Fic: Homecoming II (a sequel)
Title: Homecoming II: Electric Boogaloo, part 1
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
This is a sequel to Homecoming that I wrote awhile ago, rescued from a .pdf file by the gorgeous awarrington (who the original story was written for). Quick recap: Jim’s grand love affair with Spock got sucked out of his head by a psy-squid. He woke to find himself an admiral in his mid-forties, married to Spock with two kids. He falls in love with Spock again but his memories were never recovered. A few years later...
Warnings: Dark, nightmarish imagery involving non-sexy tentacles
Length: Around 20k in three parts. This part, 6k, posting the rest tonight
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Everything I write at the moment seems blah and uninspired, so I thought I'd post something else in the meantime. Srsly. I suck at the whole words thing right now.
I can hear the voice. It seems so distant, muffled by the water but I hear it once more and it’s louder this time with more clarity.
'You are dreaming. You are experiencing a nightmare.'
The pain's everywhere, my legs, my back and hips, tightening around my chest and my wrists now, and I struggle harder but the pain tightens ever more the harder I struggle against it. The voice calls out to me again and I try to turn my head towards it
'Reach out towards my voice and wake.'
I can't move my hands to reach out, I fight with all my remaining strength but they're held firm so I strain with every muscle in the voice's direction, water flooding my eyes, my ears, my throat
Please, help me, I can't
My voice is cut off as it pushes into my mouth, thick with cold and something wet, something horrible.
'I am here. I will not let you go.'
I know that I trust the voice and remember it said that this is a dream, and I close my eyes, will myself out of my bound body, up and out and into the air
Spock. I open my eyes and hear him order the lights to ten percent and his face is inches from mine, his eyes dark with worry, his face impassive, his hands holding my wrists immobile. I'm shaking, gasping for breath, struggling against his grip and he notices, allowing his fingers to release me. My voice is hoarse with horror.
"It was back. It had me, it was back."
His hands slide up my back, drawing me close as the shakes turn into bone-deep shivers. "You are here with me, in our bed, in our home. The dream has passed."
I hunch into him closer, my chin at his jaw, pressing the tip of my nose into his ear and closing my eyes, feeling cold all over.
"God, what the, ugh. Uggh." A full shudder against him as the remaining fear begins to leech out of me and I wrap an arm around his waist to move closer still. "That was awful. Thanks for noticing and coming in to rescue me."
"It is unlikely that I would fail to notice, in that you struck me twice about the head and once passingly close to my genitalia in your somnambulic struggles. Your knee," he adds, as I take a nervous glance under the comforter.
"Yikes. Sorry." I lie against his shoulder, soaking up his strength, his stillness, trying to purge the last of the panic as my heartbeat begins to slow. Then a thought occurs to me and my pulse jumps up a notch once more. "Wait a goddamn minute: what the fuck am I doing dreaming about that squid again?"
"I am unsure." His mouth is soft against the meld point at my cheekbone, his fingers splayed over my hip, his thumb tracing circles there over and over. "Perhaps Doctor McCoy will be able to-"
"No. I'm not bugging Bones over one stupid nightmare."
"Yes, Jim. You are.”
“I don’t want to-”
“You will contact Doctor McCoy tomorrow morning at oh-seven-hundred hours and you will inform him of this episode."
His tone allows no argument and, like it always is when he gets all bossy on me, it's a total turn- on despite my lingering shakes. I find his lips with mine, muttering ’I'm still spooked. Distract me?’ a second before I slide my tongue against his. His hand smooths across my body, over my stomach to circle my dick and I'm already fighting to keep quiet, gasping into his shoulder as his thumb draws out shivers of pleasure that run up and down my spine, into my nuts, my ass, even the balls of my feet, my toes curling.
The soundproofing in this place may be excellent but we had Gray visit our room in the early hours a few years back when I got too loud, furiously demanding to know what Pops was doing to Daddy that was making Daddy scream. I was halfway through a flustered explanation about the special type of cuddle daddies have sometimes when Spock pulled out of me, launching into a mini lecture about how the known majority of mature mammalian beings practice sexual intercourse for pleasure or procreation. He went on to describe in some detail to a fascinated Gray how various species of interest around the galaxy mated. It put me off sex for almost a week. Now we have a lock on the door and I try to keep my mouth shut.
I'm not great at it. Especially when he does this, gliding down my body in a practiced manner to envelop my dick with his mouth, that rough tongue drawing out frantic whimpers and fractious clutches at his shoulders. I’m whining, needy and desperate because nothing should feel this good, nothing should be so perfect, an awareness of his desire for this and for me buzzing along my skin wherever he touches me. Spock hollows his cheeks and draws deep at me with an approving purr, one strong finger parting my buttcheeks to rub over my asshole as my hips buck up off the bed, helping me shoot long and hard down the back of his throat. It’s not like we’re even halfway done yet, Spock’s eyes focused and predatory as he rises to look down at me, licking his lips, his hands already guiding my hips to flip me over. I suppose even creepy squid nightmares can have their silver linings.
---
Multigrain oatmeal. It's pretty bland but Spock has an enduring hard-on for it, as does Bones, so I placate them both with half a bowlful every morning before I start thinking about anything involving something so frivolous as flavor. But Gray's poking at his with a spoon like it's a lab specimen and I sigh internally as it looks like it's going to be one of those mornings.
"C'mon Gray, eat your oatmeal. We need to get you to school early today for the field trip." I guess Pui-Shan's noticed Gray's attitude, too.
"It's icky. I don't want it."
She tries again. "You need to eat your brain food. You've got a long day ahead with a lot of learning involved."
"I said, I don't want it. I'm not even hungry." It's more than petulant, a thread of potent anger to it that's unsettling in the voice of a five year old boy. I open my mouth to try to defuse the situation but Spock jumps in and I know this isn't going to end well, because it never does.
"It has been fifteen point zero seven hours since your last nourishment. Given the energy- transfer needs of the likely metabolism that a child your age, stature and genetic profile possesses, it is improbable that you do not require sustenance at this time."
"I don't want it! It's yucky and gloopy and it tastes gross! I want pancakes like Dad."
All eyes at the table fall on me and I point at my bowl with my spoon.
"Don't everyone look at me like that. I'm eating my oatmeal first like a good boy. Gray, finish your breakfast."
His mouth compresses into a mutinous line, his cheeks striped with pink. "I want pancakes. Not stupid oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. Dad hates it, too."
I reach out, touch his wrist with a couple of fingertips allowing him to sense my love and my concern, but he shakes me off, retreating into himself further. "Gray, settle down. I don’t hate oatmeal. Let’s not make a big deal out of this. You can't have pancakes now, but you can choose something else that's nutritious like fruit salad and some toast if you honestly don't want your oatmeal."
Pui-Shan frowns and I get that I'm undermining her by giving him other options but I don't want to start yet another morning with Gray having a meltdown. Even considering all the years I’ve forgotten, I still know that picking your battles is the key to survival. It doesn't make any difference and he pushes his chair away from the table, his skinny body quivering with frustration.
"I want pancakes! With syrup! Bobby Quantock gets pancakes every morning if he wants them! You're all jerks. Hateful jerks!"
"Grayson Samuel Kirk, you know better than calling people names." I swear I channel my mom at the weirdest times. It's not good.
"Focus, Gray, you're getting too worked up, try to-" Pui-Shan's cut off as Gray suddenly moves, striking out like a cobra, inhumanly fast as he swipes the bowl from the table to smash against the far wall, splattering my elbow with globs of oatmeal, following it with his glass of juice that shatters against a framed family holofile.
