Emotional attachment to other sentient beings is not logical, but, as a vestigial remnant of the evolutionarily advantageous herding instinct, it is inevitable - like the Human appendix or the Vulcan harr-hinektra: useful once, but now redundant. Emotional attachment to spaces and objects is unconscionable. Home is an exercise in the abstract: it is not a single, reifiable quantity. It denotes possession, not substance, not place. Home is a sentimental construct, designed to create an illusion of constancy in ill-adaptive minds. It describes a notion, not a physical, definable space. Shelter and security are necessary; home is not.
It is not logical to experience regret, sharp and visceral as a wire garotte, as he regards the room that has been his for almost a decade, stripped of what has made it familiar and rendered null, featureless. The sense of loss is absolutely without justification. Nevertheless, it's a relief to feel the door slide shut behind him as he leaves for the final time, as though he's cauterizing a wound. A violent flare of unrestrained emotion and then it's done, and this part of his life is behind him. He takes a moment in the silence of the corridor, where a dusky shadow on the opposite wall - almost imperceptible, but remarkably resistant to three years of the maintenance crew's most strenuous efforts - describes the passage and abrupt halt of a bowl of plomeek soup.
He straightens his dress tunic, brushes a fleck of lint from the hem, checks the polish of his boots. Swallows a lungful of plasticky, recycled air, and rolls his shoulders back. He's ready. And yet it takes him another 24.7 seconds before his legs animate sufficiently to lift his left foot into its first step along the corridor and away from the closed door behind him.
Spock is neither obtuse nor is he self-deluded, and he knows he is not as he was five years ago. Sometimes he compares the man he has become against the man he used to be and he can find virtually no points of continuity - it's as though that younger Spock simply ceased to be, and if he didn't know that it was a gentle, leisurely evolution, three quarters complete before he was aware it had started at all, then the end result might be more disturbing to his sense of himself. His younger self would not have spent 31 minutes and 14 seconds of his morning routine sitting cross-legged on the deck and committing to memory the frequency of the engine's hum as it skitters through the metal skeleton of the ship, he's sure of that. His younger self would not have been obliged to settle a spike of illogical fury at the thought of sleeping tonight in an unfamiliar bed in a room that is certain to be at least five degrees too cold. And his younger self would absolutely not have spent the last days of the mission ignoring the pervasive cloud of pre-emptive loneliness that hovers over every thought and every action. His younger self would have actively welcomed the prospect of solitude. He wonders if he'll be able to reclaim a measure of his earlier self-sufficiency now that he has the opportunity to practice the art of autonomy once again, and is obliged to suppress a sudden swell of anxiety at the unwelcome thought that collegiality might be similar to a one-way valve: the decision to embrace it may well be irreversible.
It happened so slowly that there was no opportunity to resist until long after the damage was done. Like a micro-tear in the hull plating, trickling invisible lines of weakness that crumple only when pressure is applied to exactly the right point, so was the discovery that he'd changed. During the first, difficult weeks of Kirk's captaincy, it was challenge enough to make it through their shared shifts with his controls in place, and there was a period during which he seriously thought about transferring to another ship. The Intrepid had been actively courting him for some time, even after his promotion to First Officer on the Enterprise, and, if there had never been sufficient cause to consider the offer in the past, the substitution of Captain Kirk for Captain Pike was almost enough to change his mind. It wasn't that he felt any particular affection for Pike - more the fact that he was a knowable quantity: thoughtful, reserved, and self-contained. Whether the comfortable distance between them was out of courtesy or preference was hardly important: what mattered was the work and the intellectual challenge, and there was satisfaction to be found in the knowledge that his abilities were recognized and his difference was less important than his proven competence. And then Kirk exploded onto the ship with that particular arrogance that is the unconscious by-product of aesthetically-pleasing features, innate charm, and an incisive mind, and Spock's repulsion was more than just instinct, it was self-preservation. One thing Spock has learned in this gradual segue between selves is that there is practically no corner of the psyche that is safe from the solicitous ministrations of James T Kirk. It seems strange now to think that there was a time when this idea was intolerable.
He halts outside the turbolift and lengthens his slackening spine, sucks in a breath. He is quietly gathering his thoughts when sudden footsteps to his right twist his head in the direction of the sound, and it's half a second before his brain registers a voice, sotto voce and struggling to restrain its frustration. It's another split second before recognition prickles an acid-wash of adrenaline through his chest.
