The taxi leaves him at his quarters close to midnight on April 16th, travel-creased and heavy with the kind of honest fatigue that comes from a day's exertion. Given the choice, he thinks, he'd have stayed away another week, but Ciana's right: he doesn't want to quit, and that's what he'd be doing if he followed his instincts and left the Cochrane Day ceremony to other people, people for whom Starfleet isn't a mass of contradiction and compromise. So he's come home, though that's not the word he'd choose to use. Given the choice.
She commed him on the second day of his furlough, waking him from an uneasy sleep on the spring-spiked mattress of a motel-room bed somewhere in Louisiana. He's not entirely sure why he chose Louisiana; he's not even certain that he did, it's just where he found himself when the red mist receded and his brain abruptly plummeted into exhaustion so profound he could barely muster the energy to sign his name on the guest register.
Where are you? she wanted to know, without preamble. You didn't go home yesterday.
He didn't ask her how she knew, though a small part of him was glad that she did. He said, I'm not in San Francisco.
That much I gathered. A long, loaded pause. Are you coming back?
Hesitation. Do I have a reason?
You still have a job, if that's what you're asking. Goddamn it, Jim. That was some stupid shit you pulled yesterday.
He felt the fire rise in his chest, tightening his throat. I stand by everything I said.
I know you do, you stubborn son-of-a-bitch. And I also know you're not obtuse. I know you understand.
That's the problem: he does understand. He understands the need to weigh billions of Federal lives against the freedom of a planet that refused their allegiance, and he understands that there was only one possible decision. And he hates that he understands this.
Mostly, he's just glad the choice was never his. It's easier to let the flames of righteous indignation burn out all the trade-offs and the balancing acts in a combustive blaze of honorable fury. He's damn sure this is not what the Organians had in mind, but where the hell are they, now? How the hell is he supposed to live with this?
Nogura overruled Komack's strenuous objections, she explained; no-one will be seeking disciplinary action. Quite the contrary, she added, final words before signing off. I have a message from him sitting on my terminal right now. He says he was impressed with your passion. He says it's vindicated his decision to promote you.
Kirk supposes he's meant to be pleased, but all he can think about is how much power - real power, practical power - that promotion has stripped from him. He used to have the autonomy to act as he saw fit, within a strictly delineated set of guidelines that were flexible enough to allow for the realities of deep-space exploration. Now he has politics and a chain around his throat.
He slings his overnight bag onto the couch and crosses the dark room to his desk, where his terminal hums with leashed energy. For a week now, he's deliberately avoided any kind of technological interface, messages unread hovering like a dark cloud in the ether, daring him to ignore them. A swarm of unspoken words has haunted his every waking moment, walking beside him like a restless ghost, but he has turned his back on all the things that might be said and focused on slaking his impotent rage with the mundane; with relentless motion; with the pursuit of sights unseen; and, when all else fails, with bourbon. He pours a generous measure from Bones' birthday stash as he settles now in front of the screen, speaking a soft command to the waiting duotronic brain, which snaps to life in a flash of light and color.
"Display recent messages," says Kirk, and the machine obliges, conjuring up an inbox crammed with 478 unread communications screaming for attention. He scrolls without interest through Sanders' initial consternation that gradually segues into a kind of weary resignation; through a string of short, curt notes from Ciana that start with Goddamn it, Jim, what the hell was that? Are you out of your goddamn mind? and end, abruptly, two days ago with, As long as you're back for the ceremony, that's all I care about right now. Don't be an ass about this; through operational updates and marketing mail-shots; through a cheerful epistle from Bones that opens with, Hearing rumors about a good, old-fashioned set-to over in the Ivory Tower. Tell me they're true? And tell me what shade of purple old Komack's face went while you're at it… And, interspersed between them all, the name he's been pretending he doesn't want to see:
Commodore Kirk - I have been apprised in brief of the nature of your altercation with Admirals Komack, Bernstein and Nogura. I would be glad of the opportunity to discuss it further with you, should you so desire. Regards, CDR Spock.
Commodore Kirk - I note the unusual delay in your response, and assure you that I merely wish to ascertain your wellbeing. Regards, CDR Spock.
