"Okay," Jim said, feeling somewhat apprehensive about what else there could be to discuss. As far as he was concerned, the majority of their issues had been gone over – apologies had been exchanged, it didn't look like Spock was going to run off, and he knew that he definitely wasn't planning on running off himself... "Is this going to take long?" he asked, hoping against hope that it didn't have anything to do with that 'moment-before-the-wall'. "Because, you know, I should probably clean up."

So, maybe he was stalling a little. It was still a valid excuse – if his breath smelled half as bad as it tasted, then he was amazed that Spock hadn't migrated to furthest corner of the room yet.

Spock's gaze flicked over him, and he thought he caught just a hint of distaste in his expression.

Ouch.

"Of course," his first officer agreed. "We may continue our conversation when you have seen to your needs."

With a grateful nod, Jim grabbed his bag and swiftly retreated into the next room. His nerves were jangling. Was Spock really going to… well, call him out, more or less? Maybe try and politely explain that he had no 'interest in pursuing a physical relationship' with him? Oh damn that would be humiliating.

What, me? No, no, he thought as he cleaned himself up, grimacing at the scruffy, vaguely ill-looking face in the mirror. Attracted to you? Pssh. That was just a fluke. You were completely imagining it. It must have been all that crazy going on in your head, you know, crossed wires and shit. It happens.

…Yeah. No way was he actually going to pull that off. Maybe he could just keep apologizing his way out of it? Convince him that he was working on it, and would resist any and all compulsions to molest him? Because he was, so at least that had honesty going for it.

Was it ironic that he had to suppress himself over a Vulcan?

With a sigh Jim decided it was better just to not think about it for now, and instead focused on his physical issues. It was when he set about the welcome process of cleaning his mouth that he discovered that, apparently, toothpaste and Andorian hangover remedies did not a good combination make. His tongue felt like it was on fire as he sputtered over the sink, desperately washing his mouth out with water in an effort to relieve the sudden burn. He coughed and choked, and then suffered under an unpleasant, nauseous wave and moved to swiftly to unload his stomach contents. They were frothy and blue and distinctly alien, and though he didn't look too closely, appeared to be swirling around with intent. Which probably wasn't a good sign - but he'd seen weirder things.

Jim didn't really begin to suspect that something was genuinely wrong until he was on his way out, and the lightness in his head and burning behind his lips had only gotten worse. He felt – off. His skin was cold, even though he'd run himself under a hot shower, and his reactions were fuzzy and muted as he instructed his body to move. Dizzy didn't even begin to describe it when he opened the door, and, with a lurching surge, promptly fell into the room beyond.

His teeth clacked painfully and his head swam as he hit the floor.

"Jim!" he heard Spock say, and his voice sounded strange, as though he were talking through a long tunnel.

"Nnrrngg," Jim replied. He tried to push himself back up, but since the floor was now tilting unpleasantly, he reconsidered that move and decided it would be better to just stay down. He clenched his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he was hit by another wave of nausea.

A pair of hands gently coaxed him into rolling over, which wasn't the best idea. He tried of fend off the disorientation that hit him full-blast. Spock asked him something. Quick, harsh, important. But he couldn't focus on the words, or find the presence of mind to respond. Instead he wrapped his arms around himself as he began to burn inside – first his mouth, then rapidly his throat, chest, and gut. He could feel the dull thud of his own pulse with almost hyper awareness. But his skin remained too cold – an inescapable paradox of sensation. Hot and cold. It was as simple as up and down, black and white, right and left. Human and Vulcan. The combination was terrible in its juxtaposition, in the way it wanted to tear him in two, or flip him inside-out. Cold which burned and heat which paralyzed. He gasped in desperate, piercing breaths.

He was grateful when he lost consciousness.

