Those times in the bunker were among their happiest in the trenches. After generally terribly wet morning duties, they would spend a blissfully dry afternoon, evening, and night sheltered. If they did not have sentry duty at that time or had to do something else deplorable that sent them out into the rain. Usually, they would play cards with the other soldiers, bully Franklin Jones into reading to them, and try to sleep.

A few days after they had returned to the trenches, reality caught up to them. They were not assigned sentry duty, but Jim, Spock, and McCoy were sent on patrol at night, together with Eli Jones and Elliot Baker. They crawled through No Man's Land, carefully avoiding the craters that had become small lakes in the downpour, and got so far that they could see the German revetment ahead and could hear the murmur of their voices, almost indistinguishable from the sound of the rain.

"Would be nice to pop in and ask for a coffee," grumbled McCoy.

The two young soldiers chuckled nervously. "You can try," Eli said. "Franklin told me that he shared tea with a German in 1914. During the Christmas truce."

"No, don't try!" Elliot hissed.

"Easy, boys," Jim murmured. "We won't ask for coffee, don't worry."

"I believe asking for tea would be the British thing to do," Spock added.

Eli made a choked sound that turned out to be laughter, and he bit his hand to stifle it. Elliot just blanched and stared back at Spock.

"Do you think this is the time for jokes?" McCoy exclaimed.

"Is it not?" Spock raised an eyebrow. "I must have been misinformed. I thought grave danger was exactly the right time for humour."

McCoy grunted displeased. "Bloody idiot."

Eli giggled softly. "Never change, Jack. Never change."

"I fear I must. If I do not change after this ordeal, I will develop pneumonia."

At this, even Elliot chuckled.

After he had ordered them to move on, for fear of giving away their position, Jim turned to Spock. "Well done," he said. "Keeping up the morale."

"I am sure I do not understand what you are referring to," he returned dryly.

"Wanna know my opinion?" McCoy asked.

Spock stopped for a moment to turn around to him and shot him an expectant glance. "By all means."

"Bullshit," McCoy said. "It's bullshit." He could see Spock's raised eyebrow even in the dim moonlight and knew he had made a mistake.

"Your opinion is bullshit." Spock nodded. "If you say so. Yes."

"Hey, that's not what I meant, and you bloody well know it!"

But Spock appeared to have fallen victim to his hearing loss all of a sudden, which was unlikely if one considered that McCoy had raised his voice to a dangerous volume, and he crawled on without acknowledging him.

When they returned to the British trenches, they were soaked to the skin and reported back to Lieutenant Thompson dripping wet, a little puddle forming under each of them on the bunker floor. Luckily, there was not much to report, and Thompson sent them on their way to get cleaned up.

Later, huddled under a sparse blanket in one of the beds in The Langham, Leonard McCoy wondered if he would ever feel warm again. He knew it wasn't even that cold, and yet he felt a shiver pass through him once in a while.

"You okay?" Jim asked from the top bunk.

"I don't know Jim," he grumbled back and coughed immediately. "This damn weather's gonna be the death of me."

Jim's head appeared over the rim of his bed as he looked down at him with a concerned expression, not knowing what to say.

"It's fine, Jim," Leonard murmured. "I'll be fine."

Jim nodded and laid back down, though he did not seem convinced. Leonard lay awake for a while, and he knew Jim was awake as well. He would have talked to him but did not know what to say. They were not alone in the dugout, and so they had to be careful, even though everyone else seemed blissfully asleep.

Leonard had often heard it said that everything would look better in the morning. Too often had he realised that that wasn't always the case. And so it was this time.

The first bad surprise came even before standing ready in the morning while walking to the front-line trench. Pavel had started to limp, and Leonard, who really wished he was an optimist, suspected it was trench foot. After the morning manoeuvres which felt particularly tedious today after the night they had had, he checked his feet, and his worries were confirmed. But at least it was only a mild case so far. He told Pavel off for missing foot inspections and gave him some recommendations for treating his feet before they rotted.

And just when he thought the day could only get better, he was assigned sentry duty with some young greenhorn private whose name he couldn't remember. Might have been Whitfield or Willoughby.

Staring out into No Man's Land next to the young lad, McCoy thought his mood could not get worse. Until it did.

