— Chapter Twenty —
— Qsa'muwhl —
The captain was rarely one to shout.
It had initially taken Spock by surprise when he'd first met James Kirk; in his experience, humans were prone to fits of extreme emotionalism that defied all common sense. Serving with a strictly human crew had familiarized him to such behavior, for better or for worse. When they were upset, particularly with the emotion of anger, they raised their voice accordingly to demonstrate it. Certainly, Spock had been shouted at many times before by commanding officers and crewmembers alike, and even the notoriously even-tempered Captain Pike had not been an exception to this display. Humans were passionate, volatile, and, unfortunately, exceedingly loud.
Jim was not.
That was not to suggest that his captain wasn't emotionally driven—he was. But he was also strictly controlled in his emotions; sometimes remarkably so. He was no stranger to volatility, and certainly no stranger to passion, but he was inclined to display them strategically—to manipulate, to comfort, to control, to influence, to lead, to harm. His captain did not shout regularly, and it hadn't taken Spock long into James Kirk's captaincy to realize why that was. His captain had no need to raise his voice to demonstrate his displeasure; he made it so incredibly clear by word choice, by tone, by posture, and by expression.
"Mr. Spock, stay behind."
Uhura and Ambassador Hammett gathered their belongings, the former offering him a small smile, and stood to leave the room. Spock, already halfway out of his chair, settled back down into it stiffly. No, he thought. There was no need for his captain to yell; not when he could expend less energy for a more devastating blow.
The captain watched him as the room cleared, tapping a finger idly on the table as he waited. Doctor McCoy, at Spock's side, exerted no effort in concealing his displeasure either; each agitated shuffle and huff and shift of his chair was over-exaggerated and intentionally noisy to make a point. Spock did not look at either of them. He instead looked at the table, pretending to examine his PADD as if he found it of great interest.
It was not. The words he read were poisonous.
'Spock. Please—you are not fully—off of him, Spock—Vulcan, Spock, and no expended effort or attempt will result in you being one. You never told me if you had another—you belong in the—like a wet—no, not so impersonally. Understand, Jim. I spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings. A violation of it is reprehensible. I think you'll find there is very little I wouldn't do for you, Spock—I would advise you to return to your—a simpering, devil eared freak—get your hands off of him, Spock!'
Somehow, reading the live transcript was even more unpleasant than hearing it, despite its silent nature. The agonizing tone of the Seskille's voice rendered their scattered verbal repetition of his memories difficult to piece together, even to his own superior hearing. To his human crewmates, it would have been approaching incoherency. The textual formatting of the transcription did not offer any such hindrance to comprehension; his memories were there in black and white, and Spock hated them…
"Spock," the captain said quietly, "look at me, please."
Spock obediently lifted his head, meeting Jim's eyes. They were closed off, but they were not cold. Hurt, serious, but not surprised. The disappointment was more painful to see than visible anger would have been. The last thing he wished for was to cause his captain emotional harm, and yet, that seemed so unavoidable as of late.
"Yes, Captain?" He forced his voice to be as even-toned and stoic as he could. The ringing in his ears became a dull roar that he had to concentrate through. His head hurt, and thinking was sluggish, slow, and muted. He tried to ground himself in the present, but it was so incredibly difficult when he felt as if he were both floating away and sinking simultaneously.
Control…
Jim stared him down for a long moment, until the silence in the room was nearly suffocating. And then, "Why are you doing this?"
"Oh, you know why he's doing this, Jim," McCoy scowled, apparently unable to withhold his opinion for a moment longer. Unlike the captain, the doctor was prone to fits of yelling, and he engaged in the habit both often and freely. He'd controlled himself remarkably well during the briefing, but now that restraint broke and erupted as an emotional out-pour of sullen temper. "Because he's got to be the martyr to his own well-being, that's why."
"Doctor McCoy." The captain raised a halting hand, not taking his eyes off Spock for an instant. He leveled him that same, steady look. "Spock?"
There was no correct response to that question, he realized with a sinking sense of hopelessness. If he answered truthfully—that he knew Jim was under enormous pressure, that he knew it was better for everyone to get this mission over with, that he also wished to just be done with this situation and that this was the most efficient way to do so—his logic would be refuted and challenged. If he answered dishonestly, he would be accused (rightfully) of lying. If he answered emotionally, he would be considered compromised. If he answered indifferently, he would be accused of engaging in self-destructive, emotionally repressive behavior.
There was no answer he could give his captain that would satisfy him. A muted sense of agitation stirred in him, like an ember exposed to a concentrated breath. This was a no-win scenario. Spock was coming to understand that he endured them about as well as Jim did.
"It is the logical course of action," Spock settled on after a moment, straightening his back and pulling his shoulders into military rigidity. He adopted a matter-of-fact tone. "Ambassador Hammett was correct in his assessment of the situation. I am the only one aboard capable of completing the mission satisfactorily, Captain."
"Logical." Jim's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. That flash of determination broke through his mask of calm, lips thinning into a stern, ominous line. His tongue clicked with a near hiss when he spoke. "I see."
"Well, I'm glad that one of us does!" the doctor burst out, slamming his PADD down with enough force to rattle the table. Spock distantly considered whether he'd lifted it with that intention in the first place, simply to drive home a theatrical point. "'Cause I don't see. Spock, what you're doing is insane and you know it. I know you know that!"
"It is not insane, Doctor." Spock disagreed with an arched eyebrow. It was easy to disagree with McCoy, he found. The dryness to his voice was second-nature by now, requiring very little thought. A comfortable, predictable routine. "It is our only option."
"Jim," McCoy continued, as if Spock hadn't spoken, "if you don't shut this down now, then I'll do it myself. And you—" He turned that scowl onto Spock. "—won't like the result of my hands being forced, understand? I warned you what would happen, Spock. You really wanna test me?"
Despite the serious and unpleasant nature of the conversation, arguing with the doctor was relaxing. Spock fell effortlessly into the pattern of conflict, tilting his chin just so until he was looking down the bridge of his nose at McCoy. "I am uninterested in any of your tests, Doctor McCoy," he said dismissively, bordering on condescending. "I am interested in fact. It is a fact that—"
"It is a fact, Mr. Spock, that I'll drag you by your pointed ear down to sickbay so fast you'll think we teleported there!"
"Enough!" the captain snapped. "Both of you, that's enough! You two are senior officers, so act like it! Spock—" Jim bit off and took a breath. His eyes closed and he was silent a moment, summoning his rapidly deteriorating patience. When he opened them again, his expression was mildly calmer. "Spock, explain."
"Specify."
'—that is, what my counterpart did… it is unforgivable. Such an act is a crime of the highest degree on Vulcan. The mind is considered sacred—I shall do neither. I shall do neither. I shall—get your hands off of him, Spock—neither—I know you were excited about—sorry, stoically intrigued about such a discovery—You know, sometimes I worry the pressure of it all is going to destroy me and leave nothing left.'
"Don't." Jim reached out a hand and gently placed his hand over the screen of the PADD, blocking the transcript from view. He exerted soft pressure until Spock was forced to lower it to the table. His captain shifted his chair closer, ducking his head down to try to meet Spock's eyes. "Don't read that. You've already been exposed to them enough for one day—for a lifetime, in fact. That's what I want you to specify, Mr. Spock. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish with this?"
"I am hoping to accomplish my job, sir." Spock turned his eyes from the PADD reluctantly, examining instead the table as he had been during the briefing. Jim didn't push the issue of eye contact, but neither did he move away or stop his efforts to make it. "I… fail to understand your perplexity in this matter. I have been tasked with missions involving substantially greater threat to my personal safety. Might I remind you that these missions were often carried out on your orders, Captain. For you to object to my involvement now is not only illogical, but contradictory."
Jim puffed out a low, resigned sigh, remorse pinching the skin around his eyes briefly before he forced it smooth. "No… no, you don't need to remind me. I know I've asked you to do a great many dangerous things for the sake of duty. And I have no doubt, as much as I hate it, that I'll have to ask you to do a great many more in the future. You're right; we both have our jobs to do. A responsibility to the mission, the crew, the ship. But this… this goes beyond the commitment to service, Commander. I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for the sake of some rocks."
Spock frowned, crossing his arms. "Pergium and latinum are not rocks, Captain; to classify them as such is inaccurate science. They would fall under the classification of metal; specifically, under the subcategory of transactinide and transuranic elements."
Jim stared at him flatly for a long moment, nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly, measuredly, forcefully. A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Well." His tone was sour when he finally spoke, and dry enough to abrade. "I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for all the metals in the transactinide and transuranic subcategory either."
