Chapter Twenty-Two
Ne'hish

Spock had always done his best to avoid sickbay.

Logically, he understood that it served an essential, necessary function aboard the ship, and that medical services were vital to the continued operation of its crew. He understood this logically, factually, rationally, and he would readily admit to having enormous respect for the expertise required to work in such a demanding profession. As well, there was strategic value in sickbay, he knew; injuries were frequent occurrences in the line of duty, and thus required a centralized location for those injuries to be tended to. Practical, sensible.

However.

Sickbay did not agree with him. Not the procedures, not the treatments, not the mannerisms, not the required level of physical contact, not the vulnerability, not the scent, the noise, or even the visual of it. Nothing was suited to his biology, and there were few adaptations possible that could help compensate for it. Spock considered it barely tolerable at best, and it was more likely than not that if he were in sickbay to begin with, he was not at his best. Often forced to be there, by order or by the natural conclusion of grievous harm, he had never found anything particularly healing or restorative about being imprisoned in the clinic.

The too-bright lights glaring off every surface, the clamorous throbs and beats and alarms of the machinery, the invasive questions from the medical staff, the paranoia of his every move being examined, studied, picked apart… no, Spock preferred to stay away from this place, and he did his utmost best to avoid situations that might require that preference to be disregarded.

Sometimes, unfortunately, his utmost best was not sufficient enough.

"Almost there," the captain told him—quite unnecessarily, as Spock could see that they had indeed entered sickbay. He thought he'd be able to still identify it if every one of his senses were robbed of him entirely. The temperature was too cool for him, the lights ached at his eyes, the beeping and pulsing of equipment too shrill. And the scent…

The scent of antiseptic was sharp, astringent, and unpleasant. When he inhaled, the air was so thick with it that breathing tasted of isopropyl alcohol and quaternary ammonium compounds. It worsened his already splitting migraine.

It was a scent Spock had come to regard with something approaching mild dread; one that always took him back to his early childhood, and his innumerable visits to ShiKahr's Medical Research Institution for genetic testing. As the only successful, surviving hybrid of his kind, he'd been a source of fascination and curiosity in the scientific and medical community. Once his parents had overcome the challenges of pre-zygotic isolation to successfully conceive him, the post-zygotic barriers of hybrid inviability and sterility had been a topic of intrigue among some circles. He'd been through more examinations and tests than he cared to recall.

Even so many years later, the stinging, pungent stench of disinfectant settled into him like a heavy stone, weighing him down with apprehension. That he was being forced here was humiliating, and even the usually-calming warmth of the captain at his side did little to settle him. On the contrary, he found himself growing increasingly tense.

Jim noticed, of course; he was very nearly carrying Spock by now. He only tightened his grip, shifting to heft his charge higher up into his arms for a more secure hold.

The main clinic was nearly empty, for which he was grateful. Only Crewman Hannaway was present, in the process of being hovered over by Nurse Slater for what appeared to be an engine burn. He stared in wide-eyed surprise at them as they passed. The blood, Spock remembered, belatedly noticing the half-dried tackiness on his skin. The survival suit had been removed, but his face remained covered in green, as was his neck and hair. He imagined his appearance was rather grisly.

"Just through here," McCoy said as he led the way to a private room. "I've already got a bed set up and calibrated for him."

That was an ominous sign. It warned him that the doctor had prepared ahead of time, prior to his return from Seskilles VII. Potentially even before he'd transported down. This suspicion was only strengthened when he was guided through the door, as the room been raised to a (still too cold) thirty-one-point-three-two degrees Celsius. It took time for the heat to circulate throughout the room. That it was already up to temperature meant it had been given plenty of opportunity to do so.

Spock had been silent on the way to sickbay, finding that there was very little point in speaking. There was nothing he could say or do to repair the damage of his actions. He thought it unlikely that Jim wanted apologies, as they would be token at best and offer no true reparations, but he also did not know what to offer otherwise. He could think of nothing.

The captain hadn't looked at him again, and Spock hadn't forced the issue. He had focused instead on the ground; on putting one foot in front of the other steadily so that escorting him was as minor an inconvenience to his captain as it could be. Ultimately, this had failed; his legs were next to useless by now and he was all but being dragged.

And it was coming to an end now, an inevitability Spock accepted with some measure of both relief and reluctance. The tension between himself and Jim was suffocating, but there was an undeniable comfort at having his friend pressed against his side. Feeling his chest rise and fall, hearing his breath come in even, consistent puffs, the human-hot warmth soaking through the fabric of their uniforms… all signs that pointed to Jim being alive, whole, safe.

He remembered—had been forced to remember—that day on the planet Eiter'Llore Vee-Two-One-Nine. Jim had plunged through an unnoticed patch of thin ice and into the freezing lake beneath them. Spock had rescued him, carried him, and shared warmth with him. And just as Jim being close provided reassurance now, so too had it then.

His captain, though dangerously cold, had been secured against his chest. Alive, stable, and right where Spock could best keep an eye on him. Once the risk of a hypothermic death was reduced to acceptable odds, he'd felt an enormous amount of peace at their position. There had been no imagined safety risks or private fears of his captain falling prey to others (or, for that matter, to Jim's own impulsive actions). No, Jim had been cradled tightly in his arms, eliminating any room for worry or doubt.

Spock wished he felt as much peace now as he had then.

Jim bore the entirety of his weight for the last few steps, Spock's strength having long-since given way to exhaustion. He nearly fell onto the bed when Jim finally lowered him to it, finding himself feeling too heavy to sit upright. He sagged over onto his side and buried his head in the pillow to block out the lights.

The pulse of the body function panel began to beat a painful, grating rhythm. He wished they would silence it; it was aggravating.

There was pressure on his calves. He felt his boots being unzipped and removed one after the other. Heard the soft sound of them being set aside. Hands moved to his shoulders, nudging and rearranging him into a more comfortable position on the mattress as if he were something delicate. Then, carefully, they moved downwards and slid behind and beneath his knees. Spock cracked an eye open to the sight of Jim lifting his legs up and onto the bed, rotating him in the process so that he was fully lying down.

Kind, he thought tiredly. Kind, but unnecessary. Touching though the act was, Spock did not currently care about comfort. He wanted only to close his eyes and sleep, be that while sitting, laying, or the half-slumped amalgamation of the two.

Jim's hands lingered on him for a moment longer, thumb smoothing over the side of his knee with an absent back-and-forth motion before finally withdrawing. Spock continued to feel the warmth of the contact even after it was removed. He wished the captain would not touch him so gently; the pain it erupted inside hurt far worse than any violence ever could.

He also wished the captain would not stop touching him.

The contradictory desires warred against one another. Illogical…

"It's gonna take me a while to get him cleaned up." Doctor McCoy was already snapping on gloves. He looked over to Jim with a shrug. "And depending on how it goes, it could take even longer till he's up for anything else. You're free to wait in my office if you'd like, but I can just as easily comm—"

"I'll wait," the captain said curtly, interrupting him. "However long it takes, I'll wait."

"Yeah, I figured as much." McCoy sounded amused. "PADD's on my desk. I've already got everything pulled up, just need you to approve it. I'll come sign off once I get him settled in."

Spock, only half-listening, felt an uneasy stirring at the implications of that statement. He forced himself to open his eyes, squinting against the lights.

Jim acknowledged McCoy with a short, stiff nod before tilting his head to look down at Spock. His expression was unreadable at first, but the mask of impassivity broke when he brusquely glanced him over, only just long enough for Spock to see the genuine conflict in his eyes. He met Spock's eyes as they traveled back over him, and whatever Jim saw there was enough to make his jaw tighten. When he spoke, it was between clenched teeth.

"Take care of him, Bones."

Spock watched the captain turn and leave the room. He continued watching even after the door slid closed behind him.

Faintly, he heard the pulse of the monitors pick up speed. It was the first time since his return that Jim had left his sight. He wanted to call his captain back—to beg him not to leave again. He opened his mouth to do just that. The words hovered on the edge of his lips.

(Begging didn't make any difference, he thought distantly. Begging was useless.)

A sense of foreboding washed through his veins, settling into the pit of his stomach like ice.

He said nothing, letting the words die.

(Jim died in front of him again.)

"Don't worry, he'll be back in a while," McCoy informed him from the other side of the room, knowing eyes having caught Spock's unease. He was quick to offer reassurance, no doubt remembering the scene he'd witnessed in the transporter room; of Spock clinging to Jim's shirt like a child in need of comfort. "Doubt I could keep him out of here if I tried."

Spock inclined his head wordlessly. The reassurance had not helped.

His actions had consequences, he told himself. Spock had known there would be official repercussions for disobeying orders. He had no objection to that; he had been insubordinate, and it was only logical that he would be reprimanded for it. Whatever disciplinary actions he was to be given, he was determined to accept them with all the dignity and composure as befitting a Vulcan. What he did object to, however, was being made to wait for them.

The delay was problematic. Without meditation as an option to cope with his uncertainty, he was forced to consider all possibilities—of which there were many. The emotions of trepidation and unease were impossible to ignore, and the more time they had to build in him, the more difficult it became to suppress his physical reaction.

"What is to happen next, Doctor?" Spock's voice was little more than a croak of sound. His tongue felt too thick and too clumsy to form the words with his usual clear manner of enunciation, and the result was slurred, almost unintelligible. It hurt to speak. Doing so tasted metallic.

McCoy pulled a rolling stool over, taking a seat at his bedside. He was looking at the body function panel, examining the levels there. Spock did not need to see them to know they were abnormal. There was not a function in his body that felt as if it were operating at standard proficiency.

