Nothing was all right, but there were brighter, happier moments, too. One day, the clouds lifted, and the rain stopped. Not knowing how long this reprise would last, most of the soldiers, having fulfilled their official duties, sat outside under the roofed sections of the trenches.

Spock sat alone, on the bench near the bunker, basking like a cat in the golden rays of afternoon sun that managed to reach under the roof.

Christine couldn't be sure if he had noticed her as she approached him with a steaming mug of tea, a handful of biscuits and his blanket. It was still not warm, and the ground was moist, the sun causing it to glitter here and there.

Christine set the mug and the biscuits carefully down on the bench. "Why won't you relax?" she asked as she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

"I am relaxing."

"You're not." She crossed her arms. "You might fool most people. Not me."

Spock slowly looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "What would you have me do?"

She picked up the mug of tea along with one biscuit and held it out to him. "Drink and eat," she said. "And stay warm." She smirked down at him and then turned to get herself a tea as well.

Moments later, Jim appeared around the bend of the trench and took the place next to Spock. "You got yourself sorted out, I see."

"I got sorted out," Spock said, nibbling on a biscuit. "By Doctor Chapel. These simple methods are a surprisingly effective remedy for the cold, at least momentarily."

Jim smirked, more at Spock overcompensating by talking about Chris with her title than at his observation. "When in distress, human beings often resort to simple methods," he answered. "And sometimes those are the ones that help the most. Tea, a blanket, something to eat, taking a walk." He shot Spock a pointed look. "Sometimes a hug helps, too, Spock."

Before Spock could reply, Christine returned, along with Thomas Cooper, McCoy, Chekov, Henry Forester, and Lance Corporal Franklin Jones. Most of them carried something to eat or drink, apart from Cooper who had his pack of cigarettes.

Chekov sat down on Jim's side of the bench, and Chris squeezed herself in between McCoy and Spock, evoking a disgruntled sound from the Vulcan that she ignored.

"Oi, Nancy," Cooper said, standing in front of her and holding out a cigarette. "Want one?" The friendly twinkle in his eyes stood in stark contrast to his snarky behaviour.

"My name is Chris," she said.

"You know what I mean," Cooper grumbled. "It's because you're…you know. Anyway, want a cigarette?"

"Thanks, no. You know those are gonna rot your lungs, right?"

Cooper shrugged. "Not gonna live as long, anyway."

Christine sighed. "Oh, Thomas."

"Now, don't give me those puppy eyes," he huffed. "You remind me of my niece." And he turned around and left. The others were about to call him back but saw that he went to join Elliot Baker, Eli Jones, and a group of other young privates around the next bend and left him to it.

For a while, Pavel, Jim, Spock, Chris, Leonard, Henry, and Franklin sat together quietly, eating their root vegetables and drinking their tea. When their companionate silence was interrupted, it was by Lieutenant Thompson emerging from the bunker to tell Chris to shave him, having brought all the necessary equipment with him.

As she set to work, she wondered why on earth she had to have ended up as his soldier-servant. Even as a certified surgeon, she felt uncomfortable handling the razor blade and dragged it over his throat as carefully as she could.

He seemed to think she was good enough, though. "You could go into service after the war," he said when she had finished. "Ever thought about it?"

"Eh, no, sir."

"I'd take you on as a valet," he continued. "I have a house in Belgravia. In your case, I'd forgo references."

"Thank you, sir," she said carefully, pushing herself up from the floor where she had knelt in front of him. "I will consider it, sir."

Thompson got up from the bench but turned around again before leaving. "Oh, you, too, Grayson," he said, addressing Spock. "I imagine you have no illusions about finding decent work after the war."

Spock inclined his head in a gesture of gratitude but answered, "I am sure I will find something, thank you."

"I wouldn't be so sure. Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Thompson shook his head in disbelief. "The offer stands, Jack. You don't have to decide anytime soon, both of you. We might all still die." He smirked down at them and turned to go. "Oh, and Chapel," he added, turning back once more, "shave Grayson, too, will you? And give him a haircut. He's starting to look like a pageboy."

Christine nodded obediently and watched Thompson leave at last. She took a clean blade from the shaving kit and turned to Spock.

"How much do you trust me?"

He sighed, trying to ignore the playful tone. "That is beside the point. Thompson means well but I am in no need of a shave yet."
"I don't know, there is some stubble." She reached out to feel his cheek. "Yep, definite stubble. It couldn't hurt." She met his eyes and dropped her hand from his face. "Oh, sorry."

