Chapter 20
It's a bright late-winter morning - crisp and clear, with pale yellow sunlight pouring unfiltered from an almost cloudless sky. Long years' experience have taught Spock better than to think that the gray February drizzle is in retreat just yet, but there's a whisper of spring in the sharp, cool air, like a preview of the coming attraction. It's the sort of day that scatters the shadows in his mind.
It has been a singularly unproductive morning and he's glad to leave the cloistered silence of his office, where a blank terminal screen glares at him in mute reproach. It's early yet, even for the leisurely pace that he sets, the better to savor the feel of the cool sun on his skin and the fresh ocean scent that hangs on the chilly breeze, but there comes a certain point at which the waiting becomes bigger than the event itself, and he'd like to maintain an air of abstract neutrality if at all possible. Besides which, if he's learned anything at all these past five years, it is this: Kirk is rarely late.
He falls quietly into step behind a group of cadets as they pass through the central plaza around which the Academy rises in irregular spikes and blocks, and out into the sculpted greenery of the Presidio in winter. A winding path meanders up a gentle slope towards the crest of the hill, and, as he ascends, he can see the sparkling azure of the Bay peeking through the willows and dogwoods. As he moves onto the central thoroughfare, ground transport glides quietly past him along the wide road to his left, air trams worry at the tops of ancient, towering oaks as they swim on the thermals above, and the background noise is sucked into the vacuum of the forest and scattered amongst the trees. Spock burrows a little deeper into his coat and follows the convergence of traffic into the wide quadrangle that leads up to the towering base of Starfleet's Terran command.
The central atrium is alive with a thousand flowing currents of bodies, filtering carelessly through the security fields at the portico and moving with purpose towards uncountable destinations. Noise dampeners scattered liberally above the crowds keep the general din within bearable limits, but, if there is any mechanism by which personal space can be maintained while moving from point A to point B inside the continuous maelstrom of multitudes, Spock has not yet learned it. He avoids this place whenever he can.
They have arranged to meet in the lobby of the eastern wing, where Operational Tactics have their offices, and where Kirk has spent the morning buried in a series of meetings. Security is tighter here, and the crowds begin to thin as Spock moves further along the series of winding corridors, through bright, glass-fronted atria that open onto the Bay and onto the city, past a gaggle of excitable schoolchildren that represent half a dozen Federation planets - Starfleet children, he supposes, and remembers his own frustrating days of Terran education while his father was posted on Earth - and into the pleasant, airy foyer of the Phoenix Building. Climb high enough through the floors of this rarified ivory tower and Nogura himself can be found, when he's on Earth, installed in a sprawling suite of offices that scrape the skies above, but Spock's destination is the bright, bubbling fountain set into a light well in the middle of the floor, bathed in anemic sunlight, and flanked by one Commodore and his commanding officer.
The rush of emotion that assaults him is both unexpected and unnerving. Spock has spent some considerable time this morning attempting to prepare for this meeting, and he was certain - or, at least, as certain as he could be - that his controls were sufficient. But as Kirk, deep in conversation with Ciana, catches sight of Spock's arrival in his peripheral vision and turns over his shoulder, as the momentary shock of recognition segues into a slow, naked smile, Spock is forced to reflect on the fact that, realistically, he was never going to be ready for this.
"Spock!" says Kirk warmly, and raises a hand in greeting.
Some lights, he's the same old Jim Kirk, says McCoy's voice suddenly, slicing mercilessly across the remnants of Spock's ragged composure. Turn your head for a minute and… I don't know. He didn't understand it at the time, but this is not unusual, so he filed it away under McCoy: Poetic Idiom, and concentrated on meeting the Doctor's objections. But now, as he crosses the floor to his erstwhile CO, he can see that McCoy was not wrong. Turn one way, and it's the Captain he's always known: luminous, lit from within by unflinching brilliance, wearing command as though it had been created specifically for him, easy in his skin. Turn the other, and he's… different. The eyes have dulled. The sheen has rubbed off his skin. He looks tired, older. Diminished.
Caged. The word slides into place like a key into an obstinate lock as he closes the final footsteps between them and folds his hands safely behind his back. It's not logical, but it fits too neatly to dislodge it from its hold.
"Captain," he says.
