The next morning, Spock felt cold as he woke up, and he found himself on top of the covers and not tucked in and his blanket on the chair where he had left it and not around his shoulders.

And when he came to the bench in the afternoon, it was empty, no tea waiting for him and certainly no Christine.

He sighed as he sat down. Perhaps he had been taking things for granted. In a matter of days, almost everything had changed. Before—meaning before Jim's death—the days had seemed endless, and it felt like it had been ages since their arrival in the trenches. But it was the last few days of those that seemed the longest. In fact, it had been a month to the day since their inexplicable arrival, a fact Spock would have noticed had he not been so preoccupied with recent events.

He could not dwell long on the peculiar way the perception of time was influenced by tragedy, as he was quickly joined by Franklin Jones, Pavel Chekov, and—as fate would have it—Christine. But it was obvious that she was here just because Pavel was here, not to spend time with him, and she sat down on the other side of Pavel and not next to him. He forbade himself to feel any frustration at this. After all, this was her decision, and he had no right to feel snubbed by her taking steps to protect herself. At least this was what he told himself.

"Here," Franklin said, "take this."

Spock quickly turned his head to face him and realised he was holding out his mug of tea. He shook his head. "No thank you."

"Come now, Jack. A tealess Brit is a most deplorable sight." He smirked. "We can share mine."

Spock raised his eyebrow and slowly took the mug. "Thank you," he murmured and took a sip.

"What are you going to do after the war?" Franklin asked suddenly.

"I have not made any specific plans," Spock said evasively.

"Hm." Franklin took a sip of their tea. "You should. It's not good to have no plans. With no plans for the future, there is no future. Doesn't have to be plans. It can be dreams, ideas, anything to keep you going."

"Or," Spock said, taking back the mug, "I accept that there may be no future. Why make plans for the future when chances are I won't have one?"

"Why make no plans when chances are you will have one?" Franklin gave him one of his gentle smiles. "Jack. You're betting on a losing hand that way. If you go to the races, you don't bet on the slowest horse because chances are you won't win anyway. You bet on the one that seems the fastest. It may still lose, but at least there's a fighting chance to win."

"A fighting chance to win," murmured Spock. This was the kind of thing Jim would have said.

"Yes," Franklin said, his smile having changed to a quizzical look. "What about it?"

"Nothing," Spock said. "You're a wise man, Franklin Archibald Jones."

Franklin chuckled awkwardly. "Jack, you know it's just Franklin. Or Archie if you must, but only Eli calls me that. We have the same rank, and I was of the impression we were friends."

Spock nodded slowly. "Yes, of course." He took a slow sip of tea. "What will you do after the war, Franklin?"
"Open a bookshop," he answered without hesitation. "My father's a farmer, but I never want to set foot on muddy earth again after this."

"Understandable," Spock said.

He continued to talk to Franklin, almost forgetting the heavy burden weighing on him. But sometimes his gaze wandered to his left where Chris talked to Pavel and always averted her eyes when he looked her way, and he remembered. When Franklin left, Spock thought their interaction could return to normal. After all, there was no one around in front of whom she had to keep up appearances. But, even alone with him and Pavel, she did not talk to him.

After having made some unsuccessful attempts at conversation, Pavel cleared his throat awkwardly. "Did something happen between you?" he asked.

"Yes," Spock said.

"No," said Christine.

Pavel looked back and forth between them and then frowned. He opened his mouth but closed it again. There was something awry between the two, but Pavel was not one to interfere, and so he let the matter rest.

And Spock stayed away from Christine, just as she had wished. They went their separate ways, as much as that was possible in the trenches, and when there was work to be done together, they did not talk more than necessary.

To Spock's relief, Elliot remained civil. He did not know, of course, whether he had stayed true to his impulsive assertion of not wanting anything to do with Christine. But, as nothing further happened, he did not seem to have told anyone about the interaction in the bunker and Spock assumed it had indeed been an isolated incident, just as he had told Christine. Having been right did nothing to help the situation, though, when her avoidance of him was so clear.

One day, he was kneeling in the front-line trench together with McCoy, once again fixing the duckboards. They worked quietly, the silence between them only disturbed by McCoy's coughing. Did Spock imagine it, or had it become worse? But asking McCoy about it now would lead to nothing. He was, after all, the worst patient of the Enterprise.

A few metres away, Christine and Thomas Cooper were busy fortifying the parapet. She had not even acknowledged him when she and Thomas had arrived. She had smiled at Leonard, but Spock might as well not have been here. And now, she never even looked his way. Granted, she was working, but he had the time to glance her way now and then, even though he was just as busy. He began thinking that such a measure of precaution was surely exaggerated. If anything, he saw a slight chance that avoiding each other this religiously all of a sudden could achieve the opposite of the desired result and attract attention. But if Christine felt safer this way, he would respect her decision. Even if he might not agree with it. But whether his disagreement was because of logical considerations or because he would rather spend time with her again, he was not so sure himself.