"I know that, Bones!" hisses Kirk, in the tone that Spock has privately cataloged as Dealing With McCoy (Vexatious). "But it's not that -"
The abrupt catch at the end of the sentence, as of a breath sharply drawn and aborted midway, tells Spock, who has turned his gaze deckwards and fixed on a patch of fraying carpet, that not only has he been seen, but that his presence is an unpleasant surprise. However, interpersonal protocol demands he look up, and - probably - pretend he hasn't heard.
"Doctor," says Spock. And then, "…Captain."
McCoy, predictably, recovers first. "Damn it, man!" he sputters. "What d'you think you're doin', sneakin' up on people like that?"
There is no answer to that, so Spock raises an eyebrow and folds his hands behind his back. Kirk forces a smile.
"Ignore him, Spock," he says, but something in his eyes doesn't match his tone, and they certainly don't match his expression. "He's just cranky because he's going to be on the other end of a Starfleet medical tomorrow." There is a pause, two seconds too long to be comfortable. "Are you on your way back to the bridge?"
It is seven forty-eight pm. They are due to dock in a little under three hours. There is certainly nowhere else on the ship that Spock is likely to be headed. He says, "Yes, Captain."
"Good," says Kirk. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, closes it again. A beat. "Good," he says again.
In his peripheral vision, McCoy rolls his eyes and rocks on his heels.
"Captain," says Spock.
A gentle whoosh announces the arrival of the turbolift, and the doors disgorge a soft puff of warm air, dancing with the scent of the ship. Spock stands back to let the Captain and the CMO enter, then steps inside and pivots on his heel to face the doors as they slide shut in front of him. Behind him, Kirk gently clears his throat, but Spock does not turn around.
-o-o-o-
The Captain strides onto the bridge at a purposeful clip, a study in focused dispassion that, once upon a time, would have fooled Spock completely. As his First hesitates on the upper tier, Kirk crosses to the command chair, where Lieutenant Palmer is waiting with a handover brief and a carefully blank expression, and Spock watches him shrug off the blanket of melancholy that hangs over the assembled company - the reverent hush of the newly-bereaved - with his trademark hundred-watt grin. It eases something in the air, loosens some metaphorical pressure valve, and hesitant smiles begin to dot the crowd: reticent and conflicted, but washed with the warmth of homecoming. McCoy slides into place beside Spock, and he can feel the Doctor's eyes on the side of his head even as he keeps his own facing resolutely forwards; he can feel their relentless scrutiny, as though he's being weighed and measured. And then there is a gentle sigh, and Spock knows: he's not the only person who read the flash of quiet desolation beneath the Captain's flawless veneer.
"Yup," says McCoy softly, and there's no response to that.
Kirk glances sharply up towards them, like a hound that's caught a scent, and he raises his eyebrows in an unspoken question. McCoy offers an expansive shrug and there's a moment when it looks as though the Captain will press the issue; certainly, his eyes don't leave the Doctor's as he says, curtly, "Mr. Spock, are you joining us?"
Spock inclines his head and casts a wistful glance towards the science console, where Afaeaki is engaged in routine scanner measurements - the sort of thing that needs to be done and doesn't need to be done by the First Officer, and which effectively precludes his station as a point of refuge. With an air of resignation, he peels away from the turbolift and crosses to the Captain's chair, where he folds his hands behind his back and fixes his stare on the viewscreen.
"Dropping out of warp, sir," says Sulu from the helm.
"Jupiter station hailing, sir," adds Uhura quietly.
"Very good, Lieutenant," says Kirk briskly, and if there is the slightest hesitation before he speaks, he covers it seamlessly. "Transfer navigational co-ordinates and cross-reference. Mr. Sulu, three quarter impulse. Bring her in slowly. Let's not get her scratched up before we have to hand over the keys."
"Yes, sir," says Sulu with a wide grin, and Spock cannot help but wonder how anyone fails to hear the fracture beneath the Captain's easy words.
Kirk leans back in his chair and slings an elbow up on the arm rest. "Lieutenant Uhura, get me a shipwide frequency," he says, and Spock glances back towards McCoy, whose brow has furrowed and whose eyes are hooded.
"Frequency open," says Uhura.
There's a hesitation, and for a moment Spock wonders if he has changed his mind, but no: that's not the sort of man that James Kirk is.
