Title: Needs
Characters: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, Sarek
Rating: K+
Spoilers/Warnings: TWOK, TSFS, and all their accompanying baggage. Yes, I am warning you for lack of literary value and beta-ing, and also pure SHAMELESS h/c.. :P
Word Count: 3638
Summary: Scene from after the fal-tor-pan, but before the beginning of TVH. Pure aimless h/c/fluff/idek for dante_s_hell 's sick&tired!LJmeme, for the prompt of Exhausted Kirk, please! Can be gen or slash. Kirk/McCoy or Kirk/Spock. I just want very tired Kirk.
In every child, psychologists and behavioral development specialists agree, there exists a crucial, all-important window of opportunity, between the ages of one and five years old. What a child learns in those pivotal years shapes his character, his development, his intelligence. The more neural pathways that are mapped through the young, impressionable brain, the more quick-thinking the child will be, the more apt to learn, the more able to interact.
Spock's mind, right this minute, is in that crucial stage. If mapping a child's neural pathways is difficult, then re-mapping them upon an adult's inert brain is even more so; and if Spock's head hurts anywhere near as bad as his does, then he would bet his entire Georgia upbringing that the Vulcan might be teetering on the edge of a very childish tantrum. And yet, he knows as well as this bunch of unfeeling green-blooded databases, that they have to push Spock to his limits now, while the awakening mind is still in the budding innocence and impressionability of a child's.
As the carrier of the katra, he is permitted to be present at the first, initial stages of teaching (information-dumping, is more accurate), for reassurance. Even if Spock couldn't remember his name until Jim prompted him, he thinks with rueful irritation. Carry a man's soul in your head for a month and he goes off and recognizes your best friend but not you. Typical Spock.
But he can't help but feel sorry for the Vulcan now, as he fairly trembles under the onslaught of relentless questioning, endless education, a literal pounding of knowledge and facts and expectant reactions that has gone on now for…almost forty-eight hours straight, probably, because he fell asleep for seven of those last night. These people are so concerned with getting Spock's mind up to speed that they aren't paying attention to the fact that this regenerated body has been under a considerable strain, and it's he who finally draws the line and points out to a disdainful female healer that Spock looks faintly like he's about to either pass out or start crying with informational overload.
T'Moira is unappreciative of a human pointing out human weakness in their patient, but she is not a fool; and besides, human or no, as the katra-carrier – and the only successful human fal-tor-pan participant in Vulcan history – McCoy has earned the right to be equal with a Vulcan in every respect. She releases the patient to McCoy's care, and Spock hasn't yet realized it's unacceptable for a Vulcan to show relief so clearly as he does when the doctor takes his arm to lead him from the education and re-integration chambers in Sarek's estate home.
It is only then, to his everlasting shame, that McCoy realizes in the last forty-eight hours he's completely forgotten about Jim.
Sarek, to his eternal surprise and gratitude, apparently hasn't; though even he looks slightly frazzled, having to deal with Starfleet's most dynamic captain fairly climbing the walls for the last two days. What happened between the Ambassador and Jim he doesn't know, and Jim won't tell him, but something did – for the old man's attitude is nothing like it was when they first came aboard the Enterprise for transport to the infamous Babel conference years ago. Sarek makes no pretense before his peers: he respects James Kirk, and even treats him in some ways as well as or better than he treats his own son. It is unusual for a Vulcan, and yet it is accurate.
He's grateful for this, no matter how that relationship was forged, because Sarek (Amanda has been ill lately, according to the household staff, no doubt aggravated by the death of her son) is probably the only thing that's kept Jim sane for the last forty-eight hours.
At the moment, Jim is pacing back and forth, his boot-heels clacking mercilessly on the flagstone of the warmly-lit corridor, fairly vibrating with nervous tension. He looks about ready to collapse on his feet, despite the energetic movements, and though he has cleaned up a bit from the fight on Genesis it's obvious he's not done more than a perfunctory job of dealing with the more serious emotional ramifications of what he's just done for the sake of a Vulcan who as yet can't even really remember why he cares so.
The resigned look Sarek flicks McCoy as he enters with Spock fairly screams do something with him before he drives me out of my Vulcan mind (give or take a bit of phraseology), and he tries successfully to not laugh at the desperation evident in the silent plea.
"Jim," he calls over the angry tap-tap-tap-pivot-ing, and the man whirls to see them.
His whole posture relaxing at the sight of Spock, who has turned a more healthy color and no longer looks like he's about to throw a logical Vulcan tantrum before his healers (though oddly enough Spock seems a bit clingy, not willing to leave his side), Jim sighs, scrapes a hand wearily over his face. "How'd it go?"