"I hate oatmeal! I hate you guys, quit picking on me!" He's shaking, his eyes wild, mouth working furiously as his hands clench and unclench. "Leave me alone, I can't - I hate all of you! Leave me alone! You never leave me alone!"
The dining room door slides shut behind him as he storms out of the room, his feet thundering furiously up the stairs, probably on his way to go systematically destroy the contents of his room again. It leaves Pui-Shan and I looking at each other and Spock concentrating on a point in the center of the table, a barely noticeable crease between his eyebrows. I recognize that crease and know he's worried, feeling it flickering delicately through our bond although I know he's trying to suppress it. I get to my feet, wiping some of Gray's oatmeal off my elbow, looking down at the mess at my feet.
"I’m going after him."
"Sit tight, Admiral. You know the rules and Gray realizes that was inappropriate behavior. Let's see where he goes with it now."
I hear a small crash upstairs that sounds like Gray's nightstand bearing the brunt of his anger. Apparently he’s going freakin’ postal with it.
"You're the expert. Are we going to talk about this now, Spock?"
His eyes rise up from the table slowly, meeting mine, resignation shading them darker than ever. It's pouring off him, defeat and disappointment etched in every line of his body, much as he's managing to maintain a blank expression.
"I am uncertain that we have other viable alternatives left open to us. I had hoped that . . ." His voice trails off as there’s a dull thud, then another, a few more, what sounds like shoes or something hitting the walls of Gray's bedroom.
"I know." I move around the table to sit next to him, covering his hand with one of my own, his index finger wrapping intimately around mine in what's now an automatic reflex, which is something that makes Sarek's eyes practically bug out with disapproval every time Spock chills out enough to do it in front of him. "But it's time. It's not going away."
Pui-Shan looks at us expectantly, a PADD at the ready.
"You want to talk about this without me first? I can go through my notes in the den if you'd like. Or I can get Gray out of here early so you've got the house to yourselves."
"No, you're a part of this, too." I rub lightly at Spock's finger, trying to bolster him for what I know is a discussion he's been hoping to avoid. "It's okay. We tried. It's not working."
Spock was adamant all along that he would not have Gray deny his humanity or his emotions, but it looks like we can't ignore Gray's Vulcan side any longer as his moods are becoming wilder, more extreme. I'm beginning to worry he'll hurt himself, maybe even somebody else. He'll kick and scream until he vomits and turns purple, Spock calmly keeping Gray held firm in his arms, murmuring private words to soothe, patient as a snow-covered mountain waiting for Spring's thaw. But I can't help feeling that we're failing him, that simply preventing his short-term harm isn’t good enough. Spock gently disengages his hand from mine to give me back my privacy for the discussion ahead, lacing his fingers in front of him on the table, and there’s a pause before he begins speaking.
"I have given the matter some thought in recent weeks. I believe that Grayson may benefit from certain mind exercises, those outside of Surak’s teachings, that all Vulcan children practice as a matter of route from a young age. I do not wish to seek to suppress his emotional responses but it is apparent that a level of control has become necessary. I believe that directed meditation may provide Grayson with the structure that his mind is seeking. Furthermore, Grayson appears to benefit from prolonged contact with my own controls after we have completed a meld, and that his behavior is less destructive, his mood less extreme, for some time beyond."
"'Some time'? How long's that, precisely?"
He looks at me steadily, a hint of an eyebrow quirk, perfectly aware I'm yanking his chain.
"I have not conducted any empirical research or recorded any data. It is merely a casual observation."
Pui-Shan's nodding, scribbling notes on the PADD.
"Now you mention it, I guess his calmer periods do seem to have some level of correspondence with your monthly melds. Is it a good idea to have them more regularly? Vulcan familial melding isn't something I can pretend to have much knowledge in, other than what Gray's told me and that doesn't go much beyond 'Pops has a silver mind but Daddy's is blue'."
"Mine's blue? Freaky. Is my mind blue, Spock?" There's another crash from upstairs and we all look at the ceiling as one, the light strands swinging gently.
"More precisely, it is the color of your eyes taken to a deeper tonal pitch. I will suggest to Grayson that we increase the occurrence of our melds to that of a weekly basis, and will proceed with his assent."
"What about meditation?" I have a feeling I know the answer to this one already, and that I'm not going to like it anymore than Spock does. "Are you able to instruct him in that?"
I can feel it already, that I was right and it's something Spock's not happy about.
"It is inappropriate for a father to direct immature meditation due to the contiguous nature of the parent-child relationship. We will need to approach the embassy for assistance."
"And you're worried Sarek's going to stick his big honker in?"
Sarek's made it as clear as he's able to without breaching his air of Vulcan impenetrability that he's Not Happy about Spock spurning Surak's teachings in Gray's upbringing, and I guess allowing one of his staff to teach Gray how to meditate is the perfect opening for him to claw back a little of the influence we've denied him so far. It's gone quiet upstairs, perhaps a little more worrying than the sounds of Gray's tantrum, and I itch to get up there to comfort the little guy and check he’s okay.
"My father would not seek to covertly gain authority over Grayson's upbringing via mediative practices."
Whatever, he doesn't sound sure. I get that Spock doesn't like to badmouth his dad but he doesn't trust Sarek where Gray's concerned much more than I do. They don't like to let us alone with him. It was eventually agreed after much debate, not to mention tantrum throwing of my own, that Spock himself was strong enough to school Gray's telepathy through the melds they share. But he's expected to update the embassy on that, on his own son's progress in a report to one of his dad's assistants once a month. It's ludicrous and it pisses me off that he submits to it without question.
"So you'll discuss with Gray the possibility of more regular melds?" Pui-Shan's making a plan of action, one we'll all stick to, fearing her wrath.
"I will do so, this evening."
"And we'll make an appointment to go talk to Sarek. Yeah," as Spock's eyebrow scoots towards his bangs in my direction, "I'm coming, too. Unless you want to invite him to dinner and do it here. Either way, I'll make it clear he's not to dick around with Gray's head or try to get all Surak on his butt, because I know damn well you won’t say peep."
He inclines his head once, a mix of gratitude and tolerant exasperation warming the depths of my mind.
"I will make the appointment and confirm it with your office."
Pui-Shan and I don't even notice the door opening but I do notice Spock's head swivel in its direction as Gray sneaks around the door frame, his head hanging as he looks at his feet and runs in my direction to throw himself in my lap, his face pressed into my stomach. His voice is hushed, his words running together as he stutters them out as fast as he can, his skinny little body wracked with shivers as I wrap my arms around him and allow him to cling to me.
"I'm sorry I shouted and called you jerks and got my oatmeal on you and broke my juice and stuff in my room. I didn't mean to."
"I know. I’m glad you said you're sorry without being prompted. Did you get hurt?" He shakes his head against my stomach, his arms tightening further, so strong for such a scrawny little thing, every scrap of baby fat long gone. "Okay. We're going to try to help you with your temper. We know it's tough."
His voice is muffled by my sweater and I look across the table at Spock in shock when Gray sobs frantically into my stomach. "I don't mean to be bad. Please don't go away again. I don't want you to go away and not know me anymore."
"Hey, it's okay, I'm not planning on going anywhere."