It was not for metals or rocks or the service that he did this, Spock wanted to say. It was not because of the mission, or the ambassador, or the ship, or the crew, or Starfleet, or even duty. He understood them to be a contributing factor, albeit a distant one, but they had not formed his ultimate decision. No, it was for the faint smudges of dark circles beneath his captain's eyes that he did this. It was for the carefully concealed lines of fatigue in his captain's posture. It was for the pressure the admiralty was placing on them all—the stress, the frustration, the inconvenience. It was for Jim's desire that this mission be over, and his own as well. He wanted to put all of this far, far behind them, where it could no longer influence the present. If he could not bury it beneath his desert, he wanted it to be at least out of his field of view. He wanted to pretend this had never happened.
And beyond the sight of his captain's stress, he was forced to acknowledge that, as much as he did not want to do this, some part of him did. Although he dreaded it—and he did; Spock felt nauseated and horrified by the very thought of returning to that planet, to that species, to that experience—some desperate part of him wanted to go. He wanted to shove away this gross vulnerability that had taken over him, that made him act in ways so appalling and undignified and deplorable, that made him weak. He wanted to prove that he was capable, uncompromised, logical, controlled, controlled, controlled, controlled…
It was not rational; Spock understood his desires were conflicting, and that their contradictory nature was only further evidence of his emotional and psychological deficiency. And yet, regardless of rationality, regardless of logic, the fact remained that he wanted so desperately for Jim to look at him and see strength rather than weakness, to see resilience rather than fragility, to see Spock rather than this broken, useless, inadequate thing he'd let himself become. The version of himself that first beamed down to Seskilles VII had never returned, and he wanted to find him, recover him, become him again…
He'd known this would happen since the beginning; ever since he'd realized what the Seskille were. That weight had been pressing on him, even if he'd chosen not to acknowledge it. Spock hadn't yet allowed himself the luxury of relaxing; not when he'd known what was to come. He would be unable to relax until they left Seskille VII's orbit, and that… that would only happen with his direct involvement. He did not want a repeat of the brutalization he would find on the planet, but he wanted to extend the duration of this mission even less.
Jim did not understand. McCoy did not understand. They would not, because they cared for him, and they could not, because they were human. Did they not know that they were insulting him? Insisting he abandon his duty for emotional reasons was unspeakably insulting; a grievous offense that burned and burned and burned at him.
"Captain, I am not sacrificing myself." Spock made certain to maintain eye-contact, to keep his emotions under strict lock. His head throbbed. His side ached. He had to force his hands to remain still and not press on his abdomen, where some distant, tenuous idea of himself suspected he would find tricorder shards. Control. But it was so difficult to think. "There is minimal risk involved. The Seskille are incorporeal and incapable of harm. I will sustain no injuries."
"Sure, maybe not physically, Spock," the doctor interjected, heavy with doubt. "But emotionally? Psychologically? Those invisible injuries are the hardest to treat and more toxic to the body and mind than all the poison in the galaxy. Come on, going through to that again… that isn't logical. Just what are you trying to prove here?"
Remarkable. As always, McCoy saw right through him to the very heart of the matter. The captain and he both had an unfortunate, alarming habit of being able to read him unusually well, but whereas Jim was often tactful about that insight, Doctor McCoy apparently felt no such inclination towards sensitivity. He called it out as he saw it, and somehow consistently managed to do so in the most discourteous way possible.
"I am not trying to prove anything, Doctor," Spock insisted, and he could not prevent the frustration from seeping into his tone at being forced to repeatedly defend himself. He felt his control fray and fray and fray, and he grasped at every thread he could to try to keep it from unraveling completely. "And I find your insinuation to be both instigating and insulting."
"I don't get it," the doctor continued, ignoring him. "I just don't get it. It's almost like you want to go down to the Torture Planet! Hell, you seem so deadest on the idea that you're arguing in its favor! But that can't be right—surely that can't be right, because there's no way you'd willingly subject yourself to that just to prove you're capable of doing it, right? Because if that's the case, Mr. Spock—if that's the case, I'd say we've got a pretty serious issue on our hands."
"Bones," Jim murmured, although Spock wasn't certain if it was meant to be one of reassurance or warning.
McCoy tossed his hands up. "I'm objecting to this, officially and on the record. No one, and I mean no one, can be ordered to jeopardize themselves like that!"
"Yet my orders stand, Doctor." Spock took a breath, forcing himself to remain calm, to remain steady, to remain stoic. He tensed every muscle to fight the steady building of pressure that threatened to shake him. "And this is not the first time I have been given orders of a similar nature, or have you forgotten the events on Janus VI, where I was tasked with establishing contact with the Mother Horta? The Mother Horta that, I shall I remind you, was in agonizing, searing pain while I merged with her. Not only physically from her grievous injuries, but emotional and psychological pain from the death of thousands of her children. I heard no protest then, and there was no inquiry or interrogation or question about my capability after."
McCoy had gone silent, staring at Spock with an incredulous kind of exasperation; eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled taut, frustration sparking in his eyes. He looked to Jim, who met it with a troubled expression of his own. There was a moment of sustained staring, a silent conversation exchanging between them. Spock pretended not to notice it. He resisted the urge to press his hand to his side, which spiked and throbbed and ached, and his head ached, and his mind felt like it was overheated. He wanted to meditate; he wanted to curl in front of his asenoi and sink into the sand of his mental desert. The vast dunes were burning, melting, and it hurt…
Finally, after seven-point-three-seven-nine seconds, the doctor leaned in. "You go down there, Spock, and I'm not sure I'll be able to put together who we beam back up."
"Indeed?" Spock set his jaw. "If you feel mild hypothermia is beyond your skill, perhaps it is not my capability we should be questioning, Doctor."
"For god's sakes, I'm trying to save your sanity, you arrogant, green-blooded—" McCoy cut himself off, the words dying awkwardly on his lips as he glanced between Spock and the PADD. Spock did not need to touch him to know the doctor's thoughts; he was recalling the insults the Seskille were repeating, as well as the specific reason they were doing so. Spock would have preferred that McCoy continue on with his outburst; he found an odd comfort in riling the physician up. It was routine and familiar. But McCoy only became composed and quiet and professional, which raised red flags immediately. "Listen, I'm trying to help you here. Jim's trying, I'm trying, but you've gotta work with us. Don't make me pull Regulation, Spock. I mean it. Don't put me in that position. You open that door, I'm not going to be able to shut it again. There are very real consequences for you if I've gotta go that route, professional and personal ones. I don't want to have to do that to you, 'cause that will be its own kind of harm. But believe me when I say that I will, if you keep this up."
He did believe him.
Spock folded his arms neatly into his lap to conceal his fists. "What do you propose we do, then, Doctor?" he asked tonelessly. "I am interested in hearing your strategy for completing the mission to the Federation's standards."
"I couldn't give two hoots about the mission, Spock. I care about your safety! Your health! Your life! And thank god that I do, because you sure as hell don't seem to! No! No, you—" McCoy pointed an enraged finger at him as Spock made to interrupt, so close to his face that he nearly jabbed it. "—don't get to talk right now! I've had just about enough of you. Jim, do something!"
Jim shot them both a narrowed look, expression piercing enough to be cutting. His voice was just as sharp—like a whipcrack. "What do you want me to do, Bones? You want me to wrestle him to the floor and sit on him? I don't want him to go down there anymore than you do! You think I want a repeat of a week ago? You think I want them crawling around in his head? You think I want him to be—" The captain scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion and resentment breaking through his mask of stern neutrality. "Of course I don't want that."
"So refuse the order," McCoy insisted, as if it were that simple.
"And say what?" Jim snapped suddenly, hand slamming down on the table hard enough to rattle it. "On what grounds can I refuse it, Doctor? Hammett, idiot blowhard though he is, is absolutely right! Spock was discharged from sickbay only yesterday and he's hardly had a chance to prove his capability either way! Should I tell them I've decided not to send him for seemingly no valid reason? Because right now, there is no valid reason! The record, as Command will read it, is that Commander Spock was cleared for duty little more than twenty-four hours ago, and that is the only information the brass will care about! You and I know this is wrong because he's our friend, and we know him, and we know when something's wrong with him! But our feelings and hunches and personal attachments don't matter to the record, and I guarantee you they won't matter to Starfleet Command! So, unless I have a solid, concrete reason to pull him from the mission, my hands are tied. All I've got is circumstantial evidence, and that's hardly going to cut it!"
"You want evidence? He's so hagridden and raddled that he's made himself physically sick from it!"
"An upset stomach, regardless of the cause, isn't enough justification to pull him." Jim steadied himself, asserting control and that mask of neutrality. "I hate it too, Bones, but I don't have many options. Since Spock himself insists nothing's wrong, and since he won't talk to anyone about it, I don't know what else I can do. We've got… forty-three minutes now to come up with something else."
