— Chapter Thirteen —
— Aitlun —

All at once, his mind fell silent.

His thoughts, the room he was in, his healing trance, the sick notion of violation… all of it dulled into a hazy, scattered concept that drifted away from him like a fog. His mind tried to catch up, but it was stranded between states of waking and sleeping, and everything seemed so indistinct. Dreamlike. Distantly, Spock could still hear himself; hear his own choked rasps of breath muffled by the fabric he was caught against. It suggested that he was still panicked, but the frightened spiral his mind had become trapped in finally began to unwind. All Spock felt, as that low, lulling voice wrapped around him, was engulfing and overwhelming relief.

Jim was here.

His captain.

His body went slack, and he all but collapsed into the hold. For long seconds, ones he could not find the required energy to calculate, he could only press in and surround himself with the recognizable scent of his captain. Each breath of it was calming; almost heady as it stirred up a sense of refuge. His heart steadied in his side from its frantic, rapid pace as he began to understand that he was safe. That his captain had come for him; that Jim had come for him. Spock repeated the name in his head like a mantra, until it was the only word he could think. Jim. Jim. Jim. He repeated it, again and again, until it drowned out the feelings of terror that had felt so paralyzing.

The arms around him held strong as they tightened and secured him to lean against a broad chest; the captain shifting them both so that he took on the majority of Spock's weight. He held him in a way that felt protective, as if Jim were attempting to shield him. One steadying hand between his shoulder blades and the other pressing against nape of his neck. Warm fingertips buried into the hair at the base of his skull, one accidentally brushing the skin behind his ear, and Spock had only just enough rational thought left to suppress the thrill it sent down his spine.

It was the low hum of pleasure building in his throat that finally made him come back to himself; some stir of logical, situational awareness returning from the fog. Questions formed, but the answers were muddled. It was difficult to think; difficult to understand or make sense of this, because had he not just been trapped? He remembered it now, although faintly. He had been healing, his mind submerged in the molecules of himself. He had been held there, unable to escape it, and when he had… Spock shoved the thought away—shoved the knowledge away, because now was not the time for it. He did not want the answers any longer. Right now, he wanted to pretend it had not happened at all.

Pretend.

Spock inhaled with a shuddering wheeze to rid himself of remnants of his healing trance and, after another moment, he opened his eyes. His eyelids were still heavy with both sleep and exhaustion; he had to blink several times in order to see through the disorientation. However, when his vision did clear, all Spock could see was gold.

A command uniform. He was pressed in so close that he was nearly breathing it in, his nose nestled into the crook of Jim's neck. The heat of the captain, running at a far higher temperature than Vulcans ever did, felt like flame where their skin touched. Spock had never understood how humans could walk around at such an internal temperature. How did they not burn? Even now, or perhaps especially now, every inch of contact between himself and Jim felt scorching. It seemed so unlikely that such an impossibly fragile creature as man could blaze like a flame without igniting. And the scent of his captain—of Jim. Jim. Jim.—was smoldering in his lungs as he took a breath, and then another.

He couldn't lift his head, couldn't find the energy to move. The nebulous, drifting lethargy was impossible to focus through, and Spock's strength gave out against the man supporting him. Jim made a short noise of strain at the effort it took to keep him upright, but he otherwise stood firm. His grip didn't waver, didn't loosen; if anything, he held on tighter.

Spock had been embraced multiple times before, and by multiple individuals, but not like this. Never like this. This felt different; it felt like more. It gave way to a strange kind of feeling in him, an almost ache. If Spock closed his eyes again—and he did—he could pretend, just for a moment, that this was something else. That this meant something else.

He would have to become proficient at pretending, some far away part of his mind knew. He would have to become a skilled, adept liar, and he would have to do so for reasons considerably less enjoyable than this one. Spock firmly pushed that voice away, pushed it all away, because right now, he wanted these few more moments of ignorance more than wanted logic.

"Spock? What's going on? What's wrong? Hey… look at me." Jim's hand moved from the back of his neck to cup the side of his jaw, and there was a gentle pressure as the captain tried to tilt his head up. Spock resisted; he did not want to be looked at right now. He did not want Jim to see him like this, because that insistent part of himself knew that what he was doing right now was shameful. Because if he let this moment end, he'd have to acknowledge that Jim holding him so closely, so intimately, did not mean what he wanted it to. And because he worried, some small part of himself did, that if he looked up, his captain would be gone; that this was just another memory for them to watch and ruin and take.

They had taken everything else, after all…

But here, forehead buried into his shoulder, Spock could feel the rise and fall of Jim breathing against him. He could feel the heat radiating from his captain's skin where it pressed against his own. If he focused, he could hear Jim's heart beating steadily in his chest, loud and alive. Could he not stay here, just for another moment, and allow himself this small reassurance? Just a few more moments…

"Alright, okay," Jim relented, giving up on trying to budge him. The hand returned to the base of his neck, moving in slow, reassuring circles. "God, you're trembling. Nurse, what's going on with him? Why isn't he responding?"

