The Last Dream

by KCS

A few tag scenes for the end of The Voyage Home, just because.

This is an unrepentant exercise in speculative hurt/comfort, because I watched the movies in question while off work dealing with some personal and health issues the last two weeks and wanted it, tyvm. If you're expecting less flash and more substance, well. Maybe some other time.

Technically written as gen, because I believe there's more to family than just blood, and more to love than just sex; but you can read it as whatever sandbox you prefer to play in.

---

"I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul."

- A Tale of Two Cities

---

The physical sensation of cold is a novel one, but most unwelcome. After weeks spent residing on an exceedingly arid planet, it would appear Spock's physiology is very much unprepared for a frigid submersion in stormy saltwater. The detriment to both physical and mental well-being is most inconvenient.

From the seats behind him which hold the bedraggled Commanders Scott and Uhura sharing the last thermal blanket, he hears a particularly colorful metaphor that would likely have been more natural in the century they have just returned from.

"Yes, I see them." Admiral Kirk sighs by way of response, peering out of the starboard viewer.

"What's the play here, sir?"

"I'll take care it, Mr. Sulu."

"But, Admiral –"

Kirk raises a hand, cutting off the protest with a genuine smile. "I'm not being self-sacrificing, gentlemen. We need you all to, well." He nods in Spock's direction. "Get to the getaway car as quickly as possible, so to speak. Unless we want to be bogged down for hours in official business."

"Ah."

"I have no idea what cover story Command came up with to explain why he isn't dead, and until we know that, we're better off not talking to anyone."

"We also have a new crew member to consider," Commander Uhura points out lightly, with a reassuring smile in the direction of their stowaway marine biologist.

Dr. Gillian Taylor looks completely unrepentant about her presence, but displays remarkable intelligence by remaining silent, taking in every detail and clearly analyzing the knowledge for future use. She will assimilate quickly to this time period, Spock suspects.

"Which is a broken temporal directive that I don't want to try to explain right now. We're in enough trouble as it is."

"He's right. If we're lucky, we can slide both of 'em past pretty quick with enough of a distraction, with all the chaos going on," McCoy adds testily, huddled in his own damp blanket like a particularly angry goose tucked up under a bush in a rainstorm. "These shuttlecraft decontamination sonics will have killed anything we brought back with us from the 20th century, but I'm guessing neither Medical or Command will be satisfied with my word on it, given I was losing marbles right and left before the whole thing started."

While Spock does not enjoy being spoken of as if he were not present, if one is to speak technically, it is accurate from a certain point of view; and so the act of overlooking his own input in the matter is logical. He catalogs the phrase "losing marbles" for future linguistics research, and merely nods in agreement with McCoy.

Some of the tension eases in the admiral's unyielding expression.

The speaker overhead crackles to life. "Admiral Kirk, sixty seconds to landing."

The man does not respond, but no response seems to be expected; Spock suspects the transparent aluminium wall between the cockpit and passenger area is both fireproof and soundproof, as is standard on Security escort shuttles.

"If they follow protocol, they'll have us put up in 'Fleet housing, but I'm guessing protocol is hanging by a thread right now, planet-wide," Kirk says, almost distractedly. "If Sarek doesn't already have a plan for it, let him know he can take you to my condo at first, it's at least got internal security. The 'Fleet owns half the apartments on Floor 10, temporary quarters for low-profile visitors and officials. They'll likely just have you stay in the building if you're already there when anyone realizes the state of affairs. Might send a Medical professional around for evaluations unless he can convince them you're sufficient, Bones, but it'll be more comfortable than a 'Fleet dormitory. Or worse."

"I can handle Medical. We got this, Jim," McCoy assures him, putting a hand briefly on the admiral's shoulder. "Go do what you do best."

A rueful half-smile. "I'm counting on you to do the same, Bones."

The engines slow beneath their feet, and their altitude is low enough now for Spock to see what Commander Uhura clearly already had; despite the fact that it has been less than an hour since the probe retreated, there is a sizable group of assorted beings gathered below, milling about in the hazy sunlight, in various stages of eagerness. The shuttle had been directed to a smaller, much less used location on the back of the primary Starfleet campus, but that news had evidently spread faster than the vehicle itself had, in returning from the Bay.

Montgomery Scott scowls. "Hate reporters," he mutters. "Vultures, the lot of 'em."

"Thank goodness – there's Sarek, Jim, you see him? Off to the right, in the back. Looks like he has a 'Fleet hovercraft waiting. If you can pull them away from the door a bit, we'll be golden."

With one final hum of de-powering engines and a brief compensation of inertial dampener, the shuttle sets down, the smooth landing testament to the pilot's skill. The hiss of hydraulics heralds the imminent opening of the shuttle's passenger doors, and the muffled clamor outside can be clearly heard through the unsealed mechanism.

Spock watches with some fascination as the aura of weariness which has surrounded this particular human for most of their return journey suddenly vanishes into a clearly practiced, and possibly not entirely genuine, veneer of calm. Kirk stands, letting the thermal blanket slide back to the seat, and then tugs at the hem and sleeves of his drenched jacket. Spock is put strangely in mind of a soldier donning familiar battle armor; and perhaps that is what is happening, at least metaphorically.

Kirk glances around the shuttle for just a fraction of a second as the door opens, but he says nothing, only turns and bounds down the steps with a concerning abundance of energy that is most unnatural, given the events of the last few days.

McCoy chuckles fondly at Spock's expression. "Oh, he's going to crash and crash hard in a bit," the doctor assures him. "But he's very good at this."

"Aye, the best," Scott adds, peering cautiously around the door-frame. "Got 'em eating out of his hand already, he does."

Kirk has already led the eager, shouting group of journalists in a diagonal toward the front of the shuttlecraft, hands outstretched and excitedly spinning what sounds to be a dramatic, if highly edited, tale of their most recent adventure, accompanied by dramatic gestures toward the Bay. Hanging on every word and shoving each other in a most uncivilized fashion, the small knot of beings has turned their backs completely on the shuttle.

Fascinating.

"Right, Sarek sees us. Let's go."

"Aye, Doctor. Mr. Sulu, you and Mr. Chekov head out first, if y'please. That's a drone camera overhead with level two facial recognition, try to keep your heads down."

"Yes, sir."

"Commander, ye'd better bring up the rear. If we're spotted, we'll need a distraction. Something about the whale song bein' an extinct communications breakthrough, perhaps?"

"Already prepared," she reassures them, smiling. "You can leave it to me."

"Dr. Taylor, you all right?"

"Just trying to stay out of the way and not freak out right now, yeah," the young scientist replies, all wide-eyed wonder at the sight of the towering buildings, hovercraft, and variety of species milling about outside.

Given the chaos which his memory indicates typically follows missions with this particular crew, Spock is expecting a problem upon their exit from the shuttle, but he vastly underestimates the magnetic power of charismatic charm one James T. Kirk has always held over any sentient being. They are, surprisingly, able to quickly depart the shuttle and move away from the crowd toward the loading bay entrance, surprisingly without being spotted. They are met by two slightly frazzled Starfleet officials and, to his relief (and is that not a change of heart from years past?) his father, who seems to be equally pleased to see them.

It does seem that, while their return is for the purpose of disciplinary action, the powers that be are not inclined to treat them entirely like the criminals they technically are. Once settled in the waiting hovercar, the 'Fleet officials remain behind as there are, quite simply, more urgent matters to attend to in the wake of near-planetary destruction and hundreds of orbital structures being suddenly left on generator power only for several tense hours.

Sarek explains this to the group as they depart, citing the turmoil which is still being sorted in the Command center and their past service records as reason for them not being immediately put on what amounts to relaxed house arrest.

As Kirk had suspected, they have been assigned small apartments in the same building as the admiral's San Francisco residence, and have been instructed not to leave the location unless communicating their destination first with Starfleet Command. They will have a full debrief specifically on the Genesis project tomorrow morning, as their formal hearing is not until afternoon, but until then, Command will be quite busy re-establishing some semblance of planetary order.

Spock has no doubt that each of these humans is quite tired (and, by this time, in some stage of hypothermia) in their own way, and so is unsurprised when they decline McCoy's suggestion of congregating in the admiral's apartment for the evening. The doctor insists upon following Mr. Chekov to his own lodgings and performing a final medical scan before the man is permitted to sleep, given his recent head injury; and so Sarek escorts Spock to the familiar and yet unfamiliar door several floors above, himself.

"I have sent news to your mother of your safe arrival," Sarek says once they reach the landing, in apropos of nothing.

"I am appreciative of this."

Spock is mildly surprised when a memory pushes to the forefront, informing him that he has his own numeric code to unlock this dwelling; and more surprisingly, said code still works, as the pad blinks cheerfully green before the door slides open.

Sarek, conversely, seems strangely unsurprised at this evidently permissible invasion of privacy. He remains near the door as Spock makes a slow inspection of the entryway and living room, the small kitchenette; and merely raises an eyebrow in silent question once the circuit is complete.

