His synapses were unaccustomed to connecting hormonal surges with the appropriate noun.
Spock snapped back to reality as flawlessly as possible, hoping his confusion had not shown. Kirk was looking at him, and Spock instinctively straightened a little, schooling his face into a blank stone wall as he'd been taught.
"Captain?"
"I have some matters I wish to discuss with you, Mr. Spock. When do you estimate you'll be finished here?"
Spock glanced at his model of Phaeton Eta. The basic atmospheric simulations were almost complete though he needed to compensate for the gravitational pull of the Callisto and Arcas suns and factor in the powerful electromagnetic field surrounding the planet - and that, of course, would require an aside note to Mr. Scott -
"Twenty-two minutes past eight, standard ship time?" he hazarded. "Approximately."
"See you at nine," Kirk said.
Spock saved ten minutes of his estimated total because he had the good fortune to run into Scotty in the upper levels of engineering. He subsequently spent those ten minutes lighting the candles of the Yel-halek-kuv and organizing his thoughts. At five to nine, he cleared away the mat and the candles and put water on for tea. It was hardly a Kirk-beverage on the best of days, but Spock estimated that by the end of his first day as a diplomat, the captain would drink mudslug extract if it would take away his headache. Theris-masu was an acquired taste, but tense muscles and tired minds tended to fall headfirst in love with it. Spending most of his waking hours with a highly illogical crew, Spock was dangerously close to becoming addicted to the substance. The calming properties of the tea helped him to maintain his quarters as a haven of peace, serenity and order aboard the very human Enterprise.
Then Kirk knocked at the door, and Spock barely had time to open it before Kirk had brushed past him and flung himself onto Spock's bunk, spread-eagled as though he'd been stunned mid-flight.
"Kill me now," he moaned. "Seriously, Spock. One quick Vulcan Ninja shoulder-pat of Death. I'll even do the paperwork approving the assassination of the captain for you; just put me out of my goddamn misery."
"...Good evening." Spock clung to manners in the hope that he could force the conversation back on track. "Please come in. Would you perhaps care for a cup of tea? The water has not yet reached optimal temperature, but -"
Kirk lifted his head, a slightly wild look in his eyes. "I love you, first officer dearest, but if you continue to be polite I'll gag you with my socks. They aren't clean, but I'm just that desperate."
"Captain-"
"Commander, I have snapped. Gone off the deep end. Tell Starfleet I blame them. Do you know if that cave on Delta Vega is abandoned now? I want to live there -"
Spock sat down.
Swinging his legs over the side of Spock's cot, Kirk managed to get himself semi-upright.
The silence stretched on.
Kirk rubbed at his face with one hand. "I shouldn't just barge in here and break conversational norms for the hell of it, should I? I'm sorry, but it really has been a snot barrage of a day - can we just... start over?"
Spock nodded.
"Tea sounds nice," Kirk said quietly. "I'd like some, if that isn't any trouble. Can I help with anything?"
"The water has not yet reached-"
Kirk waved his hand. "-optimal temperature, yeah. Just let me know, ok?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, er... How was your day?"
"Adequate."
"How nice."
"I assume you found yours sub-standard?"
Kirk laughed humorlessly. "I knew we made you science officer for a reason."
"I was the only applicant for the job," Spock said drily. "You were shipping out the following day, and no-one had filled the post."
"Turned down thirty-two Starfleet scientists hoping you'd come round," Kirk corrected him. The tea-water boiled, and before Spock had found his feet, Kirk had removed the kettle from the old-fashioned heater and pulled two earthenware cups and a ceremonial pot from a shelf. He continued talking while he measured out spoonfuls of leaves and added them to the boiling water. "They were all qualified, of course, but you were by far the best. You were always intriguing - oh, and I was trying to butter my way into Uhura's good graces. Did you know that she can swear in like fifty languages?"
"I am aware of the fact, yes."
"Because I could totally use Vulcan swearwords on a day-to-day basis." He smiled and set the pot of tea down in front of Spock. "You do have them, right?"
"Fascinating. I assumed expletives would be the first thing you would wish to learn in Vulcan."
"Do you have any sugar?"
Spock gestured at the replicator.
"Great, thanks." Kirk shoveled copious amounts into his cup and slouched in his chair with a sigh. "This stuff makes me want to amputate my tongue without sugar. Useful, though."
