— Chapter Eighteen —
— Ska'El'ru —
As a general rule, Vulcans did not want.
That was not to say that they were immune to the idea of want entirely, but it was considered acceptable only in moderation, and only for specific reasons. It was logical to want a positive outcome for a mission, for instance, particularly when the alternative might be disastrous. It was logical to want to succeed academically, although this would more appropriately be categorized as a goal. When one took a want and followed measurable, rational, calculated steps to turn it into a have, it was acknowledged as being societally acceptable, within reason. A natural progression of achievement and personal improvement, which was generally considered a universally positive trait inherent to most advanced species.
However, it was illogical to experience the feeling of want when the object of desire, regardless of what it might be, was not realistically attainable. Such a desire carried with it the implication that one was pining, and that was not an emotion that Vulcans, as a whole, were especially tolerant of. It was neither rational nor pragmatic to focus one's attention to that which was not feasible or possible. It ventured dangerously close to fantasy and idealism, rather than fact-based pragmatism or practicality.
In this way, Spock continually failed as a Vulcan. He had always struggled with wanting what he knew he could not have.
Jim's arms were warm around him, tight enough to be a firm, grounding pressure, but not tight enough to restrict him. If he were to attempt to pull from the embrace, he would be allowed to do so unhindered. Spock did not pull away. He was held so closely to his captain, forehead buried against his shoulder, his nose tucked against his neck. Jim's scent filled his lungs when he inhaled; heady, appeasing notes of leather, hardbound books, and woodsy aftershave. He could feel the captain's human-steady pulse against his cheek, faster than was standard, but continual and calm.
Spock felt blank as he leaned inwards; blank in a nearly-convincing imitation of meditative clarity. Perhaps not as revitalizing or as beneficial, but the empty fog felt like a cooling compress to his strained mind. It would not replace true meditation, and it would not heal the damage the Seskille had done to him, but it felt good. Deliriously good.
And like this, held as he was, Spock could not help but want.
It was not want in any achievable, measurable, or attainable way. No, the depth of his desire came precariously close to the forbidden, shameful emotion of pining. It beat through him with every rapid, frantic beat of his pulse, ached through him with every breath. Even knowing that it was without possibility—that it could not happen—he could not prevent that hungering, covetous want. Logic told him that he should step back; that he should introduce space between himself and Jim, in both the physical and emotional sense. But… he did not. He did not move anywhere but closer.
For these few moments, Spock could pretend that his wanting was, instead, having.
Spockremembered the last hug he had been party to. Leila. The spores. She had wrapped her arms around him tenderly, passionately, desperately, and her damp cheeks pressed tears against his throat. Leila had claimed to love him, and perhaps she thought she truly did, but he knew that what she felt was not love. She loved the idea of him. She loved the concept of him that she had built from half-remembered interactions and idealized possibilities. She had not, and could not, ever love the reality of him.
("I am what I am, Leila. If there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than someone else's.")
Spock hadn't hugged Leila when she wrapped her arms around him. His own had remained at his side, stiff and unmoving and straight. He hadn't denied her the comfort she sought from him, but he neither took nor received any from the action in return. It was not desired, and he hadn't participated; he had only ever briefly endured the contact, and that was all. It was a relief when it ended.
Being held by his captain was… not like that.
It was strange to realize that he wanted this; that he wanted Jim's arms around him, that he wanted Jim to embrace him, and that he wanted to return it. He wanted so desperately and so badly for something he did not have a name for; some unknown, unlabeled, unidentifiable restlessness inside him that hurt and ached and warmed him simultaneously.
He could not recall when he last embraced someone—truly embraced them, in the way that he knew one was supposed to; with arms tightly locked, body pressed against body, gentle pressure holding each one to the other. The shameful display in sickbay did not count; Jim had been party to it, but he hadn't been a participant any more than Spock had with Leila. Spock knew he'd also ruined it in swift order by making it something it was not, by making it lustful. But before sickbay, which he did not consider to be an accurate presentation of a hug, there was nothing. Not for years.
Spock found the absence of such a memory to be a hollowing feeling, even as some part of him was thankful there was none, and that the Seskille had not been able to strip him of it.
But the Seskille were not here.
They could not take this.
Tentatively, keeping his touch as light as he could, Spock shifted his hands forward until his palms brushed against his captain's back. His arms folded around Jim, pressing into the gold fabric carefully so as to allow space for protest should there be any. When none was made, he applied the faintest amount of pressure before pausing, waiting for his captain to respond accordingly. He did not wait long. There was a pleased hum, more of a rumbled vibration than an actual sound, and Jim drew them even tighter together until Spock felt nearly enveloped. Only after he was settled into this new configuration did Spock allow his hands rest against the captain. He closed his eyes, pulled Jim close with arms that were so unpracticed at this, and embraced his captain in return.
Spock did not know how long he stood there. Seconds, minutes, hours—he did not wish to know the duration, for no matter how long it lasted, he would always think of it as being too brief. He could feel his awareness drift as fatigue washed over him like a wave. His body had gone lax, leaning into and against his captain, and he felt more like liquid than muscle and bone. One broad hand across his back smoothed gentle circles into his shoulders, the other mirroring the action against the nape of his neck. He felt himself begin to doze there, so warm and wrapped up as he was. Jim said nothing, and neither did Spock; he only breathed in, pressed tighter, and wanted.
Eventually, long after the strain in his limbs had eased and his body had gone slack, Jim slowly released, pulling back from the hold. Spock tilted with it, almost stumbling before he locked his legs to catch himself. His captain took him by the shoulders to help steady him.
"Alright?" Jim probed gently, searching him with a measured look.
Spock blinked tiredly, unable to identify what he was specifically being asked. There were multiple questions that could be implied by the one word, and he was uncertain which one Jim wanted the answer to. The most likely of them was, are you alright? However, nearly as probable was, is this alright? In the end, however, it did not truly matter which Jim was asking him. The answer remained the same.
"Yes."
He was surprised to discover the truth of it. He was still exhausted, still nauseous, still stressed, but it wasn't as overwhelming to him as it had earlier. It would be fleeting—he knew this sensation of peace would be excruciatingly temporary—but in this moment, he was… alright. He no longer felt as if he were sinking beneath crashing, suffocating waves. Instead, he felt as if he had surfaced just enough—just the barest amount—for a breath of air.
"Good." The captain's smile was a buoy in an otherwise empty ocean.
There was minimal space between them; they stood near enough that the length of their boots were in contact; near enough that Spock was able to see each emotion bloom in the hazel eyes that watched him steadily. Had this been anyone else, Spock would have been uncomfortable by the proximity, would have taken steps back to widen the distance to his usual preference. But this was not anyone else, this was Jim, and some restless part of him acknowledged that he desired his captain to be closer; that even being held had not been close enough to appease his wanting.
Jim's expression, already one of fond, self-satisfied contentment, crept towards a subtle kind of delighted. A glint of amusement lit the eyes that met his own, and the smiling lips twitched with restrained humor. Spock silently inquired with a raise of his brow, because past experience warned him that this particular look was often accompanied by teasing comments made at his expense. He was quickly proven correct.
"You're smiling," Jim told him, looking openly pleased by the restrained disgruntlement his observation immediately caused.
Spock, affronted, straightened and tucked his hands behind his back with military precision. He made certain that his expression was both impassive and reserved, and that it displayed nothing more than a dignified stoicism befitting his station and his people. His chin tilted dismissively. "I am doing no such thing," he informed the captain, his tone suggesting it was unwise to pursue this topic of discussion any further.
But Jim either did not notice or, more likely, he did not care; he pursued it anyways. A grin tugged at him, widening in that sly, playful way it always did when Jim was baiting him. "Oh no," he reiterated with the exact same note of finality that Spock had used. "No, you definitely are."
"I assure you, sir, that I am not." He arched his brow higher, leveling Jim the same disinterested expression he frequently directed towards McCoy; the one that so often made the doctor's eyes spark in challenge even as his lips thinned in annoyance. Spock continued on with an imperious, "The muscle groups responsible for forming the expression referred to as a smile are presently engaged only in forming speech."
Regardless of his confidence in that, he carefully assessed the position of each one to establish that they had not, in fact, somehow lapsed without his awareness. He felt light and airy at the teasing, at the captain's smile, at the visible humor in the brown eyes watching him. It was as if a weight had been removed. Perhaps it was a similar feeling to that which caused a smile, but it was entirely an internal sensation. He would never consciously allow one to form externally. Vulcans did not smile, and neither did Spock.
("Don't you think you better check with me first?")
("Captain—Jim!")
"Don't worry, Mr. Spock, you can be assured that your Vulcan dignity is still safely intact," the captain teased him gently, and so close were they still that Spock could feel the puff of breath on his jaw as he spoke. "You smile with your eyes."