"What is troubling you, my son?"

"Many things," he replies, honestly, and sees what he knows is slight humor flicker across Sarek's calm expression. "But primarily, uncertainty regarding the outcome of tomorrow's hearing."

"Indeed. I regret I was unable to completely turn the tide of official opinion in favor of your colleagues. The charges are not inconsiderable, and it proved to be more difficult than I had originally anticipated, due to the classified nature of the Genesis project."

"You have my gratitude for making the attempt."

"Thanks are illogical, my son."

Any further conversation is interrupted by the whirlwind arrival of Doctor McCoy, who has apparently shed his waterlogged jacket on the way up the steps and is ranting to himself under his breath. The muttered monologue turns into dialogue as he reports brusquely on the remainder of the crew.

"They're fine, even Dr. Taylor. She's already figured out how to use a computer and I've never seen anyone so excited to read medical journals, let me tell you. Guarantee she won't sleep a wink tonight, she's too excited now."

"She does have an intense learning curve to overcome."

"The crew are going to come by early tomorrow, wanted to let you have some time to settle back in tonight," the human continues as he passes. "But Sarek? They've pulled Jim in to do a full de-brief on the Genesis mess, according to the official statement. It's already all over the newscasts. And he hasn't slept a night through in literal weeks, there's no way he's not going to say something on the record that could come back to bite him later. What in the name of sanity are they thinking?"

The elderly Vulcan's eyebrow inclines slightly at the (justified, in Spock's inexpert opinion) display of frustrated emotion, but his displeasure is clearly directed at the situation rather than the doctor.

"I will deal with this, Doctor." And with that, his father is gone, the door sliding closed after him before either of them can even reply. Spock blinks in some surprise, as Sarek has rarely been known to act with any immediacy, much less in defense of a mere human not his wife. What he intends to do at Starfleet Headquarters to break up an official debriefing of this importance, is anyone's conjecture.

"If I'm freezing, you've got to be mildly hypothermic, Spock. Get out of that wet robe and get dry. I'll put something in the clothes warmer for you for after."

"Yes, Doctor."

Strangely, Spock does not feel any need to respond combatively, as his memory informs him is the default setting for verbal interaction with this odd katra-klashausu of his. Perhaps time has changed one or both of them.

Perhaps he simply does not remember why he ever felt the need to make the attempt.

---

"Sorry, I guess that one's Jim's," the doctor says incongruously, gesturing at the clearly too-short but too broad-shouldered fleece-lined garment which Spock is immensely gratified to be wearing, as it is far warmer than any apparel he remembers donning on Vulcan. Cold as it can be in the desert evenings, there is little other use for such an article of clothing, and he does not own one, or at least does not remember owning it, particularly one embroidered across the back with the Starfleet Academy logo.

The doctor is stirring one of two porcelain mugs prepared with a strange liquid concoction he swears will 'warm them both right up' and which Spock suspects has a far higher alcohol content than it does actual tea. One mug is solid white, and also bears the Starfleet Academy logo; the other, the somewhat nonsensical Standard phrase "I Heart Science," applied in a childish yellow font on a black background.

Behind them and mounted on the wall, the muted newscasts spin out footage of two humpback whales now being tracked across the Pacific basin; that important news has traveled remarkably fast, although it has been nearly three hours now since the probe retreated. The central heating system has been activated in the apartment, creating a deceptively mellow atmosphere to counter the wind whipping about outside the large picture windows. Residual storm systems are to be expected for the next few days, as the planet recovers from the probe's destructive effects.

But McCoy's words puzzle him, and Spock's confusion must be evident; the human glances at him curiously while setting the spoon in the sink with a small metallic ting.

"What'd I say?"

"Your statement would imply I have similar clothing in this location as well."

"Well, I assume so. You've spent at least half your time here for the last decade at least, Spock…before all this happened, anyway." McCoy clears his throat, and looks back down at the steaming drinks. "I'm not sure, really. Y'all never really were into labels, if there even was one that applied."

"Your assumption would imply a level of co-habitation for which I have no form of reference, Doctor."

"No, I don't guess you do, right now. Does the idea make you uncomfortable? You don't have to stay here tonight. Although I'm pretty sure Jim had the power shut off at your place when we got back; could be pretty cold by Vulcan standards."

"That is unnecessary, Doctor. I simply do not understand why I would not prefer my own home to sharing space with another being. Nearly all Vulcans, in fact, are introverted by nature. It is logical, for our species."

"There's a school of thought that says Home isn't actually a location, it's people. Maybe you felt the same way."

"That would indeed be most illogical."

"Well, I didn't say it was a Vulcan school of thought."

"Interesting." He considers the idea, and then recalls that his mother had once said something rather similar, many years ago when she was questioned about dwelling on a planet not Earth. "I will consider this."

"I think that's all any of us can ask from you, right now. Here you go, drink it slowly."

Spock accepts one of the mugs in the spirit of companionship it is evidently intended, though he refrains from ingesting the suspect mixture. The scent is somewhat comforting, although he cannot at this time discern why or what precisely it is reminiscent of.

"It seemed like you were remembering a lot more details, non-Vulcan details, these last couple of days, Spock. Was I wrong in assuming that?"

"To an extent only, Doctor. I do believe my memory has permanently settled, for the most part. I am clear on all relevant facts of my past and have no questions regarding their legitimacy."

"What about the irrelevant facts?" McCoy asks gently, but with a pointed look over the rim of his cup. "You know as well as I do that Vulcan medicine has a very different scale of relevancy from what I'd recommend."

"Indeed. This is…difficult, to judge, as I have no frame of reference. I do find myself unable to reconcile what I am certain are correct memories with –" He stops, as the newscast has cut from the footage of George and Gracie back to a more familiar player in this strange drama which has become his remarkable life. "Computer, unmute news monitor."

"Oh, I can't possibly speak for Captain Spock, or what he's been up to the last few months," Jim Kirk is replying on-screen, flashing a secretive look at the young man who rudely shoves a recording device in his face. "But as you've no doubt heard, the reports of his death were…somewhat exaggerated, it's fair to say."

"Can you give us anything more about that, Admiral?"

"No." A wink softens the curt rebuttal, and the Andorian who posed the question blushes a deep cerulean shade.

"Sir, what can you tell us about the U.S.S. Grissom? Was she destroyed when the Genesis device malfunctioned?"

"No comment, on either point."

"Did the Enterprise's former chief engineer really sabotage the engine relays of the Excelsior, sir?"

"No comment."

"Admiral, is it true that your time-traveling endeavor to bring this extinct species into the present violates the terms of the Organian Peace Treaty and Temporal Directive Three?"

"Now now, gentlemen, you know how this works," Kirk replies, and while his smile hasn't wavered, Spock can see the lines of tension around his eyes. "You can ask all the questions you like, but I can't comment on anything related to Starfleet business. Not until after tomorrow's hearing, at least."

"Can you at least confirm the rumor that you're to be court-martialed tomorrow, Admiral?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny, as the hearing will determine if such is necessary, Mr. …Santova, isn't it? You took that particularly unflattering holopic of me when I was minding my own business at the Infallible's christening, didn't you."

The balding Delosian coughs awkwardly at being singled out with such deft precision, amid a smattering of commiserating laughter from those surrounding him.

"He's too damn good at this," McCoy mutters admiringly, sipping from his steaming cup.

"Indeed." Spock is increasingly awestruck by how easily Kirk manipulates the crowd, picking out certain questions to answer and saying absolutely nothing of substance in response to them, while occasionally turning the most invasive of inquiries into entertainment for the rest. The result is no doubt equal parts frustrating and charming for anyone involved.

On-screen, uniformed 'Fleet officials approach, clearly intent on dispersing the crowd and corralling their errant spokesman, and the admiral seems to perceive them as well, though his face betrays neither apprehension or relief. He flashes one last smile, hands outstretched. "It appears as though I'm required elsewhere, gentlemen. Any last questions?"

"Sir, how do you respond to the Klingon demand for your extradition based on charges of eco-terrorism against both you and David Marcus?"

Kirk remains to all casual appearances unperturbed, though his smile thins. "I respond by saying no comment."

"Admiral." The speaker, a middle-aged Terran female with dark-rimmed glasses, takes a half-step forward, and Kirk's eyes flick to her sharply. Behind them, the 'Fleet officials are slowly dispersing the back of the crowd, thinning their audience by the second.

"I remember you, Ms. Grant. The North American Journal of Interstellar Diplomacy?"

The woman's eyes sparkle with pleasure at being recognized. "Correct on both counts, sir."

"She was the Starfleet-assigned journalist who reported on my achievement of Captaincy," Spock says, unnecessarily, as McCoy was also present at the time.

"Mmhm. She was very respectful of your scientific accomplishments, and well-read on Vulcan culture in general, among other things. Jim really liked her, and he hates every journalist he's ever met, basically."

"Ms. Grant, I'm sure you understand I can't answer any further questions about official business."