When he came to, Jim's first thought was that he had been picked up by his ankles, turned over, and shaken for all he was worth. Did I pick a fight with a giant? he wondered in disorientation. That was a bad idea. Distantly, he managed to make out the sound of Spock's voice. He sounded annoyed. I hope Spock doesn't pick a fight with a giant, he thought. But then he immediately decided it didn't matter anyway – Spock would probably win. Unless the giant was really, really big, and didn't have a neck. Sort of like an over-sized potato, maybe, except that potatoes didn't have arms, so it would at least need those.

"Potatoes with arms," he mumbled to himself. Then he laughed, but neither of those things worked right, since his mouth and throat felt all numb.

Spock's voice had stopped now. He would have been worried, but he was starting to get a little more clear-headed, and so the looming threat of a potato-giant was beginning to look less and less likely. He tried to open his eyes. It took him a minute – and once he managed it, he immediately closed them against the pain of the room's lighting.

"Jim?" he heard Spock ask, this time sounding much closer and clearer. "Have you regained consciousness?"

"No," Jim replied, wishing it were true. Then – because he was still quite a bit off, and it seemed only polite to ask – he added: "have you?"

There was a pause.

"Disorientation is a normal side-effect for these kinds of things," an unfamiliar voice insisted, sounding nervous and edgy. "It should pass in an hour or so. Like I said, he'll be fine, Mr. Spock."

Curious now, Jim decided to try opening his eyes again. He managed to get one open to just a slit – enough to make out Spock's distinctive frame – and not much more. It was a little hard to tell, but he thought it looked like his first officer was giving someone what Bones had once dubbed the 'Vulcan stink-eye'. It was an expression which Jim was familiar with, having been on the receiving end a fair number of times.

"Given the circumstances, I do not believe that skepticism is unmerited," Spock said in his distant, cool, I-Am-So-Much-Smarter-Than-You voice. "You have already demonstrated that this facility is remiss in its observance of proper protocol and procedure – unless it was your intent to poison him, in which case 'skepticism' would be an insufficient reaction on my part."

There was sputtering, and stammering, and Jim felt kind of bad for whoever Spock was 'yelling' at. But he was also enjoying it just a tiny bit, because quite often that voice was directed at him, and it was nice to see someone else under fire for a change. Even if he couldn't really see them, per se. He tried to open his other eye to get a better look, but the brightness was still causing him problems.

"Who poisoned him?" he asked groggily, with the sneaking suspicion that 'him' was, in fact, 'Jim'. Hey, that rhymed! He should tell Spock. "Spock, hey, Spock, I rhyme," he managed to spit out with glee before anyone could answer his question, squinting in his first officer's general direction.

Once again, there was a long pause.

"If he has not regained control of his mental faculties within an hour-"

"He will, he will!" the unfamiliar voice assured. "We're running several tests right this minute just to be certain. Believe me, Mr. Spock, your friend will be quite alright. These things happen – especially with reckless young men."

Another pause.

"Er, obviously I didn't mean to refer to the unanticipated allergic reaction to his medication. We try to avoid that whenever possible, and again, it was an honest mistake. The nurse responsible will be formally reprimanded."

Aw, Jim thought. Poor nurse. Formal reprimands sucked. He'd already had to do a couple as captain – once to a member of security personnel who was twice his age, and once to a very green helmsman – and they always made him feel like such a dick. "You should let Spock do it," he advised the owner of the strange voice. "Sometimes I do." Which probably wasn't very fair to Spock, but really, he was much better at it. People actually felt like they'd broken a rule when the half-Vulcan took a strip off of them.

"That would not be appropriate, Jim," Spock replied, and some of the bite had left his tone, returning it to its more familiar, neutral cadence as he addressed him. "I am not in a position of authority over this hospital's medical staff."

"Not that that stopped you ten minutes ago…" the stranger muttered under her breath.

