K'oh-nar

by AlexPrime

Somewhere, hidden on this desolate planet of ice and snow, a lost civilization reaches out to the only one capable of reaching back, and Spock discovers that first contact can have lasting, devastating consequences. He never should have come here.

17. Pamutau

— Chapter Seventeen —
— Pamutau —

In the space between closing his eyes one moment and opening them next, Spock felt as if both a lifetime had passed while also having the still sense of time not having moved at all. He blinked, taking in the room around him. A disturbance had woken him, but he could not determine what that disturbance was. His body had snapped to awareness upon rousing, but his mind felt heavy, foggy, with his thoughts flowing sluggishly through his head. He had been asleep, he had been at sea, he had been—but he was awake now, and Spock felt just as tired—just as exhausted—as if he had not slept at all.

It was bone-deep, this fatigue. He felt it seep throughout the entirety of him, from his marrow to his skin to his sensory input. He was so tired; weary in a way that was more than physical. Sleep had done nothing to mitigate the sensation, and further rest would no doubt be similarly useless to him.

His internal chronometer informed him it was eleven minutes past zero-five-hundred hours in the morning; a little under three hours until his scheduled alpha shift at zero-eight-hundred. He had slept in, a rarity that left him uneasy. On a standard morning, he would have already been at least an hour into starting his day by now, if not two. Spock would often spend this time after waking going over data and notes from the day prior, responding to messages, requests, and inquiries in both his capacity as Science Officer, as well as that of First Officer, and researching mission-relevant materials. If he had time left over, as he often did, Spock would use it to further advance his own projects in the lab.

Exhausted as he was, he lacked the energy to begin his morning quite so productively. The desire to roll over and close his eyes was incredibly appealing, even knowing he would ultimately reap no benefit from further rest. He might have given into temptation even, but for the door chime.

Spock tensed. That was what had woken him.

He knew who it was without needing to check. There existed only two likely possibilities as to who was requesting entry at this early hour, and he could safely calculate which one was most likely. While it was not implausible for McCoy to have decided check in and monitor him, no doubt to satisfy his inherent need to bully and harass his patients under the guise of medicine, Spock knew that this was at least the second time the door had chimed, and the doctor would have already made unauthorized use of his override codes to enter after the first request went ignored—assuming that he bothered requesting in the first place.

The captain, then. Jim had finally made do on his promise to return, and while he had spent the better part of the night wanted exactly that, Spock now found he was considerably less keen on seeing him. He felt reluctant to answer the door.

Slowly, Spock rose from the bed, each muscle listless and lagging as he did so. He swayed on his feet only once before he locked his legs and forced himself to stand with composure. A tension twisted in his stomach; a nervous energy that left him almost breathless.

This would naturally be about the debrief, and specifically the information that Spock had disclosed during it. Jim would be upset—was upset. And for valid reason, Spock reminded himself; his anger was entirely justified. He had left out mission-relevant information that resulted in a disastrous outcome. He was prepared to face and accept an official reprimand if his captain chose to issue one. What he was not prepared to face—what he could never prepare for—was Jim's disappointment. A pit of dread opened up in him at the thought of it.

The door chimed again.

He was shamefully aware of the abysmal state of his appearance; clothing wrinkled, boots scuffed, hair flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. He felt the first hints of prickling irritation on his jaw, which meant that he needed to shave. That his usual standard of professionalism was so egregiously lacking was intolerable, a flagrant and embarrassing external presentation of a compromised and impaired internal working. Unacceptable. But also not easily rectified at the present.

Deliberating, Spock lowered the lights in his quarters to twenty-five percent; bright enough for his human captain to see, but dark enough to be visually impeding. Jim would not think the low lighting odd; Spock's rooms were often dim, although perhaps not quite so dim as he set them now. It was something of an immature trick, making use of light and shadow to limit detailed observation, but he did not have time to correct his appearance. All he could do was restrict the visibility of it. The thought of the captain seeing him in this way—of seeing him so deteriorated—sent a flutter of anger through him. Not at Jim, for his deficiency was not Jim's fault, but at himself, at the situation, at his inability to simply get control of himself.

The door chimed.

This was, at best, the fourth time it had, which was already three too many to be considered usual. The captain had never been made to wait after the first request before, not unless Spock intentionally refused entry, as was the case during the week leading up to the disastrous events on Vulcan. He was not doing so this time, and had no intention of that either, yet the approval caught in his throat and died on his lips before he could voice it.

He did not want to answer the door. He did not want to see Jim. He did not want Jim to see him.

The door chimed.

Spock entered the partitioned room of his office; it, surveying it critically. It was not a neutral location, but it lacked intimate privacy of his personal living space, and thus would have to be sufficient. He would have rather conducted this meeting in a more formal setting, but he'd also kept Jim waiting long enough as it was. Too long. After straightening his uniform to try to smooth the wrinkles from it and briefly running his fingers through his hair to try to smooth it back into neat order, he tucked his hands neatly behind his back. Control.

The mask of cool indifference he slipped on was painful and constricting. Unfortunately, it had never been particularly effective against his captain; Spock rather feared that his attempts to conceal his emotions only served to make them all the more transparent.

"Enter."

The captain wasted little time doing so; he stepped in with his shoulders back and his posture tense, and Spock steeled himself at the sight of the impassive expression he wore. He didn't look upset, but the noticeable lack of emotion in his eyes was more than indicative enough that he was. He could read his captain well by now, and his frustrated tells were as obvious as plain text. It was present in the thin line of his mouth, the too-narrow eyes, the tautness in his jaw. It was not promising, but it was not surprising either. He'd had been expecting exactly this.

Lifting his chin and projecting control, control, control, he gave no obvious reaction to Jim's entrance. That was not to say he had no reaction; his own dismay of the captain's displeasure remained hidden behind his blank and emotionless mask so as to maintain professionalism. Even while he waited for the inevitable censure to begin, the sight of Jim—of him breathing and safe and alive—was so relieving as to nearly steal his breath. His dreams had been only dreams, only his mind creating nonsensical images and scenarios, and he logically knew they had no basis in reality. The haunting effects of them still lingered regardless.

(Jim died in front of him again.)

"Captain," Spock greeted affably.

"Mr. Spock."

It was sometimes surprising to Spock just how easily Jim could cut through him with little more than the tone he said his name in.

"Is there something you require of me, sir?" he asked, more out of a sense of courtesy than any true desire for demands—not that he would not comply with them were he provided with any. If it were in his power to do, he would comply with anything Jim wanted from him, anything at all.

"To answer your door promptly next time; I was waiting out there for nearly ten minutes." A muscle in the captain's jaw jumped, the only visible sign of his annoyance. It was not a fair comment to make; it was only sixteen minutes past zero-five-hundred hours in the morning, and Spock was not presently on shift. The majority of the ship was asleep at this time, and it was unreasonable to expect a prompt response to visiting so early and unexpectedly. Had Jim not known him so well—well enough to know Spock's usual early habits—he might have said exactly that. But Jim did know him.

"I apologize, Captain," Spock responded simply, apologizing for the wait but offering no explanation for it either. He met the captain's gaze evenly, noticing as he did so that it appeared as if Jim had rested about as well as he himself had. There were the beginnings of circles beneath his eyes; faint smudges that stood out against the tan of his skin. It was atypical, and also more than a little concerning; Spock calculated the odds of himself as being the driving cause of the visible strain to be… distressingly high. "Are you well, sir?"

"Well enough." The captain did not offer anything more where he otherwise typically would have. Spock felt the absence of it acutely, and he clenched his fists behind his back, safely out of sight. Control. "You know why I'm here?"

"I do," Spock agreed placidly, "You wish to discuss the debrief."

"Yes, among other things. I believe we're about overdue for a talk, you and I," the captain said, voice neutral enough for the moment but holding a sharp edge behind his words. It was professional, almost brusque;the same he used when speaking to the admiralty or Command. A practiced type of distance, aloof and untouchable. Kirk didn't take his usual seat at the desk, instead mirroring Spock's pose in a straight-backed parade rest to face him head-on. There was subtle sense of challenge in his expression. "Your debrief yesterday was very thorough—very informative. So much so that the majority of it was somehow new to me, despite apparently being present while it was happening. I want to know why that is."

