Spock
His ears cleared as the shuttle bay repressurized with an audible hiss. He dragged himself away from Jim to release the ship's door mechanism. The Enterpriseheaved around them, red alert shrieking, and he fell before he could reach it. His body was clumsy, and his telepathic shields in tatters.
Two figures in clean suits tore the door open from the other side. They hesitated upon seeing Longclaw extract herself from the wreckage, but recovered in an admirably short period of time.
One of them helped Spock climb out of the portal. Nurse Chapel, he thought dimly as her unease swept over him. The other extracted Jim from his harness and pulled him free of the battered-looking craft. It seemed impossible that the alien ship could have carried them here, now that its filthy and cracked exterior was contrasted by the spotless shuttle bay.
"Bridge. I have to get to the bridge," Jim choked out.
"Quarantine, sir," the other clean-suited individual said. Doctor M'Benga's voice. "We can't let you out."
"Damn it! Put me on with Mr. Scott." Jim tore himself free and staggered toward the nearest console.
Before Spock could move ahead of him and open a channel, the red alert shut off, and the com system crackled to life. /Captain? Are you there?/
"Scotty!" Jim froze where he stood. "Are we running?"
/Oh, we're running./ Scott's voice was alarmingly cheerful. /We'll leave 'em with their mouths full of dust. Is Mr. Spock with you?/
"I am," Spock said. "I trust you are well, Lieutenant Commander?"
/I'm beside myself, sirs! Didn't believe the ship just now when she said you were actually aboard./ The audible background commotion of shouts and laughter suggested he wasn't alone in this regard. /May I be the first to say it's a pleasure having you back./
"Thanks, Scotty. Give our best to everyone. Kirk out." Jim's entire body sagged, and he grasped his knees to support himself. Spock and M'Benga took him by the arms and helped him to the nearest storage box. Spock felt Jim's anxiety diminishing, and the brief emotional contact, however involuntary, grounded him in the unsettling aftermath of the meld.
M'Benga started accosting them both with a dermal regenerator, but a muffled sound of distress not unlike a squeak distracted all three of them.
Spock looked up to find Longclaw circling Chapel, studying her. "Sounds different. Is female?"
"Sirs?" Chapel's gaze flashed from them to Longclaw, her voice unnaturally high. Her arms were drawn up tight against her body, and only her eyes moved. "What is… I…."
"Yeah, she's female," Jim said. "Nurse, this is Longclaw. Longclaw, this is my crew. Some of them, anyway."
"She has heard you vocalize, so she does not pose a threat," Spock explained.
"Small," Longclaw said, clearly baffled. "Shorter." She crawled toward Spock, limping slightly on her back leg. One of her old wounds had reopened, and blue-green blood was leaking through the leather bandages.
M'Benga noted the injuries as well. "Will she let me…."
"Perhaps." Spock raised an eyebrow.
"You should ask her," Jim added. "But get ready for a chase."
Then the shuttle bay doors slid open, and a third clean-suited figure stepped inside. His face was not recognizable at first through the glare on the viewing window, but the light shifted as he came closer, and the glare cleared.
"Bones." Jim pushed himself to a shaky stand. Spock made an aborted attempt to stop him, and M'Benga held his arm back. But McCoy sharply thrust out a hand, halting Jim's approach himself, and held up a medical scanner. He stared at the display with a furrowed brow while Jim fidgeted on the spot.
"Possible concussion," he said, voice hoarse. "Fractured collarbone. Your dopamine levels are–"
"Bones."
McCoy looked up from the scanner, and his expression changed profoundly as he noticed the tears welling in Jim's eyes. He sighed and crossed the space between them, pulling Jim into an embrace. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it became evident he was on the verge of a similar emotional display.
"Not too tight," he said, meant for whom, Spock wasn't certain. "Don't want to make you any worse."
"Shut up."
"I missed you, kid." Then the doctor grinned over Jim's shoulder, so genuine it was almost startling. "You too, Spock."
Spock feigned surprise at the welcome, knowing it would be correctly interpreted. "Thank you, Doctor."
"Water from eyes," Longclaw murmured beside him. "What means?"
"Many things," he said. "In this instance, happiness."
Clean-suited nurses set up temporary living quarters in the shuttle bay, and between McCoy and M'Benga, all three of the ship's newest arrivals were subjected to a medical battery unlike anything Spock had experienced. Longclaw was even less appreciative of the harassment than Jim, but unlike Jim, she behaved herself at Spock's insistence. Their lacerations were sealed, their blood drawn, and their necks hyposprayed with a cocktail of antibiotics and immune-boosting compounds.
Jim tired long before the ship's chronometer read night, a side-effect of their being entirely out of sync with Federation time. McCoy decided rest was the proper treatment at this juncture, now that immediate concerns had been addressed. He fitted them with monitors and shooed everyone out. But he lingered afterward, and pulled up a chair near the two biobeds and the pile of blankets that concealed Longclaw's sleeping form.
The captain sprawled on one of said biobeds, arms crossed behind his neck. Spock suspected his posture was overcompensating to conceal his true attitude toward their situation. "All right," Jim said. "What do we know?"
"Why don't you go first," McCoy replied, leaning forward in his chair. "That way I'll know what to cover."
Jim nodded at Spock, who took a seat on his own bed and began. "The bulbweed selectively targets organisms with hemoglobin, or similar iron-based carrier proteins."
"The cattlebugs bleed red," Jim clarified. "They're attracted to the plant."
"So that's the source. I told you that thing wasn't natural!" McCoy stabbed a finger at them.
"Anything constrained by the laws of physics is necessarily a part of nature, doctor," Spock pointed out. McCoy broke into a brief but startling grin, as if he took delight in being corrected. He proceeded to glance at Jim, who both shrugged and nodded. Spock understood nothing of their silent exchange, so he ignored it and continued. "The exact nature of its addictive effects, however, has eluded us."
"Addictive effects," McCoy said slowly, as if tasting the words. His absurd smile faded. "The symptoms did look a hell of a lot like severe withdrawal."
"Oh it's hell, let me tell you," Jim muttered, his brow furrowing. "How's Phillips doing, by the way?"
