Context:
While serving on the Enterprise under Captain Pike, Spock becomes involved with another Vulcan on board, Lieutenant T'Pris. He loves her and feels a very strong bond with her, in contrast to his betrothed T'Pring, whom he finds cold and unrelatable. He intends to denounce T'Pring, and is very excited at the prospect of he and T'Pris spending their life and career together. However, T'Pris is murdered just a few weeks after they get to know each other. Spock nearly avenges her death in combat with her murderer until he realizes she would not understand his reasons for doing so.
While reading "Vulcan's Glory," I found that the relationship Spock shares with T'Pris is similar to the one I envision he shares with Kirk. In this fic, I decided to explore the similarities, as well as the effects of the events of "Vulcan's Glory" on Spock and his outlook on the world.
"Medbay."
Acting Captain Spock's hand was clammy as he held onto the turbolift. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he listened to the high-pitched whirring of the elevator in action. He relied heavily on breath and breathing as a source of relaxation - it was a way to steady the pulse and calm the heart rate, a way to clear the body of unwanted tension and the mind of unwanted thoughts. He wiped his other hand on his shirt, right above his heart; he could feel it pulsing forcefully in his chest, its beating more like a vibration than a true pulsing. He had read once that the heartbeat was the most soothing sound, reminiscent of the time spent in the womb, soothed by the constant of a mother's heart in the background. Perhaps that was true of the sound, but Spock didn't like the sensation of his heart thrumming against his insides. Palpitations were uncommon for Vulcans, but something permitted them in his case. Likely his Human half.
The turbolift came to a stop, and the doors spread open. Spock clasped his hands behind his back and stepped out into the familiar Medical corridor, which sprawled out in front of him in a winding tunnel. The lights were dim in an effort to replicate the effects of night and day. It was late; Earth-time, it had to be past eleven o'clock post meridiem. Shifts had been jumbled after their mission to the planet Areta, where the natives had mistaken a landing party for thieves and attempted to do away with them; despite the ungodly hour, this was the first time Spock had managed to step out of the Bridge since the mission's beginning.
The clunking of his boots echoing off the walls, Spock traced the hallway, passing offices, operating rooms, the radiology suite, custodial closets - he had spent plenty of time here before. And though he had spent considerably less time on Areta, nearly fifteen years prior, he had spent enough time down there to remember it, too. The endless dunes, oases with water and trees scattered here and there across the desert, the Druncara Mountains looming in the background above it all, the limp body of a colleague lying nerve-pinched in the sand.
It wasn't the only limp body fresh on his mind.
Spock reached the main Sickbay ward, and punched the entry-code into the keypad on the wall. He didn't need it to get in, but a certain curiosity demanded he not wait for the door to open itself. The door opened, and he crossed the threshold, taking a moment to recenter his thoughts, body, and breath as he stepped inside. James Kirk lay on the biobed at the far end of the room.
Spock lowered his eyes and crossed to his captain. He glanced at the biofunction monitor, and sighed in relief to see that all readings were normal: pulse was good, respiration was satisfactory, heart rate was steady. But Kirk was deeply asleep, sedated, dead to the world were it not for the fact that the monitors proved he was alive. His bandaged arms were folded over his chest, his head and shoulders rested comfortably on a pillow. Peeking out from the blanket covering him was a pad of gauze, covering a long cut that spanned the better part of his chest.
"Almost fifty stitches," Dr. McCoy had grumbled, giving Spock the report on fixing the captain up. "I swear, I don't know how he manages to do this to himself all the damn time."
Spock reached for a nearby stool and wheeled it over to Kirk's bedside, running Dr. McCoy's report through his head one more time. He's got that cut on his chest, obviously. His left arm's broken, and so are a couple ribs. And he's got bruises and scrapes all over, including a hematoma in his collarbone region. I had to drain it while he was under, to relieve the pressure…
Dr. McCoy's report was muddled by another, one Spock remembered from nearly fifteen years ago. Dr. Boyce, the Enterprise's CMO long before McCoy's time. Strangled with one hand, the right hand. A Vulcan technique, the lan-dovna. The evidence is unmistakeable… Another murder, same method…Lieutenant T'Pris —
"Good evening, Captain. Jim." Shaking himself from his thoughts, Spock sat down on the stool, the firm cushion sinking beneath him. He folded his hands in his lap, hooking the heel of his boot onto one of the rungs on the stool's legs. "You'll be glad to know we are comfortably out of orbit of the planet Areta."
Kirk didn't stir in the slightest. It was completely illogical, Spock knew, to attempt a conversation with the captain now. Knowing his tendency to push himself too far, Dr. McCoy had administered a powerful sedative to keep Kirk asleep a while and offer his body a chance to heal — it would likely be morning before the captain woke. But Spock found himself speaking nonetheless. It was a way of distraction.