He felt a flush rise up his neck, settle in his ears, and he cleared his throat. There was nothing Spock could think of, so instead he said nothing at all; only sighed and tried to pretend that Jim wasn't so obviously and blatantly satisfied by his exasperation. In truth, he could not suppress the emotion in his eyes, which he knew would likely be just as the captain claimed it was, and neither did he truly attempt to do so. He still felt so warm, both at the lingering sensation of the embrace as well as the visible affection in the captain's gaze. Both stoked a gentle flame in him that spread heat throughout him like a furnace.
It felt like a release of tension between them. Nothing had truly been resolved, and Spock had not been able to give Jim what he'd wanted, but for the first time in more than a week, he felt as if some fraying rip had been mended in their friendship. The captain appeared to feel similar; he smiled in that way he often did once a threat had passed; the relieved, gratified look of averted crisis. It was not averted—Spock knew it was not—but he was content enough to pretend for Jim's sake. He thought that he would give his captain anything right now, anything at all, even if it were only the hint of a smile in his eyes.
Jim's hands still cupped his shoulders, holding them in the secure grip he'd used to steady him with. Spock no longer required the support. Jim did not remove them. Confident fingers smoothed the blue fabric of his uniform, back-and-forth idly. The captain tilted his head, made as if to say something…
And then paused.
Something… changed. The fondness in the captain's expression didn't necessarily fade so much as it strained, tensed, like a new one wished to form and was held back from doing so. It wasn't negative, nor was it uncertain, but it was cautious. And Jim watched him—he watched him raptly. The longer Jim stared, the more considering he became; he regarded Spock as if he were picking him apart. It was calculating, measured, and still so gentle, still so caring, but there was a purpose to it, the nature of which was not clear to Spock. The captain's eyes traced over his every feature, every inch, searching, assessing, thoughtful. He scrutinized him like he was a puzzle; as if a solution would present itself if only he stared harder.
Spock did not know what it was he looked for, or what he hoped to find. He hoped he was successful, because he thought there was very little he wouldn't give the captain right now. It was discomforting not to know what was expected of him. Spock prided himself on being able to read his captain with a glance. He did not know this expression; he could not tell what it meant or what it wanted from him. There was an indiscernible kind of intensity in the way Jim held himself, in the way he looked at him, in the way he evaluated him. He knew he'd never seen this expression before; Spock was certain he would have remembered if he had, because being the focus of it left him oddly breathless.
Jim shifted, his lips parting as if to speak. But he hesitated then, body poised towards halted movement, and the words, whatever they were, went unsaid. As an apprehensive crease formed between his brows, he scanned Spock once more with that probing, keen, contemplative gaze. For a long moment, Jim stood there, close enough that Spock could feel the fabric of the gold tunic against his chest when he inhaled. His own breath had caught tight in his chest, burning in his lungs. He felt dizzy.
The captain let out a soft, abrupt sigh. Strong hands moved absently; he straightened Spock's uniform at his shoulders and neatened it into place where his fingers had creased it. His smile spread once more, just as soft and just as calm, but not quite so bright as before.
"You look so tired, Spock," Jim murmured, and although the observation was clearly said to Spock, the way he said it suggested the captain was directing it towards himself. There was a tone in his voice; an unusual, low simmering kind of powerlessness. It raised alarms immediately, as audible as any klaxon. "You're clearly exhausted. And you're pale." He took a deep breath, clearing his throat. "How are you feeling? Did you get any rest last night?"
Spock blinked. Although he did not understand what happened, he understood enough to be confident that something had. More than that, he understood he'd missed something very important indeed. The lightness that had filled him grew heavy, grew weighted, grew suffocating all over again. "I… am not exhausted," he said cautiously, uncertain of how to proceed without knowing the context of Jim's sudden shift in demeanor. "I am functioning at an adequate level, Captain."
"Spock. You practically fell asleep on me just now—which I'm fine with, of course, but it makes me think you might just be a little less adequately functioning than you're letting on."
"I slept eight-point-three-four-two hours. That is approximately three-point-seven-one hours longer than my usual standard." It was true, although he had little energy to show for it. He did not mention that his sleep had been restless, disturbed, and interrupted, or that he felt worse than he had prior to it.
"And I woke you up from it. My sense of timing's been just incredible lately." There was a bitter frustration in the words, and the captain's fingers twitched against Spock's arm as if he no longer knew what to do with them. "Here, how about you go lie down for a little while? You've got plenty of time; I can wake you up before shift."
Spock did not want to lie down. He did not want to sleep, or rest, or lay there in his thoughts. He recalled the dreams of Jim lifeless in the sand, of pressing his captain's head beneath waves, of forcing his way into his captain's brilliant mind. He recalled lying in bed, eyes clenched, hands curled tightly into fists, shudders wracking throughout the entirety of him as he fought off the nausea from whatever new horror his mind saw fit to torture itself with. He felt a sick lurch in his gut, nauseating and sour.
Jim was right. He was tired—so tired—but there would be no relief to be found in rest. There would be no relief to be found in sleep, nor meditation, nor waking. He did not know how to alleviate it. He felt too taut, too lethargic, too unfocused. He felt—he did not know what he felt, except the swooping sensation of slipping further off an edge he could not claw himself back up on. He was losing control. Jim could see it. McCoy could see it. The Seskille had seen it, had replayed it, had picked it apart. T'Pring had seen it, his father, his family, his friends.
This sense of vulnerability was not what he wanted, but it was both consuming and, apparently, quite visible. What he wanted was for Jim to stop treating him like something breakable. He wanted everyone to stop watching him like they expected him to break. More than anything, he wanted to stop breaking.
But then, in that way—and in so many others—he had always failed as a Vulcan. He'd never been able to resist wanting what he could not have.
Perhaps it was that feeling of shame, of horror, of self-disgust, that made him say what he did. Afterall, it was so instinctual by now to lie to those he loved.
"I am fine."
Jim stilled. His expression didn't drastically change, but there was a new tension there. He slowly dropped his hands from Spock's shoulders and took the barest step back to create some space. Spock had to plant his heels rigidly to the floor so as to avoid following after. It felt as if a chasm opened up between them, even if it was only a scant few inches of distance. His stomach plummeted, cold and dreading.
"That's a banned word, remember?" Jim kept his words mild, but there was an odd level of pain in his eyes when he looked him over. A shadow of resignation. Spock did not know the source of it, nor how to alleviate it, but the sight was distressing. "You don't need to be fine. It's okay if you aren't fine, and it's okay to tell me that you aren't. This is me, Spock. Just me. I promise you; I'm not going to mind."
Spock did not know what to say, so he said nothing. The words failed earlier, and they failed him now as well. He hated himself. He hated himself…
The captain stared at him. Spock looked away.
"I see," the captain said softly after a moment, sounding flat. "We're back to this, then."
He'd ruined it, he thought distantly through the rush of self-loathing. Of course he had. I was immediately clear to him that he'd managed to destroy that fragile, delicate seam that'd so briefly mended their friendship back to an approximation of normal. Jim was trying fix it still, but he seemed to be stitching just as fast as Spock was ripping it back apart. Even now, in the space of a breath, he felt his defenses shoring up; collecting the crumbled remains of themselves and building into something that might keep others out. It also kept him in. It was fascinating how even his own mind seemed destined to be just as divided and conflicting as his genetics were.
He did not want this, Spock thought desperately. He did not want this distance between them—this cold, colorless stagnancy—but neither did he know how to bridge it. Jim wanted something he could not give. He wanted Spock to be fragile, to be able to break in front of him, to be trusted with vulnerability. He wanted Spock to lean into their friendship for support, for comfort, for reassurance, for stability. Jim was trying to tell him, in so many words, that it was safe to lose control around him.
Except… it was not safe.
Spock remembered the last time he lost control around Jim.
(—Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.)
(
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!")
(Jim died in front of him again.)He'd murdered his captain once. He'd held this man—his radiant, beautiful captain—by the neck and strangled him until his body was limp. Jim wanted him to be vulnerable now. He had been vulnerable then, too. Out of his mind with emotion, and lust, and sick, ugly want. He had been more broken and more uncontrolled in that moment than he'd ever been before, and he had nearly killed Jim because of it.
When he thought of that day, as he often did, Spock was relieved that he'd been in possession of physical weaponry at the time of the murder, rather than forced to use his bare hands. He wondered, frequently and wretchedly, whether he would have felt the exact moment Jim had died; the exact instant that his human-steady heart went still and silent. Yes, he thought. Yes, he would have. Because with the impersonal nature of the ahn-woon around the captain's neck, the lack of touch sensitivity and emotional feedback, he'd not been able to tell that it was a ruse. His captain had been fighting, and then his captain had been limp; the sight of supposed-death alone had been enough to break him of the blood fever, and he was thankful for that.
Because had his bare hands been wrapped around that tan, exposed, human-delicate throat, he would have known the unconsciousness for the deception that it was—and he would have only squeezed tighter.