"I was unaware that your studies of Vulcan culture extended to herbal infusions." Surprisingly, Kirk hadn't butchered the drink completely. Spock's tea smelled bitter and spicy, like it should, and had the characteristic amber tinge. The liquid clawed at his throat on the way down and dissipated warmth throughout his body. It was a little like melting. Kirk was eating his tea with a spoon, crunching mindlessly at his sugary herbal syrup.
"It's tea, Spock. It's not like it's nuclear physics," he said. "Well, actually, the nuclear physics might be easier. Bad example. I think I've seen you make tea before. Selectively eidetic, remember?"
"I am quite sure you have not."
"Maybe it was one of Uhura's 'Cultural Sensitivity' lectures." He sighed. "I really am sorry for barging in on you like this. I'd planned on behaving all professional and captain-y and everything. It's just that I've been over-thinking every sentence all day, and - no, I'm not actually sure why I'm rambling, except that somehow I feel than I can around you, and have -"
"Jim, are you feeling quite well?"
"Yeah, 'm fine."
Spock thought about pointing Jim's mussed hair and confused demeanor out to him but decided not to. If Jim did not wish to confide in him, he would not force the issue. "Have you reached a decision in relation to the bond?" he asked instead.
Jim nodded. "Maybe. I have a few questions first, though. They're kind of personal."
"It is your right to ask."
"Right," said Kirk. "So you don't have to answer - but is this why you broke up with Uhura? Because you didn't have the whole mind-buddy thing going?"
"Because we weren't sufficiently compatible that we could engage in a full mating bond?"
"That."
Spock cupped his hands around his mug, feeling the warmth seeping through the clay into his hands. The many nerve endings hummed at the sudden desert warmth, and his fingers tightened imperceptibly, seeking out more of the pleasurable sensation.
"It was one of several factors contributing to the final conclusion. Nyota and I are much alike; we are both reticent. There was a certain effort involved in changing the nature of our relationship, and in the end, we found it more prudent to simply let it revert to its natural state."
"You're still friends?" Kirk asked.
"Indeed. Nyota has requested a brief period of time to re-accustom herself to our current dynamic, but we maintain cordial relations."
Kirk's expression was almost wistful. "Do you miss her?"
"I -" Spock stopped. Yes. "I am a Vulcan."
"But you do love."
"Rarely," he admitted.
Kirk made an odd little jerking movement, as if he wanted to reach out and hug Spock. The Vulcan tensed, anticipating the onslaught. Instead, Kirk's hand came to rest upon his arm.
"That's another of my questions," Kirk said gently. "You said Vulcans can only have one mating bond at a time. What would happen if we - if we kept the bond, just for the time being, until your mind gets better? If you met someone, would you be able to date them? I mean, I don't want to get in your way or anything."
"Jim. We cannot keep the bond. It is a violation of your rights as a sentient being. You do not understand the damage I am capable of causing to your mind -"
He wants us, sang the mindlink, incandescent with joy. Our mate. Never parted, touching and touched -
"But you won't," Kirk said with absolute confidence. "I mean, you haven't. I trust you."
"I could kill you," Spock said, monotonously. "I could reach into your head, deepen the bond, and stop your heart. I could hear your every thought. I could insinuate myself so thoroughly into your mind that you would not be able to tell which desires were yours and which were mine, where your personality ended and mine began. I could make you want the bond, cherish it. I could addict you so thoroughly to my presence that it would drown out any individual emotion you feel. Death would be merciful, compared to the pain I could inflict upon you. You are not Vulcan; you cannot protect yourself."
Kirk paled a little, but tightened his grip on Spock's arm. "I know you, Spock. You forged the bond to save my life. I'm offering to keep it to save your sanity. Look, it's all very simple - if you want, we'll just leave it as it is. You promise not to touch anything in my head unless it's an emergency, and I won't try to get into your head just for the hell of it. Mutual benefit. You stay non-insane, and I stay non-dead."
"It is not a question of want on my part. I feel nothing for either option. Nevertheless I would remind you that less than a year ago you succeeded in goading me beyond reason. I intended to kill you. Rationally, I would not seek to hurt you, but I am not a flawlessly rational being."
Kirk looked thoughtful. "I don't think you would hurt me, even if I goad you. We fight all the time, but we never really lose it anymore." He frowned. "Didn't bonds evolve on Vulcan for the express purpose of preventing the species from killing itself off before passing on the genes?"
"True." Spock bowed his head. "But you cannot rush into this. You do not know the implications-"
Kirk shrugged. "Ambassador Sorel can cut the bond, right? I'm not rushing. We can leave things how they are for this mission, see how they go. Look, if you're really against this, just tell me. But I like being your friend, and I like you happy."
