— Chapter Sixteen —
— Mastevau —
It felt as if he were sick for hours.
Spock did not feel his knees impact the ground—although they surely must have, for he found himself doubled over on the floor in space between one retch and another. It felt like fire as he vomited; bile choking from him with desperate, gasping sounds. His abdomen spasmed, the muscles contracting and clenching from the force, and he gripped tightly to the bowl to steady himself. The scent was cloying, disgusting; it rendered him so nauseated that he could no longer be certain whether he was vomiting from the sick sensation of his stomach, or if he was vomiting from the sick sensation of vomiting. A vicious cycle, one he was powerless to stop. He tried to hold it back, but his body and his control failed him. Each retch was like gravel; the stomach acid burning the inside of his throat and mouth. It stung. His eyes watered.
Over and over again (Again and again—) (Again and again—) (Again and again—), he heaved, only able to suck in short, wheezing gasps of air in the scant few seconds between each round. It was repulsive, this betrayal of his body. It was vile. An indignity that Spock could not suppress; each attempt was met with the shock of his stomach convulsing. Eventually, nothing but sound and saliva escaped him, and still his muscles fought to continue purging what was no longer there. He was a Vulcan; emesis of this kind was atypical. The evolution of his people had adapted to the scarcity of nutrients in the harsh desert environment, and vomiting was considered a wasteful process. He was not suffering from illness. He was not suffering from injury. He did not understand. This was not a logical reaction to emotional strain, as it lacked any purpose or reason. It did not solve problems, nor did it assist in easing the lingering dread from the debrief. He should have been above this level of debasement. He should have had control.
There was a sudden pressure—the sensation of something or someone touching him. A hand. A hand pressed against his back, and Spock flinched away from it instinctively. Terror swelled, just as tangible and sour as the stomach acid had been. If he accidentally made skin contact with another, he would be incapable of pulling himself from their mind. His barriers were gone—destroyed, ruined. He'd enter their head unwillingly, an invasion of both their privacy and his own. His consciousness would rush into them like an unrelenting flood, and they would not be able to stop him. He would not be able to stop himself…
"Alright, that's it." A voice said from above. Spock felt the hand return despite his efforts to dodge it; it patted him firmly but gently on the mid-point of his back. Movement at his side, a shadow falling over him. "Better to let it all out now and get it over with. You're gonna be fine, Spock. When you feel you can, take some deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth; it'll help with the nausea. There you go, with me now…"
Spock choked on his next breath, attempting to comply with the instructions so that this suffocating feeling in his chest would ease. The over-exaggerated demonstration in his right ear was grating, but it was also impossible to ignore or drown out by even his own racing pulse. He recognized the voice—recognized who it belonged to. A taut, anxious tension inside him eased at the familiarity of it, at the measured, patient confidence in every word. It was for that reason that his next breath came easier, and the one after that even more so. Spock trusted that calm, dependable voice to get him through this, because it did not lie. If it said he would be fine, then he would be.
The hand didn't move from his back, still drumming a steady, even beat. It did not touch bare skin, and there was no true transference of minds, yet even through the fabric of his uniform tunic, he felt a warm echo of concernworrycareaffection. Spock found himself relaxing beneath the wave of it, even as he tried to raise his broken shields to block it out.
The muscles straining to keep himself upright loosened, growing slack from the releasing tension. He did not fall, however. The hand lingered on his back for another few comforting beats before moving, becoming a warm arm wrapping around his shoulders to support him. After a moment, Spock allowed himself to be tugged and guided to lean against the tile wall, queasy and faint. There was the brief sound of running water, of a cabinet being opened and closed, of movement in the room. Something cold and wet pressed against his cheek. Spock tilted his head away from it, uncomfortable, but it followed insistently.
"Stop squirming."
Experience taught him it that fighting this would prove futile, and so he obediently held still. The damp cloth ran over his skin, cleaning remnants of bile from his lips and wiping down the skin of his brow with gentle, even strokes. It was not pleasant—too chilled for his preference—but he found the care with which it was done undeniably soothing.
Slowly, tiredly, Spock opened his eyes.
"Just came to check and see how you're holding up, Spock, but going by the look of it, I'm gonna guess you're somewhere between not great and feeling like death. Can't say I'm all that surprised; that whole thing was a goddamn disgraceful mess and a half. Made me want to puke too," Doctor McCoy told him from where he was knelt at Spock's side. The doctor examined him from head to toe, and there was a dangerously perceptive look in his assessing eyes. He made a thoughtful noise. "In hindsight, I probably should have. Might have put a stop to that circus a whole lot sooner if I'd sprayed down the lead clown."
The room swayed, tilting and rolling in a manner that left him nauseated all over again. Spock blinked to try to see past it, to get control over himself. He was not alone. He could not risk humiliating himself with another episode; not in front of McCoy, who astutely knew him enough to spot his subtle tells. Not that, he reflected blearily, he had much dignity remaining; there was little composure to be found in being discovered in such a state of illness. The scent of bile was still cloying and sick in the air, even after it had been flushed away with a too-loud roar of pipes.
"Drink." A cup of water pressed to his lips. Spock sipped at it to rid his mouth of the taste, and then turned his head away. If he swallowed much, he felt certain he would vomit again. Already, even that small amount of water sat in his stomach like a heavy stone. "You know, we're going to have to have a talk soon about what you're eating—and by that, I mean what you're not eating. Pretty sure that was all just stomach acid and tea coming up."
Spock hummed noncommittally, head resting against the wall. That was not a conversation he intended on having any time soon. McCoy had done his best to personally monitor Spock's meal intake during his incarceration in sickbay, but despite his hovering, there had been little actual food consumed. He'd managed to avoid most planned meals by using the time-honored tradition of feigning sleep. The thought of consuming anything had been intolerable, although there was a logical explanation for the fasting. It was a natural physiological response to times of great stress; one meant to lighten the body for movement and heighten mental clarity for strategizing. Finding suitable nutrition was not guaranteed in times of survival, and when the mind was under strain, it was considered an expendable action. It was logical to dedicate all available mental and physical reserves to that which might bring about an end to the stress, rather than expend valuable energy on finding sustenance and potentially prolonging the situation by doing so. He could not explain that to McCoy, however, without admitting that he was under what his body considered to be great stress.
As well, eating lack appeal when he so often felt nauseous lately.
"Feeling any better?" The doctor didn't appear to be expecting any kind of response, because he continued without waiting—which was satisfactory, as Spock was not feeling any better at all.
Spock could only blink at him, too drained to say anything in return. He felt so… tired. Already, his eyes were beginning to close, and he thought it entirely possible that he could fall asleep here on the floor. He might have even done so, too, except that McCoy did not allow him the space or silence with which to make the attempt.
"No? We'll just play it by ear, then. You let me know if you start feeling sick again, and I'll get you back in here stat. I doubt you got much left in your stomach, though, since you probably didn't have much even beforehand—which is going to be addressed. Now, move your arm around me, just like that. Good, on three…" Doctor McCoy ducked beneath his arm before Spock could try to shift his sluggish limbs, and, with a surprising amount of strength, he hefted him up to his feet. The room spun, darkening at the edges, and Spock swayed there, sagging against the doctor almost bonelessly before he forced his legs to lock. Control…
"I am… fine, Doctor," he attempted to say. His voice was harsh and rasping from the burn of stomach acid. It hurt to speak. He kept his hands tucked in close to minimize the risk of skin contact. "I am merely—"
"No, Spock, I don't want to hear it," McCoy said gently, already leading him out of the room in small, supportive steps. Spock wanted to pull away, to assert his composure, to assert his control, but he suspected that if he left the security of the doctor's grip, he would be at considerable risk of falling. He was forced to make a quick judgement call on what would be more damning to his pride: to end up on the ground, or to be led like a child. His legs were shaky beneath him, barely supporting his weight. His entire body was shaking, he realized with dull, muted dismay. McCoy had seen him ill enough times before to know this was abnormal, and it stood to reason that he now knew Spock was compromised in other ways. "Just be quiet. No more excuses for a little bit, alright? Here we are, easy now…"
The sight of his own bed had never looked so tempting. Spock willingly surrendered this sliver of pride in favor of allowing McCoy to lower him to the mattress. The sensation of laying down, of rolling onto his side so his throbbing head was pressed against the pillow, was pleasant nearly to the point of bliss. The room continued to tilt and spin around him, but this, at least, felt stable. A small, comfortable raft in an ocean of tumultuous vertigo. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let himself float away…
The washcloth pressed against his jaw.
