No sooner had the admiral turned his back did Spock storm down the hall the opposite way, with McCoy firmly in his grip, of course. It was painful, but McCoy knew better than to make a peep right now. He didn't even lag behind on purpose, but all those wounds (even healed, they would still ache for a while as his body recovered) and the shock of the agonizer left him slow and clumsy. Spock suffered him in silence as well, only focused, it seemed, on going right back to his quarters at superhuman speed.

They got in the turbo-lift, and after a moment, Spock forced it to halt. McCoy stared at Spock when he faced him, not allowing himself to look away, as much as he wanted to. He was afraid of what might happen to him now, but he'd be damned if he couldn't hold onto some shred of dignity. What else, really, did he have to lose? If he could only learn to not fear pain…

"You shall not accompany me tonight," Spock said coldly. "Perhaps when I'm finished with the admiral, I'll send for you."

"I'm guessing I'll be spending the night in Sickbay?" McCoy asked with as much of a snarl as he dared. His general attitude was one of restrained contempt.

"No. You shall wait for me in your quarters."

"How magnanimous of you," McCoy said, gazing ahead. It was weariness, not so much fear, that took fight out of him. The idea of crashing, even for just an hour or so, in his own bed (his alternate's anyway) sounded heavenly right now. Any chance to be alone he'd gladly take.

So he answered back, "Aye, Sir," with a trace of surliness he just couldn't repress.

Spock resumed the turbo-lift, and when it reached their deck, Spock took the lead out. He did not pull McCoy along or even glance back to see if he were following; McCoy trotted to keep up, exhausted but energized by the promise of some time alone.

At McCoy's cabin, Spock put his fingers to the door's control panel, making sure McCoy was looking as he punched in a code. The door opened and they entered.

"How many others have that code?" McCoy asked grimly. Spock had gone straight for the cabinets, and was now laying out everything McCoy would need when he awoke.

"Only you and I," Spock said, coming over to him. "This is one right afforded to you that even the Captain must respect: a chance at privacy. When you have time, of course."

"You could come in whenever you wanted," McCoy said bitterly.

"As you will learn, Leonard, I respect the need for privacy and solitude. I would not violate that lightly."

"Sure," McCoy muttered. He slipped over to his bed, relaxing immediately as the pillow melted beneath his face. He sighed, "How long do I get?"

"I'll give you time," Spock answered, with dismissive curtness. He left quickly, but it took a long time for McCoy to relax just enough to slip out of bed. It was done with extreme reluctance, but motivated by the need to examine his new environment. Just a brief check would make him feel somewhat better.

There was nothing of his own quarters here, but he wasn't surprised. Just as it didn't surprise him to find a couple phasers and what looked to be a ludicrous number of agonizers in a drawer, all of it covered with a layer of skivvies, the rest of the drawers used for clothes. /Well, if I had a secret arsenal…/

He felt alienated in there, and would have given up his inspection entirely, if he had not spotted the medkit under the bed. He knelt to retrieve it, having to brush objects aside with his arm. It was too dark to see what they were, and he didn't want to know. Soon he had the box, and sat on his bed to look inside.

There were the standard items, sterilizers, synthetics, basic drugs. But much of the space meant for standards were used by drugs unfamiliar to him. There was one drug, however, that he did recognize, and took from the kit to inspect. It was Tetraphloronsene, a pain killer for Vulcaniods that caused cardiac arrest in humanoids. McCoy had heard about it through journals only, but he felt he could believe their warnings of "sudden death."

Hence why he was still holding the loaded hypo gently, gazing at it. He had begun this nightmare believing his Spock would outsmart the damn universe itself to bring him back. Any kind of sign would be enough; just to know he was not truly severed from his world and his life. Abandoned.

By now that hope had dwindled. It had been…four days? Five? He didn't bother trying to remember exactly, it was still far too long for Spock's standards. Every moment he was still here, still cut off from his friends, McCoy lost hope. But he had still to decide how much longer he would hold out, just in case.

More than anything, he feared that Spock would come, but too late.

/

Candles supplemented the dimmed overhead lights, and their soft fragrance spiced the warm air. The table was bare, awaiting whatever his guest chose to replicate for them, as it was custom on Vulcan for the guest to prepare the meal for their host. He did at least have a bottle of watered down Romulan ale and two glasses set out. Beyond that, Spock did little to prepare for his dinner date. He didn't add anything to his normal duty uniform, and felt that what little he had done was far too much.