Next to them, McCoy chuckled. "You're just afraid Chris'll slit your throat."

"I am not," Spock protested, then, a second later, turned to Christine. "By all means, then. Do it."
She lathered him up and bent closer before starting to shave. "Don't worry," she whispered. "I'll be gentle."

"I know," he whispered back and nodded for her to continue. It was logical, after all. While he was fully capable of shaving by himself, having her do it was probably safer, being without a mirror and having to use these antiquated devices.

Clark Merriweather had needed help shaving. Because his hands had trembled so at times. Spock looked down at his own hands, lying still in his lap. As still as if he was waiting for an ensign to finish their report to him back on the ship.

"Don't move," Christine admonished him and tilted his chin back up.

She finished shaving him gently and efficiently and then took out the scissors.

"Well?" she asked, snipping the air with them. "How about it?"

He looked down at the scissors and then up into her face. He sighed again and took off his helmet. "To quote a friend of mine," he murmured, "Have at it. Do your worst."

She chuckled and began to cut away at his hair. Thompson had been right. Spock's hair had grown while they had been here. But it wasn't yet too long, not if she'd had to decide. In fact, she found it rather appealing how his hair fell around his ears, making the tips poke out from between the dark strands like the old description of elves and similar creatures. And his bangs just barely reached his eyebrows. No, his hair wasn't too long, this way it merely gave him somewhat of a softer appearance, being by no means untidy yet but just slightly ruffled.

"Oops."

"What did you do?" he asked, looking down at the strand that had just fallen into his lap.

"Well, um, let me just ask you, how would you feel about losing your bangs?" She bit her lips, and her eyes met Jim's who was trying his best not to laugh. That's what she'd need, being laughed at by her superior officer.

"I do not care anymore," Spock said. He did not sigh this time, but his look spoke volumes. "Do what you will. But please, Chris, no daydreaming about my hair anymore."

Christine's mouth fell open. "Y-you heard that?"

"I am a touch telepath," he said smugly but so quietly that the soldiers nearby could not hear. Then again, they seemed far too busy playing cards on the other side of the bench.

"You could have prevented this then," she returned, gesturing at the strand of hair she had just cut off.

"I did not think your thoughts would cause such a lapse in attention." He raised an eyebrow. "And I was rather interested in what you were thinking. It was too fascinating to interrupt." He pursed his lips. "I'm sorry. I should not have pried."

"Well, looking at what it did to you, I can't be very upset." She shrugged and raised the scissors anew.

"I did not cause this. You cut off too much."

"Don't argue while I'm holding scissors," she murmured. "That strand is on you, too. The rest is on me."

When Christine was finished, she sighed and looked at her work rather contentedly. There had been no further accidents, and she had managed to shape Spock's hair into an approximation of a typical haircut of this time. Short on the sides and in the back, longer on top. Granted, the back and sides were slightly longer than she had seen on the other men and the top quite a bit shorter, but this would do.

"Well," she said as she brushed his hair to the side, "I think you look quite dapper."

"If that is so," Spock said dryly, "I will keep my criticism at a minimum. Thank you. If you are finished with me, I will look for amusement elsewhere."

"I'm quite finished, yes," she said quickly, with a last apologetic glance at the hair in his lap.

Spock stood up, shook off the hair, put on his helmet and, after he had given her a raised eyebrow of mock disapproval, moved a few metres away to join Henry and Franklin where they were sitting on the trench floor, immersed in a book.

He was not truly upset at Christine's blunder, and he was sure she knew. But, similarly to his discussions with McCoy, his repartees with her were quite refreshing, always had been. Not that he would admit to it. If he would admit to anything then to him having used the blunder as a pretext to flee the bench that was simply too tightly packed for his liking.

Had he known what happened next, perhaps he would not have shunned it like that. They should have known these moments of reprieve would not last. Much later, they would not for the life of them be able to remember if it was that very evening or the one after that when everything went terribly wrong. Not that it had been going well so far.

It was at dusk, in any case, that they went once more over the top.

"Spread out and cover!" Jim called out, as they immediately came under artillery fire.

He ducked behind a tree stump together with Bones and Spock, then got up again during a pause in the bullet hail and sprinted forward.

He threw himself to the ground as the impact from a bomb nearby shook the earth. Crawling on his knees and hands, he reached a small crater and rolled into it for shelter. He did not stay long but fired a quick succession of shots over the edge and then lifted himself out of it to hurry forward.

