In Which Jim Laughs (and Spock Uses the Words 'I am afraid')

It was the first time – since, well, that first time – that he had seen Spock and Uhura interact in a way that could, by any stretch of the imagination, be realistically interpreted by an impartial observer as more than the average pleasant business-like relations between any two colleagues working together in such close proximity as these two did on a continual basis.

Oh, he knew – They all did, really, that tight-knit handful that worked with the two of them day-by-day.

But - even to someone hoping to prove it - standing close to one another, and exchanging the occasional glance - falling silent, maybe, when anyone came too close – would, in human terms, hardly be credited as unequivocal evidence of a real friendship, much less a torrid romance. Nor, for that matter, would visiting the other's bedside in Sickbay, if that had even been noticed: Jim had done it himself, plenty of times, for injured crewmen beyond number - and none of those were more than good friends.

No. They were professional, and discreet.

Substantive proof had been scant to the point of non-existence.

Now, here, in Spock's quarters, it was plain (even from the exchange he had witnessed) that their relationship – whatever it was – was deep, and still going strong.

Jim could no longer deny that fact.

Inwardly, he sighed. It might not have been public, really, but that display was a definite demonstration of - well, if not actual affection, then something close…

And Spock's eyebrow admitted as much.

Jim wasn't sure what he should say.

And, standing there, Jim didn't know what he should do, either.

Unfortunately, as seemed to happen whenever he was alone in Mr. Spock's company - without specific work to be done - his brain started giving him all sorts of conflicting suggestions. He discarded every idea of what to say, but his brain kept talking: He had been invited to sit, and part of it thought they would both be more comfortable if he sat at the desk with that official-appearing surface between them, while another thought that the couch would set a more relaxed tone. Then the first part snorted at that, and asked why he thought that the Commander would be relaxed, at all, ever - and was he out of his head, or what?

Meanwhile, Spock was waiting patiently.

Vulcan circumspection was a powerful thing – Just one more in a long list that Kirk simply didn't understand.

When another full minute passed and Jim still had neither spoken, nor chosen a place to sit, Spock suddenly spoke. He spoke quietly, calmly, but his voice seemed harsh as it abruptly broke the stillness: "Every seventh year of his adult life, a Vulcan male will temporarily go mad."

Jim gaped at him helplessly, not certain he could trust his ears – and when Spock moved toward the couch, and indicated a spot for Kirk to be seated, he complied without thinking.

Spock sat in the antique wooden chair. It seemed made to hold him.

Jim swallowed, and managed to speak. "Excuse me?"

Spock nodded. "Certainly," he said, evenly, although any human would have known to ignore the stop-gap question - and this therefore seemed somehow like deliberate Vulcan obtuseness.

Then, after a pause: "Every seventh year of his adult life, a Vulcan male will temporarily go mad." He lifted his elbows onto the arms of the chair, and interlinked his fingertips. "It is called Pon Farr, 'the Time of Mating'."

Jim wasn't feeling any less startled, and though he had been wondering only a couple of hours ago how he could possibly ask Spock about this very thing (apparently), he really was not prepared, at all, to actually hear about it. "Uh, Spock, no offense, but I thought you were going to tell me about Vulcan colonization methods."

"None taken," the Vulcan answered, levelly.

He glanced at his Captain's face – then his gaze became searching, lingering long enough to thoroughly examine Kirk's expression. His tone, when he spoke again, was gentle. "I assure you that this is pertinent," he said, "I certainly have no desire to mention it to you otherwise – It is a subject we do not discuss, even among ourselves."

"Oh! So you guys don't talk about sex!" And that felt like a victory - though it was, of course what they had all figured, all along.

It was Spock's turn to stare, though he was too well-trained to do it blatantly. "I beg your pardon?"

But when Jim gathered himself to repeat what he had said (with a little less ebullience this time), Spock deliberately stopped him. "You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension," he stated – and Jim saw a miniscule spark of amusement flare and die in dark Vulcan eyes. His voice was cool, then. "It is not sexuality which is distasteful to us, Captain. It is the madness: The emotionalism, the lack of control - the loss of logic."

"Oh, my God, Spock, you're not serious!"

Jim looked at his First Officer, who looked back at him with a very blank Vulcan face.

"You are!"

And, gaping at that somber visage - intimidating intelligence and strength of character written in its every line - Jim began to laugh.

He tried to stop laughing. He really did. But then he looked again at Spock, who was beginning to show the slightest signs of discomfort. And even as Jim started laughing again, Spock uttered fatal words: "I fail to see the humor in this situation."

The situation – and Jim's increasingly breathless hilarity - was not made any better by the words that followed: "This is a subject we take quite seriously."