"I'm… I'm not sure, Captain. Mr. Spock appeared to be asleep, but his vitals were erratic. I was about to take a closer look when he just… jumped out of bed and went for the door. He didn't say anything, didn't seem to have any actual plan; I can't even be sure he's fully awake…"

He might as well have not been, for all that he could focus on either of them. His hearing registered the words they said, both to him and around him, but he could not connect them to form a logical understanding. In fact, Spock felt he could not make sense of much anything at all. The fog was back, thicker than before, and it left the rest of the world rather muted. Perhaps he was in a dream, and perhaps he was still asleep, because only the heat wrapping around him felt real, and—as he breathed in the familiar warmth—all he could think was Jim. Jim. Jim.

(Jim di—)

An instantaneous flare of panic—just a flash of it, but it shook him to the core. A desperate, ugly feeling clenched his heart like a vice. No. No. They could not have his captain; they could not take him, because then Spock would have nothing. He'd be truly and utterly alone. He could not go through that again, please, because it had felt like dying (—in front of him again).

Perhaps it was that his shields had eroded so horrendously—so shamefully—that he could somehow no longer discern the difference between comfort and desire, still as shaken as he was. Or perhaps it was the remnants of tenderness, longing, wistfulness that still lingered in his head from a mind that was not his own. Or perhaps it was neither; maybe, given time, it would have happened anyways, barriers in place or not. It was inexcusable, unforgivable, and selfish, but in that moment, he could not find enough of his control stop himself.

The ugly feeling took hold. He no longer had the option of being a passive observer to what was happening; not when it might be taken from him. Not when Jim might be taken from him. It was that same surge of powerlessness; of frustration, of loneliness, and of long-buried desire, that made him finally move.

Spock reached up and, with arms that did not feel like his own, pulled the captain to him in a desperate, crushing embrace.

In his arms, Jim went very still.

Everything was heat and the feeling of life beating against him. His fingers, grasping and shaking, found purchase in the gold command uniform and he gripped the fabric in his hands so tightly that it hurt. He could not get his legs beneath him, but no longer was he merely being propped up. No longer was he simply watching (—curious and so truly happy, as his worst memory was laid out for their pleasure, over and over again). He did not feel like himself; he did not know himself. His mind felt like a cloud, nebulous and indistinct and floating far away from his body. And yet, it was clearly his body, his and Jim's, that were entwined together.

It was a relief to hold him like this. It was a comfort. It was… something else.

Panic faded. Fear faded.

His pulse did not calm, and nor did it steady. It only began to race.

And pressed so tightly to the captain as he was, skin flush against his neck, Spock felt Jim's pulse do the same.

Here, in this blurred and gauzy sense of security, the feeling of Jim. Jim. Jim. enfolding around and against him sparked a warmth inside. A feeling—a kind of nameless thrill—bloomed out like a rising ache. There was a shivering impulse, a yearning to satiate a hunger he did not know the name for. It made him want to move again; to move his hands to warmer skin. It made him want to move Jim backward until he hit the bulkhead. It made him want to press in closer; press in tighter. It made him want to—

It made him want.

"… Spock?" There was a small, almost imperceptible tremor in the captain's voice. Spock was curled so inseparably against him, nose cradled against the pulse of his throat and his ear against his shoulder, that the sound rumbled low vibrations through him. The scent of books, of leather, of mint, and of something that was just inherently Jim, was almost heady. Spock held his captain—was held by his captain—and, for that one brief instant, perhaps for the first time in months, he felt as if he would be okay.

Jim is here. Jim is safe.

No

, something cold and insistent said in his mind. No, Jim is dead.

He felt as if he had been suddenly doused in ice, and (everything in Spock froze.)

He'd murdered him once, Spock thought distantly. He'd strangled his captain—his radiant, beautiful human captain—until he'd gone limp. He did not understand how he had forgotten; how he could have possibly everforgotten what he'd done.

(Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless—)

(

"Get your hands off of him, Spock!")(Jim died in front of him again.)

All at once, the heat in his skin chilled, the points of skin contact growing numb and cold. A hollow, empty pit opened up inside of him like a void, and he felt gutted. Bile burned at the back of his throat, and his eyes burned. He had murdered his captain. He had lost control, and he had murdered him…

"Can you help me get him back into bed, Captain?"

"What? Oh… right, yes. I've got him, Nurse. You get the covers, I'll, ah—I'll get the Vulcan," the captain responded in a faltering, strained tone. He sounded faintly dazed as he spoke; winded and a little breathless, and he had to clear his throat twice. "I don't… think he's fully with it yet, or he—no, he's definitely out of it. Makes me wonder what exactly he was hoping to achieve before I arrived. Trying to make a break for it, maybe? You better pray that Bones doesn't catch wind of it, Spock, or you'll never hear the end of it. He won't take sleepwalking as an excuse, either; I've tried that on him before and it doesn't work."

Jim spoke to him like he wasn't expecting a response. Like he did not think he was awake…

Realization struck him like a physical blow as reality began to assert itself, and awareness of his actions returned with a nauseating sense of horror. The reason that Jim did not think he was awake was because Spock was not acting like himself. Because he was draped over his captain like he was trying to drown himself in him. Because he had grabbed—because he had wanted—

The mortification that washed over him made him feel almost faint, and it was only then that he truly comprehended their position.

