Chapter Twenty-One
Rikashan'es

"Mr. Spock!"

The presence of Jim had always called to his attention like a flame did to a moth; vibrant, blazing, and dangerously captivating. Spock often found it difficult to take his eyes off his captain.

On the rare occasion, however, he found it difficult to make himself look.

The captain's smile had widened, curling sly and smooth and charming at the corners. There was an alluring, playful spark in his eyes as he stood silent and steady. He looked as though he were sharing a private joke; one that did not need to be spoken but was merely recognized and understood only by those who knew of it. He was beautiful like this; bright and breathtaking and luminous, like the sun. And much like the sun, it hurt to stare for too long.

Spock had seen his captain flirt, and he had seen his captain seduce, yet never had he seen such an expression on him as he did now. This was not merely a passing infatuation, nor just a matter of lust. This ran deeper, and Spock struggled to look at it.

"I'll figure it out eventually," Edith Keeler said coyly, glancing up through her eyelashes at Jim as he smiled that striking, radiant, sun-lit smile of his and fell ever-more in love with her.

He felt his stomach churn; a low, pooling sensation of cold grief and resigned acceptance. It was illogical to feel so betrayed. It was illogical to feel such disappointment. He'd known—as he'd always known, ever since he first realized the nature of his affectionthat Jim Kirk was not and never would be his. This unrest he felt was not a rational reaction. Everything was as he'd always expected it would be.

"What in god's name is wrong with him?!"

"Help me turn him on his side, his mouth is bleeding! Mr. Spock? Mr. Spock, can you hear me?"

Even so, cohabitating with his captain, being in such close quarters with him, sleeping less than a meter away from that enthralling, brilliant human… some part of him had wondered, dreamed, imagined, what it would be like to have this for himself.

"I'll finish with the furnace—" Spock broke off before the word could slip out. His throat suddenly felt dry. He turned away so that he did not have to see their private, secretive smiles and teasing glances. They revolted him.

"—Captain?" Ms. Keeler finished, her eyes flicking to him knowingly. He wondered what had given him away. He wondered whether the captain had seen it as well. She glanced him over only briefly before she was all soft smiles for Jim again. "Even when he doesn't say it, he does."

Spock was not one to resent. He was not one to scorn or despise or hate… and he did not. He told himself firmly that he did not. Except… except, that simmering grief in him turned hot and began to seethe; began to boil into something alarmingly akin to loathing. He turned to the furnace, shocked at the anger that erupted so—

—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, he just… stared. There was pressure in his eyes, vision blurring and stinging with the onset of tears, but he didn't cry—couldn't cry—he could only stand there and look and look and—

"I'm so sorry! The mining agreement… you need to—you need to give them the context."

"—look, we have pergium to deliver," Chief Engineer Appel argued, frustration evident in the manner with which he postured at them. Spock raised a brow, unimpressed by both the show of temper and the cultural insensitivity being displayed. Jim's lips thinned as well, eyes rolling to the ceiling briefly as if to search for patience. He would find none there.

"Yes, I know. Here's your circulating pump." The captain took the part from his hands and passed it off to Appel, who accepted it with mulish confusion. Jim gave the miners a tight smile that did not meet his eyes. "Now, you've complained that this planet is a mineralogical treasure house if you had the equipment to get at it. Well, gentlemen, the Horta moves through rock the way we move through air, and it leaves tunnels! The greatest natural miners in the universe. Seems to me that we could make an agreement, reach a modus vivendi. They tunnel, you collect and process. And your process operation would be a thousand times more profitable."

Jim turned and made his way back to Spock, catching his eye. He shared a look of private annoyance. His skin was stained with dirt and rock, the gold of his—

—command uniform was ripped, bloody from the fight—their fight—their fight, because he did this—and his face looked beaten in. Bones broken; skin bruised, but unmistakably Jim Kirk. Jim, who was his closest friend. Jim, who meant more to him than any person ever had or ever would. Jim, who—

—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 dangled heavily from his grip, body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock—

—froze." The captain shivered, trembling so violently that he was barely able to form the words. "Sss-sorry, Mr. Sp-p-pock. Just rid-diculous."

"You are not ridiculous," Spock chided, tugging Jim further up his chest until his captain's head was tucked beneath his own chin. A freezing nose pressed into his neck, every inch of contact between them shockingly icy. He ignored the prickle of discomfort at the feeling of so much skin against his own; an unfamiliar and foreign sensation to him. He could tolerate it for the sake of Jim's health. His own comfort was of such low priority to him that it wasn't even worth considering.

They were stripped down to very little now, both of their uniforms laid out to dry. His own internal Vulcan temperature was not particularly conducive to warming his captain up via physical contact, but there were few other options available to them. In this instance, something was indeed better than nothing.

"What is ridiculous," Spock continued to say, "is your concern over my wellbeing. I did not fall through the ice, Jim. You are the one in grave peril of dying, not I."

Jim huffed a weak, drowsy laugh against him, and his breath was a puff of cold air that misted in front of Spock's eyes. His captain once more shifted to uncontrollably rub at his arms, desperate to use friction to heat himself up. With careful hands, Spock firmly pinned and restrained his captain still against his chest, just as he had every time before. Jim struggled with a pained groan, but it was not long before his exhausted muscles gave out.

"You are hypothermic, Jim," he reminded his captain softly, keeping his voice low and steady. "You are at risk of cardiac arrest if you warm your extremities before your core. Discontinue excessive movement."

"Sorry…" came the small, shivering voice into his clavicle. "You should-d-dn't have t-tt-to—"

"Captain. Jim. Please hush." Spock loosened his hold on Jim's body and arranged him gingerly, almost reverently. He surrounded and engulfed as much of the exposed skin as he could, so that his captain might benefit from whatever meager body heat Spock had to offer. "Direct your attention to getting warm, not on unnecessary apologies."

Despite the dangerous circumstances, there was a certain comfort at having his captain in his arms. Safe, secure, and so very close; tucked right where he could best keep an eye on him. He could feel each weak exhale against the sensitive skin of 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—

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you're having to do this, Mr. Spock, but you need to focus on the ore; on what the Federation wants us to do..."

"—have to ask you to get in touch with the Horta again. Tell her our proposition: she and her children can do all the tunneling they want, our people will remove the minerals, and each side will leave the other alone. Do you think she'll go for it?"

"It seems logical, Cap—"

"—tain." McCoy leaned back in his chair after passing them each a glass, crossing one leg over the other. "I was only there for a few months, but I've got a fair idea of Capellan customs, taboos, and the like. Why?"

"New orders. We're to go to Capella IV, try to negotiate a mining agreement for topaline with the Capellans," the captain replied, swirling his drink in his hand. Spock watched him grimace as he took a sip, lips pursing at the burn. It seemed illogical to consume a beverage that provided no nutrition, no positive benefit, nor even an appealing taste. Humans were bafflingly contrary.

"Oh. Oh boy," McCoy kicked back the remains of his own bourbon. "Well, I can tell you right now, that's going to be a real party. You'll not find a more finicky people anywhere, Jim. It took me weeks after I left to so much as blink without worrying about initiating some kind of combat. Weeks! Totally uninterested in medicine. I hope all those rocks are worth it, because this'll be a doozy."

Spock passed his own drink over to Jim. The captain, having achieved a mild level of intoxication, beamed brightly and raised a silent toast his way. It was a quiet evening between the three of them. There was a casual, languid kind of relaxation that could only ever form between missions. Even McCoy looked happy; his usual grouch and annoyance had melted and given way to rising, calm contentment. He was even smiling.

Spock, upon noticing the doctor's positive mood, decided it required immediate intervention.

