— Chapter Six—
— Yon-tor —
"Okay, alright, let's just—slowly—easy, easy—" The captain grunted as he bore the majority of Spock's heavy weight against his chest, the density of Vulcan stature nearly tipping him over. Spock, slumped lamely against him, could do nothing to assist as Kirk carefully lowered them both to the ground in an inelegant sprawl of tangled limbs.
The snow was deep enough now to cushion the rock beneath him, but Spock thought he would not care if the ground were made up of nails and molten steel. It felt good to sit, to lean forward and press his forehead to his bent knees. The pain in his head was blinding and his vision dulled around the edges, fading in and out. He had to shut his eyes to prevent it from worsening the churning in his gut, but the darkness only caused the world to tilt as if it were spinning.
A familiar arm wrapped around his back, warm and strong, the hand of it pressing into the base of his neck gently. Jim. Confusion and panic radiated from the captain's touch like a beacon, bare skin touching bare skin and feeding a constant loop of worry and fear. They should have felt violating, those raw emotions from his captain, and to some degree they did, but the touch itself felt more akin to ice on an inflamed injury. Soothing, relieving.
"Shh, I've got you, Spock. Take a moment, breathe—that's it…"
They sat in silence that way for a while, shoulder to shoulder as Kirk rubbed a slow circle into his back. It took at least four minutes—Spock's sense of time was skewed, he noticed ominously, and he could not calculate the exact figures—before the tightness in his chest ebbed. The nausea was still there, the pain was still there, sharp and throbbing and debilitating, but he was able to at last take slow, shaking breaths. The cold air in his lungs helped to ground him, as did the pressure of the hand on his back, and he opened his eyes.
Like always, the first thing he took note of was the captain.
Kirk was watching him warily, fear-bright eyes examining over him for any injuries or obvious ailments; looking for something that might explain why he had collapsed. Spock regretted that he had nothing to show for the pain in his head; that there was no wound of some kind that could be bandaged or treated. It would have made coping easier to have Jim assist him as if it were just another routine mission injury. Jim did not graciously handle feeling powerless, and Spock knew that well after more than three years at his side. Giving the captain something to do or something to occupy himself with would have gone a long way in easing his concern.
"Spock?" He met the captain's eyes and—after a pause, as if making sure that Spock was fully with him—Kirk continued. "You want to tell me what's going on now?"
His voice was very soft and kind; carefully so. It would have likely been little more than a whisper if the wind wouldn't have stolen it away; on the ship he would have murmured low enough to fool most human ears. It was a kind effort on the captain's part—and a deliberate one—to speak so gently. He was instinctually inclined to do the opposite; the more worried Jim felt, the louder he became. A way of expressing his dissatisfaction in the face of desperation; because anger was somehow more respected an emotion than fear was to human norms. It had only taken one instance of him of noticing Spock's ears twitch at his volume before he'd cut that proclivity out entirely, to which Spock would be forever grateful. Especially now, when even the sound of his own breathing hurt.
Spock judged it safe enough to open his mouth to speak; the nausea was still present, but it had receded some the longer he rested there, and he did not think he would immediately vomit upon replying.
"I... believe I may be compromised, sir."
Kirk let out a huffing breath of laughter, but he did not sound amused. He sounded uneasy and anxious. A nervous habit of his: trying to gentle them into a topic he knew Spock found uncomfortable to discuss. His health always was. They had been in these situations before, although not for the same reasons, and Spock had never found it became any easier to talk about his own personal matters than it had the first time he'd been forced to do so. Familiarity often bred ease, but this was a clear exception. It was just as unpleasant as ever.
"I'd call that a bit of an understatement; you looked about ready to pass out just now. What's wrong?"
"I am disoriented and suffering vertigo. I am fatigued. My head aches." It was not a lie, Spock thought bleakly, and he tried to convince himself of the lackluster justification. He had said nothing that was not the truth. He did not know what was causing the pain, only that it was present. He could theorize, but theory was not fact. Spock did not indulge in verbal speculation, and so not offering his opinion on the suspected circumstances behind his condition was not unusual. It was wholly unrelated to his reluctance to inconvenience the captain in even small ways, but merely done for the sake of brevity. "I do not think my presence here to be of further use to the mission."
"I'm not worried about the mission, Spock. I'm worried about you. Do you know what's causing it? Are you hurt or—oh, is it the cold? Here, come here, you must be freezing." The captain tugged him closer and began to roughly rub up and down Spock's arms with his hands, using the resulting friction to try to warm him. The resulting jostling made his head pound all the more, but he could not bring himself to stop Jim's efforts to help. It gave him something to do, at least; kept him occupied. And he could not deny that the warmth soaking through his uniform was nice, as was Jim's close proximity. "God, Spock, and here I was chucking snow at you! If I just stopped to think for even a—I'm so sorry."
Jim believed the temperature to be the cause of his condition, which was not the truth. It was not the cold. Spock knew this with absolute certainty. The weather had worsened now, the snow coming down in greater quantities, but he observed it impartially, abstractly. It threatened hypothermia and frostbite, but it did not threaten the sanctity of his control. It was not a threat to him in the ways that mattered, and his ingrained caution did not register it as one. Cold alone could not do this. It could not press against the barriers of his mind; it could not thrust him into memories of times long ago. It could not make him feel this way. Whatever the source of his condition, it was not caused by the temperature. This was fact. Certain, cold, objective fact.