"What's going to happen is I'm going to clean you up," McCoy said, "and then I'll be addressing the physical issues, tongue and migraine first. After that—here, drink this; small sips only—after that, you're going to—"

"I was specifically inquiring about disciplinary action." Spock obediently rinsed his mouth out with the cup of water he was handed. It shook in his hand. He tasted vomit and blood when he sipped as instructed. Swallowing it down was nauseating, and he was forced to drink slowly to prevent retching it back up.

McCoy hummed a considering sound, leveling him with a long, steady look. Spock was uncertain what exactly he was searching for, as his sharp gaze was unusually probing, but whether he found it or not, he appeared to reach some sort of conclusion.

"No," the doctor decided, shaking his head. "You don't need to be worrying about that right now, Spock. You're not in any kind of state to be having that conversation yet. Let's get you feeling better first, and maybe I'll reconsider." McCoy leaned over to adjust the pillow beneath Spock's head, shifting it closer to the edge of the bed to allow for better access. "In the meantime, I want you to close your eyes, relax, and trust me to handle things for a while, alright? Think you can do that?"

Spock did not like the way the doctor was speaking to him. Whereas normally he would be disgruntled and ill-tempered, he was instead peculiarly calm. His voice was as professional and measured as Spock had ever heard it; not quite impersonal enough to be clinical, but nowhere near his baseline standard of exasperation. It was atypical. Spock inferred that it meant something was wrong with him. Wrong enough that McCoy felt it necessary to change his approach and treat him like glass.

He nodded anyways, because there was no other answer he could give. He trusted McCoy implicitly; not only with his health but with anything, everything. There were very few people Spock could make that same claim for. Only one other, in fact. Both Jim and Doctor McCoy had asked before whether his avoidance was because he lacked confidence in them. That was not the case. He could not be what they wanted him to be—open, vulnerable, exposed—but it had never been from a lack of trust.

And so, while he did not enjoy being in sickbay, and he did not enjoy the required medical procedures, and he did not enjoy feeling so helplessly dependent, he allowed his eyes to close and his awareness to drift.

There was the sound of motion around him; the rustle of clothing, a drawer being opened. Gloved hands removed the empty water cup from his slackening fingers and placed it on a tray, mindful not to touch his skin unnecessarily. A thick blanket was draped over him a moment later. It felt hot to the touch, having been stored in a warmer to prepare it for him. After the ice of Seskilles VII and the ambient chill of the ship, the feeling of dry heat enveloping him was so satisfying as to be blissful.

Spock made a low noise of gratitude. The words themselves were too exhausted to form correctly. Luckily, the doctor seemed to understand him, because he received a fond pat on the shoulder.

"Feel free to doze off if you want to," McCoy told him softly. "You'll feel a few hypos, but none that should upset your stomach too much. God knows you can't afford to lose anything else at this point." There was a clatter of metal against metal. The squeak of a stool rolling closer. Spock kept his eyes closed. "I'm going to give you a low dose of hydrocortilene for that headache and then I'll get outta your hair for a while. Let you rest a bit."

There was a pressure against the side of his neck and a hiss of compressed air. A creeping, foreign spread of cold rushed through him, and it was like a cool compress to his head. It slowly began to unwind the tight knot of pain from his migraine and, while it did not fully cure it, the pressure somewhat eased. Enough, at least, to where he no longer felt as if he were splitting apart.

Spock's awareness grew hazy as he lay there. He could distantly hear McCoy's breathing, hear him shifting his posture, hear the clink of vials and a rustle as the doctor loaded the hypospray with a new one. It was comfortable and familiar to him, these sounds of his friend. Spock focused on that and only that, using it to block out the rest of the overstimulation of sickbay. He did not want to be here, but this, at least, was agreeable.

He didn't move for a long time; not when McCoy utilized the dermal regenerator for his bitten tongue, not when another hypospray—asinolyathin this time, judging by the lethargy spreading to his limbs—was pressed into the skin of his neck, and not when McCoy stood and left for a while. His mind journeyed away from itself, fading further and further from his surroundings. Everything was in a fog, as if he were in a state of falling asleep without the restorative benefits that came with it. It was not pleasant, but it was also not unpleasant. It was not anything.

It was a kindness to feel nothing, he thought vaguely, in that muddled, dreamlike way. It was a kindness not to have thoughts at all. If he had neither emotion nor thought, neither could be turned against him. They could not be weaponized into something sharp and personal and injurious. They could not be ripped, exposed, or violated.

Cold.

Something wet and cold touched his face, and Spock came back to himself abruptly, squinting in the harsh lights.

"Sorry," Doctor McCoy murmured, lifting the damp cloth away briefly. "Just getting you cleaned up. How're we doing? Any better?"

Spock had never understood why it was that humans tended to speak as if they were somehow both party and participant to the status of another, when it was quite obvious they were neither. How are we doing. Let's go lie down. What are we thinking? He wanted to inform the doctor that they were not doing better, but that he was, because McCoy had no personal involvement in his experience of recuperation. As well, the doctor was in the best (and only) position to know how his own self was doing, and so to request that Spock not only speculate as to the nature of that state, but then also verbally inform him of it was entirely redundant.

He said nothing of the kind, however. He felt too exhausted, too drained, and too heavy to summon the energy for being combative. Perplexingly, this appeared to concern McCoy, who no doubt had been waiting for the correction. His brow had furrowed when none was provided.

"Affirmative," Spock said matter-of-factly instead, and that was technically truthful. He did feel much recovered in the way of physical pain; his headache, although it was not entirely gone, was considerably lessened. His tongue had been mended and was operational once more, and the majority of the aches and strain from thrashing during the meld had been alleviated by the low dose of muscle relaxant.

None of McCoy's treatments had soothed his mind, however. The vast, hollow space where the Seskille had been hurt just as much now as it had upon beaming back to the ship—worse, perhaps, if such a thing were even possible. He wondered whether the pain of his physical injuries had dulled the full extent of his telepathic ones, because all he felt now was excruciating emptiness.

McCoy eyed him suspiciously, but he grunted as if he accepted the answer.

"You might still be a bit tender upstairs, but you get nauseous with a higher dose, so it's going to be a give and a take. I'd prefer not to upset your delicate Vulcan stomach if I can avoid it, 'cause we'll have a whole 'nother issue on our hands if you keep dropping weight. That said, if the headache gets to be too much, or if you even just get tired of it, I want you to tell me. I might be able to work my magic with a few tricks to alleviate some of it. And even if I can't, I still want to know about it. Good? Good."

The doctor didn't wait for him to respond, only resumed wiping his jaw and neck clean of the blood that had long-since dried to his skin. Spock held still, although it was hardly a demanding task; he felt too tired to move much more than his chest as he breathed. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, except he suspected that rest would not come to him for quite some time. As exhausted as his body was, his mind was in a state of disorientation that would not allow it to calm.

The lingering violence of the intrusion made him feel tainted, as if the Seskille were still crawling around inside of his memories. Even as he kept his eyes on the doctor, watching the practiced, smooth movements of his gloved hands, he struggled to remember that this was real. That this was not a memory that had been ripped out from his mind, but that it was truly happening. It was so difficult to tell anymore; all of his forced visions had felt just as real to him then as this moment did to him now. How many times had they summoned ones of McCoy? He'd even been receiving medical care in some. And in others…

("Get your hands off of him, Spock!")

A pressure began to form in his chest at the notion of this being false. Of the thought that it was not over at all, but that they were still inside him, pulling all the buried insecurities, concerns, emotions, and feelings into the light to rot and putrefy. Spock took a deep breath with lungs that had begun to grow tight, and although he felt his chest expand and fall with each inhale and exhale, he did not feel as if the air had reached him at all.

It hurt. McCoy had not solved the pain after all, because there was a sharp pain in his side, in his ribs, his ankle, along the side of his skull. Distantly, he acknowledged the confusion of this, because he knew this was not correct. His skull was not fractured. His ribs were not cracked. His ankle was not broken. His side was whole and undamaged. Knowing this did nothing, changed nothing. When Spock went to inform the doctor that he would prefer to risk the nausea of the pain medication after all, his lips felt as if they were full of static. The words stuck in his throat.

He needed to meditate. If he could only relieve the strain in his mind, he would be able to finally concentrate. He would be able to gain control and restore discipline. Going so long without the relief it offered left him few coping alternatives. His telepathy, his desert, his self-control—all of it was burning from the lack of rest. Like circuits overheating and melting. He remembered (forced to remember, he thought. Forced, because they had left nothing untouched) the feeling of fire in his veins during his Time. He remembered the agony of his self-restraint corroding from the inside out. This feeling was not dissimilar.

His hand curled tightly, gripping with bruising force to try to ground himself. He was fine, Spock told himself forcibly, desperate to reinstate his stoicism. He was fine. There was nothing wrong. The mind controlled the body, and this pain could be managed, could be stopped, could be suppressed. This kind of reaction was unwarranted, and he knew factually that it did not fit his situation. The knowledge, however, seemed to drift further away from him, like the tide was pulling it out to sea with every lapping wave.

The numbness had been preferable after all, because now that it had faded, the weight crushing at him had returned, heavier than ever before. And he was cold. Cold enough to be shivering; a full-body shudder that would have chattered his teeth had he not been clenching them. Logically, he knew the room was warm—warmer than the preferred human ambient temperature, even—but when he tried to move, his limbs were stiff.

Had he fallen in the snow again? His sight was filled with blue, and so this possibility seemed inaccurate. The spectrum of visible light scattered by the individual ice crystals forming snow reflected all colors and so tended to take on a white appearance. Of course, he reasoned, there were atmospheric anomalies that could explain a tonal shift, but the odds of this were not in favor of that. Perhaps he was staring at the sky? But no, it had been overcast. A whiteout, Jim had called it…

"Hey."