Spock cracked an eye open, irritated.
"You may go, Doctor," he murmured with as much affronted dignity in his voice as he could manage. "I require no further assistance and I wish to rest. Furthermore—"
"Nice try, but I'm not through with you just yet. You can sleep after I'm done."
"—my doors were locked," Spock continued, as if the doctor had not spoken. He arched an eyebrow, fixing McCoy with a tired look of expressionless disapproval. His voice was still hoarse, little more than a croak of sound, and it lacked the power to back up his words. "Locked doors are often indicative of a desire for privacy."
"Not to me they aren't. Certainly not with that green breadcrumb trail you left on the way here. And as for privacy… hell, Spock, you're lucky I'm not dragging you down to sickbay right now," the doctor told him, raising a mocking eyebrow in mimicry of the same sour look he was being given. He seemed otherwise unfazed at being called out for abusing his override codes. Unsurprising, Spock thought uncharitably, as the doctor often saw fit to ignore boundaries, as well as common decency and manners. "And don't think for a second that I'm not considering it, too. I'd be justified to put you under medical observation for a whole 'nother week after walking into this show, except…"
The doctor was attempting to goad him into a response, purposely trailing his voice in such a way as to imply there was a second part to the statement that he wished to be prompted on revealing. Spock did not wish to cooperate. He remained silent, staring at McCoy balefully, and being stared back at in return, for approximately thirty seconds before concluding that McCoy would not leave without asserting his point—whatever that point might be. If it would encourage him to leave that much sooner, there was some sense to conceding this battle, exasperating though the defeat was to his dignity.
"… Except?"
"Except that I'm pretty sure the cause of all this isn't strictly medical, and I've got to weigh the potential risk-benefit ratio of holding you under psychological evaluation."
Spock tensed, snapping from drowsy to alert with such stunning force. Panic—pure and stark and freezing—surged through his veins like acid. His pulse raced; heart so frantic in his side that he thought it might burst. He ignored the hand pressing on his chest as he attempted to sit up, to do—he wasn't certain what to do. Conceivably to make clear that he was well, that he was competent, that he was not at risk. No. No. He would not allow this to happen; he could not. Such a level of monitoring would go into his medical file permanently. His shame, his inability to control his emotions, his lapse of discipline, it would be documented for any medical staff, current or future, to examine at their own pleasure. He would be exposed, vulnerable, displayed—like an exhibit. It would be unbearable…
"Doctor, you—"
"Hold on, I'm not finished," Doctor McCoy watched him carefully, shoving him back to the bed less-than-gently. He pulled a chair over from the corner with a loud screech of sound, and took a seat close to his bedside, peering thoughtfully at him. His blue eyes were concerned, but focused, intent. "You're in luck, Mr. Spock. I believe that taking that kind of step right now might just do you more harm than good… but only just." He took up the washcloth again, folding it and pressed it to Spock's forehead as he leveled him an even look. "The way you've been lately—the vomiting, your hands, the blood all over the turbolift—it doesn't inspire in me much confidence of your good health, I can tell you that much."
"You have no grounds to sanction me to sickbay, Doctor McCoy," Spock said to him, words clipped and nearly barking. Alarm, fear, and shame sharpened his tone, until he was nearly snapping them out. "You cleared me for duty only eight-point-three-seven-two hours ago, and there has been no significant lapse in my performance during that time with which to validate such a drastic measure. Appearance aloneis not justification for a mandatory hold, nor is one instance of emesis. You have attended to more severe ailments without placing that patient under psychological evaluation. Therefore, as I can only infer your reasoning as originating from a personal bias of my Vulcan heritage, you have no legal basis for—"
"It's got nothing to do with your Vulcan heritage, and you damn well know it, so you can shut right up about that!" McCoy snarled back, nostrils flaring. His expression of calm patience had been traded for one of long-suffering irritation and simmering, self-righteous exasperation. "I don't want you in my sickbay either, Spock, because I'm downright sick of you side-eyeing my every move at all hours of the day and being the target of your never-ending complaints of boredom! And I'm also sick of Jim haunting my doorway with that hangdog expression of his because you aren't trailing around after him like a second shadow! But, more than anything, what I'm really sick of is the lying! You aren't well, Spock, so if you want to avoid a mandatory hold, you're going to have to start being real honest with me about what's going on with you. And that honesty starts now, understand?Not later, not tomorrow, not next week—right now." McCoy did not wait for him to respond before continuing, voice mellowing only slightly. "We need to talk about what happened down there on Seskilles—"
"I sufficiently covered that topic during the debrief; there is nothing else that need be said about it," Spock interrupted bitingly. He wished the room did not feel so far away, because the distance made his speech difficult, stilted. His throat stung. His eyes stung. He struggled to breathe evenly. "If you have further inquiries on the matter, you may submit them succeeding my formal written summation of events."
"I just found you vomiting your guts up, Spock, so you're damn right that I've got questions! If this whole thing's got you so frazzled that you're puking…"
"This illness was a minor physical ailment, Doctor, nothing more. I shall be adequate after rest, of which you are currently keeping me from."
"Don't get snippy now, I'm trying to—" The doctor took a deep breath, swiping a hand down his face as he shook his head. When he spoke next, his voice held a tone of forced calm. "Look, I know I said that I wasn't gonna pry, Spock, and I meant that… but after what I heard, I can't just let it be. It'd go against everything I stand for, both morally and medically." Doctor McCoy watched him with a worried gleam in his eyes, compassion and concern apparent even through his annoyance. Spock wished he would look away; he was so tired of being watched. "You know that, right? For what it's worth, Spock, I'm sorry; I know much you value your privacy. I tried to be respectful about it, but it's clear now that giving you space is hurting you, and I can't ignore that. So, it's time that you and I had a serious, honest conversation about what—"
"We do not—"
"Christ, will you hold your damn horses and stop interrupting—"
"I do not understand what equine beasts have to do with this," Spock aimed a narrow look his way, expressing his wholehearted disapproval with as much grim stoicism as he could summon. "I am—"
"You're not fine, Spock! This isn't fine! And that's fine, I'm not asking you to be! No one is—not me and not Jim!" McCoy huffed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if searching for patience there. Spock struggled to follow the sentence; to decipher the various definitions in the tonal emphasis. Why did humans not simply say what they meant in a clear and concise manner? Their words were needlessly disjointed. "Alright, here's what's going to happen. We're going to have that talk now, and you're going to participate in it, dammit, or I will be dragging you to sickbay by the tip of your pointed ear, understand?" The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving an overexaggerated sigh. "Jesus, it's like pulling teeth with you, I swear to god."
"I do not wish to discuss this with you."
"Great, then who do you want to discuss it with? M'Benga? Jim? I'll comm 'em over right now." McCoy pursed his lips, sniffing dismissively when Spock did not answer. "Yeah, thought so. Well, since you're stuck with me, I'll get right into it. You're right, you covered the Seskilles VII thing pretty thoroughly during that absolute joke of a debrief—but you wanna know what I found really interesting about it? It wasn't what you were saying, so much as what you weren't saying. You said you weren't immediately receptive to contact, but that blocking it proved unsuccessful? I can read that implication clear as day. There's a word for that kind of pressure, Spock. It's—"
"I am aware of the word, Doctor. It is not applicable in this instance. You are misinterpreting my statement and are therefore operating under a flawed perception of events. You are in error."