"Unofficially, sir. Indulge my curiosity." Grant pauses, then appears to make a decision and turns off her recording device. It's a symbolic gesture only, as they can still be heard by anyone standing around, but Kirk seems to take it in the spirit it is meant; he slows his retreat.

"Unofficially what, Ms. Grant."

"Admiral, the penalty for destruction of a constitution-class starship averages fifteen to twenty years in a Federation penal colony – and that's if there were no messy classified missions or additional charges involved." She raises an eyebrow. "You and your crew's loyalty to Starfleet and the Enterprise are, well, legendary, for lack of a less dramatic word. The accusations against indicate huge risk, particularly for someone so entrenched in the system."

Kirk's face pales slightly, though his voice is even when he speaks. "I didn't hear a question in that. If you'll excuse me –"

"Was it worth it, sir?"

The admiral stops on a dime, and half-turns to face her. "I'm sorry?"

"Was it worth it, Admiral." Her face betrays nothing but professionalism, but the words are clear as a bell. "You have more to lose than most here, it would seem, and there's been a lot of speculation about you during your absence the last three months. Whatever your reasons were, personal or professional - was all of this really worth it?"

Kirk leans forward, and deliberately presses the button on her recording device to start it again.

"Yes," he enunciates crisply, and looks upward directly into the drone camera. "No matter the outcome, let the record clearly show that I said it was worth it."

Spock hears a sniff from across the counter, and is quite alarmed to see McCoy's eyes glistening. He does not know the protocol for dealing with an emotional human in this manner.

"Shut up," the doctor mutters, burying his face in his nearly-empty mug.

"I said nothing, Doctor."

"She probably did that on purpose, knowing the camera was that close. Focusing on the personal interest angle instead of the Starfleet one might help with damage control, I dunno. I hate politics."

The newsfeed cuts away at that juncture, returning to some evening panel discussion taking place in front of a footage loop showing the Klingon ship, now slowly sinking into the harbor.

"Computer, mute news screen." The empty mug hits the counter with a dull thud, and McCoy scowls at the monitor, across which now scrolls a banner at the bottom outlining the charges being brought against the Enterprise crew. "They're going to spend the next eighteen hours digging up anything they can find and twist to make it look bad for him, Spock."

"I do not understand the purpose of such an act, as this information would be inadmissible in any official Starfleet proceedings, court-martial or otherwise."

"There is no purpose, 'cept being a bunch of nosy armchair politicians having a lust for drama." A snarl of obvious frustration. "He was smart to spin it like he did, and give them nothing to work with, makes it look like he isn't worried in the slightest. Public opinion isn't a factor for the 'Fleet, but it might help make a case for leniency. Put us all on house arrest or something, instead of shipping him to a political prison and the rest of us straight to the borite mines."

Behind them, the door to the hallway opens, and Sarek enters. He is shortly followed by James Kirk, who looks more drained than Spock can ever remember seeing him before.

The admiral's eyes dart to them with what looks like relief, but then land on the muted newsfeed, and harden into points of ice.

"Computer, all screens off," he snaps with unusual venom, and the visuals immediately disappear. "Don't tell me, they're already splicing my logs from the original five-year mission to make it look like I've been plotting war against the Klingons for over a decade? I'm an absent father covering for my son's bio-terrorism? Or is it my teaching syllabus, hidden code buried in it to subconsciously brainwash the next generation."

"Probably all three," McCoy replies, ever the voice of calm. "They're just a bunch of sharks smelling blood in the water, Jim, we all know that. Now I see the idiots-that-be at least gave you a change of clothes, but your doctor still recommends twenty minutes in that ridiculously expensive steam shower you got."

"My doctor needs to mind his own damn business," Kirk mutters, but plows past the two of them without further comment, disappearing down the hallway toward the master bedroom. The sound of the shower begins a moment later.

"That went well," McCoy observes with a shrug. He glances at Sarek. "The public interview helped, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." The elder Vulcan looks, albeit begrudgingly, mildly impressed as he sets a wrapped parcel on the hall table. "I had underestimated the possibility of turning public opinion in your favor, but based upon the current intranet polls, it would seem my evaluation was flawed."

"How are we looking on the rest of it?" McCoy takes the undrunk tea mug from Spock's hands and tips the now-lukewarm brew down the sink with a tolerant eyeroll. "It'd probably do him some good to know if the rest of us are going to take the fall with him or not."

"I have, I believe, sufficiently made the case that this should not be allowed to occur, Doctor, although there are of course no certainties at this time," Sarek replies calmly. "But at worst scenario, Vulcan sanctuary laws would permit your crew to peacefully live on Vulcan for the duration of the sentence, and the Council is quite aware we will, if required, invoke those laws."

This is news to Spock, albeit positive news.

"The general consensus seems to be that it would not be…in good form, I believe is the Terran expression, to penalize your crew severely for their actions, particularly in light of their recent assistance to the planet. I believe the majority of your Terran allies would not be pleased, and public relations will be the primary focus of the 'Fleet for at least the next six months, all things considered."

"Makes sense."

"As to yourself, Doctor, since it would not be in any way difficult to plead and prove a certain viewpoint of temporary insanity, the same sanctuary law applies."

A heavy exhale is heard behind them, and the admiral re-appears, leaning against the wall and dressed in similar warm layers to Spock's current attire. "Thank you, Sarek," he says quietly. "If that's true, I can live with the rest of it."

"I said hot shower, Jim, you were barely gone five minutes."

"And I said you should mind your own business," Kirk shoots back, but there's no real anger behind the words. Ignoring McCoy's muttering, he glances over to Spock, and his lips turn up slightly. "That's not your sweatshirt, mister."

"Correct. But it is quite warm, and I am disinclined to return it at this time."

A sharp bark of genuine laughter – why is Spock only now realizing how long it has been since he heard the familiar sound? – and the admiral collapses more than sits on the low-slung, cozy sofa, fairly melting into the plush cushions with a faint sigh.

Spock shares a look with McCoy.

"Sarek, a minute of your time?"

"Certainly. Spock, I am residing in the usual location at the Vulcan embassy, should you require my presence. The Council extends its regards, and has sent over a Starfleet uniform in the event you would prefer to wear it tomorrow." Sarek indicates the parcel on the table with a curt gesture. "They will be sending each of the humans the same by courier later this evening, as well as a packet containing your official debrief and requisite cover story."

That is logical; Command will certainly not be eager to promote as actual science what amounts to a Vulcan folk tale.

"Acknowledged."

"Admiral, I wish you a restful evening."

A little wave of thanks in response, and Sarek gestures for McCoy to precede him into the corridor, where the door shuts on the murmur of their voices.

Kirk slides even further down the cushions, rubbing his eyes. "So. How are you?"

Spock assumes a loose stance of relaxed attention in lieu of not precisely knowing whether to sit as a guest or report as an officer. "I am performing adequately, I believe, Admiral."

At the title, what little life there is in the human's eyes fades, leaving only a resigned sort of sadness behind. "Yes, so I see," he murmurs. "Well. You remember where the guest room is? Or just take the master bed, I don't think I'm getting up again tonight."

Spock does remember where the guest room is, though he believes it is likely Doctor McCoy will want to avail himself of its comforts.

"I do not require sleep at this time."

"Well…whatever you need. 'S yours, you don't have to ask." The words trail off gradually, fading as exhaustion obviously takes hold.

"I will still do so if the need arises."

He hears a hum of acknowledgment, and then seventy-four seconds of silence as the human's breathing slows, soft and even. Doctor McCoy's noisy re-entry to the apartment a moment later stops in the vestibule with a squeak of rubber-soled slipper, and he moves with much more care into the living room.

"He's gonna wake up with a headache, sleeping with his neck at that angle," the physician says softly. "Wake him up in three hours, if he makes it that long, and have him go to bed, or at least realign his spine."

"I do not understand the timeline."

"It's pretty likely he won't sleep well even at home, Spock. Not until this thing's over, anyhow. I'm hoping exhaustion will keep him out, but if it doesn't, just know it's pretty normal, for him."

"I see."

"Do you, really?" The doctor looks at him skeptically, but finally shrugs. "Fine. My tank's about empty too, Spock. I'd recommend you take a look around, see what you remember and make a list of questions about what you don't, then meditate or something. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, for all of us."

"Indeed. Good night, Doctor."

McCoy waves amiably over his shoulder as he detours to the kitchen, places both mugs in the sanitizing cubicle, and then keeps going toward the second bedroom down the hall. He is clearly familiar with the apartment's layout, and so is likely an even more frequent guest than Spock remembers. Or perhaps that situational awareness is residual from Spock's memories, being temporarily stored within the doctor's own? Can such transference work retroactively, and in reverse?

It is a fascinating theory, one which bears further medical study at a later, less critical, date.

He looks around, and wonders where the logical place might be to begin sifting through the strange assortment of memories attached to these rooms.

---

It has barely been two and one-half hours when he hears indication that the admiral's sleep is not, as predicted, anything approaching restful.