"I can feel that it's back, I don't want it to take you away." Gray pulls away to look at me, his huge brown eyes too serious for a kid his age, red with crying, his eyelids puffy and swollen. I stroke through his hair, dark blond like mine with the fine satin texture of Spock's, falling heavily across his upswept brows. "Please don't forget about me. I'll be good, I promise."
"Admiral . . . ?"
Pui-Shan's reached out to pat Gray's shoulders, looking at me in silent question. I shrug helplessly.
"I had a nightmare about the squid incident. First time in years, I guess Gray must've absorbed my remaining jitters when I kissed him this morning. But he can't possibly remember what it was like it happened, he was a baby -"
"Vulcan brains mature at a significantly faster rate in terms of memory than Humans, possibly some sort of survival mechanism in a species that evolved in a famine-prone environment, allowing infants some level of autonomy as they're able to remember key behaviors of the adults around them at an earlier age. I accessed some comparative studies when I first came to work for you guys, as we weren't sure how Gray was likely to develop so I needed some kind of reference point."
"Pui-Shan is correct: it is entirely possible that Grayson remembers the occurrence of your memory loss."
The hurried nodding into my stomach confirms it and my heart sinks.
"Oh, kiddo, I'm sorry. I don't think the nightmare means I'm going to forget about you again but it wouldn't be because you lost your temper if I did. I love you if you're happy or grumpy or anything in between, and nothing that you do is going to make me forget you. Got it?" Another nod accompanied by a lopsided, wobbly smile. "Good. Do you want to say sorry to Pops?"
Spock's eyes meet mine across Gray's head as he presses his mouth and nose into Gray's hair, Gray clinging to his neck stuttering out apologies and promises of future good behavior. We're both wondering, I guess, what Gray saw in my mind this morning. He says he doesn't remember when we ask him later once he’s back home. I don't like to think my kid would lie to me, but he remembers something because I can see the idea of it hot in his eyes every time he looks my way, his brows drawn together in worry and suspicion.
---
Being an admiral is dull. Even though I got reinstated as Chief of Ops a couple of years back, it's still meetings, conferences, meetings about conferences and meetings about meetings, with a very occasional diplomatic mission or vessel launch to look forward to. Even the staff chiefs meetings are dull as fuck, as the others are all more than a little po-faced and refuse to get my jokes. I mean, I'm used to po-faced and humorless, just look at my father-in-law, but the urge to get up and moon the room as Edwards bores on for hours about Intelligence's latest findings about Klingon activity in the outer rings of some minor system that nobody ever heard of, and I slide my eyes towards Luca's PADD for the fiftieth time to check on the chrono. We're going to run over and I'm going to be late to meet Bones, who will feel honor bound to bitch about it for at least twenty minutes once I finally get to the medical HQ to meet up with him.
Luca's PADD gives the low beep of a received message and he places a hand on my shoulder, leaning forward to murmur discreetly close to my ear that Captain Spock is waiting outside to escort me to Medical. I hiss back, sotto voce, 'Tell him we're not finished yet', Luca's fingers swiftly inputting the message, only to receive one back after a minute. I'm positive even the message beep manages to sound peeved. Edwards glares across the table at me and I feel a warm wave of satisfaction plus the urge to flip him off as I turn to Luca.
"Don't tell me: the Captain would like to remind Admiral Kirk that the meeting at Starfleet
Medical is scheduled to commence at eleven hundred hours precisely."
"Yessir."
"Gimme."
I remind Spock that the Staff Chiefs' monthly meet shouldn't have to wait on me having one nightmare, and ask him if he doesn't have some students to go torture. I get one line back in reply, 'My husband: I am waiting.' It’s not fair that he knows exactly what'll work on me when I’m still missing a bunch of years that’d help me do the same with him. It's that tone, that Spock tone, the one that makes me want to simply drop pants to my ankles and bend over. I make him wait a further five minutes because he deserves it but I don't hear a single word Edwards says from that minute onwards because I’m entirely lost in daydreams of naked Spock and what I'm going to do to him later in retaliation.
"What sort of time do you call this? You think I don't have better things to do than jet halfway across a damn continent to wait on wiping your ass for you?"
"Last I heard, you were trying to perfect tying a deer hair muddler." Bones snorts, tugging me in through the door into an awkward one-armed hug.
"Like I said, better things to do." The beard's bigger, bushier, like a small bear's attacking his face. He nods at Spock. "Captain. Nice to see you're looking just as cheery as ever."
"Doctor."
He denies it but I'm sure Spock's only so taciturn with Bones because he knows it'll annoy the piss out of him. Bones brings up my notes at the work station in the office that always seems to be his no matter how long between his visits to San Francisco. He frowns at them and then at me.
"So. Another nightmare. After all this time, any reason for it? Unreasonable amounts of stress, anything that may have served as a reminder, some sort of prompt, for example?"
"Nothing we can think of. Same problems with Gray's moods but that's hardly a recent development."
“Work?”
“Klingons. Y’know, the usual.”
He's scanning me, nodding, only half-listening as always before he dives in with his fingers, having a good up-close look at my eyes and face.
"You're not looking too bad. Weight's better, fitness is good, all major systems check out. Eyesight's a little crappy . . . Overall, you're doing better than many men half your age. Let's have a poke around that brain of yours . . ."
The scanner whirrs an inch from my earlobe, the back of my neck growing warm. Then Bones purses his lips and huffs under his breath, which is never good.
"There's a degradation in your memory centers. Slight, but it’s there. Could be age-related but that's unlikely given your genetic profile. We're going to have to use that new-fangled Brainometer whosits on you."
"Sounds painful. Do I want to know?"
"I believe the Doctor's referring to the Neurocortical Monitoring System."
Bones glares at Spock, who gazes back at him implacably.
"Brainometer, NMS, it's all the same. It's a new technology and the size of a goddamn room but should give us more information than your hyperencephalogram's able to. Dammit, I hate poking around in people's heads. Especially yours. I'll have to set up an appointment to make sure all the correct techs are in place as it's still largely experimental, so stay Earth-side for the next week or so. And you," a finger jabbed at Spock, "can keep your hands out of his pants, too, neurologically speaking."
He can't possibly mean - "Wait a second now, Bones, let's not be hasty."
Bones silences me with an eyebrow and a meaningful squint. "I mean it. No head nookie. You can fly blind for a while like the rest of us have to."
No sex melds? It's not like we do it every time, but that sucks. They had better be able to fix this.
---
Talk about shitty timing. I'm giving my patented congratulatory speech to this year's new captains, encouraging them to get the right people around them and trust those people to know their jobs as much as they should trust themselves, to trust their guts, to get out there and make a difference. It's making me feel a little melancholy as it always does, all these fresh faces, some not that far off my own age but some ridiculously pink-faced children who can't possibly be as old as I was when I took on the Enterprise.
Of course, I know better, knowing that I still hold the record even though a few wunderkind come closer every year. Not just because I’m awesome. Things were different back then. They all laugh dutifully at the same old jokes and one of them raises a glass in toast to me and I look around at them all and smile and raise my own glass and -
I can't remember how I got here or what I'm doing. It's like someone transported me into a roomful of strangers mid-conversation. Everyone's looking at me, glasses raised like I'm supposed to be saying something but the last thing I can remember is Spock's voice in my head, a dream, this morning? I think, I don't know. I suppress rising panic, make an excuse about a non-existent back spasm and sit down, managing to catch Luca's eye, bringing him over in a rush.
"Admiral?"
"We’ve got a problem."
He looks puzzled, eyes flitting around the room quickly to see if he can visually identify it.
