Spice - Chapter 13.2
Title: Spice
Author: eimeo
Beta: penguin_attie
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Pre-slash to slash
Chapter: 13.2/54
Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Additional Pairings: Kirk/Lori
Summary: It’s a question of biology. Vulcan biology.
The problem with falling in love with a member of an insanely private species is that it just might take you the best part of a five year mission to work out that the feelings are requited. And then you might discover that he’s already decided that the two of you can never be together.
And what are you supposed to do if he won’t tell you why?
~*~
Chapter 13 (Section 2)
The T’Let'theiri Sanctuary is set into a sheltered plateau where the foothills meet the mountain proper, shaded from the glare of the sun by the high lip of a shattered volcanic dome that rings it on three sides. It mitigates Eridani’s assault sufficiently to allow a small spring to be coaxed from its underground retreat, and a steady stream of acolytes have channelled it into irrigation furrows that water a ragged copse of scrawny trees, through which a series of pergolas weave shade and privacy and secluded arbors. The grove abuts the spreading walls of the sanctuary building, which jut from the rockface and spill impenetrable shadow through the pillared entrance and into the brightness of late morning. Here and there, scattered, white-robed figures sit cross-legged beneath the trees or move silently across the wide, immaculate plaza that fronts the complex and culminates in an ancient altar halfway between the gardens and the top of the stairs. Kirk stands in the disregarded entryway, where huge boulders scrabble for space at the base of a forbidding, scree-scattered slope, and even here meditation mats litter the shadows and firepots choke sweet-smoking incense into the blistering heat.
“The journey from here to the peak typically takes 1.7 days,” says Spock. These are the first words he’s spoken since they began their climb, and they startle Kirk, who spooks and struggles to cover it. Spock gives no sign of having noticed. “This is the last shelter before the Hall of Ancient Thought. We will end our expedition here.”
Kirk nods at the distant figures. “Are they priests?”
“Perhaps,” says Spock. He is standing on the top step, half a head lower than Kirk, and he makes no move to step onto the rough stone platform beside his Captain. “It is not unusual to find adepts in residence at the Sanctuary.”
“It seems… peaceful. Too peaceful to disturb.”
“The sun is approaching the highest point in the sky,” says Spock. “Traditionally, acolytes pass the middle of the day cloistered in the meditation rooms. We will not disturb them.”
“They won’t wonder why you’re not joining them?”
“I believe,” says Spock, “That your presence will be explanation enough.”
“I see,” says Kirk. He stretches his shoulders back against the weight of his backpack. “Well, if you think it might be possible to find a patch of shade in which the ground temperature is below the threshold at which water boils, I’d be glad of the opportunity to get out of the sun.”
“Atmospheric pressure is lower on Vulcan than on Earth,” says Spock, and glances sideways. An eyebrow arcs. “Water boils at a lower temperature here.”
A smile spreads uncertainly across Kirk’s face, hesitant but hopeful. He says, “I’d settle for any place with shadows, Mr. Spock.”
“There is a shallow pool in the centre of the arboretum,” says Spock. “It is set beneath a pagoda to shield it from the sun. We can rest there.”
Kirk pulls his hiking boots from their bootlace-sling around his shoulder and crouches in the relative cool of the stairwell to pull them on. He’s looping a knot into the laces of his right shoe when a gong chimes from within the shadowed building across the plaza, bouncing off the high craterous walls, and he glances up.
“The call to meditation,” says Spock. “It is midday. We must find shade.”
His eyes are fixed on the diorama before him: close enough to hear the occasional sibilant snatch of conversation on the still air as figures in white move elegantly across the sand, but distant, separate, as though a screen divides them from the ranks of the devout. Kirk straightens, following his gaze, and says, “I won’t argue with that.”
Spock leads the way at a brisk pace, sweeping up from the stairwell in a billow of robes and silence, and the Captain falls into step behind him as they cross the wide expanse of plateau. Out of the shade of the overhanging rocks, the heat of the direct sun is like walking into a wall of fire, sucking the breath and the words from Kirk, and it occurs to him, not for the first time, to wonder what the hell he’s doing. Not just Seleya - though that’s also a good question, why a grown man would voluntarily place himself in a position in which every single breath burns the inside of his nostrils - but Spock. Their friendship is too important to throw away on lust and vague hope; it’s too important to force into a new shape just because the Captain’s desires have changed. He knows that whatever happened last night wasn’t his fault, not in the sense of having forced something on his friend against his wishes, but he’s also pretty certain that, of the two of them, he’s the one with the experience in dealing with that sort of situation, and there was definitely a line that he ought to have known better than to cross. Spock is a pace ahead of him, close enough to reach out and touch, but a distance separates them that has nothing to do with physical space, and Kirk has no idea what to do about it, and no idea if it’s fixable. Anxiety clutches at his throat, which isn’t exactly helpful, given the effort he’s already expending on breathing.