"Why?" he asked, uncertain, although suspecting, what it was that the captain wanted from him. Spock kept his face blank, impassive, emotionless. Control, control, control. The mask held. The emotions behind it tangled into knots. He did not know how to make amends for the rift his decisions had opened between them, nor the problems they had caused to the mission, the ship, the crew, his captain. There was no justification for his actions, but that did not mean there had not been a reason for them. Those reasons had, however, been emotionally motivated, and he could not bring himself to voice them.

Spock did not think revealing the truth would fix anything. In fact, he suspected quite the opposite.

"I was right there, Spock. I was right there, side-by-side with you the entire time, and you didn't tell me anything. Not a single mention ofanything being wrong with you—at least, not until it got bad enough that you collapsed, and even then, you still didn't tell me the half of it. Maybe you didn't fully understand what was going on, but you knew that something was; that it wasn't just a headache you were having trouble with! Surely you must have considered saying something to me, just once, even if only in passing me understand why you shut me out like that, because I really can't figure it out."

Because he had not wanted to ruin Jim's happiness.

Because Jim could not have helped him anyways.

Because he'd known—some part of himself had known—that he had been losing control of himself.

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

"I—" Spock cleared his throat, finding it dry and difficult to speak from. He averted his eyes to a place behind the captain; a fixed point on the wall so as not to see the clear disappointment aimed directly at him. "I offer no excuse, Captain. My actions were unacceptable."

Jim wasn't appeased by the agreement; he quick to respond with a direct, "Then why did you do them?" followed by an even quicker, "What was the logic behind it?"

There had been no logic.

Spock struggled to find the words. "At the time, I evaluated the situation and concluded that it did not merit immediate disclosure. I see now that I was mistaken." This did not appear to satisfy the captain any more than his last response had, not that he'd truly expected it to. There was little he could offer to explain the basis of his decisions, and even less he could do to make up for them. Yet, the sight of the captain's expression, and the visible displeasure he found there, hastened him further.

"You don't make those kinds of mistakes, Spock."

No, he did not; not usually, at least.

"Evidently, sir, I do. Even Vulcans are capable of misjudgment." It was difficult to admit to his lapse in judgement aloud; it grated on both his pride and dignity. Spock valued accuracy and ability in all facets of his job, and he had failed to apply either to the events of Seskilles VII. The compromising pain of the situation could only excuse so much, and it had not been responsible for his decision making. "Captain, I formally apologize for the disruptive impact my conduct has had to the mission."

"I'm not worried about the mission." The captain's tone was flat and hard; stony in that specific way that Spock knew, from both experience and familiarity, was meant to conceal anger. The apology, it seemed, had not been what he'd wanted.

"I… also apologize for any inconvenience my actions have caused you." Spock could tell, even before he finished speaking, that this also was not the desired response. Jim's lips thinned, his jaw tightening as he took a short breath.

"I'm not worried aboutmyself either," the captain said, voice bordering on the edge of cold now. Hazel eyes narrowed at him, hawkish and sharp. "Try again."

Spock blinked, faltering and uncertain how to offer another answer that might satisfy the unspoken, unknown expectation the captain wanted him to meet. He felt as if he were floundering. "Sir—" He was interrupted.

"I don't want an apology for the mission, Mr. Spock, or for, about, or to me, understand? I couldn't care less about the impact or inconvenience to either. You're the one that got hurt down there; you're the one who was most impacted and inconvenienced, so I'm sure you'll understand why I find it especially odd that you seem eager to downplay that. If you're going to issue out apologies to anyone, you should start with yourself. You're always so concerned about every else, but I haven't heard, not once, so much as a hint of that same concern when it comes to your own life."

Spock wished he knew what answer Jim wanted from him so that he might give it. He apologized. He acknowledged his decisions as having been made wrongly. It had not been enough, and he did not know what was left to say.

"I have established, sir, that I was at fault. It was not done so maliciously, although I can conceive how it may have come across as such, and I acknowledge that it had detrimental results to multiple parties, myself included. I felt that the data available to me was… unsatisfactory. I had little information with which to form a credible theory, and therefore made the decision to gather more before I verbalized one to you. I say this not to justify that decision, but to explain the reasoning behind it. I assessed the situation and, at the time, felt I was prepared to accept the potential consequences."

"The potential consequences?" The captain snapped out, pitch rising incredulously. He finally sprang from his stiff, tense position by the door to pace through the office. Back and forth, back and forth; like a caged, restless predator. Spock watched him scrub a hand over his face, and from between his fingers saw his impassive expression falter to worried frustration before smoothing back to impartiality.

Jim wore a mask as well. He knew his captain well enough to know it concealed more than disappointment or anger. He had hurt Jim. There existed so few secrets between them, and by withholding information of personal and professional relevancy, he had caused the captain emotional pain.

He had also, Spock reminded himself, caused him physicalpain.

(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.)

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

(Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless.)(Jim died in front of him again.)

Spock stared at his fixed point on the wall, an entirely new tension taking hold of him as both guilt and shame ignited like a flame. This was going as poorly as he predicted it would. He had been hoping for only a formal reprimand, brief and succinct, but that did not seem to be immediately imminent. He was to be lectured first, before he was written up.

It was deserved, of course. Spock knew that. He also knew that he lacked the energy, control, and composure to satisfactorily compartmentalize it away in a logical and organized manner as he usually would. Coming from another—from anyone else—he would have been able to maintain calm objectivity without issue. But this was not from another, this was from Jim, and his audible disappointment was impossible for Spock to detach himself from. There existed so little separation these days between the concepts of James Kirk, his captain, and Jim Kirk, his friend. Spock had allowed the two of them to blur and he should not have.

"Captain, if you wish to submit a formal condemnation, I shall accept one," Spock finally offered as a last attempt to satisfy some unspoken expectation he was clearly not meeting. He waited for a response, conceivably for some kind of agreement or official charge, but the captain had become distracted. He was looking at him oddly—no, not at him, past him, into the living quarters.

At the bed, Spock realized with a sinking sensation of trepidation. The bed that remained clearly unmade and tangled from his restless attempt at sleeping. He'd not had the chance to fix it; had been flustered enough upon hearing the chime that he had not even thought to do so.

A beat of silence passed, and when the captain turned back to him, there was an indecipherable emotion in his eyes. He looked troubled, almost puzzled. "Spock…" He sounded less formal now, less strict. He came a step closer, eyebrows furrowing. "Were you… still asleep?"

He could understand Jim's surprise. Spock did not sleep in, not ever. He woke early, long before his captain did, and always prepared for the day with routine efficiency upon doing so. It was not unusual for Jim to wander down the hallway to his quarters before sometime before shift, but he'd never found Spock in any condition other than perfectly alert and presentable. It was atypical to the point of being unprecedented for Spock to still be in bed this late into the morning, no matter that it was objectively early for his human crewmates.

"I woke you up," Jim confirmed upon receiving no response.

It was already nearly half past zero-five-hundred hours into the morning; no doubt the captain had chosen to arrive at this time specifically because of Spock's routine of being awake and in his personal office. It was a guarantee for both availability and privacy.

"You did not," Spock responded, which was only the truth. Jim had not woken him—the door chime had.

The captain glanced him over, squinting through the darkness to better see him. Spock had done his best in the limited time available to him to conceal his appalling state of dishevelment, but as Jim's perplexed expression faded to one of dawning realization, it seemed that he had not done well enough.

When the captain spoke, he sounded blatantly unimpressed. "Computer, set lights to ninety percent."

The room brightened to a level significantly higher than he normally kept it at; the harsh glare, after having been in the cool darkness for so long, felt stinging and formed an ache behind his eyes. He closed them, aware they were likely bloodshot from his disrupted and uneasy sleep, but that was all he could hide. The lights offered him no further protection; they illuminated and revealed the usually shadowed corners of his quarters, and they illuminated and revealed him.

Jim was quiet for a moment, but then came a soft, stunned sounding, "Spock…"

Spock had never felt so shamefully cognizant of his own appearance before. He had not seen his reflection, but he knew what kind of sight he made. His uniform was wrinkled and unkempt, his normally polished boots scuffed from scraping against floor during his episode of emesis. His hair, rather than neat and groomed, was unpresentable; stray strands jutting out of place and sitting at obvious crushed and pressed angles from where he'd slept on his side. His attempt at smoothing it back had been next to useless, and likely only exacerbated the issue. His bed was unmade, the covers were haphazardly tangled from catching on his boots during the night.