"There a reason you're looking at her all the time?" McCoy asked.

Spock turned his attention back to the hammer and nails. "Yes," he said. What use was there in denying it? Even if McCoy's choice of words was questionable.

"Do you want to tell me?" McCoy asked, driving a nail into the new boards.

"No."

McCoy shrugged. "Okay."

Again Spock noticed how every bit of banter had fled from their conversations. Others might call it refreshing, but he found it rather odd. It was as if the life had been sucked out of them.

"Have you noticed anything strange about her lately?" Spock asked then. If McCoy had noticed him looking at her, he might as well enquire after her wellbeing.

"No, she seems fine to me," the doctor returned. "Why?"

Spock handed him a new plank to replace the rotten ones. "There was a fight…"

"Oh, don't worry." McCoy smiled across at him. "She's gonna forgive you soon enough."

Spock suddenly could not find it in him to correct McCoy. He did not need to know what had happened. He would only worry needlessly if he did. And so, Spock merely nodded and turned his full attention back to the work at hand.

Sometime in the early morning of the next day, with no duties for the night, he was alone in one of the sleeping hollows. But he wasn't sleeping. He did not even try. Sleep mostly evaded him nowadays. He had fetched his blanket and thought about spending the night staring at the night sky, barely visible above the trench when he inched close enough to the hollow's opening. For a while, he had busied himself with finding and naming all visible constellations. Once that had been done, he had watched the soldiers pass by, on their way to and from their night-time duties. But lying on his side had become uncomfortable and he had turned on his back to stare at the low ceiling of the hollow instead.

After a while of doing this, he noticed a noise directly in front of his hollow. By the sound of it, someone seemed to be trying to sleep outside in the trench.

Spock pursed his lips, pressed his helmet on his head, and rolled out of the hollow. If he was not sleeping, someone else could have it. It was, after all, slightly more comfortable than the open trench. He landed next to Elliot Baker.

"Take the hollow, Baker," Spock said. "I won't sleep."
"No, thank you," Elliot said and yawned. "I don't want to take away your bed."
Spock shook his head. "You are not, don't worry." He pointed behind him. "Take the bed. That's an order."

With a murmured thanks, Elliot scrambled into the hollow and made himself as comfortable as possible while Spock sat in the trench outside.

"Lance Corporal?" the young man said after a while.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for saving my life."

"You are welcome."
"And I'm sorry for making such a fuss."

Spock turned sideways to face him. "Being afraid in a life-threatening situation is perfectly natural. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
"That's not what I meant." Elliot bit his lip. "I mean fussing about you and Chris."

"Hm." Spock nodded. "That, I suppose, was also understandable," he said slowly.

"But not right," Elliot said.

"No." Spock pursed his lips. "It wasn't right."

Elliot sighed. "I don't know what came over me."

"I do," Spock said quietly, pondering how much he could sensibly say in this age, then blew caution to the wind. "Fear of the unknown, fuelled by the cruel prejudices of this time," he said.

Elliot blinked a couple of times. "What do you mean?"

"Christopher Chapel just so happens to not be a homosexual," Spock answered. "But what if? What concern is it to you if men love other men? It has no negative influence on your life. You lose nothing by accepting love in all its forms. On the contrary, you can only profit from it."

Elliot Baker stared back at him, silently, and Spock wondered if he had said too much. But he found he did not care.

"I apologised to Chris," Elliot mumbled after some moments, looking up at the earthen ceiling.

Spock nodded. "Good," he said.

For a while, both were silent, and Spock had just turned his back to the hollow again, thinking the boy had fallen asleep, when he addressed him again.

"Thank you, Jack," Elliot mumbled. "You've given me a lot to think about."

"You are most welcome," Spock returned and sighed, relieved that his words had not fallen on deaf ears, even if this would not heal the sudden divide between him and Chris.

After some time, the soft snores coming from the hollow attested to Elliot being asleep, and Spock leaned against the trench wall, now that he was sure there were no moral discussions to be had anymore.

But he was glad Elliot had talked to him and had been so open to what he had said. He would, regrettably, be the exception rather than the norm in this era. Spock thought about how young and vulnerable he seemed, sleeping in a hole in the ground, far away from home. He could not be much older than eighteen. Certainly the youngest of the group.

For a while, Spock watched how Elliot slept, hoping that he would have enough time to apply the lessons he had learned, to grow beyond the ingrained prejudices.

Then, with a sigh of resolution, he gathered his blanket firmly about his shoulders, made sure his helmet was sitting firmly on his head and stood up. He slowly began to walk away from the sleeping hollows, not caring much where his feet were taking him as long as he was moving. Here and there, soldiers were at work repairing the trenches, digging new paths, and the like. He had no duties this night, other than living to see the morning.