Chest pressed against chest, hip pressed against hip, his head turned into the crook of Jim's neck so closely that his lips were trapped against skin, the captain's hands spread broadly across his back and beneath his arms. They were… not just pressed together, they were flush together. Jim was wrapped around him—no. No, he was wrapped around Jim as well. The captain's grip on him was secure and unwavering as he kept Spock from sinking to the ground, and his own hands were fisted so tightly into the gold uniform that the fabric threatened to tear from the strain.

Spock felt an uncomfortable, squirming, coiling sensation in him. Humiliation, he tried to tell himself; to pretend to himself. Certainly, he felt enough of it to form a rising heat in his ears; one to match the likely visible flush spreading down the back of his neck. But while there was now a chilled pit in his stomach, he had the reluctant realization that humiliation had nothing to do with the simmering heat that had previously been there—nor the heat that had been lower.

He would have been able to control such a reaction once, only days prior. He could not do so now. The shame and disgust he felt at his actions, and his reactions, was nothing short of consuming.

"… Captain?" Spock asked softly, tilting his mouth away from the skin of Jim's neck. He had to speak carefully to avoid breathing in the fabric of his captain's uniform, which was the safer of the two options. He was reluctant to lift his head from his shoulder; reluctant to face Jim after acting in such an unspeakable way. And yet reality would not wait for him to be comfortable with the idea.

"Welcome back, Mr. Spock. That was some wake up. Are you alright?" Jim's voice was still strained, possibly from the weight he was supported, but there was a careful, warm kind of gentleness to his tone as well.

Spock nodded into the captain's shoulder, fighting back the embarrassment surging through him and trying to force—control, control, control—his expression to go blank once more. He willed his voice to level out, willed himself to adopt a serene, stoic demeanor, willed himself to appear normal. Whether he was successful or not, he could not be certain. His expression, his skin, his limbs, all of him felt alien to himself, as if his own body had somehow become ill-fitting.

"Yes. I apologize, sir. Transitioning from a healing trance can be… disorienting," Spock said, and he was fiercely glad that his voice did not shake. Spock wanted to vomit from the lie. It was there in the back of his throat, acrid and burning, and he had to swallow thickly to prevent it. He slowly pulled back from Jim, getting his legs beneath him again and taking his own weight back. The captain did not let him go entirely, but he loosened his grip and allowed space to open between them. He could not look Jim in the eye and instead focused on the collar of his uniform. "I assure you, Captain, I am quite alert now. If I… didanything to make you uncomf—"

"No, nothing like that, Mr. Spock, don't worry. You went for a bit of a walk, but that's all. I'm just as disoriented without my coffee in the morning, so I certainly can't play judge. Honestly, I'm probably worse. The last time I woke up like that, I waited for at least five minutes for the door to my quarters to open before I realized I was standing in front of a wall. You at least had some kind of plan in mind, which is more than I can claim."

Jim's voice held a hint of a smile, clearly trying to make light of the issue as he began to help Spock towards the bed. Spock did not wish to return there. He wished to return to his quarters, to his meditation spot, to the privacy of his locked doors that only the highest of authority codes could override. He wanted to stay in them and never leave again, because he clearly could not be trusted to be around others any longer. Not when his senses had so immorally abandoned him. Not around Jim.

Not that, he thought distantly, he should have ever been trusted to be around Jim. The recent disaster on Vulcan might have been the most significant example of his inability to control himself around the captain, but it was hardly the only one.

"That being said, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that even in your sleep, that plan would be to break out of sickbay. I won't mention it to Bones if you don't. Your excuse is certainly more valid than a crippling caffeine addiction, but he'll have a cow if he finds out about it all the same," Jim helped lower him to the bed, assisting so that he was propped up by the pillows. It felt good to be laying down, although Spock disliked the vulnerability it displayed. And as the captain pulled away, he disliked even more that he missed the feeling of his higher temperature pressed to his side.

"A cow?"

"Oh yes, probably a whole barn full of them," the captain explained in an entirely unhelpful manner. "It's alright, Miss Chapel. I'll stay here and keep an eye on him. No more wanderings, I promise."

Nurse Chapel, Spock realized, was hovering at their side worriedly. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Spock quickly looked away. He remembered now the feeling of violation as she checked his vitals. It was not her fault; she couldn't have known. She had only been doing her job and, without his barriers, without his shielding, he had rushed into her mind like a flood. It was his own weakness that had allowed those shields to collapse to begin with, and this was the result. That there was nothing he could have possibly done while in his healing trance to stop himself did not make his actions any less deplorable.

(Intentions don't mean anything.)

She had wanted him. He had known this for years now, but he had never felt her desire like it was his own. Miss Chapel was too professional to allow her emotions to affect her duties, but the feelings had been there in the back of her thoughts regardless, like the echo of an ache. He had felt it in her mind, and he had felt it in his own afterwards. She had wanted him and, while he respected her, and even to some degree considered her a friend, he did not want her in return. That did not mean he was unsympathetic to her emotions, quite the contrary. He'd understood them even before he had entered her mind. He wished he could have excused his actions towards Jim as merely a remnant of the meld, a fragment of passion left behind from such a transference, but he knew better. This was not the first time that Spock had ached in such a way. It had nothing to do with Christine Chapel's desire for him, and everything to do with his own desire for his captain.

