In the quiet of his quarters, Spock slowly opened his eyes and clenched his hands together in his lap so tightly that the nailbeds whitened.

In the corners of his vision, the languid curl of aromatic smoke from the incense burning at his feet created strange patterns as it wove in and out of the red glow of the lights. The switch to red-light mode in his cabin was intended to simulate the night-time lighting of Vulcan, and better facilitate the focus required for effective meditation.

It had failed.

37.86 minutes had already passed, and Spock had not succeeded in achieving the proper state. Considering it usually took him an average of 6.68 minutes to do this, and had done so since early childhood, the situation was…disconcerting.

It did not help that he had no real wish to meditate. He would far rather be working on the cure for Ji-… for the planet's occupants in the labs. But he had reluctantly concluded that, in the absence of sleep, a brief period of meditation would be beneficial in managing the relative chaos of thought and feeling that had overtaken his being since the instant in which he had met the eyes of his Captain through the matter stream engulfing his body and realised that he was leaving him behind.

Spock had long ago abandoned the conviction that Vulcans did not feel, though he might occasionally claim otherwise in response to those who did not understand the nuances of his culture, or in the interest of riling one Doctor McCoy. In the aftermath of Vulcan's destruction, with the remaining members of his race mired in mental anguish and so clearly mourning, grieving, in their own way, he had been forced to view the Vulcan capacity for emotion in a new light. Thereafter, it had taken only a few months on board the Enterprise for him to firmly establish that the denial of emotion was absurd and, indeed, dangerous.

And after all, how could emotion be a disadvantage when one of the most brilliant and competent men he knew embraced it so readily?

Spock was no fool. He knew that Jim Kirk hid many things. But whatever horrors the man might have endured and buried deep within himself, he had emerged from the other side, not cold and closed to the world, but determined to never deny himself the simple pleasure of embracing those human feelings that were most precious and vulnerable. Joy, mischief, compassion, curiousity, and the bright-eyed eagerness for the world and all it had to offer that made him so incredibly difficult to deny. Jim displayed all with a shamelessness that Spock admired and, quietly and without any bitterness, envied.

Acknowledging emotions would never come naturally to him – he would always feel the need to separate and discount those responses in the interest of pursuing the logical course. Such was his nature, and he had worked to make peace with it. However, in times such as these – when his Captain was hurt or in danger or beyond his reach - he never failed to be overwhelmed by the immense depth and scope of his emotional responses.

These responses were what he wished to control through meditation, and yet it was also this state that seemed to be preventing him from meditating at all. He could feel his fear, of the harm that had and might yet befall the man that he respected and cared for. Anger, at that same man for withholding information and denying his First the option of keeping him close. Shame, at the knowledge that it was his error – his miscalculation – that had allowed this intolerable situation to begin with, and that his continued inadequacy was keeping it from being resolved.

Spock closed his eyes once more and growled low in his throat. They were illogical, such emotions, and yet…and yet in this instance he could not seem to set them aside.

Because beneath it all, the essential element that remained true and damning across all feeling was that Jim was not there, and it hurt. Spock's entire being ached with the absence of the other man.

Spock knew that at some point, he would need to carefully examine this…sensitivity to his Captain's state of being. But not yet.

He rose swiftly to his feet, snuffing the incense and rolling up his meditation mat in one practised movement. A barked command returned the lighting in the cabin to its usual brightness, and he paused briefly as his pupils adjusted.

Enough time had been wasted on fruitless meditation and reflection. His usual mental order might evade him, but in the brief period of quiet he had already managed to formulate another five potential avenues of scientific enquiry. He would return to the labs, and he would find a cure for the planet Paradiso's affliction, even if it pushed him to the limits of his Vulcan biology to do so.

And in that time, he would not dwell on his Captain's absence.

The com on his desk beeped, and Doctor McCoy's irate tones filtered through.

"Spock? Spock, you there?"

"I am present, Doctor." Spock removed his meditation robe and began folding it carefully.

"'Bout time, too. Nap time's over, I need you in lab 3. We push through processing this next set of samples and hopefully we can have Jim back on board before he rolls out the next scene in his pincushion act."

Spock blinked. "I am afraid I do not follow. 'Pincushion act'?"

