When the away mission to Rigel V goes awry, it is very likely the fault of either Lieutenant Kirk or Spock himself. Spock will admit that he was more distracted by his intention to outperform Lieutenant Kirk in their diplomatic negotiations than he should have been, thus allowing duplicity that he would normally have foreseen to pass beneath his notice. He knows that Kirk too is generally more keenly observant than he had been in this instance. However, after a heated phaser battle, a transporter failure, an extended chase, multiple injuries, and the entire five person team hiding in a cave outcropping far too small to comfortably fit them all, neither of them appears inclined to argue about blame.
When they are finally beamed back aboard the Enterprise, Spock is leaning heavily against Kirk, one arm around his shoulder as the other man attempts to support Spock's weight. Spock tries to step forward towards the edge of the transport pad and stumbles, dizzy from blood loss. Kirk stops him from tumbling onto the floor. The entire right side of his body aches, an excruciating pain, rippling out from his shoulder. Spock closes his eyes and breathes deeply, concentrating, centering himself, detaching himself from the sensation.
Nyota's voice rings out, mildly strained but firm, from the nearby console. "Transporter Room One, report."
"All aboard, Lieutenant," the technician replies and Spock is displeased at being unable to remember his name at the moment. "Some wounded, but no casualties…"
Spock watches the anonymous transport technician eye the copious amounts of green blood staining the sleeve and chest of his gold uniform jersey and knows that he is not the only one who hears the unspoken 'yet' at the end of the report.
There is a slight pause before Nyota replies.
"Acknowledged," is all she says and the connection cuts out. That is as well, Spock decides as Doctor McCoy and members of his medical staff rush into the room. The high chance of pursuit means that Nyota has far more pressing concerns at the moment.
Spock loses consciousness just as Doctor McCoy begins to berate anyone in earshot about the failure to initiate an emergency transport directly to sickbay.
The first time Spock regains consciousness the searing pain in his shoulder has significantly receded and the many other minor aches are entirely gone. McCoy is adjusting the settings on his biobed and Spock must endure 4.2 minutes of ranting about "unnecessary risks" and the ironies of "foolhardy Vulcans" mixed in with his prognosis—full recovery expected in a few days. The doctor also handily denies him the opportunity to request any reports or updates about the current status of the ship and crew.
"Everyone's fine, but you. That's all you need to know," he says gruffly and then administers a sedative in what Spock feels is an overly aggressive manner.
It does its work nonetheless.
When Spock next wakes, Jim Kirk is sitting beside his bed, arms crossed and legs stretched out. All signs of his own far more minor injuries appear to be gone. His posture barely changes when he addresses Spock.
"How's the shoulder?" Kirk asks, tone neutral.
Whatever palliative Doctor McCoy provided earlier is not nearly as effective as it once had been. Still, very few things would not be an improvement over the time during which he had yet to receive any treatment at all.
"Vulcans are trained in various pain management techniques. It is bearable."
"Well, Bones'll take good care of you." Kirk's mouth only barely turns up at the corners. Spock is unsure whether to deem it a smile and even more unsure of what exactly has prompted this reaction.
"Indeed," he says carefully. "I do not doubt the doctor's medical acumen. He informs me that I will be ready for full duty in a few days."
"I know." Kirk replies. Spock wonders if Doctor McCoy routinely shares confidential patient information with Kirk, but saves that query for another time.
Silence stretches out for twenty-one seconds, which Spock suspects could be termed "awkward" by human standards. But Kirk appears mildly agitated and very thoughtful, thus giving Spock the impression that there is something more that he wishes to say. Ultimately, he does not disappoint.
"Look," Kirk begins. "Thanks for what you did down there. I haven't exactly given you much reason."
Spock raises his left eyebrow curiously. "I am unsure as to what you are referring."
Kirk frowns. "You were covering me when you took that hit."
Spock's memory is not yet as keen as usual due to the combination of injury and medication, but he knows this assertion, at least, to be factually accurate.
"True," Spock agrees. "I was ensuring my crew's safety. However, as that is my job, it is not necessary for you to thank me. It should also be noted that you are not required to give me reason to do my job and that it is unlikely that you will ever provide me with reason not to do so." Ever again, at any rate.
Kirk nods his head in a slow, exaggerated fashion that Spock doubts is indicative of genuine agreement.
"Right," Kirk replies, drawing out the vowel sound. There is another short silence before he continues. "You'd think I wouldn't, but sometimes I forget how well you can handle yourself in a fight."
Spock considers an appropriate manner in which to respond to this questionable compliment, but Kirk speaks again before he has the chance to give voice to anything.
"Here," Kirk says, standing as he holds out a datapadd. "Everything from the last twelve hours."
Spock accepts the padd with his good arm and immediately turns his eyes to the scroll of contents. It is an exhaustive set of systems and departmental reports since the beginning of their away mission.
"Your thoroughness in compiling this is appreciated."
"It's not necessary to thank me for doing my job," Kirk replies archly, then shrugs. Spock watches him in silence as he takes a step away from the chair and the biobed. "Well, I've got an extra shift to pick up since the captain is currently indisposed. You rest up."