He was too exposed here in Sickbay. He was too vulnerable. He needed to leave, before he ruined something else.

"Captain, I would like to be cleared for duty," Spock said, watching as Jim bent to collect something from the floor. Chess pieces. They were scattered all around the entryway, clearly dropped the moment the captain had entered and taken notice of the situation.

"Oh?" Jim sounded amused.

"I have healed myself to an acceptable degree and require no further treatment. To remain in Sickbay would be an illogical waste of both time and resources. I would be more useful to you on the bridge."

The captain huffed a laugh and Spock allowed himself a quick glance at his expression. Jim did not look uncomfortable, but neither did he look entirely relaxed either. For all that he was smiling, there was a stiffness to it that Spock had difficulty deciphering. But whatever his emotions, the captain seemed content to pretend nothing had happened and that, as it so happened, suited Spock just fine. He eagerly, desperately, allowed Jim to ignore it.

"The way you say it, one would think you were in the brig, not in bed."

"The two are not as dissimilar as you might think. They share many commonalities, such as—"

"Listen, I know that you're desperate to get out of here. Believe me, I do," Jim interrupted, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "But Spock, you can hardly even walk right now. You might be feeling better—you certainly look better—but you aren't up to leaving quite yet. Don't think I don't appreciate the dedication to duty, Science Officer, but right now you'd be more of a liability to me."

Liability.

("What else would you expect from a simpering, devil eared freak—")

"And—" Jim cut his protest off kindly, although Spock had not said anything, protesting or otherwise, "—I'm not saying that to be cruel. I couldn't possibly focus on what I'm doing if I'm busy being worried sick about you, which I would be. Trust me, Spock, there's nothing I'd love more than for us both to walk out of here right now and head to the bridge, but you aren't there yet. And that's fine—I don't need you to be useful right now; I need you to recover. There's nothing wrong with taking some time to heal; you've more than earned yourself the rest. Besides, even if I did agree, which I don't, I'm not the one you'd need to convince."

That was unfortunately true. When it came to matters of health and medicine, it was not the captain who had the final say in medical discharge, but the Chief Medical Officer and, to a limited degree, his assistant prison wardens. In Spock's specific case, both due to the severity of his injuries and McCoy's personal brand of sadism, the doctor was the only one authorized to clear him for duty.

A shame, as Jim would have been the easier of the pair to convince.

"The physical weakness is temporary; merely a side effect of Doctor McCoy's poisons," Spock said dismissively. Already the room was clearer than it had been. His body felt stronger, head more focused, and muscles less fatigued. The healing trance had assisted his recovery time considerably. "Once it recedes, I shall be operating at suitable enough efficiency to return to shift."

"Then I look forward to your upcoming parole, Mr. Spock, and I'll be happy to have you back. In the meantime though, you'll just have to endure incarceration a little longer. A distraction might help, if you're feeling up to it. I did promise you a game." Jim took a seat at his bedside and pulled one of the retractable trays between them. Wordlessly, he began to set up the chessboard, offering Spock the choice between playing white or black. He chose black and in removing the queen from the captain's hand, he took great care to prevent even a hint of physical contact between them. Jim's hands were not gloved as Doctor McCoy's had been. They were not safe for him to touch.

Although none of Jim seemed to be safe for him to touch if the act of doing so made his control lapse so obscenely.

A distraction. Yes, that was exactly what he needed.

The captain moved first, and Spock risked another quick look at his expression. He didn't appear bothered, but Jim could be difficult to read at the best of times. If he'd suspected that Spock hadn't been as out of it as he'd claimed, he wasn't showing any sign of those suspicions. It was true that his mind had not been fully present, and certainly not entirely coherent, but he had not been nearly as unaware as he'd allowed Jim to believe.

Very little had actually happened, Spock supposed, if he thought of it from an objective standpoint. He had hugged the captain and had done so in a manner undeniably closer than was standard between two friends, but that was… outwardly really all that he'd done. He had pressed against him but, although his mouth had been against skin, it had been closed and unmoving. He had not kissed him in the way that humans did. He had not moved against him in any truly reprehensible way. It was possible, then, that Jim truly believed it all to be the result of the healing trance; an odd, half-awake reaction that could explain why he had curled into his arms in such an uncharacteristic manner. It was possible that Jim truly remained unaware of what Spock had nearly allowed himself to do.

(Humans were so fragile when compared to Vulcan strength.)

If that were the case, he had no intention on confessing to the truth of it: that he had wanted Jim, and that he had wanted him badly enough to forget himself.

Spock silently moved a pawn, and he kept his eyes firmly on the board this time. He had to focus; he would never have allowed his attention to drift in such a way before this. He had to act normally; to pretend to do so, at the very least.

As it turned out, he needn't have bothered. It became noticeable in only five moves that he was not the only one struggling to concentrate. Jim was not focused on the game either.

The captain's playstyle was often an erratic one, consisting of leaps and jumps of logic and illogic to create a thoroughly scattered, unpredictable strategy. It had taken some time to decipher it, but Spock was quite capable of countering it these days and used his considerable wellspring of resourcefulness to create small traps of illogic of his own (often to Jim's delight). He usually found Jim to be a clever and well-matched adversary; so far, the only one on the Enterprise able to match him.