But as willing as he was to take the admiral's fury, he knew that openly disrespecting Dorek would reflect badly on the captain. Spock was not willing to tempt such a risk.

The door buzzer was activated; Spock let Dorek in, taking a step back as he strode inside. The admiral was twenty minutes early, Spock noticed with irritation. Anything to try to take Spock off guard.

He seemed to notice the empty spaces by the chairs. Spock wondered if Dorek would have to be reminded of what "Vulcan hospitality" actually meant, and a was a little disappointed when it seemed the Romulan remembered his role without having to be prompted. Pleasantly, Dorek went straight to the replicator and ordered two plates of jumbo Romulan mollusk. Spock followed the admiral back to the table, where Dorek arranged their plates with considerable self-satisfaction.

Spock slipped into his own seat in silence. As Dorek tore into one of his shrimp, Spock busied himself by filling their glasses. He had no intention of cramming that…flesh into his mouth.

"Nothing like on Romulus," Dorek said. "But I suppose it will do." He licked a smudge of sauce off his fingertip, then turned his attention to Spock. "I've never been one to make mindless conversation, so I'll be blunt. Terrible dinnertime conversation, I know." Dorek brought his glass to his lips. He gazed at Spock over the clear rim with narrowed, piercing eyes.

"I appreciate directness, Sir," Spock said.

Dorek smiled mirthlessly and held his glass in both his hands. "We may have more in common than we think," he teased. Spock did not answer. "I'm wondering if we share a curiosity about your captain."

Spock looked up sharply. "What about him?"

That reaction, however restrained, delighted Dorek. He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other, and rested his elbow on the table, his nearly empty glass in hand. "Come on, Spock, you know exactly what I'm talking about." He gave his glass a pointed look, and Spock refilled it. Dorek slipped more of the blue liquid down his throat.

"Please be more specific," Spock said, placing the bottle back down. He watched Dorek carefully for signs of inebriation. None yet.

"Have you ever wondered how he became the captain of this fine vessel?" Dorek asked, a grin on his lips, moist from the booze. "And if you quote Imperial records at me, I'll throw you in the nearest booth." His chuckle was soft, dark.

Spock did not speak for a while. He pushed his full plate away. "That would be all I could tell you, Admiral," Spock answered. He allowed himself a sip of ale.

"That human from earlier, what's his name?" Dorek asked.

Spock grit his teeth, and after much deliberation, finished his glass. He wasn't worried about speaking too freely if he became drunk; but he did desire the numbness that usually followed, the courage such apathy could give. "Doctor McCoy," he answered with a sharp bite to his tone.

"Ah, yes," Dorek replied. "Do you belong to the captain the way your McCoy belongs to you?" He raised his eyebrows in teasing inquiry, and couldn't help a smirk from spreading.

Spock sent the admiral a dark, prolonged glare. The young Romulan must have been more interested in refilling his glass, because he did not react to it. Perhaps because the white's of Dorek's eyes seemed a trace greener than earlier, Spock suspected he was getting tipsy. Therefore, Spock felt he could get away with a little bit of disrespect. Just a bit.

"That's none of your business, Admiral," Spock answered, but in a controlled, calm way. He enjoyed another sip of ale as Dorek visibly controlled his temper right across from him.

"I'll take that as a yes," Dorek growled through a heartless smile.

"You may of course take it any way you wish," Spock replied. "What difference does it make?"

"Because of anyone on board, you would be the closest to the captain," Dorek said. His voice did not rise, but it was much colder.

"So you think I'd have some kind of access to whatever secrets you believe he's hiding?" Spock countered. "Amazingly enough, Sir, the Captain trusts me just as much as anyone else on board: not at all." He suddenly got up from the table, fed up with this line of questioning. As Dorek glared up at him, he went on, "And furthermore, Admiral, I am insulted that you would accuse me of complicity in my own quarters. I would like you to leave." Spock was able to stop himself from trembling, and he could quell the majority of his fear, but his heart still pounded as he watched Dorek's expression harden.

With his glass still in his hand, Dorek stood up. Rich green tinted his eyes and the skin around them, but he was perfectly steady on his feet. "You're right to be angry with me," he said, but his tone was dangerous. "To treat my host in such a way…my apologies, Spock."

