With The River As My Guide - Chapter 3/8
23 May 2262
0640 hours
A woman with pale hair watched the three children cavort around a park. Spock estimated the two boys to be approximately five and nine years of age, the girl in the middle. The woman turned to him, and Spock was startled to see the gentle smile on her face, green eyes full of affection. Affection for him. She reached for his hand and he let her, helpless to move his own body. But the clasp of hands, so intimate a touch to a Vulcan, did not cause his breath to hitch, his body to warm with the thoughts of another. It just felt like . . . touch. Normal, shielded, touch. And then he gasped, willing to tear his arm away. His shields were down! When-
Spock awoke, his heart thumping in his side. He closed his eyes, willing his body to relax. He was unable to contain a flutter of relief when he discovered his mental shields stood as firm as they had since he was a child. He exhaled, steepling his fingers on his chest, and dove into the blissful unawareness of deep meditation.
At oh eight hundred hours precisely, Spock commed Dr. McCoy who, after the expected grumblings, agreed to meet him in his Starfleet base quarters.
“I had visions of a woman in the night,” Spock said, watching with interest as McCoy spat out the coffee he had just gulped.
McCoy swore, dabbing his shirtfront with a napkin. “Jesus, Spock,” he said, “That’s got to be the last thing I expected to hear from you. I don’t need to know about your private fantasies.”
Spock cocked his head. “Ah,” he said, after a moment of comprehension. “You are under the impression that this woman and I engaged in coitus- Doctor, are you quite well?”
“I’m fine, fine,” McCoy wheezed, face turning an alarming shade of red. “Go on.”
“You are certain?”
With a few deep breaths, McCoy attempted to bring himself under better control. “Yeah,” he managed, once he was sure he wasn’t about to either choke on coffee or laugh outright “Keep talking.”
Spock gave him a slightly dubious look, but returned to discussing his dream. At the end of his explanation, he took a deep swallow of tea, while McCoy pursed his lips.
“And you’d never seen this woman before in your life?”
“Never,” Spock confirmed. He suddenly felt tired, tired of all the confusion, the mixed dreams, the streams of bureaucratic tape keeping him from . . . from . . . His head ached. He ignored it.
“You said there were kids too. Did any of them seem familiar?”
“No.” Spock had gone over their dream faces precisely twenty three times in his mind, but the identities of the three children remained as elusive as ever.
McCoy strummed his fingers on the table. “Strange,” he said finally. He shrugged, “I really don’t know what to tell you, Spock. If even you don’t know who they were, then . . .” he paused. “It seems weird that you’d remember this dream so clearly when you’ve been having such a hard time with the other ones,” he tried, and then frowned.
Spock’s gaze rested on the edge of the table. “You cannot assist me, then.” It was not a question.
“Fuck, Spock, don’t be like that,” McCoy said. “Of course I’m trying to help you.”
“And yet not moments ago you said you could not,” Spock pointed out, looking up. “I understand, Doctor. I do not understand these dreams. I do not know,” he stopped, breathing out, speaking to the table, “I do not know if they are a sign of my memory returning, or if they are simply a new way for my subconscious to process the day. I do not know anything.” And although his face was blank, his voice even, his posture was hunched, tense.
Taking a chance, McCoy reached out and gave his arm a slight pat. “Hey,” he said, “It’s okay to be scared, it’s,” he struggled, words of reassurance unfamiliar on his tongue. How in the hell do you reassure a Vulcan with amnesia? “You’ve been through a lot, Spock.”
“How can you say that,” Spock asked, steady voice tinged with exhaustion, “when not even I know exactly, ‘what I have been through’?”
McCoy let out a noise of frustration, “I might not be able to figure out who those dream people might have been, or what they might have represented to your fucking subconscious or whatever, but I can still help in other ways, jeeze.” He ran a hand through his hair. “With all the shit you’ve been dealing with over the past couple of weeks, you’re going to need someone, Spock. And if Jim can’t be here for you then it’s my damned duty to watch out for your pointy-eared ass.”
“Because you are the Chief Medical Officer,” said Spock.
McCoy flushed, “Well yeah, but that’s not the only reason.”
“I understand,” said Spock, who clearly didn’t.
McCoy grimaced. “Look,” he tried again. “I know we haven’t always exactly seen eye to eye.”
“This is likely because I am precisely point three centimeters taller than you,” said Spock.
“And we’ve had more than our fair share of arguments,” McCoy soldiered on, “what with you and Jim always doing stupid things and all but,” he took a breath, his voice softening, “You know I care about Jim, Spock. And you know - or at least, you damn well should know after the number of times I’ve saved your ass on the operating table - that I care about you too. Even if, you know, you’re shit at being friendly sometimes, you know?”
Spock blinked, not quite sure what to say to McCoy’s sudden and rampant emotionalism. “I,” he tried, but was cut off by McCoy who, now that he had girded his loins to speak about feelings, was really on a roll.
“So yeah, I’m Chief Medical Officer and it’s my job to make sure you’re healthy and all, but I’m also your friend, Spock. I want to help. It’s,” It’s the only thing I can do “important to me. To be able to help you.”
Spock swallowed around something in his throat. “I am . . . gratified,” he managed.
There was silence for a moment or two. Spock sipped his tea, McCoy gazed out the window at the lights of San Francisco, and fingered the handle of his coffee mug thoughtfully.
“So,” he said at long last. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way. Do you,” he lowered his voice a bit, “do you want to talk about it?”
Spock’s lips thinned. “You must be more precise,” he said, although his tone lacked any significant bite. “Discuss what, exactly?”
McCoy rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean,” he said. “Your dreams, anything you might remember about what happened. Anything you might know.”
Spock slammed his cup down. “I have told you time and time again. I cannot remember. And if I cannot remember, Doctor, then I cannot,” he stopped, taking a deep breath and loosened his grip on the mug. “Apologies, Doctor. My control has been poor of late.”
McCoy nodded. “All right then,” he said. He paused, as if gathering his thoughts.