"I swear, Spock, if you keep interrupting me, I'm gonna get my sleeping bag and camp out here the rest of the night, 'cause I'm not leaving until we've had this out, no matter how much deflection you try to pull! In what way am I in error?"
"You are allowing your emotional reactions to get in the way of your reason."
The doctor let out a short, incredulous huff of laughter. Despite that, he neither looked nor sounded amused in the slightest.
"No, I don't think I am, not this time. See, I was watching you real closely, and you're a good actor, Mr. Spock, but not so good that I can't see right through you. I'd like to think I know you pretty well these days—well enough to know when you're completely full of it." Doctor McCoy took a breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out slowly in a loud, embellished rush of air. The frustration drained from his expression visibly, and he shoved the cloth against Spock's brow again, mopping the skin there as if he required something to distract his hands with. "Right," he continued after a long pause, "Right, I forget sometimes that you're new to this sorta thing—having these big ol' messy feelings talks. Sorry, I know it's uncomfortable for you; I'll help you through it. See, when someone does something to you against your will, something that hurts you, I consider that a pretty big problem, Spock. And as both your doctor and your friend, it's not a problem that I can just ignore."
Spock remained silent, looking anywhere but at the doctor. He felt frozen to the bed; paralyzed. His heart pounded an anxious thrum in his side, his head throbbed, his ribs ached, his throat was tight. He wanted to hide so that McCoy's piercing, observant eyes couldn't stare at him any longer. He felt too exposed. Logically, he knew that this conversation would not be put off for long. The doctor was determined to have it regardless of his protests. Spock would simply have to get through it with as much dignity as he could.
Control.
"It was not against my will, Doctor," Spock attempted to explain, clearing his throat to find a steadier voice. He rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling, so as to block out McCoy's unnerving examination of him. The hand retreated from his forehead as he did so, leaving behind the damp cloth, and he couldn't help but notice that not once had the doctor made skin-to-skin contact with him. That was… kind. Considerate. He felt a surge of gratitude, even as the feeling left him exhausted all over again. "I allowed the Seskille into my head. I assure you, I gave them my full permission and consent."
"Really? Was that before or after they'd already broken in?" McCoy challenged him carefully, observation never wavering as he took in each and every reaction Spock fought to avoid giving. Spock said nothing—could say nothing—but it did not appear as though the doctor were waiting for him to respond as, after a moment, he continued on. "As for consent… sure, that's as good a starting place as any, I guess. Alright, tell me something, Spock. Yes or no answers only. Trying to block them from your mind… was that uncomfortable?"
He debated whether to humor the doctor in his question, or whether he could somehow avoid answering. A quick glimpse over at the hawkish eyes resolutely peering at him convinced him that no, he could not avoid it. Or, at the very least, he could not justify doing so. McCoy's threat about camping in his quarters to wait him out was made falsely, but his threat to haul him to sickbay by force had not been. If he declined to answer, the doctor would not wait him out; no, Spock would be under medical watch within the hour. That had not been a lie.
"Yes," Spock finally said, directing his response to the ceiling.
"Was it painful?"
"Mildly."
"Yes or no, Spock."
(The Seskille reached into him again, like picking at a specimen with sharp tweezers, and ripped—)
"Yes."
"Were you able to block out the pain?"
"No."
"Did you ask them to stop?"
(The Seskille did not stop. They did not understand the word stop. They did not fully understand what words even were.)
"Yes."
"And did they?"
(They were… not going to stop.)
Spock thought this over, contemplating what to say. It felt… unfair to cast them into the role of violent aggressor, when they had done so unintentionally. He knew they had not meant to harm him, and it was not their fault that they had lacked the context of pain. They had only been able to cause him pain at all on account of his inability to suppress his own emotions. "They did not understand the—" he began, before halting his explanation. McCoy had not asked for one. "No."
"Did it still hurt after you let them in?"
(It was painful, but only because it felt so good. There was the sensation of pure relief, like a cool compress against an injury, as he stopped resisting against them.)
(Assault had never felt so good…)
"No."
"Good job," McCoy patted him on the arm and Spock risked a glance at him, optimistic that this humiliating conversation was at an end. That did not appear to be the case; the doctor only shifted in his chair to make himself comfortable. Resignation sank into him like a stone. "See? You're doing just fine."
"Please leave my quarters, Doctor." He did not feel just fine. He felt weak, vulnerable, ashamed, and unmasked. He felt stripped.
"Not just yet. One last question. When you let them in, did you actually want to?"
(Please, he wanted to beg, if begging would have done anything at all. Please stop doing this to me.)
(He was tired of fighting. He was so tired. It was easier in the long run if he simply gave in.)
(The Seskille watched, curious and so truly happy, as his worst memory was laid out for their pleasure, over and over again. Forcibly repeated, forcibly endured.)
(Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.)
(He felt their joy. He felt his own self-loathing. He felt their happiness. He felt sick.)
(Assault had never felt so good…)
(Jim died in front of him again.)
"No." His voice came out as a quiet, painful rasp. The air around him felt suffocating; the muted, dark colors of his quarters pressing in on him like a physical, tangible weight. His chest burned and shuddered. He could hear the audible hitch to his next breath, and he dug his nails dug in deeply to his palms to try to regain some level of composure. He stared straight at the ceiling, forcing his expression to go slack, indifferent, blank. Control. Control. Control. He could concern himself with the turbulence of his emotions at a later time; all that mattered now was his outward appearance. He was a Vulcan. This was illogical. There was nothing wrong for him to be reacting this way. He was not hurt. He was not ill. He was not under attack.
… He felt like he was under attack.
The cold cloth dropped to cover his eyes and Spock flinched, startled by the chill of it. He could not raise a verbal protest, nor physically move to discard it; he felt paralyzed. He did not have the opportunity to try to fight through it, either, as a hand came to rest on his chest. It did not press on him—did not hold him down; it simply lay there as a solid weight against his sternum. Steady, grounding pressure.
McCoy hushed him gently. "Take a few minutes."
"I do not… need—"
"It's alright, Spock. Shh… you did fine. Just rest a second."
Spock could not have said how long it took. His internal chronometer was skewed, incorrect, and he felt lost to the inevitable forward passage of time around him. Minutes, hours, days—they were foggy, vague concepts as he lay there. He could only be certain of the firm weight of McCoy's hand on his chest, the sound of the human-measured breathing in the room, and the way his body, after so much and so little time had passed, began to relax. He exhaled slowly, fingers clenching and then unclenching. His stomach no longer churned, his heart no longer raced in his side, and, after a while, the panic began to ebb like the sea calling back the tide.
Eventually, once he felt confident in his ability to move without shaking, he lifted a hand and pulled the cloth from his eyes. Doctor McCoy watched him with an eagle-like vigilance, but his blue eyes were empathetic and warm.
"How are you doing? Better?"
He nodded once, uncertain if he could trust his voice to remain level.
"Good, that's good." McCoy leaned in, his expression growing determined, with a steely kind of strength. "Now, you listen to me, Spock, and you listen well. I don't know what's going on in that thick head of yours, but you didn't do anything to cause this, understand? Not a damn thing. Making it easier on yourself to survive something terrible isn't giving them permission to do what they did to you. Don't you think, not for even a second, that you allowed them to hurt you just by no longer protesting it. You didn't let them in; you didn't let them do anything. You had to make an impossible choice to protect yourself, for the sake of your own sanity. And since you're still here, that was the right call to make—maybe even the only one. But don't you mistake that as consent, Spock. That's not permission, that's coercion."