Any traces of levity in McCoy's attitude disappeared. He sighed and kneaded his forehead briefly. "He's dead, Jim. We lost him a few days after we lost you two."
"That is… unfortunate," Spock said.
"Unfortunate," Jim repeated quietly, as if he were unable to supply his own descriptor.
Spock resumed the flow of conversation to distract Jim from the unpleasantness of this discovery. "Could you please explicate your own discoveries, Doctor?"
"Sure, Spock." McCoy cleared his throat and appeared grateful for the segue. "So we think there's two chemicals involved. One of them gradually changes acetylcholine receptors and becomes a permanent replacement, so the afflicted organism can't function without it. We think repeat exposure causes brain damage, but it probably requires direct contact." He frowned at the far wall. "The other one is tricky. As far as we can tell, it gets through the blood-brain barrier and throws all kinds of wrenches into the limbic system."
"A primer and an attractor," Spock said, missing puzzle pieces tumbling into place. He wondered how close Jim had come to total oblivion. How many instances of direct contact with the bulbweed's interior caused irreversible change. "I imagine both foster dependence."
"Bingo," McCoy said, excitement flashing in his eyes. "The first one chemical, the second psychological."
"And the second acts to facilitate the first," Spock added. "Doctor, I believe the second chemical is a pheromone with a short half life, released at night."
"That explains why we only found trace amounts. Barely enough to isolate," McCoy grumbled. "And the effects were so damn subtle, we–"
"Well, Bones?" Jim interrupted them. "Clean bill of health?"
Both Spock and the doctor stared at Jim, stunned into silence. Jim's face was utterly blank. "Captain," Spock began, "is something–"
"I changed my mind. I don't want to hear exactly how screwed I could have been," Jim said, his demeanor more weary than angry. "Not now. So just give it to me straight. Am I good or not?"
"You aren't seriously injured. Or contagious, but we already knew that," McCoy said, visibly taken aback. "Your receptors look fine."
"What about Spock?"
"Some minor lung scarring, M'Benga tells me. I'd like to run an endurance test later."
"I require meditation," Spock supplied. "My shields are mildly stressed."
"Minor, mildly," Jim dismissed them, crossing his arms. "So we're free to go?"
"Complete medical profiles aren't built in a day, man." McCoy shot Jim a withering look.
Jim let out a grunt of frustration, and Spock knew his resolve was building when his back straightened. "Can I at least talk to Scotty again?"
"No. You aren't on duty."
"I need to know what's going on with my crew. With the ship."
"We're flying, aren't we?"
"What about Gates? She's not part of the Enterprisecommand structure." An astute solution, Spock thought, but McCoy sighed again and hung his head.
"I'm sorry," he said, after a period of silence long enough for perfect clarity of meaning. "We lost about half the Galapagos crew. She was… she stayed with them in the end."
Jim did not respond, studying the floor instead. His expression was disturbingly akin to the one he wore when dazed by the bulbweed pheromone.
McCoy sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. Spock found that he wished to do the same thing, although not in the presence of others. "Why don't you clean up and get some rest? Think you can do that?" Jim didn't respond, and McCoy glanced at Spock, searching for assistance. Spock nodded to reassure him, despite his own misgivings. "Things will seem better in the morning," McCoy said.
Only upon McCoy's departure did Jim utter a sound, chuckling humorlessly. "Morning was always worse," he murmured. He waved a hand at the partition placed down the center of the shuttle bay before Spock could reply. "You shower first. I'm hacking the synthesizer to give me a chocolate sundae."
"Captain, the risk of digestive distress is–"
"A small sundae." Jim narrowed his eyes.
Spock recognized that he would not be persuaded from this course of action, and it seemed an appropriate one for a human, in any case. He acquiesced and made use of the facilities set up for them, washing and changing into the simple gray garments. Discarding his tattered and filthy uniform into a matter recycler was immensely satisfying.
Later that evening, his meditation was interrupted when Jim completed his own grooming routine. "You know what's great? Soap," he announced as he staggered past Spock's bed. "Soap is great."
No sooner had he said this than a fresh, coniferous smell wafted over Spock. He had used more of said substance than was logical himself. "Agreed." He examined the captain, clean-shaven yet haggard.
Jim was silent for over a minute as he sat on the edge of his bed, but he made no move to lie down. He fiddled with his wrist biomonitor, and Spock waited for him to speak. "How much do we tell them?"
"A difficult question," Spock said. "According to my own standards, much of the evidence for our theories is problematic. Had I not witnessed it myself…."
"Far-fetched, right?" Jim sighed and covered his mouth with his hand. "Not just that, though. I mean everything. The stuff with Taylor and Lombard."
"Dr. McCoy requires accurate data to make an accurate assessment."
"Yeah." Jim stared at his knees.
"Precisely how Taylor died is irrelevant," Spock reminded him. "He would have perished regardless of any action or inaction we took."
Jim looked at him, and his expression softened to the brink of a smile. The tension in his shoulders eased. "I know."
Their gaze held together for awhile, precisely how long Spock couldn't say. Jim ended it when he reclined on his bed, quickly shifting beneath the covers. Spock watched him drag the sheets up to his chin and roll over, facing the wall.
When Spock was certain the captain was asleep, he proceeded to the nearest console and brushed aside the security measures. He noted they had already been breached once, during the time frame in which he had been showering, and Jim left unattended.
He browsed through the ship's records from the past several months. Nothing particularly eventful, except the three occasions the Enterprisehad approached Sigma Nox. They were driven back each time by a persistently uncommunicative and overpowering foe.
Scott hypothesized in his logs that the so-called 'sentinels' put an active watch on the system after they first discovered a perceived intruder. They were, without a doubt, the same type of ship as the cattlebug shuttle, a mystifying development that Spock put aside for later contemplation.
Spock read two messages from his father as well, one dated shortly after Spock was lost, and the second sent earlier today. Sarek had veered into the emotional on the latter, discussing how Spock's mother would have been joyful to learn of his survival. She was a proxy, Spock realized suddenly. She had always said the things his father could not.
He also realized that did not wish to live his life by proxy.
Three days of quarantine and accelerated cultures passed slowly on an objective level, as Spock was accustomed to the shorter Sigma Nox day. What had felt like two months, fourteen days on the planet to them was actually two months, four days.