Sitting between the two of them was akin to being surrounded by a wildfire. On all sides, Spock could feel temper, heat, and frustration. He could feel concern, desperation, and terror. He could feel exasperation, dedication, and anger. An inferno of sparking, ignited passion and emotion that worsened his already pounding headache. His mind felt blistered and raw; overheated from the lack of maintenance and cool tranquility that meditation provided him. Spock did his best to separate from the barrage of intensity; he pulled his mind as far from the feelings as he could. He would not let them influence him, nor would he allow them to inhibit his own control. He was apart. Distant. Nebulous.
His head throbbed. His side throbbed. His ribs hurt when he breathed. His thoughts were viscous and thick and difficult to wade through.
"That's…. not necessarily true." Doctor McCoy pursed his lips, glancing at Spock briefly. Regret, reluctance, and determination—determination, Spock knew, was just as dangerous an emotion in the doctor as it was in the captain. He felt his stomach sink. "The talking about it. Let's suppose for a minute that, based on information disclosed to me last night, I went ahead and logged into the record that it's in my best medical judgement, and Spock's best medical interest, to withdraw him from the mission due to traumatic telepathic assault sustained as a direct result of the Seskille's actions? What then?"
Spock stiffened in his seat, body locking up so rigidly that it was physically painful.
No.
No.
At his side, Jim sat up straighter, growing almost as tense. There was a shock of agonized pain in his eyes as they darted once to Spock, lingering for a split second, before his sorrow was hidden and sharpened. "Then I'd say I'd be able to argue for an extension, at the very least," he said softly. "Enough time for comprehensive assessment. Assuming, of course, that such information was entered into the record."
No…
Control, he told himself. Control, control, controlcontrolcontrol—
"It sure can be within the next forty-three minutes."
His control shattered.
"Doctor, I must object!" Spock raised his voice even less than the captain did, but he found himself just shy of shouting now. Through the humiliation and sick, nauseating dread, Spock felt a simmering of anger pooling. It was like ice in his gut; chilling and freezing him to the core even as he fought to smother the cold flames in his mind. His fists balled up unseen beneath the table, and so furiously did he clench them that they trembled. "You have intentionally exaggerated and dramatized the information by which you've based your judgement on to further your own objective! What I disclosed in our discussion last night, if you could consider it such, as you forced my participation in the conversation by the use of blackmail and threats, was said to you in confidence. The conclusion you have drawn is inaccurate, and I object to your erroneous and mislabeled documentation of it!"
Jim's eyebrows shot up in alarm at the outburst, but McCoy didn't seem surprised by it. He looked at Spock grimly. "I'm sorry, Spock," he said, uncharacteristically somber. "It's like I told you back in sickbay; I care about your life more than I care about your privacy. I warned you that I'd step in if this started to cause problems. Well, it has, so I am."
Spock desperately attempted to keep his voice even—control, control, control—but it shook despite his efforts. "You have no just cause to withdraw me from the mission, Doctor McCoy. I am in no way negatively impacting the mission objective, nor am I compromised to the point of being too inadequate to carry out my responsibilities. On the contrary, I am entirely functional and fit to perform my job, my duties, and the mission requirements. You are the one actively preventing me from completing it, thus negatively affecting the outcome of our assignment. Perhaps you should investigate your own psychological proficiency, Doctor, and fix the problems you find there before you attempt to diagnose and fix mine!"
"Spock…" Jim stared at him with wide, shocked eyes, incredulous to the point of speechlessness.
Spock did not take his eyes off McCoy. He wished the doctor would scream back; he'd purposely antagonized him in order to provoke a response. Scream back, he wanted to shout. Snarl and rage and fume, because that reaction was stable, predictable, controllable. The doctor's fits of temper were routine enough to be comfortable, and he could plan for them; manage them enough to create room to breathe. He knew what to do with that kind of confrontation; knew how to react, knew how to rile it further, knew how to shut it down. He knew what to do when faced with it and right now, he wanted that sense of direction. He wanted to know what to do because he did not, and he was not in control, and he did not…
Except, against all expectations, McCoy did not explode into an outburst of fury. The doctor only continued to watch him steadily. He shook his head and repeated, "I'm sorry, Spock, I am. But I'm not sorry enough to let you go through with this." From the grim set of his jaw to the tense posture he held himself with, McCoy seemed both resigned and resolute. "This is damaging to you, Spock—not just dangerous, but actively damaging. The fact that you either don't see that, or you don't care, means I've got to step in and do it for you. The risk-benefit ratio I mentioned last night? Well, we've officially tipped that scale. After this, you and I need to have a private discussion about what's going to happen and what next steps we'll be taking."
For a moment—only a moment—Spock felt the irrational, dangerous, unacceptable urge to strike him. His hand jerked and tensed in preparation—but the desire was fleeting; there and gone in the span of a blink. The shock of the impulse alone was enough to still him, horrify him in ways he could scarcely fathom. His breath halted in his lungs midway through inhaling to continue his intentional provoking, and he suddenly could not breathe at all. A lurch in his stomach threatened vomit. He pressed his lips together firmly, gritting his jaw tight enough to make his teeth creak. He needed to leave. He needed to go to his quarters before he did something he would regret; something truly unforgivable. Already, there was an ache building in his chest, and a thick, choking sensation constricting his throat. His eyes stung.
He stared down at the PADD, because he did not wish to see the captain's expression, and looking at McCoy's solemn stare was only enraging him more. He forced a breath he did not feel. He felt his chest rise. He felt it fall when he exhaled. It was only through sheer force of will that it did not emerge as a sob.
'—do this again sometime—will you try for one moment to feel—nature to react violently, Ensign. In that sense, I suppose Vulcans have the advantage on—some things that mankind—you are not fully Vulcan, Spock, and no expended effort or attempt will result in you being one. Understand, Jim. You gotta show them you care in other ways. Disloyal to the core! Rotten! Captain, please don't. You belong in the circus, Spock, not a starship! Captain, please don't. Captain, please—get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands—you are half-human, and therefore—expect from a simpering, devil eared freak—get your hands off of him, Spock!'
The Seskille continued to transmit, the live transcript updated as the computer logged each word. Each disgraceful, exposing, damning word. He hated them. He hated them…
Tan fingers moved to cover the screen, blocking him from reading further. The PADD was gently pulled away from him.
"Alright, let's pause for a moment," Jim murmured to him in a low tone, taking a soothing approach now that McCoy had taken an authoritative one. Good Cop, Bad Cop, Spock had heard the strategy referred to as. A misleading name: it should have been called psychological manipulation and gross abuse of trust. "Spock?"
He did not move when the captain reached out a hand and lowered it to his shoulder, fingers warm and solid through the fabric of his uniform. Only hours prior, he had been in Jim's arms. He had been in Jim's arms, and he had never felt safer. He'd felt calm. He'd felt tranquil. He'd felt controlled. Spock felt none of that now. The memory was as if it'd happened to someone else; it felt trapped behind a fog of desperation, shock, and self-disgust. And his head hurt, and he couldn't think. If he could only meditate, just for a moment, just to find some sort of clarity, he might be able to focus…
"Spock, look at me, please."
He'd never been any to deny his captain anything…
Reluctantly, Spock lifted his head. There was a brief look of pain in the hazel that he met; a consuming, helpless desperation. He wondered, distantly, as if the thought came from far away, what it was his captain had seen in his own face to have caused his alarm.
"I know you're upset—no, Spock, no. Shh, let me speak. I know you're upset, and I understand why." Jim's voice was a soft, calm, warm. The captain leaned in close to him, glancing once at the PADD with a flash of bitterness before he shoved it further up the table and out of immediate access. "Forget the mission for a moment; forget Starfleet, duty, obligation. I'm worried about you, Spock. You don't need to do this to yourself. I don't want you to do this to yourself."
He was attempting the same approach as earlier. Physical contact, close proximity, a pacifying voice. It had been of assistance then, but it would not prove effective now. He could not trust himself to be touched by Jim anymore; his surge of violence towards the doctor was proof enough of that. He should pull away. He needed to pull away. But he did not, because Jim's touch was so incredibly relieving to him. He soaked it up desperately, and he stared and stared, and his head hurt, and his side ached, and he wanted so badly for Jim to move even closer, just as badly as he wished for him to move away.
"Captain…" he tried. Shut doors, high walls. "Jim. I—"
"You what?" Jim prompted him gently. "What is it?"
He did not know how to give his captain what he wanted.