Spock currently sits on the small, enclosed balcony off the master bedroom, French doors half-open in the warm and exceedingly humid night air. For the past ninety-eight minutes, he has remained in this position, listening to the methodic patter of rain overhead and seated on a surprisingly comfortable and well-worn meditation mat discovered in the hall closet amid a jumble of heavy outerwear, a threadbare broom, and an antique filing cabinet filled with assorted odd debris, each piece having no logical connection to its fellows.

But the quiet sounds of distress which had pulled him from the outermost layer of a light meditative trance are cut off abruptly by a single choking inhale, followed by complete silence for the space of eleven seconds. Then, quick footsteps within the bedroom itself, and the closing door of the en suite soon after.

Spock does not know what the preferred protocol for this situation is. Oh, there are many similar instances upon which to draw, in the data-bank which is his memory; and it would be easy enough to extrapolate both typical and a-typical reaction, human or otherwise, for consideration. But neither has any particular emotional weight attached to the memory, and neither seem to be logical responses to what apparently is an expected event.

Perhaps, as in many other things of late, it would be wise to take his cues here from the man in question.

Closing the balcony doors behind him, he returns to the living room and powers on the end-table lamp, so that the admiral will know Spock has changed locations and can act accordingly. Jim does not appreciate being taken off-guard when already vulnerable, that much he knows, even if he does not know why this is.

As it turns out, his actions almost send the man straight back into the bedroom instead, but after a moment of hesitation, Kirk returns reluctantly to the couch, rubbing his eyes with both hands. That said eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed does not escape Spock's notice.

"Sorry if I disturbed your meditation."

"I said nothing about meditation, Admiral."

"No, you didn't. But I know your habits very well."

Spock is silent, because he cannot accurately say at this time that the reverse is true. He wishes to; and he could likely make the pretense with some degree of success. But something is…incomplete, in his re-assimilation. Some integral piece, a vital component, missing from the machinery of his mind; and he does not know how to retrieve, replace, or find a suitable substitute for it.

The war within must be visible to this far too perceptive human, because Jim sits forward, elbows on his knees and hands loosely clasped before him. "It bothers you, that we know more about you than you do about us?" he asks, with the same gentle care that has characterized nearly every interaction for the last ten weeks.

"That is not precisely an accurate representation of reality. I am in possession of a full memory at this time, to the best of my knowledge, Admiral."

Jim's eyes clearly say the evidence would suggest otherwise, but he remains silent, indicating he is prepared to listen.

"The re-integration was completely finished, to my best understanding, approximately eight hours and seventeen minutes ago. I do, however, find that I am lacking a key element in most of these memories, which no doubt has contributed to their delayed assimilation."

He sees realization dawn a moment later. "The scientific method. You've gathered the data, but don't have enough reference to properly analyze and test a hypothesis?"

Spock inclines his head reluctantly.

Kirk looks troubled by this confirmation. "Bones said that was improving."

"I may have underestimated the issue. He can be most…"

"Overbearing?"

"I was going to define it as overly involved, but the term applies."

A light chuckle. "It's done out of love, Spock, not just the desire for friendly conflict. Although I'm pretty sure there is that, too, even more than there used to be."

"I am…at least factually aware of this."

"Factually. Oh, I see." The admiral sits back, looking thoughtful. "So, your eidetic memory is functioning just fine, you just don't understand why you have memories that don't fit expected Vulcan parameters?"

Spock blinks, genuinely surprised the root issue has been defined so clearly and with such scientific precision; and by a human, no less. Perhaps he should have had this conversation many weeks ago; it might have saved much unhelpful and inadequate reflection on the matter.

"That would be a mostly accurate assessment of the issue, I believe," he agrees finally.

"Mostly? What's missing from the equation, then?"

"My mother tells me that I should at some point start to feel strong human emotion, given that such ancestry is half of my cultural heritage. My memories would seem to bear out that hypothesis, illogical as it seems. I have clearly been subject to such impulses in the past."

Hope flickers sharply in the human's eyes.

"However, I have no present data which indicates this is or will be an accurate world state for the being I now am."

"No data to indicate what, exactly? That the emotion you're feeling is human?"

"Indicating I am feeling, at all," he corrects, somewhat helplessly.

Kirk's eyes widen. "You…wait, nothing at all? You haven't really felt anything, since you…came back?"

"Satisfaction, from our successful mission conclusion, is the closest approximation I can frame to the emotions I am able to discern in my memory once existed. I have experienced nothing more intense than this."

"Gods, Spock, I had no idea. And I don't think Bones did either," the admiral breathes, looking stricken. "All this time…"

"I should have disclosed this earlier. I am…I regret I did not do so."

"No, Spock, no – you disclose what you want, when you want. I just…" The admiral sits forward again, face drawn with concern. "You know this isn't…at least I would assume it isn't ideal, for someone of split heritage? I get that the fal-tor-pan is a purely Vulcan process, almost mythical in its rarity, so there's not much data to draw on. But I would have thought it would restore the whole, not the half?"

"As would I," he agrees. "The katra is what which houses the seat of emotional control. Your closest human equivalent might be the soul. Yet I find I am unable to generate any such emotion; it is as if this seat of control exists, but the ability to generate the emotion has been…potentially disabled."

"Kolinahr," Kirk suddenly says, almost to himself.

"Sir?"

"You're essentially describing kolinahr, at least to my limited understanding of it."

He stops, considering this for a moment. "There are similarities, certainly, particularly in the mental disciplines used during my re-fusion. But I was unable to achieve this state of being before, if memory serves."

"No, you stopped just short of completion." Kirk's tone is suspiciously neutral. "But what you're describing now…is it a possible explanation?"

"I do not feel that scenario accurately represents the complete facts, though I have no frame of reference for my conclusions. At any rate, I have only recently become aware of the issue, and was attempting to analyze it through meditation this evening, when your emotional distress broke my concentration."

Kirk's face flushes slightly. "I'm even more sorry, in that case."

"I am not, as it gave clarity on one point, at least."

"What's that?"

"I believe you might be of assistance in the matter."

Kirk looks at him for a moment, clearly uncertain. "What makes you…on what scientific evidence or logic are you basing that conclusion, Spock?"

"On the fact that the one constant in nearly every emotion-based memory I have…is you, Jim."

"What?"

"It would be illogical to deny the facts. You are at the heart of the issue, though I do not understand the reason for this." At this, Kirk's apprehension only visibly increases, and Spock frowns. "Your reaction would indicate I have drawn an incorrect conclusion from the data?"

"No! At least, I hope not." The addition is quiet, but far more controlled, and the admiral has begun to fidget uneasily with the folded afghan across the sofa arm. "I just, well." He glances up again to meet Spock's questioning gaze. "I'm not sure it's a good idea, pursuing this thought exercise right now. Particularly if your retraining pulled from kolinahr."

"Specify."

A slightly bitter half-smile twists the human's lips. "The healers on Vulcan, the ones managing your recovery. They spoke to you about your memory and the rigid reconstruction plan, correct?"

"Affirmative. What bearing has this on the matter?"

"They…well, I was told I should let you figure non-Vulcan things out on your own, to put it simply. They thought it would be dangerous if you had too much human help resettling your memory, particularly those memories which carry a strong emotional connection. Like an amnesia patient, being pushed too quickly and so being in danger of a complete relapse."

"That is illogical, as memory is not the affected portion of the katra in my case. I am in full possession of my eidetic recall; it is the remainder, which seems to be the issue. If the human portion is at fault, the logical approach would be to enlist the assistance of a human."

Kirk looks inestimably sad for a fleeting moment. "Not from a purely Vulcan point of view. Your full recovery came first, and I was told I'd just be…detrimental, to that. McCoy was the katra-keeper, and even he was told to not volunteer any information about your life that you didn't specifically ask for."

Spock inclines an eyebrow. "He most definitely did not follow that instruction. Repeatedly."

A half-smile. "I was aware. But given he was already pushing back on the instructions, I didn't want to…further confuse the issue. Potentially dangerously, if the healers were to be believed."

Spock is surprised, and for the very first time, feels a faint stirring of what must be anger deep within, at this new knowledge.

"Your father disagreed, and quite openly, with them. For what it's worth," Kirk adds. "But we couldn't chance it. I was going to do what I was told, going to stay away and let you make your own decisions at your own pace, even if it killed me." He glances down at the afghan, and shakes his head. "And for a while, I thought it might."

"Jim."

"But apparently, this is just another way in which we – I – failed you, Spock. We should have insisted you at least had full understanding of the situation, if nothing else." The admiral shakes his head. "Ignorance is just a poor excuse. I am sorry."

"Apologies are illogical, particularly when the one offering them should actually be receiving one."

They had no right to keep this from him – to keep Jim from him – and he now understands more fully why Doctor McCoy had always been somewhat reluctant to engage with him at the expense of his human crewmates. They both knew, Kirk had been intended as katra-keeper (even Sarek had assumed this, never imagining it would be otherwise), but in retrospect, Spock should have questioned the ramifications of this foregone assumption more thoroughly than he did.

