Warnings: discussion of anxiety and mental health, depiction of a minor anxiety attack.
Disclaimer to head off any opinions or complaints: I am not a doctor, I am not a therapist, I am not a psychiatrist; but I have experience with the subjects mentioned above, in a much later-in-life onset than I would ever have expected. This is projection, not medical recommendation. Please do not take this work of fiction as medical advice, and please know you are not alone, if you are in a similar position.
Please seek help if you need it, and maybe even if you think you don't.
Author's Note: Warning for the above, but also a disgusting amount of fluff. This was originally outlined for my love languages story, but then I decided I'd cut that timeline off long before the movie era, so it's gone undone until now.
You can read it as gen or as 'old married couple' vibes, as I don't believe the two are necessarily mutually exclusive, particularly in this corner of the original ST universe.
Random Style Note: In TWOK, we see Saavik referred to by the pronoun "Mr.," so I am proceeding under the assumption that it is the gender-neutral pronoun in Starfleet.
Written for the prompt, "I thought I was getting better."
There is an old proverb which states one's absence can induce an increased sense of interest or affection, and while it is not an old Vulcan proverb, it nevertheless does appear to be accurate, at least in Spock's recent experience.
As a case study, this principle is most evident in student behavior. Whilst Starfleet Academy cadets are, as a general rule, intensely studious, most are barely out of their late adolescence, and as such, do not typically have the attentiveness and gravitas he would prefer, particularly on a Monday morning.
In truth, there seems to be very little logic behind assigning the classes which require most alertness and collaboration skills to the very earliest hours of the day (particularly when the student body as a whole seems to very much prefer the exact opposite), but Spock has long since given up attempting to understand the illogical humans responsible for the elusive algorithm which sorts students prior to the start of each term.
In order words, Spock's thrice-weekly two-hour Theoretics of Advanced Civil Discourse module at 0700 is, while typically well-attended, not typically well-participated-in by the average cadet, at least not until approximately thirteen minutes prior to the close of class. While there are a few students who, through natural or artificial means, usually carry the dialogue, the majority seem to spend the time in a slightly dissociative, more than slightly asleep state.
But Spock is aware that the human body has limits; and if the body is at those limits, there is no logic in chastising a human for it, even if the outcome is due to poor weekend decision-making (which is not always the case). One simply cannot expect youth to have the maturity that accumulates with age, even if he would prefer it be otherwise.
If his students are capable of keeping up with course work and seem to have a decent grasp of the material through extra-curricular study, he has no real issue with them paying less than full attention in-classroom. The goal is not a numeric value on an exam; the goal is adequate preparation for active starship service. How one reaches that goal has no real bearing on the outcome.
Perhaps dying has also changed his perspective in this area.
The majority of said students have no idea regarding the progression of events which has led him in a roundabout way to this new cycle of life, since Starfleet Command is not over-eager to publicize as fact something which sounds so much like fairytale. Vulcan fairytale, at that.
The designated cover story, that of a falsified death in order to undertake a covert mission in Romulan space (later to be retrieved by his former Enterprise command crew via a confiscated Klingon vessel), sounds no less like melodramatic storytelling to Spock himself, but he does understand the need for prevarication in order to minimize speculation.
But now, some three months after his return to Earth and almost a half-year exactly from the day of that ill-fated voyage into the Mutara sector, Spock has found that his lengthy absence has indeed made the student heart grow, if not fonder, at least somewhat less lethargic.
Granted, at the start of the new term, he had fielded an inordinate number of questions which had little or no relevance to the subject matter, but that has tapered off and vanished as the novelty and mystery of his return has waned. At some point, the sliding scale of human attention will settle somewhere in the vast median between the two extremes, and all will be balanced once more. And so, he proceeds with business as usual.
The usual business: On Wednesdays and Fridays, his lecture hall is turned over at 0900 to either Differential Equations or Advanced Number Theory; but on Mondays, it is Tactical Leadership in Strategic Decision-Making.
And there is a certain undeniable human enjoyment in the latter handoff. He has come to accept this as an acceptable loss of Vulcan control, as the cause is sufficient.