Some of his fellow soldiers were storming past, others he could see ducking out of danger here and there. As often, the battle formation had lost cohesion upon coming under fire from the enemy artillery. Conscious of the enormous danger they all faced, he still advanced as fast as possible without becoming careless.

A whistling overhead became louder, and he cursed to himself, realising he had run directly into the path of the shell. The whistling came closer, and he ran faster, hoping it would pass overhead before coming down. But it was a close call if it worked at all.

Jim had not quite realised this yet when the bomb hit the ground directly behind him, and he was thrown forward by the explosion.

Some distance away, others had been impacted by the shell as well. McCoy had been thrown to the ground by the might of the explosion and spat out a mouthful of mud as he scrambled back to his feet.

"Spock!" he called, noticing he had lost sight of him. "Where are you?" He stumbled forward as he looked around for him, quickly throwing himself on the ground again, as the bullets continued to whizz past. What if something had happened to the Vulcan? What if he hadn't heard the shell, what with his hearing impairment, and had been killed?

Leonard crawled some metres, got up to fire some shots in the direction of the Germans, and looked around again for any sign of Spock.

Then he saw him. He was on his knees, with his head held low and his back to McCoy, crouching in the middle of the battle with no care for the hail of bombs and bullets.

"Spock!" McCoy shouted and hurried towards him. What if he was badly hurt?

Then he saw the reason for Spock kneeling there like that. Someone was lying on the ground before him.

Leonard fell to his knees beside Spock. "Good god, what happened?"

The body was unidentifiable, the face and torso burned beyond recognition. They would not even be able to recover the identity tag. The blast must have hit him full-frontal. He could barely recognise the corporal's stripes on the sleeves. Corporal's stripes. And the way Spock was staring at the body…

"Spock…" he said slowly, one question he did not want to ask burning in his mind. "Spock…is this…is this Jim?"

And to his horror, Spock nodded.

"I did not see it happen," he said after some seconds that felt like an eternity. "But I am sure."

McCoy has seen Spock in pain before, but the agony he saw in his eyes as he looked up at him was almost too much.

"We've got to go." He pulled at his sleeve.

Spock did not move.

"Come on, Spock. Please."

From further away the signal to return sounded, and slowly, very slowly, Spock raised his eyes from the corpse and stood up.

Together, the two of them returned to their trench and once there sank to the ground next to each other without exchanging a single word. Spock wasn't looking at McCoy, and McCoy, while he was looking at Spock, did not know what to say though there was so much he wanted to say.

When Christine and Chekov approached them moments later, they must have seen something was wrong.

Chris looked back and forth between the two of them. "Leonard, what happened?"

"It's the Captain, isn't it?" Pavel asked quietly. "He is dead?"

Spock only nodded.

Without another word, Chris and Pavel slumped down next to them. "We've lost a bunch of other people," Chris mumbled. "Another corporal from another section and several privates. None we know well." She bit her lip, chastising herself for the choice of topic. Couldn't she talk about something else than their losses in this situation? But there seemed nothing else on their minds, nothing else to talk about other than the constant losses.

Leonard seemed to think along similar lines. "You be careful, all right?" he burst out shakily. "I don't think I could take another one of you dying."

"Oh, silly old bear!" Christine rubbed his arm. "Of course, we won't!"

"The danger of dying is a realistic one," Spock said blandly. "False optimism is not helpful."

"Don't be such an Eeyore."

Spock only glanced at her and remained silent.

"Eeyore, the depressed donkey from Winnie-the-Pooh," Christine said.

"I was aware," Spock answered curtly, then got up to leave.

"Wait!" Leonard burst out suddenly.

Spock must have heard him but continued to walk away and did not so much as turn his head.

"I'm here if you need to talk, you know?" McCoy called after him.

But Spock walked on and passed out of their sight without so much as a gesture of acknowledgement.

Spock walked straight to The Langham. It was night, and he had not yet been assigned duties. The logical thing to do was try to sleep. He took off his helmet the moment he walked in and hung it on a chair. He reached for his cap and stopped in his tracks, seeing Jim's cap lying there next to his on the table just as he had left it half an hour ago.

He sighed, took off the webbing, put down his rifle and sank onto a chair, feeling faintly nauseous. There were decisions to be made. He was the person in command now, both of Jim's section and the misplaced bunch of Starfleet officers. His was the responsibility now. He pursed his lips, thinking how contradictory it seemed that being responsible for eight people in the trenches could feel so much heavier than being responsible for four hundred on a starship. A starship. A kingdom for his starship.

