AN: Here's part three of the Tarsus arc! You weren't expecting me so soon, were you? But sweet lovely Spock is back to pine after his Jim!
-Written with the spirit of Poets of the Fall's amazing song 'Cradled in love', which is as Spirk as can be. Enjoy!
So don't cry for your love,
cry tears of joy
cause you're alive
cradled in love
11
Quiet
Spock's fingers twitched as he wrapped them around Jim's shoulders in a bruising grip, breathing against his pale face; the Vulcan's eyes were wide open and trailed on the men rapidly approaching, reducing their already non-existent chances of survival by 10% with every step they took, every angry shout that passed from one to the other.
I was too late, the science officer thought, shivering from the freezing, wet wind that had risen above them. I have failed. He was unarmed, outnumbered, alone: with his Captain unconscious and probably dying from blood loss and internal trauma, he was powerless and could do nothing but stay there, crouched into the crimson dirt, shielding his t'hy'la's body with his own in a foolish attempt at delaying his inevitable death… The human's heartbeat was the only thing he heard, loud and so strangely slow -both alien and familiar- and he focused on its even, rhythmic sound, building his walls and shields around it to centre his mind, to keep himself collected and together in those interminable seconds as he waited for the end.
His hands slid up to cup Jim's soft cheeks, and he was instantly enveloped by the low thrum of freely flowing thoughts, pleasing and beautiful and terribly dynamic when they coiled close -too close- to his own. He almost gave in to temptation and started a meld without permission, just to plunge once more into the oasis that was his t'hy'la's mind, but he controlled the urge, because it wasn't right, to steal from him for his selfish needs…
A menacing growl built in the back of his throat as the metallic whizz of a phaser reached his ears, and he readied himself for the blow that was sure to come…
Except it did not. Instead, a high, melodious voice filled the air, greeted by a loud litany of profanities, and Spock looked up in time to see Nyota's frightening glare before she ducked to avoid falling under the weight of the man she had just shot. "Take that, dickhead," she muttered angrily, with the barest hint of self-satisfaction, and then she was already aiming a kick at the first woman in sight.
Behind her came the doctor, bearing two phasers; he stayed clear of the fight, and the Vulcan understood why only when he succeeded in joining him by the Captain's unmoving body: the human squatted down next to him, glanced at his friend for a brief instant, then slid one of his weapons into the First Officer's hand. "I want him on the shuttle, asap," he ordered quickly, "Chekov's gonna be here in a matter of minutes, now move, move, get out the way!" He gave him a heavy push on the back.
Spock blinked. "I calculate the chances of you both surviving this to be less than…" he started to say, even as he bent to scoop Jim up in his arms effortlessly -the weight of a human, no matter how fit, would always be negligible to him, they were so fragile and they didn't even realise it- and armed his phaser.
"Captain's safety comes first and you know it, go!" McCoy got up and shot a man dead in the heart, effectively diverting the laser beam he had directed at Uhura. She flashed him a wide smile and soon they were fighting back to back, twin expressions of deep focus painted on their faces.
As he broke into a swift run, the Vulcan aimed at two men and a woman, evening out the odds of the fight; then, without looking back, he made his retreat, nearly flying over the dusty ground in his haste to get Kirk where he could receive at least basic medical attention. The rain that had started to fall was cold and unpleasant, drenching his clothes, blurring his vision, making his eyelashes stick together with every blink, yet he could have been running upon desert sand at the speed he was moving.
It was only seven point twelve minutes later, when he boarded the shuttlecraft under Chekov's concerned gaze, that he allowed himself to feel a fraction of the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, and even then, he paid it no mind, crouching down with Jim's head rested safely on his thighs as he hovered a tricorder over him and improvised the doctor for the time being.
"You look terreeble, sir," the navigator quipped, expertly manoeuvring the shuttle so it soared right above the fight. "How's the Keptin?"
"I believe he shall survive," Spock said flatly, carding his fingers through wet golden hair in an unconscious attempt at warming them somewhat. His teeth had begun to chatter and he let them, far too tired to even try and regulate his inner temperature. Wrenching himself away from Jim, the Vulcan slid smoothly towards the door and keyed it open so he could peer outside. It was as if he had just willingly put his head under a very heavy waterfall, and he was momentarily blinded by the still-unfamiliar rain. Why couldn't it have been a desert planet? How could humans prosper under such severe, unforgiving weather conditions?