Today, when he dismisses promptly at 0845, most students who are to attend the next module make a beeline for the door immediately, leaving their items on the desks. They are followed slightly less rapidly by the majority of the rest, only a few lingering here and there to finish a task or simply wait in their seats for the next class period to begin.
Spock disconnects his personal device from the overhead monitor, and increases the font settings on said monitor to a slightly larger size.
"Full house today," Jim observes, once the remaining cadets have filed out and he has made his way down the side aisle, a stack of data-padds under one arm and an insulated disposable cup in the other. He drops the padds and an old-fashioned writing tablet on the lectern with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.
The half-asleep Katarran in the second row jumps at the noise, clearly coming fully awake for the first time all morning. Their dark brown fur is completely standing on end.
"You still have ten minutes until the start of the next module, Mr. Miller," Spock says calmly, when they look around half-panicked at the nearly empty hall. His voice echoes slightly, but not enough to draw the attention of the back two rows of students, who are clearly putting together some kind of last-minute class preparation and copying portions of work from each other.
This strategy is unwise, as Jim will, as the expression goes, tear them to shreds if they try to bluff their way through a senior-level presentation with incorrect or incomplete data, particularly if they all possess the exact same incorrect data; but it is not Spock's place to make such observations.
Miller, however, flicks him a grateful look, and soon falls diligently to work with some reading material, frowning slightly at the screen.
"I was going to say thank you for waking them all up for me, but maybe I should rescind that generalization," Jim says in a barely audible undertone, not drawing further attention to the hapless student but clearly amused at the interplay.
"The cadet is currently managing an unusual increase in anxiety, according to their voluntary medical disclosures, which seems to manifest itself more strongly in the early morning hours," Spock replies, equally quietly. "Attendance itself is a sufficient metric of success, in such circumstances."
"Fair enough. And here you go – as usual: One half-caff vegan Dalgona matcha latte, oat milk, no sugar, hot enough to permanently disfigure a human, and may I just say I do not understand why you can't order for pickup, instead of making me stand in line and say that every week. You're ridiculous."
Spock hides a smile in the cup, though it likely is still obvious once it leaves his lips. "Your efforts are appreciated. And how is the Enterprise-A?"
Jim leans back against the wall, relaxed and at ease, hands gesturing in animation as he describes the results of the morning's inspections, which had been taking place even earlier than Spock's lesson preparation. The early morning shows a bit, a fractional delay in speaking and at one point, an almost unconscious yawn; but the Enterprise has always been far more of a drug than any amount of caffeine, for this particular human.
Relearning a lifetime in a matter of months with varying levels of success, Spock had still deduced that particular fact long before the emotional impact of realizing the ship had been destroyed actually set in, months ago. Learning they were to be given her namesake, soon after their return from their adventure in extinct marine biology, had been a most pleasant surprise. Starfleet's newest demoted captain is certainly making the most of his new opportunity.
After a few minutes spent thus, reflex turns both their glances toward the back of the hall, seeing the next module's students begin to file in. They bring with them a barrage of noise and chatter and, in the case of those who had also been in Spock's early class, very large drinking vessels containing a variety of overly sweet and overly caffeinated beverages. Fuel, for the daunting task of keeping up with their next instructor.
"So, in short, coming along ahead of schedule, unless Scotty's padding the deadlines. We might just have a summer shakedown after all. The Engineering infrastructure is basically finished, but we have a way to go in the Science and Medical wings, and they haven't really started on the crew cabins yet. I think Bones wanted your input on something for the database integration of the Medical Research lab, by the way. He's probably going to call you about it later."
"Indeed." Spock nods in response to a bright-eyed young cadet in science blues who waves at him shyly from the front row. "Do you require my assistance for the final Engineering overview?"
"No, no. Scotty has it under control, and I've promised myself I'm going to stop micro-managing before he bans me entirely from the premises. Oh! I almost forgot." Kirk steps past him and fishes a heavily-encrypted padd out of the stack. "They sent over the new programming for the spring term's Kobayashi Maru simulation. I'd like your thoughts, if you have the time? I've gone over it as thoroughly as I can, but you might be able to anticipate something I missed."