There was no sign of his unusual blend of chaos and order as he moved pieces haphazardly around the board. There was unpredictable, and there was preoccupied. Jim was the latter.

Jim was distracted.

The reason for this became clear when, instead of capturing his knight, the captain only leaned back in his chair and looked at him steadily. Determinedly.

Spock felt something cold plummet straight into his stomach. Jim knew. His captain was clever; clever enough to have figured it out and was now going to confront it. Spock prepared himself for recrimination, for accusation, for judgement. He deserved it, all of it, and he would offer no excuse for his actions. They had been unforgivable. He had nearly allowed himself to give in to want; he had nearly allowed himself to lose control.

(And Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)

"I want to apologize for earlier, Spock," Jim began seriously, and Spock could barely breathe. "I didn't go about it the way I should have. I promised I'd only ask one question, because I didn't want to be like Hammett, and then I just ended up interrogating you anyways. I shouldn't have pressed you on it—and I'm not just saying that because Bones laid into me, although I assure you, he certainly did. There's a time and a place for that sort of thing, and right after you wake up from a coma isn't it."

This… was about their previous conversation. The question that Jim had asked him, and the resulting disagreement. The question of whether the Seskille had hurt him. This was about that misunderstanding, and not… not what had just happened. Spock had to force himself to inhale steadily, so as not to sound gasping or breathless. Jim hadn't guessed it. He still didn't know, and Spock was still safe.

The relief that struck him faded nearly as fast as he then realized where this was leading. This was not a conversation topic he wanted either, because now they were back to where they had started. The apology came as a surprise, and an unwelcome one at that. Jim had nothing—nothing—to apologize for; he had been entirely justified in his doubt. Spock wanted to tell him to stop—(They did not understand the word stop. They did not fully understand what words even were.)—bringing it up; that by doing so, he was actually making it all worse. But his throat felt thick, and he could not speak past it. The words got clogged when he tried.

It seemed that Jim wasn't waiting for him to respond, however, because he continued after only a short pause.

"On that note, if what you told me is true, then—listen, I'm not trying to accuse you of dishonesty, Spock, I swear I'm not, but you had me worried down there. I've seen you meld with others before, and it's never been like that. It looked like… I don't even know how to describe it, Spock. I just know that it was different."

Spock remained silent as he stared at the chessboard. The captain seemed to have abandoned the game with no intention of resuming it. So much for the promised distraction—although, he supposed that this conversation fit every definition of the word distracting. Whether Jim wanted him to respond, he couldn't be certain; there was a brief lull that might have been to provide an opening, but Spock didn't plan on taking advantage of it. He did not know what to say. He didn't know how to make any of this better. He didn't know what Jim wanted to hear.

"I think that something did happen, something that you don't want to talk about. Maybe it's not what I was suggesting, or… maybe it is. I don't know, and I'll be honest, I don't enjoy secrets. Not in general, and definitely not between us. I'm not used to it, I don't like it, but… I'm going to do my best not to pry. Bones read me the riot act afterwards, and I wouldn't dare encourage his wrath again by hounding you." Jim leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He ducked his head so that Spock was forced to make eye-contact, despite his best effort to avoid it. Jim's eyes were warm and kind, something exceedingly gentle in them. "You're my best friend, Spock. I trust you—with my life, with my ship, and with everything else. And I suppose I'll just have to trust that you'll tell me if something's wrong."

Do not trust me with your life, Spock wanted to say. Do not, because he had already been proven incapable of it. He had already betrayed that trust.

(Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.)

"Captain…"

"If you can look me in the eye, really look, and tell me that you're okay, then I'll believe you. That'll be that and I'll consider the matter closed. I won't pester you about it anymore. But—"

"Jim…"

"—if you can't do that… if maybe you aren't okay, I'd like to know that too. I'd like to know how I can help."

Spock couldn't have looked away if he tried; the captain's eyes felt pinning; paralyzing. It was as if he'd been rooted in place. How was it that the captain always managed to cut to the heart of him with only a few easy words? He'd always admired Jim's ability to examine a problem and take apart the critical pieces of it; it was a trait that made the captain a brilliant tactician—and a brilliant friend. If Jim had started with emotional accusations, he could have taken a logical approach. If Jim had tried logic, Spock could have picked a flaw in it. But Jim had done neither; he had appealed to their friendship.

That was… problematic.

He could be honest. He could tell Jim what the Seskille had done to him, in full disclosure, and face the resulting fallout. It'd be messy, tangled, and emotional. Despite his current composure, Jim would not take the news of the attack nearly so graciously. He'd only ever witnessed Jim in a true rage a handful of times, and it'd always been for the sake of his ship, his crew, or his friends. He could be vindictive, his brave captain, and he could be impulsive. It was that same reckless impulsivity that had driven him to fight Spock on Vulcan, the same one that had him agreeing to the deathmatch that had gotten him killed. Murdered. Strangled by the same friend he'd been trying to protect.

(Jim died in front of him again.)

Or he could lie. He could face his captain, look him in the eye, and continue to deny that anything was wrong at all. Jim might even outwardly accept that answer, but the doubts would remain. They'd linger, suspicious behind those intelligent hazel eyes, and Spock would have to see them stare out every time he met his gaze.