"They are accepted, Sir," Spock said, barely suppressing a sneer. He began to walk toward the door, but Dorek moved even further from it, as if casually observing the Vulcan's choice in décor.

"I only have the security of the Empire on my mind, not manners, I'm afraid," he said. "I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Yes, of course," Spock answered. He took a few steps towards Dorek, just to see what he could be snooping at. What dangerous secrets had he left out in the open?

"I've been reading up on you, Commander," Dorek said. He held his glass out for Spock, once again silently demanding him to serve him. And once again, Spock obeyed without a trace of objection. "You don't seem to have the stomach for assassination, do you?"

"It's true I find it…distasteful, Sir."

Still walking around the room, Dorek turned to glance at Spock through eyes narrowed by a grin. "I'm impressed how far you've gotten without resorting to that," he went on. "Yes, there are indeed other paths to power. Perhaps killing is your captain's way, but it doesn't have to be yours."

"Sir, I'm afraid the mistake is mine, in not making something clear to you," Spock said, deftly placing himself in Dorek's path, forcing him to stand still. "I am not interested in any more power than I already have. You cannot entice me to act against my conscience with promises of power or rank."

"Noble man!" Dorek said, lifting his glass in a toast. "But a short sighted one, if you really see what you have as 'power.' Yes, you are the head of your own little Vulcan following on board, but that position wouldn't mean much if your disciples were to leave you, would it?"

"I cannot stop you if you wish to do harm to guiltless officers," Spock retorted. "Neither can you stop me from finding others to take their place."

Dorek took a step closer, so sharply Spock felt compelled to step back. "Just keep an open mind, cousin," Dorek said, once again using a familial term Spock felt he had no right to use. It was condescending, just like his tone. "Your lot may be satisfactory today, but tomorrow?" He shrugged.

"Will there be anything else, Admiral?" Spock asked.

"Not tonight, Mr. Spock," Dorek said, handing Spock his half empty glass to dispose of. As Spock took the glass, his fingers brushed against Dorek's soft gloves. Spock had not intended to establish psychic contact with Dorek, but if he had, those gloves would make that nearly impossible. He felt nothing, not even the warmth of the man's flesh, with them in the way.

"But my door is always open to you," Dorek said as he strode across the room to the door. Spock keyed in a command that opened the door, and stood by the threshold with Dorek. "If you ever need anything."

"I'm grateful to you, Sir," Spock growled, though he tried not to. "Enjoy your evening."

Dorek gave Spock a squeeze on the shoulder before taking his leave. The door whooshed back shut, and Spock drifted to the table, where dirty plates and sticky glasses awaited his attention. He was glad for the menial labor of tidying up his quarters; better than indulging in fearful speculation.

He told himself, not very convincingly, that Dorek was only trying to determine how hard he could push. And in asking about the captain like that, Dorek was most likely testing Spock's loyalties. And in such tests, there really weren't any correct answers. Spock did not attempt to anger Dorek or impress him; he wanted as little to do with such politics as possible. It was a deadly game for even the most cunning. Dorek was too young and inexperienced to fully realize this, Spock told himself. Or he might not have tipped his hand.

/

Only when every last trace of that fiasco of a dinner was cleaned up, did Spock allow himself to leave. He went down the hall, for McCoy's quarters, but was interrupted.

"Commander Spock to the transporter room," ordered the intercom. Filled with apprehension, Spock nevertheless rushed down there, contemplating the situation on the way. He tried to remember if he had left any evidence of the switch behind. If he had, he couldn't imagine anyone else being able to figure it out.

Mr. Scott was there when Spock arrived. Spock glared at him for a moment, then looked to the ensign at the controls. The young man brought Spock over to a certain cluster of controls, and flipped a switch, which read out the last 47 seconds of a diagnostic the ensign had taken.

"Was that all?" Scott shouted. "What do you need Spock's expert opinion for?" When the ensign ignored him, Scott came over to him and grabbed his shoulder furiously. "I'm the bloody chief engineer!"

By then Spock had come around behind them both. He pulled Scott off the ensign and started leading him to the door. He was considerably stronger than the human in normal conditions; Scott's current half-drunk state made things pitifully one-sided. "He knew you'd be too far gone to know what you were looking at," Spock said.