"Topaline is critical to the continued function of life-support systems in many Federation colonies, Doctor," Spock interjected with his most imperious tone. He tilted his head just so, giving the impression that he was looking down his nose at the doctor in a way he knew would aggravate him. It did. "If you do not consider prolonging the lives of millions of inhabitants to be, in your own words, worth it, I believe you may have chosen the wrong career path."

Jim chuckled into his gifted drink. McCoy's nostrils flared, both his smile and contentment dropping abruptly. His eyes narrowed to a sharp, hawkish squint.

"Woah, now, hold on. I didn't say anything of the kind, you green-blooded iceberg, so you can go ahead and stop putting words in my mouth. I have—"

"—little to say about it, Captain. Except that, for the first time in my life, I was happy." And he had been… for a time. A drugged, toxic swirl of uninhibited hedonism; he'd smiled, and laughed, and held Leila in his arms without a thought or concern. He'd kissed her in the human fashion, his lips pressed to hers, and he had felt what happiness could be for the first time. It had been intoxicating, heady, and irresistible.

It had also been false.

Knowing that did not change how empty he felt now. It did not change how abruptly cold he was inside. Spock wondered what was wrong with him that the only time he could remember feeling content with himself was when he was living a lie.

Happiness. This was known, this was understood! The one named Spock had experienced and shared happiness and it was their happiness as well. Curiosity, intensity and passion. Things called ore, happenings called actions, actions called mining. Burning for the one named Jim. Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise. Love and adoration and devotion and burning, passionate emotion. Beautiful and warm and it was their delight to share in this. Get your hands off of him, Spock!

Memories…

There was a distant shred of himself still aware; a fragment that watched and observed along with his audience, just as the majority of the whole of him experienced and felt each recollection. This concept of Spock, a mere shadow of what he should have been, attempted to manage the flow of images as they rushed through him one after the other. It felt good. It felt deliriously good. It did not hurt him, it did not pain him, and he did not suffer… yet it was for that very reason that he hurt, and pained, and suffered. It felt so good, this violation of his mind. He hated it, he hated them for doing it, and he hated himself for letting it happen.

The Seskille crawled through every pathway of his mind, probing and searching and clawing open all those hidden places he'd locked closed. Every door was bashed open, every secret was ripped out into the light. All those private moments, insecurities, fears, desires; all of it was stripped bare of its coverings and left to bake and rot in the sun. His desert was ravaged, spilled, desecrated…

And heedless of the damage they caused, they continued to dig it out; pry to the surface memory after memory, word after word, emotion after—

"—emotion, Mr. Spock."

Fascinating.

James T. Kirk looked the same. His face was the same, his mouth was the same, his voice was the same. And yet, he was also undeniably wrong.

It was the eyes, Spock thought. Where Spock would have found only warmth before, all he found now was a cold, hard light. Even while they danced with perverse amusement, they never looked alive; never shined or brightened or sparked. This man, this Captain James T. Kirk, eyed Spock like a deadly predator might a small, unaware item of prey it hunted from the shadows: merciless, calculated, and dangerously patient.

"My own Spock, you see, he looks at me with triumph, with victory, with desire… but never with this pathetic, sad pining. The desperation pouring off you is sickeningly obvious even from all the way over here. You've internalized a rejection he's never even given, haven't you?" Those familiar lips had quirked to something saccharine, and the soft coo of his voice was deliberately mocking in an attempt at provoking him. Spock was careful not to show that it was working. "I hardly need to guess if he's noticed it, this bold captain of yours. If I've seen it, I guarantee you that he has too."

Spock examined this man, who was both so recognizable and so alien to him. He suspected that this Captain Kirk—not his captain, not his Jim—was unfortunately quite correct in his observation. Jim had claimed before, more than once, even, that he smiled with his eyes. It stood to reason, then, that he displayed other emotions through them as well. He was uncertain what emotion this Kirk saw in him now, but he had his suspicions.

The rest of the displaced away team watched them both from the back of the brig, expressions sharp and alert and savage. He would be required to deal with them soon, he knew, but he could not turn his attention to them. Right now, Spock only had eyes for Kirk, just as he always had.

The way this man formed his words, so honey smooth and sweet… how Spock wished Jim would speak to him like that, even just once. It was everything he'd always wanted and everything he could never have. It came from a vicious stranger wearing the body of his captain, and it hurt to hear.

"Look at you," Kirk murmured with a pleased, rumbling hum, raking his eyes over him appraisingly, possessively, hungrily. Such a perverse mirror to his own Jim's fond and gentle affection. "No medals, no beard, all baby-faced and tidy. Like an untouched, virgin canvas, with not a scar or scratch to be seen. A very pretty picture you make indeed, Mr. Spock, but I find it a shame that all those little marks of mine are gone. I could show you where they were, if you like. Nip them back into you, one at a time."

Spock stepped back, eyes wide, but this James Kirk only offered him a silky, knowing smile. He stretched languidly against the wall of the brig in a long line that accentuated the broad muscles of his body—of Jim's body. The light of the force field made his empty hazel eyes glow gold.

"Of course," Kirk continued in a low, sly croon, as if sharing a private secret with him, "if you want to take this somewhere else, you'd have to let me out of here. That is, unless you want this to be a spectator sport—"

—spectators were gone. T'Pring was gone. The universe could have ended and been reborn a dozen times over and all he could know was that unmoving body that lay stretched out on the—

"—sand conceals beneath it valuable minerals," Spock said, pretending to examine the data on his PADD. His voice was carefully neutral. "If the Ul'at truly have no interest in the ore as they claim, it is, as I believe the Earth express goes, there for the taking. It would be advantageous to further negotiations, Captain, if you offered them your sincere apologies for your part in the altercation."

The captain's lips thinned, finger tapping an idle, irritated rhythm on the top of his desk. His eyes never left the swelling on Spock's jaw, which had already begun to bruise. "I'm not about to apologize to bigots, First Officer."

"Captain. Jim." Spock sighed, forcing his own exasperation to the back of his mind, where he would bury it beneath the endless dunes of his mental desert at a later time. "It is illogical to compromise the mission's success because of verbal insults. I was not offended, and it is not worth risking the potential benefits for the sake of hubris. I do believe you defended my honor quite thoroughly already—albeit violently."

"Maybe. That might have been the case if it were me they insulted, Mr. Spock, but it wasn't. What they said to you was degrading, sickening, and totally, completely unacceptable. Maybe you aren't offended by it, but I am. So, no, I'm not apologizing, benefits be damned. I wouldn't so much as spit on them if they were on fire, the whole miserable lot of them."

Spock set his PADD aside with considerably more frustration than he'd intended. Had he less self-restraint, he would have been tempted to tell Jim that the captain's own insults and actions towards him during the Omicron Ceti III mission had been considerably more devastating than the Ul'at alderman's obscene, graphic sexual insinuations. He did have self-restraint, however, and so he said nothing. It—

—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—

The one named The Federation, asking and wishing to share and be shared with. Mining and ore and using images to ask for sharing. Understood. Using things called bodies, and bodies with things called arms, and the Burning One holding the one named Jim close. Get your hands off of him, Spock! Get your hands off of him, Spock! Comprehend, joined with, given emotions without name. Love, love, love, and emotions without understanding. Share with the collective, one named Spock. It is our happiness! Get your hands off of him, Spock!

"Get your hands off of him, Spock!"

Jim died in front of him again.

Jim died in front of him again.

Jim died in front of him again.

"Mr. Spock! You can stop!"

"Should we… should we do something?"Pain. Something struck him hard against his cheek.