("Get your hands off of him, Spock!")
They were the same hands he'd just, only moments prior, wrapped around his captain in an embrace. Did Jim not recognize how dangerous they were? Did he not know what he was asking? Vulnerability from a Vulcan was not the same as from a human. Vulcans felt too deeply, too passionately; a Vulcan without the discipline to control it could not be trusted. His species focused on adhering to logic with such rigidity, and with such forced restraint, because the alternative was unspeakably deadly.
"Captain…" Spock did not know what to say. He did not know what could fix this. He could not give the captain what he wanted. He could not break as Jim wished him to, and although he was not trying to shut Jim out, as he'd earlier claimed, Spock could not deny the end result was exactly that.
(Intentions don't mean anything.)
"It's okay, Spock," Jim said calmly, reassuring him with a shadowed gentleness. "I might not like it, exactly, but I do understand." Spock was glad that Jim did, because he did not. "I appreciate that you're trying, and I know it's difficult for you. I told you; I can be patient, however long it takes. What I cannot do, and what I will not do, is watch you struggle alone in the meantime."
There was a decisiveness to those words that Spock did not like. He floundered, trying to find something that might soothe the situation; assuage some of the captain's stress. Part of him wondered why he even bothered trying, as everything he said either ended up being wrong or worsening.
"Jim." Spock waited until the captain was looking at him to continue. "You… do not need to be concerned. I am—"Jim had declared his disapproval of the word he intended to say, so he warily chose a new one. "—sufficient. I would ask that you not worry about me."
"Oh, I'm afraid you're asking far too much of me." There was a small, listlesssmile, briefly twitching towards incredulousness as if he found the very idea absurd. "I hope you know that I'd do just about anything for you, Spock, but… not that. Never that. Honestly, sometimes I think all I do is worry about you." Alarmed, Spock went to interject but Jim was faster and continued before he could comment. "Now, you're going to have breakfast with me."
Spock paused, taken aback by the abrupt shift. It was not phrased as a question. Regardless, he answered it as if it were one. "Thank you for the offer, Captain, but I shall decline this morning."
Lips thinned. "Were you going to lie down instead?"
"Negative."
"Is it your stomach? Are you still feeling sick?"
"No," Spock tried to explain, and there was a tone in his voice as well now. "I am not interested in breakfast."
"And I'm not interested in letting you neglect yourself! You didn't have anything yesterday, Spock," the captain said, voice on the wrong side of commanding. He looked exactly as Spock wished he wouldn't: worried and determined to do something about it. There was that spark of conviction in his eyes, narrowed though they were. "And after last night, I doubt there's anything left in you from the day before, either. You've hardly eaten at all this week. God, it's no wonder you're not feeling well, you're only running on fumes by now."
"I am not feeling unwell—"
"Good. I'm glad to hear it. Come on, then." Jim's arm looped around his shoulders, tugging him along towards the door to his quarters. When Spock stopped the both of them by digging his heels in, Jim eyed him with a steeled, resolute strength. "It's either breakfast, First Officer, or I'm going to send you right back to bed. You can take your pick on which option you'd prefer, since I'm more than up for the challenge of either."
Spock went silent, expression stony. The short, hard exhale that escaped was not from frustration, despite how it might have sounded. The twitch of his lips downwards was, likewise, not a frown, no matter how it may have appeared. He was not hungry. In fact, the idea of consuming anything at the present was nothing short of nauseating. He did not think he would be able to stomach even a bite, let alone an entire meal as Jim requested. This was hardly the longest time he'd gone between meals; he was not endangering his health by skipping breakfast this morning. Jim was attempting to apply human limitations to one who was not human. His captain had always been incredibly sensitive around the topic of food—and with his history, it was even understandable. Understandable, but trying; Spock was not human, he was Vulcan, and he had no interest in eating.
Yet, the given alternative was also undesirable to him. The thought of returning to bed and crawling back under the covers to rest, while holding some limited appeal, was also a humiliating one. The captain would oversee it, of that he was absolutely certain. Jim had never been one to leave before a mission successfully concluded, and he'd made it unequivocally clear that Spock was his mission.
This, Spock realized, was something of a double-edged blade. Jim had declared his resolve to help without asking or waiting for permission and, although Spock did feel taken care of, he also felt patronized. The captain's concern was affectionate, gentle, and warming, certainly… but it was also highly inconvenient, intrusive, and demanding. Spock knew he had difficulty refusing his captain anything, and he suspected Jim knew it as well; enough to take advantage of it when it suited him.
Spock did not answer the captain aloud, instead allowing his chilly non-expression to demonstrate just how entirely unimpressed he was by the given options. He walked forward on his own terms, stepping neatly out of Jim's arm to head for the door to his quarters. His step was short, purposeful, and clipped.
After a moment, the captain followed. It was clear he was upset. They both were, Spock acknowledged, growing increasingly upset that he was feeling upset at all. He wished for nothing more than his desert; an endless sea of red sand, where holes dug were filled just as swiftly as he could bury his emotions and thoughts in them. Where, with every steady, tranquil breath, the harsh, hot wind of his mindscape blew the surface smooth and untouched. He needed to meditate. He needed to purge himself of this, because his anger was illogical, and his refusal of a meal was illogical, and he was making decisions emotionally, which was illogical.
He was so tired…
Of course, even irritated—although he attempted to purge himself of the feeling—Jim's presence remained a comfort.
The captain's body keeping pace aside him felt steadying. Jim fell easily into step beside him once out in the hall, side-by-side in perfect sync. Annoyed though he was, Spock could not help but admire how fluidly they moved together. Beat-for-beat, step for step, movement for movement. If Spock were to suddenly stop, there would have been less than zero-point-eight-seven seconds until Jim did as well. If Jim were to abruptly tense, Spock would have been scanning the area for the threat in the span of a blink. He'd always found it surprising how deeply and intuitively their actions and responses resonated; they were so effortlessly attuned to one another. It was instinct now, to know exactly what his captain was doing, where he was, who he was with, what he was feeling, and to act accordingly.
It was an uncomfortable, dismaying realization to know that his instinctual awareness was skewed, and that he and Jim had somehow become misaligned. This was not what he wanted. He could think of few things he desired less, in fact.
"Captain," Spock halted in the middle of the empty hall, and the captain stopped almost as quickly. In this, it seemed, he not yet lost connection to him. Jim looked at him expectantly, waiting, but Spock found it difficult to form the words. "Jim. What you request of me… I am sorry." The words were not correct. They were wrong, as all his others had been.
They were inadequate.
"Spock—"
"I find it difficult for me to meet your expectations. I apologize, sir."
How did he tell the captain that felt so wholly sick with himself for lying? That the trust, and warmth, and reassurance that Jim offered him made him feel with such intensity that it hurt? That he wanted to accept it, that he wanted to give Jim exactly what he asked for, and that he just utterly and completely wanted. How did he even begin to tell the captain that he valued their friendship more than anything, and that he knew—he knew—that he would ruin it. That he barely even felt like himself? That he was slipping?
Spock wanted this connection between them, this solid, enduring bond, to stay exactly as it had been since it'd formed. Stable, secure, unbreakable. He wanted to rely on it, to lean against it just as Jim told him he could. It was there; it was right there. He only needed to say one word, one short syllable of sound, and he could relax into it.
Help.
But he could not do it.
The word was stuck in his throat, choking him, suffocating him. McCoy had compared his situation to drowning, and if that were true, that one word was like water in his lungs.
"Hey." Jim reached out and brushed lightly against Spock's arm. "Hey. You don't need to apologize, not for something like this. I'm not angry, Spock. I'm… frustrated; at the situation, at my lack of options, at this whole damn mission, at myself and my damn—but no, not at you. We both know I've never taken to closed doors very gracefully—a personality flaw of mine, really—and your doors are sometimes shut very tightly." The captain sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He looked as if he felt almost as tired as Spock did.
Spock kept his eyes adverted. "It was not my intention to shut you out, Jim."
(Intentions don't mean anything.)
Jim looked as if he wanted to hug him again; he took a step forward as if to do so before remembering where they were. The hallway was empty of crew at this early hour, but it was still too open and too public for that kind of affection between Captain and First Officer. There was already a considerable amount of speculation and rumors about the nature of their relationship, and they both wished to avoid feeding into them.
Letting out a short sigh, the captain lowered his voice, so that even Spock had to strain to hear.
"God, I'm probably going about this all wrong. You've been doing well, Spock. I know that this whole thing is difficult for you; I'm not trying to make it worse. My expectations… I just want you to be okay. That's it; that's all I want. I don't expect you to cry on my shoulder. Don't get me wrong, I'd be here for you if you wanted or needed that, but I don't expect you to just… to just suddenly become someone you aren't. You're a Vulcan, and I know what that means; I know it's probably uncomfortable to have me hovering like this. I feel so useless, but that's not on you. You are doing the best you can, alright? You've been gracious about putting up with my irrational, emotional human desire to keep you a little closer to me for a while, and I appreciate it."