Nyota and McCoy (the latter grumbling foul insults directed alternatively at the storm and at Kodos) were rapidly approaching the Galileo III, having successfully defeated their opponents, and both appeared to be mostly uninjured. He helped them up and shut the doors as soon as they were safely inside, then resumed his position kneeling beside Kirk's head. "What about them?" Uhura asked, staring worriedly at the tips of his ears which had taken on the sickly greenish hue that preceded hypothermia. "Most of them are still alive."
"We shall beam down a team of security guards," the Vulcan answered slowly, to avoid the likely risk of biting his tongue and also because he was quite busy monitoring the doctor's actions and his reactions at Jim's critical conditions. "As s-soon as we reach the Enterprise."
Without having to be told, Chekov brought the shuttle to full speed and raised the temperature by twelve degrees.
Jim was bedridden for seven days, and Spock nearly spent the whole duration of the week sitting by his side, leaving exclusively when he was on duty or returning to his quarters to either change or shower, and eating only when McCoy shoved a tray of food under his nose accompanied by threats and profanities. After thirty-six hours, the doctor had grown accustomed to his silent, watchful presence, and did not jump anymore if the Vulcan suddenly spoke after long pauses or shifted unexpectedly in his plastic chair. Once, he walked in on him deeply asleep with his head neatly reclined against his crossed arms, very close to the Captain's shoulder -a deeply touching scene he had witnessed far too many times; two years before, he would have woken him and shooed him away to get some much-needed R&R, but now things had changed, and he simply retrieved a blanked from his medical supplies to let it fall around him, quietly cursing the damn hobgoblin who wouldn't know what was best for him if it kicked him in the face.
Kirk -or rather, Spock got a lot of visitors during his faithful vigil. Chekov came by often, usually to talk science with the officer he regarded as some sort of infallible miracle-worker ("Seriously, Pointy, you infected the kid,") but also to chat excitedly about the ship's latest gossip; that was when Leonard noticed how fond of Pavel the half-blood really was, for he clearly couldn't have cared less which illogical human created what unnecessary fuss, yet he let the young navigator go on and on about zhis and zhat and even made encouraging contributions to the conversation.
It was a little creepy, hearing a Vulcan of all people inquire as to whether Ensign Stavrou was emotionally invested in Lieutenant Kular, but he found he could cope, once he got over the initial shock.
Sulu's visits were more sporadic (after all, if Spock was in Sickbay, it probably meant he had the conn) but more engaging as well: the botanist brought down holos of all the veggies they were growing in the greenhouse, and they spent hours discussing things like the increase in the production of spores and the amount of oxygen released and getting overly enthusiastic if the plant's pigmentation appeared to be significantly brighter than two point six days ago (to quote the Vulcan) because it meant it was turning into one very strong lady (Hikaru's words). The helmsman even tried to sneak some ugly, spiked thing he insisted on calling safe into the room so his play-mate could inspect it, but McCoy refused to even allow it behind the threshold, on the grounds that it might (surely would) cause Jim an allergic reaction. To the doctor's immense satisfaction, the potentially harmful shrub had to be taken away, for Spock would not be moved from his perch on the edge of Kirk's bed, so busy he was monitoring his ragged breathing as he slept. Leonard was proud to claim his Sickbay was, and would always be, allergen-free.
Scotty popped in and out occasionally to offer them a drink of Scotch (which Spock politely refused and McCoy gladly accepted), to check on the Captain's progress (he was healing but it would take time and patience, so the CMO was keeping him heavily sedated to avoid complications), to give the Vulcan long, thoroughly detailed status reports (the kind he most preferred), or to ask permission to mess with the ship's engines. The Acting Captain was always cautious to approve of the Chief Engineer's wild plans, but he listened with great courtesy and interest as he listed them off, and again Leonard noted that much had changed since they'd first boarded the Enterprise: Spock was still severe and unyielding, but he was also kind when he turned him down, taking care not to deliver a curt, unforgiving denial and instead choosing to present changes of his own or at the very least gently reminding the human that this was only the twenty-third century, after all.