Willoughby—or Wakefield—had not been much taller than McCoy. But it had sufficed for his demise. He had just remarked to McCoy that their time was almost up—horrendous last words—and had stretched himself. He had not been so stupid to raise his arms, but just the slight elevation of his head was enough. There was a faraway bang, a metallic clink, and the lad fell from his post, a hole through his helmet, just as their relief lookouts arrived.

Leonard cursed to himself all the way back to the bunker, merely interrupting his tirade to point the stretcher-bearers in the right direction and telling them not to hurry. What a damn waste of life. Stupid boy, to stretch while he was on lookout duty. What had he been thinking? Why did the snipers have to have been looking at that moment? The poor boy hadn't deserved it. Bloody war, bloody violence that made these boys drop like flies. He couldn't have known that stretching would kill him. Who would? It wasn't the poor lad's fault.

He was still miserable when he and Spock were repairing the wall of a trench where the rain had washed part of it away. He had ranted to Jim, Spock, Chris, and Pavel, and had cursed everything from the rain to the make of their helmets, until he had sunk down onto a crate, feeling thoroughly deflated.

"I'm too old for this shit." He had pointed outside. "And they're too young."

No one had known what to say, and when Thompson had come to send him and Spock off for repairs, he had acquiesced silently.

All throughout the repairs, he had been silent, making even Spock shoot him one or two bewildered looks.

When they were just finishing stabilising the wall with wooden planks, he sighed. "Bet you wish you'd taken a proper chance on that Marie-Claire Delacroix now."

Spock looked as miserable as he felt, the water dripping from his helmet and running into his eyes.

And yet, he shook his head. "I do not," he said and drove a nail into the plank they were fastening.

McCoy smiled to himself. "Not even a little? Not wishing for someone to hold you tight and kiss you again and again, far away from trenches, death, and disease?" He met Spock's look, a raised eyebrow over eyes twinkling with mock disapproval. "Hm. No, I guess not," McCoy grunted.

Spock continued to look at him. "You are projecting."

"Maybe I am." McCoy shrugged. "But you can't disagree that you'd rather be somewhere else."

Spock nodded and averted his gaze. "Indeed."

"Well?" Leonard smiled. "Tell me, Spock. Where'd you rather be?"

Spock sighed and, after a moment of silence, answered, "Enterprise."

McCoy's gaze softened. "Of course. Think we'll ever get home?"

Spock nodded. "Yes."

"Optimism?" McCoy asked.

Spock shook his head. "Faith."

McCoy did not have the heart to make fun of him for such an emotionally loaded answer, not under these circumstances, and they finished their work in silence. But Leonard suddenly felt a bit better, more hopeful, and he shot Spock a grateful smile, though he was not sure for what exactly. To his credit, the Vulcan seemed to know and answered it with a simple nod.

There was a pause in the rain just as the two of them returned to the bunker. How typical. They spent some hours playing cards and talking to their fellow soldiers, to the point at which they almost got bored. But what else was there to do? And by the time of the evening manoeuvres, the rain had started again. Typical.

They stood on the fire step in the pouring rain, their bayonets fixed, staring out into the muddy wasteland, thinking that you'd have to be crazy to launch an attack now. Thankfully, both sides seemed intent to remain as dry as possible, and when night had fallen, most of the soldiers stepped down to busy themselves with night-time duties or go try to sleep if they were lucky.

Among the unlucky were Spock and Pavel. They had been assigned sentry duty and remained in the front-line trench, atop the fire step, when everyone else had left.

As he looked out over the parapet, a question began to nag at Pavel, but he didn't know how to ask Spock, and he didn't know whether he wanted to hear the answer. After a while of shuffling around, though, Spock put him out of his misery.

"What is it, Pavel?" he asked, not without some hint of amusement.

Pavel bit his lip and said, without averting his glance from the wasteland ahead, "I wonder what became of Clark. Of Sergeant Merriweather."
There was a moment of silence, and Pavel did not need to see Spock's face to know he was choosing his words carefully.

"Knowing—as we do—regrettably little, we may as well assume he did manage to run away," he said at last.

Pavel nodded. Yes, Clark was probably somewhere in the middle of France by now, in some village. "Safe at last," he said.

"Perhaps," Spock said, and Pavel ignored the hint of doubt he perceived.