Spock spent much of this period in meditation, repairing his telepathic shields. He walked around the shuttle bay on occasion, touching distinctive features of the ship until they seemed more tangible. Jim spoke very little as he responded to messages from close friends and family, and Longclaw adapted to her new surroundings. Spock showed her how to use the synthesizer, and she took a liking to bizarre – and according to Jim, nauseating – combinations of foods.
"I don't care what planet she's from, sandwiches, gouda cheese, and raw eggsdo not mix," Jim said. Longclaw sporadically debated him on this matter for over an hour.
At last their medical team declared they were healthy enough to resume command. McCoy seemed reluctant as he informed them, but their lingering health issues were manageable, consisting mostly of insomnia and digestive upset. They both must have passed their psychological profiles, or else a very different conversation would have taken place. There was certainly no reason to keep them confined that Spock could discern, in any case.
On the designated day, their fifth morning post-rescue, McCoy caught Spock alone at the shuttle bay doors while Jim was getting dressed. "Thank you," he said quietly, clasping a hand on Spock's shoulder. "You took good care of him."
"I did what was necessary to protect my commanding officer," Spock said.
"Just accept the damn compliment, you pointy-eared hobgoblin." McCoy's voice was gruff, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"What is…" Longclaw stopped, unable to replicate the expression.
"An insult. You know." McCoy paused for a moment. "What do you call him when he makes you mad?"
"Bad thinker," she responded instantly.
McCoy laughed and nudged her with his thigh. "Bad thinker, eh? I like it." Spock countered the grin directed at him with a raised eyebrow, which only increased its intensity.
"You two aren't picking on my first officer, are you?" Jim's voice. The three of them turned to acknowledge his approach. His uniform hung loosely on him, and there were still dark circles around his eyes, but he moved with the confidence of command.
"Me? Never," McCoy said, resting a palm on his chest in mock affront. "Ready to show your face, Captain?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
The doctor escorted them to the rec room where the official reception would take place, his gait practically bouncing. Spock regretted their brisk pace; he wanted to take in every detail of the ship's corridors and bulkheads, every door and control panel and service conduit. He wanted to view his quarters, despite knowing they were the same as he had left them.
The instant they stepped inside the rec room, a mass of crewmen and women flooded them, talking and laughing and insisting upon copious amounts of physical contact.
"Captain, I can't believe it!"
"Commander Spock!"
"We are so wery glad you are back."
"How the hell are you, sir?"
"Oh my God, what is that?"
"Calm down, everyone. This is Longclaw. She's a good friend of ours."
"Unbelievable!"
"Don't crowd them like a pack of starving hyenas, for God's sake!"
"Sir, I'm so glad you're alive."
Dozens of people, friends and near-strangers alike, shook Spock's hand and clapped him on the back. The psychic echoes of their delight and curiosity passed through his shields, still fatigued from the meld. He was invaded, trampled by a hundred unique and powerful shades of emotion. It was too much. He retreated to a private chamber off the main rec room floor, and hoped that no one saw him.
Fourteen seconds passed in seclusion before he was interrupted.
"Spock."
He turned and found Nyota standing at the doorway. She ran to him and embraced him fiercely, shaking with silent sobs. While he could have shielded, he did not. "I am gratified to see you," he said.
"I knew," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shirt. "Nobody believed me, but I knew." She let him go and grinned at him, tears trailing down her cheeks. When Spock moved automatically to brush them away, as she had once done for him, she shook her head and scrubbed her face with one hand.
"I hate to throw this at you so soon, but there's an urgent communication waiting for you, the captain, and Mr. Scott." It was strange, the juxtaposition of her professional voice with her emotional upwelling. "I put him off as long as I could, but I promised the minute you both got out of quarantine…"
"Understood," Spock said.
He informed the captain and lieutenant commander, extracting them from the crew with considerable difficulty. It took Jim shouting orders above the din to negotiate his release from a peculiar human behavior known as the 'group hug.' Nyota led the three of them to a private game chamber and linked the conference from outside the room.
A man with graying hair and a flushed complexion appeared on the viewscreen, recognizable from several official functions Spock had attended. "Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott," he said. "You disobeyed direct orders by going for a retrieval."
Scott stood up straighter and opened his mouth, but Jim responded first. "Hello Admiral Fitzpatrick, how are you? We're doing great, so nice of you to ask."
"You might be doing great, but your ship isn't, thanks to her acting captain."
"He was following my orders." Jim crossed his arms and leveled a hard stare at Fitzpatrick. "And I ordered him to pick us up."
Communication had never been established between the cattlebug shuttle and the Enterprise, but Spock said nothing. He glanced at Scott, who looked pained, but also said nothing.
Fitzpatrick's eyes narrowed. "You might be the rising star in the fleet, Kirk, but the admiralty still trumps you."
"Not if I make an executive decision based on the best judgment principle."
"Best judgment principle," Fitzpatrick scoffed.
"It is a legitimate Starfleet principle," Spock interjected. "Had I not employed it two months, nine days ago, the captain would not be standing in front of you now."
That seemed to make the admiral hesitate, but not for long. "And there's another thing – the nonsense that kicked off this little incident. Complete and total disregard for standard procedure. Dozens of men and women paid for it with their lives."
"Now sir, that just isn't fair," Scott spoke up, thoroughly indignant. "Whether the captain and Mr. Spock were on board would have made no difference to the Galapagos. We were outgunned."
"You're telling me you wouldn't have retreated sooner had they been safe and sound?" Fitzpatrick shook his head and donned an incredulous smirk. "You're all on thin ice."
"Good thing I brought my skates," Jim said.
"Don't be a smartass, Kirk. It was cute at first, but even puppies can get sent back to the pound if they make a regular habit of pissing on the carpet."
Jim evidently had enough. Spock knew from the shift in his stance, the slight, impudent tilt of his chin. "Pardon me if I'm being blunt, Admiral, but two weeks ago a praying mantis the size of a horse tried to take my head off," he said. "So when I tell you I'd rather explain myself to someone who's seen more action in the past few decades than a missing stylus, please try to understand."