Still somewhat tense, Spock took another sip of his tea. His mother had always gone on about how warm liquids were soothing for more than just physiological reasons such as quenching one’s thirst, and while Spock had publically said, with all the seriousness of a six year old, that that was clearly illogical, privately he had come to notice that she had had a bit of a point.
McCoy’s wry voice interrupted his thoughts. “So, were you planning on telling me when you were leaving, then? Or were you just going to sneak out at midnight?”
Spock froze for a split second and then carefully, deliberately willed his posture to appear casual.
McCoy was not fooled. “Do you really think I’m stupid, Spock? You think I lived on a starship with you two for four years and I wouldn’t have any inkling about how your mind works?”
Spock wet his lips with his tongue, “I have never made any mention of any imminent departure. I am unsure from what information you have drawn your conclusions, but rest assured I-”
“Don't give me that bullshit. We both know that Vulcans make terrible liars.”
Spock’s grip tightened around his cup.
“And you didn’t have to say anything,” McCoy said. “It’s clear as day.” His eyes narrowed, “You didn’t want to discuss the dreams at all, did you? You just wanted to get me to cover up for you while you’re gone.” His voice hardened. “Well tough luck, mister.”
Finally, Spock looked at him. His voice was as cold as McCoy had ever heard it as he replied, “You cannot stop me, Doctor. Not in this.”
McCoy glared at him, and smacked his fist down onto the table, making the mugs jump. “Damn it Spock,” he said heatedly, “All of Starfleet’s fucking looking for him now. You were delusional in the hospital barely four days ago- If this were the ship I wouldn’t declare you fit for duty until after another week and at least ten more visits from a Vulcan healer! Where the hell do you get the idea that you’ll have any more success than Starfleet’s finest?”
Spock’s eyes locked with his, but he did not answer. Finally, McCoy looked away. “Fuck,” he said distractedly. “Fuck.” He pointed a finger at Spock. “Like hell I’m going to let you run off alone. Give me a day to cover our asses and then we’ll go, okay?”
“I could not ask you to,” Spock began stiffly.
“For fuck’s sake Spock, do you have any idea what Jim would do to me if he knew I let you go gallivanting alone around the planet in your state? No? He’d fucking make Scotty weld a keel onto the bottom of the Enterprise just so he could keelhaul me on it!” He scowled down into his coffee mug, and then back up at Spock’s face. “I’m going with you and that’s final. Now pack your shit, and I’ll try to figure out a way to get out of here that doesn’t involve getting court marshaled.”
He glanced at Spock, expression frozen in the Vulcan version of abject shock.
“Shit,” McCoy said. “Don’t look so grateful.” He drained the rest of his coffee in one long gulp, and stood up as well. “I hope to god you know what you’re doing,” he growled, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to leave. “I’ll meet you here at seven tomorrow morning.”
Officially, Spock was on medical leave in order to “recover from mild physical trauma and heavy psychological trauma including but not limited to amnesia due to unknown causes, and other post traumatic stress.” Unofficially, he was under house arrest for being “The last person to see Captain James T Kirk alive,” with the implicit understanding that as long as Spock stayed put and obedient, Starfleet Command wouldn’t stick any obvious security personnel outside his door, or a CCTV camera in his bathroom.
McCoy shook his head. Seriously, you’d think by now that the admiralty would have figured out that Spock was the opposite of whatever stayed put and obedient. He sat down at his desk and tapped on his PADD.
McCoy couldn’t hack computers like Jim and Spock and probably eighty five percent of the Enterprise crew could. But he had other ways of getting what he wanted. He bit his lip as his eyes scrolled down his list of work contacts, and then highlighted a particular name. He tapped on it again, and up popped the contact information. McCoy grinned wolfishly, pulled out his communicator, and began to dial.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Jim’s head lolled to the side, and Spock knew they were in trouble.
“Jim,” he whispered urgently. “Jim, you mustn’t go to sleep.”
Jim’s eyes fluttered open. “Right,” he said groggily. “Why can’t I, again?”
Spock clasped his shoulder, as much to keep himself grounded as to comfort his captain in whatever way he could. “You are severely concussed,” he said. “You must wait to sleep until you can receive medical attention.”
“Oh,” Jim said. “Is that why I feel all . . .“ he trailed off and gestured weakly with his hands, “. . . fuzzy?”
“It is likely the root of your inability to concentrate, yes,” Spock said.
Jim coughed and then groaned, reaching with both hands to touch his head. “There’s going to be a bump,” he mumbled, “Hell of a bump. Is the ceiling supposed to spin like that?”
“No,” Spock replied, watching Jim’s face like a hawk, tenseness in every line of his body.
Jim’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened, then closed again. “Maybe I’ll just take a little nap,” he said slowly, enunciating his words like he had to speak through heavy syrup. “Maybe the floor will stop spinning- oh god,” and that was Spock’s only warning before Jim turned over onto his side and began to empty out the contents of his stomach. Alarmed, Spock gripped him under the armpits and hauled him into a more upright position, supporting him until there were only dry heaves left, and Jim wiped a trembling hand across his mouth.
“Sorry,” he said hoarsely, slumping against Spock’s body. “Sorry.”
“It is not your fault,” Spock said, keeping his grip on Jim as he scooted them both away from the mess, the acid smell of vomit heavy in the air. Jim squeezed his eyes shut at the motion, and his hand crept out to grip Spock’s arm for support.
“Think I’d be used to getting hit on the head by now,” Jim mumbled. Spock eased him back until he was resting between Spock’s legs, his back against Spock’s chest, his head pillowed on Spock’s shoulder. “Fuck, worst shore leave ever.” He shuddered.
“Agreed,” Spock said, and if he ran his hands through the captain’s hair in a thoroughly un-Vulcan manner of comfort, well. It wasn’t like anyone else was there to see.
Spock was pulled out of his dream by an abrupt pounding on the door. Unusually bleary, his head filled with half remembered images and the feel of Jim Kirk’s weight in his arms, he had lowered his feet to the floor and swiped his PADD off his bedside table to record what he could recall of his dream before he remembered. McCoy.