"I will do so at earliest opportunity."
"Thank you." The words are slightly louder, as the hall is now more than half-full. "Still on for dinner tonight?"
"Indeed," he confirms, as he retrieves his own teaching materials. "I will bid you good-morning, Captain."
"Well, thank you, Captain."
As Spock makes his way down the opposite aisle, Miller sends him one last thankful look, and he is gratified to see that they appear far more alert than they had upon entering the classroom that morning. He then pauses just outside to answer a quick question from a student who had been patiently waiting in the corridor. The matter is rapidly settled, and he sends her on her way just as the chronometer turns to 0900.
Already in animated discussion with someone at the back of the room, Jim catches his look back through the wide observational windows and flicks him a quick smile before returning seamlessly to the topic at hand.
The three-hour block following his Monday morning module is typically spent in one of two activities: preparing feedback for student work, or holding one of his eight weekly open office hours. Today, it is the former, as the novelty of his return has long since lost its shine, and students no longer are abusing those office hours to ask him all manner of personal questions. Even a Vulcan understands the emotion of curiosity, as it is a trait all races share; however, that trait can be abrasive if not tempered by maturity.
That said, there is no one on his appointment roster today, and so it is time productively spent uninterrupted, which will assist in re-ordering his priorities for the remainder of the day. He has nearly finished marking up the initial drafts of a dozen research proposals when someone chimes at his door requesting entrance.
"Mr. Miller," he greets the young Katarran in some surprise, after they come through at his direction.
"Sir." They fidget briefly with the cuff of one sleeve, and then sit when he indicates the chair across the desk.
"Are you quite all right, Cadet?"
"Yes, sir. I'm fine, thank you."
Spock nods in acknowledgment, though he is still somewhat puzzled. "I was given to understand you are typically still in class at this time."
"That's why I'm here, sir."
"I am afraid I do not quite follow you."
"I…this is really none of my business." Miller hesitates, but at Spock's inclined eyebrow finally continues. "Captain Kirk dismissed us almost thirty minutes early today, sir."
The chair creaks slightly as Spock sits back, ensuring an expressionless appearance despite the mental red alert the words create. "I am given to understand that early release from academic responsibilities is typically cause for celebration among the student body."
The young Katarran laughs, a brief trill of feline amusement. "Typically, yes, sir. But…"
But Jim never, ever, does this. In fact, he's been quite vocal, at least in private, about the fact that he does not appreciate how certain of the less conscientious, much younger professors seem to favor sloppy time management, a reliance on outside reading instead of practical in-class demonstration, and regular early dismissal as an effort to ingratiate themselves among the student body.
Kirk is a hard teacher, but compassionate and understanding when needed; and above all else, objectively fair. No one survives his classes unless they are willing to think, and willing to openly challenge their teacher's way of thinking; and if they cannot do so, they typically realize in short order that they might wish to drop the class for something less stressful. The result of this selective acquisition is a group of exceedingly intelligent, highly opinionated, and sometimes well-meaning but incredibly arrogant cadets which quickly establish themselves as candidates for leadership roles, for good or ill.
That is why, despite his reputation for conducting his lecture halls rather like a starship Bridge, said classes are almost always full and with a waiting list.
But Spock cannot recall him ever dismissing more than a few minutes early, and even those occasions were related more to logistics or holiday leniency than personal inclination. Granted, there are still minor details of his recovered memory which will likely be permanently escaped, but he does not detect any such knowledge gaps in this area, and so believes his remembrances can be trusted.
Nearly thirty minutes out of a two-hour class period, on an otherwise ordinary Monday morning? What could have happened only in the last hour or so to induce such an uncharacteristic change?
However, as the cadet said, this is none of their concern. "Mr. Miller, while I acknowledge the behavioral anomaly, I do not understand why you have made the inappropriate decision to discuss it with another teacher," he says, sternly.
Miller's ears flatten slightly, but their chin lifts in a clear indication of unusual defiance. "I wouldn't ordinarily, sir. But…" They pause, and clearly choose the next words carefully. "I just wanted to make sure everything was all right."
