"The gift you are, like the very first breath of Spring; the gift you are, all the joy that love can bring; the gift you are, all of our dreams come true; the gift you are, the gift of you. You are the promise of all the ages, you are the prodigal son, you are the vision of prophets and sages, you are the only one." John Denver, 'The Gift of You'
Spock woke to the smell in his nostrils of burning wood. Under laying that smell was an acrid odor that he recognized as the scent of old beeswax candles. As he rose closer to consciousness he could hear the sharp snap and crackle and occasional 'thushing' sound of breaking wood from a nearby fire.
He was very warm. Lifting a hand, he discovered that he was covered by a thick quilt pulled up to his chest. He could feel his arm was enclothed by a long sleeve that was bound at his wrist with a wide, tight cuff.
His eyelids flickered and opened slowly. His first impression was that he was surrounded by white walls, but on closer inspection he found the walls were actually papered with a delicate pastel, flowered pattern. The ceiling was painted white.
Scanning the room, he saw sparse furnishings - a table by the bed to his left, a fireplace with the crackling wood burning. There was a door beyond the fireplace to his left, a dresser made of a dark wood on the opposite wall and another door in the center of that space. As he continued around the room, he found an armoire of the same kind of wood as the dresser. A chair was pushed against the armoire and occupied by a Vulcan male, who was watching Spock with intensity. A window was to the left of the unknown Vulcan and Spock judged the time at late afternoon, perhaps early evening.
The other man was younger than Spock, perhaps closer to that of his secretary St'van, about sixty or seventy Earth years. He wore a costume of the times, dark trousers, light shirt with long full sleeves and a green waistcoat of thick material buttoned from top to bottom. There were button up shoes on his feet. He had his hands paired in front of his chest. His face was impassionate, though he did raise a single eyebrow at the ambassador's scrutiny.
Spock tried to speak but his throat was dry and his tongue thick from lack of moisture. He gathered some saliva and swallowed deeply before finding his voice. The younger Vulcan rose. "You were in the street," Spock said hoarsely.
The other raised his hand in the ta'al. "Yes, S'haile," he responded keeping his voice controlled and just shy of speaking in a normal level. "I am Sarnek, of the house of K'nash-sen-sha."
Spock searched his memory. K'nash-sen-sha was a minor house, but of acceptable repute. He turned his gaze to the ceiling, his mind slowly remembering. "I saw T'Pring," he murmured in disbelief.
"Yes, S'haile. She is a cousin, several times removed."
"How…" Spock started, his thoughts confused, still muddled. "Where am I?"
"Your wife's house, S'haile. I brought you here after T'Pring stabbed you."
Everything became crystal clear then. Transporting down to the surface, the biting cold of the weather, the snow on the ground that he had to step over. The sounds of the people and the carts as they rumbled along the cobbled stone street. The general atmosphere and odors of sewage, sweat of unwashed people and stained clothes, the animals allowed to defecate along the curbs, the scent of the winter weather and chill of the air. He and David had scanned for the Vulcan life form they had detected from the ship and found him casually strolling the vendors as they were touting their wares. Spock had approached the man and was introducing himself when T'Pring had appeared from behind him amidst the crowd. With a harsh guttural cry, she had buried a knife in his side.
He vaguely remembered the whine of a phaser and David stooping next to him, then being hefted by his friend and dragged through alleys. After that, everything became a blur of vague impressions.
He did remember the fire in his side caused by the knife, the pain that shot from the wound up to his shoulder and down to his hip. The blood that chilled as it soaked into his clothing. He recalled having trouble breathing and trying to control the agony that burned through him before he passed out. He thought he remembered a house and a chair and David calling the ship for help. Then there were no memories at all.
"Where is T'Pring?"
"She is in one of the upstairs servants' rooms, tied to the bed posts. She will not escape, S'haile."
"My wife?" he interrupted.
"She is two doors down the hall, in labor."