Again, the shard of himself wanted to beg, if begging would have done anything. Begging was useless, though. They did not understand what begging was.

"Don't you think I'm trying?! Mr. Spock, sir, you've done enough! You can stop! Please, you can stop now."Pain.

"No! What are you doing?! Have you lost your mind, Lieutenant?! You'll break the connection!"

"That's the—" Pain. "—point! And you're next if you don't back up and give us space! Go… just go somewhere else! Go stand over there! Mr. Spock… it's alright, it's almost over. I'm so sorry. We've finished up, sir. You can end the connection now. I'm sorry, I don't want to—"

Pain.

The world was blinding when he finally opened his eyes. Spock was forced to instantly slam them closed, dizzy and disoriented from the light. His head was throbbing enough to floor him, and he thought it just might have except he already seemed to be curled on the ground. There was the sensation of wetness on his face, sliding over his cheeks, his chin, his lips, into the fabric of his hood. His mouth tasted of copper, and he choked on it when he breathed in. There was a cloying, acrid scent of vomit nearby. If he had the energy, he would have been sick from the smell of it alone.

Spock sensed movement at his side, heard the whistle of air, and he instinctively caught the gloved hand that moved to strike him again. It trembled in his grip—

—grip, body limp and lifeless, and—

"Lieutenant," Spock rasped out, finding his throat sore and rough, like sandpaper. It hurt to speak; there was something wrong with his mouth. Too thick and inelegant. "That's… that's sufficient, thank you."

There was an odd sense of detachment when he opened his eyes next. He squinted through agonizing light, but he did not feel as if he were truly seeing it. He was not floating away as he'd been earlier on the ship, but neither was he present. Numb. He felt numb.

Through the haze of disorientation, he could see Uhura hovering over him. Her face had gone ashen, and her eyes were red and swollen. It was an unusual display for the normally positive lieutenant. If there were any room left in his mind for emotion, he thought he might be alarmed by the sight of it. As it was, he merely stared at her uncomprehendingly.

Uhura held his arm to her chest, almost hugging it. He was uncertain whether it was to reassure him, or to reassure herself. Perhaps both. She was squeezing his hand as tightly as she could—and that did alarm him, although the alarm was peripheral at best—before he realized that it was through the thick, insulated gloves they both wore. It was not dangerous. He would not expose her to the Seskille's invasion… or to his own.

"That was… that was quite the spectacle." Hammett said from somewhere behind Lieutenant Uhura. He sounded shaken, even slightly afraid. His blood-drained face peaked over her shoulder, bobbing as if he were shifting awkwardly in place. It was confusing to follow, and so he did not try. "You, ahh.. are you alright? You're bleeding and… ahh…"

"I am well," he attempted to say, but his speech was slurred, the words half-formed and nearly incoherent. His tongue throbbed. Everything throbbed. And yet, everything felt so very good, because it was his happiness

"No, Mr. Spock," Uhura told him in a quavering, shaking voice. Her hood had been tossed off at some point. Snowflakes clung to her hair. "You aren't."

There was a pressure building in his mind, and even as he stared upwards at an overcast sky, images flooded through him. He'd just disappointed his father with his conduct, aged six-years-old. The captain's leg pressed against his own as he leaned on the console beside Spock. The enthralling, parallel James Kirk tried to seduce his way out of the brig, his eyes remaining cold even when he smiled. Doctor McCoy told Spock that he didn't consider him half-anything, but a whole person, and no one had ever said that to him before. Jim held him, hugged him. Jim died in front of him again.

There was the sound of a throat clearing. "Were you successful, then?"

Spock blinked. He felt momentarily puzzled by the question before he remembered. The mission. Yes, he recalled that…. and he recalled so many other memories as well that they blurred together. Jim died in front of him again. It was so difficult to think. His head was too full, and there was no room left in it for himself.

"That's what you care about?!" Uhura snapped furiously, whipping her head around and dislodging the flakes in her hair. They fell onto Spock's face, only to be swiped away by a thickly gloved hand. He flinched from it as it brushed against his meld points, but the insulated fabric prevented intrusion.

"No! No, of course it isn't!" Hammett stuttered out. "But that is why we're here! The sooner we get done with the mission, the sooner we can leave this miserable place."

"We're leaving now!" The Lieutenant aimed a narrow, angry glare behind her before she turned back to Spock, expression forcibly smoothing. "Can you stand, Mr. Spock? You must be freezing. Let's get you out of the snow…"

Uhura truly did her best to help him up, using all her strength to do so, but Spock still ended up taking the majority of his weight himself with limbs he could not feel. The ambassador did not offer to help, and neither Spock nor Uhura asked him for assistance. It was a relief; he did not want to be touched right now, not by anyone, but if contact was required, the lieutenant was the lesser offence between the two.

Spock swayed once he was on his feet, head lolling backwards before he caught himself. There was something sliding down his face. When he brought his own hand up to investigate, his glove came away soaked in green. A nosebleed, he determined faintly. The survival suit he wore was splattered with it, most of it in his hood or down his chest. Uhura's as well; her gloves were stained, as were her arms.

Arms… he was cradling Jim in his arms, skin against skin, to try to warm him after his captain had fallen through ice. He was on the ship. He was in his cabin. He was in the tunnels of Janus VI, fearing the unknown creature would claim Jim's life. He was watching Jim fall in love with Edith Keeler, and he felt sick with jealousy.

"... Enough?" Spock asked Uhura, mind too sluggish and too far away to form the sentence he'd been trying to say. When had his voice gone so hoarse? He did not recall, not when he recalled too much already. He could no longer tell if this were real. Was the lieutenant even here at all? The pressure hadn't ended, and he was still being watched.

Jim was alive, holding him. Jim was dead, limp, lifeless. McCoy was making plans for shore leave. Spock was making plans to end his own life. He was watching, amused, as Jim suspiciously investigated his dinner tray for tribbles. He was staring as Jim dozed off during chess, realizing for the first time that there was nothing—nothing—he would not do for this human. He was murdering his captain, the one single good thing in his life.

"Yes, sir," Uhura said shakily, sniffing once as she composed herself with remarkable swiftness. She wiped her cheek of stray tears, leaving behind a smear of green. "You've given more than enough." Her gloved hand shook badly enough to nearly drop the communicator when she pulled it from her belt. "Uhura to Enterprise. Three to beam up; a three meter margin from the initial coordinates."

Spock stared at the green on the lieutenant's face, and he examined it, and he examined it, and he was being examined in return, studied, gutted…

Jim teased him about his ears, reaching out a finger to delicately trace the tip of one. Were it anyone else, Spock would have flinched away. Because this was his t'hy'la, he remained perfectly still and allowed Jim to touch him.

Doctor McCoy nudged him in the side, leaning in to whisper humorous—and not entirely inaccurate—insults about the Dhex king as they watched him throw a tantrum at the dinner party.

Lieutenant Commander Scott agreed to collaborate with Spock on the Quantified Helioionization Buffer, and his accent had grown thick in his excitement. They arranged a time to go over the details. Mr. Scott clapped him broadly on the back.

Jim was dead. Spock stepped away from his body and began formulating a plan for his own suicide. He would have to wait until he reached the nearest starbase, he logically reasoned. McCoy should not have to deal with the body of another friend.

Jim was alive. Spock's control broke. He grabbed his captain by the arms, spinning him, and he smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in his life. He buried the grief and trauma deep down, where it proceeded to fester over the next five months.

His mother cried while Spock packed his belongings, torn between fury and heartbreak. His father did not see him off when he departed for the shuttle to Earth. He felt neither surprised nor disappointed by this. He felt nothing at all.