“Problem? Is there anything I can-"
"I don't know what I'm doing here." I can tell from his frown that he's about to explain so I shake my head, wave away any words of his. "I mean, I'm not even sure what day it is. I don't recall coming here. I think there's an issue with my memory."
"Again? No problem, sir." His eyes say different, a hand on my shoulder in concern. "I'll get you home."
"Wait. What do you mean, ‘again’?" It feels like I'm adrift, unsure where or what I can grab hold of.
"This is the second problem with your memory failing this week, sir. Doctor McCoy was clear that you should get home and contact him should the situation worsen. Captain Spock also had several thoughts on the matter."
"I’m sure he did. Give me a second.” I get to my feet and the discreet murmur of the room falls silent once more as I hold up my glass. “To new horizons,” and I drink, knowing that toast will pretty much work for any fleet occasion. It seems to in this case, everyone repeating it and smiling to each other as they drink. I exit the room as soon as I’m able to do so, shaking hands as I go, Luca at my heels, already speaking to Bones.
“Let’s have a look.” Bones’ eyes are softened with worry once I get to his office, his hands steady as he holds the scanner an inch from my earlobe, the back of my neck growing warm. Then Bones purses his lips, which is never good. “What’s your last memory? Before the toast, not since.”
“Waking up after a nightmare and having mind-blowing sex with Spock as compensation. Then falling into a sex coma and sleeping like the dead because he made me come three times.”
“Know what? That isn’t going to work anymore.”
“What isn’t?” I give him my best innocent look, which has never been that effective, especially not with Bones.
“You, distracting me from your health by filling my head with the vile and, no doubt, disgustingly accurate details of your sex life. What you fail to realize, Admiral, is that over twenty years’ practice has allowed me to develop my very own internal censorship apparatus.” He flicks off the scanner and starts glaring at his tricorder. “Every time you say any word relating to sex in the context of Spock, I mentally replace it with ‘aardvark’. So I’m glad to hear you had mind- blowing aardvark with Spock and that you fell into an aardvark coma because he made you aardvark three times, but I’m more worried about the memory centers of your brain, which appear to be ready to dribble out your ears right about now.”
“Oh, shit.”
“No kidding. This is the third time I’ve scanned you this week and your memory engrams have shown significant degradation each time, as if you’re aging thirty years every couple of days. They’re still there, just entirely disordered. Corrupted information. But the rest of your physiology’s aging perfectly. A little slowly, if anything.” He drops the tricorder onto the biobed with a sigh. “I can’t dig deep enough here. You’re booked in for a deep neurological scan in two days and, if that brainometer’s anything like as effective as they say it is, we’ll find out what’s going on.”
“‘Brainometer’?” Sounds painful. “Do I want to know?”
“The NMS, or Neurocortical Monitoring System. It should tell us more about your brain than I’d personally choose to know. It maps every detail. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Sure.” I get up from the biobed and slap his arm. “I know you will. I’m not worried.”
“Don’t give me that misguidedly macho crap. Any kind of dementia’s terrifying.”
“Dementia? Are you serious?” I sit back down, chastened. “I didn’t think that happened until someone’s three times my age.”
“Generally speaking, it doesn’t. Lie down.” He picks the scanner up once more and begins altering its settings. “Might as well give you another full physical while I’m talking you through the possibles.”
We’re interrupted by a knock and a distressed intern coming into the room closely followed by an extremely pissy-looking Spock. Pissy-looking for a Vulcan, as the most they can usually achieve is a vague look of constipation, but Spock’s talented in that respect and right now it looks like he’s trying to make the intern disappear from out his way with the power of his eyes alone.
“I’m so sorry, Admiral Kirk, Doctor McCoy, but the Captain insisted -” She falls silent when treated to another of Spock’s more withering glares.
“Starfleet Protocol, specifically Starfleet General Order and Regulations, book thirty five, section five hundred and twenty eight, paragraph three, states that the parent, guardian, sibling, spouse, or possessor of any other Federation-recognized familial relationship to the patient, has the legal right to request salient information to the said-patient’s medical status in a timely manner.” Spock flicks his eyebrow up at Bones as if daring him to challenge it. “I have decided to do make such a request in person. I do not believe the regulation prohibits me from doing so.”
“Don’t sweat it, Jeannie. And you,” Bones jabs a finger into an unflinching Spock’s chest, “are going to send her a box of something gooey in apology after we’re done here. Big bully.”
I love how Bones habitually disregards his own tendency to harass interns because he’s seen the chance to score one over Spock. But Spock’s practically ignoring him, giving a terse ’Indeed’ in reply as he crosses the room to the biobed, coming to rest in front of me, his hands clasped calmly in front of him until I touch my fingers to his, winding my own into his and feel a little of the concern he’s busy controlling the fuck out of right now filtering through to me.
“It’s okay, Spock. I’ll be fine. Bones is planning to stick me in this big brain machine.”
“Yes, the Neurocortical Monitoring System.” He exchanging glances with Bones but then he looks back to me, his eyes softening, his voice grave. “You have an appointment scheduled in two days, Jim. This is our third meeting with Doctor McCoy in the past week.”
I don’t remember that at all. I knew I must’ve seen Bones once recently because he knows about the nightmare, but that’s it, there’s nothing else. I get the same stab of fear through my chest as I got soon as Bones said the word Dementia, and Spock’s fingers tighten on my own, a thread of love filtering through my head as he sends comfort and sweetness down our bond towards me. Bones clears his throat and turns away from us, giving a semblance of privacy as Spock strokes my cheek with one finger.
“We will overcome this.”
Then he tilts up my chin with one finger and kisses me while Bones studiously busies himself with his tricorder. Spock’s right: there’s no point trying to be brave. He can feel all over me that I’m scared out of my mind.
---
I’m floating in space, the haze of a red nebula just visible below my right foot. I don’t think I’ve been out here before. Then I see it, and even though I know I must be dreaming because I’m floating in space without a suit and haven’t died yet, I’m aware in the dream that this is the first time I’ve ever seen it. Or part of it. It’s dark gray, mottled and almost as dark as the black skies beyond, but the underside is pale, muscular and gleaming wet with thick mucus as it wraps itself around my foot. The tip of it is seeking something out, feeling its way as the rest of the tentacle coils around my leg. It’s thicker than my waist now, stronger than anything I’ve ever known and I open my mouth and start screaming as it starts to hurt, the pain worse than anything as it burns and bites me like acid but I scream and scream and nothing comes out
‘Jim, I am here with you. Take my hand.’
Fingers wrap around my wrist, firm and true, and I feel a strong body at my back as more fingers stroke over the skin of my face, anchoring themselves in a span and I cry out because the thing fights back, taking my other leg, the pain traveling up over my hips to wrap around my back so tight I fear it’s going to snap me in two. But the fingers finally settle into place, a whisper at my ear
‘My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.’
and I remember that I’m dying, something wrapping around my neck in a blazing, agonizing noose and tightening until I start to wait for the sound my neck will make as it breaks but the fingers on my wrist also tighten
‘I will not let you go. I will not permit it to take you from me.’
It feels like the fingers push into my face, piercing my skin and into my skull, dissolving into silver light that fills me up until it starts to glow out of me, every atom in my body buzzing until the grip of the thing starts to loosen and I open my eyes
I choke back a sob, belaying Spock’s lights-up command and wrapping myself around him tighter than a goddamn tentacle, burying my face in his neck as he strokes my back and rubs his jaw against my hair.