Spock grabbed the quilt and tossed it aside. He started to rise and was pulled back into the mattress as pain ripped through him. He groaned audibly, causing Sarnek to tilt his head at the ambassador's verbal expression of physical discomfort. Spock took several deep breaths to bring himself back into control, calling on his Vulcan disciplines, his eyes closing momentarily. When he opened them he looked to Sarnek. "Help me up," he ordered.
Sarnek did not move. "Dr. Trice said you are to remain in bed."
Spock held his arm out. "Help me up," he repeated more forcibly. "I will go to my wife."
"The doctor will not approve," Sarnek tried again.
"I have no care for whether or not the doctor approves. Help me up," he repeated for the last time.
Sarnek took Spock's arm above the elbow and pulled gently, ignoring the other man's soft, indrawn hiss of pain. Slowly, he helped the ambassador to a point where he could slide his other hand around Spock's back for support, easing the stress on his wound.
Spock glanced down. He wore a white nightshirt congruent to the times, it hung over his knees to his calves. His feet were bare and he could feel the material as it rubbed against his skin, making him aware that he wore no clothing under the garment. A bandage over his side on the left pulled at his skin as he moved. He dropped his legs over the side of the bed. "I shall need a robe," he observed.
"And slippers," Sarnek added, releasing Spock and moving to the armoire. Opening it, he removed a black velour robe and a pair of black leather slippers. Dropping the slippers at Spock's feet he waited until the ambassador had slid them on. He helped Spock to stand then held the robe open for Spock to slide his arms through and waited as the other tied the robe belt loosely.
"Where is my wife?"
"This way, S'haile." Sarnek took him down the hall outside his room to the left, passing one door before stopping in front of the next. He started to raise his hand to knock on the door when through it they heard the sound of a muffled female moan followed by a baby's cry. Spock stiffened visibly, taking a deep breath. His son had been born. He had a son.
He didn't wait but reached around Sarnek, turned the knob and pushed the door open.
She was here, laying on a bed, her head propped up with pillows. Janeen's face was edged with sweat and effort, her hair hung in uncombed strands around her shoulders. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her legs had been drawn up and parted, Trice sat on the bed at her feet, his attention at the place under the sheet that covered the tops of her knees. David was to the left of the bed, busy with something at a dresser.
"C'thanae," Spock said huskily, his heart pounding in his body. As soon as he saw her, the bond they shared before their marriage flared to life. He could feel her joy, and exhaustion, at the birth of their child. He could feel her sadness that he had missed it. He could feel her worry that he had been hurt.
"Ambassador," Trice said, not looking up from his work, "you are supposed to be in bed."
"Doctor, I will be with my wife," he corrected.
Trice rose, pulling the cover over Janeen's legs to keep private things private. He rounded on the Vulcan. His eyes were bright from fatigue, his face drawn. "No sir," he grated out, "you need to be in bed. I spent five hours sewing you up and I will not have my hard work ruined. Now, you may be a big shot out there," he continued, pointing towards the ceiling, "but down here, and even up there if that be the case, my authority overrides even an admiral's. You get yourself back to bed, or I swear, I will sedate you right into next week." Spock was taken aback by the attack, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
All of Trice's audacity fled with the next breath. He sighed loudly, wearily, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go back to bed, Spock. Get some rest. You'll see your wife soon enough." He added the final argument. "Please."
Spock looked from the doctor to his Janeen. She smiled to him, unshed tears in her eyes, and nodded - she was fine, go take care of yourself. He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders, pulling his authority, what the doctor would permit, around him. "Very well, Doctor. You will come to see me as soon as you can."
"Yes, Spock, as soon as I can." He jerked his head towards the hallway. "Go on," he said gently. "Mr. Sarnek, stay with him."
"Yes, Doctor." Sarnek plucked at the ambassador's sleeve, urging him to accompany him back to the other room. Trice turned back to his new mother.
