...and Always Will Be

Heavy as it may be, Spock bore this burden dutifully, earning high praise from Thompson once or twice. He was not entirely surprised by this. Not because of any vain assumption but because where he was from, he was a commanding officer already. The executive officer on a starship, even if those words sounded stranger every day.

When he was leading his section again one morning at dawn, Franklin on his right, McCoy to his left, Christine behind him, he was not thinking about starships but about shells and rifles and his responsibility to avoid them even while advancing towards them.

Marching straight on, the first volley of bullets soon forced them all to throw themselves on the ground or duck, and they made only slow progress, if at all. In the heat of battle, Spock soon lost sight of most of the other soldiers, including Christine. Only McCoy and Franklin Jones were still within sight, and they had to be content with ducking behind tree stumps, firing ahead when they could, and hoping the next shell would not come down on them directly. Considering Spock's track record, this concern was only valid.

Chris had met the same problem all too soon, just a short distance behind him. Only that she knew she was behind Spock and dared not fire for fear of shooting him. For all she knew Henry Forester and Eli Jones were somewhere to her right. There was a pile of charred, damp wood, the remnants of a few trees, no doubt, behind which they might have sought shelter. Christine herself had to contend with a boulder, but she did not want to risk making a run for the pile of wood. Not while the artillery was playing cat and mouse with them.

A shell exploded not far away, and she curled herself into a ball, feeling the rock shiver against her back. She realised that in the event of an explosion at close range, her protection might as well be her undoing, and making a run for it suddenly seemed much more enticing.

Another shell whistled above, and she braced herself for an impact, pressing herself into the ground as it shook with the explosion. As soon as it stopped, she stood up and ran, zig-zagging to the pile of wood and leaping behind it.

She almost fell over a pair of legs.

"Eli, what are you doing here?"

He was sitting with his back against the pile, pressing a hand to the side of his neck.

"Oh, I just thought I'd rest my legs a bit." He had not lost his sense of humour yet, though the amount of blood flowing forth from between his fingers indicated he had much more to lose. "The bastard couldn't even shoot me properly," he grumbled. "Got me good, just not good enough."

"It's going to be all right, Eli," she called over the increasing explosions, her voice shaking. She pulled out his field dressing and quickly saw to his wound, cursing to herself about the severity of it and the lack of medical supplies. Almost as soon as his neck was bound, the blood was already seeping through the bandages, and he was horribly pale.

"You're a bad liar, Chris."

She only found it in her to squeeze his hand as she weighed their options for a second, realising that there were none. Because Eli himself was right. He would not make it.

She wrapped her arms around him to pick him up so that maybe she could bring him back just so that Franklin might talk to him once more.

Then, out of the next hail of gunfire emerged Spock, throwing himself behind the pile next to them. "We've been called to retreat!" he called. His eyes flickered over Eli, his wound, and Christine holding his hand. She met his gaze, and he nodded, understanding.

He bent down and cradled Eli in his arms, then turned towards the British trenches at a run, Christine following as fast as she could.

Spock hurried on so that Eli could at least see his brother again before dying. A fruitless endeavour, he feared, as weak as he already was. And he had almost reached the trenches when he realised he had, expectedly, failed. Eli was hanging limply in his arms, and his eyes were unfocused.

Spock still hurried on and moments later slipped over the edge into the front-line trench. And who should he meet there but Franklin Jones? The older Jones brother leapt forward as he saw the body in Spock's arms, his face morphed into a silent scream of anguish.

Spock slowly lowered Eli's body to the ground, and Franklin slumped over him, holding onto Spock's arm as slow, deep sobs began to shake him.

Seconds later, Chris jumped over the edge. Her face grew sad as she noticed Eli was dead. She shot Spock a questioning look, and he shook his head. He had been too late.

Slowly and gently, Christine peeled Franklin's hand from Spock's arm and bent down to pick up Eli's legs. As little as she liked to disturb Franklin, they had to make space for the wounded coming through. Franklin knew this of course. He wiped his face and bent down to take his brother by the shoulders, and slowly, the two carried him away.

For a moment, Spock remained sitting on the duckboard, even though from the corner of his eye he noticed someone climbing over the parapet into the trench. It struck him that for every battle he had led, they had lost one man. What a cruel statistic. Still, he knew that such was the danger of war, and it did not reflect on him. Even though he would have preferred no one died at all. But who didn't? Eli's death had been the latest in a row of deaths, and it would not be the last, wish as he might that it might be otherwise. He knew how history would play out. The question was what it had in store for him and his friends.