A sudden shiver shook him as he continued to gaze out into No Man's Land, and he wondered if out there, somewhere in that rough and desolate landscape, someone was looking back at him, only waiting to pull the trigger. Remembering McCoy's sniper story did not help.

"I am scared, Mr Spock," he blurted out, in a moment where his pride had left him. "I am afraid of dying, of suffering, slowly succumbing to my wounds out there. What a terrible place."

"A heightened state of emotions is perfectly normal, Mr Chekov. But I am confident in your ability to survive," Spock answered calmly, then added, softly, "And if it is any reassurance to you, I do feel somewhat similar."

Pavel did not know whether to feel cheered up, but he did not have much time to think about it.

In the early morning, shortly before they would have had their morning manoeuvres, the Germans attacked. The rain had stopped shortly before sunrise. The last drops had just fallen when the alarm was given, and they all rushed to the front. Pavel barely had time to flash Christine a reassuring smile, and then they went over the top, Pavel running after Spock, his heart beating in his chest as if it was trying to get as many beats as possible in before being shot.

Pavel fired a few shots, and one time, a sharp whistling sound told him he had been narrowly missed, but he dared not turn around to see if one of his friends had been less lucky. He threw himself to the ground when the hail of bullets became too thick to evade and fired a few more shots. Then, he got up again, covering Spock who was ahead by some metres.

Sometimes, he got a glimpse of other people in the haze of gunpowder, people in grey uniforms ducking behind tree stumps and earth mounds to seek cover from his bullets, just as he was ducking to cover from theirs. They were closer now than ever before. Everything in him screamed to stop, to turn around. But Spock was still ahead. And where he would go, he'd follow.

This continued for a while. Their movement had slowed down, but they were moving ahead. He ducked, got up, fired, sprinted a few steps ahead, ducked again, crawled a few steps, got up again, and fired again. Around him, shots were fired in rapid succession, making it appear as if he had landed in a fireworks display. So fast and frequent were the shots that he could barely make out single ones. Sometimes, a whistling filled the air, and an explosion shook the ground as the German artillery supported their infantry.

Pavel got up from behind the rubble he had been crouching behind. William Ryder ran past, and Pavel followed. He had almost lost sight of Spock. But there he was, up ahead, next to that crater.

A whistling filled the air again, and Pavel ducked. The bomb came down much further ahead, and he did not even seek cover, merely steadied himself against the ground for a moment. But when he opened his eyes, he had lost sight of Spock. One moment, he had been there and now, after the bang of the explosion, he was gone as if blasted from the face of the earth. Pavel could see the rim of the crater Spock had stood next to, but the Vulcan was gone.

Pavel drew a shuddering breath, coughed as he inhaled the smoke, and threw himself behind a tree trunk just as another shell exploded just where he had stood. Spock couldn't be gone. Not Spock.

In the crater, Spock found himself face-to-face with the enemy. A lean young man in the grey uniform of the Imperial German Army was staring back at him. His moustache seemed misplaced on his round, freckled face, and his hands, holding his rifle trained on Spock, were quivering. They had raised their weapons at the same time after they had both tumbled into the crater.

Spock looked at the soldier along the barrel of his own rifle, and he looked back at him. Spock saw in his eyes how determination changed to fear and then to confusion. He knew the other man would have shot him on sight had there not been a second of delay while they both got up from the ground to lean against the crater wall. And then he had almost still done it, afraid Spock would shoot him. And then the same fear had prevented him from shooting because, in their position of a stalemate, the first to shoot would be the second to be shot. And then the soldier had realised that during these few seconds of fearful hesitation, he hadn't been shot yet and that he didn't quite know why.

Spock tilted his head as he watched this play of emotions on the other's face, intrigued by the innate repulsion to violence.

And then he took a gamble that Jim would have been proud of. He lowered his rifle.

He did not break eye contact but gazed calmly back at the other man. The German soldier stared back, and his finger tightened over the trigger of his rifle. But Spock knew it was too late. He had hesitated for too long.

With a shaky breath, the soldier lowered his rifle. For a moment, the two looked back at each other in silence as overhead the battle roared on. Spock noticed the insecurity in the other man as he began to look back and forth between him, his rifle, and the edge of the crater. He could try to make a run for it, he could try to shoot him after all, or he could sit and wait.