"This is the Captain speaking," he says lightly - same insouciant charm, same warm, smooth tones. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've just passed Jupiter. We're almost home. In a little over three hours, we'll dock at Starfleet Orbital Headquarters and begin our disembarkation procedures. We'll all be sleeping under the Terran sky tonight." He pauses, ostensibly to gather his thoughts, but the break is too long, too sharp, too painful. Spock's hands coil around themselves, fingers tightening their grip. Kirk says, "These past five years have been the proudest of all my years in Starfleet. Together, we have pushed back against the limits of Human knowledge. We have contacted new civilizations across the galaxy. We have watched history being made before our very eyes. It has been my honor and my privilege to serve with this fine and dedicated crew. No Captain ever commanded finer. Bonds of friendship have been forged aboard this ship that no span of distance or time can break." He stops, glances down at the floor, then decisively back up again. "Let us take a moment to remember our friends and colleagues who gave their lives in search of knowledge and peace."
Kirk's gaze is steady, fixed on the viewscreen ahead, where Sol is an effervescent bubble of light in the middle of a sea of blackness, haphazardly pockmarked by the faded background glow of her distant sisters. In the heavy, cloying silence, McCoy steps quietly forward to stand on the other side of the command chair. Spock registers his presence in his peripheral vision, but does not glance sideways.
Kirk says, softly, "We will honor their memories by upholding the values that they lived for. These coming weeks will see us go our separate ways - some of us will transfer to new commands; some of us will be moving through the ranks to well-deserved promotions. Some of us will scatter across the galaxy and some of us will be setting down roots in our home soils. No matter what the future holds, it's built upon our collective past, and I'm proud to have spent these years with the best crew in Starfleet. Thank you all. Kirk out."
There is a moment of silence. At the navigation console, Chekov turns his head back towards the Captain and opens his mouth, drawing an uncertain breath, but Kirk cuts him off.
"Steady as she goes, Mr. Chekov," he says quietly, and Chekov nods.
"Aye, sir," he says.
-o-o-o-
The black miles slide past, like bolts of oiled satin. Spock is reminded of the journeys of his childhood, of the vertiginous list of the cabin as the engines clambered down the octaves to impulse and the sudden flare of delight behind his mother's eyes; of hours spent by her side on the observation deck, watching in silent contemplation as her homeworld inched closer. He's seen a similar reverence light the Captain's face a hundred times before and mistaken it for the thrill of discovery - that powerful thirst for knowledge that drives him like a second heartbeat - and what Spock has never realized before now is that it's actually driven by the very same longing he remembers in Amanda's eyes. For Kirk, the journey is home. It's where he belongs. The planet gliding into view in silvery grays and iridescent green - like the wings of a butterfly - is just a part of the fabric of what has made him; it has no hold on him anymore.
He wonders if anyone else has realized this.
The Captain is seated in his command chair, the central axis around which swirls a tidal pool of frenetic activity. Unobserved, Spock watches from behind the shelter of a well-placed PADD, watching the lines of his face as he scans a rapid-fire battery of reports, watching his eyes as he lifts them to greet another trickle of departmental heads as they filter in from the restless turbolift, watching the ready grin that fails to light him from within. On the viewscreen, the arid bulk of Luna has all but occluded the earthrise and, dotted around her louring, black outline, glimmer the pinprick floodlights of the orbital drydocks, Enterprise's cradle and her cage for the next eighteen months. Spock watches him quietly as Uhura clears her throat - a small noise, unobtrusive, but enough to wash a sudden silence over the sibilant rush of voices - and so he sees the sudden flash of grief slacken the Captain's features for half a second as she says, gently, "Captain, Centroplex is hailing us."
Kirk shoots a lightening glance towards the science console, too quickly for Spock to look away. Their eyes lock and Kirk's darken for a moment, fixing and holding his First for a second too long, and then the faintest of smiles tugs at the corner of his lips and he turns over his shoulder towards his Communications Officer. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he says. "Open a channel."
"Channel open, sir."
The Captain straightens in his chair, spine lengthening, body poised as though he's expecting a blow. "This is Captain Kirk of the USS Enterprise," he says: calmly, clearly. "Requesting permission to dock."
"USS Enterprise, this is Starfleet Orbital Headquarters," says a disembodied voice, and even at this distance, her smile lights up the air. "Permission granted. Welcome home, Enterprise."