Fingers snapped in front of him.

Spock looked up.

The doctor appeared worried, mouth set into a grim, troubled frown. Spock blinked to refocus, but blinking caused his eyes to burn. They felt dry and irritated. He wondered how long he'd been staring blankly ahead, and he wondered how long McCoy had been trying to get his attention. That he did not immediately know meant his internal chronometer was malfunctioning and that his sense of time was skewed. He did not remember when that began.

"Yes, Doctor?" His voice did not sound like his voice.

Anger at himself burned as hot as his shame did. It was disconcerting that he had lost time at all, but that he had done so in front of another was an egregious display of inattention that he would never have demonstrated before this mission. It had only taken nine-point-seven-three-six days for his control to deteriorate to such a level. It was so absurd that it was almost comical.

"Where did you go just now?"

The question was illogical and made little sense to him. Spock raised a perplexed brow, uncertain as to how to respond. It seemed to him to be a rather obvious fact. Was this another human expression?

"… I have not left," he eventually settled on. However, his answer did not seem to satisfy the doctor, because his expression suddenly grew pinched, as if pained.

"Spock," McCoy began, unusually hesitant. He paused for a moment and then let out a long exhale, as if deflating. "Right. I was going to try to give you some time to recover, but we need to address the elephant in the room." Spock stared, uncomprehendingly. "We've gotta talk about that." He motioned with a nod, and Spock glanced down to investigate the apparent issue—

Ah.

His hand was tightly pressed against his side, fingers digging in with enough force to be painful. He had not felt it before. He did now. Slowly, Spock let go and withdrew it, purposely forcing it to a relaxed appearance on the sheets of the biobed. When he offered no other response, verbally or physically, the doctor leaned forward.

"This has gone far enough, Spock," McCoy told him seriously, as calm as Spock had ever heard him. His voice was that neutral, practiced kind of professionalism; the one that was used when informing patients of grave news. It blared as loud an alarm as any red alert klaxon. "And frankly, I'm done with it."

Spock took a breath. Control. But his stomach was sinking into a cold pit, and all he wished to do was leave. Hide. Curl up until he was left alone. Yes, that's what he needed. He needed to be alone, so that he could gather the pieces of himself together and maintain an unbroken illusion to others. Control, control, control. He could manage his reactions. He could control his responses. He could moderate his emotions. This behavior was unacceptable. This behavior was beneath him.

"Done?" He asked tonelessly.

"Yeah, done. Fed up, through, tired, over it. Done. You might not realize—or hell, maybe you aren't even capable of realizing—just how bad this has gotten, so I'll clue you in. It's bad. This whole thing?" A gloved hand was waved haphazardly, apparently meant to encompass the entirety of Spock's person. He leaned away so he was not hit with it. "This tells me a few things right off the bat. You wanna know what those things are?"

Spock said nothing, lips pressing into a thin, tight line.

McCoy didn't appear to mind his lack of answer. Rather, he appeared to have expected it.

"To start, it tells me that you're experiencing somatic flashbacks—tactile ones, at the very least, but I'm betting that they cover most, if not all, the senses. It tells me you've been having dissociative episodes, and that you aren't really with it right now. I daresay the amount of time you've been lost in your head is equivalent to or surpassing the time you've been fully present in the room with me. It tells me you're struggling to understand where you are, what you're doing, and who you're with. And it tells me, Mr. Spock, that you aren't okay. No, not only that you aren't okay, but that you're spiraling down hard and fast. You aren't coping with what happened; not mentally, and certainly not emotionally. And that might be fine, if you were willing to accept help. But you aren't, and it's eating you alive."

His hand twitched, fingernails already curling into his palm before he forcibly smoothed them back straight. He did not know how to respond, but this time the doctor was waiting for one. He struggled to formulate the required answer that would mollify him.

"I am a Vulcan, Doctor. I have coping mechanisms of my own; ones you are ill-equipped to understand. I do not require assistance. I am—"

"No," McCoy interrupted him firmly, eyes narrowed. "No. You shut your mouth. I don't want to hear it, Spock. Not this time. Not during this conversation. Certainly not after that stunt you just pulled. Try it on someone who doesn't know you, 'cause I do, and let me tell you, that answer has lost all credibility with me. The more you insist you're fine, the more obvious it becomes that you aren't. So, no. The evasion, the lying, the denial—no. That's enough; I've had enough, Jim's had enough. We've all long-since reached our limit of watching you drive yourself into the ground, understand? Well, we're gonna put a stop to it, one way or another. You're done, Spock."

This had to do with the PADD McCoy had mentioned, Spock concluded, and the unspecified items that needed the captain's approval before McCoy could sign them. There were too many possibilities for him to know which specific actions they were intending to take with him, but now he could at least narrow it down to restrictions of some kind.

He'd known, of course, that he would be removed from duty; that had been readily apparent even before he had left the briefing room for his office. Yet some part of him had hoped that the disciplinary response would be of a more judicial nature, rather than a medical one. It was becoming clear that was not to be the case. He thought he might have preferred to be court martialed instead.

"What is to happen next, Doctor McCoy?" Spock asked with poorly-concealed apprehension. It took more energy than he had to spare, but he rolled onto his back so as to stare at the ceiling rather than risk meeting the doctor's gaze for even a second longer. It was not good enough; he could see him in his peripherals.

He closed his eyes.

"When I said you're done, Mr. Spock, I meant you're literally done." The doctor tossed the damp, green-stained cloth, which he'd been angrily wringing in his hands, onto the rolling cart. He stared at him for a long moment before he let out a sigh. "I sure hope you're pleased with yourself. I hope going down there was worth the cost. If your goal was to damage to your mind, your mental health, and your career, then you got exactly what you wanted. Congratulations. Well, now the chickens have come home to roost."

"I do not understand." His voice was a croak of exhaustion.

"The captain's pulling you from duty," McCoy said bluntly. "He's finalizing the paperwork as we speak."

This did not come as a surprise to him. Spock liked to think he Doctor McCoy well; that he knew his mannerisms and the specific way he spoke. There was a tone to his words that set him on edge. There was something the doctor wasn't telling him. A temporary medical leave was not the only action that would be taken, of that he was certain.

Jim had no tolerance for betrayal, be it real or perceived. Spock had angered his captain, disappointed him, damaged their friendship. Worse, he'd made him feel powerless, and Jim tolerated that emotion even less than he did betrayal.

"Is that all the captain is doing?" he asked.

"No, but that's all that's relevant to your health right now. I don't much care about the rest of it."

He tightened his expression, displeased. "I see."

McCoy frowned at him. "Do you? Do you really? Enlighten me on just what it is you think you see, then."

Spock clenched his fists. "I am being placed on medical leave under the apparent assumption that I am emotionally unfit for duty. Regulation One-Hundred and Twenty-One, Section A: The chief medical officer has the power to relieve an officer or crewman of his or her duties, including one of superior rank, if, in the chief medical officer's professional judgment, the individual is medically unfit, compromised by an alien intelligence, or otherwise exhibits behavior that indicates seriously impaired judgment."

The doctor chuckled, although he did not sound as if he found anything humorous. "Yeah, figures you'd have it memorized verbatim. Alright then, what does Regulation Six-Hundred and Nineteen say?"

Control. His lips pressed in a thin line to avoid frowning. He did not want to answer that.

Spock understood the regulations involved, and he understood the reasoning behind removing him from duty. As much as he did not like, nor agree, with them, he understood. He would offer no protests as to that decision. Now that he had completed the mission, the pressure to remain in service had ebbed, and he found he was no longer quite so reticent to remain in his quarters for an extended period of time. It was preferable to being seen in this state.

"I recognize where you are leading this conversation, Doctor. As you already appear to know the contents of it, I see no reason for me to cite it. If you wish to know the exact phrasing, I suggest you take the initiative to research it yourself."

"Indulge me."

"Officers must remove themselves from duty if a mission renders them emotionally compromised and unable to make rational decisions," Spock reluctantly recited.

"Textbook perfect. You know, I'd bet anything you've memorized all the regulations forwards and backwards, and probably even better than all the brass combined. So, it begs the question, Commander. If you know it so well, why didn't you follow it?"

It was a logical question. He wished it had a more logical answer.

He had not followed it because he could not be compromised. He could not be. McCoy did not understand. The captain did not understand. Neither were capable of truly comprehending what this meant for him. They assumed that because they had seen him in a compromised state before, that he was somehow comfortable with displaying vulnerability to them now. This was not the case. Quite the opposite, in fact.

His Time had been a normal response, at least as far as biological processes went. It was expected that a Vulcan would experience emotional volatility during their pon farr. There had been great shame in the loss of control, of course, but that was his own perception of the experience. A lapse in discipline was expected to happen when the plak'tow was burning inside him like a wildfire, igniting his every thought to ash. It was… logical.

No Vulcan would have looked at him critically for it. No Vulcan would have judged him for it. He was no less a Vulcan because he had become compromised by his body's reproductive cycle. If anything, it made him more of one, because everyone had thought him too contaminated by his hybridism to undergo the process, including himself. That he eventually had, albeit later than was typical, was still considered societally allowable.

This was not the same.

This was not normal. This was abhorrent, disgraceful, and shameful in a way that could not merely be excused as a result of his tainted genetics. It was not his biology that failed him now, but his psychology; his mind, his meditation, his telepathy, his barriers. This defect lay not with Vulcans as a species, but with him specifically, and that was unacceptable.

A Vulcan without control could not be trusted.

(Any other Vulcan would have been able to maintain some kind of control, surely. But not Spock. Not he, who could do nothing but feel.)

(Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)(Jim died in front of him again.)"It was not applicable to me, Doctor," Spock answered matter-of-factly. "Indeed, I believe my decisions were made both rationally and logically. It was evident that my participation was necessary to conclude the mission. I could find no other reasonable, logical solution to the continued issue of our language barrier. As the only one capable of communicating effectively, I concluded that it was my duty to—"

"And what about your duty to yourself?" McCoy erupted, suddenly angry. His voice rose loud enough to make Spock flinch. "What about your obligation to be truthful about the mission risks?! Or to dismiss nonsense, stupid orders that would force you to risk your damn sanity! You lied in that briefing room, Spock, and you lied again in the transporter room! You keep saying the Seskille weren't gonna hurt you, or that they didn't hurt you, or that you aren't hurt, but that's a goddamn lie if I've ever heard one, 'cause this is harm!"

Spock looked hard at the ceiling, unblinking. His jaw grit, and he was forced to consciously relax it to prevent his voice from straining. Control. The concept of achieving control, however, was almost laughably farfetched.

"I did not lie," he insisted, and his tone was so flat and empty that it sounded like an emotion in its utter absence of one. "I fail to comprehend why you request honesty and then distrust me when I offer it. The pain I experienced on my first encounter was a direct result of my effort to block them from my mind. As I made no such attempt at resisting their intrusion a second time, I experienced no discomfort from the meld. On the contrary, it felt…" (Assault had never felt so—) "… good."

McCoy stared at him wordlessly, eyes wide. And for a long moment, there was silence but for the machines. They thumped and beat and hummed and gave each and every sign of distress in him away, to be read and displayed on the panel above him. He was so incredibly tired of being displayed; of his body, his privacy, his thoughts, his memories laid out neatly for anyone and everyone to take part in.

When had his mind become public domain?

"My god, man," the doctor finally breathed out, aghast. He looked stunned, jaw working silently in search of something to say. Spock paid him a glance but otherwise offered nothing else, returning to the ceiling and the meager imitation of solitude that it offered him. "Do you even hear yourself?! Do you even hear the words coming out of your mouth right now?"

"I do. If I were experiencing a reduction in my ability to hear, I would inform you of such."

The doctor snorted, but he did not appear to be amused in the slightest. It was a bitter, angry sound.

"And you don't see anything wrong with that? Nothing at all?! You don't see any problem with your frankly disturbing, self-destructive compulsion to endanger yourself?! You offered yourself up for mental rape, Spock! Oh, don't look at me like that—I'll call it what it is, and that is what it is, however you wanna try to spin it! When someone violates you without your consent, no matter if it's your body or your brain or your thoughts, that's—"

McCoy cut himself off abruptly.

The biobed was emitting the shrill, piercing sound of an alarm.

In the midst of attempting to regulate his breathing, which had reduced to hoarse, sharp wheezing, Spock felt a hot wave of humiliation wash over him. It burned up the back of his neck into his ears and made him want to sink through the mattress, the floor, and all the decks beneath until he was off the ship entirely. He did not care to look for himself, but he had very little doubt his panic was plainly evident in both his suddenly skyrocketing pulse and as his elevated blood pressure—the latter of which would be especially noticeable as his baseline levels were normally so low as to barely register at all.

He could not look at McCoy, too embarrassed by the shrieking, irrefutable evidence of his emotional episode. For as loud as it was, it may as well have been a ship-wide announcement declaring for all to hear that he was terrified. No, Spock could not make himself meet the blue eyes that were seeking out his own. He stared straight up at the ceiling in an effort to try to block the sound out, block the doctor out, block all of it out. Control, control, control.

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

(Doctor McCoy couldn't have fought it off if he tried—and Spock was certain that the doctor had tried, for all the good it would have done him.)

(The human mind was so exposed and fragile; it lacked any shield at all.)(Humans were so fragile when compared to Vulcan strength.)

McCoy wordlessly silenced the alarms. The end of the grating sound was a relief, but the tense, uncomfortable quiet that fell between them in its stead was not. There existed a certain human phrase, one that he'd always struggled to identify with. Tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. He had a much better understanding of it now—enough to understand, at least, that he did not enjoy it at all.

Minutes passed in silence. Spock watched the ceiling, and McCoy alternated between watching him and watching the panel. One minute, two, three. Then, finally, the doctor breathed a long sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked tired.

"Alright," McCoy said softly. It was little more than a whisper, and even that seemed too loud. "It's alright, Spock, you can relax. I'm gonna table this topic for a while. You and I are still going to have to address it, but it's on pause until you're in a better state to handle it. You're still in shock right now. I shouldn't have brought it up, and that's on me. I'm sorry about that."

Spock had to clear his throat twice to find his voice. It sounded reedy and thin. "And… should I not wish to address it at all?" He did not want to speak further on the topic. He did not want to expend another thought on anything remotely to do with the Seskille. To talk about it, to talk about how it felt, what they made him see, again, and again, and again

But the doctor only shook his head, mouth twisted apologetically. "That's non-negotiable, I'm afraid."

The muscles in his body had tensed and locked to the point of pain, held so rigidly that he felt as if he were vibrating from the strain. There was a sharp, stabbing throb in his side. It took all the lingering shreds of his willpower not to press his hand against it to stem the bleeding that was not happening from the tricorder shards that were not there.

"… I am not experiencing shock, Doctor," Spock asserted after a moment. The audible faltering in his own words made him feel distinctly sour. "I am incapable of that emotion. I am… I am merely—"

"It's alright, Spock," McCoy gently repeated, interrupting him. He watched him with calm understanding. "You don't need to explain it. It's alright."

His throat tightened, and he cleared it again, disgusted by the way the noise broke in the air. He took a firm, deep breath, forcing his lungs to expand fully. Control… but stability felt so impossible as to be absurd. He did not feel in control of himself. Never, in fact, had he felt further from it. Such a state would be blatantly obvious to anyone who looked at him, especially as closely the doctor currently was. He was not acting as he should. He was not behaving in a way befitting his profession, his rank, or his species. Spock wondered why he was attempting to conceal it all, because it was so clear that they knew something was wrong with him.

Except, he could not allow something to be wrong. They did not understand. They could not understand.

A Vulcan without control could not be trusted. And he knew—had been forced to know, experience, see, over and over again—what could happen should his emotions become unchained. He could not possibly entertain the idea of allowing such an incident to occur again, or even fathom risking it. The doctor had been able to stop him once and, while he was eternally grateful for that, it had only been by pure chance. McCoy would not always be there.

What would happen next time when there was no one to save Jim from the threat he presented? When there was no falsified hypospray? When there was no trick or deception? When there was no protection from him?

(Jim died in front of him again.)

Something cold touched his hand.

Spock snatched it away with such force that his entire body lurched the bed against the floor with a screech. His breath froze in his lungs at the terror that suddenly surged through him like a toxin, raging and potent and chilling. The alarms shrieked discordant and shrill above his head and for a split second, he thought they were back. No, no, he could not stand it again. He could not bear it. He could not breathe

(Again and again, they violated his mind, his memories, his control.)

(The Seskille did not stop. They did not understand the word stop. They did not fully understand what words even were.)(Again and again—)(Again and again—)

The alarms were silenced. The silence sounded like the howl of wind and falling snow.

"Woah. Easy, now. Easy…" came a quiet, calm murmuring at his side. Patient, as if soothing down a spooked horse. The doctor had rolled close enough to the bed that Spock now felt the sleeve of his medical uniform brush against his arm. "I didn't mean to startle you; I'm just cleaning your hands up. You wanna do it yourself?" Spock looked at the damp cloth he was offered, staring at it blankly, uncomprehendingly. After a moment, it was retracted. McCoy seemed unfazed as he nodded. "That's fine, I've got you. Unclench your hands, Spock. C'mon, loosen your fingers. That's it, just relax now. Breathe…"

Gloved fingers—gloved, Spock thought absently, distantly, they posed no threat—gently began to uncurl his fingers from their cramped position, his palms stinging as his nails were pried from his skin. He had not noticed they were clenched so tightly. Nor, he realized, had he noticed they were shaking. All of him was, in fact. He took this in with a vague sense of detachment, as if he were merely a spectator rather than a participant in his own body.

It felt rather similar to being in his memories; the disorientation of simultaneously experiencing sensory input while also being totally, completely cut off from it. Spock blinked, bemused. Strange.

He was certain this was real. Or, at least, he calculated that the odds were considerably in favor of the likelihood of this being real, and that the chances of it being otherwise were so infinitesimally small as to be considered almost negligible. Spock thought he would remember this event should it have been only a memory, because while he still felt absent, he also still burned hot with embarrassment from the spectacle he'd made of himself. The moments of shame in his life were numerous, but he could recall each and every one of them with perfect clarity. This scene did not strike him as being familiar.

But, of course, Spock also acknowledged that he truly had no way of knowing anymore what was and was not a memory. They had all felt just as real to him as reality itself did…

He watched as McCoy cleaned his hand, wiping the cloth over the skin in light, even strokes. He shuddered at the sensation of it, his psionic points over-stimulated by the texture of the fabric. He twitched to try to pull them away, but the doctor held firm to prevent it.

"Yeah, I know it's irritating. You're doing good, Spock. Just try to keep still for me." Blue eyes glanced up at him, far too knowing. "Think you can do that for me?"

Spock nodded vacantly. Yes, he could hold still. That was one instruction he could comply with.