"I will attempt to do so," Spock says to Kirk's retreating back.
oOo
When Nyota enters sick bay, Spock is reviewing the internal communications log from the time period during which he was off of the ship. He recognizes the rhythm of her footsteps and the faint pull at the back of his mind. Her movement towards his biobed is slow, but steady and he finds her expression unreadable until she has come to stand just beside him.
Nyota gazes down at him and he sees tenderness, affection, and compassion. All as if from the still-painful memories of when they were a constant part of his life. He wishes to speak, but he finds himself struck silent by the way she is regarding him. She reaches out, her hand grasping his wrist as she induces him to lower the padd into his lap. It is a struggle to maintain his mental barriers, but he does so. She would not welcome such an intrusion on the privacy of her feelings in this moment.
"You're supposed to be resting," she says mildly.
"I do not believe that reading qualifies as physically taxing," he responds.
She smiles, all the brilliance of a new dawn. She has not removed her hand from his wrist. He makes a noble attempt to gather his thoughts. Pain, drugs, fatigue, and now Nyota wear on his control. He only has so much energy to devote to combating each distracting effect.
"You performed quite admirably today," he manages.
She offers only a nod in acknowledgment.
"How are you feeling?" she asks. She tilts her head as she looks at him, the turn of her mouth indicating her desire for a wholly truthful response. She knows well his tendency towards omission when there is something that he does not think it would be appropriate to express. She also knows that this does not preclude him from a desire to express it nevertheless. Nyota asks him how he feels, not by rote, but because she wishes to know and she has an often-uncanny sense of when he wishes to tell her.
"The wound is painful, but less so than before. I am- tired." He studies her face and her hand slides away from his wrist. She toys idly with the red, crystal, teardrop earring dangling on a golden hook from her right ear, the first sign of hesitance on her part—of lack of surety.
He pushes. "Your presence has been beneficial to my mood."
He waits. Nyota purses her lips as she stares at him, emotion quivering in the line of her mouth. Her eyes shine. She closes them and takes a shallow breath before peering once again into his eyes.
"You are not allowed to die." Her voice is rough, the tone hauntingly familiar. It does not seem as though it has been months since they parted in the transporter room, believing that it would be for the last time but hoping otherwise.
"While it is always my goal to survive any conflict and generally remain in good health, death is an inevitability. Neither of us can control or ord-"
"Nope." She cuts him off in mid-word and he snaps his mouth shut when he sees her expression and her clenched fists. She will not accept argument or correction. "This time, I don't need your input," she says.
Nyota reaches out with her hand again and her fist unfurls. She just barely presses the tips of her index and middle fingers against the corresponding fingers on his right hand. The heat that blazes between them across the tentative connection is stunning, the bright flame of her devotion overwhelming. Her feelings have not changed and she wishes for him to know so. Spock wants to reach for her, but in the time between thought and motion, she has turned and walked away.
He considers her actions for three minutes. Then, he considers her words and finally understands.
oOo
The remainder of Spock's stay in sick bay is uneventful. Nyota does not visit him again. Kirk stops by regularly over the course of two days. Between shifts, he continues to bring Spock compilations of ship's reports. His stays are short and he says little, but Spock understands that there is an overture inherent in this attention. He cannot quite call it friendly. There is too much of an edge to Kirk still, something of which they are both aware but refuse to name or confront standing between them. But it is not the aggression that was there before.
Spock is put in mind of old Terran literature about war, bands of brothers and comrades in arms. They are on an exploratory mission, but the nature of the dangers they so regularly seem to face cannot be denied; neither, it seems, can the impact this has on them.
A round of applause greets Spock when he returns to duty on the bridge. Such an emotional display is not an entirely professional reaction, but he does not reprimand them.
Immediately at the conclusion of his shift, Spock proceeds to Nyota's quarters. She meets him at the door, standing on the other side as it slides open. Her hair is down and she is attired for bed, or at least for a night in. She wears dark gray sweatpants partially obscured by an oversized Starfleet Mathletics t-shirt that he is reasonably certain originally belonged to him.
"Nyota," he says.
"Come in," she replies and steps aside. He obeys.
Steam floats up from a cup of tea set on a side table. A padd perches on the arm of the adjacent chair. Both chair and table are pushed into a corner of the room, facing away, as far off from the rest of the small space as possible. The furniture is standard for crew quarters, but the arrangement is Nyota's. She had created a similar space in his own quarters back in San Francisco. Or rather, after determining that constant and inevitable moving and then replacing of furniture was inefficient, Spock created it for her. He preferred to work at a desk, and a chair or couch was all he required for any recreational reading or writing. Nyota enjoyed what she referred to as her "bubble" more than other alternatives.