"I am…progressing, Admiral," is Spock's answer, and his heart goes out to the poor Vulcan when Jim's face falls at the title. Clueless but willing to make the effort, Spock adds a quick, "The Doctor has been of much value and reassurance during my re-education."
Wrong thing to say, he wants to groan, but only winces as Jim's lips twist tightly in a bitter smile he's seen far too often in the last few days. It's been galling to Jim, to know he was supposed to be Spock's carrier for the katra and due to circumstances had to forfeit that privilege onto McCoy – and he didn't even want to do it, anyhow! – and the man resents the fact that despite the sacrifices he made, he isn't considered the true hero in the rescue; McCoy is.
He wishes it were different, but Destiny has always had a sick way of twisting their lives in an entangled mesh of good intentions and half-realized promises, bound together only by the crucial thread of love. It isn't fair, but it is true – and it will have to be enough.
Spock, bless him, is utterly unaware of what he's said that could produce the veiled hurt he can see in Jim's eyes before the man turns away, and casts a helpless glance toward the doctor as if to plead for explanation.
He sighs and shakes his head. Jim hasn't even had time to grieve for the loss of his son and his ship – his first, most intense love – much less to assimilate the fact that he's just thrown away his entire career…for this.
And what, exactly, is this?
He has a Vulcan who knows nearly all there is to know of science and history, and nothing of his human heritage. On their walk back to the common room, Spock had recounted to McCoy scientific discoveries he made aboard the Enterprise, remembered the new species they had met – but he had no recollection of chess games with Jim, no memory of spending nights in the observation deck when the captain couldn't sleep, silently watching the stars as McCoy knew they had done more than once. Spock could recite the computer coding for the Enterprise's library console's computer, but couldn't remember the time when the Officers' Mess selector malfunctioned and drenched him and his captain with gooey grey replicatable matter, much to the howls of laughter from their watching crew. The Vulcan clearly knows how to analyze and categorize any type of radiation and compensate for it in navigation – but he can't remember how Jim takes his coffee.
And just now, it is a really, really bad time for Sarek's message center to light up with a missive from Starfleet, saying that Vulcan will be required to return the crew of the former U.S.S. Enterprise, for court-martial.
The stately Vulcan comes so close to scowling at the missive that McCoy almost laughs, but the realization of what they've done really isn't at all funny.
Neither is the fact that at the news, expected but nonetheless damning in its clarity, Jim wavers on his feet for a second, places one hand unsteadily against the wall. All the light has been extinguished from his eyes, McCoy can see before they're hidden by briefly-closed eyelids.
"Well, that's just wonderful," the doctor snaps testily. "The least they could do is say they're glad we recovered Captain Spock."
Sarek takes the emotional outburst in remarkable stride, he'll give the man that, but to be fair the elder Vulcan's eyes are fixed on Jim with something looking suspiciously akin to concern. As if realizing the fact, Jim raises his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips before he straightens.
"We're not going to have you forced to give us up to the Federation authorities, Ambassador," he speaks firmly, despite the obvious weariness evident in every line of his sagging body. "As soon as we can arrange for a custody ship to stop by here we'll let you take care of Spock and go back to face the music."
"You will do no such thing, Kirk," Sarek replies with quiet gentility, and McCoy's eyes bug at the blatant indignation he can hear in the words.
"I beg your pardon?"
"With all respect, Admiral – you are in no condition to be making rash decisions regarding your future, and that of your crew," the elder Vulcan states with a pointed raise of eyebrow. "Once you have fully recovered from recent events, then you may decide what course of action to take regarding this...summons," and McCoy could hear the clear disgust evident behind the cultured voice as the Vulcan looked at the message blinking on the screen.
"But…" Jim's voice trails off, and McCoy can see the warning signs even before the hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of the man's nose; lack of sleep, stress, and undealt-with grief are no doubt combining to produce an epic headache. "Ambassador, they'll eventually send someone after us."
"Let them," the Vulcan replies complacently. "You have performed a legendary service to Vulcan, Admiral. You shall have sanctuary on this planet for as long as you wish, and no Federation authorities have jurisdiction to countermand a Vulcan sanctuary order."
Jim's head jerks up in surprise, warmth filtering into the dead gaze for the first time since the fal-tor-pan. "Ambassador Sarek, I –"
"You will further discuss this with your crew and myself when you are not half-asleep on your feet, Kirk," the Vulcan interrupts with such gentle finesse that they barely realize he had actually done so.