Shock. McCoy had told him he was in shock. Was that what this was, then? He felt as if he were going mad, alternating between terror, emptiness, and detachment as he was. Rapidly cycling between states of feeling and not-feeling. It was unsettling, but even that emotion felt distant from him in the state he was in. He was uncertain whether this was preferable or not. Clearly, his mesiofrontal cortex was damaged, perhaps irreparably, for his psycho-suppression system to be so egregiously dysfunctional.

For a long while, Spock sat there in silence, watching the doctor work. It seemed to be taking too long; McCoy had gone over not only his hands, but his wrists and, after tugging his shirt sleeves up, his arms as well. Which was excessive, he thought, because his arms were already clean. It was… also undeniably comforting. He was not one for unwarranted touch, but the sensation of the cloth had become pleasant now that it wasn't abrasive against his psi-points.

He felt himself begin to return from the far-away place he'd been floating, instead focusing on the cloth, the gloved hands. Spock followed the doctor's steady, practiced movements, focusing on that and only that, until his breath evened out.

Finally, the dermal regenerator ran over his palms. They stung as the half-moon cuts closed.

"So, here's what's gonna happen, Spock," McCoy began, sitting back. "I want you to lay down for an hour. I don't care if you fall asleep or if you just quietly rest your eyes the whole time, but you need to take some time to relax, because your vitals are all over the place and I don't like it. After that…" He looked torn, mouth twisting down. "… after that, the captain's going to come have a chat with you. Now, normally I'd like to put this off and give you more time, but this kind of conversation is best done sooner rather than later. I know you've been stressing about it."

Spock glanced over at the doctor reproachfully, insulted by the insinuation. He was not worried. He was merely curious as to his consequences. Under the circumstances, he felt that to be quite a justified reaction.

"Well, you shouldn't be. You aren't getting drummed out or anything, Spock. Jim would never allow it. Hell, Jim would be joining you if that happened. You're both damn near conjoined at the hip as it is, and he'd never survive the separation. No, he'd walk arm-in-arm in disgrace right off the ship with you, the codependent idiot." McCoy shook his head with a faint look of disgust. "So, whatever you're imagining, I promise it's not gonna be that bad."

"The captain would be well within his rights to a court martial," Spock said softly. "I disobeyed orders. I was insubordinate."

"Jesus, no one's court martialing you over this." There was a snort, as if the very possibility was considered amusing in its absurdity. "I've been insubordinate plenty of times and I'm still here, if that helps reassure you."

Spock stared at him, appalled. "I assure you, Doctor, that it does not."

"Can't say I didn't try." McCoy gave an unrepentant shrug. "One hour, Spock—at least. I recommend you try to sleep, 'cause a nap would do you a world of good, but at the very least, I want you to meditate." The doctor raised a hand, as if halting a protest that Spock did not give him. "Now, hear me out. I know you've said it's difficult while in sickbay, but I still want you to give it a shot, alright? Your upstairs is a whirlwind right now, and even just a light meditation might help calm things down a little."

Spock's stomach sank.

This was one instruction that he could not comply with, not because he did not wish to do so but because he truly could not. There was something truly wrong with him; some sort of damage to his mind that he was unable to fix. It had not been spotted on any scans or McCoy would have said something, and so the source of the issue was clearly not physical. Spock wished that it were, for the doctor might have had a chance at repairing it with his potions and instruments.

"Doctor…" Spock began with barely a whisper of sound. The doctor needed to know of this; perhaps there was something he had missed. But… upon calculating the odds, he knew that was unlikely. And he also knew that even if McCoy did know of the issue, there was nothing he could do to solve it. All he would do would cause added stress, to both himself and to his friends. McCoy did not like feeling powerless either. When the blue eyes snapped to him expectantly, he faltered. "… I cannot meditate with you in the room. Please leave."

"Uh-huh." Doctor McCoy grumbled at him. "I'll stop bugging you. But if I find you stepped foot out of bed—so much as even a toe to the floorI'll hobble your legs, got it? Now, shut up and close your eyes, Spock."

It was an empty threat. Spock said nothing in return, rolling onto his side obediently. That, at least, was an order he could obey. In the darkness, he could pretend he was not under observation. He could pretend his every move was not being evaluated and dissected. He could pretend he was alone in his quarters, and that nothing was wrong at all.

Dimly, he heard the rustle of movement, the doctor standing, the door opening and sliding closed as he left. To be in the silence and the solitude was a relief, and he took it, used it as fuel. He sank into the depths of his own mind like drowning in deep, dark waters.

The burning heat of the sun above him was painful against his skin. The sand beneath him was like fire as he buried himself into it. The air stifled his lungs as he breathed it in, and it choked him into a cough when he exhaled. That was not right. Something was wrong.

Indeed, something was very, very wrong, because this was not his mind. This was not his mind. His desert was… not his desert. Before, it had been malformed in its decimated state, the Seskille having churned the expanse of it to alien seas of sand. But no longer was it merely unfamiliar to him, it was as if it had never been his at all.

Spock felt like a stranger in his own head; like he was the intruder. An invader in the one place that he had always belonged; that had always been a refuge. Since he had learned to meditate in his early childhood, this place had been his, without exception, without fail, and without apology. It was the one place he could always retreat to, where he could always find peace.

There was familiarity in this feeling. It was the same he'd felt in his quarters; the sense that known terrain had been replaced with a convincing imitation. Everything looked the same as it had before, but also off in a way he could not identify or put into words. His desert was in the same ruined, cratered state it'd been prior to beaming down to Seskilles VII for the second time, but it was not the same at all. It was not his, and he felt as if he were violating it by simply standing there among the dunes.

They had taken this from him too.

Spock sank to his knees in a kneel, fingers digging into the sand. The individual grains were sharp and stung at him. He felt it like a tangible ache up his arms and into the core of himself. It should not have hurt him to be here, to surround himself with his own mindscape, but it did, and he did not understand.

He did not understand

McCoy would not be able to fix this, he thought, and the thought rippled through the sand of this foreign land like a quake. He attempted to bury down the resulting surge of terror and consuming, chilling dread, but found he could not. The sand, when he scooped handfuls to cover the emotions, simply spilled through his fingers like water. The thoughts, the emotions—they lay exposed and baking under the harsh heat of the sun, shriveling and drying to a husk.

Something was wrong with him. Something had already been wrong with him, he acknowledged faintly, and it'd been exacerbated by his actions in returning to the planet. A mistake. Of course it had been a mistake; he'd known it was even while advocating for it, while disobeying orders, while beaming down. He'd known there would be damage, but some part of him had been so convinced that he could handle it. That the resulting harm would be temporary and able to be repaired once his control returned.

This was not temporary. This was not repairable. His control had not returned.

And he was terrified.

Spock was no stranger to fear. He had felt afraid before. He'd been afraid of hurting his friends, felt terror from the memories he'd been made to feel, felt horrified by the Seskille during their assault. He'd felt a vague, distant sense of fear throughout the majority of his life, for one reason or another, and he felt it so often that it was almost his default status. This felt different. It was not by another's actions that he felt fear, but by his own.

Regrets were illogical, he'd always told himself. Kaiidth. What is, is. He had always lived by that rule; that he made the actions he made, and that wishing he'd done otherwise was not an efficient use of his time. There was no undoing an action once taken; no reversing time, no withdrawing what was done. If in error, all he could hope to do was offer any possible reparations or amends to the aggrieved party and learn from it.

Now… now he felt so very, very terrified of what he had done that he choked on the fear. He felt the sick pooling in his gut, behind his eyes, in his throat. It throbbed in his mind like a pulse of its own. The sand of the desert—not his, not his—rumbled as if struck by tremors. The grains shifted, spilled into the craters and formed new ones. A place that was constantly shifting and inconsistent and strange.

A pressure began to build in his chest, just as unfamiliar to him as his surroundings were, and he could not… he could not…

"Spock?"

That voice. He knew that voice.

He would recognize this one particular human anywhere.

"Jim." The name was in the air before he'd even realized he'd spoken at all. It traveled from his throat, his mouth, his lips, and he desperately followed that name back into the world. "Jim…"

Spock opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh, glaring light of sickbay. He halted the sound that attempted to escape him, smothering it down with a clearing of his throat. The pressure in his chest did not ease; it was only building and building, growing harsher against his ribcage. His lungs felt as if they were constricting from it.

"That's right," said a calm, reassuring voice. "I'm right here."

Jim sat at his side, having pulled up a seat at some point in time. He was finally looking at him. While this was what Spock had wanted in the transporter room, he found it was not quite so appealing now. Despite the gentle tone of his words, the captain watched him with that same closed, reserved look he'd worn before. Whatever he felt or thought, it was not reflected in the darkened hazel eyes that glanced him over from head to toe.

Spock stiffened, locking up as he remembered himself. He felt embarrassed by his anxious, pathetic display. Familiarity would not be conducive to a professional conversation, if that was indeed what this was about. This man was not Jim right now. He could not afford to be.

"Captain," Spock acknowledged in as even a voice as he could manage, regaining composure.

Had an hour passed already? He supposed it must have, or McCoy would never have allowed his captain entry in the first place. His internal chronometer was skipping and inaccurate, his sense of time skewed.

"I'm sorry for waking you up, Spock," Jim told him softly. "I truly am. I would have liked to give you more time, but… I'm afraid this can't wait."

Slowly, Spock forced himself up until he was sitting, ignoring the burn and ache in his arms from the strain. His head was throbbing again, but it was a dull sensation that he could push aside in favor of concentration. While he did not feel better, exactly, the world around him was clearer, more coherent. He did not feel numb, nor did he feel overly emotional. He did not know how to describe his present condition. He didn't think there were words for it.

"It is the later you spoke of." Some part of him was relieved. There would be no more uncertainty. Whatever the consequences were, he would finally know of them and be able to move forward.

