Series: Moments in Time
Characters: Kirk, Spock, some McCoy
Word Count: 4500
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Amok Time
Summary: After the events on Vulcan, First Officer Spock has the Vulcan equivalent of a minor meltdown and decides that the Enterprise is no longer the best assignment for his Starfleet posting. But there is a reason why new recruits are warned by senior officers never to play poker with the captain of the Enterprise; Spock should have known better than to think his bluff would ever succeed against this particular human.
A/N: I'm sailing along merrily on my NaNoWriMo, but my brain has become fried with my original fiction and needed a short break after 16,000 words of almost nonstop scribbling, so have a little snippet after watching BBCAmerica's reruns last night. Such a shame that this comes so much easier, 4000+ words in just a couple hours, while actual original fic takes so much longer... ah well. Back to the scribbling board for me. A happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it shortly!
Captain James T. Kirk stared at his personal padd in silence, trying to decide how best to proceed with the information he now held in his hands. These were uncharted waters for both of them – uncharted, and therefore dangerous to navigate without proper charts for guidance. Added to that, the current time restraint: for he had only minutes before he was expected to beam down to Altair VI for the fourth night in succession of being poster boy for a vindictive admiral's overblown sense of self-importance under the thin guise of Starfleet representation. Komack was doing his utmost to make Kirk regret his recent actions, and while the retaliation had not been unexpected, that did not make it any more bearable.
He could already feel a migraine coming on, no doubt from lack of oxygen caused by a too-tight dress uniform collar.
And that was before this little gem had come scrolling across his inbox an hour ago.
His door chimed. Glancing at the clock, he allowed himself a small smile despite the severity of the upcoming conversation. Right on the very dot, as usual.
"Come."
The door opened with a hiss of depressurization, admitting a tall, somewhat weary-looking figure. Spock still wasn't back up to firing on all thrusters, even after spending three days off-duty and this last one on light duty only. Despite frequent visits from McCoy in an effort to re-balance his biochemistry, their combined medical efforts had only produced a very limited effectiveness. It would simply take time, was the inconclusive and highly unhelpful diagnosis he had been given, and no more information was forthcoming about when he might once again have a fully-functional First Officer.
He tried to tell himself that was really the only reason he kept bothering McCoy about the slow progress, to the point that he had been told curtly to mind his own business.
"Reporting as ordered, Captain." Wow, already pulling out the ranking titles and orders, and he hadn't even opened his mouth yet.
Two could play at that game, if that was how Spock wanted to play it. He really wasn't in the mood, but this was no time to lose his grip on the patience he had, up until now, always extended toward this fragile relationship which had inexplicably developed between two very different but uniquely attuned individuals. It was those very differences which made them a combined force to be reckoned with – and it was that strangely inexplicable bond they shared, which had made him a target for a far too sharp-witted Vulcan female, less than a week ago.
"Precisely on schedule, Commander, as always." He received no answer save an almost mechanical nod, and sighed silently, plowing ahead with all the diplomatic subtlety of a type two phaser array in his frustration. "Would you care to explain this to me, Mr. Spock?"
Spock eyed the extended padd with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, in fact with a lack of any reaction whatsoever. McCoy had even said their First Officer's mental controls were still completely out of alignment from the recent events and none of them should be surprised if he were a little more demonstrative than usual – whatever that meant, for Spock – and so this, this entire lack of anything, was very suggestive. Of what, he still was not quite certain.
"I believe it to be quite self-explanatory, sir. You will find the forms to be completely in order in every respect."
He lowered the padd to the desk without looking at it, and folded his hands across it in a gesture of calmness he didn't feel.
"Mr. Spock, I do not so much as transfer a yeoman across departments on this ship without a clearly documented reason for doing so – emotional, mental, physical, or tactical. You have given me none of these. And I most certainly am not going to simply transfer a senior officer, especially the best First Officer in the 'Fleet, to an entirely different posting, if he is unable to produce sufficient reason to justify that transfer." Spock's minute flinch did not escape his notice. "You are well aware of this, Commander. Did you really think I would simply sign off on this request?"
His First stood still for a moment, clearly cogitating a response – another indication of how still-recovering his thought and physical processes were, to so display indecision. Then the uncertainty vanished like light into a black hole, leaving only detached disinterest behind. Had he not known better, known this Vulcan better than Spock knew himself – he might have believed the façade. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view, he did not.