"And why are you making this inquiry in my office instead of Captain Kirk's?"
"I tried his first, sir. He's not in there. I thought…you would be the next best option."
There is more to this discussion than is being said verbally, but Spock does not have enough practical understanding of emotional nuance to understand quite what that is. However, something had alarmed the cadet enough to feel the need to attain outside aid, and the fact that they came here instead of sending an anonymous message to Medical is somehow significant, if not slightly puzzling.
"Your report is noted, Mr. Miller. Thank you for your concern, and I will address it if needed."
Miller's expression clears, and the young Katarran offers him a small smile before leaving as quietly as they had entered.
Spock waits sufficient time for the cadet to have fully departed the office wing, and then quickly follows suit.
Cadet Miller had been correct; Jim is not in his office, nor is he in any of his usual classrooms. Three are in use at this time on Mondays by a different teacher, and the primary lecture hall is empty, the students no doubt having taken rapid advantage of the rare early dismissal.
However, the overhead monitor is still on, and it does not look like the lesson was actually finished, as there are still three points remaining in the outline. Kirk's data-padds are also still sitting on the lectern, along with his communicator. It remains powered down, as it always is during teaching hours, so he could not have received a message which would indicate the reason for this somewhat troubling event.
Spock exits the classroom into the hall, thankfully deserted at this odd hour, and grows more concerned when he finds no sign of the man in the corridor's three remaining empty classrooms. The lavatories at the end of the corridor are equally uninhabited, and there is no exit to the quadrangle from this annex. Transporters are prohibited within campus walls, and he would not have left work behind if he were summoned to Starfleet Command on an emergency.
Where is he?
Mystified, he retraces his steps to the origin point, and pauses outside the windows, absently scanning the still-empty room. Then, reflected in the soundproofed glass, he notes a small placard on the wall some two meters down the corridor – a supply closet of some kind. It is unlikely, but might be the only possibility yet to explore.
His wrist transponder will open nearly any locked door in the Academy complex, and this one is no different. The motion-activated lights flick on as the door opens, and he hears a clearly startled exclamation as it closes behind him.
"Jim?"
"Where the hell did you come from."
The rare use of anything other than a flawlessly professional language model is far quicker indication of distress than anything else; but it is not the only indication. Kirk's face is alarmingly pale, and he is leaning on the nearest stretch of empty wall with one hand, breathing rapidly and fumbling to unfasten the restrictive top closure of his uniform jacket.
He steps back a pace to re-lock the door with a wave over the internal keypad. "Are you all right?"
"I…I don't know. Something's wrong, Spock."
Clearly. He espies a sturdy folding step-stool on a nearby cleaning cart, and quickly opens it, locking the legs and guiding the human to sit. Kirk does, albeit somewhat heavily and with zero protest, which serves only to increase concern.
"I will summon medical assistance."
"God, no. Please." A vehement shake of the head. "That's – that's the last thing I need."
Spock crouches in front of him, putting out a steadying hand when Jim sways forward slightly, eyes darting around the small closet as if he is assessing a tactical situation. "What do you need?"
"I don't know! I don't even know what's happening." A breathless exhale, and Kirk stares at his own shaking hands as if he cannot comprehend what is occurring. "Spock?"
There will be time for comfort, when any immediate danger has been sufficiently dealt with. "Symptoms, Jim."
"I…" Kirk rubs absently at his chest, but responds automatically to the commanding tone. "Chest pain, shortness of breath. Pretty sure my blood pressure is through the roof? Dizziness, too. I barely made it in here."
That would correlate, and might also explain why Cadet Miller had observed something which noticeably concerned them; the cadet would be familiar with these symptoms.
Closer now, in the sickly light of the closet's florescent overheads, Spock can see a sheen of perspiration standing out as well, Jim's hair already starting to curl slightly over his forehead. When Spock carefully takes a trembling hand, he can feel a frenetically pounding radial pulse, far higher than a resting human rate should be.