Uhura came by every evening, bringing her dinner and some soft music to listen to, and simply sat next to Spock for a while as they ate; they hardly even spoke, seemingly content to share their silence made of white noise, and the few times McCoy had joined them he'd found himself caught too in the strange relaxed atmosphere. It was a Vulcan thing, Nyota had good-naturedly explained to him when asked, to simply exist in the same space, forming the lightest of links for the shortest of periods by just being close. It was an easy and pleasant way to respect a culture that was unravelling, falling apart so quickly it made her dizzy to even talk about it.
Once or twice, a young Orion, Lieutenant D'nevla, joined the communications officer: she was a friend of Spock's, and she had been taking double shifts to cover his work in the labs, though he never requested she did. She had a bright, merry appearance that managed to ease even the doctor's remarkably foul mood, and her visits were… enlightening. It was from watching her interact with the First Officer that McCoy realised that everyone on board (humans and aliens alike) always treated him a little differently. Be it on the account that he was Vulcan, an endangered species and now a relic of something forever lost, or simply because he had that way of going by unnoticed, quietly observing life as it progressed with the eyes of a scientist but rarely participating in it, that way of being unobtrusive yet constantly there, ready to intervene if things went wrong… People acted differently when Spock was present, and Leonard wondered if he knew, if he minded or simply accepted it as a fact, as the status quo, because it was the status quo. The exception being, of course, Jim, who was never less than thrilled to have him around and treated him as his equal, nothing more, nothing less. And, for some strange reason for which Bones was grateful nonetheless, D'nevla. But it might be due to her having practically spent half her life working with the Vulcan and learning from him, growing up with him.
It was, all in all, quite an educational week for the doctor.
The sixth night was the hardest: Jim's broken ribs had nearly healed and his vitals had almost completely returned to normal parameters, thus his mind was beginning to show signs of restlessness, wanting to escape the blanket of darkness it was trapped within. When McCoy entered the private room he had long ago set out for his most troublesome patients, he found Spock half sitting, half reclining over the tiny bed, palms cupping Kirk's cheeks, fingers splayed in the position of a meld. He was, however, perfectly cognisant of his surroundings, for as soon as he took one step inside, the Vulcan's piercing eyes lifted to stare at him intently. "The Captain is having a nightmare," he stated in an even whisper, "I do not believe it is wise to keep him in this state any longer."
The CMO walked quickly across the small space, stopping to glance briefly at the wide screen occupying most of the wall to gauge Jim's conditions. "I know. He's starting to have a negative reaction to his medications, so that's the last he'll have of them."
Spock nodded curtly, smoothing his hand briefly on the human's forehead and temple, his head dropping low as he murmured a litany of Vulcan words in a not-so-surprisingly gentle tone.
"Are you reading his mind?" Leonard demanded, turning his back on him as he readied a string of Hypos to prepare for whatever his friend's body decided to throw at him. "He won't like that, you know."
The Science Officer shook his head once in denial, then, realising the doctor could not see him, spoke out loud: "I am not. I do not require a meld to be aware of his emotional state: simple skin-to-skin contact suffices." Jim's head had begun thrashing about on the pillow, but Spock stilled him with a firm yet delicate grip, and he fell quiet when the human started to babble nonsensical, muffled words under his breath. "I am attempting to quiet his distress."
"Well, good luck with that," McCoy muttered sarcastically, retrieving a bowl before moving to stand by the bed. "Hold him upright, I'm gonna have to give him a gastric lavage. It's gonna be mostly dry heaves since I've been feeding him intravenously, but the first round's liable to be ugly." He slid an arm over Kirk's shoulders to support him, drawing him into a sitting position. Then he sprayed two Hypos into his neck, one to rouse him somewhat and the other to make his stomach turn. "You can leave, it's gonna get pretty disgusting."
Spock shot him an incredulous look, shifting to sit more fully onto the bed, hands sliding around Jim's wrists in a vaguely possessive move. "I prefer to stay, thank you, doctor," he said condescendingly, "Please, allow me…" He drifted off as the CMO relinquished his friend to the Vulcan's hold so he could wrap himself around the slowly awakening Captain. "Jim," he called softly into his ear, sensing his rousing consciousness. "Jim, are you…?"
"No! No no no no no..." Kirk drawled, head lolling from side to side as he desperately tried to escape from the unyielding circle of Spock's arms. His overly bright blue eyes came to focus suddenly, and he blinked, looking confused and very much in pain. "Bones, what…?" That was as far as he got before the first wave of nausea overwhelmed him and he bent over his own knees, coughing as he brought up whatever little his stomach still held into the bowl McCoy had readied for him. "There, now, Jim. Let it out. S'fine. You'll be fine."