"I would have thought recent events would have spoken for themselves, sir, in producing sufficient justification." He lifted his gaze incredulously from the desk as Spock's calm tone rolled through the room – did he really think that was going to work? "I would of course be able to produce sufficient documentation if that is what you require."
His computer monitor chirped, warning him he had only fifteen minutes remaining to get to the transporter room or Komack would be calling them up in the beginnings of a tantrum to end all tantrums.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the pounding behind his eyes. "You know what, I do not have time to play these games," he said, standing with an uncomfortable tug against his stiff collar. "Your request is denied, Mr. Spock. Dismissed."
Spock's flabbergasted look was almost – almost – amusing, except that this whole thing was more heartbreaking than anything else. He'd never seen uncontrollable events drive a wedge between two people so fast as these had, favorable outcome or no favorable outcome. And he had no idea how to fix this. For once, he couldn't get a read on Spock, and he had no idea how to reach him, wherever he was in that confused state of mind regarding his own self-blame and guilt.
He carefully repressed a shiver at the phantom sense-memory that he hadn't been able to reach him at all, not too long ago.
"Captain," he heard the remonstrance as he bent to turn his computer off, saving power. Rather than inviting a discussion, he only paused and looked up, eyebrow raised. Spock hesitated briefly before plowing ahead with almost reckless abandon. "There is sufficient cause, sir, both mentally and tactically."
He straightened up, arms folded. Komack could wait. "Specify."
Spock shifted minutely. "I have proven myself to be a serious danger to this ship, Captain."
"And that's nothing new, let's be honest, Mr. Spock. It seems to have escaped your remembrance that you have already committed mutiny against the Enterprise, and been pardoned for the offense. How is this any different, barring medical complications?"
Spock blinked, obviously not expecting that salvo, but quickly parried with a countermove of his own. "In that instance, I did not harm anyone aboard, sir."
"Perhaps not, but nor did you do so intentionally this time," he pointed out calmly. "Assignation or assumption of blame for events beyond someone's control is hardly logical, Commander."
"Sir, you yourself were nearly killed due to my actions – would have, but for the quick action of Doctor McCoy." And there it was, the heart of the matter; that faint tremor that shook the sentence in the middle was not lost on him. Spock was nowhere near as calm as he was pretending, so very hard, to be. "And but for Vulcan intervention, might possibly have received severe repercussions from Starfleet Command for your actions in attempting to rectify the entire situation."
Dear Lord, if they could just speak plain Standard about the thing like two humans would, not couch everything in these indirect terms, it would make his job so much easier.
"Both statements are entirely true," he agreed candidly, arms still folded. "And neither are grounds for transfer, as the actions taken in those statements were mine, not yours, and therefore their consequences were mine, not yours. Your logic is flawed, Commander. Your request is denied." He turned to gather up his credit chip and belatedly thought to pocket a headache reliever-filled hypospray Bones had stashed in his dresser last week.
"Then perhaps you will consider the emotional ramifications to be sufficient cause, Captain."
The oddity of the statement made him pause mid-action and turn around – straight into more than six feet of menacing Vulcan muscle mass. He wanted to phaser himself into oblivion when he realized, but he could not stop the instinctive stumble-step backward. Only one fleeting, instinctive second of remembered terror, before reason reasserted itself – but it was enough, and he realized his mistake with a sinking feeling of dismay.
He dropped the hypospray on the desk with a sigh, hanging his head. "Spock…"
The dark eyes regarded him with such open human sadness it broke his heart a little. "You are afraid of me, Captain."
"You are a science officer, Mr. Spock. As such, you should know the risks in forming premature hypotheses without testing their complete accuracy." God help him, he had to salvage that mistake before he left this ship, or he might have just damaged everything they'd tried to fix in the last few days.
"I believe further tests would…not be beneficial."
He put both hands on the desk, bracing himself for a moment, and shook his head. "Spock, look…" Sighing, he glanced up, then straightened, adjusting his tunic. "Perhaps there is some truth in what you said." He shrugged, face flushing slightly. "I am only human, and as such I do not have the impulse or reflex control which comes easily to a Vulcan. It's unfair to expect that of me, as it is unfair of me to expect human expression of you."
