The third time was Spock's fault, although Jim knew he wouldn't admit it, and he wasn't going to berate him over it, anyway. He was desperately worried about the Vulcan. They'd been locked up in this cell for the last three days after Spock had slipped up and revealed their identities, but Spock had been dragged out for questioning ten hours ago and Jim hadn't seen hide or hair of him since. His shouted questions to the guards were ignored, and in the end he just slid down the wall and sat on the floor, reaching out with his thoughts to his t'hy'la for some glimmering of the Vulcan's mind.
He felt nothing. He would know if Spock were dead. He had hoped that he would know if he were in pain, but this absence was almost more disturbing. Spock was cutting him out, and if he were cutting him out it was because what was happening to him was something to which Spock did not want Jim to be exposed.
He closed his eyes and pressed his hands over the top of his head, scratching deep into his hair with sudden ferocity. He was sure there were parasites in this cell. There certainly wasn't much else. He wondered bleakly if he could eat them.
Last night had been Christmas Eve. Today was Christmas Day. True, he had woken at Spock's side, but so far there had been no food and only a pail of dirty water, precious little warmth, and no comfort. He had got close to losing count of time, but he thought it was getting on towards night. Soon Christmas would be over.
He must have fallen asleep, hunched against the wall, because the next thing he knew, the door was opening, and he was suddenly awake, aware of someone being shoved into the cell, and he looked up to see Spock standing shakily in the middle of the small room. Even in the dim light he could see the blood on his face.
'Spock!' he cried, jumping to his feet too fast and finding his legs were asleep. 'Spock,' he said again, stumbling over to the Vulcan and putting his hands on his arms. Spock winced almost imperceptibly. 'Spock, what did they do?' he asked, realising that the Vulcan was still blocking him from his mind.
'I am all right, Jim,' Spock said. He moved stiffly across the room and sat down against the wall. Jim watched him intently for small signs of pain.
'What did they do, Spock?' Jim asked again.
Spock's eyebrow quirked upward above a bruised eye.
'Very crude, Jim,' Spock said. His voice was slightly hoarse. 'Fists and boots. Nothing more.'
'Nothing more?' Jim tried to hold in his rage. 'Spock, they've beaten you to a pulp!'
'Nothing the good doctor cannot fix once we are beamed up,' Spock replied calmly.
'Once – if,' Jim said cynically.
'Once,' Spock said with a peculiar emphasis on the word.
'What do you mean, Spock?' Jim asked, suddenly curious.
Suddenly the barriers were down, and he was there with Spock in his mind, aware of the pain that the Vulcan was fighting to suppress. But through that Spock showed him a memory. He was in a small, brightly lit room, not a dedicated interrogation room, but just an office of some kind. There were four men in there, dressed in military uniforms. Spock was sitting on a chair. A fist came in and struck him on the side of the head, and Spock crumpled, everything going dark. He hit the floor hard, but stayed silent. Perhaps if he were quiet they would leave him alone for a while, thinking he was unconscious. But it was more than that. He listened to their murmured conversation, realising that they meant to step out for a moment, to 'leave him to it and take a break.' Interrogation was wearying for the interrogators, it seemed.
And they had left him alone in the room, and in those few minutes of peace Spock had got up, hobbled across to the communications console, and contacted the Enterprise. By Spock's estimate, the ship would have located them via its scans within the next five hours.
As Jim felt the warmth of Spock's mind withdraw from his, he also felt the hum of the transporter beam starting up in his cells.