Spock gingerly lowered himself to the bed, sitting wearily. The short trip down the hall had exhausted him. His side burned and ached, he was sore all over. He let the slippers fall from his feet.
He was about to lay back when the door to the room opened. David crossed the threshold, a blanket wrapped bundle in his arms. He grinned at Spock as he entered the room fully, going directly to the Vulcan. He leaned towards him. "My Lord Ambassador Spock," he said reverently, "may I present your son." He offered the bundle he carried.
Spock allowed the child to be placed in his arms and glanced up at David, mystified at what to do with what he'd just been given. The human gave a nod of assurance, pulling Spock's elbow up slightly to cradle the newborn's head properly.
Spock looked down and instantly fell in love. His son was small, much smaller than he would have thought, so tiny he looked as though a breeze would blow him away. His heart swelled with unaccountable and illogical pride and pleasure. A son. He had a son. A child to cherish and love, to teach all that he knew, to guide and watch over as he made his own way in the universe.
He had thought while they were on Vulcan that this had truly been lost to him and his heart had broken a second time. If he had thought that losing Janeen had been worth dying for, this made the idea so much more potent - to realize that he would have lost this and died for it as well.
Spock vowed that he would not do to his son what Sarek had done to him - the constant sessions of discipline, the disapproving looks that could cut a child in half. He promised that he would accept his child for what he was, what he was going to be and make sure his son knew that his father loved him.
The infant had skin tinged with the slightest of green coloring and a full head of almost black hair. His eyes were closed so he could not see their color. Already he showed the promise of long, slender fingers. The brows curved gently in a graceful arch towards his temple. His ears, though currently flattened against his head, were pointed. His son looked like him. Spock conceded to himself that he had hoped the boy would take after him. This was his heir, destined to become the head of the clan, but all he expected from the child was to learn about his heritage and respect it, even should he ultimately decide not to claim it.
With a finger, he smoothed it along the baby's cheek. The baby yawned and wiggled, his fisted hands to either side of his cheeks, then settled into a weary sleep. He had had too busy of a day to worry about the consequences of his birth and the significance of the man holding him. "Na'shaya, Senar, sa-fu," Spock murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Ma du aitlu, ma du ashau."
"So, it's to be Senar anyway?" David asked.
"It means 'gift.' Senar, son of Spock, son of Sarek, of the house Telek-sen-deen." Spock felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him. As much as he regretted it, he pushed the baby back towards David. "I must lay down."
David took the child, holding him close to his chest. "You okay?"
"Exhausted. In pain."
"I'll see if Trice has anything you can have until he comes in."
Spock waved a hand. "Not necessary. I may wait. Janeen?"
"She's fine. It was an easy labor."
"Thank you, David, for bringing my son."
"Janeen wanted you to see him first. You want me to tell her something?"
"No. What I have to say to her is for her only."
"Rest, Spock."
"I shall."
Spock waited until David had departed before trying to lift his legs back onto the bed. His body would not listen to his commands, he was drained of energy. Seeing his dilemma, Sarnek reached down and lifted the other's legs. Spock slid them down the bed and Sarnek pulled the covers back up to just beyond the ambassador's waist.
"Can I get something for you, S'haile?"
"You may cease calling me that."
"Explain."
"Spock will do, or Lord Spock, if you insist. And I am thirsty."
Sarnek went to the door and pulled a cord hanging next to it. Only a moment passed before there was a discreet knock on the door and it opened. A human man looked around the edge of the door then came fully into the room.
"Yes, Mr. Sarnek?" He wore a suit of some sort, clean and sharply pressed and acted with deference to the Vulcan.
"Mr. Timmons, this is Lord Spock, Madam Spock's husband."
The servant bowed to Spock. "Welcome home, my Lord. And congratulations on your son." Spock nodded his acknowledgement.