Spock met his gaze, distantly viewing the conviction and seriousness in it. There was a low buzzing in his ears. He felt drained. He felt sick. He felt like he wanted to curl into a ball and sleep forever. He was so very tired—of McCoy, of the Seskille, of this conversation, of himself…
Objectively, he understood the motivation behind making such a speech. To assume that his experience was tantamount to—… it was a logical extrapolation to make. The doctor would have received training on the physical and psychological consequences such a brutal act would naturally result in, and he was trying to apply that training now. Spock admired the effort, even while at the same time aware that it was being done in vain. That knowledge, although of immeasurable value to the specific circumstance it applied to, was useless here. The two situations were simply not equivalent.
Doctor McCoy was not a Vulcan. He was not telepathic. He did not understand—had no possible capacity for understanding what this had done. Spock wished that it had been physical, as the doctor might have been able to fix it. The problem was not, however, and so he could not.
It was not his fault, but it was… unfortunate. Leonard McCoy was the first, and quite possibly only, medical professional that Spock had ever allowed himself to trust. He had come to rely on the doctor's proficiency more than he'd ever admit aloud, and the fact that he could not lean on it now was unpleasant. He had never felt like an experiment under McCoy's care—had never felt as if he were seen and found lacking. The doctor had some inherent quality about him that made Spock feel as if he were a whole person; not half-human, not half-Vulcan, not an engineered hybrid, but acomplete, singular being with sentience and purpose and worth. It was a rarity among the medical community, among any community, and this particular human was all the more precious to him because of it. There was a comfort to be found in his endless capacity for empathy; Spock had never found the likes of it elsewhere. He understood, although the sense of vulnerability and indignity made him naturally reticent to ask, that he could trust the doctor to help him if he ever required it.
But Doctor McCoy could not help him with this.
"Spock…" McCoy sighed, leaning back in his chair as if drained. Spock remained silent, viewing the doctor through an increasing veil of detachment. "I need to make sure you understand that what happened wasn't your fault, because I get the sense that you're somehow blaming yourself, and you shouldn't be. You didn't ask for it and you didn't want it. Whatever you had to do to survive was what you had to do; they didn't give you any other choice. You had limited options, and so you made the one that would get you back home. That's logical."
It was kind of McCoy to try to appeal to his sense of logic. If only he had any left.
"It was not their fault either, Doctor. It was an… unfortunate occurrence, but they are not guilty of what you imply. They had no malicious design," Spock said to the ceiling. "They simply did not understand."
The doctor wasn't deterred by this explanation. "Unintentional or not, they still hurt you. Frankly, I don't give a good goddamn what they meant by it! You told them to stop, and they didn't. That's a problem, end of."
(Intentions don't mean anything.)
"You are attempting to equate this to sexual assault," he deduced in a clinical, distant voice. If he remained detached, perhaps it would not affect him so much. "My specific circumstance is not comparable. I understand your reasoning for it, and it is, for once, not entirely erroneous in logic, however, you lack the experience and facts necessary to see the full context. To those incapable of telepathy, the two scenarios may bear more than a passing resemblance to one another, but I assure you, Doctor, that they are not the same. I do not fault you for this; there is simply no human equivalent with which to compare it. I am afraid that this matter is, as the saying goes, outside of your wheelhouse."
"I might not have any fancy mind powers, Spock, but I do have some idea of what a mental attack feels like," Doctor McCoy said. Spock stilled instantly, his stomach plummeting from the force of his immediate dismay. Something sick burrowed in; sour and dreading. "That other Spock, the one from that universe of horrors—he didn't exactly have bad intentions either. He was just curious too. I could feel that he just wanted information from me; just wanted to understand and figure out what was going on. He wasn't intentionally trying to cause pain, but that sure as hell didn't stop him from taking whatever he wanted from my head, regardless of whether it hurt or not. He just shoved his way on in and didn't care about the damage was causing. I wasn't giving him what he wanted, so he decided to take it by force, and that was that. Tell me how that is all that different than this?"
(Doctor McCoy couldn't have fought it off if he tried—and Spock was certain that the doctor had tried, for all the good it would have done him.)
(That he had the capability for that level of depravity at all, in any universe or reality, sickened him to the core.)
(The human mind was so exposed and fragile; it lacked any shield at all.)
Doctor McCoy knew what it was like to have his mind invaded; of course he did—he had experienced it not once, but twice now, and both aggressors had even worn the exact same face of his friend. Jim once claimed that Spock was still Spock, no matter the universe. It was what caused them to go home, in the end. He was thankful they had, but the circumstances surrounding it were complicated. Jim had been told of the meld during the debrief after, but not the true implication of what had been done to the doctor. Spock had not explained it, and he suspected that McCoy never had either. After a week had passed, McCoy had stopped talking about it with him too, and life had moved forward. He had not forgotten the issue, but his friend had not appeared to be suffering lasting damage as a result of it, either. And, in hindsight, he had been… eager to avoid further reminders of the cruelty his alternate had been willing to engage in.
The captain had been in less of a hurry to drop it.
He'd not enjoyed hearing his captain speak of his counterpart so casually—almost fondly. He disliked being compared to others, but he particularly took issue on being compared to one he viewed as little more than a depraved animal—a beast. For weeks, he'd endured teasing comments about growing a beard, about being a pirate, and they'd sat cold inside him at the reminder of just what had been done to those he cared so dearly for. Whenever the thought of it arose, Spock felt nothing but disgust and revulsion for that version of himself. The mere idea of being capable of doing that to another being was sickening to the core.
But then… his own actions against the doctor had hardly been any better, had they? They'd not been intentional, nor purposeful, nor malicious, but they had happened nonetheless. And even if McCoy wasn't aware of it—even if he never found out—his mind had been unforgivably violated twice over.
(Intentions don't mean anything.)
Jim was right after all: Spock was still Spock, no matter the universe.
"What happened to you was a crime, Doctor. My counterpart knew that, of that I am certain, and he committed it anyways. The ownership and control of your own mind is absolute, sacrosanct; there can be no defense for the willful violation of it. Such an act is inexcusable, no matter the reason… or the source." Spock swallowed at his own damning words, the guilt of them almost suffocating. He did not look McCoy in the eye, directing his words to the ceiling. There was a hollowness opening up inside of him like a void; black and cold and empty. In his peripherals, he could see the doctor's brow furrow, mouth opening to reply, and so he hastened to continue. "The Seskille did not understand what they were doing and, furthermore, they had no actual ability to do so. They were attempting to communicate with me in the only language they knew. It was logical for them to use their minds, just as it was logical for us to use our words. It is through no fault of their own that their only form of communication is… incompatible with my own defenses."
"Jesus, do you even listen to yourself? That whole thing with—I wouldn't have even known it was an issue at all, 'cept you were the one who told me it was one, Spock! You were also the one who told me that it not only mattered, but that it was a crime. I had a migraine for days afterwards, and you were the one who kept checking in on me at all hours of the day, damn near driving me insane from your concern! And I was patient about it, because I realize that mental intrusion is a huge deal to you. I get that. What I don't get, though, is why you refuse to apply that same concern to yourself."
Spock took a deep breath. "Our respective circumstances are not the same, Doctor McCoy."
"Listen," Doctor McCoy leaned in so that he was in Spock's line of sight. He did not look frustrated, exactly, but he looked upset in some undefinable way. Troubled. There was a shadow in his expression. "I'm not a Vulcan and I don't have telepathy; no arguments from me there. But I do know what pain looks like, and you're in pain, Spock, whether you admit to it or not. I was willing to give you your privacy, but I'm not going to let you self-destruct for the sake of maintaining it. You aren't fine, not in the slightest—and that's okay, 'cause no one's asking you to be. You don't have to—"
The door to his quarters chimed.
Tension snapped into him as if it had never left, any remaining calm from McCoy's steady presence vanishing in the span of a heartbeat. Spock struggled to sit up, limbs sluggish and unresponsive, as the door chimed a second time.