"Commodore," says Kirk, with a self-deprecating grin that lances icy shame into Spock's belly. The first word they've spoken in weeks, and it's wrong. But Kirk only quirks an eyebrow, open-faced and unabashed, and Spock understands that the correction was not a reproach, but, perhaps, a kind of exorcism. Mock it with me, says Kirk's expression, but how can he do that?
He inclines his head. "Commodore," he says and, in the depths of Kirk's eyes, a small flame dies.
But he smiles. It's not the smile he typically turns on Spock, but it's passable. He says, "It's good to see you, my friend."
Spock is not certain that he can answer in kind. So he simply says, "Indeed," and understands that it's so far from adequate that he might have been better to say nothing at all.
Kirk's smile wilts a little, but he buries it in formality, taking a step back and twisting his pose so that their circle accommodates his companion. "You remember Admiral Ciana?" he says.
"Vice Admiral," she says. Her voice is light, but her smile is unreadable. "Commodore Kirk has a habit of promoting me in introductions. We met at the press conference," she adds, and raises a ta'al.
"Of course," says Spock, and mirrors the gesture.
Her eyes are placid but impenetrable. She says, "I'm sorry we didn't get more time to talk that night. I think Xeno could learn a lot from you, Commander. There's a couple of projects on the books right now that I'd love to have you consult on." She smiles, but her eyes dart, almost imperceptibly, towards Kirk. He doesn't notice.
Spock does. He also sees the brief flash of poorly-concealed consternation that ghosts across the Commodore's face as the Admiral's words register.
"Indeed," says Spock carefully. "I am at Starfleet's disposal."
"If you're busy…" says Kirk, quickly, and something shifts in Ciana's expression: a tiny note of understanding, as though he's answered a question that she hasn't asked. And then he visibly catches himself and schools his expression into complacency.
"Of course. The Torelius VII project," he says. "Although, perhaps Commander Spock's clearance level…"
"He has clearance," says Ciana mildly. Spock's eyebrow lifts of its own accord, but he can't deny it: he has access to Starfleet's central cortex. It's possible his clearance actually exceeds Kirk's at present. He opens his mouth to speak, and then thinks better of it: Ciana has probably drawn enough conclusions for one day, and he's not even sure what they are.
She smiles pleasantly. "I gotta get back to the office," she says. "Gentlemen. Enjoy your lunch."
"Ma'am," says Kirk, and pivots on his heel, turning to watch her leave as she gathers a PADD to her chest and steps smartly away from them. She crosses the floor at an efficient, confident clip, and disappears into the mouth of one of the network of corridors that feeds into the wide atrium.
Kirk releases a breath. He says, without looking around, "Let's eat."
-o-o-o-
Kirk has arranged for an aircar to take them into the city. "I prefer to avoid the Officer's Mess," he says, and the wry curl of his lips is explanation enough for Spock.
They walk in silence along the corridor that leads to the departure lot. Spock keeps his hands folded behind his back and Kirk, after a moment's hesitation, follows suit. On the edge of his eyeline, Spock sees his companion shoot a lightning glance in his direction as he clears his throat.
"So," says Kirk, with resolution. "How have you been?"
"I am well," says Spock, and wishes he could establish safe ground on which to elaborate on those three syllables.
Kirk nods. "Good," he says. Quiet footfall carries them forward another few paces. "Good."
"And you?" says Spock, and hopes that the desperate grappling for words is not evident in his tone.
"Hmm? Oh," says Kirk. "You know. Good. Fine." A beat. "You know."
No, in point of fact, Spock does not know, and he is positive that "fine" is not the word he would have chosen if he did. If there is a way to say this, however, without devolving them into a conversation that can only end in anger and recrimination, he has no idea what it might be.
They walk on.
-o-o-o-
Admiral Ciana has recommended a restaurant in The Embarcadero, on the waterfront, that serves a range of Federal cuisines. A Lieutenant in their section apparently speaks very highly of it, and he ought to know, Kirk assures him: he trained on Beta Aquillae and spent his first four years' service on Andor. The rear balcony is open onto the ocean, but the heat shields drain the bite and the energy from the salty breeze, and the sun, now that it is no longer required to compete with the winter air, is pleasantly warm on his face as they are shown to a secluded table in the corner. Gulls whirl and swoop across the channel, riding the thermals above Yerba Buena Island and plummeting into the silvery waters, crying their mournful song on the wind, but the restaurant itself is bathed in the tranquil hush of the hour before the lunchtime rush. Spock lowers himself into his bayside seat and and concentrates on re-establishing his controls as the waiter busies himself with pouring iced water from a condensation-frosted jug.