Spock decided to offer him the easiest way out. "Go," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the German trenches.

For a second, the other man hesitated, then nodded stiffly, picked up his rifle, and ran.

A moment later, Spock climbed back out of the crater and quickly ducked behind a mound of earth nearby.

Pavel breathed a sigh of relief. He had hurried ahead, hoping to get a glimpse into the crater to see if Spock was hurt. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Spock said curtly, deciding to remain silent about his surprise encounter. Then he noticed what Pavel was holding. It was a red identity tag, a British one. "Who?" he asked.

The red tag was one of a pair, fixed to the other one, a green one, by a short string. When one of them died, the red tag could be easily retrieved by cutting said string, leaving the green tag with the body. Others subsequently finding a body with only a green tag would know that the death was already being reported and could use the details on the green tag to prepare a grave marker.

Pavel pointed somewhere to their left. "William Ryder," he said. "Bullet got him straight through the head."

Spock nodded grimly. At least it had been quick.

When Pavel got a glimpse of the Captain and McCoy hurrying past, he breathed another sigh of relief. The identity tag weighed heavily in his hand, and he realised, not for the first time, that he was not only afraid of his own death but of losing his friends as well. William, the quiet poet, had been one of them.

He stayed under cover with Spock for a while. The shells were raining down around them, and Pavel had the feeling they were coming closer. In the pauses between bombs, he could hear bullets hitting the other side of the mound of earth they were crouching behind.

He carefully looked around it and saw only fog and a grey uniform here and there. Sometimes there was a glimpse of a khaki one, a British soldier darting out of danger and crawling through the furrowed earth to keep his head out of the line of sight of the Germans. But they were steadily advancing, and the way back was too far to turn their backs on them. Pavel met Spock's look, and he confirmed his suspicion with a nod. They were trapped.

They did not exchange a single word for a while. What was there to say? Every few moments, they fired a couple of shots over the hill, then quickly ducked again. Sometimes, they heard a scream, either by someone they had hit or by one of their own hit by a German bullet. Once or twice, Pavel wondered if he recognised the voice but hoped it was not so.

Every time he glimpsed over or around the hill, the Germans seemed closer and more numerous as they emerged from the fog. This was it, then, the end of Pavel Chekov.

He looked up at Spock. Nothing indicated whether he was afraid or whether he was anticipating his death.

Pavel opened his mouth to say something. But what it was he had wanted to say, he immediately forgot, as something strange gripped his attention.

A new sound had joined the battle noises, some faraway rumbling, a drumming sound as if dozens of men were running at the same time. No, not just running. Shouting, too, in a language Pavel did not understand. It wasn't English. But it wasn't German, either. It was a battle cry, so much was sure. But was it friend or foe?

Just as he had come to the realisation that, depending on who it turned out to be, the approaching stampede would either bring about their imminent death or herald their salvation, a wave of soldiers appeared out of the fog. Men in blue uniforms.

"That's the French," Spock shouted over the ruckus. "They're on our side."

Pavel had ducked instinctively but now raised his head again to peer over the mound to see the approaching Germans scatter as the remaining British soldiers joined the French and got up as well, joining them together with Spock, with renewed hope.

Moments later, the much-awaited signal to retreat was given. They would not take any trenches today but those who could still walk were lucky enough to return alive. The survivors made their way back to their trench, along with the French.

When Pavel and Spock had climbed down into the abyss, they were awaited by McCoy and the Captain.

"Where's Chris?" McCoy asked.

"Come now, clear the way!" Lieutenant Thompson called from behind. "Don't clog the trenches."

"Come on." Jim pulled McCoy along. "She'll be in the bunker already."

The four of them followed the stream of soldiers into the communication trench where they dispersed, some of them toward the first aid station, some toward the bunker, some others stopping every couple of steps to turn around, looking out for a friend that may never come back.

At the junction to the bunker, Henry Forester was standing, craning his neck as he looked over the soldiers passing by. They did not need to ask who he was looking for.

Pavel stopped in front of him and cleared his throat. "Henry. I'm very sorry." He opened his hand, revealing the red identity disk and the name on it.