Fitzpatrick's face reddened, and his tone clipped into a weapon. "If that's what you want, that's exactly what you'll get. There will be an inquiry over this, mark my words." The com screen went dark. Silence for five point three seconds.
"Ass," Jim muttered.
"Sir, I–" Scott began.
"Dismissed, Mr. Scott," Jim interrupted. "He's right about the ship. Give her some TLC for me." He clapped the man on a tense shoulder. "I know you've missed engineering."
"Aye, but sir–"
"Dismissed."
Scott's face fell, but he nodded and obeyed.
Jim closed their end of the link with a few quick flicks of his fingers. "Captain," Spock said cautiously, studying Jim's nonchalant face, "antagonizing our escort is ill-advised. The admiral is not to be taken lightly."
"I'm not taking him lightly. I'm giving him the exact amount of consideration he deserves," Jim replied. "He's just one man, and I've got well-wishes from everyone else in the fleet clogging up my com line. I don't have the patience right now for has-been bureaucrats."
"Understood, Captain," Spock said, and he meant it sincerely. "However, regarding Mr. Scott–"
"We flew into orbit and set off a subspace ripple. The order was implied, and I'll argue that to my grave." Jim started for the doors, and hesitated just before they opened. "No one's getting in trouble for my sake."
They stepped back into the main rec room, and all traces of conversation were silenced as the crew's eyes fixed upon them. No doubt they were curious as to what had transpired to make Mr. Scott appear so uncomfortable. There was a face among them Spock had not noted yet, familiar from the debriefing over two months ago. Gray streaks marked his hair where there were none before.
"Lieutenant Brady," Jim said, his voice stiff as he approached the man. "Could you get the Galapagospeople together? There's something I need to tell you."
Spock touched his arm, but Jim pulled away without looking at him.
The journey back to Federation territory proceeded, largely uneventful. Some semblance of a routine was established once again, which Spock found comforting. Simple things provoked an interesting warmth within him now, like tuning his neglected lute, or synthesizing a meal, and he no longer wholly suppressed these feelings.
He spent time with Nyota, and she explained the social nuances that official reports neglected. She told him how the surviving Galapagoscrew had banded together under Scott's leadership. Her presence was soothing, and her esteem reassured him that their professional relationship was intact. Their personal one was far more complex. Spock's renewed sense of empathy, and the occasional hardness in her eyes, made him question exactly how much he had hurt her via their separation.
However, there were always tasks to keep him occupied and balance out his emotional dabbling. Much to his gratification, the science ensigns had kept his labs spotless and efficient. He assisted Chekov and Scott in repairing the Enterpriseas best they could, and advised Sulu and McCoy on the properties of the bulbweed while they examined Jim's blood. He engaged Sulu in an analysis of the various organic samples he had gathered from Sigma Nox.
Longclaw was a source of endless fascination for the crew, and she basked in their attentions. Spock suspected her many years of loneliness on the planet had fostered an intense desire for companionship. The hypothesis certainly explained why she had readily attached herself to two strange aliens about whom she knew nothing. She couldn't point her way home on a star map, but neither did she express a desire to return there.
Yet an anomaly existed amongst the general contentment.
To one of the ship's crewmen not well acquainted with the captain, he likely appeared normal. He told sanitized versions of their most harrowing moments on Sigma Nox to rapt audiences in the mess. He sparred with friends in the gym, he joked with ensigns in the labs, he played poker with the engineers. He was more sociable than ever before.
None of this suggested there was cause for alarm, but one inexplicable fact troubled Spock: Jim was avoiding him.
He talked to Spock exclusively on duty, and about duty. He always had an urgent appointment when Spock encountered him in the mess. He ignored Spock at group functions unless spoken to directly, in which case he provided simplistic answers. There was just enough interaction and apparent friendliness that Spock found reasons to doubt himself.
Then one afternoon, purely by chance, he caught Jim reading across the rec room, seemingly unaware of his arrival.
Spock spotted Longclaw in a side niche and advanced on her. She was occupied with a visual version of the Starfleet security training manual. Retrofitted dimensional glasses perched awkwardly on her head, so that the things in the manual appeared life-sized and more readily comprehensible to her.
"Longclaw." Spock nodded.
"Battlesister." She tapped his shin with her tail in what he assumed had become an affectionate gesture.
"May I sit here?" He gestured to an empty cushion beside her. The position would afford him a clear view of Jim without permitting the reverse.
"Yes." She shifted her back legs to give him more space. Spock took a seat and examined her for a moment. Although he had witnessed her tackle a technical problem firsthand, he still experienced occasional surges of retroactive disbelief. He wondered if any alien psychologists on board would be interested in studying the exact nature of her intelligence.
He feigned meditation for a time, always keeping an eye on Jim. The intensity of his focus made the room appear to narrow until it was only them at opposite ends of a long corridor. His unease was augmented when Jim read for a quarter hour without turning the page once.
"Why stare? Go speak." He glanced at Longclaw, who was currently watching a holographic depiction of a hostage situation. Indeed, speculating about Jim's psyche from afar was not sound methodology.
He decided an ambush was the best course of action. He approached Jim from behind, and spoke when he was approximately a meter away. "Captain."
"Spock." Jim twisted around in his chair, his eyes wide.
Spock searched for something to say before his quarry could attempt retreat. The faded gold lettering on the cover of Jim's book informed Spock he was reading Heart of Darkness. "I was not aware you owned any classical Earth literature."
"It's Lieutenant McGivers'," Jim said. "I'm just borrowing."
"Are you enjoying it?"
"It's okay."
His gaze darted toward the exit now. Spock had to sustain the pressure, prevent Jim from coming up with an excuse to leave. "If I am not imposing, would you like to play chess?"
"Oh. Actually, I…." Jim trailed off and stared at the book in his hands. "You know what, sure. Let's play." He shut the antique volume hard enough that the halves slammed together.
They claimed an open game table, and Jim set up the pieces with excessive vigor. He chose white and marched his first pawn forward, all without saying a word to Spock. At least he had not fled. Spock selected his knight and began an offensive.
He observed Jim between moves. The captain was thin, almost gaunt, which made no sense given the near-unlimited availability of food. Due to the synthesizers and adherence to McCoy's diet plan, Spock had gained nearly two kilograms in two weeks, unparalleled in his life thus far. He would be surprised if Jim had gained any weight at all.