"Some tea please, for Lord Spock," Sarnek requested. "In fact, bring up enough for several people. And would you make sure the rest of the staff is informed about Lord Spock?"
"Right away, Mr. Sarnek." The man disappeared.
"Sarnek."
"Yes, Lord?"
"Sit. Tell me what has happened here."
Sarnek took the seat he had been in earlier, palming his hands, holding them to his face as he pondered on the best way to tell the story. As any Vulcan might have to any other Vulcan, they would have relayed the information with clinical detail, presenting every fact for the listener. But he had just spent six months with the most human wife of the most famous Vulcan their planet had known in several generations. He had mind melded with her when she had fallen into the abyss of a broken marriage bond. He had gleaned information from that that no other male should have learned from a bonded female. He knew the ambassador was very protective of his wife and did not know how he would react when he learned that Sarnek had knowledge of such intimacies.
"I had become suspicious of T'Pring when I happened upon a stack of information that she had left out. In it I discovered that she was planning on committing a crime against someone, though at the time I did not know who or how. I decided to keep her under scrutiny."
"Why did you not inform the authorities?"
"I had no concrete proof. What could they have done? And if they had approached her, she would have realized that her plan was discovered and changed plans. I believed it logical to allow her to continue with her original plan, then report her when I had more proof.
"When I learned that she had hired a transport, I followed her and boarded the ship without her knowledge. Though she might not have recognized me had we met. T'Pring does not have much use for those she deems below her and we had not seen each other for many years.
"Little did I realize what she actually had planned. We set course for Earth to where she had previously sent a message to your wife. Once Madam Spock had boarded, she was at the mercy of T'Pring. It was then I made myself known and tried to convince her that her actions were unacceptable. However, she was set in her course and I could not dissuade her."
"What message did she send that got my wife to board the transport?"
"She falsified an urgent message from one of your estate managers. I do not know its contents."
"It was sufficient to get her on the ship."
"Affirmative, my Lord."
"What ship?"
"The V'irigi," he answered. "Once Madam Spock was on board, T'Pring forced the captain of the ship to set a course for the sun in this solar system. I had first believed her intent was to kill us."
"She discovered the way to travel back in time by sling shooting around a sun. I wonder from where she learned such information."
"Again, I do not know. My concern was for your wife, my Lord. She was near hysterical with fear and then when we broke the time barrier…"
"Our marriage bond was broken, yes. Was it difficult for my wife?" His voice had lowered, remembering the agony he had suffered on his part.
Sarnek's face closed, his head bowed. "It was, my Lord," he whispered.
Spock scrutinized the other. "You helped her?" he asked with inspiration.
"Forgive me. I had to help her or let her die."
"There is nothing to forgive, Sarnek. You saved my wife and son."
"I mind melded with a bonded woman. It is unforgivable."
"In any other circumstance, I would agree. But in this case, it was necessary. I would assume you have since purged what you learned?"
He shook his head. "I have not. I can not do it alone."
"Perhaps when I am stronger, I will be able to lend you aid. Please continue."
"By the time Madam Spock had regained her senses, and realized what had happened, she refused to remain on the V'irigi. She transported to the surface. I accompanied her in order to lend her aid and we have been here since."
"And the V'irigi?"
"Remains in orbit. The ship was badly damaged in the trip, it was not designed to do what T'Pring had demanded of it. It will never be able to return to the Vulcan we know."
"And its crew?"
"They are but six in number and they stay with their ship. They realize the dangers of being here and will not come down save for resupplying food stores, and even then they stay only as necessary. I have seen someone from the ship but twice since we arrived, and they do have the freedom of the entire planet in which to find food. They have, on occasion, supplied us."
"T'Pring? How did she know we had come?"
"She has been watching your wife closely, but keeping her distance. I have seen her often following us, or me. T'sai does not go out alone. I will not permit it, knowing T'Pring is waiting. How she is surviving here, I do not know. I believe she may be insane."