Henry turned pale and took it with a quivering hand. "Well," he murmured bitterly, "no more shitty poetry then." And he turned on his heel and vanished in the throng of soldiers, without another word.

Christine wasn't in the bunker. Cooper was there, and Elliot Baker, and the Jones brothers, but Chris Chapel was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's your brother, Paul?" Eli addressed Pavel.

"I…I do not know." He looked at McCoy who shrugged helplessly.

"We've lost each other out there," he murmured. "I…I don't know where…" He took a shuddering breath and sunk down on a crate. "Oh, God, I've lost Chris."

Thomas Cooper sat down next to him and patted his shoulder. "There, there, Chris is a tough one, he won't be killed easily."

"It only takes one bullet," Pavel mumbled and slumped down on Leonard's other side. "William is dead."

Cooper stared back at him. "Oh." He sighed. "Pity."

They fell silent, too rattled to say anything. McCoy jumped up from the crate and busied himself with pacing the bunker. He could not bear sitting still while he waited for news about Christine. If there were any news to come. If there weren't…

He stumbled, as he found his path blocked by Spock.

"What?"

"She might return alive and well," the Vulcan said calmly. "She might have been simply too far away to return quickly."

"And what if she was too far away to return at all?" McCoy hissed back.

Spock shook his head. "I do not believe she was. Spare your energy."

McCoy's angry response was nipped in the bud by the sound of heavy steps outside the bunker.

For one suspenseful second, they all stared toward the entrance. Then, three men entered, clad in the blue uniform of the French. And in the arms of the middle one…

"That's what you call alive and well?" roared McCoy and stormed forward.

Christine was hanging limply in the Frenchman's arms. One side of her face was red with blood, appearing to come from a gash on her forehead.

"The first aid station was overrun," one of the Frenchmen said as his compatriot gently placed Christine on the table. "They told us to bring him here. You know this boy?"

"What happened?" Jim asked, still frantically looking if she was breathing. He could not step any closer because McCoy was bent over her.

"He was shot," the third Frenchman said. Seeing the pale faces around him, he chuckled softly. "It is only superficial. He is one of the lucky ones." He procured a first aid kit from a pocket and tossed it at Spock. "A little present from l'infanterie française."

Spock nodded back. "Thank you," he said. "Merci."

"De rien," the Frenchman answered, nodded and turned around to leave, his fellow soldiers in tow.

By then, the remaining British soldiers had cleared the bunker as well, ostensibly to give them some space and privacy, and McCoy set to work. He took the first aid kit from Spock and began by cleaning Christine's wound. Thankfully, her French saviour had been right. It was just superficial, and she was opening her eyes just as he finished putting a bandage around her head.

"Easy, easy," Leonard said as she propped herself up on her elbows. "Don't get up too fast."

She groaned and looked about her, slowly getting her bearings. Ignoring Leonard's reproach, she tried to sit up on the narrow table and lost her balance, kept from falling only by Spock's quick reflexes.

"What happened?" She grumbled into his shoulder as he held her upright with one arm.

"You were shot," Pavel said. "We feared you might be dead."

"That makes two of us," she murmured back and tried to lift her head from Spock's shoulder. To her irritation, it did not work; she was still too dizzy.

"I don't know who's worse," Leonard grunted, the ferocity of his words counteracted by how gently he took her hand. "You or he." He jabbed his thumb at Spock. "You two are gonna be the death of me with your habit of almost dying."

"Not today, Bones," Jim said and smiled down at Chris. "Though you gave us quite a scare. Rest now, Chris, we'll tell you what happened later."
Spock gently pushed her away from the accidental embrace and lowered her back onto the table. When he let go of her, his hands lingered for a moment.

"Spock?" She narrowed her eyes at him, a motion that made her forehead hurt. "What happened?"
"It was a difficult battle," Spock said. "William Ryder is dead."

She took a shuddering breath. "Anyone else I know?"

"Not that I know of," he said. "But you almost died as well."

To his astonishment, she smiled up at him and grabbed his arm. "Look at me." Her smile grew wider as she met his eyes. "You're worried about me! Spock, you are full of surprises."

She chuckled, and to Spock's confusion, the others smiled as well, though he was not aware of having said anything funny.

"I am not sure I understand." He raised an eyebrow. "I explicitly told you last time you almost died that I had been worried, and you are surprised now?"