At the helm, Sulu lets loose a joyful whoop, which prompts surprised laughter and an answering holler from Chekov, and suddenly the bridge is alive with applause and cheers and handshakes. "All right," says Kirk indulgently, but he's barely audible over the jubilation. "All right, everyone," he says again, louder. "Let's bring her safely into drydock before we break out the champagne." His eyes find Spock's again in the melee, and they linger for a moment before he slides them across to the viewscreen.
"Centroplex hailing again, sir," says Uhura. A beat, then: "It's Admiral Nogura, sir."
And it's only because Spock is watching already that he sees the Captain press his eyes shut for a second and breathe deeply before he speaks. "On screen, Lieutenant," says Kirk.
"Attention, all hands," snaps Spock, and the laughter abruptly dies as two dozen spines quickly straighten, two dozen sets of shoulders are squared, two dozen faces are wiped clean of all expression. The screen lights up.
"Kirk," says Nogura warmly. "Welcome home. We have quite the reception for you, I'm afraid."
The Captain laughs his easy laugh. "Thank you, sir," he says. "I suspected as much."
The Head of Starfleet Command has never beamed a personal greeting into the bridge of any returning starship on which Spock has previously served, but, then again, he's never previously served on any mission quite like this.
"Nothing gets past you, Kirk," says Nogura with a wide smile. His age is difficult to guess, but Spock knows he is grandfather at least - possibly a great-grandfather - and his air of paternal camaraderie is something that Spock does not entirely trust. "I thought I'd get in ahead of the rabble." He glances to his left, where a familiar face is glaring in the general direction of the bridge. "You know Admiral Komack, of course." A nod towards the figures on either side of the Admiral. "And Vice-Admiral Fitzpatrick. And I believe you've met Vice-Admiral Ciana - you'll be attached to her office during Enterprise's refit. I don't think you've been introduced to Admiral Bernstein - she was serving on Antares until six weeks ago. We'll be joining you for the press conference this afternoon."
"Ah," says Kirk, with remarkable calm. "There's going to be a press conference."
Nogura smiles, all fatherly charm. "It won't take long. An hour or so, no more. We'll be expecting Commander Spock as well."
Spock raises an eyebrow as Kirk flashes a glance in his direction, but aborts the gesture before it meets his eyes. "Sir, if you'll forgive me, I think it would be better…"
"I understand, Kirk, but we've got an opportunity and I don't intend to waste it." Nogura's eyes narrow and for a moment the politician creeps out from behind the mask. He says, "You heard about the attack on Ajilon Prime last month? There was another on Archanis IV two days ago. We're a little short on good publicity at the moment, Kirk."
"We've limited the numbers to the major broadcasters only," says Ciana smoothly. Annoyance flashes behind Nogura's eyes for an unguarded second before he schools his features back to genial old man. She gives no sign of having noticed. "Fleet business only; no personal questions. I've worked with most of them before - they know how far they can push it."
A smile slides across the Captain's face. He says, "I appreciate that, ma'am."
Ciana answers with a smile of her own, and its effect is transformative. She is, by Human standards, extremely attractive: petite and blonde-haired, fine-boned, with bright, intelligent eyes, but when she smiles, it's as though a light goes on beneath her skin, bathing her in a warm, sunshine glow. It is, Spock realizes suddenly, exactly the same smile as Kirk's.
"Excellent," says Nogura now, and his own affable grin skulks in the shadows like a minor satellite. "I don't need to tell you how important this mission has been for Starfleet - scientifically and politically. You've done us proud, Commodore."
The Captain's expression flash-freezes. He covers it quickly. "I wasn't aware that had been ratified yet, sir."
"Formalities." Nogura waves an airy hand. "The kind of public adulation you've got right now, Kirk, I wouldn't be surprised if the admiralty tried to give you my job. Ahahaha."
"Ahahaha," echoes Kirk, and is very nearly convincing. "I'm honored, sir."
A dull thung rattles the ship's hull and scatters itself across the skeletal network of decks and bulkheads as the vast arms of Spacedock 17 reach out and fix Enterprise in their grasp, and an illogical wisp of sadness ghosts through Spock's belly because they have docked now, and he didn't get to watch the final moments of their journey play out against the black canvass of space.
Nogura says, "The honor's ours, Kirk. I'll see you on the other side, eh?" And he rolls his eyes and laughs.