The Vulcan caressed Jim's forehead and back, holding him as his t'hy'la had done the night he had had his unpleasant first experience with chocolate. His skin was sweaty and overheated, like a furnace, and he was shaking violently, face red as he retched, spitting bile.
"Damn it, damn it…" he chocked, clutching at Spock's thighs desperately. "I can't… I can't… vomit… make it… stop…"
"Do not worry, k'diwa," his second in command crooned, voice almost a chant, "There will be food for you in the morning."
That seemed to calm the human somewhat, although it did take more than half an hour before the gagging subsided and he collapsed, boneless and exhausted, against the Vulcan's chest. McCoy shot him with three different Hypos, but he didn't so much as flinch at the sting of the injection. "It's over now, kid, you can sleep."
Jim's eyelids fluttered closed obediently, and Spock lowered him carefully on the bed, mindful of the IV still attached to his right arm, then resumed his usual position sitting in his chair, which he drew as close as possible; his hand returned to caressing Kirk's messy hair as if nothing had happened. "Shom-tor, k'diwa. Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, t'hy'la, ashal-veh…"
Leonard watched him silently, arms crossed as he listened to the ancient, elegant language he never took the time to learn and wondered at the Vulcan's tender words and their hidden meaning. "You know, Spock," he said, collecting his equipment before leaving the room, "I'm damn well glad Jim has you."
Something akin to relief and bewilderment passed across the scientist's transparent eyes, but it was gone in a blink as he once again directed the whole of his attention at the object of his very obvious affections. "Thank you, doctor," he whispered only, leaning down to rest his chin upon Jim's pillow.
Jim awoke to the sound of McCoy shuffling about near his bed; Spock had left for Alpha shift some fifty minutes before, and as soon as he noticed Kirk's vitals had shifted back to a state of awareness, the doctor went to call the bridge: "He's up and kicking," he said simply.
"I will be there shortly," came the Vulcan's immediate reply before he cut communications, wasting no time in pleasantries when he could race all the way to Sickbay in less than 3.798 seconds, an art perfected over the years and countless missions gone wrong.
Leonard moved to offer a welcoming smile to his reckless Captain, sifting a hand through his hair in a brisk, affectionate gesture that betrayed both his concern and his relief. "Welcome back among the living, idiot."
"Hello, Bones," Jim croaked, clearing his throat uncomfortably as he found it dry and sour. His CMO handed him a glass of water which he gulped down in a flash, then helped him into a sitting position, his back reclining against the now upturned pillow. "How long…?"
"I knocked you out cold for a week, kid," Bones told him flatly, "You did quite the number back there with Kodos." His eyes darkened in fury and compassion alike as he thought of the Executioner and his men, who still survived, because the Federation was firmly against the death penalty, no matter how much one deserved it. McCoy knew and approved of the motives behind the choice, but he felt as if those murderers would never pay enough for their heinous crimes. "I almost lost you for a moment."
The Captain raised a trembling hand and locked the doctor's forearm in a friendly grip, a strong hold designed to say, without words, I'm here, I'm safe, you can stop worrying now. "Sorry, Bones."
"It's fine, now, Jim," the doctor murmured soothingly, "Just try and be more careful next time."
"Bones, it's over," Kirk whispered, hardly daring to believe his own words, "He's dead."
"Yes."
Leonard turned when he heard Spock knock gently on the open door to make his presence known, and smiled at him, too, looking at the tray of food he was carrying. "The goblin's brought you breakfast, Jim," he stated, nodding to himself, "Good choice, by the way. It should go down without much fuss."
Slowly, the Vulcan walked over to the bed, seating himself in the chair and staring at his Captain warily, as if afraid to be sent away; his shoulders were stiff and drawn infinitesimally inward, expression closed off and forcedly collected, and he had yet to utter a word. Jim, for his part, appeared to be fascinated by the nearly invisible patterns decorating the ceiling, and wasn't acknowledging his presence at all.
Sighing heavily, McCoy clapped his hands to capture their attention. "I'm leaving you two dumbasses alone so you can talk." He put particular stress in the word, and sent a pointed glare in Kirk's direction to admonish him. "No funny business. And I mean it. I'll be back in half an hour to check on your condition. Eat. All of it."