Commodore Kirk - I am unable to obtain details as to your whereabouts. I trust that you will apprise me of your situation as is appropriate and convenient to you. Regards, CDR Spock.
Jim - McCoy informs me that he has been likewise unable to establish contact with you. Your office has been unhelpful. This is now a source of some concern.
Jim - it is five days since my initial contact. I have yet to receive a response. Your earliest attention would be appreciated.
Jim - your communicator is inactive. I wish to determine that no accident has occurred to your person.
Jim - this is unprecedented and I find myself most anxious as to the nature of your prolonged lack of communication.
Jim - please respond. Spock.
-o-o-o-
The sun has not yet risen when his sleep cycle pronounces itself definitively over, and Spock finds himself crash-dumped into wakefulness with a sharp intake of breath and a sickening lurch of non-specific dread. He glances at the chronometer with aching, bleary eyes and finds that it is still fifteen minutes off 0500 hours, which makes it fewer than three hours since he finally fell asleep. He didn't meditate last night either; the trance would not come, no matter how he tried.
He rises, slowly, and makes his way into the small living quarters, where he attempts, once again, to realign his mental and physical energies with a series of Suus Mahna maneuvers, but the floor space is insufficient for the more complex forms, and prolonged physical exhaustion has begun to take its toll on his balance. So he finds himself lying, supine, on the unforgiving carpet tiles, staring up at a stain on his ceiling that he might be able to patch over, given a free hour and a little advice on Terran home maintenance, and trying, without success, to settle the creeping unease that twists in his stomach.
In a little under five hours' time, he will march onto the dais of the Grand Hall, where he last stood to receive his commission on the day of his graduation, and stand beside the man whose name hovers constantly on his lips, whose face is the last thing he sees before his infrequent periods of sleep, whose shadow is his constant companion. He will stand beside him and attempt to unlearn the lesson of the past ten days: that there is no escape from James Kirk. Absence makes it worse. To be without him is to cut away something vital, like an addict deprived of his drug. And it is eating the heart from Spock, minute by minute, hour by hour.
The message on his terminal is not precisely a surprise, though it is a relief. He finds it when his protesting bones and growling stomach eject him from the floor in search of food and comfort, and he carries a plate of kreyla to his desk, where he eats methodically and without interest as he scrolls through his new contacts.
Spock - am home. All is well, as far as possible. Thank you for your concern. See you at the ceremony, JTK.
It is bad enough that an emotional vacuum is tearing at his shields from the inside out; anger, on top of everything else, is unthinkable. So Spock simply closes the message, throws his scarcely eaten meal in the cycler, and retreats to his sleeping quarters to dress.
He is home. It is enough.
-o-o-o-
McCoy corners him almost immediately, as though he has been waiting by the door specifically to pounce as soon as Spock arrives. This may, in fact, not be wholly inaccurate. It certainly would not be outside of the Doctor's usual MO.
"My God, man!" he says, by way of an opening salutation, "You look like hell on a stick. What're they doin' to you over in that Academy?"
"I am well, Doctor," says Spock, more in hope than expectation. Even if this were not manifestly untrue, direct contradiction is largely ineffective on McCoy.
"'Well', huh?" he says irascibly. "I've a mind to call a mandatory medical on you, Commander, you don't start showin' a mite more flesh on them bones. You any idea how many Terran viruses show up undetected in the Vulcan system right up to the point where they've caused irreparable damage?"
Spock offers that comment the disdain it merits. "There are no viruses that cause the syndrome you describe, Doctor McCoy," he says.
"Yeah," says McCoy, and his eyes narrow. "Think your CO knows that?"
A jostle of bodies behind them puts paid to Spock's rejoinder, and McCoy breaks away for a moment to greet a couple of ensigns whose faces Spock remembers from gamma shift on the auxiliary bridge. Barton and Martinez, he recalls, although McCoy refers to the former as Benton. She says nothing, returning his easy charm with a smile that wavers for no more than a fraction of a second, until another influx of humanity obliges them to make space in the entryway, and they drift off towards the buffet table on the far side of the room.