Even shoved, Scott refused to leave; though he did not attempt to shove Spock back. "You know a thing like that, someone's got to let the captain know about it." He gave Spock a twisted little smile. "I'll take care of that for you-"

Spock snatched him by the elbow. "Got something to hide, have you?" Scott taunted.

"No, but leave this matter with me," Spock said. At the expectant look on Scott's face, he grunted, "What's your price?"

Scott jerked his arm free from Spock, so he could fish out a flask from a little pocket he had sewn into his sash. "I'll let you know when I think of it."

Spock grit his teeth, already regretting this. But at this point, he'd do anything to get rid of the prying drunk. "Very well, now leave," he hissed.

The engineer did start down the passageway, but not without throwing a warning look to Spock. "Best not forget this, Sir," he said.

Mr. Scott would have to be dealt with, Spock concluded. It was bad enough the man spent more time drinking and causing trouble among the crew than actually doing his job. At least his apathy for his department made it easier for Spock to become more involved with the engineering side of ship operations. It was annoying but flattering for him, rather than Mr. Scott to be called when there was a problem.

These tiresome attempts at blackmail, however, Spock would not tolerate.

"You are dismissed," Spock told the Ensign, who was eager to leave. "I'll handle the damage report."

When he was alone, Spock replayed the diagnostic. The rest of the system was in perfect working order; Spock inspected it himself regularly. But he could not seem to explain these audio anomalies. He spent what he felt was a maddening amount of time trying to figure out what could have caused them, until it became clear there was nothing wrong with the transporter.

These signals were sent deliberately.

Spock hesitated at this realization, then listened to the anomalies again, carefully. The diagnostic program helped him analyze the signals; their frequency, how long they lasted, how long in between them. Though these signals originated from the transporter control's inner computer, there was no evidence that these in particular had been generated from the computer itself.

Bringing Spock to a conclusion he would have dismissed at first. But as he discovered patterns in the numbers, patterns that could not have been due to random noise, Spock accepted his suspicion as a strong possibility. One he had no choice but to act on.

These signals had come from the transporter, alright. And it was his alternate self who had sent them.

Spock set to work analyzing what he understood now to be a message with a surge of energy, terribly excited to decode it. He even felt a little pride towards that other Spock for having achieved this.

He figured out the math part of it in no time, and with some help from the computer, worked on using that information to crack the code. If he could only trust this matter with Uhura, he thought with regret, they'd have the answer in no time. But Spock was used to having to work alone, usually in secret.

Hours went by, and Spock was still focused on the task. So far he had translated the signals into sounds that didn't add up to words yet. He had some ideas, but so far Spock couldn't be certain what language this message was even in.

"Commander Spock to the bridge," Lt. Uhura announced over the intercom. Ripped from his work, Spock was disoriented at first. Then he checked the time and realized he was late for his shift. Considerably so.

He downloaded what he needed onto his PADD, and wiped what he could from the transporter's main computer. Much more work would need to be done to clear the evidence, but Spock chose to risk it and rush to the bridge.

/

Captain and admiral were deep in conversation when Spock was sent for. For a while now the two had been discussing battle theory, and were having fun trying to show the other up with his superior knowledge. But even with the inevitable posturing, Dorek found Kirk to be a thrilling conversation partner. He was almost reluctant to launch into his real purpose.

"Tell me, Captain," Dorek said in the charming tone he used only for Kirk. "How do you manage it?"

"What's that?" Kirk asked with lingering amusement.

"Well, having so many Vulcans on board, of course," Dorek said.

Kirk's pleasant mood soured, but he was not rude when he answered carefully, "Vulcan or not, they're members of my crew."

"I don't allow that on my flagship, personally," Dorek replied lightly, as if this were a continuation of their frivolous chatter from earlier. "They are too…independent for my tastes. Haven't you noticed that?"

"I wouldn't know," Kirk said. His smiles had by now faded. "I've never had a problem controlling my men," he said with a dark undertone to his voice.

Dorek was startled by Kirk's response, but he hid it. Already, it seemed, he had hit a sore spot, but Dorek wanted to try again. With a soft laugh he said, "Of course I'm not suggesting that you are less than fully capable, Captain. I'll go ahead and admit it, I'm curious about them. And how it must be to have one as your right hand man…"

Kirk glared openly at the admiral. And though Dorek would have been justified in retaliating, he just waited for Kirk's next move. He half-heartedly suppressed a grin; he quite enjoyed using his rank in this way: Hiding behind it while stirring lesser officers into fury.