Sarek admonished Spock, only three-years-old, that hugs were not an acceptable means of attaining emotional security. It was not befitting a Vulcan to do so, Sarek said, and so he should repress the impulse to seek them out. Spock never initiated a hug again.

Jim hugged him tightly, holding him so securely in his arms, and Spock had never felt safer than in that moment. He brought his own arms up and wrapped them around his captain tentatively, the motion stilted and awkward from lack of practice. For the first time since Seskilles VII, he felt as if everything would be okay.

Jim died in front of him again.

Jim died in front of him again.

Jim died in front of him again.

"Kirk here. Prepare for transport in three, two, one—"

The one named Spock was leaving! There is no need! Do not leave. Share, stay, enjoy! Learn from and be learned from as well! It was their happiness, their delight! Share and be shared with, join and be joined with! Do not go, one named Spock! Get your hands off of him, Spock! There is no need to go but many to stay, to see with things called eyes and stay and share and join with.

Please, he wanted to say, to beg, if begging would have done anything. Please, stop. I cannot bear this any longer. What you have done to my mind, the damage you have caused… you have devastated me. You have ruined me in ways you will never understand, and I hate you for it. I hate you.They continued to call out to him, delighted, welcoming, vibrant. They did not understand. They did not, could not, and he knew that they never would. He felt no catharsis in telling them of his anger, only shame. Shame, revulsion, and remorse that he could be driven to such emotions in the first place. That they had provoked such terrible rage inside of him. That he was capable of hatred at all.

The one named Spock. Come share and join. It is our happiness.

His head was bursting, stuffed and crammed with emotion and memory and feeling, and it felt so good. So gloriously, deliriously good. It was unbearable.

Stop.

Please stop.

The world erupted in light, splitting the snow-bright land into particles of gold. There was an abrupt, sudden, shocking emptiness as the atoms that made up his mind dissolved, and the pressure inside dissolved with it. The break in connection was enough to send him reeling; having been so full and now left so vacant, and now there was pain. Gaping, widening, shattering pain. He couldn't move, he could not breathe, he could not see or think or… or

Everything fuzzed back into focus, like static interference clearing from a disrupted screen. The transporter room of the Enterprise swam into view, but it was wrong. Something was wrong. Nothing was stationary; it was twirling and rotating. His sight tilted off keel, and it spun out from him, spiraling far, far away. Blackness tunneled. He was falling…

"Oh!" Uhura grabbed him as his legs gave out, and he would have collapsed had the lieutenant not hastily attempted to catch him. Even so, he was dragging her down from his weight, too heavy and too tall for her to balance on her own. Spock attempted to compensate, tried to get his legs beneath him, but every movement was sluggish, and he nearly slipped. The transporter platform was piled with rapidly melting snow, preventing his boots from gaining purchase.

There was a screaming, sparking pain in his mind, and he almost screamed with it. It was lightning and shock—silentsilentithurtsosilent—a recoil from being stretched too taut and then abruptly released. He felt watched, and he felt observed, and he felt so utterly, terrifyingly empty, and was this room even here at all?

Spock choked on the copper taste in his mouth. His stomach lurched. He attempted to push from Lieutenant Uhura, because he felt bile rise and he could not stop, could not swallow it down—he doubled over and retched, throat convulsing as his abdomen contracted to expel itself. Nothing emerged but the sour, sick taste of acid and blood. It hit the platform wetly, and the sound of it nauseated him even more.

Faintly, there came a disgusted yelp and the vibration of scrambling movement. Someone was hurrying away from him, someone was hurrying closer to him, and Uhura remained still, trembling as she fought to keep him from tipping over into his own vomit. Dizzy… he was so incredibly disoriented and dizzy, and he was slipping…

He was not slipping, not anymore. Arms—familiar ones—had wrapped around his back and chest, hefting him upright and away from the lieutenant's precarious hold. He recognized the thin, deceptively strong grip immediately, recognized the steady, calm voice in his ear. A tight, anxious tension in his chest released and Spock exhaled with wheeze. Safe. He was safe. He knew who this was. He did not have to worry about falling, because he could trust this man to catch him. He was safe

"It's alright, my dear; I've got him," Doctor McCoy's rumbling voice told Uhura as he took over, supporting Spock's weight with practiced efficiency. There was only the faintest strain in his arms. "Easy now, deep breaths. Let's get you sitting down…" With slow, careful movements, Spock was maneuvered over to the steps of the transporter chamber and lowered to rest on them. One hand gripped his shoulder, keeping him from tilting. "Spock?"

Spock squinted in an effort to clear his vision, struggling to focus. Control, some part of himself insisted. Control. But that word was so far away as to be little more than a faint whisper. How could he think of control when he could not think at all? When everything felt so terribly vacant? He felt hollow, empty, drained. His mind rang excruciatingly with the silence; so blank and shocking and quiet that it felt like a cavern.

It had been full only seconds prior, packed and teeming with life, with memories, with emotions, with them. Whereas before there had been no room left for him, now there was too much room, and he felt swallowed by it. There was only silence now, and this silence was like a void..

Thoughts trickled in faintly, like water dripping from a stalactite in the far-away dark; each one echoed around the wide expanse of his mind, distorted on itself, became incoherent. It sounded like shrieking, like shrill popping and whining. No, please. He wanted to cover his ears, except his hand was gripping tightly to his abdomen. Of course. The tricorder shards. He needed to be mindful of them; apply pressure without driving them further in…

"Spock? You with me?"

"Yes," his body said, and the sound of it was startling, because he had not consciously decided to speak. It was flat, monotone; his voice was little more than a dead rasp. Spock could hardly focus through the curious absence he felt. Numbness surrounded him like an ocean; like sinking beneath unfeeling, tepid water. He wondered if this was what drowning felt like.

He cleared his throat, blinking against the black spots erupting in his sight. The shrieking was closer, louder, deafening—but it was not the Seskille he was hearing, he realized. It was a medical scanner. Spock pulled away from the sound as it worsened his already throbbing headache, closing his eyes against the nausea. The taste of blood and stomach acid in his throat was disgusting; he had to swallow thickly to prevent retching again.

Control… but it echoed so many times over that it lost all sense of meaning to him.

When he opened his eyes again, his surroundings were clearer. The blue of a uniform wavered in and out of focus, but it was at least recognizable to him. The sight of it meant safety. As did the sight of McCoy, who knelt before him, his uniform slacks dampening from the snow melting on the transporter room floor. His expression was uncommonly serious, almost severe, as his head tilted to listen to any change of audible pitch with the scanner. It whirred with a painful ring. Spock tried to retreat from it.

"Easy, easy," McCoy murmured at him again, and he wanted to protest because nothing about this felt easy. "Try not to move until the vertigo fades. Just take a few minutes to catch your breath and we'll get you out of here, sound good?"

Spock nodded vacantly at the doctor.

"Watch your step, Lieutenant." The captain's voice was audible from behind McCoy. Spock's awareness snapped back as abruptly as it had left, almost painfully so. He turned at the sound of it, sight already sharpening to find the source. To find Jim.

(Jim died in front of him again.) (Jim died in front of him again.) (Jim—)

And there he was, offering Uhura a hand down from the slippery platform. Golden, radiant, and alive. He was positively flushed with life, standing less than a meter away, and Spock wanted to look at him forever. Wanted to look at his captain breathing, moving, speaking, and so very, very alive.

It was good, Spock thought faintly, just another far-away drip, that he was so drained. He suspected he would have otherwise made a mortifying display of himself were he able to react how he desired to. Even as numb as he felt, his muscles tensed as if ready to go to Jim, to hold on to him and not let go. Jim had died in front of him. So many times. So many times…

There was a wrenching sensation in him; grief, desperation, relief, and something like agony cutting through the numb shock. It lingered just long enough for him to notice it before it was gone.

