Chapter 10

It's been a long evening.

They usually are, these nights that pretend to be uneventful right up until the moment you're getting ready to fall asleep. Kirk doesn't need to look at the chronometer to know that it's long past midnight – the dull throb behind his eyes and the sense that ship's gravity is trying to suck him through the floor are enough to tell him that he really doesn't want to know what time it is.

Spock made a vague effort towards pretending that it wouldn't be a problem for him to stay and help talk to Admiral Komack, but gave up with suspicious ease when the Captain suggested that he'd subjected himself to enough embarrassment already. It's not like Spock to acknowledge that embarrassment even exists outside of the hypothetical, and if he's forgetting to maintain that air of rigid Vulcan denial, then he definitely didn't need the kind of conversation that followed for seventy minutes after Kirk delivered the news to their Operational CO.

Confirmation of their amended orders has just blinked its arrival on his terminal, and the Captain spends less than half a second wondering whether or not he ought to pull on his uniform and head up to the bridge. But it's not the sort of news that can't wait until morning, and he feels a small grin tugging at the edge of his mouth as he contemplates the shipwide excitement it's unlikely to engender. He acknowledges receipt with a click, and his hand hovers over the power down command for a second, while little zig-zag lines of fatigue shoot across his straining eyes.

He definitely shouldn't do this. It's clear that he shouldn't do this. Whatever that moment was earlier on, the one that he has no intention of trying to process tonight, the one that is likely to shimmy across his conscious mind every single time his brain starts to slip into unconsciousness and pull him back from the brink of sleep in a rush of adrenalin and excitable panic; whatever that was, this is not likely to expedite the kind of resolution he's hoping it leads to.

Whatever that moment was. He knows what that moment was. He's just not sure what to do with that knowledge. And he's not used to being unsure at this point.

His hand settles on the desk.

"Computer," he says, because this can still be undone, right up to the moment when it can't. "Take a message, recorded, and deliver to Lieutenant Palmer for transmission to the house of Ambassador Sarek and his wife. Message reads: Ambassador and Lady Amanda, greetings from Captain James T Kirk of the USS Enterprise. It may interest you to know that we are to remain in orbit around your planet for four Vulcan days." He hesitates. "Commander Spock has not informed me of his plans – no, wait. Strike that last sentence. Resume. Crew will be granted leave to beam down to the planet during this period. I would be delighted to offer you the hospitality of the Enterprise at any time during our stay. Live long and prosper. Message ends."

"Transmit?" asks the computer, and of course it doesn't have an accusatory tone – of course it doesn't – but it's amazing what wonders a guilty conscience can conjure. Spock will be furious, and rightly so. There is no way he ought to transmit this.

"Transmit," he says.

And that just about kills all possibility of sleep for tonight.

-o-o-o-

Alone in his quarters, Spock stares at the asenoi for a full thirty seconds past the point where he accepts that it's an exercise in futility, mostly because half of him is Human and that half got all of Amanda's stubbornness. He's been here before, his body recognizes the signs, and his brain has gone into full-scale rebellion. It won't be forced into meditation at those moments when he needs it most, and he's certain his contemporaries don't have to deal with this sort of thing. There are days when he understands perfectly well why his parents' DNA so fiercely resisted combination, and it's because logical and illogical ought never to have to collide within the confines of one unfortunate skull.

He has, quite simply, no idea what to do.

All things considered, it has been a horrible evening. First there was the message from Taaval that catapulted him back into memories he seldom revisits for the crushing weight of impotent rage they engender, and the panic, and the fear. He learned the techniques for their management many years ago – much of which involves keeping well out of his father's way – and they might not have been so disastrous to his equilibrium, were it not immediately necessary to go and have the kind of hideous conversation with his Captain that catapulted him back into another set of memories he'd really rather he never had to think of again. Why on earth Kirk might think that his friend would be in any way pleased to return to Vulcan in light of the last time he was here is something that Spock can only vaguely comprehend with reference to memories of Amanda's wide-eyed delight every time their ship dropped out of warp on the edge of the Sol system. It just seems to be a Human thing. Long and frequently excruciating experience has taught Spock that sometimes it's safer just to leave it at that.