"… It is probable," Spock acknowledged weakly. The words felt dragged from him; he was nauseous all over again, but this time from the stomach-pitting sensation of lying. More than that, it was that he was lying to Jim. "I am not presently able to accurately calculate the odds." Lying. It felt like bile as it continued to pour out of his mouth, spilling from his lips like poison, but he could not seem to stop. "…You are not at fault, Jim. The snowballs were harmless and are not responsible for my present state. This discomfort is not life-threatening, but I believe it would be beneficial for me to rest."
"We're going back," the captain said decisively. "I'm sure—"
Whatever the captain was sure of, Spock did not find out. Kirk's communicator chirped loudly, and the sound was grating to Spock's ears. He had almost forgotten, for some small moment, that the universe did not pause just because Jim was talking to him. In the falling snow and calm murmuring, it was easy to pretend they were the only ones who existed.
"Ambassador Hammett to Captain Kirk."
Kirk flipped the device open with a dark expression. He'd looked irritated by the interruption even before he realized who was hailing him, but now that the identity of the caller was confirmed, he looked positively menacing.
"Kirk here."
"Ahh, there you are captain!" Hammett's voice said jovially. "Just the man I was looking for—"
"
I'm busy. What?" The captain's tone was curt and downright rude; he no longer seemed to be toing the line between professionalism and disrespect. He had quite firmly crossed it and appeared to have no qualms in doing so by the look in his eye.
"Well, the Seskille and I were just chatting—lovely people, and so polite too!—and they were asking to talk with you again. I did try to explain to them that, well, that I was the one heading this mission, but they've apparently got some questions for you. Very insistent on it, actually. Maybe for the best, you might be able to figure out what they're trying to say. It seems that in all their excitement at meeting us, they are struggling to be very clear about… anything, really. If you could—"
Kirk's expression was steely as he cut the man off for the second time. It was twice now that he had been requested by the Seskille personally, and there was no one else he could reasonably foist them off to.
"Fine, transfer them over then." At once, the crackling and popping whine screeched over the frequency, and Spock could not resist this time pressing his hands over his ears to dull the sound. It was akin to blades digging against the normally strong, rigid barriers he'd built in his head, finding all the cracks and prying into them without mercy.
The captain's grip on his arms tightened, and worried hazel eyes stared back at him when he glanced their way.
"This is Captain Kirk. My apologies for the radio silence, I was temporarily occupied. You wanted to speak with me?" Silence. Spock saw the exact moment the captain remembered the time delay; the frustration and exasperation alighting in his every feature before he forced them back down, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly with a puff of white mist. To Spock, he murmured: "Do you think you're alright to walk? You can lean on me if you need to, or I can call for some backup if you can't make it."
Spock took careful stock of his condition. The nausea had eased, but it was not gone. Any movement, whether it was turning his head or shifting his legs, made his head throb enough to blur his vision. Staying here was not an option, however; none of the landing party could beam back to the Enterprise without being at the designated coordinates, and he could not reasonably ask the others to come help carry him down the side of the mountain. His dignity would not allow for that. It would be required to walk at some point, a journey of at least fifteen minutes. He found himself dreading it, and illogically hoped to put it off until he felt some sort of stability again.
"I will be shortly." Spock pressed his forehead to his bent knees and closed his eyes. The darkness was easier on them than the light of the snow was, and with his expression hidden, he needed only to control the tone of his voice. Jim could not know how truly compromised he was, and if Spock had his way, he would not. "Your assistance will be satisfactory; no further help will be required. Allow me a moment to center myself and I will be ready."
"Greetings, Captain James T. Kirk, of the USS Enterprise, it is our happiness." The Seskille sounded as delighted as they always did, and if they felt any resentment from being swapped from person to person like an unpleasant task, they did not express it. "You are not the one from before, but you are welcome too. It would be our joy to know the rules, so that we may learn and share and join and play."
His body was shaking, Spock realized, upon feeling the captain's hands resume their friction on his arm to warm him. The pitch of those voices was afflictive enough that he thought it truly would make him vomit, and he felt his body shudder in preparation to do so. He clenched his eyes and dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Steady. Calm. He was being allowed time to meditate, if not necessarily the space to do so with Kirk still pressed tightly against his side. The captain was a stabilizing presence, though, and a familiar one. Spock focused on the points of contact between them rather than his meditation as he should have. His knee touching the captain's, shoulder pressing against shoulder, hip against hip. Kirk's hand, even chilled from the snow, was warm on his arm. The other man thought him shivering from the cold and Spock did not dissuade him of the notion.
Lies…
"I'm sorry, rules?" The captain asked the Seskille, and upon realizing he might have sounded too snippy, he cleared his throat to rephrase. "Rather, may I ask what rules you are referring to?"
Spock was only half-aware of the conversation; he had hesitantly ventured his conscious inwards, seeking out the source of the blooming pain in his mind. His controls felt raw and worn, like they had been weathering an endless barrage. All the small cracks, ones he'd never been fully able to fill due to his own failings as a Vulcan, were being pried at; chiseled into bit-by-bit until he feared a hole would be made. Already he saw areas of weakness. Not with his meditation, or with his morals, nor with his knowledge or his experience. No, the pressure was on his emotional control; the emotions he felt now, and those he'd felt in the past. The strain to resist, to hold his own against the tension, seemed to be the primary source of the pain.