Worse still was his hygiene; he had not showered before falling asleep, nor had he completed any of his standard evening routine. He'd not even started his morning one. The lingering taste of vomit remained in his mouth. He still faintly smelled of it as well, although he was uncertain whether the lingering scent was detectable to human senses, or if his ability to do so was an unfortunate consequence of his heightened own.

He felt repugnant, indecorous, and lacking composure in every possible way. He felt exposed. He felt completely and utterly humiliated.

Spock reluctantly opened his eyes. He braced for the full weight of the captain's disappointment, determined to accept it and maintain control of himself while doing so, but it… did not come. Instead, Jim openly stared at him, lips parted in aghast surprise. The look lasted no more than a second, all signs of shock concealed just as swiftly as they had appeared, but the one that replaced it was little better. Resignation and frustrated, desperate helplessness. His captain had never done helpless well, and the sign of it did not bode well. Spock knew his own countenance was blank—carefully and forcefully so—but the captain could read Spock just as well as Spock could read him; well enough for the captain to detect the small, unavoidable shifts in posture, body language, and micro-expressions. Jim found each and every one of them with practiced, familiar ease.

Although aware it was not an option, Spock wished desperately that he could hide. The lights prevented him from doing so where he stood, and he could find no valid, rational excuse for fleeing his own quarters. The (entirely justified) pandemonium that would result in was not worth the fleeting privacy, but the desire to simply walk out could not be fully suppressed and it intrusively remained. Spock found he regretted admitting Jim into his quarters; he should have ignored the chime until he was better prepared for the day. In fact, he regretted getting out of bed at all. He could have rolled over, buried himself back into his covers, and ignored the world that little bit longer.

Logically, he knew that had not been an option; that he'd made the only reasonable choice of the few available. Disregarding the captain would not have been sustainable; Jim would have eventually given up waiting, would have eventually even walked away… and he would have returned immediately after, this time with the enlisted reinforcement of one Leonard H. McCoy. The doctor would not have bothered asking to be let in.

Spock was tired—so tired. Despite knowing he had slept for approximately nine hours, he felt as if he'd not rested a moment of it, and he feared that his lethargy was evident in his normally perfect posture. He straightened under the near tangible weight of Jim's knowing observation, forcing himself to a higher state of discipline, but the damage had been done. No amount of immaculately demonstrated parade rest or flawlessly executed stoicism would fix what Jim had seen already. His captain was perceptive and the evidence hardly surreptitious; it would have been impossible not to reach the most obvious conclusion, and Jim did exactly that.

For the first time since entering the room, the captain's displeasure faded. Something in him—some taut, frustrated energy—lifted from him like a heavy weight. Jim relaxed, the tension from both his expression and body visibly draining as he exhaled a long, slow sigh.

"Just laying down…" the captain murmured virtually inaudibly to himself, words muffled by his palm as he scrubbed a hand down his face. Spock heard them anyways. They were an echo of the ones McCoy had said the evening prior, but he did not understand what Jim meant by repeating them now. He was not laying down. "Alright..." For a fleeting second Jim both sounded and looked as if he felt just as exhausted and worn down as Spock did. The sight was masked quickly; the captain closed his eyes and inhaled an even, measured breath, like one would take in preparation for a difficult task.

When Jim opened his eyes to meet Spock's, they bore no trace of his previous discontentment. They were thoughtful, worried, and reflected in them was the same steady compassion that he'd seen in the ruins of Seskilles VII, as Jim covered him with his coat; the same kind of warm tenderness that kept watch over him as he recovered in sickbay. Spock wished that Jim would not look at him like that. It demanded from him an entirely different response than before; one that he was certain he would be unable to satisfactorily provide.

Spock thought he might have preferred the visible disappointment. At least he knew what to expect from it; knew what it meant.

"Alright."The captain took a deep breath and, louder this time, continued with a calm, "Spock, please let me help you."

"Sir?" Spock blinked and raised a brow, admittedly nonplussed by the request. He had the swift and jarring sense that he had missed something; some vital clue or context that might provide an explanation for the unexpected change in tone and body language from his captain.

"Let me help you." Jim repeated, moving closer. The space between them shrank as the captain stepped within arm's reach, but he did not stop even then; not until they were nearly toe-to-toe with one another. When he spoke, Spock felt the puff of human-warm breath against his skin. "It's a simple request; it has a simple answer."

It was anything but a simple request. It was also not one he knew how to reply to, be that simply or otherwise.

"There is nothing I require help with, Captain," Spock said, and by doing so realized this also was not the answer Jim had wanted from him but that, going by the captain's small frown, it was the one he'd expected to be given.

"I see," the captain said tonelessly, frowning.

Spock felt drained suddenly, so worn and so very, very tired. Tired of aggravating his captain, tired of being questioned, tired of being watched like an experiment, and tired of his every response being incorrect. He felt uncomfortably ignorant; an emotion that aggravated his already limited composure and cut into some unhealed, septic wound deep inside of him. As the captain handled the feeling of helplessness poorly, so too did Spock struggle with this sense of incompetency. He disliked the indecision it caused him, and he detested the faltering self-doubt it inspired even more. There were no immediate answers on how to rid himself of it. Once, he would have been able to bury it beneath the sand of his mindscape, where it would remain concealed and ineffective, but this option had been taken from him. Stolen, ruined, and desecrated, as everything else had been.

(They could take whatever it was they wanted from him. They could take anything and everything if that was their desire, as many times over as they wished.)

Spock did not know what Jim wanted from him, but he seemed entirely incapable of giving it. That was displeasing. Each answer he gave the captain was wrong, and each attempt he made to remedy the incorrect answer was, likewise, wrong.

He wished, unexpectedly and remarkably, for Doctor McCoy. He suspected that, had the doctor been present, he would have put a swift and scowling end to Jim's questioning. And although he would have asked his questions own later on, answering them would not have felt quite so… personal. Spock could easily withstand upsetting McCoy; he did so frequently and, often times, intentionally. But the thought of upsetting his captain, of upsetting Jim...

Spock attempted to repair the damage; to reassure him with a concise, even-toned, "I am perfectly fine, sir."

The captain's lips thinned even further at his answer, expression briefly closing off before returning stronger than before…. and there it was, that glinting spark in his eyes. Determination. Spock felt his stomach sink at the sight of that resolute, unyielding intensity focused on him. He had seen the look many times before, but only ever aimed at some arduous, inordinately difficult challenge he'd set his mind on overcoming.

With that context in mind, Spock feared that the appearance of it suggested he was considered the arduous, inordinately difficult challenge in this situation.

"I'm going to ban that word from my ship, Mr. Spock," Jim said mildly. He did not seem pleased, despite the small, reluctant smile forming. "Or at the very least, I'm going to ban it from you. Believe me, it's lost all credibility by now."

Spock, convinced now that he had overlooked some crucial, subtextual explanation for the situational deviation, deliberated over how best to withdraw from this conversation. It was edging towards areas he did not wish to explore. Had he not just been in the middle of being reprimanded? Hesitantly, he chose his words with great consideration, knowing even as he did so that they would likely be deemed just as incorrect as all his others had. "Captain, I—... I assure you that I am well."

He had not enjoyed Doctor McCoy's impromptu interrogation the evening prior, but he'd also felt considerably less adrift during the course of it than he did now. Spock had understood—although profoundly disliked—what McCoy wanted from him. He did not understand what Jim wanted, and this, he knew, was unusual. Spock could ordinarily predict what his captain's needs and wants were before even he did, often with a high degree of accuracy.

Jim hummed dubiously, his intense scrutiny shaped by emotions Spock struggled to identify; they were calm and patient; they were wholly neither of those descriptors while simultaneously being… more than them. His eyes flicked back and forth, evaluating him with that clever inspection so inherent to his captain; careful, calculated, and methodical. The captain looked at him as if he were a particularly difficult puzzle, dissecting with his eyes all the edges and corners and angles that might reveal a key to solving it.

Spock held the stare. Much was habitually exchanged in the shared, sustained eye-contact between the captain and himself; silent communications that Spock had learned to interpret throughout the years. Danger. Approval. Satisfaction. Question. Answer. Negative. Affirmative. Amusement. Caution. Spock did not know what message was being exchanged between them now, nor whether his captain had been able to decipher something from it. He only knew that there was one, and, upon seeing the determined gleam harden, that the captain most definitely had.