McCoy made a dismissive noise. "Idiot got himself stabbed. I talked him through patch-up, so he should be fine. What's more important is the 'I told you so' you have coming your way. There was no way that infant was going to make it through the day without ending up in peril – shouldn't be allowed to pilot a tricycle, let alone a goddamn starship…"

The rest of McCoy's grumbling was lost upon Spock, focused as he was on controlling his breathing. He registered no surprise when the garment in his hands tore violently.

"…Spock?" McCoy queried, sounding uncharacteristically cautious.

"I will be in lab 3 momentarily, Doctor," he stated with incredible calm, and ended the transmission.

He then exited his cabin at a brisk pace that the pair of Ensigns he passed in the hall might almost have called a run, were it not for the fact that this was Mr Spock they were talking about, and running in starship hallways was most certainly against protocol.

XXX

The whir of the regenerator was soothing, despite the slight sting that came with its passes over his damaged flesh. Jim leaned his head back against the sun-warmed rocks behind him, and allowed himself to be ever so slightly lulled.

Gods, he was tired.

The soft scuff of shoe against dirt brought his eyes open once more. He looked up to see Miram standing over him, staring fixedly at the regenerator poised over his leg. He blinked.

"Alright there, Miram?"

She met his eyes, and she had that look again – the one that said she was afraid something was be too good to be true, and might vanish if she blinked. "That's a regenerator, isn't it?"

"It is," confirmed Jim.

"And it works on anyone?"

Jim wrestled his way through his uncharacteristic lethargy, and took in Miram's almost hungry expression.

"Miram," he said gently, considering, "are any of your kids hurt?"

She bit her lip, and nodded, a sheen of tears in her eyes.

"I see," said Jim, keeping his voice low and calm for the girl who hovered indecisively in front of him. "Okay. This is a dermal regenerator. It works on anyone. Do you think you would be okay with me coming over to the kids, and helping fix them up?"

She nodded again.

"Alright then," said Jim simply, and began to stand up.

"But you're not done with you," fretted Miram, sounding strangely close to tears.

"Ah, I'm tough as old nails, kid. And this little scratch is mostly dealt with anyway. Now, how about you introduce me to your kids, huh?"

There were seven of them, just as Miram had said. Watching her move among them, nodding reassuringly to those who looked skittish and grounding some of the younger ones with a comforting touch to the shoulder or brow, Jim's impression of her as the leader and guide of the rag-tag group was reinforced.

Miram's every movement was shadowed by a dark-skinned boy that she introduced as Ben. At thirteen years old, the boy was small for his age, standing at a few inches shorter than Miram. His eyes, however, were sharp and shrewd, and he gave the impression of being constantly coiled in preparation for a spring. His appraisal of Jim was openly suspicious, but he echoed Miram's polite introduction, and his eyes, when they rested on her, held an implicit trust that Jim understood completely.

Next met was eleven-year-old A'am, whose exceedingly pale skin, elongated arms and torso, and distinctly delicate features marked him as part of a familial line that had likely been long departed from Earth – perhaps from one of the older off-world colonies. He had large violet eyes and a shy countenance, preferring to keep his gaze on the younger children as he spoke. They in turn clustered around him like flowers on a vine.

In his arms, A'am held the toddler, Elben. The child was dark-haired, plump and abnormally silent, choosing to alternate between gazing adoringly up at his violet-eyed keeper, and staring with solemn eyes at the others around him while sucking diligently on one small fist. Jim's lips thinned when he saw that the toddler's other hand was wrapped in blood-stained cloth, and tucked tightly against his small body.

The eight-year-old girl twins, Auriel and Lailah, seemed to be in constant motion. Both vibrant red-heads, they flitted among their companions like diminutive butterflies. Every now and then, they would collide in a flurry of limbs and giggles, only to blow apart again in pursuit of the next curiosity that caught their attention. No matter how far afield they floated, however, they returned at periodic intervals to the spot where A'am sat quietly, letting their fingers alight on his shoulders or in his hair as if to reassure him of their presence, and vice versa.

Ro was everywhere Jim looked. Perching on A'am's knee to hold a garbled conversation with wide-eyed Elben. Wrapping her limbs around Ben's calf in an effort to make him pick her up. Running after the twins to scold them for drifting too far away. And reappearing at Jim's side through each new introduction to grasp his hand and passively assert her claim.

After all the other introductions had been completed, Jim knelt slowly in front of Elben, holding his gaze with a small smile.