Someone stepped around him, and a hand reached down to help him up. Sighing, Spock took it.

He looked up, and his mouth fell open as he stared into a face that he thought he had last seen burnt beyond recognition.

"Hello, Spock." He pulled him up from the ground in one swift motion. "Missed me?" He grinned, and his eyes sparkled as he met his gaze.

"Jim." In an outburst of realisation that this was real, that he was real, Spock threw his arms around him and held onto him.

Taken aback, Jim slowly wrapped his arms around the Vulcan's back in turn. "Are you all right?" he mumbled.

He felt him nod against his shoulder and smiled to himself. This might be one of the biggest compliments his friend had ever given him.

After a few moments, Spock let go of him and took a step back. But the wonder and confusion had not left his expression. "Jim, we thought you were dead."

He shrugged. "I thought I might die." Then he sobered up somewhat, remembering they were still at war. "Who was that just now?" he asked.

"Eli Jones."

Jim sighed. "For some reason, I thought everyone would be alive and well when I returned." He pressed his lips together. "How are the others? How is Bones and his cough? And Pavel's feet?"

"Doctor McCoy is still coughing." Spock paused and cleared his throat. "As to Pavel," he said gently, averting his eyes from Jim's, "I could not save him."

"What?"

Spock straightened up and met Jim's look, shocked and full of questions. "I commandeered your section while you were away," he said, "and led them all into battle. Pavel did not make it."

"What happened?" Jim asked.

"There was a shell, and he threw himself between me and the blast before I heard that it was directly above."

"He took the full blast?"

"I assume." Spock pursed his lips as he recalled the event. "It blew his leg off and impaled him with shrapnel. I carried him back, but he had lost too much blood."

Jim reached out to put a hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry."

Spock nodded. "Me, too."

"How are you feeling?"

Spock straightened up almost imperceptibly. "According to the circumstances." Jim squeezed his arm in silent comfort, and Spock sighed. He raised an eyebrow and said, "Now, I think regulation requires we report your resurrection."

Jim chuckled, and the two of them walked towards the bunker. This was not an easy feat with all the people greeting Jim, squeezing his hand, hugging him, and demanding to know how he was alive.

When they reached the bunker at last, McCoy and Chris were there, too, with Franklin Jones and Lieutenant Thompson.

When Spock and Jim walked through the entrance, they were met with a second of incredulous stares, and then Leonard and Christine burst forward and hugged Jim, barely letting go as they bombarded him with questions.

Franklin almost hugged him as well, but then he regained his composure and shook his hand instead. How very much like Spock, thought Jim.

"Good to have you back, Corporal Kirk," he said shakily. "Not that Jack wasn't up to the task."
"It's fine, I understand. I'm glad to be back, too." He smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Franklin, I'm sorry about Eli," he murmured.

Franklin nodded curtly. "Thank you, sir."

By the time this was over, Thompson, who was standing at the far side of the table, had almost recovered.

"Kirk," he muttered. "James Kirk. By God, why are you here?" He shook his head as he slowly stepped around the table. "Why are you alive? How?"

Jim shrugged. "I was imprisoned by the Germans. You must have found someone else and thought he was me. They told me over there they had killed another corporal."

It was comical for the people who knew him, to see the realisation of his error on Spock's face. He had found a dead corporal, mutilated beyond recognition, thought it was Jim and continued to assume it was, even though he knew they had lost two corporals during that battle.

Thompson, of course, didn't realise this. "Yes. Corporal Smith," he said. "And you? You escaped?"

"I freed myself during the battle just now," Jim answered, "and came over here. I had a good portion of luck."

His friends had a feeling there was more to it but kept quiet, knowing that if there was more, they would have to wait until they were among themselves to learn the full truth.

For the moment, Jim quickly re-integrated himself into the routine of the British trenches, starting by drawing an approximate map of the German trench system for Thompson. Being imprisoned there had to have been good for something. Even though he did notice Spock's critical looks as he worked. As if he did not know it himself that he was treading a fine line right now. But who was to say that in the original course of history, someone else had not acquired this information and handed it to his superior officer? Then he was practically obligated to do so. And Spock seemed to know he would have a counter-argument because he did not bring it up as they spent the next few hours fortifying the parapets.

Chris and Leonard had been sent to dig a new latrine, which quickly dampened their glee at Jim's return. Even though they reminded themselves that digging a new one wasn't quite as bad as basically anything to do with a used one. Still, it was far from enjoyable. Chris had to do most of the digging, as Leonard kept having to take breaks or was interrupted by violent coughing fits. She eventually told him to just sit down and let her do it on her own, but he insisted to help. And so, she was quite relieved when they were finished at last. She left Leonard in a dugout after ordering him to catch an hour of sleep and busied herself with restocking Lieutenant Thompson's personal supplies.