Jim tried to look at her, getting only the blurred impression of a medical uniform and identifiably human features. "He can hear you," he informed the professional-looking blob helpfully. Then he tried to raise his hand up to indicate his ears – but for some reason the best he could manage was a kind of half-hearted flop. Spock had good hearing because he had Vulcan ears. Jim liked his ears – they were very curvy and pointy. But something told him that he probably shouldn't say that out loud. No, the ear-liking was a secret. Like when Spock talked about Vulcan-this and Vulcan-that, but he never said he or I, because he was half human, but he wanted to be a good Vulcan. It would ruin everything if they both didn't pretend, whether or not they both knew better, too.

"It's a secret," he mumbled to himself, not processing the words which Spock and the stranger were now exchanging. It was followed shortly by the sound of footsteps moving off.

"What is a secret, Jim?" Spock asked him.

Jim frowned. He didn't like keeping secrets from Spock. It felt bad, and mean. But he couldn't tell him – that would feel worse. Maybe he could tell the other Spock? But then, no, that would be bad too, because what if the other-him had had the same secret? Then he'd be ratting him out. Although the other Spock ratted out his Spock, so maybe it would only be fair.

The light didn't hurt so much anymore. He managed to open his eyes all the way, seeing Spock standing over him. "Do you think the me that was the other me liked the other you the way that I like you? 'Cause it's better than if the me that was the other me liked the this you the way that I like you, since he's dead and it would be awkward. But I like the other you even if it's not the same way that I like the this you, so maybe it would be different and not awkward?" he asked in an almost incomprehensible string of words. Then he blinked, and remembered that, no, that was another secret, too. Damn. "Waitaminute. Forget that," he instructed.

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. He was really good at it. Jim wanted to press his thumb against his eyebrow and run it along the dark line, but he didn't think Spock would appreciate it. Jim's own eyebrows never behaved so precisely. They were unruly sons of bitches.

"Perhaps it would be best if you refrained from speaking," Spock suggested. It was probably a good idea. Spock generally had those. But…

"You said we had more to talk about," he argued. Although for some reason he seemed to think that was bad. He couldn't remember why, though – he had fun talking to Spock.

"If your recollection of recent events is returning, then it is likely you will not have to maintain silence for long," Spock replied in even tones. "However, conversing with you will accomplish little until you are able to coherently organize your thoughts."

"Oh." So that was the problem. Spock didn't want to talk to Jim. "...Okay then."

Well, it was alright anyway, he was having a hard time getting the words out past the numb in his mouth and throat. For some reason he was pretty sure that toothpaste was to blame there, although he couldn't remember toothpaste making him all numb before. Maybe the toothpaste had been poisoned? But why would a nurse poison his toothpaste? That didn't make any sense. He could ask Spock, but Spock had asked him not to speak. Maybe he could use sign-language?

That would probably be a better idea if he actually knew sign-language. And could move his hands properly. And could remember what he wanted to ask, because he seemed to have forgotten it, now, the idea slipping away like a dream upon waking.

"Do Vulcans know sign-language?" he wondered, before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to talk. Whoops.

Spock tilted his head slightly. But he didn't protest Jim's question, or seem annoyed. Instead he answered it, in that low, quiet voice which should have been boring, but really wasn't. Really, really wasn't.

"Vulcans have many complex hand gestures and signals, so in a sense, we do. However, it is by no means a complete 'language', and would be insufficient for detailed communication," he explained, and then Jim listened as he began to carefully describe and demonstrate several gestures for him. Most of the information flew right over his head, but in his fuzzy, benumbed state he didn't care about that nearly so much as the gentle cadence of Spock's voice, and the long line of his fingers as they moved in front of him.

Some time later he was watching Spock go through several of his meditative hand positions when the fog over his mind began to clear in earnest, and he became a little bit more aware of his own state. He was lying in a hospital – that much was obvious. It looked like they were in just a side alcove, one among many, although only a few were occupied. He could feel, now, the telltale after-effects of medical treatment, the odd stiffness to some of his limbs, and he recognized the numbness in his mouth, throat, and chest as being induced. Experimentally, he flexed some of the fingers on his right hand, and found that much of his dexterity was coming back too.