Jim appeared to reach some kind of internal decision, nodding once to himself. He deliberately stepped that little bit closer, until Spock could feel the heat of his human-warm body temperature bridge the small gap of space remaining between them. Jim slowly lifted a hand to Spock's head and for an instant, only a fraction of one, Spock feared Jim was attempting a mind meld. He was not.

The captain's palm hovered against his temple, a whisper of contact on his skin, and gently—so gently, as if to avoid startling him—Jim smoothed his fingers through Spock's hair, pushing it delicately back into order.

Spock stilled, as abruptly and as rigidly as if he had been petrified. He may as well have been, for all that he felt unable to move a single part of himself. His lungs paused mid-breath; he felt them burn in his chest, felt them ache, and he could only manage a slow blink, uncomprehending.

"No, you aren't," Jim told him patiently. "You aren't well, Spock, and pretending that you are is making you sick." He swept back a wayward strand and tucked it neatly into place, accidentally brushing a finger against the pointed, sensitive tip of Spock's ear as he did so. Spock jolted at the contact, twitching almost imperceptibly. Almost. As closely as the captain was watching him for any sign of protest, he spotted it instantly. His hand lifted to the barest weight, as if worried that a firmer one might frighten him away. "Do you want me to stop?"

Yes, Spock wanted to say—tried to say—because this kind of touch was dangerous. Not only for Jim, but for himself as well. It compromised his control, compromised his discipline, compromised their friendship. His terror spiked over the potential for sustained skin contact, followed closely by a surge of insuppressible, undeniable want for exactly that. Both sensations startled him, rendering him nearly dizzy with turmoil. Yes, he attempted to say again, but the word stuck in his throat at the soft pressure of Jim's hand on him, of the fleeting brush of warm contact against his skin, and it came out as a hoarse and quiet, "No."

"This is okay then?" There was a significance in his voice; not quite a challenge, but also not entirely dissimilar to one. The captain's eyes met his own, searching for any trace of aversion. He would find none, of course. Spock had many qualms about allowing this to continue, but aversion, and any feeling analogous to it, was not a motivating factor for any of them.

Spock found his throat was too dry to answer. He nodded once, a stiff, stilted motion of his head that inadvertently nudged it further into Jim's hand, which obligingly resumed its slow, gentle rhythm. He needed to step away. He needed to move…

Spock did not move. He stood there, stiff and tense and motionless, and he allowed Jim to touch him. He did not pull back from it, the sensation of physical, tangible affection too compellingly pleasurable to disengage from. It was perilous to do so, but for one moment, just one moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the feeling. How long had it been since someone had touched him like this? He could not recall. He did not think anyone ever had before.

Jim's fingertips carded through his hair, straightening it back to its usual appearance from the mussed disarray he had woken up with. The motion was soothing; there was a tenderness to the action that he had not experienced in years, not since the last time had seen his mother. Yet this was different in a way he could not fully define; similar, yes, but not identical. Whereas her displays of affection, be that in the form of a hug or a pat on his shoulder, had always been maternal and nurturing, Jim's felt protective and heady, almost intoxicating. The warmth of his human-high body temperature so close to him, the scent of leather, of aftershave, of books, the pressure of fingers stroking against his head...

He could feel his body relaxing, the touch so delightfully soothing that his tension began to ease. It was not rational, but for a brief moment, he felt as if he truly were fine. As if what had happened planetside had not taken place, and that he was simply here, in his quarters, with his friend. As if nothing were wrong with him at all. Despite the dizzying, overwhelming intensity of it, the touch felt oddly clearing. It felt nearly meditative, a numbness he had been lacking for more than a week. Not the same, not even really comparable, but it provided a hint of relief from the strain in his mind. Spock knew he needed to stop this, but he did not—could not. It was shameful, this inability to control his emotional response, but he could not bring himself to step away from it. Not when it made him feel normal; not when it helped.

The captain had surely straightened his hair by now—it had not been in so terrible a state to begin with—but he continued the consistent, invariant movement, again, and again (again and again). Spock felt his eyes shutter at the warmth; he nearly closed them, nearly pressed forward for more. He could fall asleep like this, he mused. His thoughts were already dulling as the fingers swept over him, the formation of each one as sluggish as if it were traveling through syrup to reach him. He could fall asleep right here, and he knew that his dreams would be of only this. That was acceptable, as he found that he did not want it to end…

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Jim said in a low, rumbling murmur. There was a sympathetic noise, apologetic and compassionate. "Look at you, you look exhausted."

"I am not. I merely… slept in this morning."

"In your uniform?" The captain sounded amused, although worry lingered behind the tone. Spock blinked at him, realizing as the touch pressed firmer that he had involuntarily leaned his head into it. He wavered, was about to move away from this man who it seemed could so easily and so swiftly rip through any shred of barriers he had remaining, but Jim took notice of his intent and hastened to reassure him. "No, it's alright. I don't mean to tease you; Bones told me you weren't feeling well. It's okay."

Curious.

Spock knew the captain was concerned for him and had certainly known of Jim's desire to help long before he made the formal request to do so, but he'd made every effort to ensure those fears were assuaged. Consequently, he failed to take into consideration his captain's unique talent for unpredictability, and his predisposition to illogical and often incongruent reactions. He was tactile, this specific human, but Jim had always been careful to respect Spock's personal boundaries in the past. That was not to suggest that this was crossing those boundaries, as Jim had both asked him for, and was provided with, permission to continue. But his captain deciding now, after more than three years, to display physical affection in such a manner was curious.

He was being, as the human expression went, played.

Knowing that did not provide clarity to the situation. He did not understand how or why Jim's behavior had shifted, only that it had. Nor did he know what he had done to warrant this kind of response. And while he was certain there was an underlying reason behind it, Spock did not find the action itself… entirely intolerable. Perplexing, yes, and curious, certainly, but not unpleasant. He only wished he knew whyit was happening. This was, as the doctor would have said, out of his wheelhouse.

"Only momentarily." This was not untrue, if examined from a certain viewpoint. Within the context of one-thousand-four-hundred-and-forty minutes of a simulated Federation Standard day-night cycle, his instance of vomiting had been comparatively brief indeed. But Jim gave an unconvinced hum, perceptive as ever, prompting Spock to further expand with a somewhat useless, "I have sufficiently recovered."

"I'm glad to hear that," Jim said—although judging by his tone, he was clearly not glad. Equally clear was his disbelief of it. "Bones made it sound pretty serious, but I've heard that trauma can sometimes make things look worse than they are."

His stomach plummeted, the weight of the comment sinking into him like a cold stone. Spock's eyebrows shot upwards in alarm, and he opened his mouth to try to salvage this; to deny and dismiss the very suggestion so that Jim wouldn't entertain the idea any further, but he was given no chance to do so. After stroking one final strand into place, the captain slid his hand from Spock's hair, thoroughly distracting him with the abrupt end of the established rhythm.

He did not have time to miss it. Spock felt the faint press of heat against his cheek, the hand returning to ghost across his skin.

Warmthcalculationdesireconcerndevotion flooded him like a surging, irresistible wave.

"You need to shave," Jim mused idly, thumb rasping against the shadow of forming stubble. Fingertips traced a warm, slow, languid path along the edge of Spock's jaw, and the touch was so featherlight as to be almost weightless. There was hardly any pressure but for the barest drag of friction, bare skin brushing against bare skin. His mind stretched forward, eager and unrestrained, to try to deepen the connection. To try to slip into the mind that fluttered on the outskirts of his own.

Friendshipheataffectionsatisfactionworryhungercaredetermination—

Spock forced himself to pull away from the captain before he could lose himself any further, reeling from the battering of emotion through his mind. He could not be certain whether they belonged entirely to the captain, or if they were in part his own, but they were consuming and saturated in their intensity. Indeed, he continued to feel all of them after the contact was broken, alongside a vicious and confusing mixture of shock, panic, and depraved want. Spock attempted to shove it all back, to bury it beneath the sand of his battered mindscape. Control, he told himself. Control…

As was always the case when his emotions involved captain, he could not make them stop their frantic, racing influence. He had been unable to do so even before the Seskille had ruined him, and he had no hope of being able to do so now that they had.