Jim looked at him and he saw something broken, Spock thought. His captain—his beautiful, strong, radiant captain—looked at him and saw something weak, vulnerable, emotional, and damaged. In the countless times he'd met his captain's eyes, he'd seen just as countless many emotions play out in them. Amusement, affection, fear, worry, warmth, affirmation, warning, frustration, anger, sadness, exhaustion, pain… and yet, he could not truly recall a time when Jim looked at him like he was now. A tender, coaxing, careful guidance, like one might give a child in need of reassurance. Like Jim feared he would frighten Spock by speaking too loudly or making too sudden of a movement, much as he might a wild animal. The comparison was not entirely inaccurate, but that careful handling was humiliating. It was maddening, and it was degrading, and it was so offensive as to be obscene.
"There is no alternative," Spock insisted hollowly, even knowing as he did so that Jim did not believe in a lack of alternatives. To his captain, there were always alternatives—and if there were truly none to find, he would manifest them into existence by sheer willpower alone. "You know this, Jim. I am the only one capable of speaking to them in the manner required."
Please let me do this, he wanted to say.
Please stop me from doing this, he wanted to beg.
(Begging didn't make any difference, he thought distantly. Begging was useless.)
Jim only shook his head, as Spock knew he would.
"Then we'll find someone else to do it. I'll personally ship them over from the furthest corner of the galaxy if that's what it takes. Or I'll lean on Communications harder; strong-arm them until they figure it out. I'll figure it out somehow. But it doesn't really matter what solution I come up with, Spock, because regardless, you aren't going to be involved with it."
"Jim—"
The captain raised a hand to halt him, the other clenching tighter to his shoulder. Jim's face was compassionate and soft, but the way his fingers were buried into Spock's uniform betrayed his emotions. Determined, possessive, protective, desperate. Jim gripped him like he thought Spock might suddenly beam away if he lightened his hold.
"No. I want you to stay on the ship, Spock." It was authoritative, commanding, ordering, and yet the order was given in placating phrasing, as though his captain thought him too delicate to handle anything more severe. But that was an uncharitable assumption, Spock knew, just as he knew his own humiliation made him overly sensitive to the slightest vocal deviation from the captain's standard normal range. Jim only wanted to help, even if that help was misinformed. "It's not that… it's not that I think you're incapable or—or inadequate, understand? I don't. The furthest thing from it. This mission just isn't worth risking your safety."
Spock grit his jaw. So badly did he want to protest it, despite logically knowing the futility of doing so. Jim was determined, serious, resolute; he would not be able to sway the captain's mind from his decided course of action. Any further arguing would only demonstrate his inability to control himself. Already, he had revealed too much; had shown that he was compromised, out of control, emotional. He'd proven their concerns correct, and he hated himself.
In his peripherals, he could tell the McCoy was mollified by the captain's official decision on the matter. He was not smiling; he was still noticeably worried, as evidenced by his frown, but his eyes were also gleaming in that relieved way they did when he'd gotten his way. Except, then the doctor took a steady, strengthening breath, and there was a resigned, steely decisiveness in his posture, the set of his jaw, the hardened way he tensed. He looked grim, as if he were preparing for a fight. It was not difficult to predict what was coming. He'd been withdrawn from the mission, but the appalling nature of his uncharacteristic behavior warranted further action that McCoy was now obligated to follow through on.
There were consequences to his actions, just as the doctor had warned. By now, the least restrictive one he could hope for was a mandatory convalescent leave, but it was quite possible he met the criteria for higher interventions. He did not want to further consider what those interventions were.
"Very well."
Jim regarded him, visibly hesitating. Finally, "Are you alright?"
He nodded stiffly. "I'm fine, sir."
The captain's expression didn't change, necessarily, but a light in his eyes visibly dimmed. There was an instant flare of resignation and frustration before Jim managed to hide it. His lips parted to respond, but Spock did not allow him the chance. Adverting his eyes and straightening his posture to military form, he continued before Jim could speak.
"Am I dismissed, Captain?" he asked coolly, looking straight ahead.
"Spock—" Jim broke off and sighed, removing his hand from Spock's shoulder. He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Yes. You're dismissed, Commander."
"Wait a minute, Spock," McCoy began seriously. "We need to talk."
But Spock did not wait. Swiping his PADD from the table and shooting out of his chair with enough force to nearly topple it, he turned on a heel and made for the exit as quickly as he could without outright sprinting for it. The doctor called his name. The doors were too slow at his swift approach; he had to pause, temper spiking, as he was forced to wait for them to slide open enough to fit through. They had not yet cleared the doorway before he was out of the room.
It was pure cowardice to run from his friends. He knew this, but he found himself unable to remain in their presence so much as a second longer without risking additional embarrassment. If Jim touched him again, he knew he would no longer be able to repress the pressure building in his chest, behind his eyes, in his throat. He could not bear the idea of disgracing himself like that.
His quarters. He needed to go to his quarters. He needed to meditate. He needed to be alone, because he could not trust himself with this freezing, spiraling fury inside him. Hatred—towards the Seskille, towards the ambassador, towards himself, towards this mission, towards his lack of control, towards the emotion of hatred itself, towards his ability to feel it. He could not trust himself to be around others when he felt so shamefully and unacceptably compromised.
Jim was correct. McCoy was correct. He could not and should not be allowed to complete the mission in this condition. He might have done it to satisfaction, but he could not predict what would beam back aboard. One landing party was all it'd taken to strip his mind from him so thoroughly and wholly that he scarcely recognized himself any longer. Deplorable. Appallingly, irredeemably, and unforgivably deplorable.
This time, before he gripped the handle of the turbolift, he made certain to press his palm against the concealing black fabric of his uniform slacks. There would be no physical evidence to prove his loss of discipline. Doctor McCoy was clearly willing to use any and every sign—real or exaggerated—to justify his decision, and Spock was not going to provide him with further evidence to use against him. He'd given more than enough as it was. He would count himself fortunate if he were only placed on medical leave.
"Deck—" Spock paused, having to remind himself that he was still on duty. He might have been pulled from the planetside excursion, but he was still on shift. They had yet to officially relieve him of that, and until such a time as they did, he had a responsibility to complete his work. Had he complied with the doctor's request to wait and remained in the briefing room to finish their discussion, he was certain beyond all doubt that McCoy would have pulled him from that too. Next steps, he'd said. It was not difficult to interpret the meaning of that. "Deck Two."
The labs. His office. He would escape into the privacy and silence of his office, and he would finish his work to the best of his ability. It was not his quarters, and it was not the true solitude that he required, but it was as close as he would find while still attending to his duties. Spock knew he was still scheduled to be on the bridge at this hour. If the captain required his presence there, he would return to his post. Until then, locking himself away somewhere was to the benefit of all. He calculated a four-point-six-two-eight percent chance of the captain making such a demand of him.
"Commander Spock, sir," Miss Callahan greeted him cheerfully, saluting him as she scuttled to the side to allow him to exit the turbolift. "Good morning!"
Spock nodded once but did not stop to speak or engage further. He walked curtly and swiftly down the hall, making a conscious effort to stiffen his posture and the set of his eyebrows to be appropriately severe enough to discourage further interruptions. It proved effective; passing crew scurried out of his way. He was not approached again.
His office was located across the hall from Lab One and adjacent to Lab Two, separated to maintain safety should an accident occur in either room, but in close enough proximity to provide support to his team were they to require it. In truth, he had four offices aboard the ship; a private desk located in his personal quarters, a secondary private Senior Officer room adjacent to his quarters, a spacious office for use by the ship's First Officer, and the fourth and final office designated for the Chief Science Officer, where he was going now. He used all four as duty necessitated, although he preferred the first and last for his own comfort. His quarters maintained his ideal room temperature, and the space in Science had been his domain far longer than the roomier (and draftier) one assigned to him as the First Officer.
The transition from the open hallway to the privacy of his office was a relief; his breath was coming in short bursts now, hitched and alarmingly uneven. Spock allowed the warmth of the room—cooler than his quarters, but warmer than his human crewmates preferred—to envelop him. With a short command, he engaged the locks on the door and took a seat at his desk.
His head hurt. He was so tired. So tired…
'You can hear the ocean in 'em. Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands—you know, sometimes I worry the pressure of it all is going to destroy me—hands off of him—I shall do neither. I shall do—I spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings. You have to actually connect on an emotional level. Captain, please don't—I shall do neither. You weren't answering anyone, Mr. Spock. I was starting to get worried—like a wet—we'll have to come back later in the day—get your hands off of him, Spock!'
The anger in him, previously cold and slick, abruptly turned hot. It boiled beneath his skin like magma, popping and hissing and smoking as each breath was dragged from his lungs in desperate, wheezing gasps. So tightly did he grip the PADD that it shattered beneath his fingers, live transcript fizzing out and the screen going black from the pressure. He tossed it onto his desk, stared and stared and stared, and then dropped his head into his hands.
Control. Control...