"As I was sayin'," says the Doctor, turning back to Spock from a survey of the swelling crowd filtering into the wide, airy function room that has been co-opted into a kind of pre-ceremony holding pen, "I don't quite know what to make of this business with Jim."
Spock opens his mouth to protest that this is not what McCoy was saying, but catches himself in time. Instead, he says, "Nor I, Doctor, but this is hardly surprising. Contextual information has not been forthcoming."
McCoy rolls his eyes. "Why do I always feel like I need a damn dictionary to have a conversation with you, Spock?" he mutters. "Take it that means he ain't bin talkin' to you about it either?"
Unexpectedly, Spock finds himself bristling. No, Kirk has not been talking to him about it, but, for some reason, this information feels disproportionally personal. He says, "The subject has not been open for discussion," and hopes that McCoy does not feel the need to pursue his enquiry into the specifics of that conversational oversight: to whit, the disappearance of Commodore Kirk from the airwaves and Spock's life for over a week.
The Doctor treats Spock to an appraising look, but doesn't press the issue. "Yeah, you're good at that. The pair of you," he says. An extravagant sigh. "Guess that means I'll be bendin' his ear myself, assumin' I can get in spittin' distance of him, this damn fool shindig they got planned."
"That may not be wise…" says Spock carefully, but the wisdom or otherwise of McCoy's plan is abruptly prorogued by a significant bustle of activity on the other side of the oak-paneled doors to his left. The function room is off the main thoroughfare of the administrative building, but the corridor outside maintains a respectable flow of traffic; there is no reason for the sudden spike of adrenalin that catapults Spock's heart into a punishing rhythm against his flank, or the flood of certainty that fills his belly like ice water. But he knows, even before the doors slide open on a familiar figure in the green silk of command dress, before some joker in the audience - Lieutenant Wenger, he suspects - barks, "Captain on the bridge!" and the crowd dissolves into laughter and a trickling tidal wave of applause. He knows, even as the world seems to freeze for a moment and the room dissolves like a watercolor in the rain.
Kirk steps inside as far as the press of bodies will allow, smiling his easy smile, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, laughing, accepting the adulation of command with all the grace of a man who has never expected to be a hero. He seems casual, at his ease, as though this is a series of steps from an old dance that he's never fully left behind. Perhaps that's true, in some small way. It certainly ought to be.
"Same old Jim Kirk," says McCoy quietly, at Spock's shoulder. Spock can't tell if the remark is wistful, facetious, or ironic, or some combination of the three; it has never been possible, as far as he can tell, to determine Kirk's mood solely from his interaction with his crew. He has to be very certain of himself to allow the veneer to drop. Maybe that's what the Doctor means.
He moves through the crowd with a diplomat's elegance, and it's only because Spock is watching so closely that he can see the miniscule twist of his head, the hungry cant to his eyes as they scour the room. It's buried in cheerful politesse, genuine pleasure and camaraderie, but it's there: the restless anxiety of a fruitless search. His gaze sweeps the scattered crowds beneath the high, arched windows; the waiters bustling through the dress-uniformed masses with trays of fruit juice and hors d'oeuvres; the familiar faces and hands raised in greeting; while his body moves and circles in a slow pivot, arcing inexorably towards the place where his friends watch and wait to be seen.
Kirk's eyes find Spock's, lock and hold them. Everything stops. Kirk freezes mid-motion and his politician's smile wilts, draining his face of expression. It hovers in uncertainty for a moment, like a slate wiped clean, and then, slowly, like the sun breaking through distant storm clouds, the edges of his lips curl upwards, trailing that familiar, 100-watt glow behind them.
"Yup," says McCoy softly. "Same old Jim Kirk."
A brief comment to the Ensign at his side, excusing himself with words that make her grin and nod enthusiastically, and Kirk shoulders his way through the tide of bodies. "Bones!" he says cheerfully. And then, turning directly to face him with another flash of that smile: "Spock."
Spock nods. "Commodore."
"Well, if it ain't Starfleet's golden boy himself," says McCoy, with a grin that's designed to provoke a reaction.