It was not irrational. Undeniably emotional, yes, but the desire to assure oneself of the safety of a friend was not irrational. Nor was it exclusive only to humanity.
He remembered the days after Vulcan, of finding it impossible to take his eyes off of his captain. Seeing Jim alive, whole, healthy, vibrant, smiling… he'd been unable to stop staring, so much so that he'd barely been able to function on the bridge. Even as he'd maintained a distance for Jim's sake, he'd watched his captain is if looking away would undo his second chance. As if somehow, by not having the captain in his immediate sight, he'd blink and find himself back in blood-soaked sands, holding the limp, lifeless body of his t'hy'la. He understood Jim's desire to keep close watch on him, more than he would ever admit to aloud.
Spock considered his response, aware that his choice of phrasing had the potential to improve or worsen their state of connection. He hated to see his captain troubled, especially when he was the cause. "I am not, as you say, putting up withit," he said softly. "That implies that I view your actions negatively. On the contrary, captain, while I am admittedly… unaccustomed to receiving such support, I do not want you to think I am averse to it. I am not. Furthermore…" Spock took a breath. "… I have never found it a hardship to be close to you, Jim."
The captain smiled a sun-warm smile at him, a pleased kind of satisfaction sparking light in his eyes. Spock felt almost lightheaded from it. He wanted to be close. He wanted to be closer. He wanted nothing more than to remain at his captain's side, for however and in whatever way Jim would allow him to do so.
Yes, he thought distantly, relaxing minutely as he took in that radiant smile, he wanted very badly indeed. He had failed as a Vulcan in always wanting what he could not have, but when Jim looked at him like that, like everything would be alright, it was impossible to suppress that ache inside him. He was no longer being embraced, and he could no longer pretend he had attained that which he most desired, but even so, he had come close enough to the impression of it that it would temporarily satisfy that restlessness in him.
Matters between them were not solved, and nothing had been fixed, but the situation was… better. Improved, if only in some small, indiscernible way.
That was acceptable.
His head hurt.
Spock found the transition from the solitude and quiet of his quarters to the chatter and noise of the mess hall to be an unpleasant one. Due to the early hour, it was not as loud as could sometimes become, but the conversations around him were grating nonetheless, and they formed a dull ache in his head within seconds of exposure to them. There was an awareness that battered at him. He could not read their emotions, nor could he pick up on their thoughts, but the pressure from so many minds in one room was constant. It closed in on him like a constricting force, pressing in from all sides, and squeezed.
His efforts to hide any indication of his condition were ineffective; Jim noticed it all within a mere quick glance, discerning eyes raking him over only once before narrowing. Spock felt so utterly transparent that he wondered why he'd bothered trying to mask himself off at all. It was an incredible amount of effort for such little pay off. The captain's mouth thinned; he looked as if he wished to say something. Their conversation was still fresh in his mind, however, because instead of confronting the problem directly, Jim tried a different approach.
"So, I heard from Peter yesterday," Jim said casually, as they collected their respective trays from the food synthesizer. He was engaging in the common pastime of small talk. As a Vulcan, Spock had never fully understood the impulse for it, but after more than two decades in Starfleet, he'd been able to adapt to the purposeless, disconnected, and occasionally meandering conversations of his human crewmates. With those he considered friends, he could even in turn respond with small talk of his own, with some limited success—although Doctor McCoy told him his chosen topics often left much to be desired. "He sends his best to the crew… and to you especially. You know, you made quite an impression on him. I'm pretty sure he spent more time asking about you than he did about me."
A distraction. Jim was offering him a distraction, and not only from his physical state. Which was just as well, because Spock did not think he could handle any further emotional interrogation. He had well surpassed his limit for them. Doctor McCoy's, while negatively taxing, had been nothing compared to the one Jim persuaded him into having. The captain was already overwhelming to be around even when Spock felt at his best, and with his present limitations, the nature of their interactions had left him sapped of strength entirely.
Spock inclined his head, communicating just how appreciative of the gesture he was. He needed an impersonal focus after the charged conversation they'd engaged in earlier, and Jim understood that.
"That is logical. From our brief acquaintance, I found your nephew to be highly intelligent and in possession of keen instincts," he replied honestly, reluctantly amused at Peter Kirk's intrigue. It was not entirely surprising that the boy had formed an attachment to him; they'd both suffered from the same parasitic affliction, and they'd had plenty of time to converse in sickbay while they recovered. Peter had, quite unnecessarily, thanked Spock for volunteering for the experimental light exposure treatment that had (briefly) terminated his eyesight. The boy would not have had the physical advantage of a second eyelid to prevent permanent blindness, and he confessed to fearing the possibility of such a fate. Spock's reassurance that they would never have tested any unproven treatment on a minor had been met with limited success.
Jim huffed, shooting him a faux-wounded expression even as his mouth twitched upwards. "Bruising my ego already? At this early hour?" It was seven minutes after zero-six-hundred hours, and while there were a fair number of crewmembers half-dozing at their own tables, the majority of the ship was either still sleeping or only just beginning to wake. The mess hall was uncrowded for the moment, but it would soon begin to fill.
They took a seat at their usual spot; the furthermost table from the door, tucked neatly in the corner. It allowed the rest of the crew the illusion that their captain and first officer could not overhear the off-duty chatter and gossip of the tables around them, and likewise provided more privacy for conversations of their own.
"He's planning to take the entrance exams to the academy next year," Jim continued after swallowing a bite of his breakfast. He'd chosen, most perplexingly, the same dish that Spock had: a spiced take on Vulcan balkra. From the captain's sudden strained grimace, it appeared he found it less than enjoyable. His face was turning an alarming shade of red, and his throat worked to fight back a cough. Spock raised a brow, glancing from the captain to the tray and back. Fascinating. "Not following in my footsteps, of course. Apparently, he wants to become a science officer. Can you believe it? I only wonder where he got the idea."
"Your brother was a scientist," Spock pointed out, observing the captain wistfully side-eye the sausage on a passing ensign's tray. "It would be natural for him to emulate his father."
"True, there's that… except he also mentioned wanting to learn fluent Vulcan. He's already trying to practice it." Jim's wry amusement gave away that he was not nearly as disappointed as he pretended to be, and Spock admittedly felt flattered. "I might have told him that you'd be willing to answer any questions he had."
"I welcome the opportunity. Xenolinguistics is an admirable skillset." Spock would hardly discourage anyone's pursuit of knowledge, but that such interest was from his captain's nephew made it all the more valuable and important to him. He had no objection in maintaining communication with the youth; he had been polite, respectful, and dangerously clever. Clearly, it was an inherited family trait.
Jim coughed, choking down his coffee with a wheeze.
"Captain," Spock began, exasperated now, "you are allowed to consume meat in front of me. I may be vegetarian, but I do not hold you to the same dietary practice. I have informed you of this on numerous occasions."
Jim, idly in the process of demolishing the casserole around his tray with his fork, glanced up with a shifty expression. "I'm making healthier choices," the captain insisted. "Bones is always on me about my diet; I figured I should probably start taking my nutrition seriously." He took a deliberate bite as if to make a point, a pained tension forming in his jaw at the taste.
Spock did not like the thought of Jim's diet being monitored or limited in any way, despite logically understanding the health benefits of such an action. It seemed unusually cruel to restrict food of any kind from a Tarsus IV survivor, although saying so aloud would not prove helpful to the captain. He understood that food was a highly sensitive topic with Jim and understood that sensitivity had set him off earlier. He also understood that Jim was lying to him.
The dish he was currently struggling with was something of an acquired taste, even for those accustomed to Vulcan cuisine. His mother never hesitated to loudly proclaim her dislike of it, her cited reason being that it tasted like an electrical fire. He could not verify the statement's accuracy, as his own experience of it was quite different.
Spock arched a brow, staring pointedly.
"… Alright, I didn't want to risk putting your stomach off," Jim conceded after a moment of trying and failing to force himself to eat the balkra. "I noticed you looked a bit sick when we had dinner the other day; thought I'd play it safe this time."
Jim was not entirely wrong, although not for the reasons he thought. It had not been because of the steak that he'd felt ill. The thought of consuming anything since Seskilles VII was intolerable; the sensation of food felt like a heavy stone inside him. With his frequent nausea, he knew it was inadvisable to ingest more than he strictly had to. This was a rational response to stress in most species, but particularly for a Vulcan in times of great crisis. He could not, however, explain this to the captain without giving more information than he wished to, and neither had he been able to explain it to Doctor McCoy for similar reasons. Both had mentioned the display of sickness multiple times since, and he disliked having his brief episode of emesis being weaponized against him like this.
He could not determine why they continued to focus on it, or why it alarmed them so. Spock had witnessed both of them become ill on countless occasions, at times even due to their own ill-advised alcohol indulgence. He'd never made a production of such occurrences and would have appreciated a similar level of discretion for his own momentary physical weakness.