Having finished that, she noticed it was noon, and she fetched something to drink and went to look for someone to sit with.

She found Spock, in their usual spot in front of the bunker.

Taking care not to spill the tea she sat down next to him, throwing her cap on the bench and handing him one mug. "Didn't think I'd find you here."

"Why not? This is our routine."

"Because Jim is back." She shrugged. "Thought you'd be hanging out with him."

"Hm." Spock raised an eyebrow in an expression of faint amusement. "While our days may be numbered, I believe I still have enough time to spend it with both you and Jim. And McCoy, of course."

She grinned. "It's nice, spending time with me, huh?"

Not missing a beat, he answered, "Naturally. Your presence significantly increases the release of dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and similar mood-elevating substances."

"You have such a way with words." With mock exasperation, she rolled her eyes. "You could just say I make you happy."

He pursed his lips. "I could."

Christine smiled, both at his behaviour and at the compliment. "I think you did a good job, by the way," she said then.

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"At commanding the section." She hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I know you're not as unaffected by all of this as you'd like to make us believe. But you did well. And you were just as good a commanding officer as Jim, in your own way."

"Thank you," he said curtly. But she could see in his eyes that he did consider this a great compliment. And if she wasn't mistaken, there had also been a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Then, she remembered something else she had wanted to bring up again. "I've been thinking about what you said regarding our identity tags," she said, the sudden change of topic not appearing to bother Spock in the slightest. "That they bear our chosen names. Do you think that this is a simulation, after all?"

Spock took a sip of his tea, then shook his head. "No. I am merely puzzled by these inconsistencies." He pursed his lips and frowned down into his tea. "It is frustrating that all this time, I have been unable to find concrete proof for either theory. The odds of this being a simulation or reality are equal."

"But Pavel is dead," she said, bitterness and frustration shining through her voice. "that seemed pretty real."

For a moment, Spock's expression changed to one of fond amusement. "It would not be the first time he was killed by a simulation." Then, he grew serious again and added, "Also, note that in that case, we would still be within the simulation and oblivious to the possibility of his survival."

"Right." Christine pinched the bridge of her nose. "So, if there are inconsistencies, does that not prove that this is a simulation?"

Again, Spock shook his head. "No. Reality is not synonymous with truth or even knowledge of it." He sighed and raised an eyebrow at her. "Just because it can be confusing or even inexplicable, does not mean it is not real."

"Well, what do you believe?"

"Considering that if this was a simulation, it would be close to perfect, which is improbable for a simulation of this scope, I am inclined to maintain that this is reality." He paused, tilted his head and then went on, "In fact, I am convinced it is. At this point, I have had some experience with simulations and time travel alike, and everything that happened seems to speak for the latter, including our near mishaps and subsequent manipulating of the timeline."

Christine nodded but looked almost disappointed.

Spock's eyes grew soft as his gaze met hers. "It does not make it any less real if you keep asking yourself a question we answered ages ago."

She shrugged. "Well, one can dream." She took a sip of her tea and took a deep breath. "Oh, I almost forgot," she burst out.

She pulled a biscuit out of her pocket and handed it to him. Habitually, just as everything was about this, he accepted it.

After a few bites, he raised an eyebrow and gave her an inquisitive look. "Are you trying to elicit some Pavlovian response from me?"

Christine smirked. "Is it working?"

Spock only pursed his lips and took another bite. They both knew she would not need a biscuit to have him enjoy spending time with her. "It would be unfair to attribute my appreciation of shared activities to a biscuit alone," he said simply.

Truthfully, Christine's habit of giving him a biscuit every time they met had somewhat of a different Pavlovian response. Before she had done it, he had not cared much for the biscuits. Now, he found he rather liked them.

"Well, I won't argue with that compliment," she chuckled, turning her attention back to her tea. "I don't, by the way," she said after a while. "Just in case you really thought I was trying Pavlov on you. I'm not trying to condition you." She smirked up at him and, earning a scandalised glance, added, "Even though it may be tempting."

Later that day, Franklin approached Spock while he was sitting in the bunker with McCoy and Chris and asked him, with a quiver in his voice, whether he would help him write letters to Eli's fiancée Sarah and their mother.

Never one to withhold help, he obliged. He had experience with writing these kinds of letters, after all, from many years in Starfleet. Of course, they were never easy—as his initial difficulty with the letter concerning Pavel Chekov had reminded him. This duty was a solemn one.