"Honestly, if – if I hadn't just passed a complete physical, I'd think I was having a heart attack, maybe. But that doesn't make any sense, and it's not localized –"
"Correct," he interrupts, in what he can only hope is a soothing tone. "I believe it far more likely you are experiencing what is known as an anxiety attack, not a cardiac event."
Kirk blinks at him for a moment, clearly startled by the suggestion. "That makes even less sense."
"The evidence would suggest otherwise."
"I've never had anxiety, Spock. And certainly not now, when – well, when everything is so much better than it was six months ago, to say the least."
"I do not technically disagree with the latter. But we both know the former is not entirely correct, given the number of traumatic events in our shared history. It is not outside the bounds of probability that recent months might have exacerbated any existing inclination in this area."
Kirk scoffs, pulling his hand away in a sharp gesture of frustration. "If I was going to have a – a panic attack, about something, it would have been when you died, Spock. During your funeral, or when your father confronted me about it. Not now, when there's literally no reason for it."
"I believe the symptoms more closely mirror that of an anxiety attack, which is not the same event. And such things do not always have an immediately visible trigger; sometimes it is a delayed reaction or accumulation of such triggers."
"I don't have triggers. You're being ridiculous."
There is contempt in the tone now, obviously borne of wounded pride. But that has at least driven out the unsteadiness of earlier, so Spock considers it an overall net positive. This is much more familiar ground.
"Can you recall when you first noticed any indication of physical distress?"
"I'm not really sure. I felt a little…off, all morning, but I thought that was just because I didn't sleep well?"
Spock nods. "Continue."
"I mean, we talked right before class started, and I was fine then. But about halfway through, I noticed this strange sense of…I don't know. Foreboding, almost? But…it only got worse, not better. I barely realized something was really wrong just in time, and let the students go with a research assignment." A brief, helpless shake of the head. "I have zero explanation for any of it."
"This additional information would bear out the overall hypothesis," Spock muses aloud.
Hazel eyes flick upward to his, and Kirk tilts his head in clear annoyance. "Are you diagnosing me now?"
"Negative. I am not a Medical professional."
"I was aware of this, yes," Kirk replies dryly, but there is more amusement than annoyance in his eyes as he settles more steadily in his seat, exhaling slowly. "But you seem to know a suspicious amount about the subject, despite that. And you didn't learn it on Vulcan, I'd wager."
"Doctor McCoy may have unintentionally imparted some residual knowledge about more niche topics, during his participation in the fal-tor-pan," he agrees, almost absently. "It has been a most interesting thought exercise since that time, on occasion."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The additional information has assisted in bettering my understanding of humanity, though there is no practical use for such in my primary fields of professional interest. The doctor's outlook is…uniquely alien."
"Okay, that conversation is not over." Kirk scrutinizes him sharply. "But for now, I'd prefer you talk to me, not about me."
"Understood. I was merely considering that, if this is a delayed reaction to recent events, it could easily have been triggered in part by your activities this morning aboard the Enterprise-A. You were performing the structural engineering inspection, were you not?"
"Yes," Kirk replies slowly, thoughtfully, and the familiar train of practical analysis seems to be assisting in driving away the physical indications of distress. "But it's not the first time I've seen the new warp core chamber, or whatever you're getting at. There is no reason for it to suddenly bring up any worse memories than it did the first dozen times."
Spock shifts in discomfort at the chilled, unyielding flooring, and finally stands, tugging his jacket back into place as he does. "You also were sent the plans for the new Kobayashi Maru programming, which might have contributed."
"I mean…yes, but I was sent those last night. I guess it could have contributed to my not sleeping well, but I don't see how – oh." Comprehension floods the human's expression, and Kirk's hand suddenly closes on his arm, eyes flicking up to his in startled realization. "My god, Spock. It was the window."
"I do not follow."
"Right when class was starting. I looked up, and saw you through those observation windows. That was it, I think. The glass. The – the feeling of a barrier, with you on the other side. That's when it started, I just didn't notice until about an hour later. It must have just…set it off."
"That would seem to be a logical conclusion." And although Spock cannot change the past, nor would he in this instance if given the opportunity, as his actions saved the ship - it still produces an unfamiliar sense of human guilt, knowing that at root cause, his actions are indirectly responsible for the situation.