But, of course, he knew who it was already; some part of him had even expected this. Spock did not wish to see his captain now; not when he was like this—exhausted, worn, ill, emotional. He did not wish to be seen in his present state by anyone, in fact, but McCoy had seen fit to pry his way into his quarters despite his security. If he was forced to choose a witness to his lapse in discipline, he considered McCoy the least objectionable one. He was a doctor. He had seen worse than this. He was Spock's friend and, while that undeniably affected his every reaction, their personal relationship would not alter his underlying professionalism. If he remained clinical about the whole matter, if he stayed technical, it would be easier. It would be almost impersonal, which he found to be, if not satisfactory, at least bearable.
There were many words Spock could use to describe his captain—confident, intelligent, beautiful, radiant, brave—but Jim could never have been described as anything approaching impersonal.
"Doctor—"
"Yeah, I know. I've got it," McCoy told him, standing. He patted him once on the shoulder. "You just hold tight."
Spock tracked the doctor's movement through his quarters by the sound of his steps, of his too-loud human breathing, and he heard the door slide open. He refused to look away from his fixed stare at the ceiling for fear of being seen like this, even if only in a quick glimpse. At the debrief, Jim had known something was wrong with only one look, and Spock had even taken time to compose himself prior. What would he see if he were to look at him now?
"Spock, we need to—" The captain's voice broke off when he registered who had answered the door. When he spoke next, he sounded alarmed. "Bones? What are—is Spock alright?"
"He's fine, Captain; he's just laying down for a bit." McCoy was quick to block the captain from the room, leaning against the doorway and preventing any attempt at entry. "How about you come back later."
"What's wrong with him? Spock?" Jim's voice was raised, directed into his quarters.
"Dammit Jim, the hell's 'a matter with you!" Doctor McCoy stepped into the hallway to let the door close behind him, clearly in an effort to muffle the conversation. To human ears, the murmur of voices would have been inaudible, but Spock was not human. He could hear quite clearly what was being said. "I just told you he's resting, so keep your damn voice down! I swear, sometimes I think you were raised in a barn with manners like those…"
"I want to know what's going on, Bones—and no, don't tell me he's fine! I already get enough of that from him, and I'm about ready to banthat word. You wouldn't be here if something wasn't wrong, and I'm frankly getting fed up with all the secrecy. He is my First Officer and my best friend—I'd like to think I have at least some right to know what's going on in either capacity! Now, Doctor, what happened?"
Doctor McCoy's voice went softer, nearly inaudible, and Spock caught only every other word or so. He struggled to piece the context of it together, both apprehensive about what might be said, and at the same time morbidly curious to know how severe the resulting fallout of it would be. "Walked in on—vomiting—laying down—no need to—got it under—talking for a while."
"God, Bones." The captain's voice, although lowered as well to conceal the conversation, tended to carry. "I knew he looked off, but I thought… is he still awake?"
"For now, yeah."
"Good, because I've had just about enough. I'm going to—"
"No," McCoy interrupted, an unspoken meaning conveyed via emphasized inflection. There was a short pause, and then a low grunt of annoyance. He thought it might have been from the captain, but it could have easily been from the doctor. "You aren't. No, you listen to me. He's laying down, Jim, and you aren't gonna bother him right now, understand? I'm not gonna hash this out in the hallway. Let him rest; you can talk to him later."
"It's making him sick, Bones."
"Jim."
Something was undoubtedly exchanged between them, judging by the weighted, heavy pause that followed. In Spock's experience, he thought it incredibly likely that a series of expressions were being exchanged as part of an entirely non-verbal conversation—one that was both about him and not to be overheard byhim. He was exhausted of attempting to decipher potential meanings but found doing so impossible without a visual reference. It was an imprecise art at the best of times, and one he lacked proficiency in. After so many years, he was able to communicate in his own way; with a purposefully raised brow or inquiring tilt of his head, and, after a fashion, could even interpret the meaning of those he was given in return with some measure of accuracy. But it was tiresome to constantly be on alert for the multiple connotations and unspoken implications in the expressions of his human crewmates. He did not have the energy to do so now.
Whatever it was they said, or meant to say, or expressed via pursed lips and narrowed eyes, he did not know. Regardless, both seemed to have understood this silent language with little difficulty.
"Right, alright," Jim said softly. His voice was even lower now; soft in a way that Spock strained to hear clearly. "I know. Believe me, I know, but I'm not going to pretend to like it. Sometimes I just want to—driving me up the wall."
"I mean it, Jim," McCoy insisted. "You leave him alone about it."
"I already said I will," Jim replied, although Spock did not recall the captain saying anything of the kind, nor did he know what issue they were referring to specifically. His illness? The debrief? "Take care of him, Bones. Tell him I'll… be back later, I guess—and that I'll be in my quarters if he needs anything. Just a few doors away..."
"Uh-huh. At this point, he probably knows where your quarters are better than he does his own; he's there often enough. But sure, I'll pass it along. Now shoo; I've got a crabby Vulcan to wrangle."
Steps hovered at his door for a moment before retreating, and McCoy finally stepped back into the room, rubbing a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked worn down; older than he usually did. He'd once claimed that dealing with Jim and Spock would make him go grey; a claim that Spock had always thought to be incredibly unlikely, as visible aging was based on numerous other factors, genetic, environmental, and circumstantial. However, he also understood the phrase was meant to imply that Doctor McCoy was weary of dealing with Spock. Fitting, Spock thought, as he was likewise weary of dealing with himself. It seemed that they were in rare agreement.
"Jim said goodnight, sweet dreams, and that he'll talk to you in the morning."
Spock frowned. "The captain did not say that."
"Well, it's what he meant to say." McCoy took his seat, expression stony as he resumed his interrogation. "He's worried about you, you know."
"He does not need to be."
This, unfortunately, appeared to be the wrong statement to make. The doctor's face went instantly red and his temper erupted, emerging as a snarl of annoyance, exasperation, and concern. His patience, it seemed, had reached its limit. Spock wondered if it had been further stressed by the captain, or if it were entirely caused by him.
"Oh, you're so sure about that?! Because I'm worried about you too! You're our friend; we're allowed to care about your wellbeing, Spock! Dammit, someone apparently has to, since you, for whatever reason, won't!" The doctor took a steadying breath, forcibly releasing it in a slow, even exhalation to calm himself. It worked, although the resulting mildness was noticeably forced. It was also already thinning.
Spock did not know what to respond with, nor how he should go about doing so. He looked at McCoy, at the distress and confusion in his open expression, and all he could think was that this was… almost ironical. He never doubted that his friends cared for him; they had fought and bled for one another too many times for him to question their loyalty or affection. However, an insistent, harsh, uncharitable thought arose that all that loyalty and affection had not stopped the doctor from inflicting more unintentional cruelty towards him than anyone else ever had.
("Get your hands off of him, Spock!")
The thought was unwelcome, and, while it was not factually untrue, it was needlessly vicious. It ignored the full context of that act, as well the circumstances motivating its necessity. He did not know why he'd had the thought to begin with, nor did he understand the resulting sense of emotional hurt. Kaiidth. What is, is. It was clear now to him that he was compromised beyond his ability to further humor the doctor's questions, and that it was necessary to end this immediately.
"You're allowed to be upset about what happened," McCoy continued, once he had scraped together some sliver of patience. "You know that, right? You're allowed to react however you need to, whether that's by crying, or screaming, or puking—hell, if there's ever a time to be an emotional wreck, now is it. You're allowed to cope however you feel you need to, and I'll be right here supporting you through it, with no judgement whatsoever—except, you aren't coping, are you? You're suppressing, and that's just… going make it worse, in the long run. I don't understand it, Spock. You're worse now than you ever were in my sickbay. You're smart; you've had to have realized that this whole burying it thing isn't working."