"I believe they've rescinded that title," says Kirk smoothly, "Following recent events."
"Ha!" says McCoy cheerfully. "Not last I heard. What I wouldn't've given to be a fly on that wall, Jim. Damned unfair, you ask me, you disappearin' before any of us got to bask in the glory of a well-stuffed Admiral Komack."
Darkness ghosts Kirk's eyes, but he keeps his voice light. "Rumors of his demise have been greatly exaggerated, Bones," he says. "I believe he won the round on points."
"That ain't the story they're tellin' in the commissary, I can tell you that," says McCoy, waving over a waiter and lifting a couple of drinks from his tray. He passes them out, sniffing suspiciously at his own and wrinkling his nose. "Orange juice," he says. "Damned morning functions…"
Kirk grins, swallowing a mouthful and turning to Spock. "And how's your work going?" he asks innocently.
"Adequately," says Spock.
Eyebrows arch, but there's no hint of reproach behind the open expression. "I'm glad you were able to snatch a few hours away from the lab," says Kirk.
Spock would protest that the invitation to the ceremony came from Nogura's office, which is a state of affairs that renders the "invitation" part rather disingenuous. He might be on the verge of isolating the ancient alchemical formula for transmuting lead into gold and it would still be necessary for him to pack up his crucibles and present himself, dress-uniformed, in the Pacific View function room at 0945 hours to receive his mandated adulation. But there's a lightness to the words that feels like a tentative kind of truce; an appeal to an easier time.
So he says, instead, "The critical period has passed." It's a lie only inasmuch as it fails to define the the parameters of the phrase "critical period", or to specifically link it to his current project. "I anticipate fewer demands on my time in the coming weeks."
Brightness flares behind Kirk's eyes, colors his smile, warms the air around him. "Good," he says. "Then perhaps…"
But wherever that perhaps might lead, it's lost to the moment as a young Ensign clears his throat, nervously, at Kirk's shoulder and says, "Commodore Kirk? Commander Spock? They're ready for you, sirs."
McCoy snorts and rolls his eyes. "Believe you were sayin' something 'bout how you weren't anyone's golden boy these days?" he says.
-o-o-o-
They are led to a small Green Room to the right of the auditorium entrance, where a coterie of public relations officials are determined to shake as many hands as possible, while the rest of Kirk's senior officers are ushered onto the stage to a barrage of applause that is alarming even through the four solid walls that separate them from the melee. Spock keeps his hands folded firmly behind his back and offers his blankest and least approachable face, but it nevertheless requires a sharp reminder from his former CO on the niceties of Vulcan etiquette before the most persistent of their new-found entourage retracts the arm he has extended into Spock's personal space.
"Perhaps you might get us a couple of glasses of water," suggests Kirk with an affable smile and a tone that implies that it's not a request.
"Of course, sir," says the officer, who outranks Spock, but who appears to have forgotten this.
"Remind you of anything?" says Kirk under his breath as the young officer disappears in search of refreshments and another, older man, wearing admiral's stripes, breaks away from a conversation on the other side of the room to take his place.
"Indeed," says Spock quietly, who has been attempting, without success, not to engage with the similarities between their current situation and the press conference that marked the end of his former life. He nods to their approaching companion as Kirk plasters a smile across his face.
"We do seem to have a talent for attracting this kind of event lately," says the Commodore through his teeth, and then, more loudly, "Admiral Girvan. Is it time?"
"Not quite yet," says the Admiral with a genial grin. "We'll give them a moment or two to get their pictures and ask their questions. There's quite a crowd out there, you know."
"It certainly sounds that way," says Kirk, and Spock thinks that only a man who knew him very well would hear the hint of distaste behind the cheerful words.
Girvan fails to pick up on it, and looses an amiable chuckle. "You're quite the hero, Commodore Kirk," he says.
The diplomatic smile tightens, but only fractionally. "I've never seen it that way," says Kirk.
Another hearty laugh, and the Admiral reaches out a hand to clap Kirk on the shoulder. "Good thing for Starfleet that Admiral Nogura thinks differently, eh?" he says.