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
This is a sequel to Homecoming that I wrote awhile ago, rescued from a .pdf file by the gorgeous awarrington (who the original story was written for). Quick recap: Jim’s grand love affair with Spock got sucked out of his head by a psy-squid. He woke to find himself an admiral in his mid-forties, married to Spock with two kids. He falls in love with Spock again but his memories were never recovered. A few years later...
Warnings: Dark, nightmarish imagery involving non-sexy tentacles
Length: Around 20k in three parts. This part, 6k, posting the rest tonight
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Everything I write at the moment seems blah and uninspired, so I thought I'd post something else in the meantime. Srsly. I suck at the whole words thing right now.
I can hear the voice. It seems so distant, muffled by the water but I hear it once more and it’s louder this time with more clarity.
'You are dreaming. You are experiencing a nightmare.'
The pain's everywhere, my legs, my back and hips, tightening around my chest and my wrists now, and I struggle harder but the pain tightens ever more the harder I struggle against it. The voice calls out to me again and I try to turn my head towards it
'Reach out towards my voice and wake.'
I can't move my hands to reach out, I fight with all my remaining strength but they're held firm so I strain with every muscle in the voice's direction, water flooding my eyes, my ears, my throat
Please, help me, I can't
My voice is cut off as it pushes into my mouth, thick with cold and something wet, something horrible.
'I am here. I will not let you go.'
I know that I trust the voice and remember it said that this is a dream, and I close my eyes, will myself out of my bound body, up and out and into the air
Spock. I open my eyes and hear him order the lights to ten percent and his face is inches from mine, his eyes dark with worry, his face impassive, his hands holding my wrists immobile. I'm shaking, gasping for breath, struggling against his grip and he notices, allowing his fingers to release me. My voice is hoarse with horror.
"It was back. It had me, it was back."
His hands slide up my back, drawing me close as the shakes turn into bone-deep shivers. "You are here with me, in our bed, in our home. The dream has passed."
I hunch into him closer, my chin at his jaw, pressing the tip of my nose into his ear and closing my eyes, feeling cold all over.
"God, what the, ugh. Uggh." A full shudder against him as the remaining fear begins to leech out of me and I wrap an arm around his waist to move closer still. "That was awful. Thanks for noticing and coming in to rescue me."
"It is unlikely that I would fail to notice, in that you struck me twice about the head and once passingly close to my genitalia in your somnambulic struggles. Your knee," he adds, as I take a nervous glance under the comforter.
"Yikes. Sorry." I lie against his shoulder, soaking up his strength, his stillness, trying to purge the last of the panic as my heartbeat begins to slow. Then a thought occurs to me and my pulse jumps up a notch once more. "Wait a goddamn minute: what the fuck am I doing dreaming about that squid again?"
"I am unsure." His mouth is soft against the meld point at my cheekbone, his fingers splayed over my hip, his thumb tracing circles there over and over. "Perhaps Doctor McCoy will be able to-"
"No. I'm not bugging Bones over one stupid nightmare."
"Yes, Jim. You are.”
“I don’t want to-”
“You will contact Doctor McCoy tomorrow morning at oh-seven-hundred hours and you will inform him of this episode."
His tone allows no argument and, like it always is when he gets all bossy on me, it's a total turn- on despite my lingering shakes. I find his lips with mine, muttering ’I'm still spooked. Distract me?’ a second before I slide my tongue against his. His hand smooths across my body, over my stomach to circle my dick and I'm already fighting to keep quiet, gasping into his shoulder as his thumb draws out shivers of pleasure that run up and down my spine, into my nuts, my ass, even the balls of my feet, my toes curling.
The soundproofing in this place may be excellent but we had Gray visit our room in the early hours a few years back when I got too loud, furiously demanding to know what Pops was doing to Daddy that was making Daddy scream. I was halfway through a flustered explanation about the special type of cuddle daddies have sometimes when Spock pulled out of me, launching into a mini lecture about how the known majority of mature mammalian beings practice sexual intercourse for pleasure or procreation. He went on to describe in some detail to a fascinated Gray how various species of interest around the galaxy mated. It put me off sex for almost a week. Now we have a lock on the door and I try to keep my mouth shut.
I'm not great at it. Especially when he does this, gliding down my body in a practiced manner to envelop my dick with his mouth, that rough tongue drawing out frantic whimpers and fractious clutches at his shoulders. I’m whining, needy and desperate because nothing should feel this good, nothing should be so perfect, an awareness of his desire for this and for me buzzing along my skin wherever he touches me. Spock hollows his cheeks and draws deep at me with an approving purr, one strong finger parting my buttcheeks to rub over my asshole as my hips buck up off the bed, helping me shoot long and hard down the back of his throat. It’s not like we’re even halfway done yet, Spock’s eyes focused and predatory as he rises to look down at me, licking his lips, his hands already guiding my hips to flip me over. I suppose even creepy squid nightmares can have their silver linings.
---
Multigrain oatmeal. It's pretty bland but Spock has an enduring hard-on for it, as does Bones, so I placate them both with half a bowlful every morning before I start thinking about anything involving something so frivolous as flavor. But Gray's poking at his with a spoon like it's a lab specimen and I sigh internally as it looks like it's going to be one of those mornings.
"C'mon Gray, eat your oatmeal. We need to get you to school early today for the field trip." I guess Pui-Shan's noticed Gray's attitude, too.
"It's icky. I don't want it."
She tries again. "You need to eat your brain food. You've got a long day ahead with a lot of learning involved."
"I said, I don't want it. I'm not even hungry." It's more than petulant, a thread of potent anger to it that's unsettling in the voice of a five year old boy. I open my mouth to try to defuse the situation but Spock jumps in and I know this isn't going to end well, because it never does.
"It has been fifteen point zero seven hours since your last nourishment. Given the energy- transfer needs of the likely metabolism that a child your age, stature and genetic profile possesses, it is improbable that you do not require sustenance at this time."
"I don't want it! It's yucky and gloopy and it tastes gross! I want pancakes like Dad."
All eyes at the table fall on me and I point at my bowl with my spoon.
"Don't everyone look at me like that. I'm eating my oatmeal first like a good boy. Gray, finish your breakfast."
His mouth compresses into a mutinous line, his cheeks striped with pink. "I want pancakes. Not stupid oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. Dad hates it, too."
I reach out, touch his wrist with a couple of fingertips allowing him to sense my love and my concern, but he shakes me off, retreating into himself further. "Gray, settle down. I don’t hate oatmeal. Let’s not make a big deal out of this. You can't have pancakes now, but you can choose something else that's nutritious like fruit salad and some toast if you honestly don't want your oatmeal."
Pui-Shan frowns and I get that I'm undermining her by giving him other options but I don't want to start yet another morning with Gray having a meltdown. Even considering all the years I’ve forgotten, I still know that picking your battles is the key to survival. It doesn't make any difference and he pushes his chair away from the table, his skinny body quivering with frustration.
"I want pancakes! With syrup! Bobby Quantock gets pancakes every morning if he wants them! You're all jerks. Hateful jerks!"
"Grayson Samuel Kirk, you know better than calling people names." I swear I channel my mom at the weirdest times. It's not good.
"Focus, Gray, you're getting too worked up, try to-" Pui-Shan's cut off as Gray suddenly moves, striking out like a cobra, inhumanly fast as he swipes the bowl from the table to smash against the far wall, splattering my elbow with globs of oatmeal, following it with his glass of juice that shatters against a framed family holofile.