"Doctor," Spock kept his inflection toneless and his expression impassive. The mask of control he'd worn during the debrief had shattered once he'd arrived at his quarters, but now he found a different one to wear. This one felt tight, suffocating, and it dug into him with a painful throb. "Would I be correct in my understanding that this incident and resulting conversation falls under doctor-patient confidentiality?"
In his peripherals, he could see McCoy's eyebrows draw inwards.
"You'd be correct, but—"
"And would I be further correct in my understanding that my right to medical privacy remains absolute?"
"Yeah, of course, although—"
"Then I request that this conversation not leave this room," Spock continued, as if McCoy had not spoken. "I do not wish it to be discussed with anyone; not to your medical staff, not to the senior officers, and not to the captain."
McCoy was silent for a long moment, mouth opening and then shutting once—twice—
"Spock, Jim's not gonna judge you for this," he finally said, and there was an entirely new kind of agitation in his expression. A crease formed between his eyes. "I know you know that. He's the one who sent me down after you; he could tell clear as day that something was wrong the second you walked in the room. You're not as good of a liar as you think you are, and I'm telling you right now, you don't need to, not to us. It's fine not to be fine, and you'd be better off if you'd stop trying to pretend like you are. He already knows something's wrong, and he wants to help, so you should just—"
"Please, I do not need your professional recommendation for an ailment that does not exist," Spock said.
"Doesn't exist? You were puking your guts up not even thirty minutes ago!"
"One instance of emesis does not justify informing the captain. Although," Spock eyed him critically, "—you have apparently already seen fit to tell him of that without my approval. Nevertheless, you do not have cause to further discuss my health with him, and I ask that you do not. I was cleared for duty—by you—only nine-point-one-zero-six hours ago. In that time, you have not observed my performance lapse by any measurable standard, nor would you be able to make the claim that I am incapable of doing my job, as I have yet to be given the opportunity to prove my ability either way. I can be nauseated, Doctor, without being psychologically compromised."
"To hell with all the codes and rules, Spock! I'm not talkingabout those; I'm talking about you! You don't keep things like this from your friends—at least, not Jim! You've both been through the wringer plenty of times over the years, and you've never minded him knowing about it before! Hell, with your countless near-dying breaths, you've asked me to make sure he knew what happened! What makes this so different?"
The doctor was justified in his objection, emotionally driven though it was. He spoke only the truth; Spock never had minded Jim knowing about his health in the past—although this was primarily due to there being little of interest to share. And certainly, Jim had given blanket permission for Spock to be kept advised in all matters relating to his health and wellbeing. Spock had not done so in return—at least, not so broadly—but neither had he ever protested the captain being told. Jim was his emergency contact, both medically and professionally, and it had always seemed right for the captain to have all the information. If Spock were to die for any reason, it was James Tiberius Kirk who was listed as the primary beneficiary in his will, and he knew Jim would struggle to accept it were he to have any lingering doubts or questions. He did not enjoy keeping secrets from the captain; he did not want to do so. It would be easier if he could simply comply with what everyone apparently wished him to do, and just talk.
… he remembered what had happened the last time he had done so.
(Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.)
(Humans were so fragile when compared to Vulcan strength.)
(Jim died in front of him again.)
(Jim died in front of him again.)
(Jim died in front of him again.)
"I don't know what kind of logic you're operating on, 'cause I can't read minds and thank god for that, but it's clearly not grounded in reality. Jim would move the damn stars for you, and you know it. Why are you so afraid of trusting him?"
This was untrue. His trust in the captain was not the problem; it had never been the problem. He trusted Jim in every way one could trust another. No, it was himself that he did not trust. His mind, his thoughts, his interest, his lust, his emotions…
"The decision of discussing personal matters with the captain remains my decision to make, and the result of that decision is of no concern you. Furthermore, your medical jurisdiction extends only so far as to evaluate my professional competency. Medically, physically, psychologically, my ability to perform my job is in every way sufficient. I am not negatively affecting the function or operation of this vessel, nor am I a proven threat to myself or others. By Starfleet Medical Regulation, I have the inviolable right to confidentiality in all matters relating to health and medicine, so long as they do not cause adverse or prolonged disruption to my continued capacity for duty. I have met those standards, and I invoke that right."
"Goddammit, Spock." The doctor sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired, resigned. "Goddammit."
Spock said nothing. The mask of composure he wore bit into him, constricting his mind like a tightening vice. Control. Control. Control. He felt as if he would burst from the pressure; that the strain might just kill him if he was not careful. He was also… not entirely certain that he considered the potentially fatal result to be a wholly negative one. The implications of that, in and of itself, did not cause him concern—however, the startling absence of that concern did.
"I wish to rest," he said sedately. He lifted a hand and removed the rag from his forehead, offering it back to the doctor. The man snatched it away, briefly glancing over Spock's hands and at the small green cuts he found there. Wordlessly, McCoy stood and went to the wall, digging around for the edge of a red curtain with a muffled snarl before wrangling it aside. The small first aid kit mounted to the wall was standard in all crew quarters.
Spock was thrown a roll of gauze and a tube of antiseptic. He caught them deftly, and his palms stung from the impact.
"Fine then, get some rest." Doctor McCoy's tone was biting, frustrated, and… unsurprised. "But for god's sake, Spock, stop doing that to your damn hands! You're the one who is always going on about how sensitive they are—I know that's gotta hurt, so knock it off."
Yes, Spock thought. That was rather the point of it, involuntary a response though it often was.
"Doctor, your assistance was… valuable. While your concern—and that of the captain's—is misplaced, I nonetheless receive and acknowledge it in the manner with which I believe it was intended. With gratitude," Spock told the ceiling. "If there is nothing further you require, please leave my quarters, Doctor McCoy."
McCoy leveled him a long, hard look as he leaned against the partition. He was scowling, face pinched into a tight and angry expression, but there was another emotion in his eyes—one Spock struggled to identify. "You know what your problem is, Spock?"
"I have no doubt you will enlighten me."
"You don't recognize when you need help," the doctor continued seriously. "You won't admit to needing it, you won't let anyone offer it, and you won't even consider accepting it when they finally try to give it anyways. Hell, I don't think you've ever learned how to ask for help, not once in your whole damn life—and maybe you've never even learned how to accept it either. I'm not gonna pretend I understand your pigheaded, maladaptive, idiotic Vulcan pride, 'cause I don't, but what I do know is that it's gonna destroy you one day, Spock, sooner or later. No one, not even a Vulcan, can tread that water forever. Eventually, you'll get tired, get sloppy, and you'll sink under the weight of it all. Thing is, I don't think you'll even realize that you have until you've already started drowning."
McCoy sniffed at him dismissively and turned on his heel to leave, and Spock stared silently after him. The doctor was not finished, however. At the door, he spun and pointed a finger at him, that look in his eyes sharper than ever. "It's not gonna be on my damn watch, though, I can promise you that much. You don't know us at all if you think we're just going to sit back and watch you sink, Spock. But fine, sure. You wanna lay there and pretend you're a-okay? Fine. I'll leave you to your brooding. You get some rest, or meditate, or sulk, or whatever unhealthy coping strategy you want to play at; s'pose you've earned yourself a break after today. But if you end up getting sick again later, be responsible with your own health for once and just comm me, will you?"
The door slid closed behind the doctor, plunging the room into silence.
It felt too still, all of a sudden—too empty. Spock watched the doors consideringly for a brief moment, before shifting to roll onto his side. He did not take his boots off, did not change from his uniform. His skin felt tacky and soiled, despite his inability to perspire. There was a lingering nausea, both from the sickness in his stomach and the remaining traces of his purging. His throat burned; his mouth still tasted of stomach acid and digestive enzymes.
The sonics were not far; only a few steps into the head and he would be able to wash away all signs of illness. Those few steps seemed a few too many, the facilities too far to contemplate making the journey. He should change, at the very least, into clean clothing. Perhaps into something less restrictive than his uniform; a loose meditation robe or his sleeping attire. Later, he decided tiredly. He did not trust his legs to adequately support his bodyweight, nor his hands to function well enough to dress.