"Yes." The captain's voice was barely audible, sounding regretful. "It is. You and I need to have that talk now."

Spock only nodded, turning to face his captain with all the professionalism and dignity as befitting his rank. Chin tilted up, shoulders pulled back, expressionless. He would have preferred to be on his feet in parade rest, limbs locked into a military-perfect posture, rather than reclining in bed. Unfortunately, he did not believe his legs would do an admirable job in holding his weight for long. He felt dizzy simply sitting up. It was more dignified to be lying on the mattress than on the floor.

"I have deduced that this conversation will be to address my actions regarding Seskilles VII, both prior to beaming down and the act of doing so itself, as well as the resulting disciplinary measures. I acknowledge that my behavior has consequences, and I am prepared to accept them," Spock informed his captain mildly, hoping to put him at ease.

While Jim's expression did not betray his emotions, Spock knew him well enough to know he was upset. They'd discussed the Talos IV incident only a handful of times, but Jim had shared with him that he'd never felt more conflicted than while judging Spock's court martial. He did not want to be caught between friendship and captaincy, and he'd asked Spock to never put him in that position again. It was regrettable that he betrayed that.

His reassurance seemed to have the opposite effect than desired. Jim only frowned at him.

"Disciplinary measures…" Jim murmured, trailing the words. "This talk isn't about disciplinary measures, Commander. Or, I suppose, it's not about discipline. Actions, on the other hand… yes, it is about your actions." The captain took a breath and ran a hand over his face. He looked exhausted. "Before I begin… I want to know how you're doing. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

Spock hesitated, uncertain how to reply. He did not know how he was doing. He did not know how he was feeling. He did not know what he needed, or if he needed anything at all. He finally settled on a lame, "Adequate, sir. I require nothing at this time."

Jim nodded as if he expected nothing less. He straightened then, and every inch of him was the commanding, authoritative captain who had unflinchingly stared down Romulans, Gorns, Gods, and Klingons, time and time again. His eyes were flint, no emotion, no expression, no warmth. When he next spoke, his tone was both professional and exacting, as if he were talking to some nameless officer in Starfleet Command. As if he were talking to a stranger.

He might as well have been, for all that Spock felt like one.

"I suppose we'll get started, then." The captain's attention sharpened on him, homing in like an arrow. "I want to begin by reassuring you that there will be no disciplinary measures issued as a result of beaming down to Seskilles VII. You were given an official order by Ambassador Hammett and, according to Regulation Book Nineteen, Section Four-Hundred and Thirty-Three, Paragraph Twelve, you were obligated to comply with those orders. Regardless of my… personal feelings on the matter, officially you did nothing wrong. Therefore, that matter is over and closed."

Spock felt something cold lodge deep inside. He said nothing in response, but there was a protest building in him. He wished he could tell the captain to, to borrow a human phrase, throw the book at him. Somehow, he thought it might hurt considerably less than the cold impassiveness in Jim's voice. It was not even necessarily what he'd said, but what he'd not said that felt so devastating. But then, he thought, perhaps that was the point. If Jim could not hurt him with regulation, he could certainly do so in other ways.

His captain had always had a remarkable ability to damage him with words alone.

"However, there is the matter of Regulation Six-Hundred and Nineteen and your inaction in following it once it became clear your judgement was compromised." Jim did not wait for him to object, although Spock had not intended to. "You know yourself better than anyone, Commander. If it were not obvious enough this morning, it should have been after your outburst post-briefing. You were clearly not in any state to perform your duties, and you were told as much. As such, you were obligated to remove yourself from shift, which you failed to do."

So, that was why McCoy had brought it up. He'd already known that it would be relevant later, which meant that McCoy and the Captain had already discussed this. Spock nodded, accepting this. Kaiidth. What is, is. He did not wish to acknowledge that he was emotionally compromised—the idea felt so shameful as to be sickening—but he realized he could no longer deny that he was. Emotionally, mentally, and physically compromised.

"And the consequences?" Spock asked evenly, his own voice just as neutral and dispassionate as the captain's.

Jim met his gaze. "Will not be disciplinary. I'm required to consider your state of mind at the time. You'd just come out of an emotionally charged, personally distressing situation, and you were already in a highly vulnerable condition even before that. McCoy's opinion is that you lacked the ability to understand just how unfit for duty you really were."

It was humiliating to sit here and listen to this. Spock only kept his eyes on his captain out of sheer force of will, as all of him wanted to roll over and pretend this conversation was not happening. To be spoken of in such a way… it was demeaning. It was offensive to the point of cruelty. State of mind. Personally distressing situation. Vulnerable condition. Ability to understand.

Spock felt nauseated at the words being tossed so casually at him, as if they meant nothing more than a token explanation. As if they did not implicate him in the most shameful ways. As if he were not Vulcan.

The captain either did not know how degrading this was, or he did not care. He continued to list out each and every one of Spock's faults, taking no mercy.

"Corrective action will, however, be taken in regard to your decision to ignore Doctor McCoy's level one summons to sickbay. Level one medical orders take priority over any commands you might have otherwise received—barring, of course, instances of imminent danger to yourself, to others, or to the ship. The order you received from Ambassador Hammet met none of those exemptions. When the doctor could not reach you by personal comm, he issued the summon shipwide. Your state of mind is irrelevant in this instance; you were required to report to sickbay, and you did not."

Strange. Spock could not recall such an order. Or… no, he vaguely recalled the desk intercom hailing him, both Jim and McCoy's voices requesting his response. He had been distracted at the time; unfocused, empty. He'd heard it, but he had not heard it.

"Because of that, I am placing you On Report." The captain paused, allowed him space to speak. When he did not, Jim prompted him. "Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

Spock shook his head once, jaw set firmly. He focused on the captain's forehead rather than his eyes. An amateur trick of sorts, but one he had no other option but to utilize. He could no longer meet the cool, hard look being aimed at him like a weapon. Jim's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He'd noticed, then.

"Very well. Commander Spock, you are hereby temporarily relieved of duty until further notice by reason of impaired judgement, emotional instability, and compromised decision making." The captain stated the list tonelessly, factually, as if reading from a pre-written form. His expression didn't waver once. "For this reason, you are also being formally Command Directed for a mandatory comprehensive mental health evaluation to determine your competency for duty. The evaluation will take place with Doctor Leonard McCoy on Thursday at fifteen-hundred hours."

Spock did not breathe. He did not move. He did not think.

He would have rather been court martialed.

"Legally, I am required to give you forty-eight hours advanced notice to file an appeal if you believe this decision has been made in error. Should you choose to appeal, your attendance at the evaluation will still be required unless the appeal is successful in overruling the Command Directive before the scheduled appointment date."

The pressure in his chest was building and building, and it hurt. It hurt with a kind of ache he did not have a name for. He did not know if such a word existed that could describe it. It felt as if shards of dread, of weight, of throbbing, twisting tension had taken root throughout his chest, his heart, his throat, his eyes, his limbs…

"Additionally," the captain continued, "due to the severe circumstances and the critical nature of the assault you experienced, you are to report to Doctor McCoy twice per day for health monitoring. This is effective immediately; your first appointment will be tonight."

It had only taken nine-point-eight-four-two days for it all to fall apart, he thought distantly, nebulously. Nine-point-eight-four-two days to destroy his friendship, his career, and his discipline. Only nine-point-eight-four-two days. The thought was like a slow, creeping poison in his mind, trickling through all his neural pathways and synapses and relays. It burrowed deep in, as if delivered by a bite from some toxic, insidious creature, and it began to decay all that it touched. Eroded it to necrosis and blackened, festering sepsis.

"Do you have any concerns or objections about the stated decision?" the captain asked him challengingly, sounding as if he himself would have both concerns and objections aplenty should Spock dare raise any.

"No," Spock said, a croak of a word that was more rasping noise than it was recognizable speech. "I do not. Nor do I intend to appeal it."

He'd told himself that he would be professional about it. That he would accept the consequences of his actions and move forward with them regardless of what they were. And he would have, he thought, were they anything else. Had he been discharged from Starfleet or locked into the brig. If he had been fined, or his considerable accumulated personal leave docked. Any restrictions, any penalty, any punishment… he would have accepted it. A court martial, even. He would have sat there, blank and calm and stoic, and he would have accepted it.

But not this.

This was perhaps the worst thing they could have done to him, because it was not a punishment at all. It was an intervention. This was not a minor health leave that would stay in his medical file, locked only to the health staff. This would be sent further up. A Command Directed intervention was required to be approved by the chain of command and submitted for formal approval. It would remain with him forever. Proof to anyone and everyone that he was not in control.

The pressure in his chest was no longer aching. It was throbbing. Burning. It felt like fire in him, and it began to rise up his throat, tightening and constricting it like a viper wrapping around his larynx and trachea. It was just as well that he'd spoken when he still could; he did not dare try to say anything else now, for fear of what might emerge instead of words. His control had been eroded to the quick, but he still clung to whatever shreds of dignity he had left; used them to cover the few scant inches of his pride that the tattered remains could conceal.

"Thank you for notifying me of your decision, Commander." The captain stared him down, eyebrows furrowing the longer he did. Now that he was looking, Spock wished he would not. He could not stand the heavy weight of it. "I suppose we're done, then."

Good. The sense of relief was a pitiful, sickly thing, made all the more pathetic by the desperation that followed behind, but he basked in the surge of it all the same. It felt better than the dread, the terror, and the gutted, wrenched hopelessness that was otherwise eating away at him.

But like most pitiful, sickly things, it was crushed far too swiftly and far too easily. Jim had been staring at him until now, expression hard and closed off. Now, it shifted from blank to narrow to irritable. The captain was not done talking, and Spock had the sense that he would like this conversation even less than he had the last.