"I have adequately recovered, sir," Spock reminded the captain, careful to keep the increasing annoyance from his tone. He still felt queasy, but it was a constant sourness in him these days, and he could mostly ignore it when it was not being consistently pointed out. "Your choice of breakfast will not put my stomach off."
"Still," Jim argued back stubbornly, "I'm not going to take the chance. You've barely eaten anything lately; don't think I haven't noticed." Spock went to protest. "—and no, tea isn't considered a meal. Don't worry, Spock; I'm not such a carnivore that I can't eat some vegetables every now and again." The captain paused, brow furrowing. "Assuming this is a vegetable. It is, right? Sort of tastes like a… soldering iron..."
Spock sighed, turning to his own tray and steeling himself to take a bite of the balkra. He normally tolerated the dish, and while it was not logical to find anything other than nutrition and sustenance in a meal, he did consider it one of the more pleasant breakfast options available on the ship. It was difficult for the machines to simulate the texture of many Vulcan foods. That texture proved a challenge for him, as he had to make himself chew. The taste, normally one he found palatable, was now unappetizing to the point of being disgusting. Swallowing it felt like swallowing slime. He made certain his expression was blank of his revulsion and nausea.
Jim narrowed suspicious eyes at him anyways—and then suddenly straightened with an expectant gaze above Spock's shoulder.
"Uhm—" A soft, quaking voice began from behind him. Spock turned in his chair to see Ensign Alexandra Garrett, one of his astrochemists, twisting her hands nervously as she stood two paces away. "Excuse me, Commander Spock?"
He set his fork down to provide her with his full attention. It was not often someone from his department approached him in a casual off-duty setting; they usually waited until he was in the labs or his office to ask their questions. "Yes, Miss Garett?"
"I, ah, I just wanted to say, sir, that we in Astronomy support you," she told him earnestly. "And that, if… if it comes right down to it, the whole department would be happy submit a formal complaint. If you think it would help, sir, that is..."
"A formal complaint?" the captain question mildly. His voice and expression were politely inquisitive, almost casually light, but there was a hard glint in his eye. "Sounds serious. May I ask what this is about, Ensign?"
"Oh, ah, good morning, Captain," Ensign Garrett cleared her throat, a pink flush rising up her neck at the rapt attention she was receiving. "It's a, uh, it's a formal complaint about Ambassador Hammett, sir. We heard about what he called Commander Spock; about him being, uhm, you know, an inadequate idiot, and—" She seemed to steel herself, squaring her shoulders defensively and quite nearly posturing at the captain. Her voice grew more self-assured with righteous indignation. "—and we aren't going to stand for it!"
"I see." The captain gave her a warm, kind smile, evidently pleased by her ardent defense of his first officer. Spock, while humbled by the show of support, felt dismayed that the ambassador's behavior towards him was apparently now a topic of discussion in the labs… and a grossly distorted one, at that. He did not recall the referenced verbiage as being quite so severe. While the original comment itself had been unprofessional, it was hardly worth becoming a rallying point for the crew. He wished they would not talk about it. In fact, he would have preferred the debrief never be brought up again.
"May I ask how you came by this information?" Spock asked, suspecting the answer already.
"Well," Ensign Garrett frowned, considering the question. "I, uh, I guess that Mr. Scott was talking to Mr. DeSalle about it in Engineering, and Lieutenant McLeod overheard it, 'cause he's a technician there, and Nurse Webb heard it from Mitch, 'cause they're engaged, and then Lieutenant Macias heard it from Webb, 'cause they're best friends, and so Priya went and told—"
"Yes, thank you, Miss Garrett, I think we get the picture," Jim interrupted gently. He gave the woman his most charming, reassuring smile; the kind that could settle the nerves of even the most anxious crewman. It appeared to work, as a flush bloomed pink on her cheeks. "I don't believe it's come to that quite yet, although I'm proud of the show of solidarity. You just let me handle the ambassador for now. I'm aware of the issue and am already addressing it. If further action becomes necessary, though, I'll remember I can count on Astronomy to back me up. I can think of no better team for the job."
Ensign Garrett brightened at the praise, beaming at them both. "Thank you, sir!" She turned to leave before remembering herself, pausing abruptly enough to stumble over her own boots. "Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, good morning! Sorry to have interrupted your breakfast!" She saluted and hurried towards her own table, where she was heartily congratulated for her courage by her group of friends.
The captain continued to smile her way, just until he was certain she was out of earshot, then allowed the front to drop. An ominous, stony expression darkened his face. He was silent for a long, still moment, breathing slowly and loudly.
"Captain?" Spock prompted him. He easily and neatly stepped into the role of peacemaker so as to mitigate any negative mood or temper that might erupt. And erupt they did.
"I swear, I'm going to give a commendation to whoever beats the hell out of that man," Jim announced furiously, stabbing his meal with violent force and sending a splatter of it across the table. Spock nudged his own tray away to avoid it, although he was not planning to eat anymore.
"I do not believe Starfleet Command would formally accept that reasoning into the records, sir," Spock murmured, attempting to keep his voice light. Despite his best efforts, exhaustion set in bone-deep at the emotionally-charged topic of conversation. He did not wish to discuss the ambassador, nor did he wish to discuss the mission, his health, his food consumption, or any other matter relating directly or indirectly to himself. And Hammett's comments, now being spread throughout the ship like a wildfire, were certainly related.
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that; not after they read the formal complaint I've already submitted about him, not to mention the ones from Uhura, Scotty, and Bones." The captain had a dark look of vicious satisfaction alongside his anger. Spock realized, to his discomfort, that he was the only one of the debrief, other than the ambassador himself, who had not filed an official grievance. "That makes, what, the majority of the senior staff he's managed to set off? And in one fell swoop, too. He might be useless at solving problems, but he's impressively good at being one."
("So it wasn't that you refused to carry out the mission, it was that you were entirely inadequate for it to begin with.")
"His comments did not offend me." He felt like a hypocrite; how was it his actions on Seskilles VII were not formally reprimanded, but a passing verbal remark caused such outrage? Withholding information carried had caused far more severe consequences than a mere implication of his performance. And the comment had not even been entirely wrong; he had been inadequate for the role. His series of poor choices, from the moment they'd beamed to the planet, attested to such.
"Well, they offended me." Jim saw his disquiet, despite best efforts to ensure his expression was blank and void of emotion. "I'd have filed one either way, Spock. Do you know, I can't go five minutes without hearing about something he's gone and cocked up?" The captain shoved his plate away with a look of frustration. "He's the gift that keeps on giving and giving and giving."
It was a strange feeling to be so torn in his emotions. He felt both warmed by the ardent defense of himself, and quietly humiliated that such a defense had been required in the first place. In truth, he was less concerned by the comments than he was about the witnesses to them. It was unpleasant to be once again cast into the role of a victim by the thinly-veiled prejudicial remarks, and he disliked that his fellow officers had seen him in such a light. The open look of sympathy cast his way was as comfortable as an electric shock.
Some part of him regretted his refusal of going back to bed. He wouldn't have slept, but Spock knew he'd have been able to firmly ignore the rest of the world for a little while longer. That held a certain appeal, although not a rational one; the universe continued to exist regardless of where he was or what he was doing. The act of resting in bed did not prevent time from moving forward, nor did it halt his responsibilities from continuing to multiply.
"Keep eating, Spock." Jim gently but firmly nudged Spock's tray back towards him, watchful as Spock mechanically took a bite. It was like ash in his mouth, and it settled into his stomach like sour acid. "You alright?"
"Affirmative." It was clearly not the answer the captain wanted, and Spock felt… so incredibly exhausted. Exhausted with being wrong, with being questioned, with being watched, and just exhausted in general. In every way that one could be.
Jim hummed consideringly, glancing him over. He obviously wished to address Spock's denial, but he held his tongue and instead said, "It's sort of adorable, if you think about it—Astronomy being out for blood, I mean. You know, we've faced off Klingons, Gorns, Archons, ourselves, gods—multiple times, Romulans, tyrannical machines, Harry Mudd—twice, even… and I honestly don't think any single one of them has ever managed to unite the entire crew against them like Hammett has. I can't think of a man or woman aboard this ship he hasn't made an enemy of at this point. It'd be almost funny if it wasn't so tragic."
"His actions and demeanor do seem remarkably incongruent with the qualities one would expect from a diplomatic representative." Spock set his fork down, too nauseated to continue eating. Jim watched him do it, frowning. "I am admittedly perplexed as to how he became an ambassador in the first place, given his behavior towards others."
"Aren't we all." Jim grunted, settling back in his chair. "I've got my theories. You read about his glorious triumphs, I take it?"