And even that might not have been so bad – he's survived that talk before, and the last time it happened it was Spock who was the subject – but for the fact that his friend reads him entirely too easily. Spock has long since given up trying to differentiate the subtle nuances of Human emotion, and McCoy just generally assumes whatever it pleases him to assume about Spock on any given day and runs with it, but Kirk has never had any difficulty in seeing through his First Officer's carefully-polished Vulcan veneer. There are times when he is immeasurably grateful to be seen so completely and to know that, in all the universe, one person at least has taken the trouble to know him and the world didn't end because of what he found. Mostly, though, it's massively inconvenient to have to try to remember that whatever he thinks he's buried beyond the ken of Man, Kirk will probably pick up a scent and worry at it until he stumbles across the truth by himself. Or until Spock just gives up and tells him.

He could have coped with the distress. It's been a long and manifestly trying day for the First Officer, and he could have left the Captain to draw his own conclusions; they probably wouldn't even have had to have drinks and chat aimlessly while Kirk made certain his friend was all right, since there was already a villain in place, his name was Solvis, and it was perfectly reasonable to assume that Spock's disquiet was due in large part to the Vulcan Science Academy and their gift for verbal warfare. The Captain has an unwavering respect for the private matters of his First, so long as they don't interfere with the running of the ship, and so long as he thinks he already knows what the private matters might be. Spock is used to being known. He could have coped with that.

It's the look that he can't get past.

He knows what was in his eyes when he looked up, and he knows that Kirk saw it. He also knows his Captain too well to believe that he read it as anything other than what it was. This is why meditation eludes him tonight: because there is simply no getting past this point.

That, and the fact that he's almost 57 percent certain that he saw his own desire mirrored in his Captain's eyes. There's that too.

He has no idea what to do.

-o-o-o-

Kirk's adrenal system shocks him awake a good forty minutes before his alarm is due to go off, with a bolt of inexplicable panic that definitively proclaims the end of the sleep cycle for this particular night. It's too early for his brain to be happy about the situation and too late for it to be practicable to lie with his eyes shut and his pillow over his face and hope for some kind of somnolent mercy. He supposes he ought to be grateful at least that he managed a full two hours since the last burst of wakefulness. It's been that sort of night.

A lingering odor of ginger and lavender and pine in the head tells him Spock has passed a similarly restless few hours, and he'd prefer not to think about the implications of that just now. So instead he lumbers into the shower, feeling seventy years older than he did twenty-four hours ago, and turns his face into a blast of steaming hot water in the hope that it might persuade his headache to clear. Plan B is coffee. Lots of coffee.

Spock's not on the bridge yet, which is not that surprising, since there's still another thirty minutes before Alpha shift officially begins, and the Captain's presence causes the kind of muted commotion that tries desperately to pretend it's not a commotion at all because why would it be a problem that the Captain has turned up half an hour early without warning and for no reason? Ensign Gavrikova has pulled command duty overnight and she's done a good job, he reflects, as he scans her hastily-assembled handover report and relieves her with a request to find a Yeoman and have a carafe of hot, strong coffee sent up ASAP. They are in orbit around the peaceful homeplanet of Humanity's oldest friends, so naturally nothing startling has happened overnight, and he turns, rather self-consciously, to the Communications report as the minutes count down and his command crew start to filter onto the bridge. There it is: 0047 hours, transmission from the Captain's quarters to the house with a family name that Kirk avoids ever mentioning so that Spock won't find out he can't pronounce it. It's done. The Captain purses his lips, and then brightens considerably as Yeoman McConnel arrives with the coffee.

There is no mention in the report of the Science Officer requesting permission to serve his shift in the labs. That is surprising.

McCoy turns up in the final press of bodies disgorged from the turbolift as the chronometer slides nonchalantly from Gamma back to Alpha. Spock peels off from the group and strides silently and purposefully towards the science station, and the Doctor ambles towards the command chair with a sideways glance towards the First and an interrogative eyebrow for the Captain.

"Good morning to you too, Spock," he says amiably, which obliges Spock to turn back from his viewer and nod curtly towards the bridge.

"Doctor," he says. A beat – tiny, infinitesimally tiny, and yet unquestionably a beat – and then he adds, "Captain."

A small voice buried somewhere deep within Kirk starts singing. This again.

"What's crawled up his green-blooded backside?" says McCoy, and Kirk cannot repress a big, glowing smile.