"Well, regardless, it's in the past. How can I help, now?" Kirk asks earnestly.

Spock is once again struck by how, during the entirety of their Vulcan exile, he has rarely heard anything other than quiet, unwavering support from this one unique human. At least in Spock's hearing, Jim has never said a word against his recovery process or the slow speed of said process, and has not so much as hinted at the aura of pain and loss that seems still to linger about him like a poisonous fog.

The one sticking point, the only detail which seems to override this endless patience, seems to be Spock's inability to catch himself before using official titles, rather than given names, a habit which he does recall adopting as a method of emotional distance earlier in life. But in all else, there has been a nearly unnatural level of patience with Spock's slow re-integration. Even now, there is only a genuine desire to help, however possible.

But still, this is a monumental request, and so he hesitates.

"Spock? What is it?"

"My memory would indicate you are somewhat familiar with the tradition of the kash-nohv," he says, still uncertain. It is an immeasurable ask, particularly of one not Vulcan.

Judging from the look on this non-Vulcan's expressive features, that is still an accurate conclusion, although the human does not look entirely repulsed by the idea, which seems somewhat promising.

"I am aware it is a most unconscionable request of one not trained in the Vulcan Way, but –"

He is surprised by a quiet, almost affectionate laugh. "You're spouting Vulcan rhetoric you learned from the healers, Spock. Search your memory again."

He does so, briefly, and realizes that such mind-joinings, while not exactly frequent occurrences, are some of the strongest memories, keystones of the granite façade which is his memory-bank. Unyielding yet puzzlingly mysterious, he cannot understand why they seem to hold such importance, but denying fact is most illogical. It would seem that this human has never been afraid of Spock's average-at-best skills in the telepathic persuasions.

"More than somewhat familiar," he amends, and receives an amused look in response. "Still, I am not unaware of the breach of privacy, particularly when I am not quite myself."

"That's fair enough." Kirk glances up as Spock rises, moving to the sturdy faux wood coffee table and sitting directly in front of him, only inches separating them. "But also, in the interest of full disclosure?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"You need to know that…well, past experience isn't going to prepare you, exactly," Kirk says slowly, looking anywhere and everywhere but Spock's eyes. "I told you once, right after the V'Ger encounter, I don't much like the person I become without you."

"Jim..."

"And I should have dealt with a lot of things over the last few months that I very much have been repressing, so if you want to wait until I –"

"I do not." Not when he is so close, so incredibly close, to finding answers that might, he suspects, be life-changing at this juncture. "And as I was the catalyst for the latter, I believe it is only just that I fully understand the ramifications of my actions."

"You need to be sure."

"I am."

He raises his right hand, carefully pulling memory to the fore in order to properly place his fingers in the correct position, and is struck once more by the almost dangerous regard this human has for him, to simply close his eyes and wait fearlessly for the connection. Very few sentient beings would be so trusting, and it is a not-inconsiderable gift.

"My mind to your mind."

He repeats the Standard phrase in Vulcan as well, and the words feel more natural and less foreign the longer he speaks. The connection seems to be readily available, almost fluid and effortless. Even before the full joining phraseology is uttered, he is –

---

Plunged headfirst and sprawling into a memoryscape so blindingly vivid in detail, that it is only with immense self-control he does not recoil and break the link out of pure instinct.

Spock's memories indicate that he has always been almost dangerously fascinated by the study in highly organized chaos which is this particular human's mind. Jim Kirk is far more intelligent than many of his jealous peers believe, and possesses an unusually vivid imagination as well as remarkable emotional control, at least for a human – all three, things which Spock is instinctively drawn to. His vibrant brain-world is so different from Spock's quite orderly, black-and-white school of thought as to be completely alluring, and a little terrifying. A fundamental, almost instinctual ease of compatibility only adds an additional layer to this complex joining, and his memory would indicate the experience is mutually enjoyable for both parties.

Such a thing is nearly unheard-of in Vulcan culture, at least with a non-Vulcan species; and rarely even, does such a connection occur for two full-blooded Vulcans. It would appear Spock has always felt at ease, almost at home, to use the human expression, in this human's mind, if his memory is to be believed.

But now?

Now, he flounders desperately to root the meld in something solid, anything solid, as a foundational visual is typically needed for stability. But all he can see, all he can sense, all he can feel…is pain.

A razor-sharp emotional tempest of fire and molten rock, crumbling cliffs and jagged steaming fissures, the wind overhead whirlwind-like and dangerous in its intensity. There is a stench of charred vegetation, a general aura of death and finality which permeates the air, cloying and nauseating. It is as if every cell in mind, body and soul is simultaneously screaming yet deathly silent, a tangled snarl of over-sensitized agony that swirls about, flaring and ebbing like a dark tide. One which could easily wash them both away, if he does not find control.

What is this?

Genesis, the word flickers against his consciousness, sounding small and nearly lost in the storm.

He does not remember this.

And perhaps, if the horrifying vision is accurate, that is a good thing.

But he cannot seem to find his footing here, and the gale rages with renewed intensity, sensing his struggle and immediately pressing the advantage. Then suddenly everything stops, flash-frozen in one strained moment of weightlessness and silence, giving him a single breath of air he had not realized was needed.

A fluttering sensation of rapid, struggling panic. Spock, if you can't anchor this, break the connection!

He is both taken aback by the lucidity of this communication, and completely shocked by the fact that clearly, what guidance is being exerted over their mind-joining is being performed by a human. It is a most impressive feat of mental control; and for the first time, something like awe flickers deep within, glowing warm and comforting amid the carnage.

But this moment of clarity will not last, and so he focuses, reaches out to anchor the meld in one of the last peaceful memories they share, before it all went wrong so many months ago. He plucks the image of his cabin aboard the now-destroyed Enterprise from a cloud of hazy recollection, and does his best to recreate the sense of comfortable companionship shared when he handed command over on that one last day. He has no frame of reference for this emotion personally, but the evidence is enough to replicate what he hopes is a passable imitation.

The flood of sheer relief as familiar walls come into focus around them is not imagined, and he mirrors it with brutal honesty.

I apologize for my lack of preparation, he sends out into the ether, feeling what must be the emotion of regret, and no little mortification, at not spending the appropriate time in researching potential effects of the situation. It could have been incredibly dangerous, for them both.

To be fair, I'm guessing it's more a lack of practice in similar circumstances, is the lighthearted response, though Spock senses a very strong mental guard in place, somewhere in the distance; it is not just his mental constructs which hold the storm at bay. And…I suppose, given what just happened, the healers were right about me.

You have always been a disruptive influence, Jim. That does not mean the disruption has ever been, or ever will be, unwelcome.

A sense of relief, threaded with something almost like embarrassment. I'll take your word for it.

They sit in the eye of the storm, but its influence will not remain absent forever. Spock takes the opportunity to shore up the fragile construct of visible space around them, adding details as he recalls them; his cabin furnishings, small trinkets on the shelves behind the desk, his meditation alcove, the soothing hum of warp engines below their feet.

But he stops unexpectedly, as he realizes for what might be the first time…that this place no longer exists, except in his memory.

The Enterprise is actually gone, forever. Her successor has been under construction for over a year now, but the original has been permanently destroyed. His decades of memories are all that remain of that beloved vessel which had for so long held a most remarkable crew together, both as one and separated across the galaxy.

In practicality, he has known this since the first week of his re-fusion; his father had carefully, and with what Spock thought at the time seemed to be undue emotional weight, outlined the price which had been paid to return his katra to its physical vessel.

But until now? He had not actually realized what this means, except as a static fact on record. What it…feels like, to assimilate such a visceral loss. Jim had always been quite clear about the fact that the ship would come first, in any crisis – and yet he had sent her to a fiery death without hesitation, to save them all one last time.

All, except Kirk's own son, Spock now absorbs with increasingly sharp, painful clarity. The loss is muted but still very evident across their brittle connection. David Marcus had been a very bright young man, full of life and promise, but he too had died with the Genesis planet and the unfortunate science vessel orbiting it.

So much loss, in so short a time. And for what?

The knowledge is staggering, as is the sudden, sickening realization that Spock himself is the cause for the pain being held at bay now. The unexpected sensation is a fissure in the impenetrable wall which seems to be holding any emotional connection at bay within his mind, and after a moment it becomes clear.

So this is what the emotion of guilt…feels like.

Oh, the realization dances against his frozen consciousness, agitated and intense. Oh, Spock, no. None of this was your fault, or even in your control. You saved us all, don't you remember?

My recollections of that day are hazy, at best. It is the weakest point of my reconstructed memory. May I see them?

Hesitation. We don't have to do this now.

Please. He needs to understand, if he is to move forward, past these unaccountable mental obstacles he is only now beginning to realize the scale of.

The walls of his cabin flicker, and melt away into the Enterprise's command bridge, hazed in smoke and ringing with shouted orders, damage reports. A feeling of euphoric triumph, of victory, and pride over this incredible crew, young and inexperienced as they are. They have actually won, against the odds.