Spock curled up. With a low sigh, he allowed the restrictive mask to fall away.
The pressure in his mind eased in an overload of emotion, feeling, and sensory input. It bombarded him all at once, battering his mind like a persistent hammer strike. He allowed them to wash over him; through him. They hurt, too, in a different way than the mental strain had. These hurts were the result of an injury sustained long ago, and one accumulated over a great deal of time. Thirty-eight years of it. The pain he experienced now was akin to pressing on that injury; digging in and burrowing where the remnants still festered. The appearance of it had smoothed over as the years went on, and he'd developed various strategies for concealing it, but the wound itself had never fully healed. Beneath the surface, it had gone septic, infected.
The audible hitch to his breath was as unsurprising as it was unwelcome, but it was his only outward symptom. His body felt too drained and too exhausted to manage anything more than that one sound. He was not shaking, he was not trembling, and he was not gasping. That was acceptable, particularly when considering the entirety of what he could be feeling. In fact, Spock rather felt as though he felt nothing at all. His mind was detached and floating and vague; a nebulous concept of himself rather than a whole, tangible individual.
He closed his eyes after a while, uncertain of what else to do with them.
McCoy's parting words were still loud in the quiet of his quarters, the lingering echo of his presence even more so. He wanted to help him. Jim wanted to help him. He could not allow them to do so. The last time he had accepted help, he had lost control and murdered his captain. (Jim died in front of him again.) He could not risk either of his friends in that way. He could not trust himself not to lose control again.
There had been a peculiar glint in McCoy's expression just before he'd departed. Spock had been unable to identify it immediately, but now he reconsidered it. It had unnerved him, bothered him, and it still did; even now he felt watched by the doctor. Still felt seen by that odd look in his eye. He was thankful for McCoy's support during his sickness, and thankful as well for his continued friendship, despite the aggravating circumstances often surrounding it. And yet, he did not know how to accomplish what McCoy wanted of him. Did the doctor not realize what it was he was asking for? Spock was a Vulcan. He should, in theory, have the capability to master his own emotions without external assistance.
In theory. That he could not do so now was a failure on his part. He would have preferred it to be the result of a defect in his hybrid biology, however, he was becoming increasingly convinced of the promising theory that it was, in fact, a defect inherent of being Spock. Others had observed it in him long before he had. He thought of Sarek; of his silent, blank, unending disapproval. His father had always been quite perceptive in his judgement of others and had rarely been wrong before.
Jim and Doctor McCoy wished to help him, and Spock felt a measure of regret that he could not accept that help. Doing so would have simplified matters, he thought, in at least some small way. It would be relieving, if nothing else. He disliked dishonesty, and he disliked lying. In general, but especially to his friends. They did not deserve it, nor did they deserve his continued rejections. He wished that they could help him, but this was not within their capacity, and it would be unfair to give them hope that did not exist. He considered the idea that it may not be within anyone's capacity to assist. There was very little that could be done to repair such an intrinsic malfunction in oneself.
Perhaps McCoy had been correct after all; this woulddestroy him one day.
Ahh,Spock realized with an abrupt, flat awareness. That was what it was.
The look in the doctor's eyes had been one of pity.
Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.
He knelt in the burning sand, lowering Jim—his corpse—to rest beside him. With trembling fingers, he reached out and pressed them against the captain's neck. There was no pulse, no heartbeat, no flutter of life against his fingertips. This was his fault, his doing. He had murdered the one most important to him. Of course he had, Spock thought distantly. Of course, because he had lost control… and Spock knew what happened when he lost control.
Spock hovered his hands against him, tracing cooling flesh idly. Perhaps there was one way he could get his captain back. If he could but call to him, reach out and find his mindscape against the millions or trillions of others. He knew this human—this one, singular, radiant human—and he would be able to identify that unique, sunbathed glow among any countless, endless sea of minds. The collective would not be able to keep him forever; he would not allow it.
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
"It is more rational to sacrifice one life than six, Doctor," Spock said calmly. His mask was beginning to slip, and that was unacceptable; he could not afford to show emotion right now. "I am the logical choice."
"Do you know why you're not afraid to die, Spock?" McCoy hissed at him. "You're more afraid of living. Each day you stay alive is just one more day you might slip and let your human half peek out."
The doctor was right; his conclusion was both factually sound and logically arrived at. Spock could find no fault with the assessment. If forced to find one, he might only say that the declaration was perhaps an understatement. He was not afraid to die, and he never had been—but there were multiple factors that supported and enforced that apathy, not just the one. His indifference of life and death was not, quite contrarily, indifference to dying. He held strong opinions about that; ones that had grown increasingly favorable throughout his thirty-eight years. Still, the reasoning of the original comment was not unfounded; McCoy was not incorrect.
"I am attempting to assist the captain," Spock explained. His fingers moved against the cold, blood-stained skin and smoothed gently up Jim's jaw, his cheek, his temple. And there, he arranged his fingers to press them deep into flesh.
"Mind your own business, Mr. Spock," the captain said, furious and enraged, and his fist clenched, nails biting into the tan skin of his palm to bleed green. It contrasted with the red, mixing to form mud. "I'm sick of your half-breed interference, do you hear?"
"I do, Jim," he responded softly, understandingly. It seemed they were in rare agreement. "But you are everything, t'hy'la, and I cannot obey you in this." He wished his captain would not ask him to stop, because he had no intention of doing so. Jim could plead, cry, fight, but Spock would not compromise in this. Begging didn't make any difference. Begging was useless.
"You traitorous… disloyal… you stabbed me in the back the first chance you get! Spock…! Get out… I never want to have to look at you again."
"Then you must become blind; an equitable trade." He did not remove his hand, instead shifting one to cover the captain's eyes, and the other to press gently but firmly against psi-points. He slipped into Jim's mind like stepping into a warm bath, heated and desirous. "Our minds are merging, Captain. Our minds are one. I feel what you feel. I know what you know…"
The sand around him was burning.
Inside, he burned too.
When Spock awoke, he did not bolt upwards in bed. He did not gasp, shout, or cry out; did not tangle himself in the covers or writhe in alarm. Instead, he opened his eyes calmly, immediately aware and alert of his surroundings and circumstances. He was in bed, in his quarters. He had been asleep and now he was not.
As a Vulcan, he did not suffer from the same drowsy, brain-fogged state of waking that his human peers often did; he awoke now with perfect recall and cognizance, without any lingering disorientation from his dream. Although, as a Vulcan, he should not have had a dream at all. That was not to say that they were incapable of it, but to do so was an unusual and rare event for his people. It was, unfortunately, neither unusual nor rare for him; he had been dreaming as far back as his memory ran. Another anomaly of his dual heritage, one of countless many.
It was twenty-three minutes past zero-one-hundred hours into the morning. Although there existed no true day or night in space, Starfleet had developed its own simulation of it for the emotional, mental, and physical wellbeing of the enlisted fleet. At this hour, the majority of the ship would be asleep with the sole exception of delta shift, who were scheduled to be in command of the vessel during the scheduled sleeping time. There were occasions when he rose early and joined them, either on the bridge or in the labs, for lack of a better option. It was unlikely that he would be able to fall asleep again after waking; his time was best applied towards productivity, rather than futility.
He did not do so now. Spock knew he lacked the focus required for any detailed tasks, and he lacked the patience required for the more monotonous ones. His mind was too cluttered; too disorganized. It had been nine days since he'd last meditated, and with the exception of those few times in his life that he had been in a comatose state due to injury or illness, it was the longest duration he had ever gone without doing so. The negative effects of it were considerable and unpleasant. He could not order his thoughts, he could not suppress his emotions, he could not control himself.