"Jim." Spock said, simply just to say it, to see his captain's eyes turn towards him, to see that bright spark of light in them.

And indeed, Jim did turn to look at him at the sound of his name, but there was no spark. No, the captain's expression was inscrutable; hardened and locked away behind a rigid, stony mask. He met Spock's eyes, and the normally warm hazel was dark, shuttered. He looked almost as blank as Spock felt, and something sick pooled in his stomach.

There was no clear emotion in the captain's eyes, but the absence of any was an emotion in and of itself. Betrayal. Helpless, resigned, exhausted betrayal.

Jim glanced him over once, lingering on his face and coat, which Spock knew to be soaked green. His jaw tightened. He turned away after a moment, posture tense, and he did not turn back. He did not look back.

Something cold slithered into the cavern of his mind; a shadowy sensation of dread. Spock recognized that reserved, impenetrable look. He'd seen it aimed at himself only once before, but once was enough to still haunt him. It was the exact expression Jim had stared him down with during Spock's court martial, after he'd hijacked the Enterprise to Talos IV for the sake of Captain Pike's life. Jim had leveled Spock that same steely, cold stare of impassivity. Spock had hated himself for causing it then, just as he hated himself for causing it now. He had hoped never to see it again.

("Lock him up.")

Fingers snapped in front of him.

He dully raised a brow.

"Yes?"

"Concentrate on me," McCoy told him. Spock wished, just once, that his given orders would be actually achievable. He could not concentrate, and so he could not obey the instruction. "Stay with me. How's the nausea?"

"Fading." It was not fading. In fact, at the sight of Jim's aversion to him, it had worsened considerably. "Your instruments are not required, Doctor." The sound of his own voice seemed odd; both too loud and too quiet. He did not know how to modulate it, or whether it required correction at all. It may have just been his own perception of it, but he could not be certain. Jim was still not looking at him, and the distance between them had never felt wider. He felt sick. "I am uninjured."

The sound of the scanner remained consistent until it reached his head, where it steadily pitched higher. With tight displeasure, the doctor turned the device off and tucked it away. Spock waited to be yelled at; to be berated with McCoy's usual emotionally explosive style of scolding. Indeed, he welcomed the idea of it. It would be predictable, familiar, comforting, even.

It did not come.

"Some minor bruising. Looks like you bit your tongue pretty good," McCoy told him neutrally instead. There was an uncharacteristic gravity to him; if Spock had the energy or focus, he thought he might be alarmed by that. As it was, he did not have enough of either to spare towards the issue. "And I'd say you've got one hell of a migraine cooking up there."

Spock neither confirmed or denied it. The world was hazy around him, but clarity began to trickle in little by little. His mind ached, body ached, side ached, but he could see, and he could hear, and he could move. The emptiness hadn't left, but he could at least better navigate and swim through the expanse of it now.

A thought came slowly, like a toxic spill expanding outwards. He wondered if this numbness was what he should have been feeling—or not feeling—all along. He wondered if, in this broken, ruined condition, he might somehow be more of a Vulcan than he ever had been before. There was no emotion, and there was no feeling. Was that not what he'd wanted? Was that not what he'd been trying all his life to achieve?

If so, the attainment of it was absent of any victory.

"Remind me to have that talk with you about your eating habits, Spock. Don't think I didn't notice that nothing came up. Again." The doctor either did not want a response, or he did not care about the response he would have been given, for he continued without waiting for one. "Stay still and take a few deep breaths. In, out, in…" Spock did, in fact, know how to breathe. Instructions were not necessary. He complied with them anyways, satisfied that he was finally given an order he could accomplish. "I'm going to call you a stretcher."

The thought of being carried through the hallways, prone and exposed, was unsatisfying. No, not merely unsatisfying, it was humiliating. Spock shook his head firmly. "No."

"No?" McCoy raised a brow, unimpressed. "You planning to crawl there? 'Cause you can't walk and I'm not carrying you."

"Doctor…" He did not know how to say what he wished; that the thought of losing any further agency was unbearable. That his pride had already been so encroached upon that suffering any more indignity was beyond his ability to cope with. "Please."

Perhaps there was something lingering in his tone, although it sounded lifeless to his own ears, that appealed to the Doctor's compassion, because McCoy's eyes softened minutely. "We'll see," he said, and since it was not outright a no, Spock took it as affirmatory. "We'll take another minute and then reassess where you're at. Now, what's going on with your side? Nothing flagged in my scans."

Spock looked down to where his hand was fixed tightly against his abdomen. It throbbed beneath his fingers, and he adjusted the pressure. "Shards," he told the doctor absently, attention drifting once more towards his captain, towards Jim. Jim, who was alive. Jim, who would not look at him.

"What?"

"Are you alright, Lieutenant?" the captain asked Uhura as he helped her out of her jacket.

"I will be," Uhura said softly, lips pressing firmly together. "The Seskille should have enough context now, Captain. I haven't… I haven't confirmed it concretely, but I couldn't let—I just couldn't stay down there any longer, sir. I apologize."

"Hey. What's this about shards, Spock?" McCoy attempted to redirect him, but Spock only paid him a dismissive, cursory glance before turning to Jim. Jim was alive. (Jim died in front of him again.) Breathtakingly, vibrantly alive.

"Oh, there's no need for apologies." The captain offered her a sad smile, setting aside her coat. His smile wavered as he lingered on the patches of green dotting the fabric. The impassive mask broke and something peaked out; something harrowing. For a brief moment, he looked crushed. It was gone as fast as it arrived. "You did well, Uhura."

Up until then, Ambassador Hammett had been unusually quiet. He'd shed the layers of his survival suit, leaving them carelessly scattered on the ground, and had hugged the wall of the transporter room with a nervous, awkward posture. Now, however, he apparently could not contain himself any further and let that be known.

"Well?!" He burst out, sounding indignant. "She could have compromised the entire mission with her actions down there! She disrupted the Vulcan while he was in the middle of it; just started hitting him out of nowhere! Ended up breaking the link with the Seskille—the link, need I remind you, that we needed to finish this whole mess! Do you have any idea how behind schedule we are? It was a needlessly ridiculous affair just to get down there at all, and she could have jeopardized the whole thing!"

"Hardly!" Uhura hissed out, offended and already tensing up. She looked torn between shouting or crying. "I know how to do my job! Mr. Spock gave me instructions prior to beaming down! He specifically implied for me to—Captain, I would never have—"

"It's alright, Lieutenant, I understand."

No longer was the captain's expression closed off. It burned with such seething, venomous hatred, like a fire had sparked to an inferno in his eyes. Coal-bright and fervid, they glittered with malicious, unbridled spite. His lips were a thin line, almost nonexistent. His posture stood to stiff, military perfection. Confident, determined, and utterly, incandescently incensed.

"You don't have to justify yourself to him," the captain continued to assure her calmly, measuredly. His stare might have been blazing with fury, but his voice was positively glacial.

"No, she'll have to justify herself to Starfleet Command! This whole thing is a disaster." Hammett flapped a hand towards Spock, waving him over. "How on earth do you expect me to explain that? Just look at the damage!"

Doctor McCoy whipped his head around so abruptly that it audibly cracked.

"Like you give a good goddamn about damage!" he growled out. He was on his feet in the span of a single blink, a vicious snarl already forming. "Do you got any idea just what kinda damage you've done?!"