Still, he wasn't inclined to interrupt Spock with more coherent questions. He had a surprisingly good, if unorthodox, bedside manner.

The jig was up soon enough anyway.

"Jim?" Spock asked, pausing mid-demonstration to fix him with an observant look. "Have you regained coherency?"

Damn. Oh well, he supposed that he couldn't avoid checking back into reality sooner or later.

"Yup," he confirmed. "I think so."

There was a pause, as Spock seemed to wait and see if anything else would come flying out of his mouth. When nothing did he relaxed in his marginal, very subtle way.

"So what the hell happened to me?" Jim asked, even though he already had his suspicions.

Spock gave him a look. "You ingested an unknown substance, and then attempted to remove the residue with another, incompatible substance, which created an adverse chemical reaction that could have potentially dissolved the majority of your digestive system if left untreated. I procured emergency medical aid in the hopes of preventing this. One of the on-duty nurses then chose to display his lack of competence by administering you a medication which had been previously tagged as unsuitable for you. You nearly went into cardiac arrest," Spock explained, his voice toneless and very to-the-point. He had stiffened back up again, too.

"Huh," Jim replied, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth. Well, it didn't feel like there were any parts missing, so that was a good sign. "How long was I out for?"

"One hour and thirty-eight minutes."

"Hey, that's not bad!" Jim declared cheerfully, grateful that he hadn't missed an entire day or anything. It'd been a while since he'd done that, and it wasn't an experience he relished.

"My assessment of the situation is notably divergent from yours," Spock replied, looking unimpressed and bordering on frustrated.

Seeing a storm in its beginnings, Jim back-pedaled with admirable diplomacy, all things considered. "I just meant that it could have been worse," he rephrased. He wasn't pleased with passing out on the floor and nearly dissolving some of himself – to the point where he'd rather dwell on the fact that that hadn't happened than the idea that it might have.

Spock lowered a hand against the firm material of the pallet he was lying on. "Jim…" he said. But that was all he said, his tone trailing off, unable to take further shape for whatever reason. He told himself that he didn't find the fixed gaze of those cold-coffee eyes as engaging as he did.

But Jim really did like coffee.

Which was, of course, entirely beside the point and not even remotely relevant.

He was almost relieved when the returning physician broke the moment. Jim let himself be thoroughly distracted as he endured the ever-awkward process of being assessed, watching the soft light of her medical tricorder as she did a quick scan, and then compared the results to a few of the tests they'd taken while he was unconscious. It wasn't technically uncomfortable to go through, but he always found it weird to think about being so thoroughly evaluated, since very little could hide from tricorders.

"How does your throat feel?" she asked.

"It doesn't," Jim replied honestly. At her unimpressed look, he amended himself. "It's numb." Then he glanced at Spock. "Why does nobody laugh at my jokes when I'm in some sort of medical facility?"

"I do not laugh at your jokes regardless of our location, Jim," he pointed out reasonably.

"I take my job seriously," the doctor offered in business-like tones.

Jim rolled his eyes. So there was the problem. The audience. Except that Spock did kind of laugh, in his amused-but-trying-not-to-show it way. His eyes laughed. Not that Jim would ever tell him as much – it sounded desperately like a cheesy pick-up line. How many times had he complimented a girl on her eyes in an effort to get lucky? Maybe this was some odd form of divine retribution.

Spock does not have nice eyes, he told himself. Or nice ears. Or nice hands. Or nice legs. Or nice skin. And I do not like the colour green, and have not had a weakness for green-coloured beings in the past.

Hmm. Lying to himself didn't seem to help very much.

Spock is my friend.

There. Jim turned to Spock once his scans were done, and gave him a grin. "So that was interesting," he said. "Now we've learned that Andorian hangover remedies and toothpaste are a lethal combination. Good to know."