He was at the main door like a shot, opening it just in time to forestall another deluge of knocking. McCoy stared at him for a moment, and then entered without asking permission.
“Did you actually oversleep?” is the first thing that left the doctor’s mouth. He peered at Spock suspiciously and fumbled in his pocket for the inevitable tricorder. “You never oversleep. What gives?” The tricorder began to whir away, and Spock found the noise illogically comforting.
“I have been experiencing difficulty with my internal clock of late,” Spock said stiffly, eyeing the tricorder as it dipped down to whir over his armpit, “Doctor is that entirely necessary?”
“Your adrenaline levels are up,” McCoy murmured to himself, “Heart rate accelerated, even for you - But of course, that could just be the result of an abrupt wakening.”
Spock reminded himself that he had need of Doctor McCoy, and also that he was a Vulcan, his mind as quiet as stone, his emotions a well with water as smooth as glass, his- “Doctor, please!” he snapped as the tricorder took a rather invasive reading of the inside of his ear.
McCoy flicked the tricorder off and stuck his hands on his hips. “Well really Spock, how the hell am I supposed to convince the admiralty that you’re well enough to travel - but not well enough to be put on active duty - if I don’t have a record for it?” he growled. “Now try to look extra groggy when I take this picture for the records.”
“What?” Spock said, as a sudden flash of light assailed his eyes.
“Huh,” said McCoy, glancing at the picture on the screen. “Well you look more baffled than groggy, but I suppose it’ll do.”
Spock glared at him, but McCoy took no notice.
“Come on,” he said. “Are we going or not? Where’s your stuff?” He paused for a moment to look up and down Spock’s simple black robe and added, “And for god’s sake man, put on some clothes. No way am I driving your Vulcan ass around in public wearing only a bathrobe.”
“It is not a bathrobe,” Spock corrected before he could stop himself. “It is a meditation robe.” He drew himself up to his full height. “And if you could please explain what is going on and why you have invaded my quarters without permission?” He neglected to mention the part where he had actually been expecting McCoy, but figured that the doctor did not need any more ammunition than he already had.
McCoy barked out a laugh. “Come on, Spock. With all that logic of yours you haven’t figured it out yet?”
Spock’s mind flittered over dozens of possible answers to that question, each one more biting than the last, but McCoy gave him no chance to speak as he barreled on.
“As your personal attending physician,” he said with that peculiar mixture of grandness and cantankerousness that Spock found to be both a fascinating and baffling facet of his personality, “I have been granted leave by Admiral Pike to escort you to the home of Healer T’Brin, one of eight Vulcan healers currently in residence on Earth.”
Spock stared at him, so many questions dancing through his consciousness that he was momentarily unable to quiet his mind enough to give voice to the most crucial ones. Why would not Starfleet simply summon the healer here? Why this particular healer when there are already two Vulcan healers in residence at Starfleet Medical? How is this in any way helpful? Spock narrowed his eyes, seeing a twitch starting to grow at the corner of McCoy’s mouth; the doctor was clearly enjoying himself.
“I can see you have questions,” McCoy said airily. “Perhaps I can make things a bit clearer for you?”
Spock gritted his teeth, unwilling to give McCoy any reason to puff himself up any further.
“Do not worry, Doctor,” Spock said, deliberately putting an unnatural meekness into his tone. “If this is what you believe to be the best course of action, then I will not question you on it. You are, after all, the chief medical officer of the flagship.” He turned away, hunching his shoulders a bit for full effect. “Please excuse me, I must go pack.”
“You,” McCoy stuttered. Spock chanced a look back, and was un-Vulcanly satisfied at the reddish color McCoy’s forehead turned.
“Me, Doctor?” Spock said innocently.
McCoy scowled and pointed a finger at him. “Whoever says Vulcans don’t do sass or sarcasm has clearly never met you, you pointy-eared faker.”
Spock stared at him, expressionless.
McCoy heaved a sigh. “Fine,” he said, sitting down in the nearest chair. “Can’t even let a man enjoy his moment of ingeniousness.” He ran his hand over his face as Spock sat down as well, and launched right into his explanation. “The healers you’ve been seeing are good, Spock,” he said, “But they’re not the best, and they can’t seem to figure out what’s causing your amnesia, or how to bring back any memories.”
“They are young,” Spock agreed, “After the destruction of my home planet, many of the mind techniques - and the healers who practiced them - were lost.”
“Right,” McCoy agreed, his face darkening a little as it always did at the reminder of that loss. “But Healer T’Brin is different.”
Spock nodded. “I have heard the name,” he confessed, “Although I must admit that when I searched the databases for Vulcan Healers, T’Brin did not appear as an active member of the medical community.”
“You’re right,” McCoy said. “Technically, she’s two hundred and thirty seven years old, and retired.”
“And yet,” Spock said carefully, “We are going to see her.”
“Well,” McCoy drawled. “Her grandson might owe me a bit of a favor. And as her only remaining family member, she might dote on him to rather - shall we say - illogical levels. Or at least, high enough levels to get her to both have a look at your head and convince Starfleet command that she might be your only hope of fixing it. Alas,” McCoy paused, drawing an overdone expression of tragic necessity over his face. “Well, she is two hundred and thirty seven years old, and while everything’s still there,” he pointed at his head, “She’s really much too old to be journeying all the way down to Starfleet Medical, don’t you think?”
Spock found his voice. “Indeed,” he said blandly. “Respect for the elderly is of vital importance. Being of sound body, it is much more logical that I make the journey to her, rather than her coming to me.”
“Definitely,” McCoy said. “Makes much more sense that way. Of course, no one really knows how long this sort of thing will take, so it’s possible you might have a sort of open-ended leave under my supervision until either your mind is healed, or you leave the service.”
Spock leaned forward on his elbows. “And if I might query,” he said, the full extent of McCoy’s plan coming to light. “Where does Healer T’Brin make her abode?”