"Are you well, Captain?" Spock ventured.
"I'm tired of that question," Jim said. Then his eyes flickered up to Spock for the first time during the game, and guilt tempered the lines of his face. "I mean, it's hard being in charge of things again. But I can handle it."
Five moves, and a defensive formation Spock didn't recognize began taking shape. "Jim," he said, trying again. "Have I done something to offend you?"
"What do you mean?" He claimed Spock's bishop in a reckless leap that left his king virtually defenseless.
Circuitous prompts were not working. Spock suppressed his anxiety and aimed for directness. "One might assume you have been avoiding me."
"What? No," Jim said, quickly enough that he may have anticipated the question. "I'm just busy reacquainting myself with everyone. Playing catch-up. You get it, right?"
"I suppose."
"You've been busy too. It's hard to coordinate."
Three moves. Spock's queen was captured now, his rook threatened. He was taking careless chances, disoriented by Jim's haphazard strategy. "Coordination requires the effort of both parties," he pointed out.
Jim's demeanor slipped from cautious to guarded. "I'm sorry, all right? Is that what you want to hear?"
The question caught Spock unaware, but the answer was definitively negative. Although it implied another question, to which he did not know the answer: what did he want to hear from Jim?
He waited too long between moves in this contemplative state, and gave Jim an opening. "I need to go," he said, bolting up out of his chair. "Racquetball practice in ten." He rushed out, scarcely below a jogging pace. Spock noted the hasty redirection of attention that occurred amongst the rec room's occupants in his wake.
He stared at the board without any real intent as he considered the encounter. The placement of pieces caught his attention. Five moves until checkmate, in Jim's favor.
Perhaps irrational mental priming was to blame, but from that point onward, he began noticing further anomalies in the captain's behavior. Jim startled easily. He rubbed his eyes when he thought no one observed him. He drummed his fingers on the arms of chairs. It took him twice as long to complete simple department evaluations.
At first, Spock took Jim on his word, deciding he was simply adjusting to life aboard the ship again. No doubt being in constant contact with Fitzpatrick was taking its toll. No doubt the fate of the Galapagoscrew and Captain Gates was having a negative impact on him. He required time to recover, and members of his crew should facilitate his transition.
So Spock took over the official command report of their mission, secretly revising Jim's haphazard entries. He completed department evaluations before they made it to Jim's desk. One alpha shift two point nine weeks after their release from the shuttle bay, Jim overslept, and Spock sent someone to discreetly wake him. When it happened again, Spock changed the duty rosters and managed the shift himself. He was more concerned that Jim didn't demand an explanation than the fact the incident occurred to begin with.
The longer it went on, the more he rationalized. There was a certain, strange pleasure to be had in assisting the captain from afar. Spock confided in Nyota once regarding a minor incident, and she accused him of martyrdom. He rejected that theory and carried on.
Naturally, Jim chose to break this pattern when Spock least expected it.
His doorbell rang near midnight, two deliberate buzzes. Spock was in bed at the time, although kept awake by an article in the VSA journal. He switched the door open immediately when the visitor announced himself.
Jim stood in the threshold, wearing regulation nightclothes and slippers. "Can I…." He glanced up and down the corridor.
"Of course."
He took exactly enough steps for the doors to shut behind him. He remained motionless, his jaw tight, his arms crossed. "I lied," he said finally. "I have been avoiding you. And what you're doing is exactly what I'm trying to prevent."
Spock wondered if he should stand. He decided that remaining in bed would render him unthreatening and encourage Jim to speak candidly. He lowered his PADD onto his lap. "Elaborate."
"I'm not stupid. You can't keep covering my ass like this."
"What is the purpose of a first officer, if not to support the captain?" Spock said. He did not intend to sound flippant, but his mild irritation did not permit otherwise.
"You won't let me struggle," Jim snapped. He threw up his hands, gesturing for emphasis. "I'll work it out on my own, but I need to struggle first."
"Then what is the purpose of a friend?" Spock murmured, without thinking.
"What?"
If he desired honesty from Jim, he should supply honesty himself. He placed his PADD on the nightstand. "If you will not confide in me, how am I to assume anything?" he said. "In the absence of evidence, I take the position of a friend, and assist you in any way that I can."
Jim studied him, his frustration visibly fading. The last traces of it melted away with a sigh. "Fair enough. I want you to back off, you want me to confide. I can do that." The uncomfortable stance he took leaning against the partition suggested otherwise, but he kept going. "I didn't tell the Galapagoscrew about Taylor and Lombard," he said. "I did, but I didn't, not really."
"Jim, I would not have you force yourself to–"
"Shut up, I'm confiding. I've, uh… I've been having trouble sleeping. Sometimes I wake up." He stopped and stared at the floor, and something about the way he held himself appeared timid and alone. "It's always strange, without you there."
Spock hesitated, weighing his options. He could direct the captain to sickbay, and most likely foster animosity between them. Or he could follow the implications of Jim's wording and seize an opportunity to investigate further. "If you believe it would help, you are welcome here," he said, shifting over on the bed.
Jim looked up sharply. "You're serious?"
"I am always serious." Spock raised an eyebrow and was disappointed that it did not induce a smile.
"Right." Jim lingered near the partition, staring at the empty space beside Spock. "I really could use the sleep tonight," he said, voice growing distant as he drew nearer. "I've got a date with Fitzpatrick tomorrow." He grimaced and cautiously sat on the edge of Spock's bed. He bounced a little, as though testing its deflective capabilities. His eyes darted to Spock, abruptly alert. "Are you sure?"
"I am."
All the same, Spock was profoundly unsure of what to do once Jim stretched beneath the covers, and the lights were out. It was an entirely different experience from Sigma Nox. All was quiet, save for the constant hum of the ship's power feeds and ventilation system. His stomach was full, and he was clean and comfortable and safe.
The bed was also considerably narrower than a typical frond sleeping mat.
Eventually Jim's breathing stabilized and deepened, and Spock induced release of the proper chemicals to facilitate sleep. He was awakened three point five hours later by a muffled sound of distress.