The captain had given him no safe options; to say or do anything now would be damning either way. There existed no option where he could both be honest and also avoid the consequences of that honesty. He hated to lie, and he hated even more to lie to Jim. And yet… Spock did not know how to tell him what had happened.

How could he say that he'd lost control of himself so deplorably, so disgustingly, that he barely even felt like himself any longer? How could he admit to being irrational, emotional, and compromised, when Jim relied on him to be the opposite? To be strong, logical, and calculated. Spock did not know how to confess to giving up—giving in—because of his own weakness and cowardice, when Jim would have never even thought to do so. He did not know how to tell Jim that what the Seskille did to him wasn't half so bad as what he'd then done to Jim, Doctor McCoy, and Nurse Chapel. That the Seskille had invaded his mind, but they hadn't known any better. That he did. That Spock knew exactly what he was doing, and that he'd been unable to stop himself from doing it anyways.

(Intentions don't mean anything.)

Spock would have to look him in the eye and tell his captain that he was hardly even a Vulcan anymore, if he'd ever been one at all, and that he felt as if his own mind were a stranger to him. He'd have to tell him that he'd committed a betrayal of the worst kind towards his friends. That he was little more than an animal, unstable and uncontrolled.

(And Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)

(Spock hated himself in that moment. He hated himself.)

He opened his mouth, and he was going to say it. Jim deserved to know. He deserved to be able to make the choice of what to do next, because he was owed that much. He was going to say it…

Shame.

He had never felt so utterly, completely ashamed of himself. Not as a child when he'd realized how different he was to his peers. Not as a young adult, when he saw the disappointment in Sarek's eyes whenever his father looked at him. Not later on, when Spock had logically concluded that something about himself was inherently wrong. This level of shame—this level of failure felt so suffocating as to tighten his chest and burn in his lungs.

… The words died in his throat.

Spock was silent another moment, meeting the captain's eyes as they stared back into his own, and all he could think of was how much he loved this human; so much so that, even if it were for Jim's sake, he could not bring himself to say the words that would lose him. It was selfish, so terribly selfish, but he did not want to be alone.

"Jim—" Spock paused, gathered himself, and then forced his voice to go blank. "What happened was not a pleasant experience, Captain," he continued as calmly as he could. Factually, as if he were reading information from a PADD. If he made it seem objective enough, impersonal enough, he could pretend it had happened to someone else. "It was undignified, humiliating, and, until I discovered what they were attempting to do, it was even painful. After I realized and allowed them entry, it no longer hurt. You felt them as well, Jim, if you might recall. You said it felt nice."

"It might have felt that way to me," Jim interjected quickly, "but that was only my experience of it. I'm not a Vulcan."

Neither was he, Spock wanted to say.

"The pain was my own fault; a result of my effort to block them out. The harder I unknowingly pushed against them, the harder they pushed back. They… did not intend to cause me harm, Jim. I know this for a fact; I felt it when we merged. When I say that they are a benevolent species, I mean exactly that. They had no malicious design, only curiosity and friendliness. It was not their fault; they simply did not understand and, at first, neither did I. An unfortunate case of cultural misunderstanding that resulted in accidental injury. Once I opened my mind to them, the pain subsided entirely. It felt… quite pleasant after that."

(He had begged and pleaded. It hadn't worked and trying to make it stop only served to worsen the pain. Pain to the point of wanting to die. He couldn't take it. He couldn't stand it. He had given in, surrendered, and the pain had ended. Assault had never felt so good…)

Jim's lips were thin and his expression pensive, but he sat back in his chair after a moment. Idly, the captain toyed with one of Spock's pawns between his fingers, and Spock was so forcibly reminded of that evening in Jim's quarters, of watching his captain smile tiredly across the desk from him, that it almost felt more real than this room did. That memory, precious though it had once been, felt tainted now. The Seskille had taken that from him too.

"So what I assume you're telling me is that you're okay? That I don't need to worry?"

Spock gave a short, stiff nod.

"Yes, Jim. I am okay. You do not need to worry."

(Spock hated himself in that moment. He hated himself.)

Jim looked at him for a long while, and Spock maintained eye contact in return. Please, he wanted to beg. Please accept that answer. (But begging was useless.) The silence stretched on and grew tense. The captain's eyes flicked upwards for a brief instant, and Spock suspected that he was looking at the panels above the bed, particularly at the readings of his pulse. It was only a flash of a glance before those hazel eyes returned to his own. Spock felt flutters of panic rise in his throat again; it burned behind his eyes and made him feel nauseous. His left hand clenched tightly into a fist from where it was concealed at his side. He forced—forced—himself to stay calm. Forced his heartrate to stay steady, because the biomonitors would give him away if he didn't, and Jim would know.

"Alright," Jim said finally, inscrutable and closed off. "I believe you, Spock. Consider the issue closed."

"Thank you, Jim," Spock responded, and he hated himself for the wave of relief that rushed through him.