"I didn't do—"

"You're the one who ordered him to go down there to begin with! I warned you what would happen, you puffed-up, brain-deficient idiot! I warned you! Oh, and now you wanna whine and stomp your feet and complain about damage? Cry me a damn river!"

"Commander Spock assured me that it wouldn't hurt him!" Hammett said loudly, close to shouting now. "I asked him myself and—"

"Is Commander Spock a doctor?!" McCoy was even louder, though, and he was shouting. His face had heated to an angry, splotched red. "For that matter, are you?! Because while you might have some nonsense, bull regulation to back up your nonsense, bull orders, so do I! And when it comes to Mr. Spock's health and wellbeing, you better believe mine supersede yours!"

Spock cleared his throat insistently. He felt as if he might vomit again. The raised voices were grating and painful; his ears rang from the proximity to the noise.

"Lieutenant Uhura was complying with my directive." Spock found himself staring, again, at the captain. Jim did not look over at him. It hurt worse than the shouting. "Once the Seskille achieved the required level of understanding for our mission, further communication was no longer productive or beneficial. Due to the strength of the connection, however, I was mildly incapacitated and therefore unable to end it myself. This subsequently necessitated the use of sudden physical force—in this instance, multiple strikes—to disrupt the connection on my behalf." To Uhura, he offered a short nod. "I thank you for your assistance, Lieutenant. As the captain said: you performed admirably."

"Incapacitated?" McCoy latched onto the word instantly, sharp and hawkish. "How incapacitated are we talking about? No, you shush; I can hardly trust your word on it, Spock. That ship's well and truly sailed. Uhura, how bad was it?"

"Bad." Uhura supplied before Spock could again try to intervene with a version of events that sounded less alarming. "The moment we materialized, Mr. Spock just… collapsed. He was quiet for the first few minutes, but then he started to shake and thrash. He started screaming like… like he was being—" The lieutenant inhaled tightly in an attempt to conceal her distress. "He vomited, his nose was bleeding, his mouth—I know he warned me that he'd be unresponsive, but this… wasn't unresponsive. I don't know what this was."

Jim had gone very still, his body so tense that he was nearly vibrating from the strain of it. His chest rose as he took deep, purposely slow breaths, as measured as he could make them. Every bit of him was wound tight, like a string that had been pulled too taut. Hands balled into clenched fists at his side and a muscle jumped in his jaw from equally clenched teeth. He did not look at Spock, not once; his eyes remained fixed on the ambassador. If he had been angry before, it paled in comparison to the sheer fury radiating from him now.

McCoy was nearly as upset; he shot Hammett a poisonous sneer before he turned and dropped to a knee. With steady movements, he worked to unzip the blood-splattered survival suit Spock still wore. His eyes flickered up every few seconds, glancing him over with a practiced type of medically-trained patience that Spock so rarely ever saw him utilize. That he was doing so now was an ominous sign.

"Yes, well… I don't… I don't know about all that. It was certainly alarming to see, of course, yes, but I did ask him about it! Vulcans aren't able to lie, right? I asked him point blank, too!" the ambassador said in an attempt to justify himself and somehow regain credibility. Spock took him in and saw how pale he was; clammy and almost ill-looking. His hands constantly moved and wrung together with nervous fidgeting, and his hair was in wild disarray from tugging at it anxiously. "He assured me they wouldn't hurt him."

"They did not hurt me," Spock said blankly. He felt so numb; empty and silent and void. He tried to shift away from the doctor's assistance, which had become noticeably jolting and irritable at his response. The moment he moved, deceptively strong hands clamped down on his arms to forcibly hold him still. Fierce blue eyes turned on him with all the ire of a force of divine vengeance. Spock wisely did not attempt to retreat again.

"You see? Even he agrees!" Hammett flapped a hand between himself and Spock, as if they were somehow allied together against the others. That was a displeasing idea. "The important thing here is that Mr. Spock is fine! All in one piece; a bit worse for wear, maybe, but he's safe and sound enough!" The ambassador turned to him finally, glancing him over with a grimace at the blood. He looked unwell and darted his eyes away immediately. "Thank you for, ahh, for all that, Commander. Hopefully the information you gave them is sufficient enough that we won't require your services again. If it somehow becomes necessary to reach out to the Seskille again, I'll suggest that we get another Vulcan to act as a—"

"No."

It took Spock a moment to realize it was himself who had spoken, because he did not recognize the voice that emerged as belonging to him. It was a hoarse, shrill cracking of desperation and panic. Was he panicking? He did not feel as if he were, but he had begun to shake. He did not remember when that had started. He forced a breath that did not seem to enter his lungs, and he fought to remain present as he felt himself come unmoored. Control.

"No," he repeated with more composure than he'd had, although less than he'd wanted. "While it was a… a uniquely fascinating experience, it was not a particularly comfortable one. I request—rather, I insist—that Seskilles VII be immediately red-flagged to all telepathic species. Under no circumstances should another Vulcan, or any other psi-sensitive being, come into contact with the Seskille Collective."

"I've already submitted the official request, Commander Spock," the captain responded flatly, and Spock did not miss the use of his formal title. The word cut into him like a blade. "Not five minutes before you beamed down." Jim still, still did not look at him. Instead, he eyed Hammett like one would a particularly revolting, invasive insect. Everything about him, from his posture to his tone to the set of his clenched teeth exuded hostility. "It's done, then? You've finished your damn mission?"

"Well, I mean, I haven't read much of the transcript, but—"

"Good." Jim didn't wait for him to finish. He nodded once; a harsh, violent snap of motion. "Now, listen to me very carefully. I want you to turn around and walk through that door." The captain stared the ambassador down as if begging (they didn't understand begging—) him to protest and provide any excuse to escalate. "And I want you to keep walking, Roger, until you reach your quarters. Once there, you are to go inside and stay inside until I come deal with you. Do I make myself clear?"

Ambassador Hammett was not a smart man. In Spock's estimation, he appeared to lack the intuition or intelligence to accurately assess a situation before he inserted his needlessly self-aggrandizing comments into it. Or, as the human saying went, he couldn't read the room. Obtuse though he was, however, even he seemed to understand that he was skirting danger by remaining there. It was debatable which one would draw blood first, Jim or McCoy, but one or both of them surely would if Hammett didn't comply with the given instructions.

The ambassador opened and shut his mouth uselessly, sputtering a babble of half-formed words and sounds. He even risked a glance over at Spock, as if he would miraculously come to his rescue. Spock did nothing of the kind. When it became clear that he lacked any allies in the room, Hammett closed his mouth with a snap. There was a muttered, weak, "Feel better, Commander," before he spun and exited the transporter room with enough haste to qualify as running.

Spock considered it the most sensible action he'd taken since coming aboard three weeks prior.

"Good riddance," Uhura sniffed bitterly, her expression set into a dark frown. "The nerve! Accusing me of sabotage—as if he was any help to either of us down there! Captain, may I return to my post? I'd like to finish this up, make sure it's airtight so we… so we don't have to go back. I couldn't take it again."

The captain offered her a small, forced smile. "Denied, Lieutenant," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder in a silent offer of comfort. When his gaze darted to her cheek where a dry smear of green still streaked across her skin, his smile grew painfully strained. "I think it's best you take a break, go get cleaned up. I'll take it from here."

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant bobbed her head, looking torn between relief and disappointment. She turned as if she were about to leave when she paused, wavering uncertainly. Her kind, dark eyes searched and found his own, and she looked briefly conflicted for a moment before appearing to come to a decision. She approached him with timid steps, boots splashing in the melted snow. "Mr. Spock?"

Finding himself too exhausted to manage a response, Spock only raised an inquiring brow.