"Hello, Elben," he murmured softly. He extended one hand to rest palm up in the air between them. "I'm Jim."

For a moment, Elben only stared, neither welcoming nor denying the gesture. Then, with the gravitas that comes naturally to all toddlers, he reached out and patted Jim's palm twice with one gob-covered hand.

Behind him, A'am relaxed minutely, and looked at Jim directly for the first time.

"'is 'and…you can fix it, no?"

The boy's voice held the faint lilt of what had once probably been a French accent.

"Absolutely," reassured Jim. He looked at Elben once more and lifted the regenerator slightly. "I'm going to use this to make your hand better, Elben. I'm afraid it may sting a little – I'm really sorry about that – but I promise it won't hurt anymore when I'm done. Is that alright?"

Elben looked unsure, but after a brief glance back at A'am, he allowed the older boy to hold out his injured hand.

Jim unwrapped it with the utmost care, taking the time to wet the bandage in the places where it had stuck to the wound. Elben whimpered once or twice, but Jim believed it was more due to his insecurity over a stranger's proximity to his injury than pain. Each time, A'am would murmur comfortingly into the toddler's ear, quieting him.

The wound, when it was finally revealed, was not pretty. Although they had evidently been cleaned, the deep scrapes and gouges on the back of Elben's hand were inflamed around the edges – a clear sign of infection. The skin around the scrapes was darkly bruised.

Jim paused, and Miram must have seen the question in his eyes, because she explained, "It was a rock that did it. Back when we were still with…with the man from the base. Elben was upset, he kept crying for his mama, and the man told him to stop it. But Elben…he didn't mean anything by it, he was just scared and he didn't understand what was going on, but when he didn't stop crying the man got really angry and he…he…"

Miram stuttered to a stop, seemingly unable to continue. Or perhaps she had simply seen the look on Jim's face. He could not be sure, but it felt fixed in lines of murderous anger.

I should have broken both legs.

It was only a soft, unsure noise from Elben that broke him out of his downward spiral. The little boy was staring at his mangled hand, seemingly perturbed. When he looked up at Jim, there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, and Jim could see the tension in his quivering chin as he tried to keep them from falling.

Jim felt something in his chest crumple inwards.

"Oh, darling," he murmured, unthinkingly stealing Bones' endearment as he reached to brush gentle fingers through the toddler's locks. "I'm so sorry he did that to you. He was wrong. It's alright to cry."

He allowed a tear of his own to slip easily down his face, and Elben's gasping breaths slowed as his eyes followed its path in fascination.

"See?" murmured Jim. "It's alright to cry, always. Just as long as we're not always crying, yes?"

Then he winked and pulled a funny face that had Elben letting out a bemused giggle.

"That's better," praised Jim. "Now I'm going to get started, and between A'am and I we're going to make sure that hand is good as new."

Jim caught A'am's eye as he dragged the medical kit closer to himself, and was struck by the amount of compassion and understanding he found in the boy's eyes. He got the impression that those eyes saw more than he would like, reaching far beyond his gentle exterior to the knot of cold anger that still rested just below his breastbone. This impression coupled with the uncanny affinity the boy had with the other children unsettled him. He dropped his gaze quickly.

Despite spending most of his time on the receiving end of medical care over the course of his life, Jim was no slouch when it came to administering aid. Even before he had taken up the position of Captain of the Enterprise – and the responsibilities that came with it – he had always made an effort to keep his first aid knowledge up to date. Such skills had saved both him and others on more than one occasion.

He deftly administered an anti-biotic hypo, and kept his regeneration of Elben's open wounds as swift and efficient as possible, all the while keeping up a steady stream of meaningless chatter that kept the toddler focused on his voice rather than his actions. In those moments when Elben's attention wavered – either due to the sting or Jim's need to focus elsewhere – A'am would step in to soothe the child's fussing with a soft word or touch. The gentle ease with which the 11-year-old calmed the child cemented Jim's conviction that a round of Psi-testing would be necessary in the near future.

Finally, all that remained to be done was a brief round with the bone regenerator to heal a minor fracture Jim had identified in Elben's fragile finger bones. When he pulled the instrument from the bag, Miram – who had been silently attentive up until this point – chipped in for the first time.

"Oh, I know that one. The Starfleet man showed me how to use one, in case we needed it after we left the base."