"Great, well now that that'sout of the way," an annoyed, sleep-heavy voice interrupted. "—does someone wanna explain why Christine called and ripped me out of bed?" Doctor McCoy leaned against the doorframe, looking uncharacteristically ruffled and unkempt. He blinked tiredly, clearly having just woken up. "Spock, what's this I hear about you trying to just walk on outta here? Did I somehow forget telling you that you could leave, or did you just decide you were healed enough and figured you'd make a go for it? Can't say I didn't call that one; I knew it'd be the second my back was turned. I swear, if you set your recovery back by running around…"

Jim turned to McCoy with an expression of such wide-eyed innocence that Spock would have been able to see through it even if he were still blinded from the Deneva mission.

"Oh, that's on me, Doctor," Jim said blithely, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I decided to approve Spock's discharge."

The doctor's face darkened in an instant, turning an ugly, vivid shade of red. The furious scowl that formed could have been called impressive, had it not been aimed at his captain. Though only an exaggerated look, Spock disliked seeing anything that could be deemed a possible threat being pointed towards Jim. And it was most certainly a threat.

"You what?" McCoy snarled, storming over like a thundercloud and stomping loud enough to mimic one. Spock thought he now understood why Jim had compared it to a barn of cows; the doctor sounded somewhat like a stampede. "The hell is the matter with you?! Correct me if I'm wrong, Captain, but only the CMO has the authority to make that decision! Now, I didn't give up my job, and as far as I can tell, I'm not dead, so I wanna know just where you got the idea that you could pull a damn stunt like that!"

"You can always revoke it if you disagree, of course. I wouldn't want to overstep." The captain continued, as if he'd not heard any of the accusations. He flashed Spock a small, secretive wink. Clearly, he was determined to provide a perfect distraction and bring the wrath of McCoy onto himself, rather than allow Spock to be the target of his ire. It was a common game between the three of them, although it was usually Spock who volunteered in order to spare Jim.

"Overstep?! Now hold on a minute!"

His friends continued to argue, Jim prodding and provoking the doctor's fury in a way that only he could manage. A calculated mixture of a wheedling tone and faux expression of ignorance that was guaranteed to fan the flames of McCoy's considerable temper. And McCoy gave back just as well as he got, with snarls and pointed, derisive comments. It was hardly professional of either of them, but it was amusing in its own way. At the very least, it built a certain kind of camaraderie.

Spock watched but he was not listening.

Jim had claimed to accept his answer. And outwardly, that seemed to be, as they said, that. The issue had been resolved. However, Spock could calculate with a fair degree of confidence the chances of Jim truly believing it, and the odds were not favorable. Although the captain still doubted him, by his own words, he would also not pry further. It was not what Spock had wanted, not exactly, but it was as close as he could achieve with what limited resources he had.

He caught the doctor looking at him while the captain continued to wax poetic about all the many Starfleet technicalities that negated medical authority, and there was an uncommon gravity in his eyes. It was only a brief flicker, but Spock had seen it and been able to read the emotions there well enough. Apprehension, resignation, and a helpless kind of frustration. McCoy had overheard enough to know that Spock hadn't told Jim anything, and he was clearly disappointed by the decision. Disappointed… but also unsurprised.

Spock wished, and not for the first time either, that he could stop letting his friends down.

McCoy had said that Spock would either trust them or he wouldn't. But it had never been a matter of trust—at least, not when it came to trusting either of his friends. Quite the opposite in fact; he trusted both Jim and Doctor McCoy immeasurably. It was himself he did not trust, not when it came to this. He'd been given an impossible choice; to expose all the ugly, shameful parts of himself, or to bury them down out of sight. Both options had the potential to harm Jim, and both would undeniably also harm himself. Spock felt that all he could do was pick the decision least threatening to the captain and hope the fallout would be minimal.

"I daresay I could have you court martialed for speaking such slander, Doctor!" the captain said, amusement evident in every word. "What do you think, Spock? In your professional judgment as First Officer, shall we finally bring him up on charges of insubordination?"

Spock blinked and refocused. He had not been paying attention, and his newly emergent inability to split his focus to multiple tasks at once was unacceptable. While it was not critical for the conversation presently taking place, such a level of distraction could prove to be dangerous when he returned to his duties.

He glanced between them, from the expectant expression Jim had to the measuring look of Doctor McCoy. They were offering him a return to stability, to normalcy. They were allowing him the illusion—for that could only be what it was—of being alright. He could join in with their game and pretend that he had never gone to Seskilles VII, that he had never met the Seskille, and that he was exactly the same as he had been only days prior. They were letting him act as if nothing had changed. His throat felt thick with gratitude as he went to speak.

"While I of course support your command decisions, Captain," he began with a certain specific tone, one that caused Jim's eyes to dance with mirth, "I must admit to some bewilderment at the timing of the charges. As I recall, Doctor McCoy committed no less than sixteen offenses against Starfleet regulation within the first five-point-two-nine minutes of our initial meeting, and thirteen of those were directed at myself."

The doctor shrugged, not looking repentant in the slightest. "Yeah well, you didn't exactly make a great impression yourself when you started in about regulation this and professional standards that. At the end of the day, the only thing that matters is how well I can do my job—and since your thick skull is in one piece instead of four, it appears that I'm damn good at what I do."