(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, having noticed his sudden tension, did not protest the retreat this time. He lowered his hands to rest on Spock's shoulders where the uniform dulled the hazard of any emotional transfer between them. It did not prevent a shuddering thrill at the heat soaking through the fabric where his captain's palms lay, but the contact itself was, at the very least, safe.

Safer, Spock corrected himself distantly, acutely aware that there was nothing safe about this. No, this kind of touch was dangerous. His instincts were rarely incorrect; they often provided as clear and audible a warning as the ship's klaxons, and they provided him with that same warning now. A gradual recognition of a rising hazard, the kind that always preceded a credible threat. Danger, it whispered to him, but Spock did not know whether that danger was towards himself, or whether it was to his captain.

"There," Jim said, sounding content, "you look much better, Mr. Spock." Then he smiled with that disarming, curved, easy smile of his, and Spock concluded that yes, there was indeed a threat, and that no, it was categorically and incontestably not the captain who was most at risk of falling prey to it.

In the hazel eyes that examined him, Spock saw a spark that was measured and assessing and vigilant. The captain's self-satisfaction would not have been obvious to one who did not know him well; it was a subtle display, visible only in the slight gathering at the corners of his eyes and the minute twitch of his lips. Spock did know him well, and he recognized that the captain was entirely pleased with himself, although he did not understand the reason for it.

And there was one, of course, because Jim had not done this impulsively. There had been thought behind the action; purposeful, calculated thought; deliberately amended and applied to him to achieve a singular, undisclosed objective. Spock acknowledged that he was, in more than one way, being manipulated. The thought bothered him less than he thought it should.

Because it had helped. It was not an overt feeling, nor did it truly fix anything, but the tenderness of the physical affection, and the waves of calm fondness in the soothing care of it, had made him feel just that little bit stronger. He still felt it now, even after it had broken. Perhaps he had disappointed the captain, but not irreparably. That was acceptable. It settled a nervous, anxious sense of terror in him; one he had not realized was there until it faded.

"The debrief…" Spock's voice was hoarse as he attempted to redirect matters back to safer grounds. He thought it surprising that the previous situation had been of less stress to him than this one was, but after considering it further, he recognized the reason. It had been difficult, fatiguing, and draining, but being an utter disappointment to those he cared for was not uncharted water for him. He had been reprimanded for his failures before, and regardless of how painful it was, he knew by now how to steer himself through it.

He did not know how to safely navigate this.

He did not know what this even was.

"It can wait." Jim glanced him over assessingly; that sharp purpose lurking behind and glinting like the edge of a concealed blade. Whatever his motivation, it did not appear to be malicious or negative—and Spock was positive he would have been able to identify if it were so—but it was strategic. Calm, rational, and considerate, certainly, but strategic nonetheless. It was the same one he wore during a chess match, after Spock had subverted all of Jim's usual tactics, thereby forcing him to utilize subterfuge and surreptitious improvisation. "Let's get you sorted first."

The hands on his shoulders turned him firmly but gently—always gently, like he was made of thin glass—and he was steered towards the bathroom, Jim a solid presence against his side. Herded, his mind supplied. He was being herded.

"Captain," Spock protested tightly, uncomfortable now with the situation. Whereas the previous physical contact had been unexpected but exhilarating, this began to feel increasingly like he was being patronized and coddled. It grated at his own sense of self-sufficiency and independence. "I do not want—"

"And I don't care what you want," Jim interrupted, tone unwaveringly patient, despite the harshness of the words themselves. "I'm sorry, Spock, but I don't—not right now, anyways. I care about what you need. At the moment, that's to get cleaned up."

"Jim." Spock resisted the captain's grip by planting his heels firmly into the floor, halting them both. Stirrings of panic tightened his throat, and he struggled to find the correct words to say; something that might soothe Jim's irrational display of... whatever this was meant to be. Protectiveness? Nurturing? Condescension? In the end, it did not matter what words he might have said; Jim didn't give him the chance to speak them.

"Spock." Although his expression and pitch remained kind, the captain's words once more had the same edge to them as when he'd first arrived. Still patient, and still relaxed, but both qualities had thinned somewhat. Jim kept a hold of his shoulders as he faced him, smoothing over the wrinkled fabric of his uniform. "I realize that I might be overstepping, or crossing all kinds of boundaries and lines here, and I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable... but I'm also well and truly done waiting for you to ask for help when you need it. You made yourself sick yesterday, and your hands—god, even now, you're clearly exhausted..."

"I'm—"

"Mm, I'm sure that you are." There was audible, exasperated doubt. The captain held his gaze for a moment as if to decide whether or not to push it, before something in him seemed to finally surrender. It was a tactical retreat, the sight of which further stirred Spock's suspicions. The hands on his shoulders had tightened, betraying a concealed agitation, but Jim forcibly eased them once he realized it. He did not remove them, however, and although his captain had always been prone to tactile affection, the unusual duration of it further supported Spock's rising theory. He suspected he now knew what game was being played, although the rules remained nebulous and unclear. "I'm also sure that you're going to humor me regardless, Spock, because I very nicely made it all night long without breaking your door down like I initially planned to, and because if I don't start feeling like I'm doing something useful around here, I'm going to go stark raving mad."

His captain was utilizing two methods of intentional manipulation; the use of humor to lower Spock's defenses against emotional expression by targeting a seemingly more harmless emotion as a back entrance, as well as using Spock's unwavering devotion and concern for him to purposely inspire a sense of protective indulgence. Spock could not help but admire the approach as, even knowing they had been intentionally used to compel him towards a specific goal, his first instinct was to allow them to successfully do so.

The captain was not lying to him; Jim had never done the feeling of helplessness well, and without a distraction, he usually floundered. The occasions where he was forced into the role of powerless bystander often resulted in either a successful escape from hostile sentient lifeforms, the ship being saved from cosmic danger, one or both of them incarcerated in sickbay, or a combination of all three. Spock had only just been discharged from McCoy's prison the day prior; he was not keen on the idea of returning so soon.

"Yes? Good." Jim did not give him a chance to protest further, coaxing him forward again with gentle pressure on his shoulders. "Go shave; you're starting to look like, well, like other you—and tease you though I do, the comparison really isn't a great one. I much prefer my Spock just as he should be."

"I require clothing," Spock said, and he could hear the barest hints of audible annoyance to his words. An emotional response, if not in phrasing, then in delivery.

"I'll get them," Jim responded, and the placid calm was breaking and giving way to exasperation. "For once in your life, Spock, please just let me take care of things." Let me take care of you. It was not spoken, but it did not need to be. His turmoil must still have been clear despite his best efforts to conceal it, because the captain then smiled sympathetically at him. "We'll talk once you're done, alright?"

Spock stared at him, uncertain, before giving a measured nod. He escaped into the refuge of the lavatory, if only to escape the situation before it could emotionally escalate any further. It felt like running, like cowardice, but the sight of the captain's warm, determined, unrelenting expression twisted his stomach into knots.

The door slid closed behind him. He stood there blankly, feeling well and truly lost.

He still had not been given an official condemnation. He thought it rather likely that one wouldn't be given at all, despite having been entirely deserved. Perplexing, Spock supposed, but not entirely surprising; the captain did not often use official channels to make his displeasure known. Jim had arrived at his quarters upset, but he'd shut down any attempt at reparations or apologies, thus leaving Spock in the floundering position of doubt. So, he had not come to reprimand him, at least not in the professional sense.

Jim's motivations were ambiguous, but Spock had theories. He examined the evidence from all angles, and he weighed each one to form a ranked list of possibilities. One, in particular, seemed promising. Jim's own words, perhaps the most incontrovertible lead he had, certainly supported it. I'm also well and truly done waiting for you to ask for help when you need it,the captain had said to him, and not lightly either. He had always been incredibly intentional in his wording; he had chosen them specifically. For once in your life, Spock, please just let me take care of things.

The calculated, sharp expression in his eyes. The way his touch had been direct but slow, giving Spock a chance to pull away. The careful, keen observation—not to determine whether or not he was crossing Spock's boundaries, because they both knew that he was, but to determine whether he'd crossed them too much. The moment he realized he had, the captain noted the line in the sand and inched back just enough to toe it again. Jim had been watching him, testing him, pushing him, to see just how much he could get away with before Spock's defenses engaged.

Fascinating.