With that, he was gone. An uncomfortable silence stretched into the tiny room, lasting for what seemed like ages, before finally Spock found the courage to break it, mostly because Jim was terribly pale and in desperate need of nourishment. He picked up a bowl of light cereals and offered it to the human with a soft murmur of: "You are hungry, k'diwa, here."
That was the third time he had dared call Kirk beloved, but the Vulcan was self-aware enough to know it was only because he was certain his t'hy'la had no idea what the ancient word meant. He waited with some trepidation for him to wrap his fingers around the small container and start eating the proffered food. "How are you faring?" he asked quietly, chilled by his companion's aloof behaviour: he did not understand why his Captain would wish to distance himself so from him, why he deemed it necessary to hide the truth from him, to push him away.
"I'm fine, Spock," Kirk said dismissively, "You don't have to… stick around if you don't want to." It took him less than five minutes to finish the cereals, and here the Vulcan was presented with a conundrum: he intended to give Jim one of the sweet bread rolls he had brought, but tradition prevented him from touching the food directly with his fingers; he solved his problem by passing him the plate so he could pick his own. "I wish to stay, if it is of no inconvenience to you," he replied, and relaxed minutely when the human nodded and smiled faintly at him.
Satisfied he was eating, Spock decided he could partake in the meal, and gathered his slice of prusah kisan (a fruit pie typical of Shi'Kahr) as he kept watching his t'hy'la. "Jim, talk to me," he demanded after a while, leaning forward just so, trying to meet his eyes that eluded him, so beautiful yet so unattainable.
It took a few more minutes before Jim finally let him see his expression, and for a moment the Vulcan wished he hadn't turned at all, because to have those sky-blue eyes, full of terrible pain and achingly intense, piercing his very soul was excruciating. He wanted nothing more than to press himself against that wonderful, fragile, brave human, smell his scent and taste his emotions and mould his own mind around his, till they were one and he could quell the waves of hurt rolling off him.
"What would you have me say, Spock?"
He looked so weary. Old.
Spock's fingers itched for some kind of contact. He twined them in his lap and contained the sigh threatening to escape, then voiced the first question that came to his lips: "Why did you leave me in the dark?" He set his breakfast aside, more interested in his t'hy'la's answer than in gaining nourishment; distantly, the logical side of his brain reminded him it was quite an emotional behaviour to refuse food because of one's worry, but he ignored it. Please, t'hy'la, do let me in.
"I never wanted you to know about Tarsus." Kirk shifted against his pillow, and the Vulcan made an aborted motion to help him before he stilled in his chair and waited for him to find a more comfortable position. The human moved so he was facing him fully, and the weight of his gaze settled upon Spock's shoulders, causing him to tense in response. "I had surmised as much. I wish to understand why."
Jim raised a hand to his forehead, scratching at his golden hair, and his eyes fell to the corner of the bed as if drawn there by a greater force. "Because I wasn't ready to tell you yet." He paused, obviously choosing his next words carefully, tone charged with an emotion the Vulcan couldn't name. "Now circumstances made it impossible to keep it from you, so, well…" He laughed humourlessly, and Spock shivered and dragged his chair closer to him, instinctually reaching for him: his hand came to rest on the mattress. "You figured it out by yourself, didn't you? You're so damn smart."
"You went with Kodos willingly," the scientist stated, mulling over Kirk's admission. "You let him hurt you."
"Yes. He had you and the others. He would have killed you then and there if I hadn't followed him."
"You were ready to die with him." The Vulcan's voice had taken on a distinctly displeased quality. T'hy'la, do you not know how precious you are? "You would have given up your life only to see him destroyed."
Jim's eyes flashed in sudden rage: "Are you judging me, Spock?" he challenged, "Because that's not at all your place. You have no idea what life was like during the famine, you have no fucking idea -what I did to survive, what I lost…"
Spock wrapped a hand around his fingers, stilling him and cutting through his rage with the simple honesty of his clear gaze: "I would never presume to judge you, Jim," he calmly declared, "But I would have you remember that it is per your own doing that I am left to wonder at your experience. Also, I am no stranger to loss."
How can you be so cruel as to think I can afford to lose you as well?