"Yes, sir," says Kirk.
Nogura nods once, and the screen blanks. Kirk stares at it for a moment in silence, his face blank, his eyes unreadable. "Ladies and gentlemen," he says. "We're home."
-o-o-o-
Disembarkation follows ancient Terran naval protocol. Lieutenant Friedrikson won First Kiss, so she's first to board the fleet of transport shuttles that swoop in from the syrupy blackness like a flock of silver birds, spiriting the crew from the belly of the ship in excitable fifties until only the senior command remains. Kirk stands in the center of his bridge, hands clasped behind his back and an amiable smile on his face as Uhura confirms the exodus with Starfleet HQ and the Captain gives the order that empties his ship. They depart formally - straight-backed salutes and handshakes, even the Doctor - and Kirk receives it as it's offered, but, as they're turning to leave for the transporter room, he says, "Take good care of her, Scotty."
Uhura's eyes mist abruptly, as do - Spock would swear - McCoy's. Scotty nods solemnly and says, "Aye, sir."
"Thank you," says Kirk. "All of you." He stops, clears his throat. "Drinks are on me, once the circus leaves town."
"Huh," says McCoy but his eyeroll lacks its customary choler. "That'll be the day."
"Thank you, sir," says Uhura softly.
Sulu nods. "Thank you, sir," he says.
"Thank you, sir," says Chekov.
"Aye," says Scotty. "Thank you, Captain."
McCoy clears his throat and offers a final, gruff thanks. "See you planetside, Captain," he adds. "Don't leave it too long - 'fore the admiralty gets wind of that bottle of Romulan Ale you never saw in my liquor cabinet." He glances up. "Spock, you didn't hear that."
Spock raises an eyebrow and the Captain laughs, McCoy grouses, Scotty looks askance, Uhura smiles… and for a second, time seems to freeze-frame, capturing a moment like so many others. And then a soft whoosh hiss announces the turbolift's arrival, and they file inside, and McCoy raises a hand in farewell as the door closes. And suddenly the bridge is empty but for the Captain and his First, and there's nothing but the ponderous silence of a space that used to be full of noise.
After a moment Kirk glances up, raises his eyebrows and forces his mouth into a tight smile. He paces to the command chair and stands behind it, hands rested on the back of the seat, gripping a little too hard.
"Well," he says.
It will take perhaps two minutes for the senior crew to reach the transporter room, perhaps another two or three for the observation of final protocols. Then they will beam down in reverse order of rank - perhaps ninety seconds apiece, with perhaps another twenty between individuals for calibration and buffering… with no allowances for contingency, there are ten minutes to pass on the bridge before they get their final orders to disembark. Spock is suddenly, acutely aware of the absence of anything else to do.
He takes a deep breath, realizes midway that he can't think of anything to say, and settles for, "Captain."
Kirk's eyes are fixed on the viewscreen, staring out into the black expanse beyond Spacedock, lost in thought. There is a long, uncomfortable pause. "So…" he says presently. "You'll be staying in the Residences?"
"Yes," says Spock. The word disappears into the sucking silence, and he's aware that something else is required, but he cannot work out what it might be. In desperation, he tries, "And you?"
"Hmm? Oh. Yes," says Kirk vaguely. "I thought… It's only for eighteen months. The Residences will be comfortable enough."
The seconds lumber past as Spock searches the limits of his experience for a possible rejoinder. "Indeed," he says at last.
"They've put me in the Flag Officers' quarters," says Kirk suddenly. "I think…" He hesitates, then waves a hand to dismiss the thought. The blanket of hush, disturbed by the sudden activity, resettles. "Never mind. It just seems… a little premature."
Spock can feel the Captain's restless energy from across the bridge; it's the only evidence that time continues to move forward. Abruptly, Kirk breaks away from the command chair and wanders across the bridge in the direction of the engineering console. Spock watches him ascend the steps to the upper tier - slowly, as though he's committing his progress to memory - and run a hand across the lifeless displays. "You'll be in the Commissioned Officers' quarters?" he says absently.
There's something deeply disturbing about his manufactured composure. Spock says, "Yes, Captain," and would elaborate if he could only work out how.
"We should…" says Kirk, and trails off. He tries again. "Who knows how long this will take? Perhaps we could get some dinner later. Perhaps… if it doesn't go on too long."