"Indeed, Doctor," Spock said agreeably, and he tilted his chin up just enough to be purposely antagonizing. It felt pleasing to engage with them both like this; it felt like nothing had ever happened to him at all. He grasped the predictability of their teasing with a desperation that neared pathetic. "Your medical proficiency is beyond question… now. That was not always the case. I initially considered the possibility that you were falsifying your credentials and looked into the matter myself. I am pleased to say that my concerns were unfounded, and that you are innocent of the fraud I suspected you of."

"You suspected what?" The doctor looked annoyed, but Jim lit up and he looked as if Christmas had arrived early. "You're joking."

"Vulcans do not joke, Doctor McCoy. Upon concluding our first interaction, I took it upon myself to thoroughly investigate your medical qualifications, education, history, legal records, and employment documents. To my astonishment, I found no discrepancies that would indicate you had either forged or falsified your credentials in any manner. Nor could I find any records of you engaging in the illegal act of bribery or blackmail to ensure you were promoted in rank or status. Having personally observed your abrasive and outburst-prone personality, the matter required further elucidation. In the end, after weeks of consideration on the matter, I could only conclude that you had practiced a time-honored human tradition. I believe you would know it as—to borrow one of your colloquialisms—fake it until you make it."

McCoy scowled at him as Jim barked a loud, deep laugh.

It felt good, to engage with them like this. To make Jim laugh instead of worry, to make McCoy glare rather than look at him with careful concern. It felt like a conversation he would have had on any standard day; one of warmth, faux-derision, and shared amusement.

Fake it until you make it.

Spock hoped—desperately hoped—that he would be able to employ such a tactic himself; that he would be able to pretend that nothing had changed. He could trade needling comments with the doctor and chess games with the captain, and he could maintain the illusion that he had not been so fundamentally altered. He could maintain the familiar, comfortable status quo that he had come to desperately rely on. He could pretend that he had control over himself.

(Any other Vulcan would have been able to maintain some kind of control, surely. But not Spock. Not he, who could do nothing but feel.)

Jim grinned as he mocked the doctor, his skin still flushed from his laughter. Spock was relieved to see it after the gravity of their previous discussion. Jim looked bright like this; radiant and warm and vibrant in a way that words fell short of describing. He looked happy. He looked alive—so breathtakingly alive. There was nothing—nothing—he would not do for this man, Spock thought. His charismatic, wonderful, captivating human captain. There existed no limit, no boundary, no length he would not go if it meant he could keep James Kirk looking just like this, just as he was now. Warm, bright, and alive.

If he had not been watching Jim so intently, at his smile and his visible delight, he would have missed the small, nearly indiscernible pause of eye contact between the captain and doctor. The look was troubled; heavy with some unspoken significance.

Something cold lodged in his chest.

He had murdered his captain once, Spock thought distantly. He had strangled that vibrant, beautiful captain he claimed to love until that bright spark in his eyes died and left behind only empty, hollow spaces. Spock had lost control of himself again. And again, and again, and again. He could not stop himself, it seemed, from hurting those he cared most for. The harm was visible in the weighted glance between his friends, in the conflicted furrowing of Jim's brow when he looked at Spock briefly, at the ill-concealed resignation in Doctor McCoy's frown.

Spock wanted nothing more than to move past this. He wanted to return to his familiar, comfortable position at his captain's side; the only place he had ever truly felt at home. He wanted this to be over. He wanted to go back to his life, exactly how he had left it. And yet, he felt fundamentally altered now; changed and unrecognizable to the Vulcan that had beamed down to Seskilles VII. He felt out of control, and he wished he could find the strength to reassert it. He'd have begged, if that's what it would take to get it back.

(Begging didn't make any difference.)

(Begging was useless.)

(And really, Spock reflected bitterly, it was not like he'd ever truly had control anyways, had he?)

Later, when Jim had returned to shift and Spock finally allowed himself to fall asleep, he dreamed of his body rotting to dust as his mind was embraced by the Collective. He dreamed of embracing emotion so deeply, so terribly, that he no longer missed his physical form; no longer cared about what he was leaving behind at all.

He dreamed of Jim shaking him, frantic and grief-stricken, as he begged Spock to return. He dreamed of watching Jim from a vast, unfathomable realm, uncaring as he invaded his captain's head. He dreamed of violating that fragile, precious human mind and shattering Jim so completely that he was little more than an empty husk. He dreamed of violating Jim in other ways. He dreamed of hurting him. He dreamed of strangling him.

He dreamed of Jim dying in front of him again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Thank you all for reading!

This was a fun chapter to write! A lot of this was going to be included at the end of the previous chapter, but I cut it due to pacing. It was at least half of the size. I got to re-writing it, and then writing it some more, and I had so much fun with it that I ended up adding a few thousand words to it. Also, 110k words in, and we're finally getting the first bit of sexual tension! That was a fun change of pace; my initial outline didn't call for it but then the scene damn near wrote itself once I got going!

Next up, Spock will be discharged from sickbay, return to duty, and the debrief about Seskilles VII will take place. I've got some fun things planned for the next few chapters, and I'm so thrilled to get to them. There are a few specific scenes I've had planned for years now and the closer I get, the more excited I become!

Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Aitlun — Desire; an inclination to want things; the feeling that accompanies an unsatisfied state; the feeling of lust.