Instead of becoming indignant, Jim only smiles tiredly, and nods – a clear sign to McCoy that he is fast approaching the precipice of utter exhaustion at a dangerous speed.
"Jim, let me get you all settled in and then I'll see about Spock," he suggests as gently as he dares.
The look he receives is half anger, half resigned sadness. "I don't need anyone to show me where my room is, Bones. Take care of Spock," is the weary murmur he gets before the man turns and leaves.
Spock's troubled eyes bore into his head, and he represses the urge to beat his head against the stone wall. Sarek decides retreat in the face of human emotion is the logical part of valor and bids them a hasty good-night, well aware that his son is not yet comfortable in his presence, and leaves them standing there staring after two retreating figures.
"I wish to understand, but I do not," Spock's melancholy voice breaks the silence, and his heart twists at the simple pain that filters through the uncertainty.
"You will, sometime soon," he replies, hesitantly patting the Vulcan's thin arm. But then the idea occurs to him, and there's no time like the present for a lesson in humanity, something Spock's re-education has up to now sadly lacked. "Tell me what you're feeling, Spock."
'Vulcans do not –"
"Answer the question, minus the rhetoric. If you're anxious that you don't understand, there has to be something triggering that. What is it?"
"I…" Spock grinds to a halt, unable to formulate the words, but the sad longing in his eyes as they settle on the darkened corridor to their left is answer enough.
That's all he was looking for.
"C'mon. This's gone on long enough." They need each other, even if one doesn't know it and the other one's in enough denial to write a book about.
"I do not –"
He winces, but a chuckle builds despite the aggravation. "Oh, shut up for a while, will you?"
"…Your words are at odds with your tone, Doctor. I do not understand the paradoxes of human communication."
"Part of why you find us to be so fascinating, Spock."
"…Indeed."
Jim's bedroom is on the ground level, courtesy of Sarek and Amanda; most bedrooms are on the upper levels but as the heat increases exponentially with each, their hosts had made the two humans comfortable on the lowest level of the estate. Now he pauses before the door, somewhat disconcerted to see that it has not been closed properly, but he hears no sound from within and so silently pushes on the light wood with little effort.
Spock hovers uncertainly, almost adorably so, at his elbow, but they needn't have worried about being reprimanded for entry.
James Kirk is fast asleep, the majority of his sprawled body barely on the narrow bed and definitely not under the cool sheets, looking for all the world as if he sat down to remove his shoes and just fell over before it could happen.
"Aw, Jim…" he murmurs softly, moving into the room with the silent, practiced ease of a physician who has had numerous restless patients over the decades.
Spock watches him with a confused curiosity, as he hesitantly puts a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder. Jim's going to have a horrible crick in his back if he stays in that position all night, and he's going to eventually get cold when the temperature of a Vulcan desert night drops to its lowest before dawn. He knows from experience that the captain used to sleep so lightly that just the soft swish of a door opening would send him bolting upright, fully awake and ready for a red alert. Years of desk work and instruction at Starfleet Command have not changed that habit, and so he fully expects the man to wake up.
Instead, Jim sleeps on beneath his gentle touch, one arm curled around the pillow and one still-booted leg dangling half-off the bed.
"He's exhausted, Spock," he whispers in answer to the look of barely-repressed concern from the confused Vulcan. "Any other time he'd be coming up swinging as soon as we came into the room."
He wants to continue, and wants to make Jim more comfortable, but something deep inside him tells him to step back instead. Instinct is as much a part of medicine as observation, and so he obeys the urge and releases the shoulder he still clasps, which is tense even in slumber.
Spock remains, looking down in uncertainty at the sleeping human, eyes troubled and brows twisted in a desperate attempt to assimilate and filter information and memory.
"He cannot be comfortable in that position," Spock observes, almost to himself, and McCoy rolls his eyes silently; some things never change, including one Vulcan's predilection for reiterating the obvious where humans are concerned.
He isn't expecting, but is pleased to see, that Spock bends hesitantly down over the sleeping man and places a hand on Jim's shoulder, carefully copying McCoy's actions of a few seconds previously like a child copies a respected adult.
Jim starts under the touch (figures, the captain'd wake up for the hobgoblin but keep snoring like an aging coon-dog for him), mutters something unintelligible before tucking his leg up more tightly underneath him.
He debates whether or not to stop Spock and decides in favor of letting the Vulcan follow his…well, he was about to say his heart, but that's a scary enough thought to make him hastily rephrase into the word instincts. Spock frowns, actually frowns, and shakes the human gently.