The brusque, insistent chirp of a comm. Jim, I think you'd better get down here.

Turning on the instant to see an empty chair at the Science station, followed immediately by the sickening sensation of mounting dread as realization dawns like a dying sun. An all-encompassing sense of impending grief and loss…and the most painful, wrenching feeling of utter loneliness.

It takes Spock a moment to realize the last is not coming from this memory of months gone by, but is very present.

Jim?

Just…find what you need and be done with it, a resigned whisper before the mental presence somehow withdraws to a distance, evaporating like a wisp of smoke into the storm. I can't relive this more than once a night.

Running down red-lit corridors and taking every shortcut the ship offers, panic making it difficult to breathe. For the first time in a very eventful life, praying as he runs that he is wrong, but somehow knowing it is already too late. The swamping wave of despair as that fact is made all too clear once he reaches the smoke-hazed chaos of Engineering and, unthinking, has to be physically restrained by Scott and McCoy. Fighting them both blindly for a second, only one thought in mind.

"No! You'll flood the whole compartment!"

"He'll die!"

"Sir…he's dead already."

McCoy's voice, hoarse with grief and pain at what he's just witnessed, and what he knows is coming. "It's too late, Jim."

Spock does not precisely remember these last minutes of life with eidetic clarity, due to his failing physiology at the time; but perhaps that, too, is for the best. One is not meant to watch one's own death, such is a universal law. It is…disconcerting, and somewhat dissociating, to say the least.

He does remember asking if the ship was out of danger, because he must know if this final act is successful, and vaguely recalls a feeling of intense regret at the pain he is about to cause. But above all other emotions? Peace, knowing he has succeeded in the most important directive of his career. He has solved the Kobayashi Maru, and demonstrated the expected behavior of a Starfleet captain.

That knowledge is likely of little comfort to those he leaves behind, particularly to the man who taught him what being a captain truly means.

This simple feeling.

It is simple, and yet Spock has not felt it, or any other real emotion, since his return in the ceremonial temple on Vulcan. But now? Now, that jagged fissure seems to be steadily widening into a chasm of uncertainty. There is nothing simplistic about the sensations flooding his memory now, trickling like a stream of water in the course of least resistance down a mountainside. Filling the small gaps and crevices which had been void and empty, sweeping away the detritus of Vulcan indoctrination that had so impeded progress and threatening an avalanche of titanic proportions if not acted upon by outside factors.

I have been, and always shall be, your friend. Live long…and prosper.

No!

It is a silent scream of desperate anguish, a swamping wave of grief and despair so intense that it instantly and physically throws him out of the admittedly unstable mind-meld. His hand falls to the human's shoulder in shock as he rocks forward slightly, fingers tightening in the soft fabric, and the strangled gasp opposite shows Jim to be equally surprised.

The sensation is so overwhelming that his mind is stunned, unable to frame the feeling with any kind of accurate reference in recent time. How has he not felt any of this for the last three months? And how had this man felt it all, but never once betrayed such a level of pain to anyone else involved?

"Spock. Spock, are you all right?"

He blinks several times, trying to re-orient himself, to regain a normal respiration pattern; and finally manages to focus on the worried features of the human opposite. Jim reaches up to gently brush Spock's cheek with the back of his fingers, careful not to touch the psi-points and risk another connection. Spock realizes belatedly that his face is wet, a shattered mirror of heartache.

"Emotional transference," Jim says softly. "Unavoidable, I think."

"It would appear so," he replies, although in truth, it does not seem to actually be transference. This new sense of loss originates within his own mind, and the sensation is…indescribable. Aching, agonizing, all-consuming.

The death of something he did not even realize existed, until a moment ago.

"It's not all bad," Jim ventures, clearly picking up on his epiphany somehow. His smile is a brave but fragile thing. "Do you want to continue?"

"I believe I must," he answers, and at a nod of consent returns to the correct position.

This time, the meld flows flawlessly, without the traditional words even being spoken – something which technically should not be possible if one party is not Vulcan, but which is a much better indication of compatibility than their earlier, fraught connection.

Spock has no time to ponder this anomaly, because he is dropped once more onto the Enterprise bridge.

But this time, the lighting is minimal, and there is no chaos, no red alert, no aura of death and grief. Only a quiet, steadfast kind of hope and determination, fiercely protective loyalty, and the deep, abiding affection which only results from literal years of companionship and co-existence.

My friends, I can't ask you to go any further. Doctor McCoy and I have to do this. The rest of you do not.

A brilliant, capable crew willing to throw away their futures to guarantee his. There is absolutely no logic in the act, and yet they each came immediately when called; without question, without stipulation. Without any guarantee of success.

Why had Spock not quite understood this, until now?

Kirk, if you do this, you'll never sit in the Captain's chair again.

One last act of defiance, and it is clear they are all in agreement as the stars streak away into the ionic haze of their warp trail.

The scene slowly melts into the familiar sunset-hued topography of a late Vulcan evening, the fading scarlet light slanting through open windows onto worn flagstone floors. He sees the same group of humans, assisting his mother in preparation of an evening meal. They seem at peace, even cheerful, talking and apparently making theoretical plans for their futures. Or at least, pretending to.

"I mean, ethics aside, there's a certain logic in piracy."

"This is an option. I would look good in an eye patch, da?"

The meld's view-point appears to be the breakfast alcove, where, to Spock's shock, he sees his father actually seated opposite, a half-finished chess board between them. Jim appears to be paying far more attention to the kitchen than the game in front of him, and Sarek appears to be ruthlessly taking advantage of the distraction.

Since when…?

Amusement lingers at the edge of his consciousness, though it is shaded with a dark cloud of regret. Since he showed up uninvited in this very room, accused me of damning your soul, and demanded a mind-meld on the spot to see how I could have dared miss something so important.

Spock adds righteous indignation to the list of emotions he is far too rapidly becoming re-acquainted with.

I'm forever thankful he did, Spock. We would never have known what to do, or that there was anything to do, otherwise. And I would have lost you and Bones, both.

Be that as it may, he had no right. Particularly to invade your privacy with so little respect.

His son had just died under my command, Spock. The words are heavy, buried in an untold weight of guilt. He had every right.

I disagree.

Well, I agree to disagree. And he's made up for it since, in his own way. I think. He certainly seems to have had a change of heart where you're concerned, since we met.

In the kitchen, the clatter of dishes being put away regains Spock's mental attention.

"Aye, and we did already get a look into that mirror universe, 'twould be a mighty tactical advantage for goin' rogue."

"Also: Sexy wardrobe," Uhura offers, batting her eyelashes slyly.

"Oh, aye, there was that." Scott grins back at her with a meaningful wink.

When did that happen? Spock's blank confusion results in a warm burst of mental laughter, coupled with a flash of tenderness for this most loyal of crews.

I was as surprised as you, honestly. I have no idea.

Amanda glances to her right as she whisks something at the small stovetop unit. "Well, now I am quite curious to hear more about this particular adventure."

The sly side-eye causes McCoy to laugh from his position at the sink, where he stands amiably drying an earthenware pot with a dish-towel. "Spock had a beard," he drawls, grinning. "No one believes us when we say that was the weirdest part. Not the gray ethics or regular assassinations or Friday night knife fights among the crew, Spock's bad goatee was what tipped us off it wasn't our universe."

Spock's mother laughs, an unusual sound in a Vulcan household but not an unwelcome one, particularly after the events of the last few days.

But Spock is both dismayed and surprised that the doctor is so easily making light of the affair in question. The situations are not the same, but their method of delivery is too similar for his comfort. He had not had time to request consent for leaving his katra with McCoy; and while he cannot truthfully regret the action, nor is he entirely at ease with the circumstances.

You'll need to talk to him about that, Jim says, not unkindly, but firmly. But for what it's worth? I believe he, just like all of us, is only happy to have you back, however the process came about.

Happiness. A more elusive emotion, and one which Spock has very little experience with. Contentment and harmony are the Vulcan equivalent, and he cannot truthfully say he is in either state, not yet.

You'll get there. You have time, now.

It would seem so.

He feels a sudden and alarmingly strong surge of exhaustion not his own, and realizes their connection has likely gone too long, especially with neither of them at their physical or mental best. In addition, it has been far more taxing on Jim, as most of the memories being sifted through are his. A mind-meld should be a joined sharing, giving and taking. Spock has been doing nothing but taking.

It's fine, Spock. I'll spend all night doing this, if it helps you. God knows it may be my last chance, unless they let you visit me in prison.

It is the first time he has felt a strong enough urge to actually roll his eyes in the human fashion. If the 'Fleet is so foolish as to contemplate such an eventuality, both the Council and Jim are in for a very large surprise. Legal proceedings in the 'Fleet are notoriously laborious, and Spock's clan is not poor. He could with very little effort tie the case up in appeals for literal years, if required.