"Why would you say that?"
"By her actions, all that I have told you. I have seen her often smile as she watches Madam Spock, not as though she is happy, but with malevolence. Her stabbing you is but another example. She is determined to disrupt your life. And she has not adapted well to her circumstance in being stranded here."
"Why would she not remain on the ship?"
"I do not have that answer. You would have to ask either T'Pring or the captain of the V'irigi."
Spock lay silent. T'Pring had always placed herself and her needs above those of anyone else, her interests prurient for a Vulcan. Stonn, Spock had learned, had died from the excessive use of drugs to enhance his ability to keep T'Pring satisfied, especially sexually. T'Pring, however illogical it might have seemed, blamed Spock. She had tried, unsuccessfully, to direct in pushing through the Referendum, a planet wide vote to ban all extraterrestrials, particularly humans, from Vulcan. Had the vote passed, Sarek would have had to divorce Amanda in order to keep his titles and property, or he would have had to leave Vulcan with her. Spock would have lost his ancestral home with his citizenship. Again, she blamed Spock. All because he had had the audacity to release her from the marriage contract at Koon-ut-kah-li-fee. Her plans had been to marry him and gain his titles and wealth and he would leave and she would still have her Stonn, the male she had used to cuckold Spock.
There was another knock at Spock's room door. Sarnek rose to admit Mr. Timmons, a tray in his hands with a pot, cups, silverware and small, covered containers. He took the tray to the dresser and set it down carefully. "Shall I pour, Mr. Sarnek?"
"No, thank you. I will take care of it. Thank you, Mr. Timmons."
"Very good, sir." The servant left.
"How have you survived here?" Spock asked as Sarnek fixed a cup of tea.
"Your wife has been giving music lessons until recently. I have been doing accounting work here in the house. We try to limit our excursions outside of the house. When you found me, I was looking for fresh produce. There is not much of a choice at this time of year." He brought the cup to Spock's side of the bed and set it on the night table. "If I may?" he asked, reaching to Spock. He helped the other to rise enough to place more pillows behind him then gave him the tea. Returning to the dresser, he fixed a cup for himself, taking it back to his chair.
"Trice said he spent five hours sewing me up. What did he mean?"
"He meant," the man in question replied entering, "exactly what he said." He carried a medical bag with him which he placed on the bed at the footend.
"Explain," Spock demanded.
"Damn fool machines," the physician complained. "After you and Cmdr. McFey beamed down, something fizzled out in the transporter console. The engineer jury rigged it, you called for help and I beamed down. Whatever they had fixed fizzled out again along with something else. By the time I called up to return 'cause you were bleeding to death, transporting people was out of the question. They managed to get a surgical pack down, but everything in it that ran on any kind of energy was rendered useless. No regenerator, no laser scalpel, nothing.
"Sarnek here told me there was a surgeon living close by, so I sent him to get me whatever he could while I tried to control the bleeding. He brought back the surgeon in the flesh and we spent more time than I ever want to have to spend ever again with my hands inside a body sewing sutures with cat gut. That's the reason why I want you in bed until we can get out of this godforsaken place. That other surgeon knew what he was doing, but it's been a lifetime since I've literally sewn a patient, and that one was a corpse at the time."
"You have no idea what 'fizzled?'" Spock asked with a touch of distaste at the doctor's choice of description.
"No, I'm a surgeon. Ask our engineer and I'm sure he'll be more than happy to give you an entire treatise on it. " He pointed to the tea they were drinking. "Is there more of that?"
"On the dresser, Doctor," Sarnek replied with a tilt of his head.
Trice strolled over and began to fix himself a cup. "Anyway, once we get you on the ship, I'll take you into surgery and repair that wound properly. For now, as long as you don't stress it, it should hold."
"What else do you know of my condition?" Trice came to the end of the bed, cup in hand.