There was no cure for that, no immediate fix. To surrender his control simply to ease the physical and mental discomfort was not an option he could ever consider, no matter how grave his condition was or became. Spock knew what happened when his control failed him, remembered with perfect recollection how his emotions overruled his logic and led only to ruin.
"The rules to the game," the Seskille replied after the delay ended. Spock shuddered at the sound of their strange, electric-shrill voice. "It is our happiness and our delight to experience what you wish to share with us, and the same in sharing with you what we have experienced, but we do not understand the rules so that we might play and enjoy."
What would happen this time, Spock wondered in abstract curiosity, if he were to allow his shields to collapse? The very idea of allowing it was unthinkable, and such a thing was not even an unanswered question to be entertained or asked. It had happened before, and on more than one occasion. He had been forced to feel emotions, either by the way of an illness, a toxin, a spore, or his own biological curse, and it had resulted in nothing short of disaster. Each and every time, he had lost control in some inexcusable way, harming himself, harming others.
Harming Jim.
"I'm not sure I follow. We aren't playing any game," the captain said. "We have been attempting to locate you since we have arrived, but all we have found is rock, ruins, and snow. There is no game."
Focus. Calm. Breathe.
He could overcome this pain. He should be able to overcome it. The alternative would be catastrophic, to himself and to those around him. It was not only his heritage he feared. Although Vulcans as a race had nearly destroyed themselves with their raw, violent emotions in his ancestry, his people now followed a way of control and peace. The Vulcan morals to harm no living thing did not disappear just because he suddenly felt; their loss was not responsible for his actions. No, it was him. Although his physical ability heightened the potential for damage, it was not because of his species that he was a danger, but because he was Spock. When he lost control of himself, when the barriers being threatened even now were forcibly bypassed, he did the unforgivable to those he claimed to care for.
It would not happen again; it could not happen again. He would not allow it.
"We have been found, Captain James T. Kirk, of the USS Enterprise. It is our happiness to play, but we do not understand. We would ask the other one, but they hide from us. Is this not part of the game?"
"I believe that there may be a miscommunication, so allow me to clarify. We have not been able to locate you, and we are not playing any game, hide-and-seek or otherwise." Kirk sounded agitated, his already limited patience quickly waning with the conversation, the weather, and the entire mission itself. "There are only six lifeforms in our scan range, and all six belong to myself and my crew. The same scan range that is covering the coordinates that you provided. I'll ask again: what is your location?"
The wind was picking up, Spock noticed with some limited awareness, still buried deep in his own mind to repair what damage he could. With the muted sound of his surroundings, he thought the snow thicker too. The wind had already been cutting, but now it was increasing in speed and violence; not to the same degree as it had upon arrival, but he did not like the chances of it worsening.
"We had hoped to speak to the one from before; the one who is playing. They continue to hide, but they may know the rules and can explain the game to all, Captain James T. Kirk, of the USS Enterprise, so that we might all play it." The Seskille sounded just as pleased as they always did—excited even.
The force of the flurry made snowflakes sting at the exposed skin of his face and neck, and Spock did not realize he had leaned into his captain for cover until he felt a hand brush away the snow and pull him closer. His head fell heavily against a firm shoulder and, even though he was sure that Jim was also freezing, Spock only felt warmth radiating from the many points of shared contact. Humans ran at a higher temperature than Vulcans and in this moment he was grateful for it. With his eyes closed and the world dull around him, he could pretend that these circumstances were different and that he was simply resting his head against his friend. That they were simply sharing space, comfortable and at ease with one another.
Spock breathed slowly, steadily, to ground himself. Kirk's hands on his arms, pulling Spock against his side and curling around him to try to provide some protection from the elements, was a relieving distraction from the pain. It ebbed slightly as he leaned there against his captain, the diversion of touch providing some measure of relief and distance from the chaos in his mind. Inhaling deeply and pressed so close, he could not help but take in the scent of the captain; of clean soap, of the worn leather of the command chair on the bridge, of aftershave and mint, and so quintessentially and recognizably Jim Kirk that—
—the scent of him was filling the room and Spock burned inside. He burned; in his gut, in his chest, in his mind, in his blood—he burned. Fire poured through him like a current, threatening to spill out and burn everything—but he shook and gripped at himself to contain it, to keep it where it could not hurt those around him. If he lost control for even an instant, he would not be able to get it back in time stop himself. He wanted release, he wanted it to end, but the captain—Jim—stood in front of him and he could not prevent those feelings, not fully. His gripped so tightly to the stylus behind his back that the bones in his hand ached. Being still, being silent, made it worse and it made him burn…
"—that's an enormous asset to me! If I have to lose that first officer, I want to know why!"
The air was cloying, and he could not avoid inhaling it in for long; holding his breath was obvious, and what little remained of his dignity prevented him from doing something so noticeable. But Jim was too close; Spock took him in with every breath, and every breath felt like fire all over again. Jim was too vibrant and too alive for the space he occupied; his presence filled Spock's quarters the moment he'd entered and everything in it took on the heady scent of him. It was as much a torture as it was a relief—a desire. His hands shook. His body shook. He felt the curling heat of lust, sick and shameful and wrong, take root deep in him. Perverse as it was, disgraceful as it was, the heat there felt good. It nestled down into his gut, into his groin, like an insatiable need that ached.