Kirk slumped against the pillow, seemingly drained of all his fury, and his eyes returned to harbouring that soft, heartbreakingly compassionate look that made the Vulcan yearn for more physical proximity; he did not relinquish his hold of the human's hand, listening to what was left unsaid, to the confusing turmoil of pain-disbelief-resignation-frustration-affection-sadness cursing through his skin. "That's exactly why I didn't want you to become involved. I didn't want you to see… what I was like… before. I shouldn't have let you come planet-side."
Spock's eyes narrowed. "You would have died had I not intervened," he growled, the sharp sting of rejection tainting his mind and filling his mouth with a sour taste. "I would have been honoured to be your ally during this incident, yet you chose to treat me as a stranger," he accused, breaking their contact to cross his arms stiffly, "You demand my trust yet do not trust me in return. You have been unfair to me, and I am forced to reach the conclusion that you do not, in fact, desire my help and support."
Jim grimaced, set his jaw, graced him with a hard expression designed to hide his pain. The Vulcan could hear his heart beating faster. "I warned you," the Captain hissed, "I warned you it would come to this."
"Come to what?" the scientist pressed, alarmed, anxiously examining his face for clues as to his meaning. T'hy'la, no, do not, do not give up so soon… "Please clarify."
Kirk took a steadying breath, forced a smile. "Spock, I understand if you wanna end things now. It's fine. We can still be friends." He swallowed. "I mean, if you want. I know I've been a total shit to you, but I told you before, it wasn't gonna be pleasant." A huff escaped his soft lips and he turned away sharply as the Vulcan stared, flabbergasted, at him, utterly unable to respond to the string of absurdities thrown his way. "Hell, nothing about me is pleasant. My past isn't pleasant. My past is fucking Tarsus, stealing and killing. I murdered people to survive back then. Murdered, do you understand? I had my caretakers sell me to Kodos's guards to save themselves, so sorry if I have a hard time trusting people." He shook his head as if to clear it, then added: "You shouldn't meddle with this kind of ugly shit. You've had enough to last…"
He fell quiet abruptly, eyes widening as he unexpectedly found Spock all up and into his personal space, face just inches shy of his own, fingers encircling his wrists firmly to keep him still; he had knocked over his chair and was sitting on the bed, staring incredulously down at the human with a glare that could have set Delta Vega on fire, so passionate and un-Vulcan-like it was. "Foolish Jim," he snarled, leaning down to press his forehead against his Captain's and purposefully ignoring his startled attempts at putting some space between them. "As if I would ever wish to leave you. As if I would ever desire anything other than you. As if I would ever think any less of you because you survived a genocide of all things."
"Spock…" Kirk tried, but his companion was having none of it.
"Be silent, k'diwa," he ordered, landing a quick kiss on his temple before he pulled away enough to whisper: "You are an amazing person, Jim, but you are also a fool, and I have grown quite tired of this attitude of yours."
"Attitude…?" Jim repeated, feeling the Vulcan's fingers slide upwards to caress his palms, and twined their hands, letting out a long, drawn-out breath when their lips brushed.
"Indeed. I would be most grateful if you would cease censoring yourself for my sake. If you do not trust me with your past, how can you expect me to understand and support you in your present and future? Foolish Jim."
"Okay, okay, I've got it. I'm a fool." He reached up to kiss him on the nose, truly smiling for the first time since the start of the mission. "Can you forgive me?"
"Of course, k'diwa." Spock was deeply relieved now that he understood that Jim's absurd behaviour stemmed from misplaced guilt and insecurity, and not from a sense of dissatisfaction with their relationship. "Please bear in mind that I am more than willing to help you with any problem you may have, as you have already done for me many times. In fact, nothing would please me more."
"Romantic much? Isn't that a bit… illogical?" Kirk laughed a little, encircling the Vulcan's neck with both arms.
"It is not," the scientist simply replied, basking in the affection seeping into his skin, "You are precious to me."
"Thank you," the human murmured, and he embraced him fully, warm and strong and golden. "Thank you."
Spock kissed him on the mouth, a slow, thorough kiss, heedless of the doctor who had returned and was now making exaggerated gagging noises behind them; Jim tasted like the food he had brought, which satisfied the Vulcan on a very instinctual level, and his emotional state was rich and positive, washing pleasantly over his shields. T'nash-veh t'hy'la.
"I thought I said no funny business!" Leonard raged loudly.