Kirk leans back in his chair and folds his hands on the table in front of him. His face is impassive, but he regards Spock with an unsettling gaze, and a kind of restive energy worries at the air around him, like a tightly-wound clockwork toy waiting to be set loose.
He says, "I was surprised to get your message."
Spock raises an eyebrow, though he was, in fact, surprised that he sent it. He says, "As I understand it, it is acceptable for former colleagues to communicate in this way."
Kirk purses his lips. "Communication tends to run a little longer than two lines, even between former colleagues," he says. And if there's a slight emphasis on colleagues, Spock chooses not to hear it.
There's no point in protesting that he's been raised to value efficiency over eloquence, or that a two-line communique between erstwhile co-workers, on his homeworld, might well read as quite the scandalous display of emotional excess. The fact is, he's not on his homeworld, and Kirk is not Vulcan. Spock knew that the note was unfit for purpose and he sent it anyway, for one very simple reason: he could not work out what else to write.
Commodore Kirk, greetings - I have received word of your promotion. I therefore request a meeting with you at your earliest convenience to offer my congratulations. Regards, Commander Spock, Starfleet Academy.
He does not need to conjure the shade of Amanda Grayson to shake a reproachful head at the stark, clinical words in order to understand that they're woefully inadequate. He's reasonably certain that his acceptance to the VSA was couched in warmer phraseology.
"Our respective positions have changed," he says. "I was uncertain of the protocol in addressing a personal message to a flag officer." It's not a complete lie. It occurred to him, in the same moment that he knew it would never occur to Kirk.
His companion huffs a humorless laugh that's transparently on the wrong side of bitter. "You haven't broken any rules, if that's what you're worried about," he says.
"It is not," says Spock. Across the table, an eyebrow quirks in manifest disbelief. Spock ignores it. "Nevertheless," he says mildly, "You were surprised?"
"I was," says Kirk. He sips from his glass. "The timing was a little… convenient." A beat. He looks up, meeting Spock's gaze from beneath hooded brows. "Did Bones put you up to it?"
The question is not unexpected, and Spock has spent some time considering his response. Lying is unlikely to be effective, given that Kirk is not stupid, but the unexpurgated truth is hardly appropriate either. So he says, "It is true that Doctor McCoy made the suggestion…" Kirk shakes his head with a smile that lacks even the most cursory trace of amusement. "However," adds Spock, "The decision was mine."
"I'd hardly call it a decision if it was coerced," says Kirk.
"I was not coerced."
"No?" Both eyebrows arc so high they're almost vertical. "Then why now?"
That's an excellent question. The truthful answer is that, before McCoy's visit, it was possible to willfully misunderstand everything he knew about his Captain and the likelihood of his ability to settle into this new life he's been handed. It was possible to refuse to examine too closely the heart of the man he knows as well as he knows himself, and to pretend that what he needs is the same as what Kirk needs; that the Captain will slide into his gilded cage with a philosophical smile and never glance back over his shoulder to the way things used to be. The Doctor exploded that comfortable mirage with a single, short sentence - Never known you to turn your back on him when he needed you, Spock - and the refuge was gone. All those questions that he hasn't asked have come back to mock him, because he understands now that the reason he hasn't asked them is because he already knew the answer.
But to acknowledge this is to confirm everything that Kirk has decided he knows, written fiercely into the rigid lines of anger and resentment that set his jaw and darken his eyes. Kirk has decided that Spock is here because McCoy has browbeaten him into a pity-visit, and that's one way of looking at it, certainly, but it's a distortion. He doesn't think the Commodore is in the mood for semantics, however.
So he says, "The Doctor's visit confirmed my resolve." It's nearly true. It unpicked his decision to stay away, but this was very much a decision and not a choice. "My communication with you was based both on his recommendation and my own inclination."
Kirk stares at him for a long moment. "I don't understand you, Spock," he says softly.
Spock raises an eyebrow, and says, as complaisantly as he can, "Then perhaps I might suggest that very little has changed."