It was deplorable. Worse, it was noticeable; both the captain and doctor had been able to identify the issue immediately. Had he been able to organize his mind to his usual standard, he might have been able to conceal it better. In his present state, however, he felt transparent to their keen, observant eyes. Jim knew he was not well. McCoy knew he was not well.
And yet, he had to be. Spock could not—would not—consider any other option. He was a Vulcan; to be uncontrolled or compromised was to be little more than a primal animal. His ancestry was stained by violence and blood; tainted by passion. Despite common belief, Vulcans felt more intensely and more deeply than humans did; their emotions burned, and they burned hot. Before Surak, his people had been destructive, bestial, and impulsive. They had been driven—ruled—entirely by emotional desires and wants, on the path to inevitable extinction from the fighting between and within clans. That history was a source of shame now; a harsh reminder to always adhere to logic, fact, and reason.
In his childhood, he had not understood why his peers had been so wary of him. As an adult, not only did he understand their caution, he agreed with it. He was dangerous. A threat—but not because of his humanity. His human heritage had not played nearly so large a role in his treatment as everyone suspected. No, it was not because he was half-human that he was a threat, but because he was half-Vulcan… and a Vulcan without control could not be trusted.
(And Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)
Spock rolled to his back, uncomfortably aware of the grimy feeling of having slept in his uniform. He had fallen asleep not long after McCoy had departed his quarters, fatigued mentally and physically, and he had been too exhausted to change out of them. He could taste faint traces of stomach acid and vomit in his mouth, and he knew he reeked of it as well. The bedding would need to be changed; he had not removed his boots before falling asleep, and they were now undoubtedly soiled by an assortment of unpleasant contaminants. His appearance was thoroughly unacceptable. He required a shower, a change of clothing, and a meticulous cleansing of his mouth.
But fatigued still ached at him. His head throbbed like a second pulse. His stomach cramped from his nausea. He should rise and attend to his physical condition, but he was tired. So tired. It was illogical; he had slept longer than his body usually required for optimal functioning and had even done so deeply enough to dream. He should be focused and rested, not suffering this bone-deep state of exhaustion.
Too drained to move, his mind wandered. He considered the dream. It had been disjointed, dark, and vivid. Nonsensical, as dreams often were, but also troubling. He remembered every detail, from the grit of the sand against his skin, to the sensation of Jim's blood drying on his fingertips. He remembered the words said. Memories of comments made during missions past that still haunted him—still stung—with his captain's accusations and harsh slurs stinging more than all the rest. In the dream, they had been pointed and sharp and personal. In reality, each had been able to be explained away contextually—either the captain had been compromised while making them, or Spock had been compromised and thus required them to be made. Logical, understandable, excusable.
And yet, Spock had, at times, wondered at just how easily the captain had been able to come up with them at all. One isolated incident, or even two, he could rationalize as a form of improvisation—Jim was an expert at that particular skill… but it happened again, and even again after that, and Spock wondered. Jim had always known exactly what to say; had always been intentional about his every word. His voice could deliver words that inspired in Spock a sense of peace, of belonging, of contentment, of love… and with that same voice, he could deliver ones that would cut, hurt, and bleed. He'd done it multiple times over, and he'd done it easily.
("What else would you expect from a simpering, devil eared freak—")
Jim had not returned after McCoy sent him away.
Spock was unsurprised by this. It was expected, even understandable for numerous reasons. He knew the captain was upset with him, and that he had a valid reason to be. Spock had confessed to the concealment of information that might have changed the outcome on Seskilles VII; such a thing would not easily be forgiven. He could have been reported for his deception; some part of him even wished that he would be. He would rather have had a claim in his file than face the captain's weighted disappointment—and Spock had undeniably disappointed him. It had been there in his eyes, in the harsh, strained line of his lips, in the tension of his posture. Jim had not only been disappointed, he had been hurt.
Why did Spock always, without fail, manage to somehow harm the ones he cared for?
His next breath shuddered, tight and pained in his lungs. His muscles clenched and unclenched, like an electrical current charged inside, and he felt an unpleasant twisting in his gut, his chest, his veins. Not nausea, not physical pain. His body felt as if it were pumping through him enormous amounts of adrenaline, but he knew that it was not. He was still, functioning, undamaged. He was not in a fight; he was not under attack. This was a feeling; an illogical sensation caused by his mind misfiring due to a lack of meditation or mental organization. It was not rational; it was not dignified.
In the bright fluorescents of the briefing room, or the science labs, it was easy to form a mask of indifference. In the dark silence of his quarters, curled in bed, it was harder to justify the need for one. Emotion trickled in like a poisonous drip. Doctor McCoy had told him, only hours ago, that Spock did not recognize when he needed help. Thing is, I don't think you'll even realize that you have until you've already started drowning, he'd said. And, quite possibly, he was correct about that—or nearly correct. He was wrong in one aspect; Spock did recognize when he was drowning; could recognize that he currently was. He only feared that, by accepting or asking for aid, he might drag his rescuer down into the depths with him.
(Jim died in front of him again.)
That… did not prevent him from wishing, rather hopelessly in his mind, that someone would manage to provide it anyways—that Jim would. It was hypocritical to want his help now, when Spock had not only refused all offers of it but had actively denied the necessity for it to begin with. Foolish, and contrary, and illogical. He was tired, and he was emotionally compromised. In the darkness of his quarters, he could not deny that he wanted his captain here with him, yet he also knew that he would not know what to do if he were. His captain would offer his help, as he had multiple times before, and Spock knew he would reject it, as he had multiple times before. It was instinctual these days, to hide this vulnerability of his. Ingrained in him after so many years of being buried. He wanted to be helped yet refused to accept it when it was attempted. To both desire and deny the same intention was diametrical and contrary.
Spock watched the door, irrespective of the irrational nature of the act. It was forty minutes past zero-one-hundred hours; the captain would be asleep at this time, as he himself should have been. Jim would not chime his quarters at such an hour, nor consider even doing so unless an emergency occurred. Were there one, Spock knew he'd have been informed only seconds after the captain, negating the need to chime him at all. And yet, he watched the door as if he expected Jim to be waiting behind it. He was not, of course. Spock knew that; knew that his desire was based in neither reason nor fact.
That did not stop him from wanting.
His captain was upset, he reminded himself, as if he were not keenly aware of being the cause of such emotions. His absence was understandable; his anger was both expected and appropriate for the situation, and Spock did not fault him for it. He regretted, not for the first time, that he had given Jim reason to be angry at all. Tomorrow, he would be forced to confront that, and he told himself now that he would face it calmly, professionally, and stoically, without any personal or emotional impediment. He was a Vulcan; he would accept the consequences of his actions, illogical though they had been, and he would make reparations as best he could.
After a period of time, he forced himself to turn his back to the door and close his eyes. He curled up and attempted to clear his mind of all thought or emotion. He felt himself treading water while slowly slipping under it bit by frantic bit until, eventually, he felt nothing at all as he drifted to sleep.
It did not last.
He dreamt of a wide, endless, empty sea, and of the tide pulling him further away from possible rescue. He dreamt of Jim; dreamt of desperately wrapping exhausted arms around his captain and holding on tightly.
He dreamt of wrapping his hands around the captain's throat, of pressing him beneath the surface of the water, and of holding him there even tighter.
As always, an enormous thank you for reading! I seriously am blown away by the response this story has had, and it's been an amazing journey so far!
This chapter was an absolute blast to write! It was a long, difficult conversation that needed to be had, and McCoy is merciless when cutting through all that deflection. There were some fun references this chapter, especially relevant during the dream. Various lines are from the TOS episodes ;The Galileo Seven', Bread and Circuses', 'What Are Little Girls Made Of?' 'The Deadly Years', and 'Operation - Annihilate!' respectively! Next up, Jim will make due on that promise to come back, and he and Spock are long overdue for a talk.
Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Mastevau —Drown; to die by breathing water into the lungs.
Kaiidth — What is, is.
T'hy'la — Friend, Brother, Lover.