"I hate oatmeal! I hate you guys, quit picking on me!" He's shaking, his eyes wild, mouth working furiously as his hands clench and unclench. "Leave me alone, I can't - I hate all of you! Leave me alone! You never leave me alone!"
The dining room door slides shut behind him as he storms out of the room, his feet thundering furiously up the stairs, probably on his way to go systematically destroy the contents of his room again. It leaves Pui-Shan and I looking at each other and Spock concentrating on a point in the center of the table, a barely noticeable crease between his eyebrows. I recognize that crease and know he's worried, feeling it flickering delicately through our bond although I know he's trying to suppress it. I get to my feet, wiping some of Gray's oatmeal off my elbow, looking down at the mess at my feet.
"I’m going after him."
"Sit tight, Admiral. You know the rules and Gray realizes that was inappropriate behavior. Let's see where he goes with it now."
I hear a small crash upstairs that sounds like Gray's nightstand bearing the brunt of his anger. Apparently he’s going freakin’ postal with it.
"You're the expert. Are we going to talk about this now, Spock?"
His eyes rise up from the table slowly, meeting mine, resignation shading them darker than ever. It's pouring off him, defeat and disappointment etched in every line of his body, much as he's managing to maintain a blank expression.
"I am uncertain that we have other viable alternatives left open to us. I had hoped that . . ." His voice trails off as there’s a dull thud, then another, a few more, what sounds like shoes or something hitting the walls of Gray's bedroom.
"I know." I move around the table to sit next to him, covering his hand with one of my own, his index finger wrapping intimately around mine in what's now an automatic reflex, which is something that makes Sarek's eyes practically bug out with disapproval every time Spock chills out enough to do it in front of him. "But it's time. It's not going away."
Pui-Shan looks at us expectantly, a PADD at the ready.
"You want to talk about this without me first? I can go through my notes in the den if you'd like. Or I can get Gray out of here early so you've got the house to yourselves."
"No, you're a part of this, too." I rub lightly at Spock's finger, trying to bolster him for what I know is a discussion he's been hoping to avoid. "It's okay. We tried. It's not working."
Spock was adamant all along that he would not have Gray deny his humanity or his emotions, but it looks like we can't ignore Gray's Vulcan side any longer as his moods are becoming wilder, more extreme. I'm beginning to worry he'll hurt himself, maybe even somebody else. He'll kick and scream until he vomits and turns purple, Spock calmly keeping Gray held firm in his arms, murmuring private words to soothe, patient as a snow-covered mountain waiting for Spring's thaw. But I can't help feeling that we're failing him, that simply preventing his short-term harm isn’t good enough. Spock gently disengages his hand from mine to give me back my privacy for the discussion ahead, lacing his fingers in front of him on the table, and there’s a pause before he begins speaking.
"I have given the matter some thought in recent weeks. I believe that Grayson may benefit from certain mind exercises, those outside of Surak’s teachings, that all Vulcan children practice as a matter of route from a young age. I do not wish to seek to suppress his emotional responses but it is apparent that a level of control has become necessary. I believe that directed meditation may provide Grayson with the structure that his mind is seeking. Furthermore, Grayson appears to benefit from prolonged contact with my own controls after we have completed a meld, and that his behavior is less destructive, his mood less extreme, for some time beyond."
"'Some time'? How long's that, precisely?"
He looks at me steadily, a hint of an eyebrow quirk, perfectly aware I'm yanking his chain.
"I have not conducted any empirical research or recorded any data. It is merely a casual observation."
Pui-Shan's nodding, scribbling notes on the PADD.
"Now you mention it, I guess his calmer periods do seem to have some level of correspondence with your monthly melds. Is it a good idea to have them more regularly? Vulcan familial melding isn't something I can pretend to have much knowledge in, other than what Gray's told me and that doesn't go much beyond 'Pops has a silver mind but Daddy's is blue'."
"Mine's blue? Freaky. Is my mind blue, Spock?" There's another crash from upstairs and we all look at the ceiling as one, the light strands swinging gently.
"More precisely, it is the color of your eyes taken to a deeper tonal pitch. I will suggest to Grayson that we increase the occurrence of our melds to that of a weekly basis, and will proceed with his assent."
"What about meditation?" I have a feeling I know the answer to this one already, and that I'm not going to like it anymore than Spock does. "Are you able to instruct him in that?"
I can feel it already, that I was right and it's something Spock's not happy about.
"It is inappropriate for a father to direct immature meditation due to the contiguous nature of the parent-child relationship. We will need to approach the embassy for assistance."
"And you're worried Sarek's going to stick his big honker in?"
Sarek's made it as clear as he's able to without breaching his air of Vulcan impenetrability that he's Not Happy about Spock spurning Surak's teachings in Gray's upbringing, and I guess allowing one of his staff to teach Gray how to meditate is the perfect opening for him to claw back a little of the influence we've denied him so far. It's gone quiet upstairs, perhaps a little more worrying than the sounds of Gray's tantrum, and I itch to get up there to comfort the little guy and check he’s okay.
"My father would not seek to covertly gain authority over Grayson's upbringing via mediative practices."
Whatever, he doesn't sound sure. I get that Spock doesn't like to badmouth his dad but he doesn't trust Sarek where Gray's concerned much more than I do. They don't like to let us alone with him. It was eventually agreed after much debate, not to mention tantrum throwing of my own, that Spock himself was strong enough to school Gray's telepathy through the melds they share. But he's expected to update the embassy on that, on his own son's progress in a report to one of his dad's assistants once a month. It's ludicrous and it pisses me off that he submits to it without question.
"So you'll discuss with Gray the possibility of more regular melds?" Pui-Shan's making a plan of action, one we'll all stick to, fearing her wrath.
"I will do so, this evening."
"And we'll make an appointment to go talk to Sarek. Yeah," as Spock's eyebrow scoots towards his bangs in my direction, "I'm coming, too. Unless you want to invite him to dinner and do it here. Either way, I'll make it clear he's not to dick around with Gray's head or try to get all Surak on his butt, because I know damn well you won’t say peep."
He inclines his head once, a mix of gratitude and tolerant exasperation warming the depths of my mind.
"I will make the appointment and confirm it with your office."
Pui-Shan and I don't even notice the door opening but I do notice Spock's head swivel in its direction as Gray sneaks around the door frame, his head hanging as he looks at his feet and runs in my direction to throw himself in my lap, his face pressed into my stomach. His voice is hushed, his words running together as he stutters them out as fast as he can, his skinny little body wracked with shivers as I wrap my arms around him and allow him to cling to me.
"I'm sorry I shouted and called you jerks and got my oatmeal on you and broke my juice and stuff in my room. I didn't mean to."
"I know. I’m glad you said you're sorry without being prompted. Did you get hurt?" He shakes his head against my stomach, his arms tightening further, so strong for such a scrawny little thing, every scrap of baby fat long gone. "Okay. We're going to try to help you with your temper. We know it's tough."
His voice is muffled by my sweater and I look across the table at Spock in shock when Gray sobs frantically into my stomach. "I don't mean to be bad. Please don't go away again. I don't want you to go away and not know me anymore."
"Hey, it's okay, I'm not planning on going anywhere."
"I can feel that it's back, I don't want it to take you away." Gray pulls away to look at me, his huge brown eyes too serious for a kid his age, red with crying, his eyelids puffy and swollen. I stroke through his hair, dark blond like mine with the fine satin texture of Spock's, falling heavily across his upswept brows. "Please don't forget about me. I'll be good, I promise."