… And the other brow swiftly shot up to join it because, with a gentle nudge to take McCoy's place, Uhura bent and wrapped her arms tightly around him in a hug.

As a general rule, Spock did not enjoy being touched. This was common knowledge amongst the crew and, for the most part—the captain and doctor notwithstanding—this preference was respected. Yet, as he was embraced by his friend, body awkwardly pressed against her, he could not help but feel a hint of warmth. The contact was thankfully brief, over in only seconds, but it cracked some small opening in the numb, blank emptiness he felt.

"Don't do that again," the lieutenant told him with genuine affection as she drew back. "Promise that you won't do that again."

It took a moment to summon his voice. He was so tired.

"I have no intention of repeating it, Miss Uhura." Spock said sincerely, although he also made no promises. After all, he'd never planned on returning to Seskilles VII a second time until circumstances required his participation.

Uhura didn't seem entirely pleased by that response, but neither had it seemed to upset her further. She nodded once before stepping away from him. After smoothing her uniform skirt to prim neatness, she gathered her PADD and left the room, floating through the door as if untouched by the entire experience. He could not help but envy her composure; his own felt wholly lacking.

The dripping of thought became a drop, and then trickle, and then a stream.

Bitter remorse broke through the dark nothingness he'd felt since he'd beamed to the ship. He had terrified someone he considered a friend. He had ordered her to utilize violence against him, something that went against the lieutenant's nature. He had driven her to tears with his reaction to the Seskille, and then he had forced her to hurt him in order to make that reaction stop. Spock owed her an apology, although there was little he could do to erase the pain he'd caused. He had damaged his relationship with Jim, he had damaged his relationship with McCoy, and he had damaged his relationship with Uhura.

It was remarkable how swiftly and easily he managed to harm those he cared for.

"Mr. Spock?"

He'd gone to Seskilles VII to finish the mission. It'd been a logical solution to the problem of communicating a specific request to a species that could otherwise not understand it. He was the only one capable of doing so, and so his involvement was necessary. Practical, logical, justified. He'd known it would result in consequences, of course. He had disobeyed the captain's order—and however it'd been phrased, he'd known it was an order—and he'd done so intentionally. That would not go unpunished. Spock knew this. Cause and effect; he could see the chain of his decisions from beginning to end and acknowledge his reasons for making them.

And yet…

And yet, some part of Spock had been so certain that, upon returning to the Enterprise, it would somehow all be fixed. That everything would be over—not just the mission, but the ache in his mind, the desecrated state of his desert, the ringing in his ears, the strangling sense of being unable to breathe, the appalling lack of emotional discipline. It was not a rational expectation to have, and yet he felt betrayed that it had not come to fruition anyways. He'd done it, he told himself desperately. He'd completed the mission, and it was over.

But it was not over. He did not understand why his body was still shaking, or why he still felt so lost. He did not understand why his barriers were still crumbled, or why his mind still throbbed, or why he could not simply get himself under control.

"Spock!"

The world jolted and Spock blinked, lifting his head up. He froze. How strange; only moments prior, McCoy had asked Spock to concentrate. He'd been unable to comply with the request. This, however, had his complete, unwavering focus; so much so that his eyes burned.

Because Jim was finally looking at him.

He was crouched, having grasped Spock forcefully by the shoulders and shaken him once to get his attention. And they were conflicted, the hazel eyes that met his own. They were conflicted, disappointed, frustrated, and so utterly, devastatingly resigned. Fever-bright and turbulent. His captain looked at him, but he did not appear to know what to do or say now that he was.

Jim's lips parted as if he wanted to speak, his mouth opening and closing once, twice—and Spock wished he would, even if it was critical, or furious, or insulting, because anything was better than this silence between them. After a moment, though, his captain pressed them back into a thin line, and his expression smoothed to that cool, hard mask. He looked away and said nothing at all.

Spock did not look away. He couldn't. He stared like Jim was his raft on an endless, tossing sea. His captain. His brilliant, radiant captain. The vision of him grew blurry and distorted the longer he stared, blending into only color.

(Objects that did not hold form, but also held properties. Creatures that were not… not… that simply could not be. His mind… it hurt… it hurt, please, stop this. The world around him thrummed with his desperation, tinting the universe with all shades of colors that he could not visualize, despite seeing them with eyes that did not exist. It felt good, it felt horrible. It felt like everything. He saw everything, shared everything. It was his happiness…)

Sickness lurched in his stomach as a vague, distant terror wrenched itself to the forefront. He wondered if this was real. He wondered if this was just another memory to be ripped out and exposed. He wondered if, even now, the Seskille were watching this, just as they had everything else.

He wondered if he had even left the planet at all.

(Jim died in front of him again.)

(Jim died in front of him again.)(Jim died in front of him again.)

Grief struck him so suddenly, so achingly, that Spock nearly choked on it. His captain's death ran through his mind, over, and over, and over again (again and again), and he could not… he could not—

He reached out before he could stop himself. His hands found the captain's uniform and he gathered it into his fists, the grip as tight as he could make it. He clutched the gold fabric until it strained beneath his fingers and threatened to tear. With a jerking, desperate tug, he brought Jim closer to him. Close enough that Spock could bend forwards, inwards, until his head nearly brushed against the captain's chest.

There he listened, desperately straining the limit of his hearing as he searched for the sound of—but then he found it. Thumping, strong, constant. Ventricular diastole sending blood to the ventricles. The isometric contraction and resulting push of blood through the aortic and pulmonic valves, aorta, and arteries to the body and lungs. The cardiac cycle repeating and repeating, and never, not once, stopping. It was only then, with that human-steady heartbeat a scant few centimeters from his ear, that he finally relaxed. The quavering breath he took filled his lungs like the first gasp after drowning, and Spock's eyes closed in relief.

Safe.

McCoy was here, the captain was here, and both of them were alive. Jim was alive. He understood, although the knowledge felt distant, that they were upset with him, and justifiably so. He understood that this changed nothing. There would be consequences to his actions, both the ones that he had taken and the ones he took now. Yet, their presence alone was enough of a consolation that warmth spread through him like a lulling, calming wave. He had damaged their friendship, perhaps irrevocably, but Jim was alive, and he could not bring himself to care about anything more than that.

The captain had gone very still beneath his grip and did not move for a long time. His pulse raced; the rhythm of his heart strengthened to a rapid, frantic thrum that betrayed his otherwise stiff posture, and Spock realized he had erred. He needed to let go. He needed to release Jim, regain his self-control, and try to salvage this. But he could not make himself pull away. His fingers would not unclench. They shook when he tried.

Then, Jim sighed. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted one hand and cupped the back of Spock's head, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck. There was the barest hint of pressure, only a suggestion of it, but Spock followed until his forehead nudged against Jim's shoulder.

It was not a hug; the angle was too awkward, and Spock barely knew how to participate in an already established embrace, let alone initiate one of his own. As well, Jim was not nearly as comfortable to rest upon as he had been earlier that morning; he was rigid and tense to the point of vibrating, and the muscles of his torso felt more like stone than like flesh beneath Spock's head and hands. But he was warm, and his heart was beating without pause. His chest rose and fell with each breath. Nothing mattered more, nothing at all.

"Shh," Jim hushed, although Spock had made no sound at all. "You're okay."

"This is real?" he asked—begged, although he knew begging would do nothing. Their hug from that morning mixed with the touch of the present, vision and feeling blending into vision and feeling. He felt too exposed, too seen, too dissected, and he could no longer be certain that he was truly here. It felt real, but everything had felt real. Jim dying, Jim holding him, Jim smiling, Jim lifeless (—and everything in Spock froze—). "You are here?"