Completely unfazed, the First Officer left the bed and returned to his chair and his unfinished breakfast, looking for all the world as if he had just won the Nobel Prize. Jim chuckled breathlessly, leaning towards him to examine what remained of the slice of cake. "Can I have some of that?" he requested. Spock fed him a bite with his own fork.
"Ugh, you two are gross," the CMO complained in mock-irritation; he was fighting a smile, though, and Kirk leered at his companion just to aggravate McCoy further. "Actually, I'm drop dead gorgeous and Spock's hot as Vulcan."
Both the doctor and the scientist raised an eyebrow at the pun.
"Just shut the hell up and let me check your vitals, kid."
Kneeling on the floor of his quarters, Spock stared at his lyre with a blank expression, brushing his fingertips over the pale strings as he silently contemplated the subtle signs of wear on the smooth wooden surface. He found himself trapped in a strange sense of conflict: he realised now and quite abruptly that he had greatly missed playing, missed the tranquillity and peace the music lent him and the web of comforting feelings it inspired, at times more steadying and anchoring than meditation itself. He was admittedly confused by the sudden blossoming of a wish to re-discover the instrument, because in no way had his guilt diminished, nor had the idea of immerging himself once more in memories of his mother's love become any less hurtful. But the binds he had carefully drawn to contain that part of his mind were loosening considerably, and pain and joy alike filtered, unbidden, influencing his judgement, weakening him.
It was not be.
The warm touch of a human hand pressed against his shoulder derailed his train of thought, and then Jim was crouching in front of him, a smile on his face: "Will you play for me?" he asked simply, eyes twinkling as he pulled the Vulcan up to his feet.
"I have not played since…" Spock began, shooting the ka'athyra a doubtful look even as he allowed his t'hy'la to guide him into a sitting position on the small bed. Kirk enveloped him in an embrace from behind, arms and legs wrapped tightly around him. "I know," he murmured, from his position with his chin dipped into his shoulder. "That's why I'm asking, Spock."
The half-blood relaxed blissfully into his presence, moulding his back to his chest, and turned his head just so to let him see his eyebrow raised in question. "Trust me," Jim said, "You've gotta get over it sooner rather than later." A light chuckle escaped him, and the Vulcan felt it reverberate across his spine. "Believe me, I speak from experience. It'll be better afterwards."
"Will it, now?" the scientist quipped, teasing a string experimentally and shivering in response to the deep note the motion elicited. He let his hand fall and the human took it in his own, tickling his fingers a little. "Can I lower the temperature, baby?" he demanded.
Spock had, in fact, noticed his t'hy'la was on his way to overheating, and gave the order to the computer good-naturedly, knowing the ambient was well above what humans generally considered 'hot'. "Thanks," Jim whispered gratefully into his hair, kissing up and down his neck in a deeply soothing rhythm. "So will you play?"
"Hmm…" Spock closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sweet touches his beloved was bestowing upon his person and the fondness he picked up from their every point of contact. "Do you really wish me to?" he inquired somewhat lazily, tilting his head to the side so he could capture Kirk's lips with his own, perhaps hoping to distract him.
"Yeah, I wanna hear you. Please." Jim cajoled, voice tender, running his palm over the flat, polished surface of the lyre with an air of reverence that made the scientist melt further into the embrace. "There's a lot I still don't know about your culture, and I'm curious. One can only learn so much from a computer's databanks…" His breath ghosted over Spock's pointed ear for a moment, utterly distracting, but then he withdrew. "Play me some ancient songs."
"Very well," the Vulcan acquiesced, perfectly aware there was little to nothing he would deny his k'diwa. "I shall play Tsat t'arev, Secret of the desert wind, for you; it is a melody that was most appreciated in pre-Surakian times, and it was usually sung before the sun set, to celebrate the end of a day of toil and bring about a restful night." He had always been fascinated by those times, especially as a child learning control and discipline. "I believe you will find it quite emotional. Would that be acceptable?"
Jim laughed again, and moved to wrap his arms around his waist, stilling there so he would not disturb him. "More than acceptable, baby. Let's hear."
Spock huffed quietly; then, with an alarming dose of trepidation (he would have to meditate intensively over his increasingly emotional responses to certain situations), he took a deep breath and started to hum the words of the lullaby, softly, delicately, so low it was barely audible: such was the whisper of the wind when it first rose above the dunes, lifting the reddish sands into a timeless dance.