There's a moment where it could go either way. Anger flashes behind Kirk's eyes and darkens his face and Spock steels himself for an explosion, but the truth is, he's not sure himself if his words were intended to provoke or to break the tension in the air. Then, abruptly, the taut lines of fury soften, and the Commodore lets loose a small laugh. It's hardly the poster-child for Human ebullience, but it's a real laugh at least.
He says, "Perhaps you're right."
It's possible that there's a war behind the words; that something has had to be leashed in order to allow them to be spoken. Spock's skills have improved, largely thanks to five years' experience of reading the colorful emotional nuances of the man across the table, but this is a whole new level of fluency. He says, carefully, "I am here of my own volition, Jim."
Kirk glances up, so abruptly that Spock believes he has inadvertently caused offense and scours his words for signs of double-meaning or transgression. But the Commodore smiles. It's slow, hesitant, and, though it meets his eyes, it doesn't quite warm them: an uncertain gesture with a wealth of injury behind it. But it's a smile.
Kirk meets and holds Spock's gaze, and he says, "So am I."
-o-o-o-
They talk pleasantly over an appetizer of Rigelian vil klor, carefully picking their way around conversational potholes while the barriers slowly recede. Spock outlines his dihydrogen experiments, and Kirk remembers their infancy on board the Enterprise in a series of abandoned, half-formed hypotheses that showed early promise and then failed to develop. Kirk talks about the newfound appreciation he's been forced to acquire for some of the more spectacularly incomprehensible mission objectives that found their way to his bridge from time to time; he spent seven hours in the Centroplex last week, he says, in meetings that redefined his understanding of the phrase circular logic. A little of the old fire creeps back into his eyes as he talks, and it takes Spock a moment to realize that it comes from the memory of stepping outside the atmosphere of his native planet.
"I don't hate it," he says as their main course arrives: vash g'ralth for Spock, klitanta s'mun for Kirk. If the Commodore's choice of a Vulcan meal is significant, neither of them has commented on it. "It's not what I would have chosen, but it's not so bad. I think I've even gotten used to hearing my name on the holos every five minutes. Although," he adds with a wry smile, "I won't be sorry when they lose interest."
A little over five months ago, Spock remembers hearing a rumor that Kirk was the favorite to be named as commander of the Archimedes on her launch. But the Archimedes set her first course heading for the Borgolis Nebula four weeks ago, under Captain Flaherty, and Kirk is crouched instead inside a husk of discontented frustration on the shores of San Francisco Bay. It has taken Spock some time to understand, and the knowledge was not precisely welcome when it arrived, but he thinks he can perceive the logic behind the decision: hero-worship and the cult of stardom have conspired to make Kirk too valuable a commodity to spend in the wastes of space. Starfleet needs him earthbound for now, until the novelty wears off.
He thinks he's beginning to understand McCoy's perpetual belligerence.
He says, "I have found the continued interest… unexpected."
A gentle laugh. "Have you? I wish I could say the same. Nogura's far too clever to let this go to waste."
"I cannot concur with his logic," says Spock.
The edges of Kirk's lips curl upwards, but the gesture could hardly be called a smile. He says, "I agree, but that's the circus for you. It worked for me, for a while, and now…" A deep breath, eyebrows arced in philosophical surrender. "Now I'm working for it."
Spock inclines his head. "It is in situations such as this," he says, "That I am reminded of the Terran cultural hegemony in matters of Starfleet Command."
Kirk grins. "Let's not start that again," he says.
"My point is simply that it is illogical to overlook merit and aptitude in favor of less pertinent considerations."
His friend glances down, worries with his fork at a cube of vish-hela. "I prefer not to dwell on it," he says.
"As you wish," says Spock.
"That's just it," says Kirk. The tone is pleasant, but there's an edge to it now. "It's not 'as I wish'. It's just the way things are."
That was really very much Spock's point, but there's a momentum building again across the table; he can feel it in the air, like the static build-up that precedes a lightning strike, and he decides to let it slide.
So he says, "That is my understanding of the situation."
Kirk rolls his eyes. "That's a politician's answer."
An eyebrow arcs. "You would prefer a different response?"
"Spock." It's a noise of exasperation, haphazardly shaped around his name. "Is it what I would have chosen? No. No, of course it's not." A beat. "It's not starship command," he says coldly. "But it's good work. It's good work, and I'm proud of it."
"Naturally," says Spock.
