Siege Weaponry

Spock was not waiting outside the door for him to emerge, as Kirk had half-expected. There was no need to steel himself immediately against that penetrating, unreadable, laser-like gaze. He breathed another tiny sigh at the respite that that bought him – and wondered what he had really expected.

It was dawning on him that Spock's distance was deliberate.

Huh.

Maybe this was just another aspect of Vulcan protectiveness.

If the truth were told, Jim was forced to admit, Spock was more understanding than he generally allowed the others to believe. And, here, especially, he allowed his Captain a certain added measure of grace.

Well. It would be their secret.

Wincing a little, Kirk closed his eyes against the room's dimness after the comparative brilliance and near-surgical sterility of Spock's painfully gleaming bathroom - and he breathed in the subdued spicy scent that seemed almost familiar, now - even comforting.

Odd, to feel at home here.

Before opening his eyes, he permitted himself one last pensive reflection: Would it be like this, now? Was the empathy he felt so unexpectedly for Spock a variation of that 'common adversity' that bound together, so tightly, the members of his crew?

(Time would tell, he wryly concluded – assuming, of course, they were given enough of it.)

He opened his eyes.

Spock was not waiting.

Well, perhaps he was, but he was not looming outside the bathroom door.

He was seated in his carved wooden chair, apparently deep in thought - his dark head bent. He looked up as Jim moved toward him, then slowly rose to his feet. He didn't say anything – Jim had expected, maybe, some cool clinical observation on the weaknesses of human anatomy – and his eyes were gentle, as they rested on his Captain's face.

Jim gave the other a wan smile before he walked over, plopped himself onto the couch, and let out a heartfelt sigh.

His mind didn't dwell long on the thought, but it did allow the drifting idea that no topic was truly safe now: Nothing would be the same. He would be aware, always, of layers beneath what Spock said…

Still Spock said nothing. He sank back into his own chair, and Jim thought maybe he was deliberating – but there was none of the intent purposeful gravity about him that, as a rule, made his very presence so compelling. The Vulcan fires were damped.

Jim considered apologizing, or something; but, instead, he sighed again.

Spock's eyes slid to him, just for an instant. Then he turned toward the tea tray. Leaning a little, and reaching out a long, lean, blue-clad arm, he poured tea into one of the waiting cups. He lifted it, and moved it toward Jim, just by the smallest amount. It was an offer; Jim realized the Vulcan was being very careful to not infringe upon the Captain's personal space. Jim raised his eyes to Spock's, a little surprised; the other's did not waver. Still, they were quiet, non-invasive – peaceful. The proffered teacup moved another centimeter toward him, two, then halted; and Spock's voice said softly, evenly, "This should help."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Kirk took the cup; and, balancing the saucer on his palm, raised the delicate porcelain teacup to his lips. He took a little sip of the pale green-flecked liquid, breathing in the fragrant steam. It was different that what Spock had given him before, but just as good. It was warm, strong - soothing. The flavor was a bit complex: Spicy, not unduly so; almost muted – Analyzing it was a tiny distraction all its own.

He nodded his appreciation, and took another sip.

Jim leaned back into the couch, watching as Spock poured a cup for himself, and lifted it.

Ah, there it was again: His black lashes dropped to his cheeks for a second, as his eyes closed. The Vulcan took a single, small, deliberate sip.

"Does it help?" Jim hadn't meant to say the words out loud. They just slipped out, as he gazed at his First Officer's face.

Those pale eyelids opened, and Spock turned his head to glance at Jim. He blinked, and looked away. "Sometimes," he said. Then he slowly, slowly, took another taste.

There was a tiny silence. Then he carefully put the cup-and-saucer down. He looked over, and met Jim's eyes. "Yes," he said, gently, "Sometimes it helps."

Jim nodded. He raised his own cup, and took a sip. Then, after a moment, another. He let his eyes drift around Spock's serene, shadowed quarters, then, eventually, back to Spock's perfectly composed face.

He took another careful sip of tea.

Jim Kirk drank tea, and gazed at his Vulcan First Officer. He found himself searching that steadfast face for clues to the other's thoughts.

Spock said nothing. He had collected his cup, again; now he calmly sipped his tea, looking down to where the cup rested on its saucer, in between sips.

He had to know Jim was watching him, the latter thought, but he was not protesting, nor objecting – he was simply accepting. Observing him, Jim's mind leapt for another metaphor, this time landing squarely on the mark: Spock had retreated, again, behind the self-possessed walls of Vulcan fortitude; but had left the door open - just enough for Jim to slip through - if the human were willing to enterprise.

Jim knew himself too weak to venture and follow that lead: He was a guerilla fighter, expert in surprise attacks - not a defender with chivalrous emprise, a noble keeper of guarded positions, a knightly protector donning cool impenetrable armor…

He sighed an abrupt, gusty sigh.

Metaphors were so not his strong suit.

Spock's eyelids lifted; temperate brown eyes flicked to Jim's face, and restfully held there for a moment or two. It seemed even the other's curiosity was at bay.

Jim wondered whether Spock felt better for having told him… what he had told him. He doubted whether the Vulcan had ever had occasion to express such observations, before.

Surely Uhura had understood, long since, what Spock was experiencing – suffering – but she had faithfully shielded him, honoring his constant desire for privacy, and never giving any indication of anything more - except, perhaps, reflexively, to deflect pointed comments, or questions that seemed too penetrating.

And such attacks, Jim knew, were frequent. Too frequent. They had all thought - at one time, or another - that Spock's ramparts were impregnable to even the most sustained siege, and they had hurled comments and insults (though often joking ones) at will, merely for the sake of amusement or bile.

Questions, too. And those were worse, Jim thought, because no Vulcan answer could satisfy, and any response at all would renew the assault.

But, even now Spock could take refuge behind fortifications of his own making: It may be clear to Jim, at last, that Spock had suffered - was in pain, suffering yet; but throughout their entire conversation, until the very last admission, the other had merely stated facts -with very little imbuement of personal opinion, or implied judgment.

A thousand worlds away, Jim heard, again, his own voice echoing in an ice cave: Impulsive words gasped out within the hearing of that other Spock, alone. "So you do feel."

And the other had simply answered, "Yes."

Until that moment – until those words were out – he hadn't really known. He had gone into battle with the Spock sitting here beside him, and not known whether there was anything sheltered within that cool armoured shell – any life – any soul – anything worth protecting, at all.

Now, just for the space of a heartbeat, he wished he still didn't know.