Spock opens his mouth to point out that it is already almost midnight, ship's time, and that by the time the press conference is finished they will certainly be better advised to return immediately to their quarters and attempt to acclimatize themselves to Pacific Standard Time, but a tiny prickle of exasperated chagrin jabs a metaphorical finger into his windpipe before the words can form. Instead, he says, "That would be agreeable."
Kirk glances up, and the naked surprise written into his expression makes it clear that he was expecting a refusal. "Oh?" he says. "Oh. Good. Well - maybe we could meet in the Presidio mess? If you're not… if the conference isn't too taxing."
"That would be a sensible choice of venue."
"Or," says Kirk, as though his First hasn't spoken, "Didn't you mention a Vulcan restaurant in Fisherman's Wharf? I seem to remember…"
"…I believe so…"
"…Yes, we were talking about the Academy, once, I'm sure, and I remember you said…"
The words trail into silence. Kirk clears his throat again.
He says, "Well. Depending on how long this takes, of course."
"Of course," says Spock.
"We're both likely to be tired."
"Ship's time is seven hours ahead of San Francisco," agrees Spock.
Kirk huffs a humorless laugh. "No doubt the admiralty will forget that."
"It may be less important than their other considerations."
Another little laugh, edging close to bitterness. "That's often the way." He turns on his heel and paces the length of the upper tier, stopping by the viewscreen, where he pivots on his heel so that he's facing his bridge. "Let's see how it goes," he says quietly.
"Yes, Captain," says Spock.
Abruptly, he turns again, spinning 180 degrees so that he's facing the stars. Spock sees his shoulders rise with an intake of breath, as though he's about to speak, and at that moment the Captain's communicator chirps. The shoulders sag again. In rear profile, Spock watches him lift a hand to his belt, unhook the device, flip it open. "Kirk here," he says.
"Captain Kirk, this is Vice Admiral Fitzpatrick," says a familiar voice. "Final disembarkation orders are given. You may leave the ship."
There's a beat, a second too long. Then Kirk says, "Acknowledged, sir. Kirk out," and snaps his communicator shut.
He folds his hands behind his back but makes no immediate effort to move. Spock hesitates by the science console as his Captain stands with his back to the bridge, gazing out at the tapestry of starlight dancing in the inky depths. There is something he ought to say, he's certain of it, but the words will not come. And then Kirk gives a little sigh and turns, and his face is blank, composed, like a man going into battle. He says, "I've been meaning to ask, Mr. Spock - your new orders arrived last night."
Spock blinks. "Yes, Captain," he says.
"I didn't..." says Kirk. "I suppose… I could have asked, but I thought... I know you value your privacy."
It takes Spock a moment to hear the question buried beneath the pleasantries and only then does he see the darkness in the hazel eyes. He says, "A teaching assignment at the Academy." A beat. "In San Francisco."
"Ah." The expression does not change, though it's too rigid to be natural. And the eyes are quickly dropped. "So you'll be staying on Earth."
"Yes, Captain," says Spock again.
There is a long silence in which Kirk stares fixedly at a point in the far wall above the waiting turbolift. Spock centers himself so that he doesn't have to hear the unspoken words that hover between them.
Kirk says, without looking up, "Good. That's... good." A beat. "I imagine you'll make an excellent teacher, Mr. Spock."
"I undertook a number of teaching assignments upon graduation," says Spock.
"Of course. Yes," says Kirk. Abruptly, he looks up and his face is schooled into a careful, hollow-eyed smile. "Well. Let's get this over with."
Before Spock can answer, the Captain breaks from his station and crosses the bridge at an efficient, businesslike clip. But his hand reaches out for the command chair as he passes, and he gives it one final grip.
-o-o-o-
It is after 2100 hours PST when Spock finally presses his palm to the scanner beside the door to his new lodgings, which makes it the early hours of the morning in his current diurnal cycle. There is no longer anything to be gained in attempting a period of sleep, and he plans to rifle unceremoniously through his luggage for a firepot and a meditation mat and spend the rest of the night mending his shattered equilibrium. This is likely to take several hours.
Spock has never previously attended a press conference. It seems to him to be a uniquely Human affair. He was alarmed, therefore, to discover that the maelstrom that welcomed them off the Enterprise, all flashing lights and walls of shouted questions, was only a prelude to the main event.