His ponderings were interrupted by soft steps behind him.

"Jack?" Franklin Jones stepped into the light of the lamp, and Spock felt him rest his hand on his shoulder. "I heard what happened. I'm very sorry."

Spock nodded. "Thank you. Did you come here to say that?"

"Eh, no," Franklin said, taken aback, and he straightened up and took away his hand. "The Lieutenant sent me. He wants to see you in the bunker as soon as you've cleaned up."

"All right," Spock said, not at all surprised. "I will be there momentarily."

He did not notice when Franklin left the dugout, but he eventually got up, cleaned himself as best as he could, and walked over to the bunker.

Once there, he found Thompson in the company of Christine. She appeared to have changed the bandage around her head just now, probably for the last time, as the wound would no longer break open, and a scab had formed.

"Ah, there you are, Grayson," Thompson said as he walked in. "There's something that needs to be done."

"Regarding, I suppose, the death of Jim Kirk," Spock said. He knew Chris was watching him intently, but he ignored it.

"Yes," Thompson said. "Well, let's get it over with. I need to promote you. You'll keep your rank but will command Kirk's section from here on out." He sighed, obviously relieved to be done with this slightly awkward transition of power, and turned to the table to pore over a map lying there.

"I refuse," Spock said.

Thompson wheeled around. "You what?"

"I refuse," Spock repeated, meeting Thompson's baffled glare with equanimity. "I refuse to lead men into battle, to lead them to slaughter and be slaughtered." He proceeded to diligently ignore Christine's looks.

The Lieutenant stepped closer, and Spock could see the colour rise in his cheeks. "Lance Corporal Grayson," he growled, "you have a duty to King and Country, a duty to your fellow soldiers."

Spock shook his head. "I refuse."

"You refuse to fight them, despite seeing what they did to Kirk?"

"Not despite but because of it."

"Come now," Thompson murmured gently, with an obvious effort. "I know you function a bit differently than the rest of us, but I didn't take you for a coward."

"I will not kill," Spock said.

Christine could have sworn that his face showed not a hint of emotion as he spoke. Compared to all the time they had been here, he had never seemed more Vulcan, and she was amazed at how composed he seemed. To Thompson, his calmness probably just appeared insolent.

"Do you want to end like Merriweather?" the Lieutenant burst out, his hands clenching into fists.

"He was not a coward either," Spock continued. "He was suffering from what you call shell shock."

"Do you think I don't know that? I spent the best part of each day with that man, seeing him be reduced to a bundle of nerves." Thompson took a sudden step forward to frown up at Spock and shouted, "I damn well know he wasn't all right!"

Spock tilted his head. "That did not justify shooting him."

Thompson's immediate reply wasn't verbal. But it had an immediate impact. He slapped him, with such a smack that Chris was sure he had not been holding back. Spock even looked surprised as his hand instinctively moved to his cheek.

"Don't be all high and mighty with me," Thompson shouted, grabbing Spock by the collar. "Not if you don't have to face the fallout, not if it isn't your decision who will die and who will live!" He paused for a moment, breathing heavily. "It wasn't me who shot Clark, was it?" he snapped, only slightly calmer. He sighed and let go of Spock who promptly sank down on a crate behind him. Thompson knelt in front of him. "And I wouldn't have done it if it had still been my choice," he continued tensely. But at least he wasn't shouting anymore or seemed on the verge of wanting to strangle Spock. "As you said, he wasn't well. It's fairly obvious you're not shell-shocked, though. And I will be forced to have you shot for cowardice if you refuse to fight." He stood up and, with a disappointed look, added, "Oh, and you're on latrine duty tomorrow, Grayson."

When his heavy footsteps had faded away, Christine stepped forward, looking down at Spock. "How is Leonard doing?" she asked gently.

He raised an eyebrow. "You were there. He is doing badly."

She crossed her arms. "And how do you think he'd be doing if you were killed as well?"

"Being killed is a realistic chance in our current situation," he said, in the same weirdly calm tone as before. "The danger of being shot practically surrounds us."

Christine sighed. Not that she condoned violence, but part of her could understand Thompson. "As we are all too aware," she grumbled. "So don't invite it by signing up for the firing squad. Jim would have wanted you to fight. For your survival and for ours." She turned around and left without waiting for an answer.