"But again, that's ridiculous. It's been months!"
"I do not believe such things have a set frame of reference for acceptable duration."
"Well, they'd better have an expiration date, because I can't avoid something as common as transparent aluminium for some undetermined period, just because I apparently can't pull it together." Kirk buries his face in his still unsteady hands, elbows on his knees. "How embarrassing."
"That is an incorrect assessment."
"Hm?"
"There is no reason for shame over a condition a being must manage as they would any more visible illness. One would not fault a human for a disorder such as epilepsy, therefore it is not logical to do so for any other ailment which affects the brain."
"This is a condition that boils down to a lack of emotional control, which I would have thought you'd understand," is the muffled response.
"I do," he replies, not unkindly. "But I have a more extensive toolkit with which to deal with such things. And no human ego to bruise. Yours is…not inconsiderable."
A sharp bark of laughter. "Is this complete lack of tact something else Bones imparted to you by second-hand transference?"
Spock pauses in genuine curiosity, not having considered this. It might explain, however, some very strange colorful metaphors which he does not remember ever physically learning, yet which somehow exist in his mental linguistics banks.
"Well, I was joking, but now I'm a bit concerned," Kirk observes with amusement, seeing his expression, but the levity seems to have served its purpose. Both hands and breathing pattern are quite steady, now, though there are signs, however, of clear exhaustion lingering around the eyes, which is not unheard-of after such reactions.
Thankfully, due to ship's business, Monday is a light class load for both of them, and Kirk will be able to work from home if need be the remainder of the day. Spock will see to it, if required.
"There is no need for concern. But I am…intrigued. Particularly if the issue is reciprocal. The doctor might benefit from a vicarious ability to logically reframe his more emotional reactions."
"I would love to see his face when you tell him that." A long, deliberate exhale of a sigh, and Kirk stands, making a curt gesture to stop Spock's offer of physical assistance. "Well, that is an experience I do not want to repeat. I'll call Bones as soon as I get home," he adds with a rueful grimace, already anticipating Spock's next words.
"That would be wise."
"Thank you for coming to find me," Jim then says, quietly. "I'm very sure it helped, even if I didn't want the help to begin with."
"I am gratified to hear this."
Outside, the rapidly escalating noise of students beginning to mingle between classes finally grows loud enough for the human to hear; Spock has been absently monitoring it for the last forty-three seconds.
Busily re-fastening his jacket, Kirk glances down absently, and for some reason his eyes widen suddenly, at the sight of the accumulated dust on Spock's knees from the closet floor.
"Jim? Are you in distress?"
"No, no." He steps back to lean against the nearest shelving unit, both arms and ankles crossed, a picture of bland, affected ease that is not in any way convincing. "But I think we'd be better off prolonging our conversation until the start of the next class period, at least."
Spock raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
"Well. I couldn't really care less, as my reputation is wildly skewed at the best of times," Kirk observes, with just the faintest gleam of mischief in his eyes, "but I don't want you having to deal with invasive questions."
"I do not understand the correlation between these two thoughts."
"Spock, I'm saying people might talk, if we're seen leaving a supply closet, of all places, between class periods."
Spock manages with great Vulcan control to not roll his eyes, both at the implications and the increasing inconvenience to his working schedule, which has now been successfully derailed for the entire day by the humanity of this incorrigible, insufferable…irreplaceable being.
Gossip is a small enough price to pay.
Nevertheless, it is…annoying. He sighs, and seats himself on the discarded stool, already mentally rearranging his schedule for the remainder of the afternoon. "Humanity at large has a remarkable predilection for focus on salacious information of dubious authenticity."
"Harsh, but accurate," Kirk agrees with what seems to be undue cheerfulness. "Fascination with the allure of the unknown, and all that. Do you know how interested half your students would be to finally learn your absurdly complicated coffee order? You'd be inundated in no time at all."
"That might be an acceptable trade for the incessant complaining which is its current accompaniment."
"…Also harsh, but accurate."
"Indeed."