Spock looked away, shifting his weight slightly. He took that as encouragement, or at least not discouragement. "Fear is a response to a stimulus, nothing more, Commander. I cannot fully control that instinct, not without repeated desensitization to it, nor can I control my mind's reflexive response to a memory. This doesn't indicate that I expect that memory to repeat itself in real life."
"That does not alter the fact that this fear exists, even as a memory."
He took a step into Spock's personal space, toe to toe with his stubborn First. "Are we talking about my fear or yours, Mr. Spock?" he asked quietly.
Spock's face lost what little color it had, though his expression never changed. Oddly enough, he did not deny the situation as being unVulcan – merely that it existed at all. "You are mistaken, Captain."
"Am I?" he challenged. "Because I think you're requesting a transfer because of the exact same thing you just accused me of. You're afraid of it happening again, of what you might do in such a situation if confronted with it again. You're afraid of losing control like that, and harming a member of this crew – possibly killing them. Killing me, even."
Spock's lips tightened. Kirk finally turned and walked a few steps away, shaking his head. A rueful, almost bitter laugh sounded in the stillness. "Do you really think you are the only one having nightmares about it, Spock?" he finally asked, half-turning to look at the figure now frozen by his desk. "That you're the only one trying to figure out how to move on, from here?"
"I am attempting to do so," Spock said, nearly in a whisper, indicating the padd on his desk with an almost human desperation.
He felt a wave of anger so intensely human he knew if he got near his First then it might be damaging to a touch-telepaths shattered mental shields. "And I am attempting to run the Federation's flagship, Mr. Spock," he replied coldly. "I will not leave her without a First and Chief Science Officer due to personal conflict between her two senior officers. Your request is denied."
His communicator was blipping in accusation at him now, a red light flashing angrily in the corner of the screen, indicating that a very, very angry Admiral Komack was wanting to know why his new favorite pet was not on the planet at this moment, ready for parading around a crowded room full of officials and their escorts.
"Captain." Spock's voice was almost shaking now, whether in desperation or exhaustion or something else, he didn't know. He looked up from the communicator, eyes still flashing. His First swallowed harshly, then straightened into stiff attention. "Sir, I do not wish to remain on this ship."
He shoved the instrument in his pocket and strode back across the room, reining in his anger for the sake of the being in front of him. Then he stopped in front of his First, hands loosely fisted at his sides for control.
"Look me in the eye, and say that again," he ordered quietly, deadly. Calling the bluff for what it was – Spock had never been able to lie to him, not convincingly.
But now? His second in command stared him down with a disturbingly cold expression, so reminiscent of the other full-blooded Vulcans he'd just met that it sent a chill down his spine.
"I do not wish to remain on the Enterprise, Captain."
For a moment he stared at his First in complete consternation, anger extinguished by the chill of fear. But he was out of time to continue this, for now.
"Your wishes are duly noted, Commander. Dismissed," he snapped, and then almost – not quite, but almost – felt bad for doing it when Spock inclined his head, and left the room as silently as he had entered.
"I swear, he was totally and one hundred percent dead serious, Bones, cold as ice. I've never seen him like that, not with me."
McCoy's longsuffering pat on the shoulder was followed by the offer of a shot glass full of something he hoped was better-tasting than Scotty's last attempt at programming a replication script for cherry vodka into the meal selectors.
"You do realize he's still totally off-kilter from the whole thing, right, Jim? It'd be like a human tryin' to come down off of LSD and a high fever and a nasty divorce, all at the same time."
He choked as the drink burned worse than the spicy vegetable soup they'd served at the last inauguration dinner tonight. "This is terrible, Doctor. Unless it was purely medicinal, in which case I decline a second dose."
"Good for what ails you, my grandmomma always said. Granted, she said that 'bout mustard-plasters and God knows what other nonsense from the Old Days, but this stuff will at least make you forget about that migraine you got goin' on." McCoy toasted him with his own glass. "Are you done bein' Komack's captain-on-a-leash now?"
Kirk glared at the physician, tugging at the collar of his dress uniform, wilted now but still uncomfortably tight. "We have the closing ceremonies tomorrow morning, then we should be home free. Does Spock have any idea how many hoops I've had to jump through because of this little detour of his, and T'Pau ticking Komack off so badly?"