"You've lost a lot of blood, and I mean a lot. She must have held the knife vertically. Your lung and kidney were knicked, your diaphragm was cut. That wound was serious. If she had stabbed you on the other side, it would have been irreparably fatal. I don't know if that was a mistake or the intent. Without care, you would have bled to death. I'll want to check your urine the first time you pass some, it'll probably have blood in it."
Trice looked thoughtful a moment, sipping from his tea. "The ship beamed down three units of Vulcan saline before the transporter completely broke down, so I want to set it up, try to get your fluid levels back up. I hope you do not come down with a fever, since conditions during your surgery were not ideal. God knows how many germs got into you just from the surgery."
"You have antibiotics?"
"Some, and some antipyretics as well. I'd much rather you were in my Sick Bay. That's where you should be."
"We must deal with what we have until we can return to the ship. Who was the surgeon Sarnek brought?"
"A Dr. Doyle."
Spock raised an eyebrow very high. "Arthur Conan Doyle?" he asked intuitively.
Trice glanced up sharply, then looked to Sarnek. "I believe that is his name," the Vulcan replied with some puzzlement.
"I'll be damned," Trice breathed.
"Indeed, Doctor," Spock agreed. "He did not publish his first story until eighteen eighty-seven. Up to that time, he was a practicing surgeon."
"I do not understand," Sarnek said.
"Have you never heard of Sherlock Holmes?" Trice asked.
The other shook his head once. "I am unfamiliar with that name."
"I'll make sure you get one of the books then. Arthur Conan Doyle created the character, Sherlock Holmes. He was a great detective who solved crimes through astute observation, deductive reasoning, and a wealth of information in his head. You might like him. He is kind of Vulcanish, all that logic and stuff."
"'Vulcanish' is not a word, Doctor," Sarnek reprimanded gently.
"Sounds just right to me."
Sarnek opened his mouth to reply. "Doyle is also an ancestor of mine," Spock interjected before they got into a war of words.
"No." Trice was flabbergasted.
"Yes, Doctor. Arthur Doyle is a relative on my mother's side."
"Double I'll be damned. So you were operated on by one of your own ancestors."
"It would appear so."
Spock set his tea cup on its saucer. "Did he not make any reference to my blood? Surely, if not by my physical appearance, the color of my blood would have shocked him. You are fortunate he did not refuse his aid."
"I have tampered with the minds of the servants," Sarnek offered.
"Explain."
"I cut myself one day. The wound bled freely. Madam Spock and I realized that had the servants seen it, they would have panicked and at the least reported it to the authorities. After she tended to it, I placed a suggestion in each of the servants' minds that if they ever saw my blood again, they would not see green, but red. I did the same for Doyle on the way back to the house."
"That's why they went about doing what I asked without any weird looks?"
"Yes, Doctor."
Trice explained that to Spock. "There was blood everywhere, on the carpet, on the table I ended up using, on the floor beneath it, and your clothes. They cleaned it up without question, took blood soaked towels without hesitation, as well as your clothing."
"What did you have them do with it?"
"Burned it, all of it," Sarnek answered. "I watched as they set it to flame. You are wearing some of my clothing. We are close to a size."
Trice peered at the younger Vulcan. "And what did you tell them about those ears? The eyebrows you might get away with, but not the ears."
"I covered my ears until my hair grew long enough to hide them." Trice snorted in disbelief, but let the subject drop.
"Sarnek, I thank you for the use of your clothing. Doctor, how is my wife? My son?"
"They're both fine. She's undernourished, but from what she told me, it's been hard to get the proper nutrition. I'll want to check you out, Mr. Sarnek, make sure that's all you might be suffering from. This isn't exactly the twenty-fourth century. Hell, it isn't even the twentieth century. They don't have much belief in sanitation and antibiotics haven't even been discovered yet.