And inside, all over, Spock burned—
All the air left him in a rush, a jarring, gasping sensation, as if he'd been winded by a punch to the gut that did not exist. He felt quite abruptly suffocated; breath was not properly filling his lungs no matter how he tried to inhale it, and Spock jolted upright, almost seizing up from the force of the movement. His muscles locked so rigidly that they cramped and ached and strained, and every inch of him felt both empty and electrocuted all at the same time. A current running through his body, even as the rest of him was left extinguished.
Spock felt a strangled, choked sound catch in his throat before he could give voice to it, eyes flying open and watering in pain in the blinding light. He did not see it, did not register it, as he wrenched himself as far from the captain as he could. His legs felt unresponsive as he lurched away, and he pressed against snow and rock and cold to create desperately needed distance. Everything was freezing now; the fire in him had vanished just as swiftly as it had sparked and it rendered him cold, dizzy, and reeling. That molten lust that had flowed through his veins, sordid and hot, left only a hollow cavity behind with its sudden disappearance. He felt curiously, disturbingly vacant.
"Spock?" the captain stared at him in surprise, having quickly snatched his hands back as if he were the cause of the Spock's sudden flinch. He had been, but not in the way he assumed. Jim thought, not incorrect to do so with past experiences kept in mind, that the physical contact had been unpleasant. That was not the case; the problem lay in the opposite. It had not felt unpleasant, not at all, and that was why he could not permit it to happen again. "Was that too much? I wasn't thinking—sorry, Spock."
Jim was waiting for an answer, and Spock could only muster a numb, blank nod to soothe the captain down and assure him that everything was alright.
It was not.
As quick as that too-familiar memory had taken hold of him, it had gone again, but the echo of it remained. The feeling of fire in his body, the acid-burn sensation of arousal coiling between his thighs, and the way he'd had to force himself, with every bit of effort he could muster, to not cross that small distance in his quarters to the captain. It had made him feel sick—did make him feel sick—and he shook and struggled as much now as he had then. His blood did not burn now. There was no fire in him to drive him to carnal fever. That madness of his biology was not happening again, but it had felt, for that split moment, as if it were.
His heart, when he pressed a hand to his torso to try to feel the rise and fall of his chest—perhaps to convince himself that he truly was breathing, for air did not seem to be reaching his lungs—was pounding rapidly in his side.
Some part of his mind took careful stock of this; of his reaction, the symptom, the sensations, and it judged harshly on them. Everything felt cloudy and, contradictorily, startlingly clear. Detached in unusual ways. His breath came in heavy, quick gasps that he did not feel, hidden to the captain as he curled inward to conceal it, to keep up the appearance that he was only resting. The shrill, popping whine of that voice pierced at him, and it was a struggle to keep the resulting spasm of pain to only a mute hum in his throat. It was carried away on the wind, increasing as it was in both speed and force. Visibility was low; a whiteout, he'd heard Jim call it once, and the name was apt enough. He took it in blearily, vacantly, even as he exhaled out with a sharp wheeze catching in his chest.
He did not feel the air he breathed, and yet, curiously, it was all he could seem to focus on.
Focus. Control. Calm.
He could not achieve any of the three, nor could he remember how to do so now. Some odd, foreign feeling was gnawing at his senses, sharpening some and deadening others. The sensation of being unmoored and sent adrift was disorienting. He was not floating in either space or water, as the metaphor suggested, but was still sat in the snow on Seskilles VII. And yet the discomforting sense of falling away from full cognizance remained nonetheless.
"Standby while I speak to my crew." The captain leaned in close, but he kept his hands to himself and made certain not so much as brush against Spock again. In a lower voice than he had to the Seskille, he said: "That's it. I'm calling it. If there is a game going on, I'm not interested in playing. We'll contact the landing party and have them head back; we're getting out of here."
Jim was making it a point not to touch him, but the touch was not the cause of this condition. It was not fair that the captain should think otherwise. Spock almost told him so, but such an action was borne of the desire to have Jim pressed against him again, rather than to clear the miscommunication. Spock said nothing and only nodded; he did not trust his voice to be measured if he tried to speak.
Kirk first contacted the Enterprise. Lieutenant Commander Scott's thick accent seemed out-of-place through the snowfall. He could hear the captain's voice, but only every other word seemed discernable. The conversation was quiet and low and, concerningly, he heard Doctor McCoy be mentioned more than once. However, he could not find the focus required to determine context when he had a task of his own to accomplish.
With trembling hands, Spock reached for his own communicator and tugged it from his belt. The sharp flick of his wrist to open it, such instinctual movement to him after so many years, felt stiff and difficult and wooden.
"Spock to landing party." He felt each word pull from him like a scrape against his throat, and despite his best efforts, his voice sounded small and faint. If there were resulting answers from the rest of the team, he did not hear them, only registering muffled and indistinguishable sound. In, out; he inhaled and exhaled to try to slow his racing pulse, to retreat the surge of adrenaline that poured thick through him and made him so chilled. Spock only breathed and stared at the communicator in his hand for a long, unending moment—he could not blink or take his gaze away, for he could no longer seem to move, only sit there useless and inhale air into lungs that did not function correctly.
Shock, he thought with faraway awareness. These were the symptoms of shock. Everything felt dull and muted but for the churning in his stomach, the pain in his head, the sensation of wind against his skin, and the air rising his chest but not ever filling it. It felt like whiplash; his mind having been jolted between control and emotion with such an intensity and sudden speed that it was akin to an injury. He felt sick.