McCoy grinned wolfishly, “While she winters in the American Southwest, she happens to have a summer residence in the Oregon High Desert near the foot of the Cascade Mountains.” He spoke again, his voice still light, but his eyes growing serious. “I hope being near the region of your and Jim’s abduction won’t be too hard on you.”
Spock met his gaze. “No, Doctor,” he said, something steely glinting through that Vulcan mask. “I do not believe it will be.”
11 April 2262
The problem with campfires, Kirk reflected, was the wind. In particular, the wind that seemed to blow the smoke in whichever direction he happened to be sitting.
“Jim, the wind does not consciously decide to blow towards you. If you would cease moving in a circle, logically there will be a time when you are not in its path.”
Kirk stopped to glower and point a finger at Spock. “One thing about campfires, Spock, is that they always blow towards you. It’s part of their charm.”
“Such illogical certainty,” Spock murmured. “I presume you have gathered extensive evidence of this phenomena?”
“Naturally,” Kirk said, crouching down to tug at the zipper on his pack. Tongue between his teeth, he dug in the front pocket. “Almost thirty years of evidence.” He looked up, a crumpled bag clutched in his hand. “Want a s’more?”
“Some more what?” Spock queried, leaning forward a little despite himself.
“Not ‘some more’ - a s’more,” Kirk emphasized, heaving himself back up to pad over and settle himself next to Spock. From the baggie, he began to produce some crumbly graham crackers. “You can’t have spent so much time on Earth and never heard of a s’more. That’s ridiculous.”
“I have never gone ‘camping’ for recreational purposes before,” Spock reminded gently.
“Hmph,” said Kirk. His eyes sparkled. “We’ll have to start adding s’more materials to overnight landing party missions. Can’t have anyone else live in such ignorance.”
Spock quirked an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” Kirk said, somehow blissfully unaware of the look his first officer was sending his way. “A s’more is basically a marshmallow,” he held one up, “roasted over the campfire, and squashed between two graham crackers.” He indicated the bag.
“That sounds rather . . . unappealing,” Spock managed.
“Spo-ock,” Kirk whined. “I even got the kind with the gelatin substitute. Besides,” he held up a final ingredient. “Chocolate goes in the s’more too.”
Before he could control himself, Spock’s eyes lit up. Kirk snickered. “You honestly have the worst sweet tooth I’ve ever met. I thought Vulcans didn’t like sweet things.”
“Perhaps that is true of most Vulcans,” Spock allowed, “but as certain of my crewmates are so fond of pointing out - I am half human.” He reached out to grab the chocolate piece, but Kirk quickly closed his hand. Not quick enough though - Spock’s fingertips grazed the wrapping just as Kirk’s action enclosed his first officer’s hand within his own.
For a moment, they sat frozen. Then, Kirk slowly squeezed Spock’s hand, gave him a fleeting smile, and let go. Spock exhaled, his body stock still, but his eyes following as Kirk speared a marshmallow on a well-sharpened stick and held it over the fire, his face turned away, his shoulders set deliberately casual.
They sat in silence for a minute. Finally, Spock spoke. “Jim,” he said, voice soft.
Kirk turned around, “Yeah, Spock?”
“Your marshmallow is burning.”
Kirk swore, yanking the stick out of danger and furiously blowing on it. By the time the fire was out, his marshmallow was covered in a skin of blackened charcoal. Kirk poked cautiously at it, winced at the heat, and stuck his finger in his mouth to cool. “Ow,” he said, somewhat indistinguishably around the digit in his mouth.
Spock swallowed and looked away as Kirk fumbled for the graham crackers and chocolate with his free hand and forced them into a sandwich, sliding the burned marshmallow in between. White trails of gooey sugar created a small bridge between the s’more and the roasting stick until Kirk wrapped them around the stick and tugged.
“There,” he said, resting the stick on the ground. “A perfectly edible s’more.” He held it out to Spock, who gingerly took it, examining it with a critical eye.
“Oh for god’s sake,” Kirk said after about ten seconds of Spock staring at the s’more with seemingly no inclination to actually eat it. “It’s not poisonous. Just put it in your mouth.”
Reluctantly, Spock bit off a small corner and chewed.
“Well?” Kirk demanded.
Spock swallowed. “It is a bit too sweet for my tastes,” he said, while mentally cataloguing the entire concoction under his list of things to never consume again.
Kirk rolled his eyes and snatched it back from him. “Well if you’re not going to eat it, I’ll finish it then,” he said, and shoved the entire s’more in his mouth. “Can’t believe you don’t like s’mores,” he mumbled, graham cracker crumbs flying from his mouth.
Spock thought for a moment. Despite its truth, apparently his dislike of this traditional human food had caused offense. He looked over at Kirk, who was now shoving his roasting stick into the coals of the fire, seemingly at random. “Jim,” he said.
“Hmmm?” Poke, poke, poke went the stick into the coals.
“Although the s’more is not to my tastes, I must admit it provided an interesting insight into human traditional foods.”
“Hmmm.”
“I . . . I would not be averse to partaking in some of the chocolate you brought.”
“It’s over there,” Kirk waved his hand at the bag.
Over the course of their time aboard the Enterprise, Spock had learned that there were few ways to deal with the Captain when he succumbed to one of his illogical sulks. Naturally, the most efficient of these methods was also the simplest: give him what he wanted. He set his shoulders.
“I would also appreciate if you would be willing to instruct me in the proper method of ‘roasting’ a marshmallow.”
Kirk peered up. “You’re not just saying that?”
“It would certainly be an opportunity to learn about an Earth cultural tradition from a . . . unique, standpoint?”
Kirk gave him a look. “Unique standpoint?”
“From a local familiar with the process,” Spock clarified.
“Uh huh,” Kirk said, but Spock could see he was trying not to smile. “Very well, Mr. Spock. If you want a local to teach you all about traditional Earth camping I guess I’m your man.”
“Beginning with marshmallow roasting?”
“Among other things,” Kirk agreed. He shook his head. “Well to start, you’ll have to get a stick.”