Kirk's eyes narrow. "What should I have done, Spock?" he says. "Resigned? Turned my back on the only career I've ever known - the only career I've ever wanted? Walked away from any chance of ever standing on that bridge again?"
No, McCoy was not wrong. Another crack worries its way across Spock's fragmenting shields; this is going to take hours of meditation tonight.
"Jim," he says, "I have made no such suggestion."
The anger breaks, like clouds chased by the wind, and it leaves the eyes exposed for one empty, desolate second. Then the shutters swing down and the moment is gone. Kirk shakes his head.
"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry."
"There is no offense where none is taken," says Spock, and a lopsided smile tugs on one side of his friend's mouth.
Kirk says, "A likely story, Commander, but I have five years' worth of evidence to the contrary to back me up."
"I find this improbable."
"I thought you might."
There is no answer to that, so Spock allows one eyebrow to register his disdain and twirls pickled mashya strips around his fork. Kirk grins into his glass as he lifts it to his lips, ice cubes chittering against each other on the agitated surface of the water. In the manufactured hush of the empty balcony, the sound is amplified; unnaturally loud.
"So, tell me, Mr Spock," says the Commodore cheerfully as he replaces the beaker, water glistening on his upper lip. "Are you really going to consult with Xeno on Torelius VII?"
"Should the order be given," says Spock. The eyebrow arcs again. "I would remind you, Jim: you are no longer the ranking officer in my immediate environment."
As conversational gambits go, this one is riskier than common sense dictates, and he can feel a corresponding tension in his shoulders while he waits for Kirk's reaction. There was a time when this kind of casual provocation would have been de rigueur, but the man in front of Spock is several shades removed from the captain he used to know; even the name has changed. Spock finds that he cannot confidently predict the likely response, and this is… disquieting.
But Kirk, after a moment's hesitation, offers a wry smile and drops his eyes to his plate as he spears a stalk of fori. "Touché," he says. It's possible that the air hums with dissipating tension; it's also possible that Spock is seeking evidence of something that isn't there. "I won't deny we could use your help. But I believe you'll find it quite pedestrian."
Spock considers the possibility of that descriptor applying to any assignment involving James T Kirk, and privately doubts it. But he says, "Every project encompasses elements of the banal."
"I wouldn't call any of our joint ventures 'banal'," says Kirk cheerfully.
"I do not believe," says Spock, "That you would have expressed similar sentiments at the time. As I recall…"
Kirk rolls his eyes, but they're dancing. "Not the Pompelius mission again."
"…On several occasions, you expressed your dissatisfaction in the strongest and most unambiguous terms…"
"You'll never let me forget this, will you?"
"…I believe 'stultifyingly dull' was your precise terminology."
"Every single readout in the vicinity indicated that the ionic wave would bypass the system! And it did. Six weeks in orbit around an uninhabited world, protecting a communications array that was in no danger in the first place…"
"I do not comment on the validity or otherwise of the mission," says Spock.
The corners of Kirk's mouth twitch. "No. Nor did you at the time, I recall."
"I was able to use the opportunity to take a number of intriguing gravitational measurements."
"As ever," says Kirk, "Our definitions of 'intriguing' do not concur. But then…" A beat. "You're better at this than I am, Spock. I think if they assigned you to a six-by-six metal box, you'd spend your time calculating the combined ionic charge of the oxygen molecules in the air."
His eyes drop, fixing on his plate, where his fork swirls abstract patterns in the forati sauce. Spock hesitates. He is not good at this.
Slowly, carefully, he says, "Such a project would be eminently unlikely to occupy the full eighteen months of our ground assignment, Jim."
A snort of laughter escapes the downturned face, and Kirk lifts his eyes to meet Spock's. "You'll have to forgive my remedial grasp of particle physics, my friend," he says.
"Naturally," says Spock, which earns him a full-blown grin. It flares brightly but quickly burns itself out, like a star in supernova.
"Eighteen months," says Kirk, and purses his lips in a moue. "It sounds longer every time I say it."
"This is not logi…"
"I know it's not logical. Allow me a little hyperbole for effect, will you?"
Spock inclines his head. "If I must."
Dryly: "You're too kind."
"Perhaps."
That trails a chuckle out of his companion, but it disperses quickly on the air and the momentary silence that follows in its wake is skittish, frayed around the edges, difficult to read. Kirk says, "I never gave much thought to this. Before. To… how it would be."