"Is that what you ingested?" Spock asked, his eyebrows moving slightly upwards as the doctor gave them the all-clear (with advice that Jim drink plenty of water, and report to a medical facility if he felt any more burning in his throat or chest). Jim slid carefully off of the pallet, not wanting to move quickly lest he set his head to spinning. But after only the briefest moments of mild disorientation, he found that he was able to stand and walk without any problems.

"Yup," he confirmed. "The concierge gave it to me. I'm pretty sure she didn't know about the toothpaste thing." She'd seemed to like him, anyway, and she'd gotten them a car, which didn't spell out 'potentially convoluted assassin' in his books.

"Jim. Andorian digestive systems and metabolisms are much different from those of humans," Spock said, looking at him with an expression that had a bit too much 'how did you survive to adulthood?' in it.

He shrugged. "See? And now I've learned something else. It all turned out for the best."

"Your flippancy regarding your personal well-being is inappropriate," Spock insisted – not quite snapping, but looking like he was resisting the urge to do so as they left the hospital. "You are a captain now, and not easily replaced. I have been reminded several times by you of my obligation to my Starfleet duties – I shall now remind you of yours. Your health and safety are of importance. I would ask that you endeavor to employ at least enough common sense to avoid ingesting unknown substances, as I believe most humans have learned is inadvisable by the time they are three years old."

Jim winced.

"But my head really hurt…" he said in a very tiny voice. Spock looked at him. Then he seemed to relent a little, subtly, some of the tension coming off of his frame and away from his eyes.

They walked in silence for a while after that, Jim not wanting to test Spock's current level of control, and Spock looking like he was about a million miles away. It was peaceful. Then he recalled the car again.

"Oh right," he said out loud, snapping his fingers. "There's a datapad I brought up to our place that's got the access codes for a private vehicle. The concierge managed to swing that – I thought it might be better than taking the shuttle."

Spock glanced towards him. "This is the same concierge who fed you poison?" he confirmed.

Jim nodded cheerfully. "Sure. But technically she only gave me half of the poison."

This did not seem to mollify Spock very much, who looked like a man who'd just learned that Santa Clause and Hitler were the same person. As would only be expected in such a situation, the bad was still out-weighing the good by a fair margin.

"That was… accommodating of her," he finally said. "But I believe it would be wiser for us to procure a shuttle. We only have two full days of leave remaining, and the shuttle will be substantially faster."

Jim frowned, a little put-out that Spock was rejecting his brilliant, 'let's-drive-there' plan. "Well what's the hurry?" he asked, wondering in that awful, niggling way if his first officer just didn't want to be stuck alone in a car with him for any substantial length of time.

Spock's typically even stride stuttered momentarily before regaining its normal pace. "It would be prudent to return to Starfleet headquarters as swiftly as we are able to," he said. "I… wished to discuss this matter with you earlier. Before your medical emergency."

Oh.

Shit.

So he didn't want to be stuck in a car with Jim. This was it. This was the big 'discussion', the part where Spock told him that he'd noticed his attraction and most certainly did not reciprocate.

"My stability is far from guaranteed," Spock said – which surprised Jim, because he really hadn't been expecting him to start out on that note. "Until I am able to achieve a reasonable level of control over my emotions, I am a danger. You have made it clear that you intend to remain in my company, regardless of the advisability of such actions – considering these factors, I would request that you arm yourself while in my presence," he explained, as if this was only the most reasonable turn of events.

Jim gaped at him.

"It will be simple to legally procure you a suitable phaser once we are at a Starfleet facility," Spock continued. "Until then, you will have little means to defend yourself should I lose my grasp on my emotions. It is a vulnerable period of time, and it would be logical to shorten it as much as possible."

He was absolutely, one hundred percent serious. Which shouldn't have been surprising. Spock wasn't really a 'gotcha' kind of guy. But Jim was having a lot of difficulty reconciling himself to the words which had just come out of his mouth.

"You want me to arm myself?" he clarified.

Spock gave a slight inclination of his head.

"Against you?"

"It is logical." he repeated.