He was shaking, he realized; his entire body was shaking violently enough to rattle his teeth. And his lips were trembling, despite pressing them firmly together to prevent it. His body was reacting as if it were freezing, with uncontrollable shivers and jerks and shudders, although he logically understood he was not cold. Peculiar; he should be warming up due to the atmospheric temperature of his office. Yet his body shook, and his lips quivered, and all the rigid control he tried to enforce slipped further and further away from him.
He inhaled a convulsing breath, and wondered, very dimly, where the air had gone, because it did not reach his chest and he suffocated and burned and burned, just like his eyes were burning, and his lungs were burning, and—
A choked sound, desperate and ragged, was unwillingly dragged from him. And another. And another after that.
This display of emotion was impractical; it achieved no goal, aim, or purpose. It neither offered him relief from the panic, nor any sense of catharsis in the expression of it. As a Vulcan, he was better than this. He should have been able to prevent this from happening; should have been able to smother it deep down where it could not influence his actions or his control. The mesiofrontal cortex was clearly malfunctional or damaged for his psycho-suppressive systems to have lapsed so severely in regulating his emotional responses. He was tired of this; of himself, of his reactions, of his chest-heaving sobs. Even as he could not contain them, he hated each one that emerged. And his emotion of hate, an emotion he had so little experience coping with, was something he hated too. Counterproductive…
And so very, very disappointing.
For a long while, Spock sat there, head buried into the dark cover of his hands. He ignored the stinging in his eyes as he pressed them harshly into his palms. He ignored the way his ribs ached, and his head throbbed, as if he were still injured from Seskilles VII. He ignored the nausea and rising urge to vomit. He ignored, and he ignored, and he ignored, until his breath finally began to even out and his body stopped shaking. He ignored until there was nothing remaining to ignore; no evidence, no trace, no disturbance.
It was only then, when he was certain that his mask of impassivity was firmly in place, that he lowered his hands and straightened. His face was calm, his expression blank, his body still. His breathing hitched once, twice, but he did not sob or wheeze any longer. His lungs expanded and, while he did not feel the air, he did not suffocate further. He felt hollow, empty, and lifeless, like all energy had been drained from him. It was not a good feeling, but neither was it a horrible one. Neutral. That was acceptable.
Spock leaned back into his chair, critically observing the broken PADD on his desk, and the toppled pile of microtapes next to his monitor. He had work he needed to catch up; while he'd been deemed too incompetent to return to Seskilles VII, he had not yet been withdrawn from shift entirely.
That, he suspected, would happen soon. McCoy was going to place him on leave, just as he'd warned. After the uncharacteristic outburst in the briefing room, the captain would undoubtedly even back the decision. Knowing them both as he did, they were either in the process of formalizing the decision to suspend him from duty, or they had already done so and had yet to update him. It was not a simple process to rescind the first officer of a flagship for mental health concerns, particularly when he was so integral to the mission's success—a mission the Federation placed great importance on.
Regardless, he surmised he would not be allowed to remain on shift for much longer.
Spock steepled his fingers, bringing them to his lips idly as he considered the appalling display his friends had witnessed. His behavior and swift exit clearly demonstrated his inability to control himself. For a human, it would not have been so alarming, and possibly even expected. The doctor had similar tantrums often and was certainly no stranger to storming from the room in a fit of dramatics. But Spock was not human. He was a Vulcan, and for a Vulcan, his conduct was rather akin to a klaxon alarm blaring. He'd been so desperate to prove to the captain his ability and resilience that he ruined any hope of doing either. The official determination would be arriving soon—before the end of the day, at the very least, if not in the next hour as he expected. Once the doctor entered into the system his disclosure from the prior night, that would be all the sufficient justification needed. It was likely only due to having been called to the briefing room before his shift start that he'd not already done so.
A restless anger began to grow again at the thought of that confession. He could not fault the doctor for making use of the information he'd been given; if Spock were in his position, he would have done the same. As a doctor, McCoy had no choice but to do so; disclosure of such a crime required certain action to be taken. It was logical, understandable, expected. Knowing this did not prevent the tight, restless simmering in his chest at the knowledge that Jim now knew the truth of the Seskille's actions towards him. The captain would have suspected as much, but hearing it said plainly removed any room for doubt. With the Seskille repeating his memories for all to hear and read, and specifically his memory of telling McCoy about kae'at k'lasa and telepathic assault, Jim would recognize the significance of such an attack.
If Jim had been treating him like glass before…
The door chimed.
Spock lowered his hands from where they rested against his chin. It was either the captain, the doctor, or one of his scientists. If the former two, they would either continue to request entry until he opened the door, or they would override his code and enter anyways. If the latter, they would give up in short order and forward any relevant questions to him for review.
The door chimed.
Not his department, then. Spock wondered if he was about to be officially withdrawn from duty. Although he disagreed with it, such a decision was neither unexpected or surprising. He understood the logic in removing him from the Seskille mission—although he disagreed with that as well—but duty as a whole? Unacceptable. He was compromised, this he could reluctantly admit, but he was not so compromised that he needed to be on mandatory leave. Restricting him from work would not facilitate any further healing than attending shift would.
The door chimed.
He steeled himself for the captain's disappointment and the doctor's scowl. He would accept the consequences of his actions with as much dignity and stoicism as he could manage. He might have lost control of himself abominably in the briefing room, but he still had some shred of pride remaining; enough, at least, to remain professional when confronted with his transgressions.
"Enter."
Except, it was not the captain, nor the doctor, nor even one of his scientists who entered the room.
It was Ambassador Hammett.
Spock raised a brow, admittedly perplexed at the sight. They'd been working together for nearly three weeks now, in close proximity even, and he still had yet to interact with the man privately. He'd always been approached while others were present, if he'd been approached in the first place. "Ambassador," he acknowledged tonelessly, folding his hands neatly into his lap as though this were any other meeting. "Is there something you need?"
"Something, yes. Yes, I believe there is…" The ambassador glanced around the office like it was a foreign land, grimacing as he eyed the broken PADD on the desk. He was distinctly out of breath and red-faced, as if he had hurried over from across the ship, and he tugged at his collar to presumably assist in cooling himself down. He would find little relief; Spock kept his office at thirty-five degrees Celsius—a temperature that, while tolerable to humans, was generally not preferred for extended exposure. Hammett seemed to realize as much, as he ended the motion quickly and stepped further into the room, waving the hand at the empty chair across from Spock's desk. "May I?"
"You may." Spock waited until the man settled into his seat. "How may I assist?"
Ambassador Hammett cleared his throat a few times, uncharacteristically hesitating. "Assist may not be the right word, Commander," Hammett told him in a passable attempt at neutrality, which still did little to hide the nervousness in his facial expression and posture. "More like do. See, your captain just informed me that you aren't going down to Seskilles VII after all, and I've come to ask that you, ahh, that you reconsider."
"The decision was not mine, Ambassador." Spock said evenly, measured as he crossed one leg over the other. "I do not have the authority to reconsider an order I did not give."
Although, even as he spoke, he wondered whether he truly had been given an order. Jim's voice had been commanding, and he'd delivered the words in the same tone as an order, but the choice of words left room for doubt. I want you to stay on the ship was not the same as I order you to stay on the ship. Said as an order, intended as an order, but phrased in such a way that one could reasonably make the argument that it was not an order at all. The word want had multiple definitions, but the most commonly accepted one was to feel a need or a desire for; wish for. Wishes were not commands.
And yet, using such a technicality felt… uncomfortably close to outright defiance. It was underhanded, at the very least. Jim may have appreciated the distinction another time—naturally, he'd taken advantage of such word play technicalities in missions prior, either to subvert Starfleet commands or as a result of circumstances involving the mission itself—but he would find no amusement were Spock to utilize the same clever tactic against him.
"Oh no, no, of course not. I know that." The ambassador waved a dismissive hand in the air. "But you do agree with it, yes? Perhaps I'm mistaken, but… but I got the feeling that you agreed with me in the briefing about finishing this whole thing up. Even though your captain didn't."
Spock had agreed. Moreover, he had agreed so emphatically that he'd argued for exactly that with the captain and doctor afterwards. "My direct involvement in the conclusion of the mission is the most practical solution to our current problem. As a Vulcan, my adherence to logic is unaffected by the emotional consensus of others."
This was not entirely accurate; Spock knew his captain's opinion influenced his own thoughts and actions to an irrational, sometimes even dangerous, degree. Were he as objective as he claimed to be, Jim's disappointment might not have hurt so much, nor would he have lost control of his temper.
"Right, exactly! Perfectly logical! I'm glad that someone agrees with me, because with the way your captain spoke to me just a moment ago, you might have thought I was just spewing nonsense! Entirely uncalled for! Not to mention that McCoy! Why, his manners are disgraceful! I don't know how you can stand it; it must drive you insane."