"I do not follow," says Spock, although he's fairly sure he does.
A brittle smile. "Earthbound. Grounded." He reaches for his glass, lifts it to his mouth, but before he sips he says, "You heard about Starbase 19?"
"I was asked to decipher part of the original message received by Luna Command," says Spock.
The grin returns abruptly, flushing momentary warmth into Kirk's eyes. "Of course you were," he says.
Spock acknowledges the gentle amusement with a patrician nod. "However," he says, "I have also been apprised of the situation in more general terms."
Kirk nods and the smile recedes, leaving him steel-eyed and serious. It's a gesture that Spock recognizes, this ability to switch from comrade to commander in a single breath. But for the fact that they are sitting in the early spring sunshine of a pleasant late-February morning, on the edge of San Francisco Bay with the Pacific stretched out and glistening at their feet and the keening of gulls piercing the sound dampening fields of the quiet restaurant, he might be staring down a red alert on the bridge of his ship. Turn your head one way, he's the same old Jim Kirk. Turn it another and he's… different.
Slowly, he says, "I never considered what it would be like to have to listen and do nothing." He looks up, and his eyes are locked down tight with that unflinching, dispassionate focus that has kept the Enterprise alive through more dangerous encounters than they had any right to survive. "But sitting at a desk, knowing that there's a situation, something to do - something that needs to be done, and I…" He trails off, frustration curling at the edges of his mouth. "You know what we'd have done, Spock. We'd have found some reason we ought to be the first responders, and they'd have let us, because they'd've known we were right. And it wouldn't have taken us seventy-two goddamn hours to get there."
There are many, many logical - and logistical - objections to everything Kirk has just said, but Spock says nothing. It seems to be the safest course of action.
"To watch and not act," says the Commodore now. "It goes against every instinct. Everything I've ever sworn to uphold."
The voice is soft but lifeless, as though a cold fury has raged and burned itself out and his words have been raked from the ashes. With rising alarm, Spock identifies contempt in the inanimate tone: disgust for the Captain-that-was who watches, impotently, from the sidelines. Carefully, he says, "Jim…"
But Kirk shakes his head. "I know, I know," he says. "It's hubris. It's arrogance to think that Enterprise is the only ship in the fleet; that's there's anything we could have done that the Concordat and the Alliance won't do. I know," he says again, but discontent hangs heavy in his face, dragging at the corners of his mouth and darkening his eyes. "I just… I feel useless, Spock. And it's making me jump at shadows."
A beat. Spock waits, but, no, apparently this is one of those moments in which disclosure can only be achieved with further prompting. So he says, "I do not follow."
Kirk circles his hands around his glass, tilting it towards him so that the water slices a diagonal line against the canted sides, ice cubes clinking a soft protest. "A theory I had," he says, eyes unfocused, cast towards the mobile surface of the liquid. "I think… I thought I saw a connection. I don't know. Maybe…" But the thought breaks off in a sharp intake of breath, and he amends it to another, quiet, "I don't know."
Reticence is, perhaps, understandable, but scarcely productive. Spock resists the urge to lament the Human propensity for equivocation, and instead says, as levelly as he can, "A theory concerning the attack on Starbase 19?"
Kirk purses his lips. "A theory concerning the com chatter received at Luna Command."
An eyebrow quirks. "The message was largely unintelligible."
"I know. I listened to it." The Commodore glances up, the ghost of a grin playing across his face. "No doubt we have you to thank for the bits that bear any kind of a passing resemblance to Standard."
Spock inclines his head. "They are few," he says.
"I dare say they'd be fewer still without you," says Kirk. "Still. What little information there is, it's almost impossible to interpret. Admiral Ciana thought they were talking about a series of attacks in the sector," he adds, and something about the casual tone with which he references his CO tightens the muscles across Spock's shoulders and sets his teeth. But Kirk has cast his eyes back into his water glass; he doesn't see the the sudden tension in his companion's posture, the constriction of his jaw, and Spock buries it before his friend can glance up. "It seems… plausible," he says. "And I thought, attacks - like the attack on Ajillon Prime, like the one on Archanis IV. What if they were a part of the series? What if that's what the Starbase was trying to communicate before they went dark?"