Jim hummed absentmindedly in response, focused upon the delicate procedure.

Had Jim been running on all cylinders, he would have thought to pursue that statement. To ask important questions, like where the regenerator they had been showed was now, and who else knew how to use it. But as it was he was tired and still a little dizzy from blood loss and entirely caught up in the task of distracting the toddler while he set and healed the injured fingers, so Miram's statement passed without further comment.

It was an oversight he would come to regret.

XXX

It was almost a quarter of an hour after Jim finished healing Elben's hand when the com device chirped again.

Jim was sitting with his back against a tree, quietly directing the other children in packing the supplies they would be taking back to their hidey-hole. His directions had to be quiet, as he had a sleeping toddler curled in his lap.

Upon completion of the procedure on his hand, Elben had crawled into Jim's lap and refused to be moved. It was clear that he understood Jim's role in relieving his pain, and adored him for it. It had not taken long for him to drop off. Loathe as he was to disturb the worn-out child, Jim had resigned himself to sitting still for the moment. That it allowed him an opportunity for some much-needed rest was neither here nor there.

Jim had been anticipating a check-in from McCoy, so he was somewhat surprised when it was Spock's voice that emerged from the communicator. Even more so when the Vulcan's voice came through unusually breathless.

"Captain? Please report immediately on your status."

Jim fumbled with the communicator, terrified that the noise would disturb the child in his lap. He needn't have worried though – Elben was dead to the world.

"Spock," he managed, "all's well, status is hale and hearty. Why? Did something happen upstairs?"

"Negative, Captain. It's…I was led to believe you were in peril."

Jim glanced around at the chattering and laughing children that surrounded him, somewhat nonplussed. "Um…no?"

McCoy faint voice entered the exchange, growing louder as he drew closer to the other com device. "Dammit, Spock, I said was in peril. Emphasis on the past tense. And then I told you that he had been patched up and that the situation was stable. There was absolutely no need for you to come shooting through my lab like a rat out of an aqueduct. Jesus, man, you could have done yourself an injury. More importantly, you could have done me an injury."

"I apologise, Doctor," replied Spock, already sounding back to his usual self. "It appears there was a miscommunication."

"More like an overreaction," muttered McCoy. There was an ominous moment of silence – in which Jim could almost picture the non-glare the doctor was receiving from the Vulcan – before McCoy continued hastily.

"Sooo, Jim. Hale and hearty, huh? Do I need to worry that you're lying to your Doctor at all?"

"Nope," assured Jim, popping his lips on the 'p' in a manner he knew Bones found irritating. "I'm a model patient, I am. Just getting the loot split and the kids geared up before they head off again."

"Remember to keep enough supplies for yourself," reminded McCoy sternly.

Jim rolled his eyes, content in the knowledge that McCoy wasn't there to see him, only to have the man in question add, "Don't roll your eyes at me, you infant."

Jim froze halfway through the action, and eyed the com suspiciously. "That's just downright creepy, Bones."

"Captain," interjected Spock. "Before the children part ways with you, it is imperative that you acquire samples of their bloodwork for analysis aboard the enterprise. It may be vital to developing a cure for the planet's affliction."

"Say what now?" demanded Jim, seeing Miram halt in her actions and look over at the com suspiciously.

"The hobgoblin's right, Jim, their blood could be the key to figuring this thing out. We have to know why they aren't afflicted by the disease. I meant to talk with you about it earlier, but I was distracted by the fact that you'd gotten yourself stabbed." Jim grumbled at the doctor's wording, but McCoy ignored him. "There are empty vials in the supply box. Get as many samples as you can and we'll beam them up to the lab. We have a sealed environment ready and waiting."

All activity around Jim had stopped by now as the children watched the com warily. At the mention of taking blood, the twins had scampered behind A'am and were now peering around him with wide eyes. Only Miram ignored the device, choosing instead to stare at Jim through narrowed eyes.

Jim remained silent as he reached around the sleeping toddler in his arms, and flipped open the supply box. After a moment's searching, he pulled out the vials Bones had mentioned and inspected them.

"Jim?" McCoy prompted impatiently.

"Hush, Bones, I'm thinking."

MCoy grumbled something that sounded like 'God forbid', but he subsided into silence thereafter.

Jim eyed the assembled vials a moment longer, before turning to Miram.

"What do you say, Miram? It's your call."