"What are you doing, Spock?" Jim asked him after a moment, and the voice he used was deceptively soft. "What is this?"

Spock opened his mouth to speak, faltering and trying to find words that might escape the strangling net in his throat, but he never had the chance. Just as well. He would not have known what to say.

"No, no excuses. I'm asking you, what is this? The position you've put me in, the position you've put yourself in! What is this?" His captain was angry. There was a muscle tensed in his jaw as he grit his teeth, brows creasing lower and lower the more his eyes thinned to slits. "You've been sick, you've been—your hands, your exhaustion, your outbursts! You defied orders, Spock! My orders! And you defied them in favor of Hammett's?! So, explain it to me, Spock. Explain it to me, because I'm afraid I don't understand in the slightest!"

He stared, shaken at the sight of his captain's hurt. "I… I do not have an—"

"Oh, but you do!" Jim snapped out, fists clenching hard enough to nearly match the white-knuckle grip Spock had beneath the covers. "I'm sure you've got your own brand of logic, whatever form it might be in this condition. You do have an explanation for your actions, and I want to hear it. Now, First Officer! I think I'm owed that much!"

"You are angry with me," Spock concluded quietly. He found it impossible now to look at Jim—not only his eyes, but all of him. He directed his response to his lap instead, to the orange blankets that were draped over him. "Which, under the circumstances, is justified. I apologize, sir."

"For god's sake, I don't want your apologies, Spock! I want you to tell me why you're doing this to yourself! You went behind my back intentionally, and you did it to disobey my order. My order! Me, Spock! Tell me what the hell you were—" The captain cut himself off, teeth grit so tight they audibly creaked. He sucked in a slow, harsh breath. Held it. Released it just as slowly, just as harshly.

It was harder now to defend his behavior when faced with Jim's understandable fury. It was even harder to rationalize the decisions he'd made after spending the last two-point-zero-eight hours alternating between fits of extreme emotion and extreme apathy. And his mind… his desert reflected the state of his psyche. For it to be so damaged and so unrecognizable to him… it was an ominous sign.

"Maybe you really aren't capable of reason right now, or good judgement, or—" Jim waved his hand dismissively, angrily. "—but you didn't need to reason or judge anything at all! I told you not to go down there. McCoy told you not to go down there! But you didn't listen, and you let them hurt you again. No, you not only let them, you actually advocated for it! You disobeyed orders to ensure it happened! Uhura said you were convulsing. You were screaming!"

"I knew what would happen, Captain," Spock said, voice wavering as he fought to explain himself. He stumbled on the words as they spilled from him. "Knowing this, I knew what to expect and… and minimize the discomfort. I… assure you, however it might have sounded, their presence did not hurt me."

"I don't exactly need to stretch my mind all that far to imagine how it might have sounded, Mr. Spock, because I've already heard it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'll never forget that sound, no matter how much I would like to. When I found you that night, you were shattering your own head open to make them stop. I had to throw myself on you—wrestle you into the corner and pin you down in my lap just to keep you still, so that pieces of your skull wouldn't dislodge into your brain." The captain glared at him furiously. "So don't tell me that it didn't hurt, Spock. Don't you dare say that, because it absolutely hurt me."

There was an audible roar in his ears as Spock felt the blood drain from his face, pooling somewhere deep down. The words festered in him like an infection. He could not breathe. He could not move. He had hurt his captain. He had hurt Jim. That was unforgivable. That was not defensible, or justifiable, or excusable.

The captain closed his eyes to steady himself, and when he opened them, they were listless and regretful.

"And when you beamed back up earlier—god, the way you looked at me…" Jim ran a hand over his face, anger draining just as swiftly as it began. He looked exhausted; too pale and too stretched thin. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. "As if I'd just up and disappear if you so much as blinked too long. How can I possibly stay objective when faced with that, Spock?"

"Captain…" He did not know what to say. He could not find so much as even the concept of words, not in any language he knew.

"That's just it, isn't it? Captain." Jim's tone was sour, almost resentful. "I'm not allowed to be your friend right now, Spock. I need to be your captain, your commander, your authority. I need to be unbiased and impartial—and trust me, it's a struggle to remain either when it comes to you, even on a good day. Today, though… today is particularly difficult. What I want to do and what I have to do aren't compatible. I am your captain, you are my first officer, and that's the only relationship we're allowed to have right now."

"I understand," Spock said, and he did. He did not like it, and he knew Jim did not either, but he did understand. He could not fault his captain for upholding his authority; not when it was Spock who had forced his hand with his insubordination. "Captain, I realize the position I have placed you in, and—"

"No, Spock." Jim chuckled softly; a bitter, resigned sound. He shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think you do. If you did, I daresay this thing would have been resolved a whole lot sooner. I'd have stepped in a whole lot sooner." There was a creak of the chair as his captain shifted his weight on it, leaning back against the black headrest. He did not look irritated any longer. He looked worn down. "I suppose it's just as well, though. If I'm struggling this badly with being your captain and just your friend…" Jim let out a low, gust of breath.

Spock hesitated. He did not recognize the underlying significance to the comment, and only knew there was one by the wry, regretful look in his captain's dark expression. This did not provide clarity as to the context, or the exact inference.

"I do not comprehend your meaning," Spock finally confessed to the blankets covering his legs, after careful examination of the phrasing and resulting continued ignorance.

"I know you don't, Spock. It's okay, I don't expect you to." Jim smiled that miserable smile again, the one that only hardened his eyes rather than warmed them. "That's a conversation for another time. It's not important right now."

Made uncertain by the tone in his captain's voice, Spock nodded somewhat dubiously.

"You never answered me, you know. Can you at least tell me why you disobeyed my orders? At your most compromised, your reasoning could have run laps around Hammett. If your brain had been removed from your skull entirely, you'd still have more computing power upstairs than he does. So don't tell me you couldn't have gotten out of his command, because I don't buy that at all."

"Am I being reprimanded for disobeying orders, or for conceding to them?"

"You aren't being reprimanded at all, Spock," the captain's mild tone had faded, flattening in the face of Spock's evasion. "You are being asked to explain yourself. I believe I'm owed that much, at least.'

Spock struggled to find the explanation that would satisfy the request, mouth opening once and closing uselessly. He cleared his throat. The pressure was strangling him, and speaking was difficult. All his previous justifications suddenly seemed lacking. "I… did not disobey your order, Captain," he said with as little emotion as he could manage. "I examined the exact phrasing used and determined that no such command was given. You specifically stated—"

"I know what I said, Spock," Jim stared at him with a stony, cold frown. The bitter smile was gone entirely; now he looked only grim. "And you know what I meant. Following the letter of the law doesn't excuse you from the spirit of it. That's your stance, then? You're going to hide behind, what, a technicality? That's the reason you went around my order?"

"You did not order me."

"I didn't think I had to order you!" His captain was not often prone to shouting. He did not do so even now, but it was a very near thing. "Anyone else, maybe, but not you, Spock! I assure you though, I won't make that same mistake again. I'll remember that moving forward."

Spock swallowed around the lump in his throat. He felt a stinging behind his eyes and blinked them sternly, upset at the realization that this was affecting him so severely. "It was necessary, Captain." He was disgusted by the sound of his own voice; a shivery, quaking noise that trembled in the air. He cleared his throat, but this only choked him. "I understood you would try to seek alternatives, but there were no realistic alternatives available. I examined the problem and considered all possible angles before I was forced to conclude that my participation was not only logical, but inevitable."

"I told you I'd figure something out. You didn't think I would come up with a solution?" At the resulting silence, the captain paused. Then, with dawning awareness, he nodded as if Spock had answered a question. His expression had drawn tight. "I see. So that's the reason for all of this. You didn't trust me to protect you."

Alarmed, Spock snapped his head towards his captain. "Negative; that is not the reason. I assure you, sir, that my motivation was ruled by logic."

"Is this about what the Seskille said?" the captain asked, ignoring him. "About… about what I said on Omicron Seti III? The spores? Is that why you're shutting me out now? If that's the case—"

"No, captain," Spock interrupted, appalled at both the thought and the reminder of those words ("What else would you expect from a simpering, devil eared freak—"). The memory was sickening. "The events of that mission are in no way relevant to my recent actions. I have never experienced resentment towards you for the manner with which you removed the spore's influence. I understood the necessity, both then and now."

"This morning, then?" Jim probed further insistently, refusing to relent. "The hug, the touching… did I break too many boundaries? Cross a line I shouldn't have?"

"You did not. On the contrary, it—it was not unwelcome. You asked me for permission, which was granted. I did not object to it. I still do not. I assure you, this is not your fault."

"Then what is it, Spock? There has to be a reason you won't talk to me. I thought things were getting better between us this morning; that we'd moved past this—the lying, secrecy, closed doors. And then shift started…" Jim looked at him openly, imploringly. "So what else am I supposed to think? How did I make you lose so much trust in me so quickly?"

Because I am afraid.

Because I don't recognize myself.

Because I am not in control.(And Spock knew what happened when he lost control.)(Jim died in front of him again.)

Spock could not think. He could not breathe. His mind raced frenzied and frantic, speeding away from him. The pressure was excruciating. Stop asking, he wanted to cry out. He could not answer these questions. He did not know how to answer them.

"Jim, this is not an issue of trust," he said hurriedly, desperately, hoping to erase the doubt he could see in the dark, hurt eyes that watched him. "It has never been an issue of trust. Indeed, I can think of no other individual I trust more than you. Please—" Please stop. "—believe me."