It was Kirk's hand entering his line of sight that jarred him back to some small awareness, and Spock blinked heavily, brows furrowing. It was as if he were hearing and seeing things from so far away, and all of it sluggish. His communicator lay fallen in the snow, having slipped from his slackened fingers. He did not remember dropping it. He did not remember holding it to begin with. He did not remember what he was supposed to do with it.
The captain scooped it up with a worried smile, and Spock stared at him as if from underwater. The information came through slowly, requiring first to make it past a dense, thick daze, from the pain in his head to the cold of the weather. It hurt, and he was numb, and he could not breathe, and he tucked his head back against his knees because even now he could not show Jim the truth of himself.
"Commander?" Uhura's voice, trying to understand Spock's silence after hailing them. "Are you reading me, Mr. Spock?" Spock could not respond, but it turned out that he didn't need to. The captain, using Spock's communicator, answered for him.
"This is Kirk, I want all personnel to head back to the designated coordinates and prepare to be transported back to the ship. The weather's getting too severe, and we're just not prepared for this."
As relieved acknowledgement rang out from the communicator, the captain fixed the device to his own belt. Possibly, he thought Spock too cold to take it back. Kirk looked as if he wanted to reach out to him; his arm was even outstretched to do exactly that before he caught himself and purposely moved it away. Jim had always been tactile for a human; it was in his nature to assure himself of one's condition with physical touch. It had been practical in the past, but his perception of the contact had taken a different meaning. Spock wished the touch of his captain did not affect him in such a way, nor that the very absence of that touch did too.
"Here, let me see them, hold them out. Your poor hands must be—God, Spock! You're shaking like a leaf. I've got Doctor McCoy on standby; he'll meet us in the Transporter Room. Not much longer now, we'll get you warmed up soon, I promise; lots of tea, lots of blankets, that terrible fruit-soup you like..." Spock thought that the captain was talking more to himself more than he was to Spock. He was strategizing, attempting to accommodate for the situation as best he could with limited options. Having a gameplan, as Jim referred to it as, helped him feel in control when circumstances otherwise threatened to challenge that. "Do you think you can stand now? If you need help, from me or…"
Spock did not think he could stand, at least not steadily, but he also had no other choice. He could not stay here and, more than anything, he wanted to be off this planet. The sooner the better, and that required him to get up. Sluggishly, Spock took Kirk's hand, forcing—forcing—his mind to go blank, to not remember the burning heat of before. The friction of tanned fingers sliding against from his own sent shivers racing down his spine, and he felt a curl of disgust at his own reaction. He was not on Vulcan. He was not burning inside. He was cold and calm and focused, and if he continued to repeat it like a mantra, perhaps he could convince himself it was true. It was illogical, but logic alone would not get him back to the ship.
The moment he was on his feet, Spock let go of Jim's hand, snatching his own back as if the contact had burnt him. The memory of it doing just that, of scalding him to the core, made him tuck his arms to his chest tightly. He hoped it looked like a huddle for warmth, rather than the defensive cower that it in all actuality was.
Spock clung to the sensation of the numb fog, the shock, with a detached determination. It was easier to block everything else out when his mind could no longer focus. A deplorable rationalization for a Vulcan; such behavior was an alarming breach of decorum, but he had been intensely reminded—forcibly reminded—of what being a Vulcan could also feel like. The burning, the rage, the lust. This blunt, deadened feeling was preferable as a defense, at least until he could get back to the ship. Once in the dark security of his quarters, secluded and kneeling before his fire pot, he could process what had happened here. First, he needed to get there.
His posture was hunched, legs stiff and frozen, and his body felt curiously both too full and too empty all at the same time. His control was stretched thin and it almost took more than he was able to give to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Kirk was at his side; a close and stable presence, and he did not touch Spock again after helping him up. It was better for his mental barriers to avoid the contact but, even so, he found himself wanting it.
It was for that very reason, because he desired it so, that he made certain not to allow the gold of Kirk's uniform to so much as brush against him. He was compromised, unforgivably so, and although he had already sunk to vile behavior, there was still some distance between himself and true depravity. There was every chance he could lose himself to it if he did not forcibly maintain rigid standards of self-control, whatever the cost to himself might be. If that required using the whiplash-like shock of his mind, then so be it.
The chirp of a communicator opening was faint through the snowfall.
"Seskille collective, this is Captain Kirk." The captain had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. "Unfortunately, due to the increasing severity of the weather conditions, we are transporting back to the ship. I am aware this may stagnate any personal introductions, and I apologize that we were not able to make them today, but we will have to continue communication via the ship channels until such a time as the conditions clear."
The wind was getting worse, with visibility now limited to a distance of less than three meters; Spock could see very little but whirling, dizzying white all around him. Following the cliffsides downhill made the correct heading simple enough to determine, although treacherous, and so he focused on walking as steadily as he could. Even with the pain in his head, he felt the blood flow of consistent movement ease the stiffness in his muscles and smooth out his step. The realization that he might be able to actually make it to the coordinates under his own power was a rallying one. His dignity had already been tarnished before his captain; to be hauled to the coordinates by way of stretcher, assistance from one of the crewmen, or even carried by Jim himself would be more than Spock could bear.
"Captain James T. Kirk, of the USS Enterprise, we will continue to communicate with you, and the opposite to us." The Seskille voice had no such issue with being lost to the wind; it cut through the snow with screeching, painful ease. "It would also be our happiness to share and learn with the one from before. If there is no game, there is no need to hide. We welcome and take joy in all. Please share this to the one who hides if he is found by you: that it is our happiness to find and be found in return."