Previous Next
0640 hours
A woman with pale hair watched the three children cavort around a park. Spock estimated the two boys to be approximately five and nine years of age, the girl in the middle. The woman turned to him, and Spock was startled to see the gentle smile on her face, green eyes full of affection. Affection for him. She reached for his hand and he let her, helpless to move his own body. But the clasp of hands, so intimate a touch to a Vulcan, did not cause his breath to hitch, his body to warm with the thoughts of another. It just felt like . . . touch. Normal, shielded, touch. And then he gasped, willing to tear his arm away. His shields were down! When-
Spock awoke, his heart thumping in his side. He closed his eyes, willing his body to relax. He was unable to contain a flutter of relief when he discovered his mental shields stood as firm as they had since he was a child. He exhaled, steepling his fingers on his chest, and dove into the blissful unawareness of deep meditation.
At oh eight hundred hours precisely, Spock commed Dr. McCoy who, after the expected grumblings, agreed to meet him in his Starfleet base quarters.
“I had visions of a woman in the night,” Spock said, watching with interest as McCoy spat out the coffee he had just gulped.
McCoy swore, dabbing his shirtfront with a napkin. “Jesus, Spock,” he said, “That’s got to be the last thing I expected to hear from you. I don’t need to know about your private fantasies.”
Spock cocked his head. “Ah,” he said, after a moment of comprehension. “You are under the impression that this woman and I engaged in coitus- Doctor, are you quite well?”
“I’m fine, fine,” McCoy wheezed, face turning an alarming shade of red. “Go on.”
“You are certain?”
With a few deep breaths, McCoy attempted to bring himself under better control. “Yeah,” he managed, once he was sure he wasn’t about to either choke on coffee or laugh outright “Keep talking.”
Spock gave him a slightly dubious look, but returned to discussing his dream. At the end of his explanation, he took a deep swallow of tea, while McCoy pursed his lips.
“And you’d never seen this woman before in your life?”
“Never,” Spock confirmed. He suddenly felt tired, tired of all the confusion, the mixed dreams, the streams of bureaucratic tape keeping him from . . . from . . . His head ached. He ignored it.
“You said there were kids too. Did any of them seem familiar?”
“No.” Spock had gone over their dream faces precisely twenty three times in his mind, but the identities of the three children remained as elusive as ever.
McCoy strummed his fingers on the table. “Strange,” he said finally. He shrugged, “I really don’t know what to tell you, Spock. If even you don’t know who they were, then . . .” he paused. “It seems weird that you’d remember this dream so clearly when you’ve been having such a hard time with the other ones,” he tried, and then frowned.
Spock’s gaze rested on the edge of the table. “You cannot assist me, then.” It was not a question.
“Fuck, Spock, don’t be like that,” McCoy said. “Of course I’m trying to help you.”
“And yet not moments ago you said you could not,” Spock pointed out, looking up. “I understand, Doctor. I do not understand these dreams. I do not know,” he stopped, breathing out, speaking to the table, “I do not know if they are a sign of my memory returning, or if they are simply a new way for my subconscious to process the day. I do not know anything.” And although his face was blank, his voice even, his posture was hunched, tense.
Taking a chance, McCoy reached out and gave his arm a slight pat. “Hey,” he said, “It’s okay to be scared, it’s,” he struggled, words of reassurance unfamiliar on his tongue. How in the hell do you reassure a Vulcan with amnesia? “You’ve been through a lot, Spock.”
“How can you say that,” Spock asked, steady voice tinged with exhaustion, “when not even I know exactly, ‘what I have been through’?”
McCoy let out a noise of frustration, “I might not be able to figure out who those dream people might have been, or what they might have represented to your fucking subconscious or whatever, but I can still help in other ways, jeeze.” He ran a hand through his hair. “With all the shit you’ve been dealing with over the past couple of weeks, you’re going to need someone, Spock. And if Jim can’t be here for you then it’s my damned duty to watch out for your pointy-eared ass.”
“Because you are the Chief Medical Officer,” said Spock.
McCoy flushed, “Well yeah, but that’s not the only reason.”
“I understand,” said Spock, who clearly didn’t.
McCoy grimaced. “Look,” he tried again. “I know we haven’t always exactly seen eye to eye.”
“This is likely because I am precisely point three centimeters taller than you,” said Spock.
“And we’ve had more than our fair share of arguments,” McCoy soldiered on, “what with you and Jim always doing stupid things and all but,” he took a breath, his voice softening, “You know I care about Jim, Spock. And you know - or at least, you damn well should know after the number of times I’ve saved your ass on the operating table - that I care about you too. Even if, you know, you’re shit at being friendly sometimes, you know?”
Spock blinked, not quite sure what to say to McCoy’s sudden and rampant emotionalism. “I,” he tried, but was cut off by McCoy who, now that he had girded his loins to speak about feelings, was really on a roll.
“So yeah, I’m Chief Medical Officer and it’s my job to make sure you’re healthy and all, but I’m also your friend, Spock. I want to help. It’s,” It’s the only thing I can do “important to me. To be able to help you.”
Spock swallowed around something in his throat. “I am . . . gratified,” he managed.
There was silence for a moment or two. Spock sipped his tea, McCoy gazed out the window at the lights of San Francisco, and fingered the handle of his coffee mug thoughtfully.
“So,” he said at long last. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way. Do you,” he lowered his voice a bit, “do you want to talk about it?”
Spock’s lips thinned. “You must be more precise,” he said, although his tone lacked any significant bite. “Discuss what, exactly?”
McCoy rolled his eyes, “You know what I mean,” he said. “Your dreams, anything you might remember about what happened. Anything you might know.”
Spock slammed his cup down. “I have told you time and time again. I cannot remember. And if I cannot remember, Doctor, then I cannot,” he stopped, taking a deep breath and loosened his grip on the mug. “Apologies, Doctor. My control has been poor of late.”
McCoy nodded. “All right then,” he said. He paused, as if gathering his thoughts.