"Well, hearing it is one thing, but seeing it…" She chuckled again. "And you don't really have a reputation for fretting."

"I am not fretting," Spock huffed. "I would simply find it a displeasing occurrence if you were to die."

Next to him, Jim burst into laughter. Pavel did at least try to hide his amusement.

"Way to go, Spock," McCoy burst out, grinning widely. "You make losing her sound like a mere inconvenience."

Spock pursed his lips. "I suspect you purposefully misunderstand."

Chekov stepped next to him and shook his head. "No, I think we understood perfectly, Mr Spock."

"That's why we're laughing," Jim added. "Because we know you, and we understand but know others might misunderstand." He shrugged. "It's just funny."

Spock sighed and looked back down at Christine.

She met his gaze and smiled weakly up at him. "It's all right Spock. I do understand."

Christine recovered from this near-death experience as well, but during the first few days, the gash on her head sometimes ripped open while she was working, earning her the nickname of Sir Bleeds-a-lot by Thomas Cooper.

One night, she had just gone to the bunker with Jim and Spock to change the bandage, when they were joined by Lieutenant Thompson.

"They got him," he grumbled, frowning down at where they sat on a crate, Jim busy with fastening the bandage around Chris's head. Thompson was pale, his lips trembling slightly.

"What are you talking about?" Chris asked. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"Clark. They got Clark. I got a message just now."

Spock tilted his head. "Clark Merriweather is dead?" he asked softly.

Thompson nodded sharply. "Yep. Shot for cowardice. He got as far as Amiens and was caught while crossing the Somme." He sighed, and his voice shook as he went on. "He was trying to get to Calais, I think, to cross the channel. But there's too much troop movement around the Somme nowadays, and he got the attention of a company moving east. And they shot him."

"Edwin, I'm sorry," Jim said, having just finished with the bandage, and he stood up to put his hand on the Lieutenant's arm in a reassuring gesture. "I'm sorry. He didn't deserve it."
Thompson nodded slowly and drew a shuddering breath. "Thanks. I told you because, well, I needed to tell someone who would not judge me for mourning a coward."

"Never," Jim mumbled, glancing toward Spock and Chris, but neither of them seemed to know what to say. "I'm sorry," he repeated feebly, realising there was nothing he could do to take Edwin's pain away and nothing to prevent a similar fate from befalling those close to him.

Edwin Thompson nodded and then straightened up. "Well, crying about him won't bring him back," he said firmly. But his lip was still trembling. "Come, Chapel, I have work for you if you can stop bleeding."
Christine followed Thompson out of the bunker and Jim was just turning to follow when a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Jim."

He turned around to meet Spock's look, his dark eyes fixed on him in a silent question. If there was any bright spot in this catastrophe, it was Spock's loyalty. "Yes, what is it?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Spock tilted his head. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, why?"

"I do not mean to intrude," the Vulcan said carefully, "but for a while now, you have been quieter than usual, more reserved. And you have been affected by the recent news as well." He motioned toward the exit through which Thompson, the bearer and recipient of the news had just vanished.

Jim shook his head and smiled wryly up at his friend. "Silly thoughts, Spock. Silly thoughts. Everything is fine."

"Jim, please." Spock raised his eyebrow just as he lowered his voice. "You will neither lower my morale nor make me think any ill of you by sharing these thoughts of yours. Silly as they may be, they obviously bother you."

"I'm losing hope, Spock," Jim blurted out. "Hope in returning home and hope in life when I look around." He looked up at Spock, who patiently waited for him to continue. "I feel so passive all the time. I'm no starship captain here. I'm just Jim Kirk."

Spock, to Jim's astonishment, smiled softly, his hand still on his arm. "You were not born a starship captain. You were born Jim Kirk who became a starship captain. A starship captain is not needed here, but Jim Kirk is."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Empirical evidence," Spock answered simply as if they were in a conference room on the Enterprise.

"Thanks." A tiny smile grazed Jim's lips. "Well, at least you're confident in me. That's almost all I need." He sighed. "Now, how confident are you that we're gonna make it out of here and get back home?"

For an instant, Spock averted his eyes. "Uncertain," he said then. "Scientifically speaking."

"Oh." Jim hesitated, then asked, "And unscientifically speaking?"