Spock was struck with the fierce, unprofessional thought that he was glad they had not found the Seskille, for he surely could not bear hearing that voice in person. The sound over the comm was excruciating enough. The pain of their strange, electric-sounding voice, whining and shrill, nearly broke through the muted numb in his head. The pressure increased, dizzying him and blurring his vision. Only a short while longer, twenty minutes at most, until he would be aboard the ship. He could make it that long. Had to make it that long.
His meditation space would be calm and quiet, the smoke of his incense wafting heavy in the warmth of the room. The flames of the asenoi would flicker and dance shadows against the dark red curtains, and the steady heat radiating out from the fire pot would cast his mind out to seas of white sand. He would bury this all down beneath the dunes, as he did all other emotions and unwanted thoughts, and his desert would be still and smooth once more. The damage would heal with time and focus, and he would again operate at full efficiency with no one the wiser. All this could be put firmly, forcibly into the past.
"I'm glad you understand, and I appreciate your patience." Kirk, though, did not sound patient, from what little could be heard over the rush of the wind. It was worsening and snow stung at their skin like barbs from the force of it. The pointed tips of his ears were numb, as was his face and hands. "You keep mentioning this other one; can you clarify exactly who you're talking about? I assure you, none of my team is doing any hiding."
All he needed to do was make it to the ship, and then he could conceal himself away. He told himself this repeatedly, like a mantra, to continue to move his body. But his mind only now processed Kirk's previous assurances to him, distracted as he had been by the want he'd felt. Getting to the Enterprise, Spock realized, as he forced each foot to fall in front of the other, would not be the only challenge. There was another obstacle.
That obstacle was named Doctor Leonard McCoy.
The doctor would be waiting for him when they beamed aboard, Jim had told him, and Spock knew he would be instantly herded to sickbay within seconds of arrival, if not carried there. On a frozen planet with limited visibility and the very real risk of hypothermia to distract the captain with, he could get away with a certain amount of unusual behavior that otherwise would have raised a number of other concerns. His outright lies, ones thought to be inconceivable from Jim's perspective, had done much to ensure the questioning would be minimal. Once on the ship, with the watchful, eagle-eyed doctor hovering over him, prodding for any weakness, it would be impossible to hide his condition. Hypothermia, after all, could only excuse so much, and Doctor McCoy would notice immediately that there was something else wrong.
Not that he would be able to do anything about it—and Spock felt an unnerving bleakness at the thought, uncommon for him. He had become accustomed to the doctor being able to assist him, even if it were only from force or brute pressuring. He had become accustomed to the muttered comments, the insults, the prodding and poking, the snarls, and the scowling. He had also become accustomed to the doctor's ability to help, even if it were in the most minute capacity, even as just a distraction to argue with. That gleam in the doctor's eyes always betrayed him; gave away the warmth and care he truly felt.
Somewhere along the way, happening so slowly over the previous three years that even Spock had not noticed the shift, Leonard McCoy had become the sole exemption in his utmost distaste for medical interference. He would not say such aloud, but he did trust the doctor, as much as he could any medical professional.
Doctor McCoy would not be able to help him.
"We refer to the other one; the one from before, who plays the game. The one who has hidden, the one who has found and been found in return." The Seskille, the tone of them piercing through his numb fog like a blade, stabbing and sharp. His thoughts were sent scattering. Their explanation did not clear up the confusion any more than their previous vague statements had, and it was clear that Kirk thought the same, judging by the puff of annoyance. He muttered something unintelligible and likely unprofessional to Spock, but the wind was too loud now, and his voice was carried away into the flurry.
But then the Seskille continued, and their voice had no such issue. Spock heard it loud and clear.
"We refer to the passionate one. The one that burns."
"… Right. Well, I'll be sure to pass along the message if I find them." The captain sounded distracted; the snow was well-past their ankle and only getting deeper, making it difficult to wade through. "We'll make contact once we get back to the ship; I'm hoping we can arrange a more thorough introduction in better conditions. Kirk out." The communicator closed with a snap, and the captain turned to him, brow furrowed and head shaking in bemusement. He let out a short, exasperated laugh. "So that was… annoyingly cryptic. Say, you haven't by any chance seen anyone on fire recently, have you? Turns out they're in high demand around these parts."
It was apparent to Spock that the captain was trying to make light of an increasingly grim situation; the wind was hazardous, the snowfall obscured any sense of certain direction, and the freezing temperatures were biting. Were it another time, he would have humored Jim, raised a single brow, and perhaps said something equally pithy back. But this was not another time, and he was not laughing.
No, instead he had stopped, frozen mid-step.
"Spock?"
The one that burns.
The pieces fell into place. With the benefit of hindsight, of now knowing what he should look for, Spock realized it had been obvious from the first ache.
The pressure in his head, the sensation of prying and digging, the pain. He had understood, of course, that it was related to his telepathy; he had been the only one affected and as the singular telepath in the entire crew, it had been an easy deduction to make. However, the source of the pain itself had been an unknown, and one he'd been unable to determine until now. The theories had varied from an undetectable disease or illness to a toxin of some kind that only detrimentally impaired him. This was not unprecedented; it had happened before on missions, and it was both a scientific and logical conjecture to make.
But this was not an ailment. This was an assault.