"Yes," Jim said firmly, leaving no room for doubt. His voice was controlled and steady, as confident as Spock had ever heard him, but his hand trembled against the back of his neck and tightened on him to the point of pain. "You're safe, Spock. This is real. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

Spock wished he could believe that. He wished he could believe that he had not destroyed this fragile, precious friendship between them. He wished he could trust that Jim would stay here—right here—forever. But he did not, and he could not.

He nodded anyways. As he did, the captain's hand brushed against his neck, skin against skin, and—

Protectivenessguiltexhaustionterrorhelplessness.

It was akin to a dam breaking. Emotion after emotion poured over him, into him, through him, one after the other; so fast that he could hardly make them out. They crashed around his mind like a tsunami flooding a tunnel, and Spock felt tossed and submerged and pummeled by the roiling waves of Jim's mind.

Desperationangerpainresignationhorror—

Needtobeimpartialobjectiveauthoritativeenforcingregretsuchregret—Don'tlookdon'tlookIcannotbeunbiasedwhenyoulookatmelikethat—Protectivenessdevotionreliefreliefreliefthankgodhe'sherehe'sokayhe'ssafe…

Spock flinched violently, breaking the contact and pulling away as if burnt. Jim dropped his hands, retreating with a noise of apology. He had not noticed anything, had not realized that there was transference. Violation.

Taking a breath, and then another one, and Spock could not help but feel pathetic. Already, the emotion of embarrassment began to curl at him, burning hot and shameful at the forefront of his mind. He'd made a display of himself, grabbing Jim as he had. He had not been thinking clearly when he'd done so, but that was no justification for his appalling behavior. Jim was not looking at him anymore, and no longer could Spock bring himself to look at Jim either. He felt sick.

McCoy had been quiet, glancing between the two of them with an indiscernible expression in his eyes, but after Jim put space between them, he descended on Spock like a bird of prey.

"I'll get the rest of the suit if you want to help me get him standing." The doctor began to work Spock's gloves off one at a time. He was mindful not to touch his skin, which Spock found considerate of him. What was not considerate was manhandling him in the first place.

Now that he had inexcusably indulged himself in an egregious amount off physical contact, he did not want to be touched at all. It was clear he could not be trusted with it.

"I am able to stand on my own, Doctor," he said curtly, primly, as if his discipline hadn't lapsed so woefully in front of them. He attempted to compose himself to unfeeling stoicism as befitting a Vulcan. Perhaps the numb hollowness had been preferable after all.

"Easy does it though." McCoy ignored Spock as if he hadn't spoken at all, continuing to talk over him as he tossed the gloves to the side. "He might not be steady on his feet yet and I don't want him getting sick again."

"I've got him, Bones." Jim's confident hands were back, fixing themselves behind his back and beneath his shoulder. They arranged him into a position better suited to helping him up.

It was strange. Moments prior, he'd rested against him and felt comforted. Hours earlier, he'd been in Jim's arms and had never felt safer. Indeed, he felt just as comforted and safe now, even if the context was not the same. His captain braced himself at his side, his human-hot temperature like a furnace after the cold of Seskilles VII. He wanted to protest the assistance, if only because the temptation to burrow himself into the heat proved nearly too much to resist, but he was too late.

There was a grunt of effort. With a strong, forceful heave, Spock found himself abruptly standing. The world tilted to the side, rolled, spun away and… and…

"—o, no—orry. He's not—at heavy."

Sound was the first of his senses to return. It faded in and out, like a wave lapping at the shore; pushing forward and drawing out again.

"He's st—to come—ound. Gonna—for a—amn—etcher."

"No," Spock croaked out. He did not want a stretcher. He could not bear that.

"Spock?"

He heard a voice. Jim's voice. Now that he recognized it, he focused on it.

"You're okay. That's it; just lean against me. You're alright, I've got you."

It was similar to the words his captain had said to him when he'd found Spock screaming and convulsing in the frozen ruins. The same soft, calm insistency as Jim coaxed him back to awareness while he fought the Seskille from his mind. They were as soothing now as they were then; Spock soaked in the sound even as he struggled to understand what had happened.

The survival suit was gone, although he did not remember it being removed. Jim's arm was around his waist, his own arm slung limp over the captain's shoulders and held in a firm grip to keep him upright. McCoy's steady pace led the way a few steps ahead. They were moving, he realized. He was walking—stumbling—forward, with his captain an unwavering support at his side. He heard doors open, and the muted ambient hum of the ship's machinery when they entered the turbo lift. Spock opened his eyes, and his vision was filled with gold.

"Deck Five."

"Captain." He felt vaguely disgusted at the sound of his voice. Hoarse, rasping, weak. It was a pitiful demonstration of vulnerability. Such emotionalism was inexcusable. It made him angry, and that anger made him ashamed. "I am able to walk on my own. I do not need a minder."

"Clearly you do." Jim sounded exhausted. "And frankly, that's becoming clearer by the day. Now, hold onto me and let me know if you're feeling nauseous or if you need to stop. We're going to sickbay."

It was horrifying how far he'd drifted from his captain. Only hours prior, he'd been held in Jim's arms, much as he was now, and he'd felt so aligned with him. He'd felt safe.

The Seskille had taken that from him too. Tainted it, ripped it to shreds, and picked at the remains to satisfy their perverse curiosity. It all blurred together now; Jim alive, Jim dying. Jim held in his arms, Jim dangling from them (—body limp and lifeless, and everything in Spock froze.) He could not think without remembering what had happened, what had been done to him, what he'd allowed to be done to him.

"Jim." He did not know what to say, and he suspected he wouldn't know how to say it even if he did. Apologies, assurances, promises, begging? (They did not understand what begging was.) Spock did not know what Jim wanted to hear from him, or what might possibly close the distance that had opened up between them. All he wanted to do was stare at his captain, and all his captain wanted to do was look anywhere else but at him. "Jim, I…"

He did not know what to say.

The grip around his waist tightened nearly to the point of bruising before it was forcibly eased. The captain let out a low sigh.

"I know, Spock," Jim said softly, almost a whisper. Spock was glad that Jim apparently knew, because he certainly did not. "I know you are, and I wish that made a difference. You and I are going to have a talk later, and… I'm afraid neither of us are going to enjoy it. But that's for later. Right now, let's worry about putting one foot in front of the other, alright? The rest can wait."

There were consequences to his actions, he reminded himself. He'd known that, expected it, understood it. But as the captain said, knowing did not make a difference, and it did not change as much as he wished it would.

Spock said nothing else as his captain lead him through the corridors.

Jim stared straight ahead the entire way.


Thank you to everyone for reading!

Now, originally, this chapter was going to be very different! In my original outline (and every iteration of the outline since), I had planned to start this chapter with Spock beaming back to the ship. What happened on Seskilles VII was only going to be shown in thoughts and contextual mentions throughout the chapter, but it wasn't going to be detailed. However, I got to writing a few of the flashbacks here and there and couldn't stop. So that happened.

References for this chapter are plentiful! The episodes 'The City on the Edge of Forever', 'The Devil in the Dark', 'Friday's Child', 'This Side of Paradise', 'Mirror Mirror', and 'The Menagerie (Part1 and Part 2)' being among the most relevant! Some wonderful episodes. I'll admit, I particularly enjoyed writing Mirror Kirk, because damn if he doesn't intrigue me to no end. Eventually, I plan to write a Spock/Mirror Kirk fic, but that is some ways away!

Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Rikashan'es — Numbness; partial or total lack of sensation in a part of the body; a symptom of nerve damage or dysfunction.
T'hy'la — Friend, Brother, Lover.