"It's not a crime yet, is it?" Kirk asked with controlled emotions. "Following this religion, or movement, or whatever it is?"

Dorek's plastered on friendliness faded. "Of course not-"

"Then what's the fascination?" Kirk challenged.

Dorek frowned slightly. "I'm interested, Captain," he said. "Deep down, these Vulcans are my brethren, no different from my own peers. And yet there is such a wide chasm between us. It could be politics, or religion…I'm sorry, but I find it intriguing. It's hard to find anyone back home to share my curiosity, but is it really that strange?"

Kirk softened, but only a bit. "I suppose not. But if you want more information, you won't get it by force. If you must interview any of my crew, you do it with their consent only. Is that reasonable, Sir?"

Dorek smiled. "Very."

Meanwhile, Spock slipped past bridge crewmembers to his station. Partly to get caught up, and partly to avoid looking in the captain's direction, Spock immersed himself in his surveys. He analyzed space dust while attempting to overhear Kirk and Dorek's conversation. Unfortunately, he just caught the tail end, and they were silent after that.

Spock spent the next few hours expecting Kirk to say something to him about being so late. Or to come over to him, where he could deliver his threats in person, and under his breath. Where he could touch to make his point. But Spock stood the entire watch undisturbed. When he felt it was safe, he worked on the code. By now he was confident what language it was supposed to be in, which made the job easier.

It was time, but he couldn't leave the bridge until being relieved by the captain. And usually, they left together, something Spock was eager to avoid this time. Dutifully he waited, and felt his heavy disappointment as Kirk also headed for the turbo-lift. He even waited for Spock to reach his side before entering.

"So what kept you?" Kirk asked. He turned to face Spock, leaning his shoulder against the wall. He stared at Spock with intensity too harsh for his light smile. When they reached their deck, Kirk went out first, with Spock quickly reaching his side.

They'd already passed his quarters, Spock noticed grimly. He resigned himself, though; Kirk usually left him alone after trysts like this. "I apologize, Sir," he said. "I was engaged in routine maintenance-"

"On transporter controls, was it?" Kirk cut in. "That's where you've been earlier."

Spock waited until they were both inside Kirk's cabin to answer, "I was told the main computer was making noises. I checked everything, only to find it all in perfect order."

Once the door zipped shut behind them, Kirk nudged Spock against it and looked up into Spock's eyes with an easy, relaxed smile. He didn't seem to care, or notice, that he didn't get such a friendly look in return.

Kirk was gentle at first, his lips softly brushing the warm skin at Spock's throat, his hands sliding across Spock's waist, over his uniform. Eventually Spock warmed up to it, as he always did. He relaxed himself as much as he could while remaining on high alert.

Kirk slipped his arm behind Spock's back, his other hand on Spock's torso. He slid it slowly upwards, to rest just above his heart. He breathed in deeply, enjoying for a moment the sensation of Spock's heart beat against his palm. By now Spock had his eyes closed, ready to open immediately at the first sign of trouble, of course, and allowed himself to enjoy Kirk's attentions. He trembled but did not resist as Kirk kissed along his throat, up the jaw line, while his hands remained at his waist.

Such preliminary behavior rarely lasted this long, Spock though, with concern. Any deviation from the ordinary was a possible threat. He even frowned at how softly Kirk slid his fingers through his hair, convinced things would not remain this pleasant. Especially when any other time, Spock could expect a reprimand, at the very least, for reporting to duty over an hour late.

Kirk kissed one corner of Spock's mouth, then pressed his own to Spock's ear to whisper, "Why were you really down there, Spock?"

Spock clenched his hand harder around the fabric of Kirk's tunic, but otherwise did not react. His voice was soft, almost dreamy, from Kirk's soft touches, when he replied, "I was investigating a reported malfunction, Sir."

"And you found nothing wrong?" Kirk asked, in a manner that was dangerous yet playful. Spock knew this tone very well, though he did not always know the correct way to respond to it.

"I performed a full diagnostic, Captain," he said. His sash was undone and flung to the deck. "There is nothing wrong with the computer, or the console itself."

"What about the noises?" Kirk asked. He began undoing Spock's tunic, and Spock helped half-heartedly.

"A mistake on the Ensign's part," Spock said in something hardly more than a breath. Kirk's hands were rougher now, as they moved across Spock's black undershirt, his thumb pressing hard over his nipple in passing.