"Spock? What happened, what's wrong?"
The one that burns.
It made sense; so much so that he was surprised he hadn't come to the conclusion himself. An attack of the mind; telepathic violence of a kind he'd never experienced before. Oh, it had happened to some degree or another before; Omicron Ceti III and Psi 2000 both came to mind, but he had not experienced it to this extent before, nor in this exact manner. Purposeful, intentional, methodical telepathic intrusion; planned and executed consciously—this had never happened to him.
Spock had been harmed before; infected with an emotion-altering disease, exposed to spores that forced a state of blissful euphoria, interrogated with a device that ripped the mind open to expose the truth within it. All had been damaging to his barriers, and all had been painful in their own way, but they had all been insentient. Either a product of natural or electronic design, each had been indiscriminate in their means. A disease, a plant, some circuits. They had not been this.
This was… Spock could not find the proper words. He had never before been violated by an intelligent species; such a thing was the height of immoral on Vulcan, a crime of such grave severity that even thinking of it was uncomfortable. To willingly commit such an atrocity on another, on him… he felt sickened, both at the crime itself and the realization that this had been an intentional act—that it still was an intentional act, for it was ongoing even now.
It should not have felt different. It should not have made any difference to him how and why he was being affected so, but it did. Those forced times in the past had been impersonal, but this was not. No, they had made him—forced him—to burn again. The Seskille had willingly, consciously, purposely invaded the sanctity of his mind and memories.
And they had made him burn.
"Spock!"
He looked up, blinking vacantly at the captain. Jim looked worried and alarmed, bordering on the edge of outright fear. He needed to say something, to reassure Jim that everything was alright and that he was okay, because the captain would surely take matters into his own hands if he thought otherwise. Spock opened his mouth, meaning to do exactly that, but he felt so very dizzy, and his voice stuck in his throat. He needed to say something…
The words failed him; Spock found he did not know what to say anyways, and he did not know what else he could do now, for himself or for Jim. His boots staggered in the snow; he swayed as he fought the vertigo-induced nausea that surged up potent and acrid in his throat. He had to breathe heavily through his nose to keep consciousness; already his vision blurred at the edges. If it would not have been such an inconvenience to the captain, he would have gladly allowed himself to collapse into unconsciousness, if only for some measure of relief. He didn't have much left in him to block the attack—the assault—for his reserves had all but been drained.
Spock had waited too long to provide necessary placations to Jim, it seemed. The captain rapidly closed the distance between them and gripped at his shoulders, his prior concern about physical touch apparently disregarded. The thrill that raced through him at the feeling of Jim's hands on him was unacceptable, and he could only feel shame and disgust at himself, at his reaction. This was his captain—his commanding officer. It was inappropriate to feel this way for anyone, let alone for Jim. It was inappropriate to feel at all.
"It's alright, Spock, I've got you. Shh, no arguing, let me help. The sooner we get off this rock the better." The captain moved to duck under Spock's arm, taking his weight across his shoulders and forcing Spock to lean into him. He allowed it without complaint; he did not think he could find the energy to refuse the assistance. His legs were no longer strong enough to drive him forward. There were no more arguments left in him. "Just a little further to go and we'll get you warm, I promise. I'll even make you that—" Jim's voice was strained as he took the brunt of Spock's weight. "—that godawful tea you like so much."
Kirk staggered in the snow as he half-carried, half-dragged Spock with him, and Spock could do nothing but stumble along uselessly. He felt their legs tangle together more than once, catching and tripping them both up.
It was not a surprise that one of them fell. The conditions were dangerously slick even to one wholly focused on a careful step, let alone for one trying to balance extra weight and coordinate another adult. The captain's feet slid out from underneath him, tripping on either the ice, their own legs, or some obstacle hidden beneath the calf-deep snow. Jim floundered to regain balance.
Even through the pain and fatigue, it was pure instinct by now for Spock to reach out and stop his captain from toppling over; it was always first, second, and even third nature to keep Jim safe, no matter how compromised his own condition was. Jim was crashing down in a tangled splay of flailing limbs and snow, and so Spock acted on that very nature. Before his mind could fully process it, he'd clenched a fistful of the captain's uniform collar and pulled sharply to stop his fall. Jim dangled heavily from his grip—
—Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.
"Kroykah!"
Spock stared, uncomprehending at first even as the horror set in bone deep. The burning, raging fire that had consumed and scorched him from the inside out extinguished suddenly and turned to cold ash in his veins. Something unpleasant, sick, and churning filled his gut, his chest, his throat; he didn't breathe, he didn't move, he just… stared. There was pressure in his eyes, vision blurring and stinging with the onset of tears, but he didn't cry—couldn't cry—he could only stand there and look and look and look and not truly see, not fully understand…
With the strangling hold of the ahn-woon wrapped tight around his neck and keeping him partially suspended, the captain hung bonelessly, slack limbs sprawled out against the sand. This body—this limp, beaten, lifeless thing, did not look like James T. Kirk, the fearless starship captain. It did not look like Jim, his closest friend. It looked wrong; sickening and impossible and perverse, because it should not have been possible. He couldn't have—he couldn't have…
… What had he done?