Also, Spock himself cannot be charged with a crime for at least a thirty-day period, Federation or otherwise, due to the fact that he is, quite literally, legally deceased; and undoing this incorrect declaration takes time. He would leave no visual or digital evidence, should more drastic measures (such as appropriating another, albeit much less conspicuous, starship and leaving no recorded flight plan) become necessary.

They have options, to say the least.

Jim's delighted reaction to this is like rain after a sandstorm, warm and cleansing and joyous. I've never been more proud to be such a disruptive influence.

Indeed. But we have lingered longer than I intended, Jim.

I can feel it, too. Did you at least find what you needed?

He waves a mental hand, and the walls of his ancestral home vanish, melting smoothly into the deep silver and gray and white of the Enterprise's observation lounge at ship's midnight. A few seconds to strengthen the scene, and then Spock phases physical representations of themselves into the room. From past experience, they have found that this helps ground their connection, and he now remembers that Jim actually prefers the visual aspect when communicating in this manner.

He is unsure from which of them comes the pang of fond nostalgia as they glance down at command gold and science blue. "Red never was our color, was it," Kirk observes ruefully, eyes sparkling.

Spock sends a flicker of amusement back across their link, and feels the hesitant smile in return.

"Not that I am unimpressed at the mental time-traveling, but it was a yes or no question, Mr. Spock," Jim adds, one eyebrow raised impertinently. "Why are we here?"

He steps over to the huge observation windows, looking out at the vast expanse of space, and the admiral follows suit. After only a moment of silence, there is a flicker of curiosity.

"Spock, if this is a memory, where are the stars?"

The void beyond their pocket of safety in this observation deck is indeed just that, a void; deep and dark and barren of those beautiful constellations and other phenomena which typically can be seen from these windows.

"It is not a memory, merely a visual representation, for the purpose of the meld."

"Representative of what?"

"The answer to your question," he replies, and a puzzled frown crosses the admiral's face. "Look closer, Jim."

Clearly confused, the man does so, and a moment later hums with interest. "So…not a total void, after all," he observes, indicating the single pinpoint of light twinkling in the very far distance. "The Vulcan equivalent of the North Star on Earth? A navigational constant, so to speak?"

He allows himself one small smile, because it is still confounding to him, how quickly they understand each other. And given their current shared mindspace, given the answer to his question…surely his intent is also relatively clear. However, of all people, this man deserves to hear the words.

"Correct. I believe there is an Earth poem which might better term it, a star to steer by."

An unsteady inhale. "What are you saying, Spock."

"I am saying…that I remembered your name before I remembered my own. And that, amid all else, and against all logic?" He raises a hand and in a sweeping gesture, the void before them fades into a rippling cascade of sparkling stars, fluid light-fractals dissolving in a warp trail. A colorful nebula, the streaking shine of a distant comet.

That one bold, bright star still fixed at the center.

"It has always been you, Jim."

---

The warning indicators had been genuine, and he should really have paid more heed, as once the meld is broken it is all too clear that the end of endurance has been reached, and likely overshot, by both of them.

"Easy, Spock, I got you. Can you let go of him for a minute?" Dr. McCoy's voice is firm and clear over the ringing in his ears. Strong hands catch him as he lists forward, slightly dizzy. "There we go. Head down if you need to, and take a deep breath for me."

He does so, and with it some of the residual confusion fades, bringing clarity to both his vision and his mind. Another inhale brings the realization that he is centimeters from falling off the coffee table on which he still sits. He blinks rapidly a few times against the lamplight haloing the doctor's head, trying to bring his mind back into full focus.

After another eight seconds, during which McCoy's thin fingers do not leave his radial pulse, Spock finally nods, indicating he is settled once more.

"Doctor, what –"

"I thought you two might do something stupid tonight," McCoy scolds him, though the tone is strangely affectionate. "You were in there too long, Spock. We talked about this."

"You talked, Doctor. My ability to feign attentiveness to your diatribes does not signify my agreement or compliance with them."

"Don't get smart with me, Spock."

Though the words are lighthearted, the physician's face is quite serious when he nods at the couch, where Jim Kirk is apparently fast asleep and deeply so, as he has not awakened during their conversation. While there are new traces of tears on his face, his expression is relaxed and untroubled, breathing deep and even. At peace for the first time in what Spock now knows is likely weeks, possibly longer.

"He's fine, he's just asleep."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, I'm certain." McCoy waves a pocket medical scanner at him in emphasis before setting the instrument on the table and shaking out the nearby afghan, draping it carefully over the sleeping figure. "No thanks to someone deciding the best time for a dangerously long mind-meld was at 0200, in the middle of the godforsaken night. Did we leave half your brain cells behind on Genesis?"

"Your detestation of wakeup calls earlier than 0800 is well-documented on Enterprise record, Doctor. However, I do not share your illogical aversion to morning productivity."

A slow smile of unadulterated delight spreads across the doctor's face, seemingly out of thin air.

Spock raises an eyebrow.

"Mr. Spock, you've somehow grown quite an attitude. And that's the first time you've called me illogical since you came back."

"The first time I have done so audibly, Doctor. Believe me, there have been many others."

"Well, don't hold back on my account from now on," McCoy retorts, clearly refraining from laughter in deference to their sleeping companion. After a moment, however, the amusement fades into something gentler. "So. Any more fascinating opinions on that non-Vulcan school of thought we were discussing earlier?"

---

While Spock had not believed himself in need of physical rest four hours previously, it would appear he had miscalculated, as he awakens now feeling far more in control, and far more at peace, than he can remember being in quite some time. The imbalance which has been a source of confusion for weeks has vanished, giving way to something lighter, and refreshingly calm. The feeling of being complete, being whole, is something he will not easily disregard again.

The uniform Sarek had left the night before is generic Starfleet-issue, but it will serve. No doubt, the Council were unprepared for the request, thinking he would attend the hearing, if at all, in civilian attire to avoid any semblance of association with those on the docket, as it is not logical to stand purely in solidarity. The jacket does not perfectly fit, but is quite close, and comfort is not the primary usage of the item, after all.

It will do.

Thus attired in his own version of armor, he exits the borrowed bedroom to face whatever the day holds.

If he is somewhat prepared for Doctor McCoy's irascible and vehement distaste for the early morning hours, he is not prepared to see the human sitting at the kitchen island beside his own father, both drinking tea and scrolling on data-padds in what, against all logic, appears to be a relatively comfortable silence.

This might be a time when a colorful metaphor is appropriate. It is as if he has walked into an alarmingly domestic mirror universe in which Sarek is actually a personable being toward any human not his wife. The contrast between present day and memory is most disconcerting.

But Spock is prevented from further inquiry when they both glance up to greet him. Eyes widening, McCoy's face drains of color, and he almost fumbles his mug back to the counter-top.

"Doctor, are you quite all right?"

The doctor clears his throat and nods reassuringly, though he appears to still be a little pale.

"Fine, Spock. It's just, well. Last time we saw you in that uniform…"

The Enterprise Medical team were removing it from his deceased body in order to dress his remains in Vulcan attire for the eulogy, according to his medical directives. He had not even given this a thought.

Clearly reading his expression, the doctor makes a quick interruptive gesture. "No no, don't change it, Spock, I just wasn't expecting it. That's all." The doctor's eyes flick across the island, but Sarek is now kindly ignoring the emotional display. "It's good to see you looking yourself again."

"Who else would I have looked like, Doctor?"

McCoy snorts, and mutters something unintelligible into his mug.

Behind them, Spock hears the disgruntled hiss of one cranky human waking up with the sun in his face, followed by a colloquialism snarled in pillow-muffled but flawlessly enunciated, very filthy Klingon.

He sees Sarek's left eyebrow rise slightly, duly impressed at the linguistics, and McCoy swallows a laugh, sliding off the tall chair and giving Spock a nudge in that direction. Whilst he has no significant desire to share such space with his father, it would be rude to refuse.

"You hungry, Spock?"

"Not particularly, Doctor."

"Sarek?"

"I have already broken my fast at the Embassy, Doctor. The gesture is appreciated but quite unnecessary."

"Well all right then, that's the limit of my Southern hospitality." The doctor pokes at the aging replicator, which beeps angrily and receives a solid thump to its casing for the defiance. "It's just a damn egg, you piece of – Morning, Jim."

The man in question leans against the refrigerating unit, hands pitifully over his face. "Coffee. Please."

"Sleep well?"

"I'll tell you when my head stops pounding." One bloodshot hazel eye peers out in surprise as a hot mug is shoved into his hands, having been kept on the warmer for the last ten minutes. "Marry me, Bones."

A distinct snort. "You should be so lucky."

"What time is it?"

"Just after 0700. The rest of the crew's supposed to come by anytime now, you'd better get moving. You should still have a headache reliever in your nightstand, take it before breakfast. Coffee is not breakfast," he adds, with unusual sternness. "Now shoo."

An incredulous look. "Did you just shoo me in my own home?"

"Sure did."

The responding snort is muffled in the depths of an already half-drunk coffee cup. Once lowered, Jim's brain is clearly returning to functionality, because he smiles broadly over the rim in the direction of the kitchen island. "Good morning."