"Were you going to tell me about any of this?" Kirk slid his hand up to Spock's nape, where he massaged the knot of tense muscles. Spock was by now too apprehensive to enjoy it; his neck only got tighter.

"There was nothing to tell, Sir," Spock answered. The corner seemed ever smaller, taken up as it was by Kirk's threatening presence. "I was just about to fill out a report when I was called to the bridge."

"Ah, yes. Very convenient for you," Kirk said with a laugh. He kissed Spock's neck a few times.

"Sir?" Spock risked the question, testing how much Kirk would reveal.

"Well, if you had been trying to hide what you were doing," Kirk explained, as if to a child. "You wouldn't want to have to bother with a damage report, would you?"

"I'll complete one as soon as I'm dismissed," Spock said.

Kirk responded by snatching a handful of Spock's shirt. "We'll go check it out later, together," he said. When he moved his arm, Spock flinched, but Kirk was going for the control panel by his head. Spock did not have to watch him to know he was programming the door to remain locked unless a code was entered. "Just tell me one thing, Spock. Whatever you've done to the transporter, can it wait a few hours?"

Spock kept his eyes on Kirk's as he considered his answer. "As long as you need," he said at last. Considering Kirk's reply to that was a sudden, rough kiss, Spock figured his answer was as good as any.

/

Spock waited until Kirk's breathing slowed before attempting to pry himself free. He slipped the human's arm off his chest and used the tip of Kirk's knife to pick open the handcuff connecting his wrist to one of the bed posts. Thankfully, it was of an archaic design; unforgiving on flesh, but easy to unlock in a jam.

Spock tossed the knife back on the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Just as Kirk had cuffed Spock to his bed with something he knew he could disable, Kirk had left his weapons out in the open. This was not a sign of trust. For one thing, Spock was indeed locked inside this cabin; without Kirk's help, Spock would have to break the code to get out. Perhaps it was not as complicated at the one his alternate had sent him, but it would still take time. And if there were guards waiting just on the other side of the door, then an escape attempt would turn violent very quickly.

Of course if Spock were only concerned about himself, Kirk would never fall asleep beside him, or leave anything remotely dangerous out. He kept several things locked up, like whatever that was that took up almost an entire wall. But if Spock wanted to risk the consequences, he could stab his captain in his sleep with ease. And if Spock had no one, then his punishment would simply be execution.

In bringing Spock into his cabin, Kirk was gambling with his life. Even though his first officer had never expressed any desire for promotion, Kirk knew of the resentment Spock had been building up over the years. He knew that given the chance, Spock would indeed kill him.

Spock could endure any physical punishment. He would even accept death as a welcome reprieve to life on the ISS Enterprise, slaving away at a post he never wanted. Kirk was able to control Spock in small things by threatening McCoy or one of his Vulcans, but his real power came from the fact that he had someone "watching over" Spock's parents.

Spock did not know who this person, or persons, were, or even if Kirk really did have such power. But Spock had never once dared to call the captain's bluff. As he did almost every night, he simply walked past the captain, sleeping and yet not vulnerable, and shut himself up in the bathroom for a moment of privacy.

He leaned over the sink to continue working on the code. He would rather have crawled into a corner to work, but at the moment he was too sore to sit. In fact he was aching all over, with patches of dark green caked to his skin. But he forced himself to finish, as Kirk could awaken at any moment.

He had translated all the numerical values into letters, though the sounds did not make any sense at first. However, he was certain now that they were meant to be translated into Vulcan.

He failed to see their meaning. He froze, waiting silently, as he heard Kirk rustling beneath the sheets. When Kirk did not get up, Spock looked back at the PADD, desperate to finish. He brightened when he realized he had not tried the phonemes through the dialect of his home province. The answer was beginning to take form, just as Kirk called for him.

"Just cleaning up," he called back. He was shaking-he could hear Kirk's bed creak from his shifting weight-as he hastily punched in the right figures. He tried rearranging words, trying different phonemes, but in the end, accepted the answer he got as the correct one, however distressing.

Spock had just enough time to switch his PADD off and drop it by the sink, as Kirk entered with a lecherous smile on his face. Spock barely moved as Kirk pulled him closer and forced a greedy kiss on him. He was an unfeeling zombie in Kirk's arms, able to think only of the message.

"He misses you."