"Admiral . . . ?"
Pui-Shan's reached out to pat Gray's shoulders, looking at me in silent question. I shrug helplessly.
"I had a nightmare about the squid incident. First time in years, I guess Gray must've absorbed my remaining jitters when I kissed him this morning. But he can't possibly remember what it was like it happened, he was a baby -"
"Vulcan brains mature at a significantly faster rate in terms of memory than Humans, possibly some sort of survival mechanism in a species that evolved in a famine-prone environment, allowing infants some level of autonomy as they're able to remember key behaviors of the adults around them at an earlier age. I accessed some comparative studies when I first came to work for you guys, as we weren't sure how Gray was likely to develop so I needed some kind of reference point."
"Pui-Shan is correct: it is entirely possible that Grayson remembers the occurrence of your memory loss."
The hurried nodding into my stomach confirms it and my heart sinks.
"Oh, kiddo, I'm sorry. I don't think the nightmare means I'm going to forget about you again but it wouldn't be because you lost your temper if I did. I love you if you're happy or grumpy or anything in between, and nothing that you do is going to make me forget you. Got it?" Another nod accompanied by a lopsided, wobbly smile. "Good. Do you want to say sorry to Pops?"
Spock's eyes meet mine across Gray's head as he presses his mouth and nose into Gray's hair, Gray clinging to his neck stuttering out apologies and promises of future good behavior. We're both wondering, I guess, what Gray saw in my mind this morning. He says he doesn't remember when we ask him later once he’s back home. I don't like to think my kid would lie to me, but he remembers something because I can see the idea of it hot in his eyes every time he looks my way, his brows drawn together in worry and suspicion.
---
Being an admiral is dull. Even though I got reinstated as Chief of Ops a couple of years back, it's still meetings, conferences, meetings about conferences and meetings about meetings, with a very occasional diplomatic mission or vessel launch to look forward to. Even the staff chiefs meetings are dull as fuck, as the others are all more than a little po-faced and refuse to get my jokes. I mean, I'm used to po-faced and humorless, just look at my father-in-law, but the urge to get up and moon the room as Edwards bores on for hours about Intelligence's latest findings about Klingon activity in the outer rings of some minor system that nobody ever heard of, and I slide my eyes towards Luca's PADD for the fiftieth time to check on the chrono. We're going to run over and I'm going to be late to meet Bones, who will feel honor bound to bitch about it for at least twenty minutes once I finally get to the medical HQ to meet up with him.
Luca's PADD gives the low beep of a received message and he places a hand on my shoulder, leaning forward to murmur discreetly close to my ear that Captain Spock is waiting outside to escort me to Medical. I hiss back, sotto voce, 'Tell him we're not finished yet', Luca's fingers swiftly inputting the message, only to receive one back after a minute. I'm positive even the message beep manages to sound peeved. Edwards glares across the table at me and I feel a warm wave of satisfaction plus the urge to flip him off as I turn to Luca.
"Don't tell me: the Captain would like to remind Admiral Kirk that the meeting at Starfleet
Medical is scheduled to commence at eleven hundred hours precisely."
"Yessir."
"Gimme."
I remind Spock that the Staff Chiefs' monthly meet shouldn't have to wait on me having one nightmare, and ask him if he doesn't have some students to go torture. I get one line back in reply, 'My husband: I am waiting.' It’s not fair that he knows exactly what'll work on me when I’m still missing a bunch of years that’d help me do the same with him. It's that tone, that Spock tone, the one that makes me want to simply drop pants to my ankles and bend over. I make him wait a further five minutes because he deserves it but I don't hear a single word Edwards says from that minute onwards because I’m entirely lost in daydreams of naked Spock and what I'm going to do to him later in retaliation.
"What sort of time do you call this? You think I don't have better things to do than jet halfway across a damn continent to wait on wiping your ass for you?"
"Last I heard, you were trying to perfect tying a deer hair muddler." Bones snorts, tugging me in through the door into an awkward one-armed hug.
"Like I said, better things to do." The beard's bigger, bushier, like a small bear's attacking his face. He nods at Spock. "Captain. Nice to see you're looking just as cheery as ever."
"Doctor."
He denies it but I'm sure Spock's only so taciturn with Bones because he knows it'll annoy the piss out of him. Bones brings up my notes at the work station in the office that always seems to be his no matter how long between his visits to San Francisco. He frowns at them and then at me.
"So. Another nightmare. After all this time, any reason for it? Unreasonable amounts of stress, anything that may have served as a reminder, some sort of prompt, for example?"
"Nothing we can think of. Same problems with Gray's moods but that's hardly a recent development."
“Work?”
“Klingons. Y’know, the usual.”
He's scanning me, nodding, only half-listening as always before he dives in with his fingers, having a good up-close look at my eyes and face.
"You're not looking too bad. Weight's better, fitness is good, all major systems check out. Eyesight's a little crappy . . . Overall, you're doing better than many men half your age. Let's have a poke around that brain of yours . . ."
The scanner whirrs an inch from my earlobe, the back of my neck growing warm. Then Bones purses his lips and huffs under his breath, which is never good.
"There's a degradation in your memory centers. Slight, but it’s there. Could be age-related but that's unlikely given your genetic profile. We're going to have to use that new-fangled Brainometer whosits on you."
"Sounds painful. Do I want to know?"
"I believe the Doctor's referring to the Neurocortical Monitoring System."
Bones glares at Spock, who gazes back at him implacably.
"Brainometer, NMS, it's all the same. It's a new technology and the size of a goddamn room but should give us more information than your hyperencephalogram's able to. Dammit, I hate poking around in people's heads. Especially yours. I'll have to set up an appointment to make sure all the correct techs are in place as it's still largely experimental, so stay Earth-side for the next week or so. And you," a finger jabbed at Spock, "can keep your hands out of his pants, too, neurologically speaking."
He can't possibly mean - "Wait a second now, Bones, let's not be hasty."
Bones silences me with an eyebrow and a meaningful squint. "I mean it. No head nookie. You can fly blind for a while like the rest of us have to."
No sex melds? It's not like we do it every time, but that sucks. They had better be able to fix this.
---
Talk about shitty timing. I'm giving my patented congratulatory speech to this year's new captains, encouraging them to get the right people around them and trust those people to know their jobs as much as they should trust themselves, to trust their guts, to get out there and make a difference. It's making me feel a little melancholy as it always does, all these fresh faces, some not that far off my own age but some ridiculously pink-faced children who can't possibly be as old as I was when I took on the Enterprise.
Of course, I know better, knowing that I still hold the record even though a few wunderkind come closer every year. Not just because I’m awesome. Things were different back then. They all laugh dutifully at the same old jokes and one of them raises a glass in toast to me and I look around at them all and smile and raise my own glass and -
I can't remember how I got here or what I'm doing. It's like someone transported me into a roomful of strangers mid-conversation. Everyone's looking at me, glasses raised like I'm supposed to be saying something but the last thing I can remember is Spock's voice in my head, a dream, this morning? I think, I don't know. I suppress rising panic, make an excuse about a non-existent back spasm and sit down, managing to catch Luca's eye, bringing him over in a rush.
"Admiral?"
"We’ve got a problem."
He looks puzzled, eyes flitting around the room quickly to see if he can visually identify it.