As always, Jim was a credit to his position, both in the capacity of captain, and in the capacity of friend. He did not appreciate his judgement as applied to this situation, but he appreciated that Jim cared enough to make the effort. And… it had helped, even if only in a minute way. The caretaking was uncomfortable, but the fondness driving it was not. It felt warming.

Spock reached a hand to his hair, finding it perfectly combed into order. He still felt the captain's fingers against his head, soothing and rhythmic. It had been nice. It had also been dangerous. And a distraction, he told himself firmly, which he knew he did not need when he already struggled to focus.

After a moment of consideration, Spock forced himself to fall into habitual patterns, relying on muscle memory and routine to guide his actions. He locked the door and approached the sink to attend to himself.

Jim had not been wrong to suggest he shave. A quick glance in the mirror informed him that stubble was beginning to darken his jaw, which he found to be unacceptable. It naturally grew slowly, and grew slower still when he, through deeper forms of meditation, consciously decelerated the responsive catalyzation and production of dihydrotestosterone. He'd always been prompt in removing hair growth once it became noticeable, but once he'd been made aware of the parallel universe, he had done his best to prevent any sign of it whatsoever, both to minimize a potential comparison from the captain to his alternate self, as well as to minimize a potential trigger to Doctor McCoy for the same reason.

Spock deliberated over taking care of it thoroughly with his straight razor, as was his preference in these matters, or with more quickly with the laser one. It had been forty-three-point-three-seven days since he'd last shaved, and by his estimation, he should have had another twenty-point-four-one-six days until doing so was required again. It had only taken approximately nine days without meditation for his body's endocrine system to reassert itself against his mental discipline. Another sign, among many, that his control was failing him.

There was a muffled sound of movement from beyond the door; a drawer opening and closing, the rustle of fabric, bootsteps traveling across the floor. It was tempting to purposely idle his routine to extend his solitude, but an innate sense of efficiency and obligation prevented him from considering it an option for long.

There came the sound of knuckles gently rapping on the door. The captain. "I've got your clothes."

Spock sighed and reached for the laser.

---

He emerged approximately ten minutes later, showered, dressed, and clean-shaven. Spock felt considerably more like himself now that his appearance was ordered and put together—far less vulnerable and exposed than he had prior. The captain had, of course, seen him in various disgraceful states before, but they were often circumstantially appropriate, such as times of illness, injury, hostile planetary conditions, or combat. He objected to being seen in any condition other than fully presentable and took numerous, calculated steps to ensure the likelihood of it was minimal.

Naturally, Jim bulldozed through each and every one of them.

The captain had been busy during those ten minutes, Spock noticed immediately upon stepping further into the room. All signs of the previous day were gone. The bed had been made, the covers tucked straight and smooth with military precision. The gauze and antiseptic were missing from the bedside table, likely returned to the standard first aid kit behind the curtains, which now hung precisely from the wrangled position Doctor McCoy had left them in. His quarters were just as fastidiously neat as Spock always kept them, with not so much as a wrinkle of fabric out of place.

The sight was both appreciated and humiliating; appreciated because Jim cared enough to help him, and humiliating that help had been necessary in the first place. It was uncomfortable to be treated so delicately; to have another take charge of his quarters in such a way, as if he were unable to do so himself. He could not recall the last time someone had done so. His mother had, he reasoned, but not since he had been very little. After he had advanced through the latter stages of infancy, he had taken responsibility for his own belongings and domicile upkeep with a strict adherence to order, reason, and logic as a matter of course. Further assistance with it had not been required.

"Feeling better?" the captain asked, having made himself comfortable in his usual chair at the desk. Jim eyed him over once, a satisfied smile tilting upwards. "You look better. Don't get me wrong, the sight of you all ruffled was incredibly endearing to me, but I could tell you hated it."

"I am not capable of hatred, Captain," Spock replied, folding his hands behind his back formally in an attempt to maintain some shred of dignity from the light teasing, "or any other emotion, as you are aware."

"Oh yes, well aware. Join me?" Jim spoke as if these were his quarters, just as comfortably secure in them as he was in his own. There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow, skin flushed from the heat of the rooms, but he looked completely at ease. How was it that the captain could so quickly and so smoothly enter a room and own the space, when Spock had never felt settled or welcomed no matter where he was? He envied the ability as, even in his own quarters, he still felt himself an imposter.

Spock took a seat at the other side of the desk, steepling his fingers against his chest to watch the captain evenly. Jim returned the stare, and there was a weighted moment of silence. Spock deliberated, a finger tapping in thought. He did not wish to talk about this, as it would encourage an emotional discussion, but neither did he wish to leave it unspoken to hover between them.

"Something on your mind?" The captain tilted his head at him with a knowing gleam in his eye, looking as if he had been waiting for it to be brought to light. It confirmed Spock's suspicions and settled his indecision.

"Captain, I have come to the conclusion that you are engaging in the act of subterfuge."

"Oh?" Jim asked him, clearly amused by the comment. He drummed his fingers against the desk idly, casually; a musing fidget that revealed no sign of discomfort at being confronted. "Care to explain?"

"You intentionally manipulated me," Spock elaborated further, fixing him a blank expression that was neither pleased nor displeased.

"I wouldn't really consider it manipulation if you're aware of it, Spock." Jim did not deny the accusation, speaking calmly as if this were merely a matter of course. "More along the lines of persuasion than anything else—a nudge, not a shove."

"You do not deny your use of underhanded tactics?"

The captain shook his head, but not necessarily in defense of himself or his actions. "No, I suppose not, but I'd hardly call them underhanded. I don't know if they could have been more direct. I'm not some conniving mastermind, Spock; I checked in with you and backed off when you got overwhelmed. Nothing underhanded about that. I'd have dropped it entirely if it upset you, and I know you know that." A small smile toyed at his lips. "But you're not upset, because you also know that it helped a little."

"You were examining me for a negative reaction," Spock observed, and the captain tilted his head in agreement, eyes sharp and examining even now. "What was your motive in using physical contact?"

Jim hummed, leaning further back in his chair. He was smiling outright now, Spock noted. A small, shameless, patient smile that made his eyes that much warmer. It was clear to him that the captain was not upset at being called out for his behavior and that he had, in fact, likely been expecting it. There was no trace of guilt or remorse in him, just that light curve of his lips and an increasingly fond expression.

"Did you like it?" the captain asked him, and when Spock hedged, uncertain of how to respond without admitting to the emotional error of like, he followed it with a gentle, "Alright, we'll start smaller, then. Did you dislike it?"

"I did not find it… objectionable."

Jim's smile widened noticeably. "And if I did it again, would you object then?"

Spock would not. Physical touch had been exchanged between them before, many times over, even. Whether it was a hand on his captain's shoulder, or an amused prodding of Jim's elbow to his side during a conference, tactile communication was frequent enough to be relatively commonplace in their friendship. He had once slept flush against Jim during a particularly frustrating away mission where shared heat had been required after the captain had fallen through ice. There were other kinds of touch between them as well; the captain had bodily thrown Spock over his shoulder on more than one dangerous occasion, and Spock likewise had carried Jim in his arms even more times than that. They had fought together, slept together, and bled together, and the captain's touch itself no longer came as shock.

And yet, this had felt… different. It was not an amused nudge or a pat on the back. It was different; Spock did not know how to define the distinction, only that there was one. He recalled the feeling of the captain against him, of Jim's hand buried in his hair, his fingertips tracing along Spock's jaw. How long had it been since he'd been touched like that? Leila Kalomi, his mind supplied distantly. The spores. Leila's touch had been a mockery of affection, though, caused not by true passion but instead by a parasitic reproductive ecology tailored for the express purpose of influencing the host to aid in the plant's spread. He had felt the toxic sense of subjugation through his hands when he had held her, through the shared press of her lips to his own when they had kissed in the human fashion. The spores had made him uncaring of it at the time, but he had still noticed it.

The captain was not under the control of spores.

Refusing to look at him, Spock shook his head once, a stiff, jerking movement that betrayed his discomfort. The captain's pleasure softened into something gentler.