He shakes his head. "Command business," he says. "I see it didn't take you long to find the coffee, Bones."

"Figured with the day you had yesterday, best coffee on the ship'd be on the bridge this morning," he says, unapologetically helping himself to a cup from McConnel's tray. "You look like hell, Jim. What did you do, work all night?"

"Not quite," says Kirk. He grins. "Although I appreciate the vote of confidence, Doctor," he adds.

Bones shrugs. "I'm a doctor, not a cheerleader," he says. "Reckon you need about eight days' solid shore leave, then you might start looking like a Human being again, Jim."

"Funny you should mention that," says Kirk, and, because he wouldn't be Jim Kirk if he didn't use an opening like that for all it was worth, he turns over his shoulder to Uhura and says, "Lieutenant, get me a shipwide frequency, please."

"Yes, sir," she says. "Frequency open, Captain."

Kirk offers another smile into Bones' open curiosity, and addresses his crew. "This is the Captain speaking," he says. "By now you will all be aware that we have been delayed in orbit around Vulcan for approximately twelve hours longer than we had initially intended. Late last night, I received word from Starfleet HQ that we are to remain in orbit for a further four days. It is my pleasant duty to inform you that, given the lack of any pressing alternative responsibilities during this time, Starfleet Command have authorized the next four days as shore leave for all hands. Please liaise with your commanding officers regarding the appropriate paperwork and remember that you remain a representative of Starfleet at all times while planetside. On behalf of the command crew, I would like to wish you all a very safe and pleasant shore leave. Kirk out."

There is silence on the bridge, and a palpable air of the opposite of rapturous enthusiasm.

"Shore leave on Wulcan," says Chekov slowly. "...Thank you, sir?"

Kirk grins at the navigation console. "Don't mention it, Ensign."

"Well," says McCoy after a moment. "Guess that's you off four hundred Christmas card lists, Jim."

-o-o-o-

Kirk catches up to Spock as he's halfway down the corridor that leads to the officers' mess, moving at that unmatchable Vulcan pace that he uses when he wants to be impressive, or when he doesn't want to be caught. He can't ignore a direct order from the Captain, though, so when the inadequate Human muscular system makes it clear that catching up to Spock is going to involve running after him down the corridors in full sight of the crew, Kirk settles for calling a cheerful, "Just a moment, Mr. Spock," instead.

Spock turns as Kirk draws level with him, and deflects with a well-placed defensive opening. "Captain," he says. "I was on my way to lunch, if you would care to join me?"

"I'd be delighted," says Kirk, and falls into step beside him for a full two paces before adding, "I notice your name is not on the list for shore leave."

Spock does not sigh, but Kirk can tell when he wants to. He says, "I am not in need of recreational leave at present, Captain."

"We had an agreement," says Kirk.

"I believe you phrased it as an order," says Spock.

"That's right," says Kirk amiably, "I did."

Another non-sigh. "The circumstances no longer obtain," says Spock. "The new arrangements for our stay are substantially different to those under which the original orders were to be carried out." A pause. And then, resignedly: "I am prepared to fulfill your requisite three hours planetside, should you so order, Captain."

Kirk lets that sit for the final few yards of the corridor, but halts at the door to the mess and turns to face his friend. "I had thought," he says, "that it might be an interesting experience to visit Mount Seleya. Would that be permitted, do you think?"

"It is… not unheard of," says Spock slowly. "The priests do not welcome outsiders, but they are generally more accommodating to visitors who arrive in the company of Vulcans."

"Of course," says Kirk. "If only I knew a Vulcan who might accompany me on such a trip."

This provokes an actual eye-roll, and it's as much as Kirk can do to swallow his grin. He raises his eyebrows innocently.

"Very well, Captain," says Spock. There is a fractional sag to his shoulders, as of a man who knows when he's beaten. "I would be pleased to escort you on a trip to Mount Seleya."

Kirk's grin breaks free despite his best efforts. "I appreciate that, Mr. Spock," he says.