"I read his file, yes." He had gone through it in detail three times over to be certain the ambassador would not prove to be a threat to his captain; they had an unfortunate tendency to be problematic at best, and deadly at worst. They often engaged in concerning behavior towards Jim, the crew, the ship, or all three simultaneously. At the time, Spock hadn't considered the possibility of himself being the primary target; although it was not an enjoyable position, it was somewhat of a relief to not fear for the captain's safety this time. "He has had some minor success on previous missions, but there was little information provided as to the nature of those missions, or his role in them."
"Oh, I doubt he had much of a role." The captain absently twirled his own fork between his fingers, glancing around the room with a furtive observation, as if to check they could not be heard. He leaned in and Spock did as well, although he was certain they had auditory privacy. "See, I looked into the kinds of ships that towed him around during those assignments. I could be wrong, of course, but I noticed a bit of a pattern. All of them were… small scale. Not as large of a crew, not all that seasoned, definitely not a flagship. The kind of crew that's made up of green-behind-the-ears cadets fresh out of the academy—you know the type; the ones with something to prove and a lack of confidence in setting hard boundaries with visiting officials. I've no doubt they went the extra mile to ensure the mission a success; they were probably chuffed to even be assigned an official mission in the first place."
Spock understood what was being implied, despite the vague nature of it. "You suspect him of perpetrating fraudulent representation of his level of involvement in his listed accomplishments." He considered the possibility, evaluating the performance of the ambassador thus far. His particularly antagonistic interactions with the senior officers, his apparent inability to competently manage his responsibilities, his attempts to shift blame. "The theory holds some merit, although it would seem counterproductive to avoid responsibility by falsely taking credit for success, when that very success results in increased responsibility. I question the logic."
"Probably giving him far too much credit to assume he's operating under any logic, Spock. I've encountered the likes of him before, you know. Some arrogant paper-pusher who wants all the acclaim but none of the work that goes into getting it. The command track is full of them. They usually get weeded out one way or another before they ever hit the stars, but every now and again, the Hammetts of the universe manage slip through the cracks. At least it's coming back to bite him now."
Spock remembered the haggard, tense, strained expression to the man during the debrief. He'd looked tired, anxious, and overwhelmed. Yes, clearly it had come back to bite him.
During negotiations with the first two planets of the three they were scheduled to visit during this mission, Hammett had been required to do very little. Both occupants had been flattered by the Federation's interest, and they'd eagerly agreed to the proposed trade route through their planetary system with minimal negotiation needed. It'd been what the captain called a milk run.
It was only after arrival to Seskilles VII that the complications began.
"I find his strategy irrational."
"I find it infuriating," Jim said viciously. "And I find him to be completely and utterly inadequate. I swear, of all the words he could have chosen—if there's anyone on this ship who's not qualified to do their job, it's him. And I'll throw in incompetent, ridiculous, and prejudiced into the mix as well, for good measure."
"Indeed," Spock observed mildly, considering the word. "Inadequacy can often lead to irrational behavior." He appreciated his captain and crew's defense, but he did not necessarily agree with it. He felt the word quite appropriately described him.
Inadequate. Yes, it was accurate enough, although he suspected the ambassador said it more to provoke a reaction rather than from any true sense of displeasure with his performance. Regardless, he hadn't been incorrect to say it. In fact, Spock would similarly propose that substandard, disappointing, flawed, and fundamentally defective were apt terms as well. He was not functioning to any level of adequacy in his present state, and it was no one's fault but his own. The Seskille tore his defenses down, but it was he who had allowed them to grow weak to begin with. They had compromised his emotional control, but he never should have had emotions in the first place. He'd been compromised long before the events of Seskilles VII, the only difference being that he was now aware of it.
"Hey…" Jim leaned in, and he patiently waited until Spock refocused his attention and looked up. There was a glint of concern in his eye. His voice was quiet. "You know that you aren't inadequate, right? He never should have said that. God, I've never met anyone less inadequate than you in all my life, Spock." Unwilling to risk giving another incorrect answer, Spock merely inclined his head in agreement. This did not, however, appear to assuage the captain's worry; if anything, it increased it.
With a motion to remain where he was, Jim stood from the table. He brushed a hand on his shoulder as he passed by Spock to the food synthesizer. The touch burned hot through his uniform, and all Spock wished for, more than anything, was for that hand to remain there. He wanted his captain close to him again.
This was unacceptable. He needed to meditate. His head ached. His body felt heavy, sluggish, and dizzy. His eyes were sore. His mind felt too full and too distant simultaneously. And he was… so tired.
Spock had always struggled to compartmentalize. Ever since he was a child first learning meditative techniques, he'd struggled to properly organize his mind as his peers did. His mental desert had been a strategy of sorts; a visualization technique to ground him. The other children hadn't needed one, and they had not been shy in telling him so. That he continued to use such an infantile tactic into adulthood only exposed his own mental deficiencies.
His mind was well-ordered only until it was not. It took little—extremely little, apparently—to uproot and destroy it. He wondered if his peers would have found the experience as debilitating as he had. Unlikely. They could control themselves where he'd never been able to.
Inadequate.
He thought it just might have been the first—and only—accurate statement the ambassador had made since coming aboard.
"Here." A cup was set in front of him, filled with a steaming amber liquid. The scent of spice was aromatic, heady; he breathed it in deeply, felt it soothe some of the tension in his side and chest. It was not his usual blend, but it was the closest the food synthesizer had ever come making. He wrapped his hands around the cup, allowing the heat to seep into his fingers. "I couldn't find that awful tea you enjoy so much, but this tastes almost as bad."
"Thank you, Jim."
"I told Hammett to leave you alone," Jim told him after he'd settled back into his chair. "Made sure to drive the point home after the debrief. Loudly. He's been useless at every turn so far, but maybe he'll be able to scrape up enough intelligence to make himself scarce. I'll be honest, though; I don't have particularly high hopes for that. He seems determined to be an irritant."
Spock hadn't forgotten the captain holding back the ambassador after the debrief, but he'd not given it much thought either. He'd been distracted at the time, by both his own emotional failings, as well as his physical nausea. However, it was not overly difficult to guess what the contents of the meeting had been about; Spock had witnessed Jim's venomous expression enough times to know that it was unlikely for Hammett to have fared well during it.
"He does appear to have a certain—" Spock paused, carefully considering his next words, "—upsetting effect on those he interacts with. In particular, I have noticed his interactions with me are rather vitriolic."
"You know…" There was a spark of fun brightening in Jim's eyes, his lips twitching upwards in playful amusement. His tone was teasing. "Scotty has a theory about that—about Hammett's prejudice, I mean. He implied a Vulcan must have slept with his mother to have caused such a vendetta towards you."
Spock blinked and arched a brow, bemused. "Slept with his mother?"
"Well, he used other words, obviously—and they aren't fit for the breakfast table—but that was the general idea."
"That is unlikely," Spock explained, suppressing any indication of his own amusement. He deduced that Jim saw it anyways, as his smile grew wider. Spock hurried on to clarify, "Such an occurrence would be highly atypical; Vulcans do not engage in casual intimacy, nor do they regard it with such frivolity."
Jim was silent for a moment, twirling his fork between his fingers and leaning back in his chair. "Oh?" he asked finally, after approximately fifteen-point-eight-four-seven seconds had passed. His tone was politely casual. "What, no whirlwind trysts in the sand?"
(With the strangling hold of the ahn-woon wrapped tight around his neck and keeping him partially suspended, the captain hung bonelessly, slack limbs sprawled out against the sand.)
(Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.)
(Jim died in front of him again.)
"Negative." He cleared his throat, finding it suddenly dry, and took a sip of his tea. The spices, normally relaxing, burned his tongue when he swallowed. "When a Vulcan takes a mate, they remain dedicated only to that one person. There can be no other, whirlwind or otherwise."
"If they're together, they're together for life, is what you're saying." Jim did not look at him. Instead, he was meticulously forming the remains of his balkra into various shapes on his tray. "Makes sense; fidelity is logical for stability. I wish humans could say the same. Most of us spend our whole lives looking for that kind of dedication; maybe we're all just looking on the wrong planet."
"I would not endorse my home planet for consideration. It would come at great cost," Spock reminded him. "My mother did not often complain, but I have no doubt she found life on Vulcan a difficult adjustment—as well as life withone. A Vulcan is unable to provide a human the emotional support they require."
"Oh, I don't know about that, Mr. Spock," Jim smiled at him. "You've always provided me with more emotional support than I could ever hope for. I daresay anyone would be lucky to have you."
He wished Jim would not look at him in such a way. It strained his control beyond his current ability to cope with. This topic of discussion was edging towards dangerous territory, and Spock knew he had to redirect it.
"While I consider it improbable that such an event prompted the ambassador's apparent dislike towards me, I am also uncertain what might have inspired it."