The human listened, enraptured, to the alien (now more than ever) voice grow into a slow crescendo, words spilling faster and louder, the echo of the tiring restlessness of the day -a day full of battles and the struggle of survival- promising more storms to come. The tune was powerful and the Vulcan sang it so well it was as if he could see the roasting fire around which nomad clans gathered and smell the desert in its rich scents and hear the distant howls of le-matyas and sehlats fighting to the death and feel the darkness of a moonless night caress his skin, enveloping him in a black blanket that for some reason spoke only of security.
And finally, finally, Spock's fingers fell upon the strings, and he began to play; the music was otherworldly. Jim held his breath, observing his lover's eyelids flutter closed in concentration, his lips part slightly, a melancholic expression paint itself over his sharp features. He did not dare shift, and took care to keep his emotions firmly in check so as to convey nothing but a sense of awe, appreciation and warmth through the touch of his lips against his skin. "Beautiful," he murmured in wonderment, and felt the Vulcan lean subtly into him in response, head falling upon his shoulder as he continued singing, his voice mixing seamlessly with the magnificent sounds he tore from the lyre.
An edge of grief-stricken sadness flowed into the symphony when it started to reach its conclusion; Spock's hands, which had been dancing so fast across the instruments they sometimes blurred, nearly stopped over what Kirk assumed were the ending notes, so full of grief they brought a lump to his throat, but suddenly the melody flared again, surprisingly alive and bursting with courageous hope: those dead during the day's battles had been mourned, and now came the time to celebrate life and new beginnings and the quiet that was the night and the brush of the wind against sand that looked silver -drained of its fiery colour by the darkness- under bright stars…
And that was the end.
With a liberating sigh, the Vulcan set the lyre at the foot of the bed, and he turned towards Jim, searching for his fingers and silently requesting his opinion. The human smiled widely at him, blue eyes shining in happiness, then he was kissing him fervently, and Spock found himself lying on his back with a very enthusiastic t'hy'la trying to take off his uniform hovering over him.
"You're amazing," he was whispering, "So fucking amazing."
The scientist caught him by the hips to still him. "Jim," he called warningly, pushing him away when he noticed his Captain had no intention of relinquishing his claim on his shirt. "Jim, you are due on the bridge in 27.639 minutes. Jim."
"That's like, half an hour," Kirk drawled, "Plenty of time."
"Not quite." Taking advantage of his superior strength, Spock wriggled away from his grip and off the bed, straightening out his uniform with a stiff motion. "I need to visit the scientific laboratories, engineering and the greenhouses."
Jim flashed him a grin as he composed himself. "Eh, that's too bad. I'll see you on Alpha shift then?"
"Indeed." The Vulcan bent down for a fleeting goodbye kiss. "I shall join you there in precisely 26 minutes." He made to leave.
Kirk's eyes trailed after him, and just before he could walk into the rage of the sensors to open the doors, he called: "Hey, Spock?"
The First Officer cocked his head to the side curiously, gracing him with a soft, affectionate look: "Yes, Jim?"
"…Thanks."
Spock blinked. "What for, my Jim?"
"Nothing, just… Thank you."
"Of course, Jim."
AN: And… that's it! The arc is closed on a sweet lovely note! I also finished on record time, so, yeah, I'm quite satisfied with the way things turned out, and ready to turn on Spock's problem with melding ^_^ Cute Vulcan insecurity is cute, but he needs to gain a little more confidence, and who doesn't like a good old meld?
Also, I might have a thing for Spock falling asleep around the ship. I'm afraid that's not the last you'll read of it, but I'll keep myself in check!
I wanna thank all of you who have been following me so far, I loved your reviews and your general presence and you're great and awesome and I hope you're having a good time! Shaya tonat!
On the death penalty; I know in TOS "The ultimate computer" it actually says that the Federation validates it, but it was, after all, the twentieth century when the show aired, and so I decided to take this license, because I think it fits more with the general spirit of the Federation to have abolished killing as a means of justice. (For more information on the matter, please read 'Dei delitti e delle pene', by Cesare Beccaria).
Okay, I was kidding. Please forgive my crazy love for anything remotely related to Literature. I am a fool.
What a reeeeally long note! I'll call it quits now before I can blubber further. LLAP and see you next chapter!