He wanted nothing more than to scream; to plead for Jim to stop questioning him, to be silent long enough for him to gather a coherent thought. None of the words that sprang to his lips seemed to make any sense, and he was stuttering now. I beg you, please stop.

(Begging didn't make any difference, he thought distantly. Begging was useless.)

He wanted it to stop.

He wanted everything to stop.

"Then trust me to help!" Jim burst out with, leaning in close. "Spock, for god's sake, it's me. You can—I'm not even asking you as your captain, anymore! I'm asking you as your friend! You said you wouldn't shut me out, but this is shutting me out! For once in your life, Spock, just trust me!"

And Spock did not know—would never know—what made him say it. Maybe it was the panic building inside of him, or that pressure that was strangling his throat and depriving his lungs of breath. Maybe it was the burning sting behind his eyes, or the full-body trembling that shook him visibly. Or maybe even the desperate, incoherent, blinding sense of hopelessness, and shame, and utter self-hatred that prevented all thought, reason, or restraint.

Regardless of the cause, he could not take the words back once spoken.

"Is that an order, Captain?"

Jim reared back as if slapped. There was a brief look of stunned surprise, followed swiftly by something crushed and devastated. Each flit across his face only for an instant before they were concealed. The captain's expression forcibly deadened, going so utterly empty and lifeless that it rivaled the void of space itself.

Spock stared. He was so horrified with himself that he was speechless. Instantly, he wanted to apologize. He wanted to say he had not intended to say it—that he had not meant it—but that would be a lie. Because he wished, more than anything, that Jim would order him to talk. That he would order him to speak, or trust, or be how he wanted, or be what he wanted, so that the choice and decision to do so wouldn't be in his hands any longer. So that Spock did not have to do it himself.

Cowardice. Pure cowardice. He hated himself…

"No," Jim said flatly after a moment, voice dull and face blank. "It isn't. If I have to order you to trust me, that's not really trust, is it?"

"Jim…" Spock was able to rasp out, each word scraping like coarse grit against his tongue. His voice was rushed enough to be sloppy. His lungs burned, and he could not inhale. He could not… "I... I should not have said that. It was not my intention to imply that I—" His air depleted and he could not suck in another breath to fully complete his sentence. "—that I do not—"

(Intentions don't mean anything.)

"Don't. Just… don't." The captain's face was carefully calm; a practiced, neutral look that revealed nothing, betrayed nothing, offered nothing. "Don't look me in the eye and lie to me, Spock. I assure you, you've more than exceeded my patience for it. If you don't feel you can talk to me, that's something I'll just have to accept. And I can. I will. But at least do me the courtesy of being honest about it."

The instinctual response was on his lips. Vulcans do not lie. The same standard reply he gave everyone when his word was called into question. Vulcans do not lie. It would be so incredibly easy to dismiss his captain again. The words were instinctual by now, they would take no effort to say. Spock did not say it, because even that was a lie. The truth was, he lied, and he lied often. He did not feel as if he were much of a Vulcan at all anymore.

And Jim asked him for honesty.

"I do not want to lie to you, Jim." He said quietly. He directed each word to the blankets covering his legs. He focused on them so intently that the orange seared his eyes. They were blurring. His expression felt as if it were made of stone. His emotions, liquid. His feelings eroded away his control, little by little, like ocean water on rock. "I do not want to, yet that is all I appear to be doing. There is no excuse for it, and I… I regret being unable to meet your expectations, sir. I have found the truth to be… unexpectedly difficult to admit to—both to you and to myself."

Jim looked at him for a long moment. The silence between himself and his captain was thick and suffocating and he hated every second of it. He wanted to break it himself, to tell Jim that he was sorry, to plead for forgiveness. To beg. But begging was useless, he thought distantly, like an insidious whisper from another room. They didn't understand begging…

"I should never have let you on duty this morning," Jim said finally, in such a soft voice that it was nearly inaudible. In the still silence of the room, it was as loud as any shout; his captain had always used words with devastating effect. The expression on his face was as regretful as his tone. "The way you looked—disheveled, exhausted, pale, trembling… I should have bundled you right back into bed and kept you there. The moment I saw you, I should have stepped in and taken care of it. I'm so sorry, Spock. I truly am."

There was a pause during which neither of them spoke, only stared at one another.

But then, Jim narrowed his gaze, jaw hardening, shoulders pulling back. He looked oddly breathtaking like that, with fire in his eyes and steel in his will. Strong, confident, fearless; every bit the brilliant captain that Spock had come to cherish.

"Well, this is me stepping in and taking care of it now. You need me to give you orders? Fine, I'll give you orders. You need me to safeguard you while you can't or won't protect yourself? Then I'll keep you safe. You need me to take charge until you're healthy enough to regain control? Then I'll take charge of you. Until I can trust you with the reins again, your ability to make healthcare decisions has been revoked. I'm tired of asking you to accept help, Spock. I've asked, McCoy's asked, and enough is enough. I'm not asking you now, I'm telling you. You need help, so you'll get help."

He was often prone to exaggeration, his captain was. This was not exaggeration. Jim glared at him with such fierce promise that Spock did not doubt a single word he said. Determination glinted like embers among the flecks of green and brown and gold.

Determination, Spock knew, had always been a dangerous emotion in his captain. Once James Kirk decided on a course of action, he would not be swayed from it by anyone or anything. If it meant keeping those he cared for safe, he would sooner rearrange the universe itself than abandon his objective, and any obstacle in his path would either be conquered or forced to bend to his sheer willpower alone.

Jim leaned forward to plant his hands on the edge of the mattress, crossing into Spock's personal space beyond what was socially acceptable. There was something daunting about the formidable certainty his captain aimed at him, mere centimeters away. His voice was quiet when he spoke, but it was no less forceful because of it. It was as biting as a whipcrack in the room.

"As your captain, I have a responsibility to intervene for the sake of my first officer. As your friend, I have a responsibility to intervene for the sake of you. You're my best friend, Spock. You're worth more to me than you'll ever know, and I'll be damned if I stand by to watch you sink. I'll haul you kicking and screaming to shore myself if that's what it takes, but you aren't going to drown, you hear me? I won't allow it. Not on my ship. Not on my watch."

Spock blinked mutely, at a loss for words. Jim stood, his posture the very image of militaristic precision; rigid, strong, and broad. He tugged the gold of his uniform straight and turned for the door.

"Your evaluation is scheduled two days from now. You aren't confined to quarters in the meantime, but you are under a number of health restrictions. Doctor McCoy will go over the exact specifics with you." The captain glanced back at him sharply. "And I expect you to comply with them to the letter, Commander. There will be no more technicalities to bypass orders, am I clear?"

He inclined his head in understanding, not trusting his ability to speak. The tightness in his throat had constricted beyond painful to downright choking. This answer, however, was not one that would apparently satisfy the question. At the sight of thinning lips and a displeased set of a jaw, he managed to croak a hoarse, tremulous, "Yes, sir." It was barely audible.

Jim looked at him for a moment, raking his eyes over him as if he were committing the sight to memory. Then, he nodded once, a sharp motion, turned, and left the room.

Spock watched him leave. He continued watching long after the doors slid closed.

A dull buzzing filled his ears. Somewhere, far away, a sound was in the air. Something pathetic, ragged, injured. The alarms of the biobed began to blare.

He had murdered his captain once, he thought distantly. It came like another drip in the cavern the Seskille had left inside him. He had strangled the radiant, magnificent human he claimed to love so much. He had strangled him until that bright light in his eyes died, leaving behind only empty, hollow dark. Spock had lost control of himself again—and again, and again, and again.

Of course, he had.

It was exactly what he'd come to expect of himself. He had the most astonishing ability to ruin the few truly good things he had, and to somehow keep ruining them until they eventually left. It would not be the last time he did so, either, because while there should never have been a first time, it seemed there would always be an again.

And again, and again, and again.

(Again and again—)


As always, a huge thank you to everyone for reading!

So, this chapter is my longest one yet, topping at a stupidly absurd 16.5k words. I really debated cutting it down—and in fact, I ended up moving an additional 3k words to the next chapter, both due to pacing, length, and context. Writing the whole thing, amusingly, was easy enough. It's editing the damn thing! I added at least 5k words in editing... that then required editing, which meant more words, which meant more editing. So this chapter is a day late! Thank you for bearing with me!

Fun fact: the scene of Jim confronting Spock over the disobeyed orders was the first scene I ever wrote for this fic, long before I even had the rest of a plot in place. Of course, the scene looked incredibly different. It took place before the second trip to Seskilles VII. It took place on the bridge, with Spock disobeying Hammett's orders as well as Jim's. It involved Jim pulling Spock aside and asking him why he was so resistant to communicating with the Seskille. So much of this story originally relied on Jim and McCoy believing Spock's initial denials, and that was the first major deviation I took from my original outline. I determined that it just... wasn't accurate to the characters. There was no way Jim or McCoy would ever buy that, especially after everything that happened.

So in the end, the only thing I could use from the original scene was a few bits of dialogue that still worked well. I like this version of the scene much better (although it's stupid levels of wordy).

As a side note... I am currently outline a Spock/Mirror!Kirk longfic, which I am hoping to begin during nanowrimo. I am really, really excited for it. It will be very different from K'oh-nar, both in tone and in rating.

Vulcan:
K'oh-nar — The fear of emotional vulnerability and emotional exposure.
Ne'hish — Pressure; the application of continuous force by one body on another that it is touching; compression; the act of pressing.
Pon farr — Mating time. The entirety of the Vulcan mating phenomena; occurs generally once every seven years.
Plak'tow — Blood fever; the final part of pon farr whereby the victim is rendered incapacitated and the only thought is to mate.
Kaiidth — What is, is.