Still somewhat tense, Spock took another sip of his tea. His mother had always gone on about how warm liquids were soothing for more than just physiological reasons such as quenching one’s thirst, and while Spock had publically said, with all the seriousness of a six year old, that that was clearly illogical, privately he had come to notice that she had had a bit of a point.
McCoy’s wry voice interrupted his thoughts. “So, were you planning on telling me when you were leaving, then? Or were you just going to sneak out at midnight?”
Spock froze for a split second and then carefully, deliberately willed his posture to appear casual.
McCoy was not fooled. “Do you really think I’m stupid, Spock? You think I lived on a starship with you two for four years and I wouldn’t have any inkling about how your mind works?”
Spock wet his lips with his tongue, “I have never made any mention of any imminent departure. I am unsure from what information you have drawn your conclusions, but rest assured I-”
“Don't give me that bullshit. We both know that Vulcans make terrible liars.”
Spock’s grip tightened around his cup.
“And you didn’t have to say anything,” McCoy said. “It’s clear as day.” His eyes narrowed, “You didn’t want to discuss the dreams at all, did you? You just wanted to get me to cover up for you while you’re gone.” His voice hardened. “Well tough luck, mister.”
Finally, Spock looked at him. His voice was as cold as McCoy had ever heard it as he replied, “You cannot stop me, Doctor. Not in this.”
McCoy glared at him, and smacked his fist down onto the table, making the mugs jump. “Damn it Spock,” he said heatedly, “All of Starfleet’s fucking looking for him now. You were delusional in the hospital barely four days ago- If this were the ship I wouldn’t declare you fit for duty until after another week and at least ten more visits from a Vulcan healer! Where the hell do you get the idea that you’ll have any more success than Starfleet’s finest?”
Spock’s eyes locked with his, but he did not answer. Finally, McCoy looked away. “Fuck,” he said distractedly. “Fuck.” He pointed a finger at Spock. “Like hell I’m going to let you run off alone. Give me a day to cover our asses and then we’ll go, okay?”
“I could not ask you to,” Spock began stiffly.
“For fuck’s sake Spock, do you have any idea what Jim would do to me if he knew I let you go gallivanting alone around the planet in your state? No? He’d fucking make Scotty weld a keel onto the bottom of the Enterprise just so he could keelhaul me on it!” He scowled down into his coffee mug, and then back up at Spock’s face. “I’m going with you and that’s final. Now pack your shit, and I’ll try to figure out a way to get out of here that doesn’t involve getting court marshaled.”
He glanced at Spock, expression frozen in the Vulcan version of abject shock.
“Shit,” McCoy said. “Don’t look so grateful.” He drained the rest of his coffee in one long gulp, and stood up as well. “I hope to god you know what you’re doing,” he growled, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to leave. “I’ll meet you here at seven tomorrow morning.”
Officially, Spock was on medical leave in order to “recover from mild physical trauma and heavy psychological trauma including but not limited to amnesia due to unknown causes, and other post traumatic stress.” Unofficially, he was under house arrest for being “The last person to see Captain James T Kirk alive,” with the implicit understanding that as long as Spock stayed put and obedient, Starfleet Command wouldn’t stick any obvious security personnel outside his door, or a CCTV camera in his bathroom.
McCoy shook his head. Seriously, you’d think by now that the admiralty would have figured out that Spock was the opposite of whatever stayed put and obedient. He sat down at his desk and tapped on his PADD.
McCoy couldn’t hack computers like Jim and Spock and probably eighty five percent of the Enterprise crew could. But he had other ways of getting what he wanted. He bit his lip as his eyes scrolled down his list of work contacts, and then highlighted a particular name. He tapped on it again, and up popped the contact information. McCoy grinned wolfishly, pulled out his communicator, and began to dial.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Jim’s head lolled to the side, and Spock knew they were in trouble.
“Jim,” he whispered urgently. “Jim, you mustn’t go to sleep.”
Jim’s eyes fluttered open. “Right,” he said groggily. “Why can’t I, again?”
Spock clasped his shoulder, as much to keep himself grounded as to comfort his captain in whatever way he could. “You are severely concussed,” he said. “You must wait to sleep until you can receive medical attention.”
“Oh,” Jim said. “Is that why I feel all . . .“ he trailed off and gestured weakly with his hands, “. . . fuzzy?”
“It is likely the root of your inability to concentrate, yes,” Spock said.
Jim coughed and then groaned, reaching with both hands to touch his head. “There’s going to be a bump,” he mumbled, “Hell of a bump. Is the ceiling supposed to spin like that?”
“No,” Spock replied, watching Jim’s face like a hawk, tenseness in every line of his body.
Jim’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened, then closed again. “Maybe I’ll just take a little nap,” he said slowly, enunciating his words like he had to speak through heavy syrup. “Maybe the floor will stop spinning- oh god,” and that was Spock’s only warning before Jim turned over onto his side and began to empty out the contents of his stomach. Alarmed, Spock gripped him under the armpits and hauled him into a more upright position, supporting him until there were only dry heaves left, and Jim wiped a trembling hand across his mouth.
“Sorry,” he said hoarsely, slumping against Spock’s body. “Sorry.”
“It is not your fault,” Spock said, keeping his grip on Jim as he scooted them both away from the mess, the acid smell of vomit heavy in the air. Jim squeezed his eyes shut at the motion, and his hand crept out to grip Spock’s arm for support.
“Think I’d be used to getting hit on the head by now,” Jim mumbled. Spock eased him back until he was resting between Spock’s legs, his back against Spock’s chest, his head pillowed on Spock’s shoulder. “Fuck, worst shore leave ever.” He shuddered.
“Agreed,” Spock said, and if he ran his hands through the captain’s hair in a thoroughly un-Vulcan manner of comfort, well. It wasn’t like anyone else was there to see.
Spock was pulled out of his dream by an abrupt pounding on the door. Unusually bleary, his head filled with half remembered images and the feel of Jim Kirk’s weight in his arms, he had lowered his feet to the floor and swiped his PADD off his bedside table to record what he could recall of his dream before he remembered. McCoy.