"We are now on route to the planet Galea. We should arrive there in approximately 45.3 Earth-hours," he continued. "Lieutenant Commander Oladele is at the helm. Our course is locked in and steady." Spock thought he saw Kirk's finger twitch, but shook it off when the captain remained completely still for the next several seconds - he was tired, and his senses were beginning to deceive him. "I hope I am not disturbing you. It seemed only right of me, as Acting Captain, that I pay you a visit."
A purely Human act. Spock could almost hear the words falling from his colleagues' lips. With a stern breath, he pushed aside the spark of hate welling up in his chest. Hate. That was undoubtedly a Human concept. Vulcans knew no such thing as hate — at least, not that they would admit. But Spock knew hate. And to himself, privately, he had no choice but to acknowledge it.
He could feel the gritty Aretian sand between his fingers. He could taste the sweat on his lips, see the grimace on the face of his adversary, her murderer, as they fought hand-to-hand. He could see the memory in his mind: a woman, ebony hair wrapped 'round her head in a thick braid, a smile on her face, delicate fingers entwined in his as they stood together — Lieutenant T'Pris, who had graced Spock's life with her presence for but a fortnight. That image of her was the only thing that had saved him, fifteen years ago, from his own hate. But the image of her lying there, lifeless and cold, was the image that had taught him hate to begin with — and he found that image to be much easier to bring to his mind than the first.
He could not allow himself to be angry at those who had given his captain his injuries. They had only been trying to protect themselves, as everyone hopes to do. There was no premeditated harm, no decision made beforehand that designated Kirk as a victim. It was an entirely different situation from the one fifteen years ago. James Kirk and T'Pris were two completely separate people, with two completely separate stories: one was here, merely asleep, and one was long dead and buried in her family's courtyard on Vulcan.
And yet, Spock had stood over both their motionless bodies lying in the Sickbay bed by the window, their arms folded neatly over their chests, and found a piece of himself suddenly misplaced.
"You alright there, Spock?" Spock looked up wildly to see Dr. McCoy, holding a cup in his hands. His shirt was wrinkled from a long day's work, the creases in the corners of his eyes more defined with exhaustion.
"I am adequate, Doctor," Spock assured him. It was true, in terms of his health. "I only wished to check in on our captain's healing process."
A soft smile crossed the doctor's lips. "Let me handle that, Spock," he chuckled, handing Spock the cup he was holding. "I promise, Jim's doing just fine."
Spock furrowed his eyebrows, hesitantly taking the cup. "What is this for, Doctor?" he asked. "I assure you, I am in no need of medication."
"It's high time you got something in your system," Dr. McCoy replied, voice calm and low. "I know you Vulcans can go longer than we Terrans can without food or drink, but you've had a long day. Drink up."
Spock sighed, and looked down into his cup: its contents were a deep, syrupy brown; he hoped it wasn't coffee. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, examining the odor of the liquid contained within, and to his delight — and chagrin — it wasn't.
It was saya: the Vulcan equivalent of Terran herbal tea, albeit made from different plants. Dr. McCoy must have plugged the recipe into a replicator. It smelled right — good, almost, were it not for the fact that right now, the aroma turned Spock's stomach. He recalled the many times he and T'Pris had sat down for a game of chess in his quarters, sipping saya and not-really-accidentally brushing their fingertips together with the hand they weren't using to move their pieces.
Reluctantly, Spock took a drink, knowing that Dr. McCoy wouldn't be satisfied until he did so. He swallowed hard, realizing his throat was awfully tight. His voice came out hoarse when he tried to speak. "Thank you, Doctor."
"No problem. Even if I do think it's gross, the least I can do is make it for you, huh?" Dr. McCoy patted Spock on the shoulder and started to leave, but turned back just a few paces away. "You know Jim's just asleep, right, Spock?"
"I am aware." Not entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth. Spock cursed himself inside.
"Alright, just checking." Dr. McCoy yawned into the back of his wrist. "I'll see you in the morning, Spock."
Spock watched the doctor leave, then turned his gaze back to his captain. The monitors hadn't changed, and Kirk hadn't moved, his sleep impenetrable even by nearby conversation.
Until Spock had felt the coldness of her skin, T'Pris, too, had appeared merely asleep.
Spock wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. He set his cup on the floor; completely illogical, that such a familiar drink was causing distress to his digestive system. He drew in a shaky breath, and reached out a hand; careful to avoid the bandages, he entwined Kirk's fingers in his. The captain's skin was pleasantly warm, supple and alive despite appearances otherwise. Spock closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until his breaths fell in time with the pulsing of the biofunction monitor detecting Kirk's respirations. He could feel Kirk's pulse between their fingers, weak since the veins were so small, but steady nonetheless. It and the biofunction monitor were the closest things he had to a heartbeat to listen to.