A flash of irritation clouds Kirk's face and he starts to say, "I wouldn't…" - shallow, warning quakes that herald the eruption of the frustrated fury that has bubbled beneath the surface now for months, and has lately begun to force open the stress fractures that cobweb his soul. Once upon a time, it would have been cause for a low, injunctive Jim…, and this would either bank the fires of righteous indignation or pour a quart of gasoline over the smoldering coals, as the situation demanded. Many things have changed, and Spock is no longer certain that his warning would be heeded, or welcome.
Fortunately, a chirp from Girvan's communicator interrupts the anger vortex before it really starts to spin. The Admiral holds up a finger to excuse himself and turns away, and Spock takes the opportunity to direct an eyebrow at his friend. It's a fairly bulletproof gesture, in that it can be semantically reconfigured according to the manner in which it is received, but Kirk twists his lips into a wry grin that tells Spock that the danger is over.
Temporarily. "Gentlemen," says Girvan, turning back into the conversation. "Would you follow me?"
Kirk is still looking at Spock as the words register, which is how Spock sees the flash of something like alarm behind his eyes, chased by resignation into a stoic smile. "Of course," he says smoothly, and then, under his breath, as Girvan leads the way, "Let's just get it over with."
-o-o-o-
It's a short walk from the Green Room to the auditorium, and, through the side entrance, which looks onto the dais, it's possible to see three rows of Spock's erstwhile colleagues, pressed and stiff on formal chairs behind a lectern, from which the head of Starfleet's PR department addresses a morass of bodies. The front seats of the auditorium are filled with the lower ranks - the Yeomen, the junior lieutenants, the enlisted crew - and Spock knows even without the sharp intake of breath from the man to his left that Kirk will bristle at this evidence of casual disregard. But as Admiral Chavez draws his opening salutations to a close, with a rousing, "And here they are - Starfleet's finest command team and the heroes of the hour: Commander Spock and Commodore James Kirk!" the stalls erupt in a cacophony of cheering, three hundred and fifty men and women clambering to their feet ahead of the wave of motion that ripples upwards along the tiers of the assembly. As one, the senior crew follow suit, chairs scraping across the hardwood floor as they scramble to honor their former commanders. Chavez steps back from the lectern with a beckoning wave towards the wings, and Girvan murmurs, unnecessarily, "That's your cue, gentlemen."
Kirk sucks in a breath, tilts his head towards Spock. "Ready for this?" he asks quietly.
"Insofar as it is possible to adequately prepare for a venture that is, by its nature, both illogical and unpredictable," says Spock.
"Neither am I," says Kirk, and steps onto the stage.
The auditorium explodes into whoops and hollers and flashing lights, a litany of bellowed questions, a hundred voices shouting their names. Nogura steps forward from his position on the far left of the podium, hands raised in elegant applause as he makes his way to the lectern, where two prominent seats are waiting, empty, for the Captain and First Officer of the Enterprise. They are flanked, Spock notes with distaste, by urns filled to bursting with Exterus Aurentiacofloris Enterprisii.
Kirk stops in front of them and offers a salute, which Spock mirrors and Nogura returns before gesturing to the seats and turning full face to the auditorium, which remains incandescent with adulation. As the Commodore lowers himself into the farther chair, Spock thinks he sees a tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the unfailing smile that seems to fray a little around the edges. But he sits easily enough, hands resting on his thighs, and he shoots a sideways glance at Spock that telegraphs a healthy appreciation of the ridiculousness of their situation. He cannot speak unobserved, but he nods: an eloquent, loaded gesture that communicates more than any censored sentence could say. Spock arches an eyebrow and turns back to the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," says Nogura with that quiet authority of his: confidence over volume, the simple assumption that, when he speaks, no one else will. That it has a 100% success rate goes some way towards explaining his lengthy tenure at the head of one of the most powerful organizations in the alpha quadrant. "Esteemed guests" - as the auditorium goes silent but for the sound of several hundred buttocks quietly striking their seats - "Welcome to our ceremony. Today, as we honor the memory of the man who has done more than any other to advance Humanity's quest beyond the boundaries of our own skies, our own sun and system, we also honor the officers and crew of our flagship - the jewel in Starfleet's crown - whose fearless pursuit of knowledge and harmony across the galaxy has brought our message of peace and friendship to countless worlds where the United Federation of Planets was never previously known. This Cochrane Day, we are gathered here to celebrate the unfailing dedication to duty, the selflessness and sacrifice, the heroism and the valor, of the USS Enterprise, and the courage of the men and women who serve aboard her."