The door glides open on a scattering of Alpha shift crew and the ship's CMO, sitting by himself at one corner of the long table, scowling at a PADD in front of him and munching absently at a huge sandwich. Kirk greets him with a brief clasp of his shoulder and makes his way over to the replicator bank, where he slides his diet card into the slot and waits for the machine to beep. The plate that emerges is not exactly what he was expecting. Kirk notes with some dismay that the chicken that was supposed to be fried is actually grilled, the sourdough roll is absent altogether, and the potatoes that were supposed to be mashed with butter and cream are actually… salad. He glances up at Spock, who is staring into the middle distance with an expression that manifestly refuses to get involved.

"Just be glad I let you keep the chicken," grunts Bones without looking up, as the Captain settles into the seat beside him.

Kirk is privately convinced that there is a regulation somewhere that prohibits the ship's doctor from tampering with the Captain's food order more than twice daily, and if there isn't, he's damn well going to agitate until the admiralty get behind him on this one. In the absence of any legalities upon which to charge his friend with mutiny-by-calorie-count, he settles for biting dramatically into a stick of celery and nonchalantly changing the subject.

"Shore leave plans, Bones?" he asks, nodding at the PADD.

The Doctor looks up as Spock slides into the seat to his left. "Readin' up on the three dozen Vulcan parasites that are able to adapt to a Human host," he says.

Spock glances at the image on the screen. "The sakasu-nalatra-neshuhk is exceptionally rare,

Doctor," he says placidly. "The Federation no longer routinely vaccinates against it."

"Uh-huh," says Bones. "Whatcha wanna bet one of our boys comes back with a dose?"

"Well," says Kirk cheerfully, "Won't that make a pleasant change from the sort of maladies you typically see after a shore leave on Wrigley's or Risa?"

Bones acknowledges that with a heartfelt nod. "Ain't that the truth," he says. He sets down his overflowing sandwich and brushes crumbs off his hands. "Guess I don't have to ask if you're planning a pointy-eared vacation, Jim. He talk you into it yet, Spock?"

Spock's hand stills in the act of scooping up a spoonful of soup. "I have agreed to accompany the Captain on a trip to Mount Seleya," he says.

Bones rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's how it starts," he says. "I tell you 'bout the time I ended up spending a three-day leave on Starbase 14 scouting old antique shops? Jim got it into his head there's some old replica of the HMS Enterprize he just had to send home to Iowa for Captain Kirk Snr – this'd be, oh, four, five years ago, right back at the start of the mission – and for some reason yours truly has to tag along too. Never did get within so much as sniffin' distance of a decent, honest-to-God glass of bourbon that whole weekend."

"Never found the replica either, as I recall," says Kirk.

"Nope," says Bones. "That was kind of my point, Jim."

Kirk laughs easily. "Don't worry, Spock. I doubt there are any antique shops near where we're going. I take it you won't be joining us, Bones?"

"Ha!" says the Doctor. "Some chance. I'm headed for K'lan-ne with M'Benga, the hospital where he interned. Might as well see if I can't learn a few tricks since I'm here."

"That sounds a lot like work, Bones."

"Sounds a lot more likely to have bourbon than Mount Seleya, too."

"It's shore leave, Bones," says Kirk. "Shore leave. Vacation."

"Uh-huh," says McCoy. "On Vulcan." A beat. "Don't think the crew's gonna let you forget this any time soon, Jim."

Kirk grins at Spock and receives an eyebrow in return, then follows his friend's upward glance as the Chief Engineer crosses to the table bearing a tray of something that looks disturbingly like what the Captain thought he was ordering five minutes earlier. He lowers himself into a seat with a nod to his companions. "Captain. Leonard. Spock."

Kirk shoots a meaningful glare up at the Doctor, who blithely ignores it and turns to the Chief Engineer instead. "We're talking shore leave plans, Scotty," he says cheerfully. "You just about set for a wild time with Vulcan's nightlife?"

"Aye," says Scott with an air of Celtic affliction. "Been meanin' tae talk tae the Cap'n 'boot tha'."

"What's on your mind, Scotty?" says Kirk.

"Well, Sir," says Scotty. "It's just that the warp engines could dae wi' a wee bit of a recalibration, and the anti-matter converter's been sluggish o' late. Wi' yer permission, I'd like tae commute my leave tae o'ertime an' take a look at them while we're in orbit."

"Commute?" says Kirk. "You mean 'convert'?"

There is a significant pause. "If ye say so, sir," says Scott.