"I dunno." The doctor shrugged, face pensive. "I would imagine so, because he's been asking about you every night, but it's hard to tell with him. Pitched a fit about not being certified fit for active duty, I can tell you that much. I think he was going to try and at least buffer between you."
"And that's exactly why I said keep him on the ship by any means possible. Komack's a pompous jackass, under no circumstances does he need to be broadcasting his self-centered idiocy around a recovering telepath." McCoy regarded him fondly as he struggled against the jacket's collar again, finally snapping the eyelet hooks holding his throat prisoner. "What am I supposed to do, Bones? If he really wants to transfer…I can't just keep him here, miserable." He looked down at his hands, shaking his head. "I can't read him right now. Maybe I never could."
McCoy tossed back the last of his 'medicinal' brandy and set the glass down with a derisive snort. "With respect, Captain, you're an idiot."
Kirk looked highly affronted.
"You are. Jim, you were always the only one who could read him. You're both just workin' through your baggage right now in your own ways. Panicking and unhealthy ways, respectively – don't think I don't know what you're eatin' in that cabin, you have a bio-monitor for a reason – but you are."
"He's not dealing, he's trying to run!"
"Or maybe he's just trying to ask for help and doesn't know how," the doctor ventured mildly. "You can hardly call the kettle black on that one, y'know."
"But –"
"Jim. If he really wanted to leave, he could go over your head to the Admiralty, he could go to the VSA and ask for a posting there and because they're Federation Founders he'd be given priority over an exploratory starship, or he could just resign, which doesn't require your approval or notification. All of which would be easier than requesting your signature on a report like that."
Kirk blinked slowly. "You're right."
"Of course I am." McCoy gestured vaguely in the direction of the corridor. "So y'all need to – speak of the devil." The door separating the joined bathroom from the First Officer's cabin had opened suddenly, admitting the being in question. Spock halted, wide-eyed, upon seeing Kirk was not alone. The doctor sighed, snatching the bottle and glasses back from the table. He gestured vaguely between them both as he backed out of the room. "I'm going, I'm going. You two, kiss and make up, will you? Jim, take your headache pill."
The door slid shut behind him, leaving the two of them blinking after it in some consternation.
"He means well," Kirk offered at last, extending the first olive branch.
"That is debatable," was the dubious reply, and he smiled, though the gesture was tight with exhaustion.
"Sit down, Spock."
"I would prefer to stand, sir."
"And I'd prefer you quit tossing my title in every third word today, but we don't always get what we want. Sit. Please."
Spock sat, uncomfortably stiff, keeping the desk safely between them.
Kirk folded his hands again on the desk, glancing briefly down at the padd sitting there. "Mr. Spock, I've been re-evaluating your request for transfer," he said slowly.
Spock's eyes darted to the document in an almost surprised motion before they faded into perfect calm – too perfect. "Yes, sir?"
"And I have come to a similar conclusion," he breezed onward, waving a careless hand toward the padd in question. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to transfer, Commander. And if that is your preference, well. Who am I to stand in the way of a man's wishes or career choices?"
Spock's eyes widened. Bingo.
"So, have you given thought to which vessel you would prefer to transfer, if given the choice?" he asked conversationally, opening up the document on the padd in question and making a show of scanning it for details.
Spock was hilariously silent, obviously fumbling to come up with an answer.
"Because I know for a fact that Barclay on the Plutarch would kill to have a Vulcan science officer. I would be happy to put in a good word for you if you like." He glanced up, stylus paused, just in time to see clear, utter panic be hastily squirreled away behind a calm Vulcan mask. "Or if you would prefer a more diversified vessel, the Lusitania would be an excellent choice. Garcia is a hard captain, I've heard, but the crew is at least 40% non-human."
"I…had not given the matter such thought, yet. Captain."
"Well, take a minute to think about it and let me know so I can get the communiques sent off before we leave Altair VI. Did you want to leave the ship here, by the way, or simply rotate out with the next rotation at Starbase Alpha Ceti Four?"
Spock was beginning to look a little like a cornered animal. Kirk raised an eyebrow, feigning impatience. "It does take time to get this paperwork shoved through, you know, Commander. I have to attach an addendum to your request with my recommendations and suggested future postings."