"Good, I'm glad." Jim murmured, "You looked relaxed. I worried you were about to fall asleep standing up for a minute there." He had been, and likely would have if Jim hadn't of stopped. "I wasn't doing it to manipulate you, Spock. I wouldn't do that. You've just looked so stressed lately, and seeing you like that, so tense, your hair all over the place, disheveled, drowsy…" The captain sighed and gave a small, unrepentant shrug. "You looked like you needed the comfort. You deserve to be taken care of every once in a while, you know, and if I may be frank, Mr. Spock, you seemed like you needed it. I knew that you'd deny that if I suggested it, so I didn't suggest it, I did it"

"I did not need—"

"Mm, case in point." Jim tilted his head, watching him. "I used a purely human maneuver known as ask for forgiveness, not permission."

Spock considered that a moment. Despite the format of the saying, the captain had asked for permission. And he had been granted it. "That is why you purposely utilized deceptive tactics against me?"

"Not against you, Spock," the captain told him, voice losing the amused lit and growing serious. His smile didn't fade, but his eyes had sobered. "Never against you. For you."

"That is why you purposely utilized deceptive tactics for me? To provide comfort?"

"Well, when you say it like that…" Jim's brow creased, perturbed at the phrasing. "But no, not exactly. Help, Spock. I am trying to help you. Because you're my friend; my best friend. I can see that you're struggling with something—no, shh, you are, Spock, don't deny that. You aren't as subtle as you think you are. When you enter a briefing room shaking like a leaf, as pale as if you've seen a ghost, or when you're so stressed out that you're vomiting, or when you answer your door looking like you're three seconds away from collapsing, looking at me like I'm about to rake you over the coals… it's pretty obvious to me that something's wrong. And I've tried being patient, I've tried prompting, I've tried asking, and I'm still being given the cold shoulder. I've decided that I'm done waiting for permission to help you."

It had helped, Spock knew. Jim knew it as well, judging by the victorious, satisfied look in his eyes before Spock had retreated from the room. It had felt so delightfully gentle and soothing to be touched like that, that he'd nearly been shoving himself into it for more. For a few moments, he had felt as if he were truly okay. Not just pretending to be, not simply wearing a mask, but as if he were as serene and calm as water. It had been almost meditative; a tranquility he hadn't experienced for over a week. He found it difficult to fault Jim when he knew the desire to help had been genuine, and that the tactile exchange was one they had both enjoyed. It also felt dangerous to admit to its effectiveness. Too emotional. Too passionate. But yes, it had helped, perhaps even more than the captain suspected.

"I… recognize your concern, sir, as well as your desire to assist, however, you are not required to do so. You are the captain of a starship; you have more pressing matters that require your attention."

"No, I don't." Jim ran a hand down his face, plainly tired. It was unusually early for the captain to be awake; he was often still asleep at this hour. "You know, you always seem to be under the impression that you rank bottom of the list. I'm honestly curious what it'll take for you to realize that you pretty much top the bill for me, Spock. If that whole thing a few months ago wasn't enough of a clue that I'd put you first, I can't imagine what will finally do it."

That whole thing. Vulcan. He was speaking of the incident on Vulcan.

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

(Something unpleasant, sick, and churning filled his gut, his chest, his throat; he didn

't breathe, he didn't move, he just… stared.)("Get your hands off of him, Spock!")(Jim died in front of him again.)

Spock did not breathe. He could not breathe.

"And I'm not here because I'm required to be," Jim continued. "I'm here because I want to be, and because there's pretty much nothing I wouldn't do for you. You're important to me too, Spock; more than anyone else I can think of, so of course I'd be here." The captain paused, and although the smile remained, the levity behind it dimmed. "But lately… you've shut me out, Spock, and I don't really know why."

Spock was silent for a moment, forcing control, control, control. Breathe. Focus. Maintain control. Jim was not dead. He was not on Vulcan. Jim was alive, here, in front of him. He cleared his throat to ensure his voice was without inflection. "You are referring to the information I disclosed during the debrief."

"In part," Jim told him, "but not exclusively. I'd say that's less of its own issue and more a symptom of a greater problem. I'm more referring to your chronic, ongoing predilection for secrecy. You haven't been talking to me, Spock. You're withholding information, you're dodging questions, you're making yourself sick… and I could deal with it, I think, if it was just towards me—" The captain ignored Spock's attempt at protesting interjection, waving him off as he continued. "Believe me, I wouldn't necessarily like it, but I'm a rational man and I could deal with it. You're entitled to your privacy, and you can decide to talk—or not talk—to whoever you want. But… you aren't talking to anyone else either, and I think you need to. I'm worried about you, Spock."

"I am perfectly—"

"—fine." The captain nodded as if he'd been expecting that. "But if you weren't, I wouldn't think any differently of you. You… know that you can talk to me about anything, right? If there was something wrong or if you were struggling, you could talk to me."

Spock felt rooted in place, dread sinking into his stomach like a stone and weighing him down. "Yes, sir," he said softly after a moment, adverting his gaze to the bulkhead behind the captain. An immature trick, but necessary to maintain composure. The audible hurt in Jim's tone felt like a blade in his side.

"Then why aren't you?" The captain asked him. The eyes watching him were concerned, open, honest. Spock wished so desperately that they would look away, look anywhere else, because he felt pinned in place by the visible, wounded confusion in them. "If you know that, then why didn't you talk to me on Seskilles VII? I was right there, Spock. Right there. Help me understand it."

Did Jim not understand what he was demanding of Spock when he asked that? Did he not understand that Spock was a Vulcan, and that he could not give Jim what he wanted? Admitting to vulnerability was tantamount to admitting to instability. He did not have the strength to manage the fallout of such a confession, not when he was already expending so much of his focus and energy towards minimizing the degradation of his mental disciplines. Without the toolset of meditation, everything was slipping away from him, and he could not do what Jim demanded of him.

"You are upset with me," Spock said, dodging the question.

"No." The captain then paused and considered that a moment, frowning. "Okay, yes, I suppose am. Not at you, necessarily, I'm more upset that you were suffering the entire time and I didn't know… and that you didn't seem to think you should tell me. There's privacy, and then there's distrust, and I'm upset that this feels like the latter."

"You could not have done anything, Captain," he said uncomfortably. Even to his own ears, his tone was hollow and empty. "It was outside of your ability to fix. Your attention was best expended towards the adverse weather patterns and maintaining communication with both the landing party, the ship, and the—" Spock faltered, stumbling faintly on the word. Jim noticed, of course. "—Seskille. I was already attempting all solutions; there was no use in wasting your time on the matter. Notifying you of a concern respective only to myself would have achieved nothing."

"Wasting my time?" Jim looked incredulous, eyebrows rising sharply. "Nothing? Spock, surely you must realize that withholding all that was dangerous."

He raised a brow at the appalled tone of the captain, explanation hesitating at the further stunned reaction as he attempted to reassure him. "There was limited danger, Captain. From my evaluation of the evidence, I concluded that neither yourself nor the crew experienced similar effects. I… assure you, sir, that I took every precautionary measure to guarantee your safety, if that is your—"

Spock flinched as Jim flew to his feet. If the captain had not been visibly upset before, he certainly was now. His lips pulled into such a thin line that they nearly disappeared, and with his heightened hearing, he could hear the audible creak of teeth when Jim clenched his jaw tightly.

"My safety?" Jim exclaimed, throwing his hands out for emphasis. He didn't shout, but it looked as if he wanted to. There was a tightness in his expression that gave every indication of restrained affront. "My safety?! What about your own? Where were the precautionary measures for that?! God, Spock, and you wonder why I'm so concerned about you! Do you have a death wish? I mean that seriously, mister, because I swear, you are so hellbent on keeping everyone else out of the line of fire that you'll throw yourself right into it without a second's pause. You—" The captain took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He closed his eyes, and, for a long moment, he remained quiet. Finally, after approximately seven-point-three-nine-one seconds had passed, he continued in a measured but forced voice. "Spock, you don't need to protect me all the time. I don't want you to, and certainly not at the expense of your own health."

"Captain—"

"No. This seems to be a recurring theme. You don't need to protect me from everything. Not danger, not weather, not information, and certainly not yourself. Even if I couldn't have done anything, I still would have wanted to know you were in pain. I still would have wanted to be there for you, Spock, even if that was all I could do. How many times now have you helped me when I was struggling? A dozen times? A dozen hundred times? I might not always have been gracious about it, but even just knowing you were in my corner was a relief. That's what a friend is; they're a support you can lean against when you're too tired to stand alone. Well, you're my best friend, Spock, and you've supported me time and time again. You think I wouldn't want to do the same for you?"