"Jim, Vulcans take bonds very seriously."
"I know, Spock. Believe it or not, I've actually thought about this -"
"By Vulcan standards, we are currently engaged." Spock removed his arm from Kirk's grasp and picked up the teapot to clean it out. He didn't want to watch the expression on his friend's face. Kirk lived like he had Deltan pheromones in his blood; effortlessly physical. He couched his tongue in the corner of his mouth when he concentrated, alternately biting at his lips and licking them, and had, from the first time he sat in the captain's chair, adopted a casual, seductive sprawl. Vulcans didn't do anything casually. He hadn't understood it before, but perhaps Kirk would now. A bond was not just something to be held and discarded once their lives were out of danger without paying the price.
"I guess that answers the dating question," Kirk said lightly.
Spock whirled on him, brandishing the pot. "This is not a joke, Captain, despite your persistence in treating it as such. Do you have any concept of how painful a broken bond is?"
"I believe I am familiar with loss, thank you. Just tell me if waiting to break the bond would make it easier for you to avoid some sort of psychosis," Kirk said.
"...Yes," Spock admitted reluctantly. "I believe so."
"Then, wouldn't the logical thing to do be to leave it, even if it's just for a week or two? I kind of like the idea of the magic trouble-sensing tracker system, too, but that's not the point."
"We are engaged." Spock wondered which part of the message Kirk had failed to understand.
"Well, it's not like we're actually going to get married, is it? It's just a technicality. Though we probably shouldn't mention this to anyone..." Kirk trailed off. "Man, Bones' face would be priceless."
"You are most emphatically not to involve Doctor McCoy in this."
Kirk waggled his eyebrows. "Oh yeah? Scared?"
Spock tried to project just how trying he found Kirk at that moment without moving any of his facial muscles.
"Bones would never let you live this down." Kirk yawned and stretched, exposing a faint sliver of skin below his uniform. "Sit back down, Spock. I'm too tired to out-logic you. If you say so, we'll go see Sorel right now."
Spock swallowed. Would it be so bad to wait a few days to sever the bond? He could meditate, improve his shields. He could keep Kirk safe on Phaeton Eta. There were benefits.
"We will sever the bond at the end of our mission," he decided. "At that point, I will have prepared myself to the best of my abilities, and we will be at liberty to deal with the potential backlash."
"Good. I don't want you moping all over the bridge." Kirk leaned forward, and the serious look in his eyes belied his light tone. "I mean it, Spock. I'm prepared to keep this bond for as long as you need to make sure you're ok."
That might be a while. Spock didn't say it, but he thought it. He'd seen enough of Kirk to know that his mind was an addictive substance. The more he got, the more he'd want. The trick was finding the line between putting off the procedure to make it safer for the parties involved, and putting it off because Kirk kept the darkness and loneliness at bay. After the mission, Spock promised himself. The instant we board the Enterprise.
Spock nodded. "I am grateful for your understanding."
Kirk laughed, and Spock regarded him skeptically; the laugh had a replicated quality, a little stale and slightly suspicious. "Yeah. Anything to keep the First Officer in working condition." He shrugged, as if throwing off the weight of the conclusion. "You know, given that current mush-factor of my brain, now would be a good time to beat me at chess. I mention this only because I know you need the advantage."
Spock raised an eyebrow.
"Thought so," said Kirk. "Shall we start the betting at five status reports?"
Apparently, it was a rhetorical question. Kirk began setting the board without waiting for an answer, and Spock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
"You share Mr. Scott's philosophy regarding the Enterprise," Spock said when Kirk had the pawns lined up. Spock straightened his distractedly, making sure they filed up with befitting military precision. "Surely, a day spent admiring her virtues cannot be wholly wasted?"
Not to mention that Kirk probably would have baited and finagled every scrap of information out of the Ambassadors he could possibly get. It was the sort of challenge he enjoyed.
"The inside of my head is a riot. I swear, there's throwing of sharp, nasty objects in there." Kirk rested his chin in his hand and shoved a pawn towards Spock's side of the board. He was playing black. Spock overlooked it. "If my brain cells go on strike, do you think Komack will hold me responsible?"
Spock repressed a smile. Kirk was getting better at dodging questions he didn't want to answer.