"I don't want to shoot you, Spock," Jim objected, certain that his multitude of conflicting impulses were at least clear on that particular front. He was fighting back the urge to do a lot of things to Spock, but phasers weren't involved in any of them.

There was something of an awkward silence following that statement, as Jim realized that the emphasis he'd put on 'shoot' was a little much, leaving open the implication that there was something else he would like to do to Spock. He cleared his throat and glanced at his first officer, whose own gaze was fixed on some indistinct point in the distance, and very much not on Jim.

But he didn't actually want to… well, he did, but he would get over that, because he could find attractive people to do that with quite easily. Finding another Spock? Much less likely.

"I am aware of your preference for non-violent resolutions," Spock informed him a little stiffly after a minute. "I will also endeavor to avoid putting you in the position of shooting me. This would merely serve as a necessary precaution."

Jim paused, floundering a little. Firstly because all of this was weird, but it would kind of make sense to have the ability to stun Spock, in a morbid sort of way. Secondly, because no one had ever called him out on preferring 'non-violent resolutions' before. He didn't think anyone had noticed. Spock's eyes flitted in his direction for an instant.

"It would… help my focus," he added a bit awkwardly.

Jim's gaze snapped over to him. "What?" he asked, not seeing how whether or not he had a phaser would help Spock meditate.

Spock elaborated. "If you are armed, then I will not need to be as concerned that my failures will result in excessively negative consequences – such as the unnecessary strangulation of an assailant. It is important that I attempt to minimize the number of emotions I am susceptible to, until my meditative practices have become more stable."

Jim thought about this.

"So…" he said. "In other words, if I have a phaser, you won't need to worry so much?"

There was another pause.

"Worry is an emotion," Spock then replied, in a tone of 'yes, exactly, so shut up about it now'. Obligingly, Jim dropped that particular line of questioning. There was something of a contemplative, but still distinctly awkward silence between them as they reached the transport station nearest the hospital, and caught a shuttle back to the traveler's facilities. Once they were in a larger group of people Spock tensed visibly, becoming as rigid as Jim had ever seen him. The smallest bead of sweat appeared at his temple. Otherwise, he gave absolutely no outward signs of stress.

"Alright," Jim said at length, after they had disembarked.

Spock looked at him inquiringly.

"I'll start arming myself," he elaborated, not entirely certain of the emotions which passed swiftly behind his first officer's eyes. "But," he added, raising a hand to forestall any idea that such was the end of it. "We'll still take the car, too."

Spock's lips twitched momentarily downwards. "Such a vehicle will take at least a day to reach San Francisco," he pointed out disapprovingly.

Brightening a bit, Jim gave him a wide, charming smile and a wink.

"You only think that because you've never driven with me before."

He then wondered why his first officer's ears turned just a little bit greener than usual.

---

Author's Note: Not a ton happens in this chapter, I know – it's kind of an A – B moment. To answer some more questions:

- My sister and I are having a blast. She's here for two more days, then she goes home and I can abandon my duties as human alarm clock. But thanks for everyone wishing us good times! It seems to be working! XD

- Mind-meld stuff is coming, but it's still a ways off, for obvious reasons.

- Alright, alright, I'll cave – on the 'Vulcan kiss' question: Vulcans kiss via very specific hand interactions, so it was not a technical kiss. Hand-to-hand contact is still pretty intimate, and finger-to-finger contact especially so (hence Vulcans not shaking hands), and thus it came pretty damn close.

- The issue of Jim still thinking that the universe will implode if both Spocks meet is going to be addressed, yes.

- Just to clear up my somewhat awkward phrasing, when I said the last chapter was the 'lowest low-point' last round, I meant in terms of angst, not writing quality. I have no idea what the lowest chapter is quality-wise; right now I think it's this one, but I always think it's my most recent one.

Thanks again to all you wonderful reviewers! Your insights and support are utterly appreciated. And thanks for everyone being patient with delays.