-o-o-o-

The Enterprise during shore leave is a different creature, someone the Captain doesn't quite know. It's as though he's surprised a famous actress on a trip to the grocery store in ratty old slacks and without her make-up: recognizable, still unmistakably beautiful, but missing that vaguely exotic mystique that makes her so powerfully attractive. It's not that the corridors are quieter per se; more that the energy has changed, and Kirk has found himself swept up on the tide of restlessness that pulses through the ship.

Mindful of the way that his thoughts have been manifestly ungovernable all afternoon, he's taken the precaution of stopping by the gym after dinner and trying to beat them into submission with a ninety-minute workout that has left his muscles aching and his skin flushed, but has only varnished over the nagging thrill of anticipation that keeps tugging his brain out of orbit. So he's allowed his feet to carry him as far as sickbay, where Bones is just finishing a stack of paperwork and glances up as Kirk's shadow falls across his desk.

"Let me guess," he says, "Ship too quiet for you?"

It'll do. It's easier than the truth. He says, "Something like that."

"Sit down, Captain. I got a prescription for antsy COs." He stands as Kirk lowers himself into the spare seat, and crosses to his liquor cabinet. "Course, it'd be a damn sight more effective if the Captain called a shore leave some planet where I can get my hands on the good stuff," he adds.

Kirk laughs. "Bones, it's hardly my fault they were out of Kentucky bourbon on K-7."

Bones sets a glass down on the desk in front of him and pours a generous measure of Aldebaran Old Peculiar No. 7. "Yeah, well," he says, "I can think of half a dozen places we could've stopped since then, Jim." A beat. "Funny how these things turn out."

The Captain raises his glass. He says, "No doubt Jabilo knows a place or two in K'Lan-ne, Bones."

"Yup," says the Doctor. He takes a sip and purses his lips around the burn. "When are you and the hobgoblin planning on beaming down to Seleya?"

"Spock's making the arrangements," says Kirk, and takes a gulp from his glass to cover the adrenal spike that accompanies his words. "Tomorrow or the day after. We'll visit the temple and then spend the night in the guest quarters on the lower slopes. Sure you won't join us?"

"Not me," says McCoy. "Had enough of that mystic mumbo-jumbo last time we were here. Besides" – he takes another sip – "can't see as Spock'd want an old country doctor there. Not this time."

The Captain hesitates. McCoy's tone is as innocent as his face, but Kirk has the distinct impression he's being baited. Carefully, he says, "He hardly wants to be there himself, Bones. He's humoring me."

"Huh," says the Doctor. His stare is relentless.

But Kirk has known McCoy for a long time; too long to fall for a pregnant silence and an unasked question. He makes himself grin and says, "Something on your mind, Doctor?"

"No, sir," says Bones, stretching his arms over his head and clasping his hands at the base of his skull. "Guess it's just what the doctor ordered, Jim."

"Just not where you thought you were ordering it?" says Kirk cheerfully.

"Actually," says Bones, "It's not all that much of a surprise, Captain." A beat. "Not really."

"Your face on the bridge this morning said otherwise."

"Didn't say it wasn't a shock, Captain," says McCoy with one of his cryptic little smiles. "Just not a surprise, is all."

Kirk meets the stare head-on, but the blue eyes miss nothing. In the absence of anything adequate to puncture the spreading silence, the Captain drains his glass and sets it on the desk with a muted thunk that rings in the still air. He says, "Thanks for the drink, Bones. I'd better get moving."

"Sure," says McCoy easily. His eyes follow the Captain as he stands, grips the back of his chair, slides it neatly beneath the desk. "Just be careful, Jim," he says quietly. "That's all."

Kirk laughs, but fails to inject his intended measure of insouciance. He says, "It's Mount Seleya, Bones, not Qo'noS."

"You know what I mean," says McCoy.

There's nothing to say to that. "Good night, Bones," says Kirk, and leaves before the Doctor can reply.

-o-o-o-

Alone in his quarters, Spock sits for a moment in quiet contemplation while his terminal blinks and wonders politely if he'd like to replay the message. The still, heated air swims with words just spoken, and they conjure his mother's face in the darkness as clearly as it smiled out of the screen towards him moments earlier.

Silently, thoughtfully, he reaches out a hand towards the power-down command. The room goes black.