"Sure, he gets a good morning," McCoy mutters, shoving past him to the breakfast alcove with his hard-earned eggs.

Kirk rolls his eyes fondly and returns his attention to the island, but soon stops, frowning in realization. "What, they couldn't be bothered to send over a full uniform? Where's your rank pin?"

Spock raises an eyebrow, as he does not quite understand the vehemence behind the question. The attire is a generic captain's uniform, and only an uninformed being would believe it otherwise. "I would presume the Human Relations department at Starfleet Headquarters had far more pressing concerns yesterday evening than requisitioning unnecessary accessories, Jim. The generic will serve well enough on casual inspection."

"You died for our ship, Spock, they could have the decency to acknowledge it." The coffee mug hits the counter with a dull thud and the admiral vanishes down the hallway, leaving a somewhat startled silence behind.

"He did ask for permission to go to Genesis, before resorting to absconding with the flagship. They said no. I'm sure he's still mad about it." The doctor punctuates the declaration with the loud crunch of what looks like a very overdone piece of toast.

Why, precisely, had Spock ever made this most annoying human secondary choice in the event of na'Tha'thhya? It was a most illogical decision, even if by necessity.

But he does not have the time to respond properly, as Jim returns a moment later with a small polished red box in hand, which he sets on the island before removing the lid. Inside lies his own captain's rank insignia, retired years ago after accepting the position of admiral.

"It's an older model," he says quietly, eyes crinkling in a smile. "But a second lease on life seems appropriate, don't you think?"

The metaphor is perhaps a trifle clumsy, but not unwelcome, for all that. Fortunately, the human's eyes are on his shoulder rather than his face, as Spock suspects he is dangerously close to a most unVulcan display he does not want to be seen by his extremely Vulcan father.

However, his expression is under control again by the time the task is finished.

"There, that's better," the admiral declares, giving the pinned captain's insignia a gentle pat and stepping back to inspect his work, then moving it a millimeter to the right before finally being satisfied with the result.

"Thank you, Jim."

Kirk's smile brightens the whole room.

The effect is promptly ruined by another loud crunch of blackened toast, whereupon both look over at the breakfast alcove incredulously.

"Sorry," McCoy drawls, looking completely unrepentant, and waves a chirping comm-link at them. "But you're doing that forgetting-other-people-are-in-the-room thing again, and the crew's on their way upstairs. Go change, Jim."

The admiral's face turns a slightly lighter shade than the uniform jacket, and he disappears without another word.

"Your mother sends her good wishes for the day ahead, Spock," Sarek finally speaks, clicking the power button on his data-padd and making a point to ignore any and all emotional expression in his vicinity. "I presume you will be restricted from the morning's briefing for a full Medical examination, but if you find yourself free of obligation, I will be at your disposal at the Embassy until the time of this afternoon's hearing."

"Acknowledged."

"Transport to Starfleet Headquarters will arrive in precisely twenty-two minutes, Doctor. Is that sufficient time?"

"We'll be ready. And thank you, for arranging all of this. Lord knows it's going to be difficult enough getting out of here."

"I have volunteered to, I believe the phrase is, serve as a distraction, upon departure from the building," Sarek explains, when Spock's confusion is evident. "There are still journalists lingering just outside the main lobby. I will depart through the front, you and your crew-mates through the side entrance."

"That is most kind of you."

"Indeed." Vague amusement threads the tone. "It is logical."

The door chimes, and a moment later Spock is somewhat overwhelmed by a veritable horde of humanity as they crowd into the small kitchen area, talking cheerfully and appropriating what is left of the coffee, Doctor McCoy's stack of charcoaled toast, and whatever else they can coax out of the replicator.

"Good morning," Commander Uhura says with a sweet smile, taking Sarek's seat as he removes himself from the island (and its surrounding throng of humans). "You look better this morning, sir, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I do not. I trust you were able to obtain sufficient rest?"

She tilts her head, searching his expression, and the smile widens. "Small talk, Mr. Spock? That's…a first, recently at least."

"I am perhaps now in more complete cognizance of societal expectations, Commander."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?" she asks innocently.

Montgomery Scott clunks a full tea mug in front of her, and offers Spock a wide grin over top of his own. "She's not wrong, sir, y'look more…comfortable, this morning. In your own skin, and, well. Here. So to speak." He gestures vaguely at the cozy apartment.

"Your powers of observational specificity continue to be unmatched, Mr. Scott." His dry reply earns him a twin splutter of indignation and feminine giggle.

"Where is Doctor Taylor?"

"She's already in her own debrief, although I think it was with Sciences, not Command. They're too glad to have an expert on a new species to really care how she got here, I think. Likely turning a blind eye to the broken temporal directive."

"That is fortunate."

"Aye, an' let's hope we are equally fortunate," Scott replies fervently, raising his mug.

"Bones, I can't read your damn handwriting, can you –" Uniform jacket unfastened and dark-rimmed reading glasses askew on his nose, Jim Kirk halts for a half-second as he belatedly registers the number of people in the room, then pulls the glasses off with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Good morning?"

He receives a chorus of warm responses, and their enthusiasm seems to only fluster him further.

McCoy takes pity on him. "Give it here, Jim." The hypospray is passed into a waiting hand. The doctor adjusts the dose expertly and tosses it back.

"Thanks. I'll just…be a minute, gentlemen."

Once the bedroom door has again shut, Sulu turns to McCoy. "I'm not imagining that, am I? I can't remember the last time he smiled, not like that."

"Da, it has been months. This is good."

"Aye, a good start to the day, for sure."

Part-way through the brief discussion of the morning's itinerary which ensues, Spock quietly slips away and taps on the bedroom door. It immediately opens, unlocked, and he sees the balcony doors are thrown wide to the crisp morning. A cool, wet breeze wraps around him as he moves across the room, bringing with it the sounds of early morning commuters and the steady dripping of rain-soaked eaves.

"Jim?"

The man in question is standing on the covered balcony at loose parade rest, staring almost unseeing out at the glistening view of the 'Bay. At this time, the sun is beginning to rise above the horizon line, slowly dissipating the fog in the streets below. The sound of increasing traffic drifts upward on the wind.

When Spock's voice breaks the quiet, Kirk seems to start, coming back to himself, and passes a hand briefly over his face before turning around.

"I could sense you were in distress," Spock explains with some hesitance. "I apologize if this is an invasion of privacy, we have not discussed –"

"No, no. Not at all. It just hit me, suddenly."

"To what do you refer?"

"First: Don't get me wrong, Spock, I have no regrets about any of this," is the quiet but emphatic response. "And Bones keeps telling me not to manifest the worst-case scenario, stop preparing for a bad outcome. But…well. I really, really do not want to lose any of it, not after everything we've been through." He clears his throat unsteadily. "But I just might, and the possibility terrifies me."

Spock contemplates for a moment before speaking. "If memory serves, I presented you with a copy of A Tale of Two Cities on the morning of your last birthdate."

Jim appears to be fighting a sudden fit of laughter. "Am I missing a causal link between the two facts, or does your memory just have a black hole where empathy used to be?"

His lips twitch in equal amusement. "The former. I am in remembrance of a line which might be pertinent: There is prodigious strength in sorrow and despair."

"I don't quite follow you."

"Even the strongest of beings is permitted to feel fear, Jim. And you are the strongest human of my acquaintance, more so in the light of recent events."

Color rises in the human's face. "We might need to widen your sphere of contact if that's the case, Spock."

"Perhaps. But I would stand by my observation, nonetheless."

"We did have the best of times, didn't we?" The tone is somewhat wistful.

"There is no need to use the past tense. I have seen you defy odds that are, both statistically and metaphorically speaking, quite impossible. I do not see any evidence to suggest this instance will be the exception to the rule."

"Believing with all our souls that we shall see triumph, hm? That is a very…human sentiment, Mr. Spock. I think we might be corrupting your perfect Vulcan re-integration. Your healers would be horrified."

"I find myself unbothered by this."

A quick expulsion of breath that might be a laugh, might be something else, and Kirk steps forward, hands gripping Spock's shoulders and eyes flashing intensely, all banter forgotten. "Promise me, Spock. If this goes sideways for me today, if they –"

"I will see to the safety of all hands, Jim. If and when it becomes necessary," he replies, with infinite gentleness. "You have my word."

The grip tightens for just a moment before releasing him. "I know I do. But I needed to hear it, just one more time. Thank you. Th'i-oxalra."

Spock's expression clearly betrays him, because he receives an exasperated sigh.

"It's getting better!"

"You had nearly twelve weeks to avail yourself of full-immersion practice, Jim. It is not getting better."

"Well. You're just going to have to live with it now, aren't you?"

---

Footnotes

Italicized lines in the last section are from A Tale of Two Cities, as is the title

Katra-klashausu = keeper of the katra

Kash-nohv = mind-meld

Na'Tha'thhya = the transfer of a katra

Th'i-oxalra = I appreciate it