A whoop from the gods, and applause breaks free again, scattered at first but rising rapidly into a deafening crescendo. Nogura folds his hands behind his back and watches with serenity, and Spock wonders if, in fact, the original shouter is a plant; it would be extremely unlike the Admiral to be taken by surprise. Nogura allows it to rage unchecked for a moment, then raises a slender hand in an economic gesture that has the effect of dropping a silencing cloak on the crowd. To Spock's left, Kirk's lips purse around a censored smile.
"Five years ago," continues the Admiral, "The Enterprise set her first course heading from Earth under the command of the youngest starship captain in Starfleet history. This man of extraordinary gifts had proved his talent and his devotion to duty as an Ensign aboard the USS Republic, and as Tactical Officer, and later First Officer, on the USS Farragut. He is a man of compassion and tolerance, whose diplomatic skills are informed by a thirst for knowledge and an acceptance, not only of the differences that separate us, but of the differences that bring us closer together. He is a man of great vision, and he is also that rarest of our number: a man for whom other men will lay down their lives in the service of a greater cause. As we celebrate the triumph that is the successful conclusion of this historic mission of discovery, we remember each man and woman who offered the greatest sacrifice that their service can ask, and who gave their lives in the pursuit of knowledge. We feel each loss as a wound to the heart of Starfleet. Commodore Kirk feels each loss as a wound to his commander's soul, and it is this, as much as his comprehensive intellect, his gift for making difficult decisions, his instinct and intuition, and his honorable nature, that makes him the truly great leader that he is. And it is for this reason that it gives me such great and abiding pleasure to announce that it is the decision of Starfleet Command to promote him to the rank of Admiral, in order that his remarkable talents be allowed to find their fullest use.
"Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests: I give you Admiral James Kirk!"
A wall of ecstatic noise explodes upwards from the seated congregation; bodies scrambling from their seats, feet thumping the floor, hands pounding against hands. As the tidal wave of exaltation swamps the cavernous space, Spock turns slowly, in mounting horror, to see the blood drain from Kirk's face, eyes widening in distress, smile frozen in place as he finds his feet on legs that barely tremble. What instinct guides him across the stage to Nogura, what propels his hand forward to grip the Admiral's, Spock cannot tell; his face is correct, his movements are correct, and yet he looks like a man approaching his own gallows. Spock folds his left hand over his right to hide the convulsive curl of his fingernails into his palm; it is the only thing that grounds him right now in a world that is falling apart.
As he turns to face the hollering, baying crowd, Kirk folds his hands behind his back, one over the other, and Spock sees that the gesture is a mirror of his own, knuckles white as fingernails gouge hidden crescents into the pink flesh. He sees this, and he understands what it costs his friend to accept this with the appearance of equanimity. Because the hazy, unplotted future has just been forced into sharp focus, and it turns out that he was right all along.
There will be no more command for James Kirk. There will be no jubilant return to the bridge that he mourns like the loss of a limb. There will be no telling half-smile playing at the corner of his lips as he gives the command that sends his ship back out into the black unknown. There will be no quiet moments in the command chair, when he believes he is unobserved and his fingers trace the arm rest with the care and devotion of a lover. There will be no more long and indolent afternoons, deep in Federation space, to glance back from the science console in response to some ancient instinct and meet a gentle, hazel gaze in eyes that crease into a smile as they meet his friend's. There will be no more chess and arguments; no more constant gnawing anxiety as they walk together, side-by-side, on an unexplored world; no more gentle provocation or casual appropriation of skin and personal space.