"Jim?" he murmured. Hands clutched his arms, and a solid form pressed against him. "Lights to fifteen percent."
"M'sorry. I just… bad dream." Jim offered Spock a watery smile, which crumbled almost immediately. He ducked his head in apparent shame and buried his face into Spock's neck, trembling.
"Was it related to Sigma Nox?"
"No."
"Do you wish to discuss it?"
"No." One point seven minutes later, as Spock searched in vain for a solution without a defined problem, Jim proceeded to contradict himself. "You died," he murmured weakly. "I watched you die. I could see you, and I was trying to reach you, but I couldn't. I wanted to touch you, but there was glass or something, so I couldn't…." His fingers tightened around the fabric of Spock's nightshirt.
It was difficult to think through the waves of grief that leapt across his still-tenuous shields. The dream must have been particularly vivid to incite such a powerful reaction. "Jim," Spock reminded him gently, "I am alive."
"But it almost happened. We came so close." Jim shut his eyes and took several uneven, shuddering breaths. At a loss, Spock pulled him closer and rubbed a hand along his back, tracing the bumps of his vertebrae. Fortunately this appeared to soothe him, and Spock repeated the gesture until Jim quieted.
The sense of intimacy coupled with darkness began eliciting curious impulses within him. He imagined touching the hair that brushed his throat, combing his fingers through it. He imagined kissing Jim the human way, on the forehead, on the lips, until they were as close as they had been before coming home.
"I'm sorry," Jim said at length, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "I can't leave you alone. I'm trying, I try so hard, but I can't fight ten battles at once."
"I do not understand." Spock's heart rate increased at this confession despite his bewilderment.
"Makes two of us."
He could not see Jim's face given their current positions, and lacking that additional information was concerning. But Jim had already slipped back into sleep, tucked within Spock's arms. He felt fragile, all wiry muscle and sharp bone with none of the softness he once had. The same as on the planet, perhaps worse. Spock resolved to speak with Dr. McCoy the next day.
His decision proved unnecessary, because morning was the breaking point.
Negotiations with Fitzpatrick were going poorly. Scott wanted a spare sensor array from the Defiant, one of their escort ships, explaining he could retrofit it to the Enterprisefor repairs. Fitzpatrick exhibited skepticism beyond the point of logic and into the territory of being intentionally difficult.
Debate devolved into shouting, and Jim excused himself from the bridge the second the com link closed. Spock sensed something was wrong and followed him.
"Captain?" He entered the dark observation lounge.
Jim was sitting against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chest. His breathing was ragged, and his face shining with sweat.
"Jim." Spock knelt at his side, cautiously touching his arm. He only flinched and closed his eyes. "Jim, are you all right? Can you hear me?"
"Can't breathe," he gasped. "Can't breathe, Spock."
"Jim, listen to me. You are on the Enterprise. You are safe."
"Can't... I can't…."
Spock called in a medical emergency.
"Panic attack. Haven't seen one of those since we picked up you two." McCoy closed the curtain that separated Jim's biobed from the rest of sickbay. The captain was under sedation, resting peacefully while Spock and McCoy experienced the opposite state of mind.
"That was my hypothesis," Spock said. He prepared himself to provide additional details, but McCoy shooed him into his office.
"I was afraid of this," he muttered as he shut the door.
"What do you mean, Doctor?"
McCoy hesitated, and Spock realized he might have just asked for a breach of patient confidentiality. The fact that McCoy kept talking anyway should have given him pause, but it did not. "You know that pheromone we've been studying? Turns out it gets conserved in fat tissue. There are tiny reservoirs all over Jim's body," McCoy said. "He's got plenty of muscle, built up, but he keeps shedding fat, thanks to stress. All it takes is a few lost grams to trigger one, which jolts his limbic system, and presto – more stress."
Spock sank into an available chair to assimilate this information. For weeks now, possibly longer, Jim had been suffering from a chronic health issue, and Spock had done nothing but enable him. He wrestled his thoughts onto a more useful course. "Could this stem from some type of posttraumatic syndrome?"
"Maybe. It's a vicious cycle now, regardless," McCoy said, and a sudden burst of intensity gripped him. "Damn it, I warnedhim about this, but he never listens to me."
Spock waited until the doctor's attitude quieted before seeking clarification. "What were the treatments you explored?"
"Either major surgery and a shipload of unknowns, or getting back to a healthy BMI." McCoy shrugged and began pacing the length of his desk. "Of course we picked option number two, but he keeps dodging me on follow-up. He's got social obligations out the ears, and he fooled me into thinking… hell, I don't know." He stopped to glance out the office window. "I released him because the cure should have been simple, but nothing's ever simple with Jim."
"I presume you have spoken to him about this?" Spock followed his gaze to the curtain around Jim's bed.
"Oh, sure. It's always 'eat more, Jim,' and 'yes, Bones,' and then he doesn't. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink." McCoy gave Spock a searching, critical look. "He hasn't told you anything, has he?"
"He has been experiencing nightmares," Spock admitted, after a moment's hesitation.
"He told you that?"
"No."
"Then how do you know?"
Spock thought about how to best phrase a response. Humans had an appalling number of expressions that were easily misconstrued. He conceded defeat after five point three seconds and settled for the most neutral possibility. "The captain slept in my quarters last night."
McCoy's face suggested Spock had just stated Jim was a Romulan spy. "What?"
"We slept in close proximity on Sigma Nox," Spock said. "He accepted my offer that the arrangement continue to alleviate his insomnia."
McCoy eyed him suspiciously and sat down on top of his desk. "Really?"
Spock stared at him. "Vulcans do not lie."
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised." McCoy frowned and fidgeted with an empty hypospray beside him. "You were all he had. Makes sense he trusts you so much."
Spock had repeatedly been told he couldn't understand humans if his life depended on it, many of those times by this very human, but he had a theory that seemed plausible enough to voice. "Doctor, are you jealous?"
"Of course I'm jealous, you green-blooded hobgoblin!" Without warning, McCoy fixed him in a glare that Spock, in spite of himself, found intimidating. "He was my best friend long before you came into the picture. Now he's out of his head, and he won't tell me anything, and you knew something but you're as tightlipped as an Aldebaran shellmouth!"