And though here he was not so high of rank that he needed to concern himself with it and could have left the task to Thompson, he would not have accepted anyone else writing the letter for him, conscientious as he was. Just as Franklin was taking it upon himself now.

He was inconsolable, of course, but he wrote the letters with grim determination etched into his pale face.

Spock suspected that it was emotional support he had really been asking for, finding this confirmed when, between letters, Franklin burrowed his face in his hands and started to sob silently. Following a pointed nod by Christine, Spock reached out to touch his shoulder, and to his shock, Franklin leaned into him and continued to cry his heart out. Over his head, Spock met McCoy's and Chris's expressions, full of wry amusement. He sighed, raising a disapproving eyebrow at McCoy, and gently laid his arms around Franklin's shaking shoulders.

He did not say anything, thinking that any words of comfort might sound empty now. After a while, Franklin disentangled himself, wiped his face on his sleeve, and quietly set to writing the second letter.

Having finished that one, he folded both and leaned back against the wall with a sigh.

"Joséphine wrote to me. Marie-Claire isn't taking Paul's death well. She really loved him."

Spock nodded. "Undoubtedly."

Franklin turned his head and regarded him silently for a moment. "You could marry her," he said all of a sudden.

McCoy perked up, a grin spreading over his face and Spock quickly said, "I would not do her that disservice."

"Disservice?" Franklin shrugged. "You're not that bad. And she does like you, despite your earlier mishap. If she's up for it, too, you could fill that gap for her that Paul has left."

He looked around at the others, evidently expecting some more encouragement. But McCoy, despite his earlier amusement, had started to frown with concern at Franklin, and Christine was watching Spock expectantly and not any less concerned.

Spock sighed deeply. "While I do believe she likes me, I could not replace him." He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow at Franklin. "I would find it distasteful to try."

Franklin averted his gaze and nodded slowly, the small spark of hope wiped from his face. "Of course," he mumbled. "I'm sorry, I forget myself. You're a good man. Maybe too good."

"Don't sanctify me yet, Jones," Spock replied. "It was after all me who led her on."

Franklin chuckled. "Those were the days."

"She would have married you in a heartbeat," McCoy muttered.

"She would." Spock nodded. "And yet, she was happier with Paul in the short time they had than I could have made her in a lifetime."

"You're not that bad," Christine said, smirking over at him, echoing Franklin's sentiment.

"I am merely being realistic," Spock answered calmly, and his gaze met hers, strangely piercing. "She was, perhaps, not in love with me but with the idea of me. She did not love me for myself as others did."

Christine inhaled sharply and stared back at him, wondering for a moment whether she had heard him right. But then she met Leonard's look, and he seemed similarly baffled.

Franklin, too, but for entirely different reasons. "What do you mean, Jack? Which others?"

"He's referring to someone back home," Chris began, narrowing her eyes at Spock, slowly understanding what he was trying to say. "There was this nurse who fell in love with him. She loved and understood him like few had done before." She frowned, trying hard to keep it all vague and in line with their disguise.

"But what has this to do with him and Marie-Claire?" Franklin asked.

"Well, everything," Christine continued slowly. Her eyes met Spock's, and he nodded encouragingly. "Because this nurse was his friend, and she truly cared for him. With all the sides there are to him. And he did care for her, in his own way. He could have never given that to Marie-Claire."

"Where is she now?" Franklin was, thankfully, so invested in the story that he was being slightly less observant than usual. Otherwise, the look between Spock and Chris alone would have told him too much already.

"Eh, she died," she said, deciding that it would be unwise to stay so close to the true events in her retelling. "Of tuberculosis, just before the war." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Leonard sigh with relief. He appeared to have been too shocked to intervene but had looked on with concerned interest as she effectively recounted her own story with Spock.

"Huh." Franklin looked at the floor, frowning. Then, after a moment, he raised his head and looked at Spock and Christine. "Were you happy? In the time that you had, were you happy?"

Spock nodded. "We were, yes."

Forgetting herself for a moment, Christine nodded, too. "Yes."
Franklin turned to her again. "How do you know so much about it?"

"Oh, she was my sister," she muttered quickly, wondering for a moment how many family members and former sweethearts they had invented in total by now.

"Ah." Franklin nodded slowly. "Well, Jack, never thought you to be one with a tragic romance in your past."

Spock nodded gravely. "Neither did I," he answered dryly, innocently raising an eyebrow as McCoy frowned at him as if he hadn't been the one to bring it up.