It was clear that the ambassador witnessed the often-antagonistic interactions between Spock and the doctor and had made his own inference about the nature of their relationship. It was odd that he was taking his side in this, as he suspected that Hammett still greatly preferred McCoy's company to his own, manners lacking or not. This appeared then, in Spock's estimation, to be an attempt at building rapport with him based on a shared animosity.
An incredibly poor attempt.
Straightening in his seat, Spock regarded the ambassador coolly, lips pressing into a thin line. "On the contrary, sir; Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy is one of the most assiduous, qualified, competent humans I have worked with during my eighteen years of service. The Enterprise is fortunate to have him aboard; his expertise is beyond reproach."
Hammett was not an intelligent man, but even he caught on quickly, and he back-peddled his statement even quicker. "Oh, yes. Right, yes, of course. Quite skilled, that one. Very protective over you! Very protective…" The ambassador cleared his throat loudly, his face having gone red once more. "But back to the matter at hand. The mission, beaming down, the logic of it! You see, you might not have the authority to reconsider orders, but I do."
"You do," Spock agreed flatly.
He wished Hammett would make his point and leave. His head pounded. His throat had gone dry. It hurt to breath. His side ached where shards of tricorder once pierced him. Every thought was sluggish and slow and thick, like syrup. He was so tired...
"I want this awful mission over with just as much as the next man, and we all know the only way that will happen is if you pop on down to finish it up. Kirk told me that under no circumstances are you to beam down; told me that they'll find another solution to complete this whole…. thing, but I think you and I both realize that's not a realistic solution. It's just extending this for everyone! I'm sure there's better things we could be doing with our time than uselessly orbit this damn planet! Surely you can agree to that, Mr. Spock."
Spock could. In fact, he agreed entirely. The act of saying so was as appealing as swallowing slime and so he did not.
"I am aware that I am the only telepath aboard the Enterprise," he said instead, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Hammett's plea. "However, I have my current orders, sir. As you said, you have the authority to override them."
"And… what if I did? If I gave you the order to ignore Kirk's command and to beam down anyways?"
"Per Starfleet Regulations, book nineteen, section four-hundred-and-thirty-three, paragraph twelve: all high-ranking Federation officials have the authority to give direct orders to Starfleet officers. The Federation has appointed you as the head of this mission. If you give me an order, unless that order violates further listed regulation, I am obligated to comply."
The ambassador chuckled weakly. "Oh, I'm not doubting that you'd follow it; like you said before, you're a Vulcan. It's practically like inputting a computer command with you all; reliable, logical, and obedient." Fascinating. Spock blinked, nonplussed at the comment. Not at the insult itself, of which he'd come to expect, but rather that Hammett did not appear to realize he given an insult at all. It demonstrated an astounding lack of self-awareness. "No, that's not what I'm asking. I'm… asking about… ahh… how do I say… the implication that was hinted at during the briefing earlier. About what the Seskille might have… unintentionally done."
His stomach sank like a stone. Control. He was so tired…
Spock raised a brow, forcing his expression to remain blank. A mask, the same one he'd worn the day prior at the debrief. It felt constricting, tight, and cracked, but it was as much as he could manage now. Jim would have seen through it immediately, but Hammett was not so familiar with him. "I do not recognize unstated comments, Ambassador, nor do I engage in speculation about inferred meanings. Which of the series of broad statements made during the briefing are you inquiring about specifically?"
"Listen, even you must have realized how it sounded." The ambassador continued to hedge around the specifics, looking increasingly distressed by Spock's intentional refusal to decipher his meaning. "It sounded to me like… well, like they hurt you."
"The Seskille do not have physical forms and are thus incapable of causing physical harm. My injuries were accidental in nature, sustained as a result of adverse weather conditions."
"No, not—your Doctor McCoy made it seem like you'd be at risk of… of other danger."
He did not want to speak to the ambassador about this topic. As a matter of fact, he did not want to speak to anyone about this topic, let alone a man who had been dismissive to him at best and outright antagonistic at worst. It was no one's business what the Seskille had done or would do to him. Outside of that which directly impacted the mission's outcome, there was little need to speak of this topic further. His privacy had been infringed upon far too much already, and the exposure felt gutting.
Spock was uncertain what answer the ambassador desired. Confirmation? Denial? Hammett had already formed his own conclusion on the matter, which was no doubt supported by the captain's protectiveness and McCoy's outrage.
"Specify," Spock said finally, although Spock did not, in fact, want the man to specify anything at all. He thought it likely that Hammett would continue to dodge around the subject matter. After all, gaining full transparency on the issue would not support his agenda of sending Spock to the planet's surface. That he was inquiring about it at all was nothing short of surprising. It was inconvenient and humiliating, but the action did raise his own esteem for the man a small amount—a very small amount. The ambassador was undeniably an incompetent fraud, but he was not so cruel as to be without some form of compassion, limited and malfunctional though it was.
It still did nothing to redeem him in Spock's eyes, but it did not outright lessen him either. That was about as cordial an interaction as he could ever hope to have with this man.
As he predicted, Ambassador Hammett did not specify. After opening and closing his mouth numerous times in an apparent effort to avoid outright specific elucidation, he groaned with a muffled curse into his hand.
"If I send you down to Seskilles VII, Commander, are you going to be harmed?" Hammett finally said. "And I'm not just talking about physically, mind. Will speaking to the Seskille hurt you… in any way?"
(The Seskille rushed in, just as he knew they would. They delighted at the invitation, their warm, joyful, radiating emotions washing over him like a flood, and it was his happiness—)
(There was the sensation of pure relief, like a cool compress against an injury, as he stopped resisting against them.)
(Assault had never felt so good…)"No, Ambassador," Spock said truthfully. "Communicating with them will not be painful. Not physically, nor any other way." He paused and then, considering the ramifications of sustained telepathic communication, amended his statement. "Although, the mental strain of merging with a hivemind species carries the potential risk of a headache. Nonetheless, it will not result in lasting damage."
Hammett released a heavy gust of air, relieved. "Good, very good!" He clapped his hands once for emphasis. "Then without further ado, I order you to beam down to Seskilles VII! Meet in, oh, twenty minutes? That should be enough time for us both to gear up for the weather."
Spock did not grimace or blanch—he could still control himself enough to prevent such an overt physical reaction of that kind—but his mind recoiled in gross discomfort and no small amount of horror. He had, perhaps naively, believed he would be traveling to the planet's surface alone. It was against regulation to send a landing party of one, but the rule had been broken before when circumstances required it; the mission on Deneva being only one such example. A specimen needed to be acquired for study, and he'd already been infected by the neural parasite. Minimizing damage to the rest of the unaffected crew had been entirely logical. This, it appeared, was not a circumstance requiring a landing part of one. That was, unfortunately, also logical reasoning that he knew he could not challenge.
And yet, the thought of being down there with only Hammett at his side, with the Seskille ravaging his mind and his body left vulnerable to any outside forces…
"Ambassador, may I request a third crewmember accompany us?"
"Well, I suppose that depends on who you have in mind…" Ambassador Hammett did not conceal his trepidation. It was obvious who he thought Spock would choose and, on any other mission, he would have been correct. There were very few times that Spock did not want to be in his captain's presence.
This was one such time.
He could not allow the captain to accompany him to the planet. Not with what he knew was to come. It would… it would be more than he could stand. Jim would be there—physically there, at his side—and Spock would see him there, alive, breathing, whole…
… And he would see Jim die, over and over and over again.
The Seskille made no effort to conceal their fascination of that day. It was little wonder they were so taken by it; they were drawn to emotion, after all, and that memory must have been a veritable buffet to them. He had never felt so strongly or so deeply as he had when he'd realized just what he had done to his captain—his Jim. There was no possible way he'd be able to avoid revisiting that moment once he beamed down to the planet's surface. Get your hands off of him, Spock! The Seskille hadn't forgotten the power that memory had to him, although they were incapable of understanding the painful context of it. To them, it was something exciting, intriguing, potent. To him—to him, it was something that had destroyed an irreplaceable sense of self-trust inside of him.
Spock could not allow Jim to accompany him to the planet. Not only would his captain protest his involvement wholeheartedly, seeing Jim limp in his arms and seeing his captain alive at his side… he would break. The sight of it would be more than he could stand, more than he could ever possibly bear. He would say something, or he would do something, and he would never forgive himself for either. He would sour this fragile thing between them, even more than he already had.
Spock remembered the first time the Seskille had made him relive it, before the true comprehension of what they could do to him was known. He remembered being so disoriented, because Jim was dead, and then Jim was at his side. He was burning, and then he was freezing. In his terror and panic and blind, horrified shock, he'd shoved his captain away so viciously into the rock that he'd caused him physical harm.