"Oh, I can tell you what inspired it." The captain allowed the conversation change, easing back into it with smooth confidence. "You make him feel like the idiot he is. You're rational, logical, good at your job, exceedingly adequate, and all in all, just better than him in every way. You're also not easily manipulated—although he's not really had success with anyone else, either. He tried to charm me over from day one, the same with Bones, and Scotty, and every other department head. We all told him to take a hike… in so many words."
Spock blinked. He had witnessed odd interactions; at the time, he'd considered them to be an attempt at collaboration rather than direct subterfuge. Hammett's conversations had been somewhat lacking in substance, but they hadn't been outright offensive. If anything, they had come across as the wrong kind of eager, to such a degree that McCoy had labeled the diplomat as a brownnoser (whereupon Spock immediately regretted his request for an explanation of that particular colloquialism).
"He did not adhere to the same approach with me," Spock reflected. There'd been plenty of interactions between them, but although Hammett was insensitive and unexpectedly condescending, he was not directly hostile. Certainly not to the unwarranted degree he displayed during the prior day's debrief.
"Not for lack of trying, I suspect, but I'm sure he gave up on that strategy in short order. It'd take a far stronger man than the likes of Hammett to have a shot at pulling the wool over your eyes." Jim offered him a grin; not the charming kind he'd aimed towards Ensign Garett, but one that was smaller, more fond, more genuine. His eyes sparkled. "You're a difficult one to crack, Mr. Spock. A lot of mighty high walls to climb over."
Closed doors. High walls. He disliked that Jim considered him so secluded—so distant. As if he was unreachable, unavailable, locked away…
"But not impossible ones," he said quietly, and he was ashamed to hear an undertone of emotion coloring his words. He took a breath, forcing control, control, control. "There is one individual who has successfully accomplished it."
It was a daring statement to make. He knew, the instant he stopped speaking, that he should not have taken such a risk, no matter how true the observation was. But Jim asked him for the truth earlier in the morning, and he… did not wish to lie to him. Not about this, not about how dearly he valued their friendship. And it was too late to take it back, what was spoken was spoken. He could not bring himself to fully regret it at the sight of the captain's smile widening into something radiant.
"I'm sure that individual, whoever he is, is honored by the privilege," the captain murmured to him, his voice so soft as to be nearly a whisper.
Spock, feeling very warm, ducked his head to maintain the illusion of control and settle the heat rising up his neck. The mess hall had filled with the passage of time, but the crew respectfully kept their distance to allow the illusion of privacy on both sides. They were under frequent scrutiny, as was often the case when commanding officers were off duty around the crew. Quick glances darted their way, as if to be assured that their captain or first officer hadn't overheard their (likely unprofessional) conversations.
Spock, while fully capable of doing so, often did his best to block his awareness of them out. He made the effort to do so now, although the hushed whisperings of three of his biologists was mildly concerning and could potentially require further investigation.
A tray was slammed onto the table in front of them, clattering loudly and nearly knocking Spock's tea over. He lifted it to safety, arching a disapproving brow as McCoy settled beside the captain. The doctor didn't seem the least bit contrite; his eyes were bleary, half-closed and red- rimmed. It was clear he was only just waking up. He nursed a cup of coffee, clutching it to his chest as if someone planned to steal it from him.
"Morning, Bones," The captain cleared his throat, volume now back to his standard casual, friendly confidence. He pushed his tray to the side to make room for McCoy's, and Spock glimpsed him eyeing the doctor's breakfast assortment.
"Uh-huh," McCoy mumbled between a sip of his coffee. The scent of it was sweet enough to be nearly cloying, and it turned Spock's stomach. He pointed a rude, jabbing finger towards the table, at the yellow casserole Jim had piled into shapes. "The hell's that?"
"Vegetables," said Jim.
"A Vulcan fruit," said Spock at the exact same time.
Doctor McCoy stared.
"The captain's making healthy nutritional choices," Spock helpfully supplied.
"It tastes like battery acid," Jim confirmed, before turning to Spock incredulously. "You're seriously telling me this is fruit?"
"Partially. Balkra's primary ingredient is yel-savas, or sun fruit."
McCoy eyed them both, glancing between them before letting out a low, unamused grunt. "Yeah, I'm not awake enough for this." And yet, contrary to his declaration, when the doctor caught Spock's gaze and held it, his eyes were nothing but alert. Perceptive.
Spock broke the contact first, adverting his attention to his tea as impassively as he could manage. He did not like being watched; not by McCoy, not by Jim, not by Hammett, or his department, or the Seskille. He was so tired of being picked apart—observed and studied as if he were a specimen. McCoy wouldn't outright bring up the events of the evening prior; although Spock often criticized his conduct, the doctor was far too professional to ever discuss his health in such a public location. That he had specifically requested privacy meant the contents of their conversation would remain between the two of them. Unfortunately, in his opinion, that was one person too many. He was not comfortable with anyone knowing what happened on Seskilles VII, nor the exact nature of what they'd done to him.
Doctor McCoy would not talk about it… for now. Not with Jim here, not in the mess hall. But his eyes questioned and scrutinized and formed conclusions regardless, and Spock felt nearly as exhausted by being watched as he had with the conversation the night prior. They were not discussing it, but the look the doctor gave him screamed the reminder all the same.
"What're were you both whispering about?"
"Hammett," the captain said, stealing a slice of McCoy's jam-soaked toast. He looked smug at his victory. "And what an inadequate blowhard he is."
Doctor McCoy's expression went sour immediately. "Oh. Him. Just what I wanna hear first thing in the morning. Something else happen that I should know about? 'Cause I overheard some of the nurses saying he called Spock a delusional moron right to his face. Right in front of mine too, I guess, which is news to me."
Spock sighed, dismay growing at the exaggeration. He wished desperately that he'd stayed in bed after all; he should have taken Jim on the offer, rather than making a point of his control by refusing it. It would have been quiet, for one. He could still be in his dark, heated quarters, and he could pretend the crew wasn't spreading his humiliation like a wildfire. Jim would have hovered for a time, but he could handle his captain's company. He was becoming rapidly convinced that he was approaching his tolerance with this conversation.
"We haven't heard that one yet." Jim sounded serious, but his mouth was twitching upwards. "Although, you and I must have really dropped the ball at that meeting, Doctor. Apparently, he also called Spock an idiot without any of us noticing."
"Imagine that," Doctor McCoy grumbled around a gulp of coffee. "Seems we all missed a helluva lot yesterday. Give it a couple of hours, and we'll all have resorted to brawling, guaranteed. Not Spock, though; he'll have been the one to break it up. Y'know the sad thing is, I don't even consider the idea all that farfetched; god knows I wanted to get a good swing in when he started running his damn mouth." He pulled his tray further away from Jim as the captain made to snatch a sausage. "Knock it off."
"Indeed. The ambassador has a remarkable capacity for inspiring violence," Spock remarked lightly, warmed by the protectiveness even while considering it unnecessary. "A skillset that is highly incompatible with his chosen profession of promoting cooperation and diplomacy. In particular, he does not appear to like Vulcans."
"I like Vulcans," Jim announced defensively, fiercely, as if this had somehow been called into question.
To which McCoy immediately questioned it. "Yeah?" he challenged, seemingly only for the sake of being as disagreeable as he could. He was clearly annoyed at the captain's successful thieving of a second slice of toast. "And just how many Vulcans do you know again?"
"I know one of them." The captain gave Spock a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And I happen to like him just fine."
Spock drank his tea, admittedly pleased. McCoy looked nauseated.
"Jesus, Jim." There was exasperation in the doctor's voice, and no small amount of disgust. "I'm eating. And get your hands off of my plate, 'less you don't want them attached anymore."
("Get your hands off of him, Spock!")
The captain merely bit into his ill-gained toast, unrepentant. It was in moments like these, with Jim light and amused and McCoy faux-snarling, that Spock felt his most normal. He did not engage in their immature behavior, but he felt included by them all the same. There was no sensation of being closed off from his two friends: no sense of being an outsider. Perhaps it was the way that Jim glanced at him every few seconds, as if sharing a private joke in McCoy's increasing outrage, or the way that McCoy scowled at him as if he were encouraging the captain's teasing, despite doing nothing more than finishing his tea silently. They involved him, regardless of his actual participation or lack thereof.
It was… gratifying. Satisfactory in a way he would struggle to verbalize were he asked.
"—planning a department-wide protest," Jim was explaining to McCoy as Spock refocused his attention on them. "I told her it wasn't needed; I already filed a formal grievance about it. I'm sure we'll be hearing from the brass soon enough. I wasn't exactly… nice about it, although I kept it professional enough. You did the same?"
"Mmhm."
Spock arched a brow, setting aside his empty cup. "And was yours likewise worded professionally, Doctor?"
McCoy smiled a ruthless, self-satisfied smile. "No."