They had often discussed the meditative qualities of self-defined spaces. Once, she told him of moving when she was a young child, from a "sleepy, little town" to Mombasa, one of the most populous cities in the African Confederacy. She came to love the city, but early on creating a bubble—an endeavor that initially involved kitchen chairs and bedding fashioned into a primitive tent—was the only way she could find to gather her thoughts surrounded by all the city noise. Nyota had laughed self-deprecatingly about exactly what thoughts a six-year-old needed to gather. Spock, considering the woman before him, had found it entirely reasonable and said so. Nyota smiled as she confessed that she had long since developed the ability to concentrate, and fully, without such trappings—Spock found this self-evident—but that she still took great comfort from them.
"Is there something you want to say?" Nyota asks, shaking him from his reverie. Her posture is familiar from the three previous incidents, arms crossed under her chest and eyes shrewd.
This time, however, Spock knows how to begin. "I have determined why, on the night you received your assignment, you did not accept my reasoning for not contacting you immediately upon my decision to remain in Starfleet."
Her stance loosens, softens, and the smallest bit of tension dissipates from Spock's own posture; it is as close as he will come to a sigh of relief.
"You are angry, not because of the undue pain I caused you—for which I am deeply regretful—by allowing you to continue believing that I was resigning from Starfleet, but because I was ostensibly attempting to determine the future of our relationship. And I did not consult with you." He pauses, not to enjoy an irony, but merely to acknowledge it. "It is and was inappropriate for me to bear such a responsibility alone."
Spock does not smile, but he is pleased enough with himself that he could.
Nyota has no such compunctions. Her smile is wry. "And it only took you a month."
"Five weeks, two days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes," he offers automatically. "You are well aware this is not one of my fields of expertise."
Nyota uncrosses her arms.
"When you're not naturally gifted at something, it means that you have to try harder." Her tone is not unkind.
"That is acceptable. I do not enjoy repeating mistakes," he says gravely.
"Neither do I."
Doubt creeps around the edges of his consciousness. They are still circling each other, the fragile foundation of reconciliation shivering with every movement. Spock longs for stability.
"Vulcans are extremely self-directed by nature," he offers. Further explanation is unlikely to accomplish anything, but it is a reflex. He feels such a strong compulsion to say something to keep her talking and actually engaging with him again. "Logic dictates that a rational conclusion is made no less rational or useful by virtue of having been arrived at independently."
Nyota sighs and sits down on the couch. "I know." It comes out tender enough that he expects an endearment to follow—a habit of Nyota's. The lack of same feels like a distance opening between them.
"That wasn't the only reason, Spock," she admits as she motions for him to join her. He sits down a respectable distance from her, facing her. "I mean, as much as I don't like the way you did it, you were right to want to think it over. You're still the captain and I'm one of your officers."
"While Starfleet regulations do not encourage personal relationships between a captain and his subordinates, a lack of encouragement towards is not logically equivalent to a restriction against. The previous circumstances of our relationship were far more illicit." It is intensely relieving to finally be able to say that to her and know that she is listening.
"I know all of that, but-" She takes his hands in hers. It is the most contact they have had in weeks. The smooth skin of her small hands is cool against his, but that is not the cause of the shiver that goes through him. "There are some people who won't like it. They won't like it and they won't forget. And I'm tired of hiding, Spock."
"I would never induce you to do so." Much as he would never allow hypothetical censure for the violation of a non-existent regulation to keep him from her.
Her eyes search his face and if she is looking for the slightest hint of hesitation or doubt, he knows she will not find it.
She looks down at their joined hands, considering. "It wouldn't exactly be the wisest decision either of us ever made, you know."
"My father once told me that what is necessary is never unwise." The understanding of other things his father has told him, and of his father's wealth of relevant experience, hangs between them.
"Is that what I am?" It is a whisper, low and throaty, and it rolls across his skin. "What we are? Necessary?"
"Both necessary and desired," he confirms. Needed and wanted more than he ever allowed himself to consider before she was gone.
Her mouth tastes the same as he remembers. Her lips are softer still as they work against his. His respiration and heartrate have already accelerated, his body immediately making known yet another way in which he has missed her during these interminable weeks.
Nyota's hands come up to grip the nape of his neck as she deepens the kiss and his slide down the thin material of the t-shirt to rest just so on the curve of her hips. She leans backwards and he follows at first, but breaks away, panting, before she can pull them into a recline.
There are sundry different types and categories of relationships in which humans engage, many of them sexual to some degree, but there is only one sort that he wants with Nyota. And he will brook no misunderstanding.
"Am I to assume that you remain dissatisfied with the termination of our relationship?" he asks.
"Beyond belief," she breathes and leans towards his mouth again. She makes a face when he cranes his neck just enough that his mouth is out of range of hers.
"Then we are agreed that we will resume a monogamous romantic and sexual relationship to curtail said dissatisfaction?"
"Honey, yes." She huffs a laugh, her breath sweet and warm on his face. Her fingertips make circles in the fine hairs at his nape, and he picks up something different breaking through the haze of lust and anxious desire. Relief floods through him. She feels that these terms are self-evident. "I plan on being extremely satisfied for the foreseeable future."
"I will make every effort to assist you in this endeavor."