"Jim." Spock rose to his feet as well, alarmed at the turn this conversation had taken, and further dismayed by the misunderstanding. The captain had inferred something from his actions that needed immediate clarity. "It was not my intention to imply that I do not value our friendship. On the contrary, I… I consider it of great importance to me."

"Then for god's sake, stop trying to shut me out of it." Jim stressed insistently, stepping closer to him. He looked exasperated, but not angry, not irritated. "You can tell me anything—even if you think it'll make me angry, or annoyed, or hurt, or—or if it's uncomfortable, or irritating, or anything else. And maybe I won't always react the best, because I'm only human and I'm far from perfect, but I'll still listen and try to help however I can. There's nothing you could say to me that would change that."

But there was.

(Jim had touched his hand, his fingers, and he had been in his captain's head, as seamlessly as slipping into a body of warm water.)

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

(Jim died in front of him again.)

What would happen if he said it? If he told Jim that he was not alright? That he was afraid he was edging ever closer to a threshold he could not come back from? What would happen if he told Jim that he had broken into his mind not once, but twice, and that he had done so to others? That he was little better than the Seskille, who Jim seemed so incredibly eager to place blame on? That he was so underserving of the affection that Jim had given him, because he could not help but take it and twist it into something it wasn't, something hungry and wanting. That he was losing control of himself so rapidly, and that although he would not intend to, he might hurt Jim.

(Intentions don't mean anything.)

There was a cocktail of emotions flooding him, and not all were ones he recognized. Shame was a familiar companion; he was swiftly and easily able to identify it. Likewise, he knew the surge of guilt, fear, unease, warmth, and friendship. Anger as well, although that came as a surprise to him, because he did not get angry at Jim, not ever, not for anything. Yet he felt undeniably frustrated and, yes, angry—at himself, at Jim, at Doctor McCoy, at the Seskille. Why could he not simply be in control of himself?

The captain stepped forward, waiting until Spock met his eyes before he spoke. "Seeing you in pain down there, and seeing you still be in pain now… I can't just stand here and watch it, so please stop asking me to. I know you want to keep me safe; while I might not always agree with it, I'm incredibly thankful for all the times you have. You're always so concerned with making things easier on me, but Spock, have you never considered that I might want to do the same in return? You're important to me too, you know."

"Jim…"

"Spock," the captain said softly, a coaxing, gentle murmur. "Please tell me what's wrong."

His justifications for remaining silent about the events of Seskilles VII, which had previously held so firm and solid, began to crumble beneath the weight of the captain's honest, worried expression. Spock told himself that he was doing it to keep the captain safe, but the excuse felt hollow. He told himself that it was because it would minimize the distress to his friends, but his friends were already distressed. He told himself that by pretending to be fine, he was maintaining the existing state of affairs—himself as the logical voice of reason, Doctor McCoy as the heartfelt influence, and Jim a perfect mixture of both—but the status quo had already shifted without him realizing it.

And so why could he not do what Jim had been pleading with him to do from the beginning? Talk.

Spock opened his mouth to respond, but he did not know what to say. What could he say? All his excuses, his justifications, his reasons… all of them felt like ash in his mind. Burnt and charred remains of purpose. He could say nothing was wrong. He could say that he was fine. He could say that he was fatigued, that he was ill, that he was still recovering from his injuries. He could say the truth…

"I—" He cleared his throat when his voice rasped, finding it dry and hoarse. "Jim, I—"

I am not in control of myself.

I do not know what to do or how to fix this.

I do not want to hurt you.

I am afraid.

Words stuck in his throat, clenched and constricted, and he could not say them. He tried. He tried…

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

And suddenly, Jim was there, having taken that one final step to bridge the space between them. He reached for Spock, his hands coming up to cup his shoulders, and there was no hesitation or uncertainty in the movement when they continued to wrap broadly around his back. There was only a sense of warmth and a quiet kind of protectiveness as the captain gently, firmly, tugged Spock into his arms.

Spock went rigid, every muscle stiffening up as if a livewire had run a current through him, as Jim's arms instantly encircled him, the motion somehow both strong and soft simultaneously. Distantly, through the deafening rush of blood to his ears, there came the realization that this was an embrace. A hug. His captain was hugging him.

Spock didn't move, didn't relax, didn't so much as breathe. For a long, tense moment, he simply stood there, pinned in the hold of the embrace surrounding him. Heat. He felt heat; Jim's body against his own, human-hot even through the fabric of their uniforms. It seeped warmth into his skin from where they pressed against one another, and as close as they were, he could feel the captain's steady heartbeat thud against his chest. He could feel his own, much faster heart rapid firing with a thrum in his side. His pulse sounded so loud in his ears that it muted the rest of the world. He didn't breathe…

Then, one hand began to move in a calming back-and-forth motion across his back. Slowly, minutely, Spock felt the knots in him begin to unwind and loosen. A palm cupped the back of his neck and gradually applied pressure until Spock's lowered his head to rest against the captain's shoulder, forehead pressed into the crook of his neck. It was not entirely comfortable with their height difference, but there was a secureness in the motion; some unspoken meaning in the gesture that said so much without ever making a sound. It made him feel calmly placid, and held close, and so very, very warm.

He did not know what to do with his hands, Spock realized; they hovered awkwardly at his side, half-raised and faltering in mid-air as if not sure whether to push Jim away or pull him closer. Hesitantly, he brought them forward and rested them against the captain's side, keeping his own touch as light as he could. He had hugged before, but it did not come to him naturally. And he did not… he did not trust himself with Jim pressed so closely against him.

"I know this isn't easy for you," Jim said to him softly. Spock shuddered at the sensation of breath against his ear, and the arms encircling him tightened in response. "I wish I knew how to fix this. I don't know how to help you, Spock, I really don't. I wish you would talk to me. Whatever you need, I'd do anything in my power to make sure you get it. But you just… won't. I can't tell if it's because you don't trust me, or if it's still too much to process, or if you are just so used to doing everything alone that you don't know how to, but I can tell it's eating at you and you're in pain. You're still in pain, Spock, and I'm still at square one, and I don't know how to make any of it better for you."

Guilt seeped throughout the entirety of him; a sick, toxic spread of shame pooling in him at the audible sound of helplessness in his captain's voice. "It is not an issue of trust, Jim," he assured, so as to rid Jim of that absurd notion. Of all the incalculable, unfathomable number of lifeforms in the universe—this one, as well as in any other—there existed no one he trusted more. "I…" Spock did not know what to say. His voice was muffled by the captain's shoulder, the hand on the back of his head applying enough force to keep him there as fingers ran through his hair once more, rhythmic and soothing. "Jim, I… do not…"

Words failed. He could not get them out. He did not even know what ones he was trying to say.

I don't recognize myself anymore.

I am losing control.

I do not know if I ever had any to begin with.

I killed you.

"Shh," the captain hushed him, "I know. I know this is asking a lot from you, Spock. I can be patient until you're ready to talk. Until then, just let me be here for you and stop shutting me out."

The captain did not release the embrace, and Spock did not try to pull back from it. His hands had closed at some point, fingers clenched in gold of Jim's uniform tightly enough to strain the fabric. The human-steady heartbeat was a tangible feeling against his own chest, and the arms surrounding him were not so much restrictive as they were reassuring, and strong, and unwavering. Determined. It was both enough and not enough. It was not logical, but he found it true, nonetheless. He wanted more, he wanted to be closer, he wanted to pull Jim in tighter. Wanted to tilt his head up just those last few tempting inches. He did not, and he would not. He would not ruin this. Being this close to the feeling of his captain in his arms—close enough to feel the warmth, if not the burning heat—was enough.

It would have to be enough

---

Thank you everyone for reading!

This was a fun chapter to write. Finally a bit of a break from the hurt to focus on the comfort side of this Hurt/Comfort. And a bit of heat added to the slowburn that's been cooking. I've had some of this planned long before I ever even started writing K'oh-nar, and it was nice to finally put them into use!

References to Leila and the spores are from the TOS episode 'This Side of Paradise', which is among my favorites. I always thought it must have been a horrible feeling for Spock to have felt the controlling nature of the spores when they touched, even if the spores made him unable to care in the moment. Not nearly as terrible as how he was broken out of the control, though! Thanks Jim.

Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Pamutau — Bypass; to avoid an obstacle by using an alternative channel, passage, or route.