By now Jim was howling, tears streaming down his cheeks. He had fallen over on the couch, helpless. Unfortunately, this meant that he had a very clear view of Spock's non-expression. He threw one arm hurriedly over his eyes to blot out that vision. Oh God. Oh, my God, he really needed to get a grip before Spock got irritated – but then he thought of Spock calmly reaching over to nerve pinch him or something, and he couldn't breathe for the renewed laughter that accompanied that mental image.

Spock stood and moved away, and Jim was so busy trying to catch his breath that he couldn't even wonder where the other had gone.

After another minute, Jim heard a very faint clink over in the alcove; and he supposed that, if he didn't get nerve-pinched first, or tossed out on his ear, he just might get that cup of tea after all.

Okay, okay, okay… Air in; air out.

Who knew somebody so inherently formidable would actually prove to be sort of a decent guy? Jim figured that anybody who laughed at him like that (especially in the middle of an equivalently uncomfortable disclosure) would have had his lights go out mid-guffaw…

When Spock came back, a prone Kirk had reestablished some semblance of control. Spock was eying him a little doubtfully.

Jim looked up at the Vulcan and grinned. "Seriously, Spock: You are awesome. I mean it: Swear to God."

Solemnly, Spock reached out one hand. When Jim took it, the other pulled him effortlessly back up to a sitting position. "Thanks," Jim said, "I haven't laughed that hard in – oh, I don't know – forever. Give me a second: I think I got a stitch in my side."

Spock just nodded. He moved to sit very gravely in his carved chair.

Looking at him, Jim received a small jolt. A few days ago, he would have assumed that the Vulcan was pissed off. But he wasn't. Not at all. He was just… contained.

And, oddly, Jim had the impression that Spock didn't really mind the laughter. Maybe he just accepted that as part of what Jim needed, in the moment?

Vulcans were seriously bizarre. But Jim kinda liked them – or this one, anyway.

Since Spock was still here, going with it, Jim decided he might as well, too. "This 'madness' – You experience it every seven years, then?"

"In theory."

Silence, again.

Spock stood and moved toward the alcove. When he came back, he was carrying a small tray with a teapot, and a couple of delicate china cups on saucers. He placed the tray next to Jim on the table, and indicated the pot. "It will need to steep for three minutes," he said, in what amounted to a rare digression.

He sat, again, in the chair, and was silent for several seconds. When he spoke, it was obvious he was addressing Jim's last question. "I do not see that my personal experience is relevant to this discussion, Captain: I am not, currently, a Vulcan colonist."

The conversation went from humorously theoretical to painfully concrete, just like that.

All of a sudden, Jim better understood Spock's hesitation on the Bridge. For him, this was not just a history or culture lesson, or even an explanation of the personal significance of an unpleasant encounter – It was a question of the survival of a proud species.

Jim's heart hurt for him.

"Agreed."

But - although he hadn't actually meant 'you' as in 'you, personally, Spock' - he shouldn't let it go completely, should he?

No. Better to leave an opening: "But you are a Vulcan male. I suspect that that is a conversation that we should have sometime, all things considered – Don't you?"

"Perhaps."

It was as much of an admission as he was going to get, that much was plain. He was not going to push it, and run the risk of Spock shutting down completely. The man could be seriously stubborn. Jim nodded his acceptance of that reluctant acknowledgement.

"Okay, then." He glanced over at Spock, who was looking fixedly across the room. "So, uhm… Vulcan males experience this madness every seven years of their adult life?"

Spock's eyes shifted toward him just for a second. Apparently Jim's seriousness was satisfactory, because Spock spoke: "A temporary madness, only." His elbows were back up on the arms of the chair. "It is alleviated by the act of mating, or by death."

Jim knew he couldn't say any of the things that sprang immediately to mind. He double-checked, just in case.

Nope.

He reached back to yesterday's conversation, to find something appropriate to say. "But you – Vulcans – are paired off as children, so that's okay, right? I mean, you can go along, knowing that it's going to be fine…"

"That is the purpose of the childhood bond, yes." Spock seemed relieved as the discussion turned from the potentially personal to the clearly hypothetical. "However, difficulties remain. Unless the pair are raised in close proximity, the two can be virtual strangers, even at the onset of the Time."

Jim's vague queasiness was back. It was not improved by Spock's next matter-of-fact observation. "You will imagine that this could increase the likelihood of serious injury."

Jim drew breath to comment – protest – but Spock forestalled him. "Thus, you will see, there are – were - implications for off-world travel. Even during the height of the Vulcan exploratory and colonization period, only a successfully mated pair could be sent into Space for a period of time greater than six years. Further, in such cases, specific medical arrangements would be required for injuries likely to be incurred, as well as provisions for the delivery and care of any resultant offspring."

In the ensuing silence, Spock sat for some time, unmoving; then stood, and paced his familiar three steps away.

He stood motionless then turned with an unreadable face. "I am afraid I am explaining this badly," he said.