"I apologize. I should have come to you sooner." Spock bowed his head in capitulation. "I believed I was the only one Jim had been circumventing."
"I thought you just said he slept in your damn room."
"An anomaly following approximately three point six weeks of little significant interaction," Spock said.
"Anomaly. More like the warning light before the crash," McCoy grunted, and continued before Spock could ask for clarification. "The sneaky bastard knows we can tell," he said grimly. "So it's about ten times worse than he's letting on. The man will bitch and moan all day over a hypospray, but saw off his leg and he insists he can run a marathon."
"I am well aware." Spock sat up straighter in his chair. "What options do we have?"
"We sure as hell can't force-feed him. So we have to treat the stress," McCoy gripped the edge of his desk and gazed at the ceiling in thought. "Talk therapy's off the table. He'd never open up to a stranger. The neural neutralizer's been under review by the ethics board since the Tantalus incident. Medical leave by itself won't fix whatever harebrained coping strategies he must be using."
"Anxiety medication?" Spock suggested.
"He's allergic to half of them, and the other half he'd refuse on principle. Jim would never want to feel like he's reliant on drugs." McCoy rolled his eyes and paused for ten point eight seconds, at which point he shook his head. "Here's the thing, Spock. You give me a man who thinks he's a dolphin, and I have a pill that can cure him. But erasing legitimate personal trauma? Hell, that's like the Grand Unified Theory for psychiatry. I doubt I'll live to see it."
Spock had witnessed McCoy treat so many incredible ailments, he had come to expect a cure in any circumstance. Facing his own medical naiveté was disheartening. "That is regrettable," he said.
"Tell me something I don't know." McCoy snorted. He tapped a few buttons on his desk console. "Uhura came in here yesterday, by the way. She's concerned about you working overtime." A map of the human body flashed briefly on the screen, marked by dozens if not hundreds of red dots. "I'm sure Jim knows you're picking up the slack. It must be killing him, but he can't face the alternative."
The doctor's words were truer than he knew, and Spock could see quite clearly where this line of reasoning would lead. He could see every piece of evidence, yet did not wish to arrive at the logical conclusion. "He will adapt. He is an exceptional individual."
"I'm not denying he's exceptional. But everyone has their limits." McCoy sighed, bowing over with the force of it. "I took an oath to my profession and Starfleet. I can't just sit on my hands when he's not fit for duty."
Brittle silence ensued.
"My God, I just said it, didn't I?" McCoy ran a shaking hand over his face. "Jim isn't fit for duty. I mean, that's my honest professional judgment, but still."
Spock hesitated, but decided to trust the intuition he had built up over the months spent with Jim. He stood and made his way over to the liquor cabinet labeled 'emergency supplies,' extracting a particular beverage that he recalled the doctor favored. His hands were clumsy, and he almost dropped the tumblers.
"What am I gonna do, Spock?" McCoy dropped his forehead into his palm. "Drag him through a competency hearing? If he's declared unfit, he'll be lucky to spend the rest of his life as a shipyard tech. Another statistic for all those 'captaincy breeds crazy' studies."
"There are always alternatives." Spock handed him a tumbler and filled it halfway.
"You're starting to sound like him. All that nonsense about not believing in no-win scenarios." McCoy shot Spock an expectant look, but his posture remained slack with resignation.
"I am simply stating one of the fundamental principles behind scientific innovation. A principle we applied frequently to survive." Spock stared into his empty tumbler. He watched the web of light cast by its facets shift, and he believed what he said. He had to. "A solution exists to every problem."
McCoy grunted and downed his brandy. He took the bottle from Spock and poured another dose. "One day. That's all the time I can give you. Please, just find something."
Spock left sickbay with a new sense of purpose. He noted their course, examined their repair timeframe, reviewed available literature and Starfleet privacy laws. He called up the message sent by his father and composed a second reply.
He met Jim in his quarters, haphazardly packing civilian clothes into a suitcase. Jim's method of using his entire body to close the overstuffed case did not appear efficacious.
"Can't believe you two pulled this on me," he grunted between half-jumps. "Well, Bones I can believe, but you?" He gave up and latched the case over the protruding fabric.
"If you had folded the garments–"
"Don't even." Jim wheeled around and pointed at him accusingly. "Isn't this lying to Command?"
"Not precisely," Spock said, squaring his shoulders. He felt the need to appear exceptionally organized in the midst of Jim's chaos. "I require a low-humidity environment for the fullest potential recovery of damaged lung tissues. You require a degree of weight gain best facilitated by off-duty rest. New Vulcan is the closest planet upon which both of these conditions can be met."
"Yeah, but Bones is only reporting a physical issue," Jim said, rolling his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that's not the worst of my problems."
"Your condition does not cause aggressive or narcissistic behavior. Therefore it does not pose a class one danger to the ship and its crew, and full medical disclosure is at the discretion of the CMO."
Jim ignored him, pawing through a second drawer, bunching various uniforms to the side. "Fitzpatrick's going to be all over my case. Three weeks to what, fatten up? No way he won't get suspicious."
"One week," Spock corrected him. "Considering that two of those weeks the Enterprisewill be docked at Starbase Twenty-nine for repairs."
"If you say so," the captain grunted. "Medical leave, my ass."
"Medical leave is preferable to a competency hearing," Spock said, attempting to diffuse Jim's vehement attitude. He wondered if he had made a mistake in doing this, overestimated the rapport between them. McCoy claimed he had confidence in Spock's ability to successfully employ 'that Vulcan tranquility nonsense' to 'sort Jim's head out,' but Spock was not so certain. "I understand I may not be the person you wish to spend–"
"Don't say that." Jim's expression grew pained, although he kept fishing through storage compartments without interruption. "It's not your fault I'm like this. I just hate that things keep happening to me, and I can't control them."
Spock took a seat at Jim's desk and resigned himself to confusion. The captain had protested and complained endlessly since McCoy informed him of their plan, but the way he packed was indistinguishable from enthusiasm. Spock watched him tear open yet another drawer and triumphantly extract a faded shirt bearing the Starfleet Academy logo. His victory did not seem worth the amount of clothing scattered around the room.