After a sleepy protest, Jim's eyes flicker open, blinking for a second as he registers his location, and then drag wearily across the wall and upward toward Spock's intent face a few inches over his head.
In a brief instant they are more alert, but it is testament to the man's utter exhaustion that he is obviously not fully awake yet and likely is incapable of being.
"Spock? What is it, what's wrong – are you all right?"
"I am…functional," Spock replies after a brief fishing for the proper response, and it warms McCoy's heart to see the tiny smile crinkle the corners of the captain's half-lidded eyes. "However, you should relocate yourself to a more comfortable position before resuming sleep for the duration of the night; it will grow uncomfortably chilled in this room, and I am told that sleeping in one's footwear can be highly uncomfortable."
"You came in here an' woke me up t'tell me that?" Jim slurs incredulously, rubbing his eyes.
"…Affirmative."
The noise he hears McCoy would swear is a giggle, except that Jim would be horrified at the very thought of the undignified noise being perceived as such. He renames it a laugh in his mind, but the generic word just doesn't do it justice.
The human stops with a sigh, arm flung over his eyes against the soft outdoor lights which fill the room with a chilled-gold glow. His mouth opens as if to speak, but apparently he thinks better of it for it closes again without a word of response. The silence is awkward, and seems to last forever.
Spock must think so too, because he fidgets with the belt of his robe before finally prodding the arm before him with long fingers. "Admiral, are you asleep again?"
"No."
Mystified, Spock blinks at the simple monosyllable, and McCoy nearly laughs at the endearingly stumped expression.
"…Then will you not engage in your rest period, beneath the bed furnishings?"
"Maybe, if you'll get up off of them," is the answer, tinged with affection and humor despite its weariness.
Spock turns a shade of grey-sage and scrambles off the edge of the bed, where he had sat to examine the problem at hand in close detail.
Jim makes a half-hearted effort to squirrel his way under the thin sheets, and then lies still, eyes closed, apparently too exhausted to complete the effort. Spock casts a helpless glance over his shoulder; McCoy only grins and throws him under the metaphorical bus, making a go on already gesture with one hand.
The Vulcan's eyebrows twitch, but he carefully begins to unlace the boot nearest him, his actions stilted and unnatural, as if afraid of a rebuff for doing the wrong thing yet again. McCoy shakes his head with fondness; even if Jim weren't already half on his way to dreamland again he's always been a sucker for endearing Vulcan uncertainty.
The work of a few moments, and nimble fingers have the boots carefully lined up out of harm's way at the foot of the bed. Jim unconsciously curls up under the twisted sheet, face half-hidden in the pillow, and mumbles something that's probably meant as an unconscious thank-you before he drops off once more.
Spock stays there, uncertain and lost, until he edges back toward the bed, puts a careful hand on the Vulcan's arm.
"You heard the healers say meditation would be more beneficial to you than sleep?"
"I did, and they are correct," Spock replies, voice subdued.
"Then you should stay here and meditate. It'll be good for both of you."
"Doctor, I – "
"Have a lot of information to sift through, I know, Spock," he finishes, when the Vulcan hesitates.
Spock nods, helpless.
He sighs, and casts a look down at the deeply-slumbering figure before them. Jim is going to be a wreck in the morning, when it all finally comes crashing down on him; none of them have had time to really assimilate what's happened, and none of the rest of them have just lost a child and a starship and a career all for…well, time would tell, what for.
"Spock, you're gonna have to trust me when I say you'll need his help," he finally decides upon saying, and is rewarded with a puzzled eyebrow. "I know, he's a human; but he's far more than that, and you'll realize that sometime soon. Until then," and he points a stern finger at the Vulcan's long nose, "he's gonna need you too."
"I do not understand." It has become a mantra now, almost a catch-phrase; there is so much none of them understand but most of all this unique feat of Vulcan mysticism and old-fashioned affectionate stubbornness.
"You will, Spock. You will."
-ooo-
Jim is a mess in the morning, though thankfully he waits until after his crew has gone off to explore the sights to really lose it. Sarek freaks out and hides like any proper Vulcan would under a Kirkian whirlwind of anger and grief, but McCoy's darned proud of the way Spock sits there and takes it patiently, remains there until the storm is spent, to then pick up the wreckage as best as his drowsing half-human heart can remember how.
And when, later that night, he looks out his window and sees Spock and Jim aimlessly meandering around in the starlit walkways below, snatches of prompted memories drifting up to where he listens, he smiles and then crashes himself for the first proper night in over a week.
It's not much, but it's a start, and he knows that someday soon they'll see that the needs of the one - or the two - really did outweigh the needs of the many.