"Captain-," began Spock stiffly, but Jim hushed him.

"You heard the doctor – taking a bit of blood from each of you could really help with developing a cure for what's going on down here. But the choice is yours. No-one is going to force you to give blood."

Miram looked stunned at being consulted, and watched Jim warily for a moment as if expecting him to rescind the offer as a joke. He just waited patiently.

Finally, she turned to her kids and looked them over carefully. Most looked mildly apprehensive, but not overly deterred by the idea. Only one of the twin girls, Lailah, was outright shaking her head, having turned a pale shade of green.

"Alright," said Miram, before adding firmly, "But not Lailah or Elben."

Jim acquiesced easily, and proceeded to draw a small amount of blood from each of the children, labelling them with their names and ages, and keeping up the same stream of comforting chatter that had helped Elben through his procedure earlier. The only child that experienced any real distress was Auriel. At the first sign of impending tears, however, Ro skipped over to the other girl without any prompting and began pulling funny faces at her. By the time Jim finished, Auriel was giggling, albeit somewhat tearily.

Jim packed the vials neatly in a case, and had Miram place it in a position dictated to him by Spock. The children shrieked in delight when the matter streams engulfed it, leaving only an imprint of the box in the dirt when they disappeared.

"You guys get it?" enquired Jim.

"Received, Captain," responded Spock. "Please convey our appreciation to Miss Miram and the other children."

"Sure thing, Spock," said Jim with a small smile. "I'm hoping this development means I can start signing off with 'see you soon'?"

"Undoubtedly, Captain." The low determination in Spock's voice sent a shiver down Jim's spine.

"Yeah yeah, less talk more science. Spock, step away from the com. Jim, stop being late for your check-ins. McCoy, over and out."

Jim snorted as the communicator silenced with a chirp. With the fondness he felt for his two friends came a wave of longing.

Jesus, I miss them.

The next hour was spent helping the kids finish up their packing, and unloading upon them all the advice he thought they might need over the next few days. He eventually palmed the still-sleeping Elben off onto A'am so that he could assist Miram and Ro in filling bottles at the pool.

Miram cornered him before they returned to the other children.

"I'm still a kid, you know," she told him, without preamble. Her voice was part curious, part confrontational.

"I know that," replied Jim easily, unsure of where this was going.

"Then why do you talk to me like that?" she demanded.

"Like what, Miram?"

"Like…like I'm not. Like I'm an adult."

Ah, thought Jim. He took a moment before answering, tying the bottles together with a length of twine and tapping the side of one thoughtfully. "How do adults normally talk to you?" he asked finally.

Miram dithered. "I don't know. Like…like they're telling, not asking. Like they know better than us."

"And do they?"

Miram made a face at his words, and Jim laughed softly.

"I'm not saying adults are never right, Miram, and sometimes they do need to make choices for you. But that doesn't mean you don't have your own mind, and that you can't be right as well. You've certainly showed yourself to be more than capable of looking after yourself and your kids. So while I might try to convince you otherwise if I think your choice is a poor one, I'm not going to ignore it outright. I think you've earned better than that, Miram, don't you?"

Miram was quiet for a long time, just looking at the ground beneath her feet. Jim simply waited, still tapping out a gentle rhythm on the bottles between them.

When she looked up at last, her smile was tentative and grateful, and quite beautiful. Jim could see the shadows of the striking woman she would no-doubt become in the soft lines of her face.

"Call me Mimi."

XXX

Long after the children had left, Jim sat unmoving by the edge of the pool. The clearing, without the bustle and chatter of young voices, seemed too large and overwhelmingly quiet.

He ran a small turquoise stone over his knuckles repeatedly, admiring the way it caught the light. Ro had pressed it into his hand just before they all left, insisting that it was for luck. Though she had been a little teary, her smile had been bright as she insisted that they would see him again soon.

Jim preferred to think of that, rather than the solemn resignation in Miram's eyes as she had said goodbye.

When he shook himself from his state of apathy, the second sun was touching the mountain tops on the other side of the valley. He watched it for a moment, gauging the time left before nightfall, before pulling the communicator from his pocket. Within a moment, Scotty's rough brogue was filtering down the line.

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"Are Spock and Bones anywhere near you, Scotty?"

"Uh…no, Cap'n. I'm alone."

"Good," responded Jim.

He had arrangements to make.