The captain huffed a laugh, standing and collecting his tray. Spock, following the unspoken prompt, did the same. "Then I'll probably be hearing from them even sooner. Sorry to leave you, Bones, I've got a chair to sit in all day. I appreciate the breakfast, though." Jim winked at Spock, collecting his tray and, with a swift movement, stealing a sausage from the doctor. McCoy, mid-sip of his coffee, spluttered furiously.
They disposed of their trays for recycling and reprocessing, the captain doing so with apparent relief.
"You know, burnt circuit casserole might be a hit on Vulcan, but I'm afraid it won't take off here," he teased lightly. "I can hardly blame you for lacking an appetite if that's what you usually order."
"I assure you, Captain, I do not find it unappealing," Spock explained patiently, humored by the description. His mother had made a similar claim. "Balkra is, however, something of an acquired taste, even on Vulcan. The synthesizers are unable to replicate it to perfect accuracy, but the approximation is nearly—"
"Wait, Captain!"
"Captain!"
Voices clamored over one another, and Spock turned at the same time as the captain did, taken aback by the volume and intensity of the beckoning. The table calling to them was occupied by five scientists of his biology department, each looking worried and stressed as they half-stood like they were prepared to chase the captain and himself down.
Jim opened his mouth to ask the issue, but he was beaten to it.
"Sir, please, with all do respect, you can't demote Mr. Spock!" Lieutenant Reese exclaimed, sounding appalled.
The captain's mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. Spock's eyebrows shot upwards.
"He's the best we have, Captain!"
"We're right in the middle of four different projects—"
"It'd be so wrong!"
"—and if he goes, they're ruined! Shams-al-Din won't care about the phenotypic trait adaptations of the Qhax fern!"
"Literally no one cares about your leaves, Kira!"
"You can't just demote people! I don't care who is yowling for it! It's not right!" Ensign Gibson sounded nearly mutinous, his voice low and snarling. He was posturing, as if ready to defend his statement with physical violence should it become necessary.
"Now, hold on just a minute," the captain said cooly, holding up a hand to quiet them. His tone was mild enough, calming and mellow in that specific way used to deescalate hostilities. A diplomat's voice, one more professional and controlled than Ambassador Hammett could ever hope to manage. "Who told you I'm demoting Commander Spock?"
Ensign Kira Booth raised her hand. "We heard the ambassador ordered you to demote Mr. Spock, and orders are orders. But sir, please don't!"
Jim's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. His voice was no longer diplomatic, nor mild. "No one is being demoted," he said firmly, "and the rumors end now. I've had just about enough of them. No one is being demoted, or fired, or insulted, or anything else on this ship. Understood?" The captain leveled them with a steely look, waiting for their silent, wide-eyed nods. "Good. First Officer, with me."
Spock, exasperated, ignored the encouraging thumbs up Lieutenant Reese gave him as he trailed after Jim. The captain was silent, fuming, until they stepped into the privacy of the turbolift.
"That's it," he snapped finally, once the doors slid closed. "I'm putting my foot down. I'm never having another diplomat on this ship again! No ambassadors, no delegation, no diplomacy. Just straight incivility and hostile arguments from now on. Complete barbarism!"
"Bridge." Spock deliberated for a moment on how he should phrase his next statement, hesitant to aggravate the situation. "Captain, you are aware of the impending conference to decide the admission of the planet Coridan into the Federation. The Enterprise is likely to be in consideration to host and shuttle the ambassadors to and from Babel."
"Of course it is," the captain grumbled, disgruntled and making little effort to hide it. "And no doubt it'll be chosen, too—because dignitaries on my ship have worked out so well for us. It'll frankly be a miracle if everyone's still alive by the time we limp there, assuming we even reach it at all. With our luck, I'm not about to hold my breath."
Sometimes, Spock appreciated the captain's free use of emotional expression. In his quarters, being embraced, Jim smiling at him, Jim's laughter. Other times, such as now, he wished to be elsewhere, away from the battering of annoyance and irritation that was heavy in the air. He did not need to physically touch the captain to feel it; it was a tangible weight on and against him. In the enclosed space, he was unable to move away from it.
He needed to meditate. He needed to bury everything beneath his sea of sand so that it could no longer influence his mind, his logic, his emotions. He needed to center himself. He needed to be in control. Spock felt as if he were fraying thread by thread. The exhaustion and strain to his defenses threatened to unravel whatever remaining shreds of dignity he had left.
"You alright?" At the soft voice, Spock glanced over at the captain, who watched him carefully in return.
"Sufficient, sir."
"It'll blow over, Spock." Jim exhaled out a low, taut breath as the turbolift slowed, forcing his expression to one of stern confidence. "It always does, once the excitement wears off. Not too much longer, and they'll be carrying on about something else. If you ask me, this whole damned mission can't end soon enough."
The levity and connection he'd felt during breakfast had faded, and a tension had formed in it's absence. Not between the captain and himself, but between the two of them and the situation. A constant reminder that this mission was not over, and that the debrief had revealed a great many issues Spock would have preferred to remain buried. His captain's anger mirrored his own, and that he felt anger was problematic. Dangerous.
He wanted the captain to be correct. He wanted for this all to be over with, so that he could move forward unhindered. The mission, the Seskille, the ambassador, his emotions… he wanted all of it end. He was so tired.
But in this way, as in so many ways, he failed as a Vulcan. He always wanted what he could not have.
The doors to the turbolift slid open.
It was not uncommon for shifts to intermingle. There were those who arrived at their stations earlier, so as to settle in for the day and receive a thorough pass-down of information from the shift prior. Spock was often among the first to arrive, unless the captain got to him first as was currently the case this morning. And so, walking onto the bridge to find the majority of alpha shift already present was not unexpected. What was unexpected, however, was walking onto the bridge to discover that nearly everyone had turned to look at them.
No, not at them—at him.
"Captain—" Lieutenant Uhura began, glancing between Spock and Jim anxiously. She was unsettled, mouth drawn into a tight, thin frown.
"There you are," Ambassador Hammett cut in from his position near her station. "Captain, could you ask your First Officer exactly what kind of conversation he had down there with them?"
The captain had already shifted, deliberately placing himself in front of Spock so as to draw attention. And he certainly did at that; his shoulders pulled backwards into perfect, rigid, unyielding posture, lips thin with disdain. "Come again?" he asked tonelessly. There was a hard glint in his eye.
"The Seskille! And I must say, it doesn't sound all that complimentary, in my opinion. Just what did your Vulcan say to them?"
"My Vulcan?" Jim's voice went very, very soft, and the alarm it raised to Spock was nearly as audible as klaxons. He moved into place neatly beside his captain, so as to best be in a position to provide support of any kind, for any purpose. The captain was nearly vibrating at his side from anger, eyes narrowed to slits.
"They've been talking about him all morning!" the ambassador continued blithely, either intentionally ignoring the threat or simply not noticing it for what it was. "Oh, here, I'll just—" He reached out the lieutenant's station. "How do you—"
"Excuse me!" Uhura said, affronted and indignant as she swatted his hands away from her panel. "Just what are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to get the audio—ah-ha, there we are! Here, listen for yourselves!"
Over the audio speaker came a crackling, popping screech. It was whining and grating and ear-splitting, causing a ripping pain to erupt in his temples and behind his eyes the instant Spock heard it. Block it out. Control. He could not, just as he'd been unable to during the previous forced exposure to it. The sound of static and strident shrieking pierced him, slicing into his head and straight through his pitiful shielding with a shrill cacophony of sound, as if those shields had never been there at all.
Unignorable, unforgettable, and agonizing. The audio interference was excruciating; it took everything not to cover his ears to try to block it out. He felt nearly deafened by the noise…
… but not deafened enough to miss the words that accompanied it.
"Get your hands off of him, Spock!" the Seskille's excruciating voice said over the audio feed. "Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands off of him, Spock!"
Thank you to everyone for reading! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it! It took a bit longer than normal to get this chapter out, as I unfortunately broke my right hand at work. Turns out that a huge bulky splint isn't easy to type with, imagine that!
Originally, this chapter was to take place pretty much entirely over breakfast, but then the scene in their quarters continued, and continued, and continued, until it took nearly 7k words for them to even get to the table. The last scene on the bridge was one I've been sitting on for months now, and I'm very excited to be reaching it. Some upcoming scenes have been planned since before I ever even had story plot to use them with!
References to Leila and the Spores is, of course, to the TOS episode 'This Side of Paradise'. Any mention of Babel or the Coridan issue from TOS episode 'Journey to Babel', which takes place shortly after this story in fic-canon. There are also a number of other references made by Jim, which are too many to name. Kudos if you can recognize them all, though!
Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Ska'El'ru — Hands off; a warning to not touch something; to not become involved in something.
Ahn-woon — Rope-like melee weapon to be used as a whip or noose in combat.
T'hy'la — Friend, Brother, Lover.
Balkra — A Vulcan casserole made of a squash-like fruit, with the texture of mashed potatoes.
Yel-savas — Sun Fruit; a squash-like Vulcan fruit.