He allows himself a moment to wonder if the Captain has returned to his quarters yet, and the habit of five years prickles a little thrill of unease at the likelihood that he has not. Spock has witnessed James Kirk, in the heat of chaos, pull unfathomable reserves of energy out of some indefatigable store that defies the limits of Human physiology, but this is not a battle; no lives are at stake, and, in the final analysis, he suspects that the Captain finds the entire exercise more than a little frivolous. He has never been a man for holocams and vacuous smiles, and the crowds rushed him almost before they'd finished rematerializing in the executive transporter room, shouting his name and clamoring for soundbites. The Captain is a diplomat, but this was not diplomacy; this was something else, something Spock is not certain he's able to name.
He is tired. More than that, he is disturbed and transplanted, and each state of mind feeds into the other.
Thank you, Commander, that's all we need from you, she said, and reached for the Captain's arm as though she's known him for many years. Perhaps she has. I believe you've met Vice Admiral Ciana, said Nogura on the bridge. It feels like another life, one that is fast receding into the middle distance, insubstantial as a whisper in a dark room.
Thank you, Commander, that's all we need from you. An abrupt dismissal; sudden closure, like a slamming door. An aide swooped in with an unctuous smile and a manifest disregard for Vulcan courtesies: Commander Spock, if you'll follow me, I'll arrange a transport to your quarters - you must be tired after your day… With a hand on his elbow, only inches separating their bodies, and Spock was obliged to step smartly out of the young man's personal space and answer that he would find his own way, thank you.
The weight of the asenoi brings it easily to hand, nestled into a corner of his trunk and wedged in place with a selection of heavy books. Three of them, he notes with a lurch of distress, were gifts from Kirk: Moby Dick, translated into Vulcan; a collection essays on warp core dynamics; and a biography of Brahms, purchased as an in-joke several weeks after Holberg 917G, with an inscription in the Captain's even, copperplate handwriting designed to dispel any lingering doubts his First might entertain about Kirk's continuing emotional health - Because we know better, don't we? With thanks for everything, JTK. Spock sets them carefully to one side and lights the firepot while he resumes his search for his mat.
Contrite smiles, endless offers of coffee, tea, fresh juice, water. Fewer than sixty-three percent of them knew better than to reach for his hand during introductions, and, in the end, he simply linked his fingers behind his back and nodded his greetings until whoever was on the other end of the extended arm got the message and withdrew. There were no apologies. No-one offered the ta'al.
Nogura stayed for the handshakes and the speeches. Later, there were Fitzpatrick and Bernstein and Ciana, and an endless swarm of acolytes, hovering on the edges of the room, ready to be summoned with a wave. I'm very much looking forward to the opportunity to work with Captain Kirk, said Admiral Ciana. He'll be an invaluable addition to our department. A self-deprecating eyeroll over the heads of two reporters from somewhere on Luna while they were busily scrolling through their PADDs during a conversational lull, and there was that sunshine smile again, flashed haphazardly as though she was unaware of its effect. Enjoy it while you can, Captain, she said quietly - at least she didn't call him Commodore. This is the most excitement we're likely to see in Operations this side of a Klingon invasion.
And the Captain laughed politely: I'm very glad to hear it, ma'am. I believe I've seen enough excitement for two lifetimes.
Ha! You'll have to tell me about it some time.
I'd be glad to. But I'm not much of a storyteller.
Somehow, I doubt that…
The meditation mat has insinuated itself somewhere beyond the reach of questing Vulcan fingers and he's too tired to spend any more time searching. Spock almost makes a mental note to speak to whomever packed his luggage, before he remembers that, whoever it was, they've scattered between the cracks of this sprawling city, and they're under someone else's command by now. The floor is wood-effect boards, covered with a thin, utilitarian rug emblazoned with the Starfleet crest, and it will suffice for his current needs. He lowers himself onto the unyielding surface, feeling every nerve protest, and crosses his legs before him, resting his hands lightly on his knees and breathing deeply of unfamiliar air.
Home is an exercise in the abstract: it is not a single, reifiable quantity. It denotes possession, not substance, not place. Home is a sentimental construct, designed to create an illusion of constancy in ill-adaptive minds. Home is where he can find shelter; it matters not at all which stars prick the sky beyond his window, or that the room is five degrees too cold, or that it fails to vibrate a tinny hum on the very edge of hearing.
It is certainly not logical to hate a room for the fact that it is not on a starship, or because its bathroom has only a single door.