He didn't breathe, even as a guttural, choked sound caught in his throat. Couldn't breathe. Everything went so quiet, fingers numbing and slipping as he lowered the body—not Jim, not Jim—to the ground. Spock stared and stared, hunched over and still holding on as the shock gave way to chilling, overwhelming dread. Jim was—the world seemed to lurch and drop out from beneath him, leaving him unmoored and detached and disconnected to everything around him. Vulcan was gone. The spectators were gone. T'Pring was gone. The universe could have ended and been reborn a dozen times over and all he could know was that unmoving body that lay stretched out on the sand.
The gold of Jim's command uniform was ripped, bloody from the fight—their fight—their fight, because he did this—and his face looked beaten in. Bones broken; skin bruised, but unmistakably Jim Kirk. Jim, who was his closest friend. Jim, who meant more to him than any person ever had or ever would. Jim, who had risked his captaincy and his career to save his friend's life. Jim who had been killed—murdered—by that very same friend he'd given up everything for.
Jim, who was dead.
He did this. His weapons, his hands, his fault. That horrible burning, no longer immolating him from within, took root behind his eyes and in his throat. He felt choked, sickened, gutted, because this was his fault. His captain. His Jim. His fault…
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
Spock blinked, bile in his throat and tears thick in his eyes, at the sound of Doctor McCoy's voice. He wanted to turn, to beg the doctor to somehow fix this—fix Jim, please—but the world swam back into awareness. The freezing, empty, arctic world. The cold hit him before the recognition did and Spock realized, with blinding confusion, that the body—that Jim—was staring right back at him in shock. Uninjured, unbloodied, and very much alive.
"What—Spock, are—"
His fingers were still buried tight in the captain's uniform collar; still holding on to prevent him from falling. Still holding him up, body heavy in his grasp, just like he'd held—Spock wrenched his hands away, reeling back as if he'd been struck. Panic flooded him like a poison, choking and strangling and shaking him to the core, because Jim had been dead, killed, murdered, and it had been Spock's fault. His hands, his actions, his fault—
Jim tried to grab for him, hands reaching through the falling snow, and Spock stumbled backwards to avoid them. He couldn't be trusted to touch the captain right now, not after what he'd done, not after he had been responsible for—but the captain lunged for him again, relentlessly pushing forward to try to pull him close.
"Wait! Just stop—it's okay, I won't touch you, Spock, just stop moving!"
This time, to protect himself, to protect Jim—to protect Jim from himself—Spock shoved him away hard.
Jim's landing was rough, thrown a fair distance and tumbling with a tangle of limbs and powdery snow. The momentum sent Spock off-balance, staggering and unsteady. His breath came out harsh, with gasping, strangled sounds, and he couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't understand. He couldn't do anything but stumble away to put as much distance between himself and Jim as he could, as if that would stop the memories, the grief. It ached in his side, his heart, all over again; fresh and raw and so overwhelming that it choked him. The bright of the snow reminded him of sand in stilted flashes, reminded him of Jim laying there so still, so silent and unmoving.
He wasn't—he was not on Vulcan, with its hot sun and glaring sand. He was not lost in the madness of the plak'tow, the blood fever. Jim was not dead; he couldn't be, because that was his voice on the wind, shouting at him with panic in his voice. Even now, the captain was already scrambling up, tripping on himself in his haste as he, again, tried to reach for him.
"Spock! Spock, stop! Dammit, you're too close—"
Spock's mind spun dizzy and incoherent, and he didn't want to be touched right now. He could not be touched right now, because he could not be trusted with it. He was not in control. He was not in control and the last time he'd been so wildly irrational he'd killed that which he valued most. Jim would try to comfort him, try to reassure him that everything was alright, that all was forgiven, because the captain was compassionate and trusting and so good to the core of him. That wasn't what Spock needed after such a forcible reminder of his inability to constrain himself.
No, he needed to get to the ship; he needed to lock himself in his quarters and force all this back under the dunes where it couldn't consume him or anyone else. He needed to be anywhere but here, because he was so very, very compromised, dangerously so, and—and—
"Don't—Spock!"
But he'd already backed away from the captain too fast—too far—and his next step hit only air.
There was the plummeting, stomach-dropping sense of the ground falling away from him; he reached out to try to catch himself, to stop the lurching pull of gravity, but his hands found no purchase on the slick rock. Kirk was still bolting for him even as the world tilted into a dizzying spin of white, swirling snow, and empty, wide space. It was too late; the captain was too far away to reach him, and all Spock could grab onto were snowflakes. By Jim's terrified expression, he realized it too.
The captain shouted for him, but Spock did not hear what was said. All he heard was the rush of wind as, with the barest gasp lost to the snow, Spock toppled back and over the edge of the crater.
A huge thank you to everyone who has commented; the reception has been amazing. I hope to post a new chapter at least every other week and I fully intend on seeing it all the way the very end! My outline is rather detailed, and I'm so excited for what is to come! I've been having an absolute blast writing this so far.
While the most important episode to have watched is 'Amok Time', there are direct references made to some TOS episodes in this chapter, specifically to 'Operation - Annihilate!', 'The Naked Time', 'This Side of Paradise', and 'Errand of Mercy'. All wonderful episodes, the first three having some pretty heavy hurt!Spock moments.
Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Yon-tor — Ignite; to cause to burn; to set fire to; to subject to great heat, to make luminous by heat
Asenoi — Fire Pot, used to center one's thoughts during meditation.
Ahn-woon — Rope-like melee weapon to be used as a whip or noose in combat.
Plak'tow — Blood fever; the final part of Pon Farr whereby the victim is rendered incapacitated and the only thought is to mate.