His First cleared his throat. "I…departing now, on Altair VI, would not be conducive to concluding my work in the laboratories aboard the Enterprise."
"Starbase AC-4 it is, then," he said cheerfully, making a note in the margin of the report. Spock's eyes flicked wildly from the padd to the door and back again, a strangely nervous tic. "That should give you two weeks to wrap up any final projects you need to, so your replacement can start afresh with your departments."
Obviously giving up on speech for the moment, Spock only made a faint noise of assent.
"You should probably consider assigning temporary heads to the science labs, as it may take a bit for the new Science Officer to acclimate to such a large starship," he continued thoughtfully, tapping the stylus against his chin. "You could also do the same with a temporary liaison to Medical, since you work so integrally with them."
"Aye, sir." The words were so quiet he almost didn't hear them, gathering steam as he was.
"You should also begin training Mr. Chekov on the more intricate technicalities of the Science Station; I would hate to be caught off-guard without a First or CSO on the Bridge in the middle of a Red Alert," he mused, scribbling a signature on a preliminary document.
"…Aye, sir."
"You could also send me a list of any personnel you recommend for transfer or promotion along with you, since you won't be here for crew evals next month."
Spock swallowed, and nodded. He paused with the stylus held over the final signature line.
"Or," he continued, eyes fastened on his First's pale face, "you could stop trying to play this game with me, Spock. You should know better than to bluff against me, of all people."
Spock's eyes narrowed for a moment in what looked like a reassuringly human flash of irritation that did his heart good, before the look gave way to one of sheer relief, as the tension bled slowly from his First's posture before his very eyes.
"Commander," he said clearly, erasing the report and turning the padd off, "I require you here, aboard the Enterprise. And what is almost more important…" He leaned back in the chair, absently fiddling with the stylus, before finally continuing. "…I need you here, Spock."
A quick glance up revealed his XO returning the look, silently evaluating his sincerity. "I have no desire to command this ship with another being standing where you should," he said simply. "If that means we have to work harder at that during this particular hurdle than at other times, then so be it – but I will not have things otherwise without a fight you are not likely to win. Am I clear?"
Spock's lips twitch. "Quite clear, sir."
"Good." He tossed the stylus down on the desk. "Then get up there and take over my Bridge, Science Officer. You've just been reinstated for full duty, effective immediately."
"Yes, Captain." Spock stood, tugging at the hem of his tunic, but looked more like himself than he had for days now. Kirk turned to flick on the computer, intending to finish up the day's paperwork before crashing for a few hours.
"Jim."
He glanced up in pleased surprise. "Yes?"
"If I am reinstated for duty, I should prefer to be included in the landing party tomorrow morning, for the closing ceremonies."
He snorted. "It's a landing party of one, Spock. I'm not letting Komack harass anyone else aboard this ship."
"I am aware." A pointed look his direction. "I am also aware that you have been bearing the full brunt of the admiral's ire at my clan for the past four solar days. Perhaps my appearance may mitigate that reaction."
He shrugged, though he was secretly warmed by the gesture. "It's your funeral, Spock. Come if you'd like."
"As you said, sir. I have no desire to be elsewhere."
He smiled, and silently went back to his computer screen; he would not take advantage of Spock's still-recovering emotional and mental state by embarrassing him further. They had made progress today, but fragile progress; he could not risk damaging that.
The door opened across the room, and a tolerant Vulcan sigh drifted back toward him.
"Doctor, your eavesdropping would have been far more effective had you made your escape prior to my exit."
"What're you gonna do, throw a soup bowl at me?"
He managed to hide his laugh behind the screen; obviously McCoy had no such qualms about taking advantage. At some point in this bizarre week, the scales of his XOs' relationship had swung in a new direction – the doctor's saving his life on Vulcan most likely having something to do with that – and he couldn't decide if the change was oddly endearing or just plain frightening.
His inbox finally came up on the screen, and he saw to his surprise that his entire day's backlog of paperwork had already been completed and signed off on, with the exception of two reports which required a personal signature from someone with his level one clearance.
Forty-seven reports he now didn't have to do after the Day From Admiralty Hell, all read and signed by someone from Science or Medical.
The bickering in the corridor outside escalated suddenly, and something thudded against the wall.
Yes, he was going to go with frightening. God help them all.