He meets Spock's gaze and holds it, and his expression is scrupulously impassive, ambivalence erased behind a veneer of composure. But there's something ever so slightly off-key about the air of scientific detachment, subtle but enough to advocate a closer look, to uncover the disquiet that peeks through the cracks. This is not idle speculation, but, rather, a confession of sorts, and Spock realizes that he has no idea how he ought to respond. It's not that the data does not support the extrapolation, it's only that it requires something of a semantic leap to arrive at Kirk's hypothesis.
"It seems…" he says, slowly, and he searches for the right word, but several seconds of scouring his brain's Standard databanks offers no better option than, "…tenuous."
Kirk watches him thoughtfully for a long moment, eyes hooded and inscrutable, and Spock finds it impossible to determine, from that blank, taciturn stare, whether or not he's made a tactical error. But then the Commodore huffs a quiet, rueful laugh and drops his gaze towards the table, where his hands worry at a stray thread on his napkin.
"Perhaps," he says. A beat. "No. You're right. I can't connect the attacks to each other, let alone to a Federation Starbase. There are similarities, but why wouldn't they be similar? Small, isolated communities in sparsely populated systems - of course they're vulnerable to attack. It proves nothing."
Kirk takes a deep breath and turns his head towards the water, staring absently over the gentle wash of white-tipped waves against the leviathan struts of the Bay Bridge. His lips tighten, but otherwise he holds himself so still that it's possible to see the gentle pulse of his carotid artery under the straining skin of his neck. Softly, with difficulty, he says, "There's a part of me wonders…" A sigh. He tries again: "I wonder if I simply wanted to see more than there is, and I don't… I don't like that idea, Spock." Black eyes slide sideways to fix on his First with a dark, unreadable stare. "It disturbs me."
Spock steeples his hands and considers the tips of his fingers as he constructs a reply. Distress radiates across the table, like heat from a dying sun, and it strikes him that the confession has been drawn out of his friend like poison from a wound.
Carefully, he says, "Jim. It has not been my experience that you are prone to fabrication, regardless of circumstance."
Across the table, rigid eyebrows gently slope. It's a tiny gesture, but Spock knows his friend well enough to read conflicted relief behind it.
Kirk says, "I'm not sure I know what to think anymore." A beat. "I feel as though both hands are tied behind my back and I'm peering out from a crack beneath the prison door."
"It is my understanding," says Spock, "that captivity is often a question of perspective."
A diffident grin. "Metaphor, Mr Spock? I believe you're picking up bad habits on your Terran assignment."
"Nevertheless," says Spock. "These are the circumstances in which we find ourselves."
"Kaiidth?" says Kirk, which causes Spock's eyebrow to quirk of its own accord. Laughter sputters out of the Commodore; it lances something malignant in the air. "One day," he says, "It will cease to surprise you when I remember my vocab."
"No doubt," says Spock. "Perhaps that will be the day that you remember the lateral approximant on the central dipthong."
"You know, you've mentioned approximants several times in our practice sessions, and I'm still not sure I know what it means." He holds up a hand as Spock takes a breath to speak. "Nor am I asking," he says amiably. "I feel sure that some things are better left unsaid."
Spock inclines his head. "Kaiidth," he says, although he's no longer certain they're talking about pronunciation, or even about Starfleet.
"Kaiidth," echoes Kirk quietly, and, in the depths of his eyes, something... fades.
A deep breath. Resolve drains the darkness from the Commodore's face and he says, "Well. I guess there's nothing to do but see what the Alliance and the Concordat report back. I've never been much good at waiting, though, if you recall."
That's not quite true: Spock has had several opportunities to observe the Captain engaged in an astonishingly disciplined game of political bluff-calling as circumstances dictate, but there's a subtle difference between biding time and idling. He says, "If I may?"
Eyebrows arch in mild surprise. "I doubt I'm going to like this."
Spock inclines his head non-committally. He says, "Whether or not there is a connection to be made between the attacks in the Ajillon and Archanis systems and the attack on Starbase 19, I cannot imagine any circumstances in which the Captain I have followed would be content to accept a judgment that did not accord with his own instinct." He looks up, fixing his eyes on Kirk's. "As your former First Officer, this remains my recommendation."
Kirk purses his lips. "That… wasn't quite what I was expecting."