There is one place in all the galaxy in which the worlds of James Kirk and Spock of Vulcan collide, and it has just been closed to them forever. And there is nothing either of them can do.
Kirk mouths some appropriate platitudes and an observer might never guess that he is breaking beneath his careful facade, but what can he do? Nogura knows his man very well. He knows that Kirk will not refuse this in front of his crew, his peers, the eyes of the Federation. He knows that Kirk does not want this, and he knows that he has him cornered. And so Spock stands with the rest of them, rising to his feet even as a sick emptiness eats away at his stomach. He stands and salutes his friend, and he understands that this is the end.
-o-o-o-
"Goddamn it, Bones, now is not the time," snaps Kirk as he strides offstage, passing through the surge of well-wishers like a hot knife through butter. To a passing Lieutenant, as McCoy attaches himself to his friend's wake: "Where is Admiral Ciana? I need to speak with her immediately."
Corgan takes one look at his former CO's face and his congratulations visibly wilt on his lips. "I believe I saw her making her way towards the west exit, sir," he says.
"Thank you," says Kirk, and sets off at a Vulcan pace, clearing the crowded corridor like a shark might carve a path through a shoal of mackerel. "There's no need for either of you to accompany me," he adds over his shoulder, which, predictably, causes McCoy to crook an eyebrow and increase his pace.
"Jim," he says. "I got your psych evals; I'll protest this at the highest level…"
"Goddamn it, Bones!" Kirk barks. "Not now!"
"They can't just spring it on you like this," says McCoy, who has never been particularly amenable to Kirk's emotional fluctuations. "Damn it, Jim, Nogura's wily as all hell, sure, but it flies in the face of…"
"Admiral Ciana!" snaps Kirk, loud enough to be considered, in some circles, a shout. McCoy, cut off mid-sentence, winces at the tone.
Ciana is a little way along the corridor, heading in the direction of 'Fleet HQ, but she stops at the sound of her name, turning over her shoulder with a look that is seven parts questioning to three parts utterly unimpressed.
"Jim, take it easy…" says McCoy quietly, but Kirk ignores him, picking up speed to reach his CO, who has squared her shoulders and folded her hands behind her back in an unmistakably defensive gesture.
"Commodore Kirk," she says, and Spock finds himself reeling with gratitude that she has thought through the ramifications of using his new title.
Kirk pulls to a halt in front of her, not close enough to invade her personal space - he's not that far gone at least - but close enough to telegraph his hostility. "Did you know about this?" he demands. He's so angry he sounds almost calm. But she's far too smart to mistake the icy fury in his eyes.
"What do you want me to say, Kirk?" she says coldly. "I had an idea. You want me to tell you every time I have an idea? I guessed he might pull something like this. I make a lot of guesses. Not all of them are right."
Kirk's bitter laughter sours the air. "I'll take your 'guesses' over a month's research from other members of this organization," he says, and Spock suspects, from the way she flinches, that this is a calculated barb, designed to wound. "You knew this was coming, Ma'am; you knew it and you threw me to the wolves…"
"Jim!" barks McCoy in rising alarm as the volume of Kirk's voice approaches dangerous territory. "Take it easy. This is not the place…"
"Goddamn it, Bones!" shouts Kirk, pivoting on his heel. "You know what this means! You were just witness to professional blackmail at the highest level, and Admiral Ciana is complicit in…"
"Jim!" snaps the Doctor. "That's enough!"
"Commodore," says Spock quietly. "McCoy is correct." A beat, while hazel eyes sweep sideways to fix him with a look that is almost entirely affronted betrayal. "Come away, sir."
Kirk's eyebrows gently arc as the fury leaves his face. He stares at Spock. "You know what this means," he says in a low voice.
"Yes," says Spock. He hesitates, hollowed out, empty, adrift. "Come away, sir," he says again.
"Jim…" says McCoy softly, but he might as well be talking to the air.
Kirk does not hear him. Instead, he pivots on his heel and strides off along the corridor, spine straight, shoulders back, and the only sound is the clip of his feet against the tiled floor.
"Commander Spock," says Ciana quietly. "Go after him." A beat. "Now, Commander. That's an order."