And more than that… once the Seskille were gone from his mind, he would disgrace himself. Spock knew—he knew—that he would break all over again, and he did not want to contemplate what his uncontrolled reaction might be to seeing Jim alive in front of him, so soon after dying again and again and again. Would he embrace his captain as he had this morning, so relieved by the sight of him that he crossed physical boundaries? Would he sob and weep and fall into hysterics? Would he pin Jim to the ground, body against body, and give into that aching want, just to rid himself of the grief? Would he hurt him? Would he—no.
No.
Spock would not risk it. He could not risk it.
"I request that Lieutenant Uhura accompany us," Spock said at last, having hastily considered who else aboard the ship he could count on to be discreet with what they witnessed. Jim would have been his first choice for any other mission, and Doctor McCoy would have been a close second. As neither were a possibility, his options were therefore limited. There were few others among the crew that he considered to be a friend, and even fewer that he trusted with his loss of composure. Only two came to mind: Lieutenant Commander Scott, and Lieutenant Uhura. Both were professional, capable of tact, and honorable. Of the two, Uhura was already aware of the magnitude of the issue and would require little explanation.
As well, she had the patience to manage Hammett while he was indisposed. The same could not be said for Mr. Scott; he did not want to emerge from the meld only to be required to arrest the Chief Engineer. Jim would soon be down his first officer if McCoy had his way. Spock did not think it wise to risk the second officer's freedom as well.
The ambassador visibly brightened, displaying his relief as he stood to depart. "Oh! Oh yes, of course! Quite logical, too, with her heading communications and all. Quite logical indeed! I'll let her know immediately to gear up! Be at Transporter Room One in twenty minutes, Mr. Spock."
There was a low buzzing in his ears as Hammett left; a dull sound that grew deafening when the door slid closed behind him. His eyesight began to darken at the edges, world numbing, distancing and tunneling further and further—
Spock took a steadying breath, acknowledging that this reaction was irrational. He'd consented to the order Hammett had given him, as was his responsibility as a Starfleet officer. That was rational; there was no need to become emotional about it. He told himself firmly that he'd had no choice but to comply. He told himself that he'd only been doing his duty. He told himself that it did not matter that Jim would be disappointed in him.
And Jim would be disappointed in him. So incredibly disappointed…
Dread pooled in his gut, burning like stomach acid at the thought of seeing Jim after he beamed back to the ship; of the confrontation he knew would take place shortly after. He would see his captain die, and then he would see his captain's anger, and both would be his own fault. All his justifications for agreeing to Hammett's order had very little to do with logic, and a great deal to do with his own greedy desire to grasp any sense of control he could see. Jim would not understand. McCoy would not understand. Spock did not know how to verbalize it in a way they would—not without expressing emotional vulnerability.
Admitting to vulnerability was tantamount to admitting to instability.
He could not permit himself to be unstable.
(Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)
His head hurt. No, his head was throbbing, and thinking through the pain was increasingly difficult. He wished more than anything to meditate; to return to his quarters, lock himself in the darkness of his cabin, light the flames of his asenoi, and meditate until his mind cleared. He was aware he was in no state to make decisions; his judgement was compromised in such a way as to render him all but useless. Jim and McCoy were quite correct to pull him from the mission. He understood this logically—understood this objectively—but the reality of it was abhorrent, inexcusable, shameful…
This was selfish, Spock thought. This was selfish, and his actions would have consequences, both professionally and personally. Jim had little patience for his orders being disobeyed, and Spock knew that arguing the technicalities of those orders would exceed the extent of what limited patience he did have. He was hurting his captain by doing this, hurting their working relationship, their friendship, their rapport. He was breaking Jim's trust and that was unforgivable. And yet…
And yet, he'd agreed to the ambassadors orders anyways. He had done it willfully and knowingly, because he did not know how to be what Jim and McCoy wanted him to be right now. He did not know how to be vulnerable, or injured, or sheltered. He did not know how to be weak, or useless, or emotional. He did not know how to receive comfort or protection, or even how to maneuver through circumstances that might require him to need either. Jim wanted to help him, and Spock did not know how to accept that help, or how to admit that he might need it at all.
How unfortunate that, even in space, Spock was drowning.
As if his body belonged to someone else, his hand moved to his desk intercom. Duty. Responsibility. He still had a job to do. Control. The idea of control now was almost laughable. "Spock to Transporter Room One."
"Transporter room, Scriven here."
He stared at the blue intercom…
(They were right about him: about his inability to control himself, his illogical reactions, his lack of worth, his weakness, all of it.)
(He was tired of fighting. He was so tired. It was easier in the long run if he simply gave in.)(Jim died in front of him again.)(Jim died in front of him again.)
He stared…
"Transporter room, Scriven here," came the voice again. "Commander Spock, do you read me?"
Spock blinked, cleared his throat. His voice came from far away.
"Affirmative. Have three survival suits prepared for a landing party consisting of myself, Lieutenant Uhura, and Ambassador Hammett. Departure in sixteen minutes. Spock out." He clicked the button off and he stared and he stared and he stared…
The reality of what he was doing began to assert itself, and with that knowledge came the panic. It was a surge in his veins, like lightning, and he began to shake. Sixteen minutes. Sixteen minutes until he would see Jim die, and he would feel the Seskille crawl and rip and tear through his mind. Sixteen minutes until he cemented his disobedience of his captain's orders and took a path that led him further away from that which he most desired.
Only hours prior, he had been in Jim's arms. He had been held and had held him in return, and he'd never felt safer or more accepted than in that single moment. Shut doors, high walls—Jim tried to get through to him, tried to get Spock to confide in him, and Spock wanted to. He wanted to so badly and so desperately that it felt like he was choking from the overwhelming force of that want.
But he remembered the last time he opened up and confided in Jim about his emotions. He remembered the result of Jim's determination to help him through it, to support him. He remembered holding his beautiful, radiant, brilliant captain by the throat as he lay limp and bloodied. He remembered thinking that, had he never said anything at all, he would not have reached Vulcan in time. He would have died on the ship, and Jim would have lived, and such an outcome would have been entirely, sincerely acceptable. Preferable, even. In the end, of course, Jim was fine. Spock knew this, just as he knew the knowledge made very little difference. He'd killed his captain, and he had lived with that reality, brief though it had been. Jim's miraculous recovery hadn't erased or dulled the horror of that time.
A whistle.
"Kirk to Spock."
By the end of the day, they would be out of orbit of Seskilles VII. Spock told himself this was a good thing; the relief of it would be dizzying, certainly, and he might be able to finally breathe after they put the planet far behind them. He tried to tell himself that it would be worth going through this again; that he could handle the violation long enough to ensure the mission success. He tried to tell himself that he even cared about the mission at all. He tried to tell himself that he was in control. Control, control, control…
He tried, but it hurt to think, and his mind felt as if it were on fire…
Fifteen minutes…
A whistle.
"Kirk to Spock. Spock, do you copy?"
A whistle.
"Spock, acknowledge."
He stared at the intercom as it went off, boatswain whistle repeating over and over again (again and again—). He breathed in and he breathed out, and his ribs ached, and his head ached, and his side was in agony. He pressed a hand against it to apply pressure, mindful of the tricorder shards. He did not wish to press them further into the wound, or McCoy would become upset. His head… his head was a lost cause, and it was little wonder that focus was so difficult to achieve, because he had shattered his skull. His brain was visible; he remembered Jim's visible terror at that.
A whistle.
Closing his eyes, Spock retreated.
He was the air in his lungs. He was the sight of the blue intercom, the top of his desk, the broken screen of the PADD. There was nothing more or less to him than that, and that was safe. If he were not real, they could not harm him, they could not reach him, they could not open him up like a vivisection and rip and tear and invade…
A whistle.
"McCoy to Spock. Report to sickbay."
A whistle.
A whistle.
A whistle.
A chime.
For a split moment, the numb sense of detachment broke, and something like relief flooded him. He wanted it to be the captain; he wanted it to be him in all his righteous, frustrated anger. The disappointment, the helplessness, the exasperation, the warmth. He wanted it to be Jim, because he wanted Jim to wrap his arms around him again. He wanted Jim to say that he understood. That he could be patient and wait for Spock to talk to him, and that he would still be there. He wanted Jim to stop him from going back down to Seskilles VII. Please, he wanted to beg, if begging would have done anything at all. Please do not send me down there. (Begging didn't make any difference, he thought distantly. Begging was useless.)
It was illogical to beg the captain to intervene when he'd already done so. Spock was the one who intentionally disobeyed those orders. And yet…
"Enter," Spock said hollowly.