Jim stared at his overflowing suitcase for a moment, and stuffed the shirt into a satchel. Then he ceased moving for first time in three point seven minutes. His voice changed, became simultaneously lighter and more cautious, a curious tonal paradox. "Maybe we can visit the other you."
Spock had already investigated the possibility. "Ambassador Selek is currently engaged on a covert diplomatic mission into Romulan territory."
"Oh." Jim froze midway through fastening a clasp. "Are you sure?"
"Reasonably sure. If you wish to contact him, I am certain a secure channel could be arranged."
"No. No, that's okay. I just thought, if he was around…." Jim scratched the back of his head and looked somewhat lost. He closed the satchel and stared at his hands.
Spock felt somewhat lost as well. He was losing himself to the man standing before him. He had been for months now, centimeter by centimeter, so slow that what had felt like mere steps had become a vast distance. The knowledge both terrified and awed him. He had been stranded on Sigma Nox as a Vulcan, and emerged as something different, neither Vulcan nor human, walking a thin line between them once again. This time his balance was much improved.
But Jim needed him for the type of support one survivor could provide another, for a level head and a skillful teacher of 'Vulcan tranquility nonsense,' and that reliance made it difficult to define their association. Was it professional codependence, an unusual friendship, or something altogether different? Regardless, Jim was not himself, so any categorization at this time would be presumptuous.
It was a matter best reserved for an indeterminate future.
"Let me guess." Jim lifted his gaze and dragged Spock out of his illogical reflections. "You packed last night like a responsible person, and your stuff is already in the shuttle."
"I did." Spock stood, nearly driving the chair into the divider behind him in his haste. "And it is. Are you ready?"
"I think so."
"Dirty look, three o'clock," Jim muttered under his breath. "Man, Uhura said it was bad, but I wasn't expecting the constant death glares."
Spock had spent the better part of the afternoon explaining a culture born out of species-wide trauma, and he was beginning to lose patience with either Jim or said culture. "If you are referring to the general trend toward conservatism–"
"The Second Awakening bullshit. All of it," Jim said. "They disabled my universal translator, for God's sake. Look me in the eye and tell me they aren't flirting with xenophobia." Spock could not, as he found himself in private agreement. He knew the fervor for revival, had engaged in it himself, yet its costs were more apparent to him now than six or eight months prior.
"I mean, I thought you had a stick up your ass, but these guys–"
"Quiet," Spock said, as the doors began to swing inward. "Do not speak."
"Heard you the first dozen times."
The open portal revealed the Solkar clan's reception hall, vast but plain, constructed from unpolished gray stone. The windows were narrow, and the ceiling in shadow. Two armored guards framed the center of the hall, halfway to the dais that commanded the space.
"Who petitions T'Pau?" the guard on their right demanded, lirpa shining at his side.
"Spock, son of Sarek." Spock saluted the woman seated above them, bedecked in ceremonial robes. He recalled informing her once as a child that he found her favored hairstyle illogical, and that thought assisted him in speaking now. "This is James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise."
"I was pleased to hear of thy reappearance, Spock." Her voice carried in the chamber, the echoes lending it an imposing, absurdly omniscient quality. "What is thy purpose here?"
"Under Section Five, Article Two of the New Vulcan Accords, I am permitted one non-Vulcan guest per year," he said.
"Indeed." T'Pau raised a critical eyebrow as she studied them. "Continue."
"We seek permission to stay on the lands presented to my father for three Earth weeks," Spock said. "I will accompany the captain there and teach him the ways of Surak to facilitate his recovery from our ordeal."
"An interesting endeavor." Her tone implied she thought it was a futile one. "Thou hast consulted with thy father, I presume?"
"I have. He is occupied on Earth, but he sends his regards."
"And does thou vouch for the human's character?"
"I do." Spock glanced briefly at Jim, who had kept his eyes on the floor in an admirable display of restraint the entire time. "Will you grant my request?"
T'Pau's demeanor was impenetrable. Spock experienced mild difficulty breathing, and Jim's hands clenched and unclenched in his peripheral vision. Seven point two seconds passed in silence.
"I will permit this."
Spock consciously prevented his shoulders from slumping. "You honor me, and you have my thanks." He saluted her, and Jim mimicked the gesture perfectly. She nodded, presumably granting them permission to leave, which they took.
"Spock." T'Pau's voice bolted his feet to the floor.
Jim stopped as well and looked to him, then the exit, then back to him, probably reluctant to stand alone in the public atrium. Spock nodded for him to go, hoping it would be enough to reassure him for a few minutes. Jim returned the nod and departed.
Spock pivoted slowly and attempted to appear as composed as possible. He had spent far too much time away from his father's species; he found himself scoping out T'Pau's face for any sign of an expression.
She waited until the doors slammed shut, marking Jim's departure, before she spoke. "Thou hast strayed from the teachings of our masters, Spock."
"I have developed a difference of opinion," he said. She surveyed him neutrally, an unspoken demand for an explanation. "Perhaps insisting that the same path apply to all individuals is fundamentally illogical." T'Pau was a reformer, but a cautious one, and he knew she would not think less of him for his dissent.
"Perhaps," she conceded. Her gaze lifted, rested on the doors, then returned to him. "The human harbors intense feelings toward thee." Her tone was stern, but otherwise impossible to read.
Spock mirrored her piercing gaze. "I am aware."
This was not what she had been looking for, but Spock had no intention of giving her that response of his own volition. She leaned back in her chair and studied him. "Certainly thou knows firsthand that humans are a fickle species."
"There are always outliers," Spock said.
"Outliers," she murmured. "Like thy mother and father." She added him to that category with the force of her stare.
The way she looked at him now bothered him. He could have dealt with aversion, displeasure, any number of emotions that even the best Vulcans might let slip in such an situation. But not pity. He did not want her pity.
He decided he would not tolerate this unwelcome commentary any longer. "Infinite diversity in infinite combinations," he said, as an explanation or a pointed reminder, he wasn't certain. He turned to leave without another word. The guards looked on, motionless as statues.
She called after him when he had almost reached the doors. "Live long and prosper, Spock."
Spock took the handle and hesitated. "Peace and long life, T'Pau."
He stepped out into the sunlight, where Jim was waiting.