“Problem? Is there anything I can-"
"I don't know what I'm doing here." I can tell from his frown that he's about to explain so I shake my head, wave away any words of his. "I mean, I'm not even sure what day it is. I don't recall coming here. I think there's an issue with my memory."
"Again? No problem, sir." His eyes say different, a hand on my shoulder in concern. "I'll get you home."
"Wait. What do you mean, ‘again’?" It feels like I'm adrift, unsure where or what I can grab hold of.
"This is the second problem with your memory failing this week, sir. Doctor McCoy was clear that you should get home and contact him should the situation worsen. Captain Spock also had several thoughts on the matter."
"I’m sure he did. Give me a second.” I get to my feet and the discreet murmur of the room falls silent once more as I hold up my glass. “To new horizons,” and I drink, knowing that toast will pretty much work for any fleet occasion. It seems to in this case, everyone repeating it and smiling to each other as they drink. I exit the room as soon as I’m able to do so, shaking hands as I go, Luca at my heels, already speaking to Bones.
“Let’s have a look.” Bones’ eyes are softened with worry once I get to his office, his hands steady as he holds the scanner an inch from my earlobe, the back of my neck growing warm. Then Bones purses his lips, which is never good. “What’s your last memory? Before the toast, not since.”
“Waking up after a nightmare and having mind-blowing sex with Spock as compensation. Then falling into a sex coma and sleeping like the dead because he made me come three times.”
“Know what? That isn’t going to work anymore.”
“What isn’t?” I give him my best innocent look, which has never been that effective, especially not with Bones.
“You, distracting me from your health by filling my head with the vile and, no doubt, disgustingly accurate details of your sex life. What you fail to realize, Admiral, is that over twenty years’ practice has allowed me to develop my very own internal censorship apparatus.” He flicks off the scanner and starts glaring at his tricorder. “Every time you say any word relating to sex in the context of Spock, I mentally replace it with ‘aardvark’. So I’m glad to hear you had mind- blowing aardvark with Spock and that you fell into an aardvark coma because he made you aardvark three times, but I’m more worried about the memory centers of your brain, which appear to be ready to dribble out your ears right about now.”
“Oh, shit.”
“No kidding. This is the third time I’ve scanned you this week and your memory engrams have shown significant degradation each time, as if you’re aging thirty years every couple of days. They’re still there, just entirely disordered. Corrupted information. But the rest of your physiology’s aging perfectly. A little slowly, if anything.” He drops the tricorder onto the biobed with a sigh. “I can’t dig deep enough here. You’re booked in for a deep neurological scan in two days and, if that brainometer’s anything like as effective as they say it is, we’ll find out what’s going on.”
“‘Brainometer’?” Sounds painful. “Do I want to know?”
“The NMS, or Neurocortical Monitoring System. It should tell us more about your brain than I’d personally choose to know. It maps every detail. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Sure.” I get up from the biobed and slap his arm. “I know you will. I’m not worried.”
“Don’t give me that misguidedly macho crap. Any kind of dementia’s terrifying.”
“Dementia? Are you serious?” I sit back down, chastened. “I didn’t think that happened until someone’s three times my age.”
“Generally speaking, it doesn’t. Lie down.” He picks the scanner up once more and begins altering its settings. “Might as well give you another full physical while I’m talking you through the possibles.”
We’re interrupted by a knock and a distressed intern coming into the room closely followed by an extremely pissy-looking Spock. Pissy-looking for a Vulcan, as the most they can usually achieve is a vague look of constipation, but Spock’s talented in that respect and right now it looks like he’s trying to make the intern disappear from out his way with the power of his eyes alone.
“I’m so sorry, Admiral Kirk, Doctor McCoy, but the Captain insisted -” She falls silent when treated to another of Spock’s more withering glares.
“Starfleet Protocol, specifically Starfleet General Order and Regulations, book thirty five, section five hundred and twenty eight, paragraph three, states that the parent, guardian, sibling, spouse, or possessor of any other Federation-recognized familial relationship to the patient, has the legal right to request salient information to the said-patient’s medical status in a timely manner.” Spock flicks his eyebrow up at Bones as if daring him to challenge it. “I have decided to do make such a request in person. I do not believe the regulation prohibits me from doing so.”
“Don’t sweat it, Jeannie. And you,” Bones jabs a finger into an unflinching Spock’s chest, “are going to send her a box of something gooey in apology after we’re done here. Big bully.”
I love how Bones habitually disregards his own tendency to harass interns because he’s seen the chance to score one over Spock. But Spock’s practically ignoring him, giving a terse ’Indeed’ in reply as he crosses the room to the biobed, coming to rest in front of me, his hands clasped calmly in front of him until I touch my fingers to his, winding my own into his and feel a little of the concern he’s busy controlling the fuck out of right now filtering through to me.
“It’s okay, Spock. I’ll be fine. Bones is planning to stick me in this big brain machine.”
“Yes, the Neurocortical Monitoring System.” He exchanging glances with Bones but then he looks back to me, his eyes softening, his voice grave. “You have an appointment scheduled in two days, Jim. This is our third meeting with Doctor McCoy in the past week.”
I don’t remember that at all. I knew I must’ve seen Bones once recently because he knows about the nightmare, but that’s it, there’s nothing else. I get the same stab of fear through my chest as I got soon as Bones said the word Dementia, and Spock’s fingers tighten on my own, a thread of love filtering through my head as he sends comfort and sweetness down our bond towards me. Bones clears his throat and turns away from us, giving a semblance of privacy as Spock strokes my cheek with one finger.
“We will overcome this.”
Then he tilts up my chin with one finger and kisses me while Bones studiously busies himself with his tricorder. Spock’s right: there’s no point trying to be brave. He can feel all over me that I’m scared out of my mind.
---
I’m floating in space, the haze of a red nebula just visible below my right foot. I don’t think I’ve been out here before. Then I see it, and even though I know I must be dreaming because I’m floating in space without a suit and haven’t died yet, I’m aware in the dream that this is the first time I’ve ever seen it. Or part of it. It’s dark gray, mottled and almost as dark as the black skies beyond, but the underside is pale, muscular and gleaming wet with thick mucus as it wraps itself around my foot. The tip of it is seeking something out, feeling its way as the rest of the tentacle coils around my leg. It’s thicker than my waist now, stronger than anything I’ve ever known and I open my mouth and start screaming as it starts to hurt, the pain worse than anything as it burns and bites me like acid but I scream and scream and nothing comes out
‘Jim, I am here with you. Take my hand.’
Fingers wrap around my wrist, firm and true, and I feel a strong body at my back as more fingers stroke over the skin of my face, anchoring themselves in a span and I cry out because the thing fights back, taking my other leg, the pain traveling up over my hips to wrap around my back so tight I fear it’s going to snap me in two. But the fingers finally settle into place, a whisper at my ear
‘My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.’
and I remember that I’m dying, something wrapping around my neck in a blazing, agonizing noose and tightening until I start to wait for the sound my neck will make as it breaks but the fingers on my wrist also tighten
‘I will not let you go. I will not permit it to take you from me.’
It feels like the fingers push into my face, piercing my skin and into my skull, dissolving into silver light that fills me up until it starts to glow out of me, every atom in my body buzzing until the grip of the thing starts to loosen and I open my eyes
I choke back a sob, belaying Spock’s lights-up command and wrapping myself around him tighter than a goddamn tentacle, burying my face in his neck as he strokes my back and rubs his jaw against my hair.