When he reached the communication trench, he turned left and followed the zig-zagging path until he reached the front-line trench. But he stopped at the junction and did not go further. From where he was standing, he could see two soldiers on lookout duty, two lone figures staring silently out east. He thought he recognised Christine Chapel in one of them. But he did not stay long enough to make sure. With another sigh, he turned around and slipped back into the shadows, returning to prowling the trenches.

On the way back from the front line, he passed a few soldiers at work and wished not for the first time this night that he had been assigned something to do. He had thought about meditating earlier but discarded that idea when he had noticed Elliot. Elliot. Naïve, misguided, and so vulnerable and human. But weren't they all? And how exempt was he still?

As he turned a corner into a side trench, Spock realised not for the first time the various responsibilities weighing on him. He had to play along in this theatre of war and at the same time do everything possible not to interfere in the natural historical development. And part of his responsibilities was these men that were fighting and dying beside him. He was the one who had to lead them into battle, he was their immediate superior, the one they looked up to, the one who had to set an example.

This perception of duty was not all too dissimilar to the responsibility of being a Starfleet officer, but as striking as the similarities were, so were the differences. Here, he wasn't the best first officer of the fleet, the science officer of the United Space Ship Enterprise. Here he was not even Mr Spock. Here, he was Jack Grayson, lance corporal, a simple soldier with a simple life. Simple enough to be used as cannon fodder, at least.

But he was not afraid of death. He had seen death. It was the future he had not seen—could not see anymore. It was his duty as a Starfleet officer that was weighing most heavily on him. Because while he had seen death and had faced all sorts of no-win scenarios, only seldom had he faced them without the man who didn't believe in them. And here he was, an alien from the future with a duty that his fellow soldiers would not be able to grasp in their wildest dreams but that was still a duty to them, in a way. It was the duty to the future, not only the future he came from but the future of these men, the duty to let everything develop as it had before by a sensible mixture of non-interference and playing along, to let the future arrive as it was meant to.

Spock drew a shaky breath as he continued to trod along the trenches, feeling slightly dizzy all of a sudden. And there was more. He realised he did not want it. He did not want the future to arrive, not as it was going to be now. Back then on the battlefield, the future had arrived far too quickly, and now it would seep like syrup as if to remind him of the pain of having to face that future without Jim.

It was curious how there could be different kinds of emotional pain as well. This one was heavy—like a lump of lead where humans had their hearts—along with a fierce stabbing that had never left him since Jim had died but had only been exacerbated by the falling-out with Christine and that screamed that nothing would ever be all right again. Spock had a feeling he knew what humans called this. Heartbreak.

Deep down, Spock knew he should not dwell on the pain but try to make the best of what he had left, in his memory. But the problem was that right now it seemed as if the pain was the only thing he had left. And so he clung to that pain a bit, as if in defiance, as if this small rebellion of illogic could bring him back. It wouldn't, but there was a distinct feeling of Jim in doing something out of spite.

Turning a corner, Spock collided with a pair of soldiers going the other way. They merely grunted, stepped around him, and went on their way, barely acknowledging him. He turned to look after them, two receding figures, pursuing their duties in quiet companionship. Part of him wanted to tell them to savour it while it lasted, to savour those ordinary moments where someone's presence was most important and not what one was doing.

Then, he tore his gaze away and continued his walk, pulling the blanket tighter around himself against the loneliness creeping in. Lieutenant Thompson had not warmed up to him again and barely exchanged a friendly word with him, his feelings regarding their discussion in the bunker that night remaining all too clear. McCoy remained friendly but mostly withdrawn and had not made any noticeable attempt to do much more than to sit with him, and Spock would not tell him how valuable that companionship was. Still, their conversations had died down almost completely, and Spock had begun to miss them. Chekov was still talking to him, but he had taken the order to play along quite far and was spending a lot of time with the other privates. And Christine, of course, had barely even so much as looked at him since the unfortunate occurrence with Elliot.

Around the next bend, he came upon another soldier. And this one did not ignore him.

"Hello, Jack," Franklin Jones said, glancing up from where he was kneeling to repair the duckboards.

"Hello, Franklin," Spock returned and gingerly stepped around him to continue his nightly prowl.

A hand on his leg stopped him. "I am sorry about James," Franklin said. "I truly am. I just didn't really manage to say it properly last time. If you need someone to talk to, you need only ask."

"I will," Spock lied. "Thank you." With a nod, he turned and walked away.

He wasn't planning on talking to Franklin about what was bothering him just as he wasn't planning on taking McCoy up on his offer. It would not bring Jim back. And every word he could find to describe his inner workings would be insufficient, anyway. Even if he admitted to feeling something, there were no words to describe the pain of losing the best part of himself.