Later that night, when they had removed the sheen of dust on Spock's 3D chessboard quite thoroughly and Kirk had finished telling Spock about how completely mindlessly dull it was to accommodate diplomats (Kirk's personal philosophy seemed to be that exaggeration furthered understanding), Spock cleaned up the cups and kettle. Kirk had left minutes earlier, after almost falling asleep in the middle of a rant.
Spock was tired as well, though he knew the feeling enough to separate it from his thought process. It didn't affect him as such, other than being an extra drain on his shields. Mindlessly, he finished cleaning and removed his boots and uniform.
Kirk wanted to keep the bond. He shouldn't have been so surprised - after all, his older self was an extremely adept puppeteer. He wouldn't have recommended talking to Kirk if the captain wouldn't have taken his side of the argument. Spock frowned. When had he begun to regard the ambassador so negatively? He had no cause for his dislike. It was irrational, and more than a little paradoxical; it was not as if he actively opposed himself. His older counterpart should be no different. What had been, was, to some degree, but that was a result of the past. The future wasn't set. It was illogical to hold a grudge against someone because they represented the bad choices you would make if your planet hadn't been destroyed - an event that was the direct consequence of your bad choices, and a prime example among them.
Vulcans liked to view life as a series of logically dictated actions and consequences. Coincidence was simply a product of someone else's action. If you added multiple dimensions, however, the model grew a lot less linear: Spock was influencing his past with choices from his future, actions that had never happened and never would. Taken out of context like that, it was hard to guess at his alternate self's motives or character. He had neglected to pass relevant information on to Spock directly once before, in an attempt to manipulate events to make them resemble those of his own timeline more closely. In doing so, he had risked the fate of the Federation outright.
That might be it, the root of his dislike - Spock had never enjoyed unknown variables. He did not know the Ambassador's ultimate goal, nor the information he was keeping from him this time around. There would be a reason for it; he was a logical creature, after all, but there would also be a risk. Spock was playing the Ambassador's game partially blindfold, and he was dragging Kirk along with him.
He could make popcorn. Could have put a bag in each of his pockets and watched the face of the ceremonial guards as in the middle of the rituals as - pop! - he began to expand with little snaps. It's just that fucking hot.
Where is he?
A desert of some sort, sand is in his mouth and eyes.
He's burning up. The sun is nothing; he's got a supernova in his veins. He can't remember anything but the glorious blaze. The glass is gone, and the wheat - like it was never there. Only the fire left. He is tapped, and he rings true. A clear, crisp note. Then he is on the ground,with blood in his mouth, and it's not his own. Tastes like iron, not copper. The wrong metal. Human. He licks at the neck of the creature holding him down against the sand to be sure. The skin is salty, and damp with sweat. There it is - he's holding the human. Why? He can't think. He's just burningburningburning and oh God, let the Opponent bite his ear again.
It's all wrong, he thinks desperately. I'm not the blaze, or the warmth. I'm the cold breath, space through the last gasp of the atmosphere, the ocean deep below where light never reaches. Nothing beyond the border of my skin -
He manages to get himself clear, and the world shifts around him. He clings to the body in his arms, and inhales it. One hand is fisted in his hair, another on his back, and he removes them to twine them with his own. Pupils blown wide with desire, and he snarls as he slides against him. He presses hungry kisses to the Opponent's mouth, and tastes his mind through his temples. He tastes like bourbon vanilla without the vanilla and a lazy summer afternoon in Terran grass.
He tastes bitter. Polluted. Something's wrong.
Spock woke completely tangled in his sheet. He struggled to free himself and barely managed to make it to the bathroom before vomiting the previous evening's tea into the sink. It burned in his throat, and he gulped down some water to clear his mouth. His skin was hypersensitive from the dream, and he forced himself to get his physical reactions under control.
Spock moved into the shower cubicle but didn't turn on the water. He curled up against the wall, letting the glass cool him. Ambassador Spock had told him he had a full two years before Pon Farr took him, but perhaps this was some sort of warning - a precursor to the fact. His dreams made him sick. There was no logic to the frenzied lust. He should abhor what had happened, should have fallen upon meditation the instant he woke. Instead, he was hiding, shivering, in his bathroom. The feeling permeating the dream was not hard to name. Unlike the specifics of the dream, it lingered - aitlu. Desire.
When he'd sensed it from Kirk in the labs, it hadn't been a mistranslation between hormones and vocabulary. It had been a misattribution. His own repressed feelings were coloring his readings. Spock drew himself tighter together, becoming as small a sphere as he could. He was losing control.