But it was not Jim.
It was Lieutenant Uhura.
"Excuse me, Mr. Spock?" Her expression was warm and patient, formed with a light positivity that he'd always admired and respected. Her presence was its own kind of comfort, and he took as much of it as was offered. Her eyebrows creased as she took him in, and when she saw the shattered PADD on his desk, the concern tightened and strained further. Whatever conclusion she came to—likely the correct one, as she was unusually perceptive—she said nothing about it.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
She offered him a small smile that did not meet her eyes. "I've been sent to get you. You were due in the transporter room five minutes ago, sir…"
His heart began to pound violently in his side, freezing adrenaline pouring through his veins like ice. Spock nodded once; an abrupt jerking motion that made the room spin away. "Indeed?" he observed in a calm, distant voice that seemed to come from the opposite end of the tunnel he was falling through. "My apologies for the wait, Lieutenant."
Spock stood on legs he did not feel.
A whistle.
He ignored it.
(Spock hated himself in that moment. He hated himself.)
The journey from his office was scattered; disorienting, muddled, and hazy. He was both present and not present. His efforts to ground himself flew away like sand carried by the wind.
In the turbolift, with Uhura a genial, watchful presence at his side, he rested his clenched fists behind him in parade rest and pretended he was a version of himself that was unaffected. He pretended to be the same Spock that had beamed down to Seskilles VII only nine-point-six-four-nine days prior; the one who'd never truly returned from the planet at all.
Hammett was already suited up when they arrived at the transporter room, and the man's head snapped up with a nervous, jittery terror before realizing it was only them.
"Finally!" He said in a jovial, relieved voice. "There you are, Commander! I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind after all…" His awkward, anxious chuckle betrayed him, as did the way his eyes lingered on the door as if he expected it to detonate.
Or as if he expected the captain to come storming through.
"My apologies." Spock gave no explanation for his tardiness, focusing instead on the act of zipping into the survival suit. His fingers felt clumsy, stiff, and thick. He maintained enough awareness to ensure Lieutenant Uhura was properly wearing own. She did not accompany landing parties often and, although he did not expect the mission to take long, he did not wish for her to become cold by improperly secured attire. His own cold weather suit was meaningless to him; he thought it improbable that he would be conscious long enough to feel the temperature, nor did he imagine he would be in any state to care once he regained it.
He attempted to focus on the mission itself. On being professional, reserved, logical. He attempted to focus on focusing. Breathe. Control, control, control.
It felt strange to beam down with only a communicator. Uhura and Hammett both held considerably more gear with PADDs, tricorders, and communicators strapped or hanging at their sides. They would be monitoring the change in the Seskille's audio feed while he attempted to convey the mission goal telepathically. He did not expect it would take long; he was fairly confident in his ability to direct the flow of memories in such a way that he could make them understand his intention.
"Lieutenant, there is a ninety-eight-point-six-two percent chance that I will become unresponsive to all outside stimuli once I am engaged in telepathic communication," Spock told her as he pulled his hood into place. His voice did not shake. It was a pitiful victory. "Due to the unusual nature of the meld, it is unlikely I will be capable of terminating it on my own. Once you have confirmed the Seskille's comprehension of our mining intent, your assistance may be required to extract me using abrupt force. If this is not successful, I request that I am beamed up regardless of my state of consciousness. Do you understand?"
Uhura's expression was too compassionate and too perceptive. "Yes, Mr. Spock, I understand. The exact instant and not a moment later."
They had only just gotten into position on the transporter pad when there was the whistle of the intercom.
"Kirk to transporter room. Hold the landing party until I arrive." There was audible anger in the captain's voice, and the sound of it sank into Spock's stomach like a heavy stone. He'd heard that anger before, but he was rarely the direct cause of it.
"Oh, now what?" Hammett sighed, tossing his hands up in the air. "I've already told him that my orders take priority here, not his! He might be willing to toss aside the mission over personal biasness, but I'm certainly not! And that goes for you too, Ensign; my orders take priority, and I order you to disregard his order! Go ahead and energize!"
Ensign Scriven's wide eyes darted between Spock and the ambassador, conflicted as his hand hovered over the panel. "Ahh…"
He felt bile in his throat. "He is correct, Mr. Scriven," Spock assured him dully. He was already tensing, muscles locking and going rigid in preparation, although he knew it would make little difference. There was no preparing for this. "I shall explain the matter to the captain when I return. When you are ready, Ensign."
His vision erupted into golden light and a sense of weightlessness. As it took solid shape around him once more, it was blinding white and cold and there was a pressurehappinessjoy—
—and suddenly, Jim was there, having taken that one final step to bridge the space between them. He reached for Spock, his hands coming up to cup his shoulders, and there was no hesitation or uncertainty in the movement when they continued to wrap broadly around his back. There was only a sense of warmth and a quiet kind of protectiveness as the captain gently, firmly, tugged Spock into his arms.
Spock went rigid, every muscle stiffening up as if a livewire had run a current through him, as Jim's arms instantly encircled him, the motion somehow both strong and soft simultaneously. Distantly, through the deafening rush of blood to his ears, there came the realization that this was an embrace. A hug. His captain was hugging him.
Spock didn't move, didn't relax, didn't so much as breathe. For a long, tense moment, he simply stood there, pinned in the hold of the embrace surrounding him. Heat. He felt heat; Jim's body against his own, human-hot even through the fabric of their uniforms. It seeped warmth into his skin from where they pressed against one another, and as close as they were, he could feel the captain's steady heartbeat thud against his chest. He could feel his own, much faster heart rapid firing with a thrum in his side. His pulse sounded so loud in his ears that it—
—accidentally brushing a finger against the pointed, sensitive tip of Spock's ear as he did so. Spock jolted at the contact, twitching almost imperceptibly. Almost. As closely as the captain was watching him for any sign of protest, he spotted it instantly. His hand lifted to the barest weight, as if worried that a firmer one might frighten him away. "Do you want me to stop?"
Yes, Spock wanted to say—tried to say—because this kind of touch was dangerous. Not only for Jim, but for himself as well. It compromised his control, compromised his discipline, compromised their friendship. His terror spiked over the potential for sustained skin contact, followed closely by a surge of insuppressible, undeniable want—
—in this blurred and gauzy sense of security, the feeling of Jim. Jim. Jim. enfolding around and against him sparked a warmth inside. A feeling—a kind of nameless thrill—bloomed out like a rising ache. There was a shivering impulse, a yearning to satiate a hunger he did not know the name for. It made him want to move again; to move his hands to warmer skin. It made him want to move Jim backward until he hit the bulkhead. It made him want to press in closer; press in tighter—
—hold of the ahn-woon wrapped tight around his neck and keeping him partially suspended, the captain hung bonelessly, slack limbs sprawled out against the sand. This body—this limp, beaten, lifeless thing, did not look like James T. Kirk, the fearless starship captain. It did not look like Jim, his closest friend. It looked wrong; sickening and impossible and perverse, because it should not have been possible. He couldn't have—he couldn't have…
… What had he done?
He didn't breathe, even as a guttural, choked sound caught in his throat. Couldn't breathe. Everything went so quiet, fingers—
—Jim dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.
Jim died in front of him again.
Jim died in front of him again.
Jim died in front of him again.
I apologize for how long it took to get these four chapters posted on ! I began to wonder whether it was worth it or not to be posting on here, since there have been a number of issues with the site the past few months! I am much, much more active on AO3 and have been posting there with more frequency. However, it has recently been pointed out to me that there are still readers on here and so I will be continuing to cross-post until such a time as there are not!
As always, a massive thanks to everyone for reading!
I'm very excited for what is to come! I've got a number of scenes and chapters coming up that I've had planned since before this story had even a basic plot! Lines of dialogue or scenarios that I casually wrote down somewhere that I'll finally be able to put into action. Don't' worry; the comfort is coming! There are very real consequences to acting in the way that he is, and those consequences are going to catch up hard. He's got a solid support system that, frankly, can out-stubborn him any day of the week and still have time for more!
This chapter has a number of mentions of the episode 'The Devil in the Dark', which is among my favorites! If you haven't seen it yet, it's one of the most enjoyable 'mind meld' episodes there is, and Spock and Jim's interactions are a delight to behold. Spock is very insistent on keeping a creature alive, to the point of nearly defying the captain's orders—right up until that creature threatens his captain. Then he's firmly demanding it be killed. Go figure.
Feel free to find me on Discord: .alexprime
Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Qsa'muwhl — Crack; a blemish resulting from a break without complete separation of the parts; a long narrow opening; fissure.
Kae'at k'lasa — Mind Rape (a crime).
Asenoi — Fire Pot - Used to center one's thoughts during meditation.