"Nevertheless…"
"Nevertheless," says Kirk. "Circumstances are not quite what they were. I have no ship and no crew."
Spock resists the urge to roll his eyes and tries again. "The Captain of the Enterprise…" he says, but his companion cuts him off.
"There is no Captain of the Enterprise," says Kirk. The tone is gentle but inexorable. "There's no Enterprise at all just now, in fact."
Neither statement is available to challenge on any logical grounds. The Enterprise's commander is no longer of the rank of Captain; nor is the Enterprise currently, in any meaningful sense, the Enterprise. But the voice is strained, as though the lightness of tone is subject to the kind of tension that could put a dent in the hull of a starship. As though it's designed to mask the defeat that clouds a pair of hazel eyes that refuse to meet his companion's.
Spock revises his earlier estimate: hours of meditation will not suffice. He could spend all night cross-legged on the floor and have nothing to show for it tomorrow; this is going to take days to repair.
"I understand," he says slowly, "That the purpose of the refit is to prepare Enterprise for increasingly distant exploratory missions. When the modifications are complete, I believe you will find that your crew will serve below a Commodore as willingly as they served below a Captain."
Kirk smiles faintly, lets loose a soft laugh, but his gaze darts, unmistakably, to the new braids on his arm.
"We'll see," he says. He glances up before Spock can reply, and his eyes spark with a kind of determined gaiety that effectively closes off any further discussion of those two words. "And you?" he says lightly. "Perhaps you'll find this teaching assignment of yours a little too comfortable to tempt you back into the privations of deep space."
"The assignment is adequately stimulating," says Spock. And then, because the fact of the gentle provocation is a helpful sign, he quirks an eyebrow and adds, "However, I would hardly call it 'comfortable'."
Another laugh, stronger this time. "Perhaps not. But you can't tell me that the new sensor processing array isn't quite the incentive, Science Officer."
"It is impressive," says Spock. "Though scarcely comparable to the observational possibilities inherent in deep space."
"I think I'd rather conduct your stellar antimatter analysis from the safety of a Terran terminal screen," says Kirk, with the conviction of a man who has cause to know exactly why this state of affairs is preferable.
Spock acknowledges the truth of this with a sideways nod. It turns out that the data is more robust, in any case, when the sensors responsible for its collection are not in imminent danger of being sucked past an event horizon whose boundaries turned out to be slightly more difficult to predict than anyone expected. He says, "Not every natural phenomenon is suitable for observation in the field."
Kirk smiles, eyes dancing with memory. "We seemed to have a talent for finding the ones that weren't," he says.
"I believe," says Spock, "That Doctor McCoy would agree with this assessment."
Kirk laughs. "Bones…" he says, but the thought goes nowhere, trailing off into silence. His smile slowly fades, dissolving like paper in water, and he turns his head out towards the Bay. He says, "How far can you see with these sensors of yours?"
"Data feeds from every sector in the quadrant in which Starfleet is able to maintain a presence."
"It's not quite the same, though, is it?"
No, it is not. But it's possible that, once again, they're not talking about the same thing. Spock says, "Observation is rarely as satisfactory as participation."
A rapid sideways glance tells him that Kirk has read the other meaning in his words. But he twists another smile out of his recalcitrant lips and says, "Think you could smuggle a Commodore into the imaging suite some time?"
Spock inclines his head. "I am bound to uphold any direct order from a ranking officer."
"Perhaps you could explain that to Bones some time," says Kirk amiably. "I don't believe he ever got that memo."
This is unquestionably true, but Spock can't bring himself to find that worthy of reproach just now. He says, "No doubt it will be critical to some element of your work that you examine sensor data from systems under your consideration."
"No doubt," says Kirk.
"In such instance, I see no need to 'smuggle', Commodore."
Kirk's brow furrows at the mention of his title, but he covers it with a smile. "Excellent," he says. "Perhaps you'll be good enough to make some suggestions as to which areas of the quadrant I ought to look at."
"That will be at your discretion," says Spock.
The smile widens and reaches Kirk's eyes. He says, "Show me somewhere we've never been."
"As you wish," says Spock.
Kirk breathes deeply, like a man waking from a long sleep, and leans back in his chair. He lifts his glass, tilts it towards Spock. "Here's to making the best of things," he says. And then, softly, so quietly that a Human might strain to hear it, he adds, "Kaiidth."