Spock nodded. "I have faith in the empirical evidence which seems to suggest we shall inexplicably prevail."

"You mean we could get lucky?"

"I believe that is what I said, yes."

"You didn't."

"I did," Spock said curtly, fully knowing what Jim was doing.

Jim laughed, a sound that had become tragically unfamiliar, clapped him on the shoulder and turned to go. "Well, come on then," he said, "let's tempt Fate a little more."

The moment Jim's back was turned, Spock's shoulders sagged. He closed his eyes for a second and sighed, just so that Jim did not notice. He was glad Jim had not turned the conversation around and asked him how he was. It was irrelevant anyway. Jim needed him; he would be strong for Jim.

Jim remained oblivious to Spock's silent suffering. But it would not take long for him to find out. In fact, it took a little less than twenty-four hours after Spock had been so relieved he did not know.

The afternoon after their talk in the bunker, Jim was walking back from having been on lookout duty in the front-line trench, on his way to catch an hour of sleep.

On the way, he caught Henry Forester with William Ryder's book of poems, trying to read very slowly the lines his friend had read to him only days ago, to an audience of one in the form of Pavel.

"I used to give him such a hard time about his poems," Henry grumbled as Jim was just passing them. "I wonder if he knew I truly liked them."

"He must have," Pavel said. "Why else would he have continued to read to you?"

Jim stopped and added, "He knew, Henry, he knew. I know he did." He smiled as he turned to go again. "Carry on, boys. Practise makes perfect."

In The Langham, there was only Spock, asleep. Jim had just sat down on the opposing bed, taking care not to wake him, when he noticed he was moving restlessly. He was by no means tossing and turning, but there was the errant twitch of a muscle and a frown creasing the Vulcan's face while his eyes moved under his eyelids.

Jim got up again and walked to the other bed, lowering himself to his knees and sighing in frustration. He had seemed fine just yesterday, and the whole time they had been in the trenches, Spock had seemed nothing but composed to him. A nagging feeling told him that this was not a one-off occurrence but that his friend had long been feeling worse than he had let on and had hidden his difficulties from him. "Spock," Jim whispered, thinking about waking him. But that would help no one, and instead, he took hold of his blanket and pulled it up to gently place it around his shoulders from where it had slipped. Spock sighed in his sleep and seemed to relax, probably aided by Jim's hand resting gingerly on his arm.

"He's not sleeping well, right?" a quiet voice came from behind. Christine had entered unnoticed by him, returning from serving Thompson.

"Seems so," Jim mumbled and stood up. Part of him wished that Christine had not come in just now so that he could have been alone with Spock, undisturbed. That was until he turned around and saw her face. He could not be resentful when she looked so lonely.

"That makes two of us," she mumbled, still looking at Spock.

Jim took a step towards her. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"It's all right," she said quickly and smiled at him. But it did not reach her eyes. "I doubt anyone is sleeping peacefully nowadays."

"When you and Spock went out because you were bored, this is what it was about, right? You weren't feeling well."

"Well, I was also bored," Chris answered and averted her eyes. "But yes. I was homesick and had too much time on my hands to think." She shrugged and smiled to herself. It seemed so long ago that she had sat at that fountain in the village square with Spock, and for a moment everything had seemed fine. "And Spock and I took a walk and, well, talked a bit." She hesitated to go on. Not that she had something to hide, but she wanted to keep the moment to herself as if telling the Captain about it would cause it to pop and fizz away like a balloon.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me anything," Jim said and nodded. "It's enough to know he was there for you. I know he's more caring than he lets on." He met her grateful look and continued softly, "Look, I know I'm no Spock, but if I can help somehow, don't hesitate to ask."

"Well there is one thing," she said slowly.

"Yes?"

Christine bit her lip as if she was embarrassed to ask. "Well, I don't know if it's weird to ask since you're my superior officer, but can you give me a hug?"

Jim chuckled. "Oh, come here. It's not weird at all," he said and pulled her into a hug.

Her first response was to stiffen as he wrapped his arms around her, and he almost apologised out of instinct. But then she relaxed with a small sigh, encircling his waist with her arms.

"It's all right, Chris," he mumbled, gently stroking her back in circular motions as she leaned onto him. "It's all right."