"Your son is as healthy as the proverbial horse, though I would recommend him seeing someone more versed in both infants and mixed genetics. I could be missing something necessary, but I'm sure that while she was pregnant, a lot of her nutrients went to the baby. Couple of vitamin shots, some good food, she'll be fine. Same goes for you, Mr. Sarnek."
"I can not impart to you how anxious I am to get back to the ship and our own time."
"One of the many problems yet facing us," Spock said wryly. "We are only halfway through this 'mission.'"
"Until we do return to the ship, I want someone with you at all times, since I don't have a working tricorder."
"Both David and I brought tricorders and they are in working condition."
"Great. At least I can get a better reading on all of you. Still can't set one up without someone to stay with it, unless you did a little hocus pocus with the servants on that subject as well?" he asked, wiggling his fingers at the Vulcan.
"Hocus pocus?" Not only did his eyebrows rise, but his head tilted.
"Mind altering," Spock explained for the puzzled Sarnek.
"As we did not have any tricorders, there was no need for any 'hocus pocus,'" Sarnek replied with indignation.
Trice chuckled softly. "Spock, after that little jaunt you just took, I want to check your stitches." Spock set his tea cup on the nightstand next to the bed.
The room was darkened, a thick, single candle burning on a table set near the chair. Trice sat in the chair, taking his shift at keeping watch on Spock, the tricorder humming softly. Spock slept restlessly, the covers drawn to his neck. The room had chilled as the sun had gone down and a maid had come in to build up the fire and refill the wood holder. David had taken watch for several hours to relieve Sarnek, then Trice had taken his place after a few hours of rest.
After checking the wound earlier, Trice had set up the saline drip, still running at the present. He wanted the Vulcan's blood volume up. Fluids were very important to Vulcans. As a race that lived on a desert planet, they had evolved into a people who could not easily afford to lose fluids of any kind. Spock had been close to bleeding out by the time Trice had gotten it under control. Had he had the right blood and type, he would have done a transfusion. But Spock's blood type was rare, even for a Vulcan, plus he had human elements in it, making it tricky to infuse the ambassador. Trice always made sure, when he knew that the ambassador was traveling on the Arkansas, that he had Vulcan specific items, just in case. They had not expected the call from Thesius Six and the ship had just achieved orbit as a normal stopover when it had come through.
With the added fluids, time, and the Vulcan's uncanny ability to heal faster than most humans, as long as he didn't do anything to aggravate the wound or start it bleeding, he would manage while they were stranded.
The minute amount of light from the tricorder fell on Trice's face as he closed his eyes for a few minutes. He never wanted to repeat the day he'd had today. He'd left his Sick Bay, treating minor injuries from the journey, to beam down and be faced with a major catastrophe as well as a woman giving birth. Pregnancy and labor didn't happen too often on the Arkansas. Most of the crew were well stocked on birth control. Whatever personal intimacies that might have been going on on board were not resulting in the crew having babies. It had been both a stretch of his rusty experience and a delight to be there for the birth of the ambassador's son.
A creaking noise from the door signaled that someone was entering the room. Quickly, Trice muted the tricorder and waited quietly, his hand at his pocket where a phaser rested. A white clad figure crept along the side of the bed, blonde hair flowing down the back. Janeen had come to see her husband. She perched on the edge of the bed, staring down at him for a moment. Trice pulled his hand clear of the weapon.
With her left hand she reached out. Spock had his right hand laying, palm up, on the pillow beside his head, he was sleeping on his right side. She slid her hand into his and squeezed gently.
Spock inhaled deeply, waking fully at the touch of her cool skin, his own hand tightening on hers for a heartbeat before he dragged it to his mouth. Placing a kiss on the back of her hand, he held on as if for dear life. "I have missed you, wife," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin.
She smoothed along his hairline. "As much as I have missed you, husband," she whispered back.
His eyes opened as he rolled slightly to see her. "You are well, you and the child?"
"We are both fine. Are you?"
"I am as well as can be expected."