He was at the main door like a shot, opening it just in time to forestall another deluge of knocking. McCoy stared at him for a moment, and then entered without asking permission.
“Did you actually oversleep?” is the first thing that left the doctor’s mouth. He peered at Spock suspiciously and fumbled in his pocket for the inevitable tricorder. “You never oversleep. What gives?” The tricorder began to whir away, and Spock found the noise illogically comforting.
“I have been experiencing difficulty with my internal clock of late,” Spock said stiffly, eyeing the tricorder as it dipped down to whir over his armpit, “Doctor is that entirely necessary?”
“Your adrenaline levels are up,” McCoy murmured to himself, “Heart rate accelerated, even for you - But of course, that could just be the result of an abrupt wakening.”
Spock reminded himself that he had need of Doctor McCoy, and also that he was a Vulcan, his mind as quiet as stone, his emotions a well with water as smooth as glass, his- “Doctor, please!” he snapped as the tricorder took a rather invasive reading of the inside of his ear.
McCoy flicked the tricorder off and stuck his hands on his hips. “Well really Spock, how the hell am I supposed to convince the admiralty that you’re well enough to travel - but not well enough to be put on active duty - if I don’t have a record for it?” he growled. “Now try to look extra groggy when I take this picture for the records.”
“What?” Spock said, as a sudden flash of light assailed his eyes.
“Huh,” said McCoy, glancing at the picture on the screen. “Well you look more baffled than groggy, but I suppose it’ll do.”
Spock glared at him, but McCoy took no notice.
“Come on,” he said. “Are we going or not? Where’s your stuff?” He paused for a moment to look up and down Spock’s simple black robe and added, “And for god’s sake man, put on some clothes. No way am I driving your Vulcan ass around in public wearing only a bathrobe.”
“It is not a bathrobe,” Spock corrected before he could stop himself. “It is a meditation robe.” He drew himself up to his full height. “And if you could please explain what is going on and why you have invaded my quarters without permission?” He neglected to mention the part where he had actually been expecting McCoy, but figured that the doctor did not need any more ammunition than he already had.
McCoy barked out a laugh. “Come on, Spock. With all that logic of yours you haven’t figured it out yet?”
Spock’s mind flittered over dozens of possible answers to that question, each one more biting than the last, but McCoy gave him no chance to speak as he barreled on.
“As your personal attending physician,” he said with that peculiar mixture of grandness and cantankerousness that Spock found to be both a fascinating and baffling facet of his personality, “I have been granted leave by Admiral Pike to escort you to the home of Healer T’Brin, one of eight Vulcan healers currently in residence on Earth.”
Spock stared at him, so many questions dancing through his consciousness that he was momentarily unable to quiet his mind enough to give voice to the most crucial ones. Why would not Starfleet simply summon the healer here? Why this particular healer when there are already two Vulcan healers in residence at Starfleet Medical? How is this in any way helpful? Spock narrowed his eyes, seeing a twitch starting to grow at the corner of McCoy’s mouth; the doctor was clearly enjoying himself.
“I can see you have questions,” McCoy said airily. “Perhaps I can make things a bit clearer for you?”
Spock gritted his teeth, unwilling to give McCoy any reason to puff himself up any further.
“Do not worry, Doctor,” Spock said, deliberately putting an unnatural meekness into his tone. “If this is what you believe to be the best course of action, then I will not question you on it. You are, after all, the chief medical officer of the flagship.” He turned away, hunching his shoulders a bit for full effect. “Please excuse me, I must go pack.”
“You,” McCoy stuttered. Spock chanced a look back, and was un-Vulcanly satisfied at the reddish color McCoy’s forehead turned.
“Me, Doctor?” Spock said innocently.
McCoy scowled and pointed a finger at him. “Whoever says Vulcans don’t do sass or sarcasm has clearly never met you, you pointy-eared faker.”
Spock stared at him, expressionless.
McCoy heaved a sigh. “Fine,” he said, sitting down in the nearest chair. “Can’t even let a man enjoy his moment of ingeniousness.” He ran his hand over his face as Spock sat down as well, and launched right into his explanation. “The healers you’ve been seeing are good, Spock,” he said, “But they’re not the best, and they can’t seem to figure out what’s causing your amnesia, or how to bring back any memories.”
“They are young,” Spock agreed, “After the destruction of my home planet, many of the mind techniques - and the healers who practiced them - were lost.”
“Right,” McCoy agreed, his face darkening a little as it always did at the reminder of that loss. “But Healer T’Brin is different.”
Spock nodded. “I have heard the name,” he confessed, “Although I must admit that when I searched the databases for Vulcan Healers, T’Brin did not appear as an active member of the medical community.”
“You’re right,” McCoy said. “Technically, she’s two hundred and thirty seven years old, and retired.”
“And yet,” Spock said carefully, “We are going to see her.”
“Well,” McCoy drawled. “Her grandson might owe me a bit of a favor. And as her only remaining family member, she might dote on him to rather - shall we say - illogical levels. Or at least, high enough levels to get her to both have a look at your head and convince Starfleet command that she might be your only hope of fixing it. Alas,” McCoy paused, drawing an overdone expression of tragic necessity over his face. “Well, she is two hundred and thirty seven years old, and while everything’s still there,” he pointed at his head, “She’s really much too old to be journeying all the way down to Starfleet Medical, don’t you think?”
Spock found his voice. “Indeed,” he said blandly. “Respect for the elderly is of vital importance. Being of sound body, it is much more logical that I make the journey to her, rather than her coming to me.”
“Definitely,” McCoy said. “Makes much more sense that way. Of course, no one really knows how long this sort of thing will take, so it’s possible you might have a sort of open-ended leave under my supervision until either your mind is healed, or you leave the service.”
Spock leaned forward on his elbows. “And if I might query,” he said, the full extent of McCoy’s plan coming to light. “Where does Healer T’Brin make her abode?”