So this was how Jim had felt when he, Spock, had died. All those years, all those long years in the future, every month, day, hour, minute, second, without Jim. Three-quarters of his life filled with Jim's absence, lying before him. He had never felt this empty yet so full of pain.

In his ponderings, he passed the bunker. There was light inside, but Spock walked past without a look inside.

"Jack!" someone called out to him.

Spock ignored it.

"Jack, come in here."

Spock turned around to face Edwin Thompson poking his head out of the bunker and waving him inside.

With a sigh, Spock complied.

Inside, a map was spread over the table, and in the corner, Chekov was asleep on some crates.

"Is he all right?" Spock asked.

"He's limping a bit, but he says he's fine," Thompson said with a shrug. "Here, have some tea." He pressed a mug of steaming liquid into his hand.

Spock accepted it begrudgingly, took off his helmet, and sat down next to Pavel while Thompson returned to studying the map.

"So you haven't decided to desert yet," the Lieutenant said after a while, and Spock noticed he had rolled up the map and was watching him instead.

"No, sir," he said quietly, looking down into his tea.

"I thought about some of the things you said." The crate creaked as Thompson sat down heavily next to him. "If we were not at war, I'd like to philosophise with you," he said. "You have your heart in the right place."

"Other people might disagree." Spock didn't look up. But the irony of Thompson's statement, considering their biological differences, wasn't lost on him.

"Because they don't care to get to know you," the Lieutenant said. "Because people take your indifference for carelessness and think you have no heart without realising that it just works a bit differently."

Spock's head shot up, surprised, and Thompson smiled. "I told you about my cousin. She was very much like you are."

Spock nodded slowly. "You must miss her very much."

"I do." Thompson shrugged. "But that grief is not unique to me. With this war, there's always someone dead."

"Indeed. That is a factual statement," Spock said, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean to say by that, Lieutenant?"

"That you are in a position that not many men have the fortune or misfortune of being in." He shrugged and smiled bitterly. "Everyone around you knows exactly how you feel. Everyone here has lost someone. Everyone is afraid of losing someone." He sighed softly and averted his eyes for a second. "I lost my Clark, you lost your Jim, we must both deal with it. In our own way and in due time."

Spock pursed his lips. "I am dealing with it," he said firmly.

Thompson shook his head. "You're not," he said. "You're trying to tell me you're fine, that you're all right. Always brave, always managing, eh, Jack?" He shook his head once more and sighed. "No, you're not dealing with it now. You couldn't. Not while the world around you is still falling apart. You'll deal with it the next time on leave when there's an empty bed where he used to sleep, the next time you come home and he isn't on the train with you or when the war is over and you're faced with a lifetime of peace without him at your side to share it with."

Spock looked into his mug of tea, took a sip, and then whispered, "I disagree."

Thompson smirked. "Oh?"

"In general, I agree," Spock added.

Thompson frowned. "Well, what now?"

"Loss has become a shared experience in this time. And yet, it is also too personal to generalise." Spock paused to take another sip of tea. "I agree that we shall have to deal with our losses in the months and years to come and that that feeling is one we can all empathise with." He shook his head and looked down at the floor. "But no one knows exactly what I am feeling. And I do not know what anyone else is feeling."

Thompson's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "That might be your problem, not a general rule."

"Perhaps," Spock said and shrugged.

"You know what I appreciate?" Thompson continued. "You may argue with me, but you never speak badly of me to the men, and it doesn't influence your performance."

"I do not argue with you," Spock replied calmly. "I question your choices."

Thompson chuckled. "You're lucky I like you." He clapped him on the shoulder and got up to unroll the map again, spread it over the table, and resumed studying it, leaving Spock sitting next to Pavel, alone with his thoughts.

When he left the bunker, he turned around in the entryway and said, "Oh, Jack, if you're not gonna sleep, wake Junior here in half an hour. It's almost morning."

Around twenty minutes later, Pavel awoke by himself to Spock sitting next to him, silently staring into an empty mug. Pavel watched him and realised how lonely he seemed. Not merely introverted or solitary but lonely. Just as lonely as Doctor McCoy had seemed yesterday. Chekov had asked then how he was and to his shock, McCoy had broken down in tears, confessing that he was afraid of the rest of his friends dying as well, that he missed Jim terribly, and that he knew Spock missed Jim but didn't know how to talk to him right now. Pavel had told him that Spock would talk as soon as he was ready or would need to. McCoy had answered that he wasn't so sure about that. Now, looking at Spock, Chekov wasn't sure either if he would reach out to his friends. Jim had been best at this, at coaxing Spock gently out of his shell, and Pavel was sure that neither he nor Chris or McCoy could ever fill that void.