Twisting their hands, he laid his flat along hers, opening a mind meld, strengthening that bond that they shared. Her emotions hit him like a phaser blast, sad and joyful at the same time, anxious and worried. She had not had an easy time of it in the beginning, only with Sarnek's help had she survived those first days. After that, she had done what she had to do, knowing that she had to keep their child alive, the trust that he would come for her beginning to fade as the days dragged into weeks, then months. It pained him that he could not have eased her burden.
He released her hand. "Should you not be in bed?"
Her touch to his cheek was gentle. "I am, in your bed, where I belong."
"Then come, lay with me." She slipped under the blanket and nestled next to him, mindful to not press against his injury. "You must promise me that you will never undertake such a journey as the one that brought you here."
"Like I knew that T'Pring, your old girlfriend by the way, was planning on kidnapping me and bringing me back in time."
He was not going to rise to the bait of her accusation, not now. "Nonetheless, should you ever receive a call from anyone with whom you have a question, contact me first. We will set up a code system for you so you may be more assured of the authenticity of the caller." He drew a feather light touch along her eyebrow. "I would not have us repeat this experience," he added softly.
Her breathing evened out. "What took you so long?"
"It was but twelve days for me."
"It was six months for me. I thought you had died. I thought I was going insane."
"As did I. David saved me. Had he not, we would have never discovered the truth of what happened or been able to effect a rescue."
"David told me he found that song I wrote." Their touches were reassuring, reacquainting.
"And it was a good gambit, C'thanae, but when you came back to this time, history changed. Even had David realized you were in the past, he did not have the knowledge to institute time travel. It is due to my experiences in Starfleet that I knew what to do. In the future from which we came, the Federation did not exist, Earth was not the same. The people had not developed space flight. They were three hundred years behind when things should have happened as we know them."
"Why? What happened?"
"You did. You and our son. He starts a reform movement before your World Wars, bringing peace to the world. Earth does not develop the technology it needs to go into space at the right time."
"What will happen then, when we go home?"
"Earth should be as we know. The Federation and Starfleet should exist. Our presence here will be just a memory for some."
She caressed his temple. "Our baby brings the world peace. How extraordinary of him."
"It is because his mother is killed that he does it, C'thanae. Salec is not satisfied with the judicial system that is in place then. I do not know the details of his reasoning, only that he is dissatisfied."
"He's all alone then, after…" she asked in a whisper.
"I assume he would at least have Sarnek, though I was unaware of his presence here. But yes, he is orphaned. Forgive me, wife, for giving you such distressing news."
"Salec?" she asked after a minute of quiet. "Is that his name?"
"It is what you named him in that other time."
"It means gift, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"How appropriate then. Yesterday, when he was born, was Christmas Day."
"It will not be the same date when we return."
"No matter. It will always be special for me, whatever the date when we return."
"If that is your wish, we will make it so." He pulled her head into the crook of his shoulder. "You do not smell the same."
"I couldn't find anyone who could replicate my scent. I did try."
"It is of no consequence. We shall remedy that as well on our return." Her hair was still as silky as he knew it to be as he combed his fingers through it. "Sleep, C'thanae. We both need our rest."
"I want one more thing first. A kiss."
"That request I can grant now," he replied and proceeded to fulfill it. Her lips were cool against his, seeking a promise that he would never leave her again, giving him the same promise back. He could feel his heart speed up as her breathing increased and he ended the kiss when she whimpered against his lips. Trice cleared his throat to remind them both that neither one was in any condition to start something. "I love you," he whispered, his touch still hesitant, as if she were a dream he had not quite awakened from.
"Sleep," he repeated, settling her in his embrace. "I do not wish to endure another spate of wrath from Dr. Trice," he added loud enough to let the physician know that he knew he was there…and listening. An indelicate, soft snort came from the direction of the chair.
Na'shaya - welcome ma du ashau - you are loved
Sa-fu - son
Ma du aitlu - you are wanted