McCoy grinned wolfishly, “While she winters in the American Southwest, she happens to have a summer residence in the Oregon High Desert near the foot of the Cascade Mountains.” He spoke again, his voice still light, but his eyes growing serious. “I hope being near the region of your and Jim’s abduction won’t be too hard on you.”
Spock met his gaze. “No, Doctor,” he said, something steely glinting through that Vulcan mask. “I do not believe it will be.”
11 April 2262
The problem with campfires, Kirk reflected, was the wind. In particular, the wind that seemed to blow the smoke in whichever direction he happened to be sitting.
“Jim, the wind does not consciously decide to blow towards you. If you would cease moving in a circle, logically there will be a time when you are not in its path.”
Kirk stopped to glower and point a finger at Spock. “One thing about campfires, Spock, is that they always blow towards you. It’s part of their charm.”
“Such illogical certainty,” Spock murmured. “I presume you have gathered extensive evidence of this phenomena?”
“Naturally,” Kirk said, crouching down to tug at the zipper on his pack. Tongue between his teeth, he dug in the front pocket. “Almost thirty years of evidence.” He looked up, a crumpled bag clutched in his hand. “Want a s’more?”
“Some more what?” Spock queried, leaning forward a little despite himself.
“Not ‘some more’ - a s’more,” Kirk emphasized, heaving himself back up to pad over and settle himself next to Spock. From the baggie, he began to produce some crumbly graham crackers. “You can’t have spent so much time on Earth and never heard of a s’more. That’s ridiculous.”
“I have never gone ‘camping’ for recreational purposes before,” Spock reminded gently.
“Hmph,” said Kirk. His eyes sparkled. “We’ll have to start adding s’more materials to overnight landing party missions. Can’t have anyone else live in such ignorance.”
Spock quirked an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” Kirk said, somehow blissfully unaware of the look his first officer was sending his way. “A s’more is basically a marshmallow,” he held one up, “roasted over the campfire, and squashed between two graham crackers.” He indicated the bag.
“That sounds rather . . . unappealing,” Spock managed.
“Spo-ock,” Kirk whined. “I even got the kind with the gelatin substitute. Besides,” he held up a final ingredient. “Chocolate goes in the s’more too.”
Before he could control himself, Spock’s eyes lit up. Kirk snickered. “You honestly have the worst sweet tooth I’ve ever met. I thought Vulcans didn’t like sweet things.”
“Perhaps that is true of most Vulcans,” Spock allowed, “but as certain of my crewmates are so fond of pointing out - I am half human.” He reached out to grab the chocolate piece, but Kirk quickly closed his hand. Not quick enough though - Spock’s fingertips grazed the wrapping just as Kirk’s action enclosed his first officer’s hand within his own.
For a moment, they sat frozen. Then, Kirk slowly squeezed Spock’s hand, gave him a fleeting smile, and let go. Spock exhaled, his body stock still, but his eyes following as Kirk speared a marshmallow on a well-sharpened stick and held it over the fire, his face turned away, his shoulders set deliberately casual.
They sat in silence for a minute. Finally, Spock spoke. “Jim,” he said, voice soft.
Kirk turned around, “Yeah, Spock?”
“Your marshmallow is burning.”
Kirk swore, yanking the stick out of danger and furiously blowing on it. By the time the fire was out, his marshmallow was covered in a skin of blackened charcoal. Kirk poked cautiously at it, winced at the heat, and stuck his finger in his mouth to cool. “Ow,” he said, somewhat indistinguishably around the digit in his mouth.
Spock swallowed and looked away as Kirk fumbled for the graham crackers and chocolate with his free hand and forced them into a sandwich, sliding the burned marshmallow in between. White trails of gooey sugar created a small bridge between the s’more and the roasting stick until Kirk wrapped them around the stick and tugged.
“There,” he said, resting the stick on the ground. “A perfectly edible s’more.” He held it out to Spock, who gingerly took it, examining it with a critical eye.
“Oh for god’s sake,” Kirk said after about ten seconds of Spock staring at the s’more with seemingly no inclination to actually eat it. “It’s not poisonous. Just put it in your mouth.”
Reluctantly, Spock bit off a small corner and chewed.
“Well?” Kirk demanded.
Spock swallowed. “It is a bit too sweet for my tastes,” he said, while mentally cataloguing the entire concoction under his list of things to never consume again.
Kirk rolled his eyes and snatched it back from him. “Well if you’re not going to eat it, I’ll finish it then,” he said, and shoved the entire s’more in his mouth. “Can’t believe you don’t like s’mores,” he mumbled, graham cracker crumbs flying from his mouth.
Spock thought for a moment. Despite its truth, apparently his dislike of this traditional human food had caused offense. He looked over at Kirk, who was now shoving his roasting stick into the coals of the fire, seemingly at random. “Jim,” he said.
“Hmmm?” Poke, poke, poke went the stick into the coals.
“Although the s’more is not to my tastes, I must admit it provided an interesting insight into human traditional foods.”
“Hmmm.”
“I . . . I would not be averse to partaking in some of the chocolate you brought.”
“It’s over there,” Kirk waved his hand at the bag.
Over the course of their time aboard the Enterprise, Spock had learned that there were few ways to deal with the Captain when he succumbed to one of his illogical sulks. Naturally, the most efficient of these methods was also the simplest: give him what he wanted. He set his shoulders.
“I would also appreciate if you would be willing to instruct me in the proper method of ‘roasting’ a marshmallow.”
Kirk peered up. “You’re not just saying that?”
“It would certainly be an opportunity to learn about an Earth cultural tradition from a . . . unique, standpoint?”
Kirk gave him a look. “Unique standpoint?”
“From a local familiar with the process,” Spock clarified.
“Uh huh,” Kirk said, but Spock could see he was trying not to smile. “Very well, Mr. Spock. If you want a local to teach you all about traditional Earth camping I guess I’m your man.”
“Beginning with marshmallow roasting?”
“Among other things,” Kirk agreed. He shook his head. “Well to start, you’ll have to get a stick.”
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