He says, “Spock.” A small tightening of the shoulders in front of him indicates that he’s been heard, but the head doesn’t turn. Kirk has had just about enough of this. “Spock!” he says again.
“Captain, it is advisable that we proceed directly to the shaded area…” says his First, but he doesn’t look at him and he doesn’t slow his pace.
“That’s what we’re doing,” says Kirk evenly. And then, before he can change his mind, he adds, “I want to know if you’re planning to put in for a transfer when we get back to the ship.”
And it’s only because he’s watching so intently that he sees the tiny stumble - too tiny to dignify it with the description, and looped smoothly into Spock’s stride as though it never happened. But Kirk sees it, and for a horrible, frozen instant his brain takes it for an answer.
Then Spock says, “No. No, I am not.”
Relief is like an assault; it punches him in the gut and catches his breath. It’s a moment before Kirk can strip it from his voice, before he can even out his words. He says, “Good. Because I wouldn’t have approved it in any case.”
There is a long, difficult moment of silence, punctuated only by the crunch of two sets of feet on sand and the keening, lonely cry of a circling bird of prey coasting the thermals high above them. Presently, Spock says, icily, “May I ask why not?”
“You’re the best First Officer in the fleet,” says Kirk. “I won’t lose you. Promotion - illness, even - that’s different. But I won’t have you running away. There’s another six months of this mission left, and I’ve lost more than enough crew as it is.”
They have passed from the ragged wastelands onto the sanctuary grounds, bounded by the massive stone altar on its raised dais of ochre stone. Symbols cluster along the base, shallowed by millennia of dust-laden, abrasive winds, and Kirk recognizes Golic Vulcan, although he can’t read the words. Another time he would ask for a translation, hover by Spock’s shoulder as he traced the lettering with his hand and sounded out the glottals and the fricatives, and repeat them as Spock spoke, ignoring the barely-concealed rush of exasperation as ill-adapted Human vocal chords mangled the imitation.
Spock barely spares it a glance. He says, “The question is academic in any case. It is my intention to remain with the ship.”
The sand is different here, where it is cared for: buffeted into peaks and whorls by micro-currents of desert air, but softened and flattened, filtered of shale and pebbles, so that the ground beneath Kirk’s boots has the consistency of cookie crumbs. The effect is perceptually startling, and he has a sudden, disorienting sense of temporal vertigo, as though he’s standing on a precipice and staring into the depths of countless years of devotion. Kirk says, “Whatever happens - I said I wouldn’t choose to be separated from you, Spock. That’s… not contingent on anything.”
As though a string has been cut, the tension sags from Spock’s shoulders, and it’s only when it’s gone that Kirk realizes how tightly his friend had been holding himself. Spock half-glances backwards towards his Captain, and, though his eyes are lowered, it looks as though he’ll say something. But the small indrawn breath catches halfway through and he turns back towards the approaching gardens.
As they draw closer to the copse, the air begins to alter - subtly at first, then more distinctly. The scent of water begins to seep into the arid heat: the dankness of the sanctuary halls and their underground spring, the sweetness of the shaded pool and its myriad artificial tributaries, the damp, verdant fragrance of leaves warmed by the sun. Through the gaping pillars of the entrance, it’s now possible to see, recessed into the darkness, a series of doorways lit by a stream of torches and to hear muffled, distant footsteps on stone floors and the occasional fragment of whispered conversation. Spock flickers a brief gaze towards the shadowed depths, face outlined in profile on the edge of Kirk’s vision, and then turns away.
Kirk follows him along a gravel path, flagged with square chunks of mountain stone, into the trees. Shade is, perhaps, optimistic: these are desert plants, designed to economize on limited resources, and their leaf-cover is patchy, sufficient only to dapple the ground in erratic, fractal patterns, but the contrast with the plaza is pronounced. The avenues are laid out on a complex grid of geometric lines, intersecting at sharp, rigid angles and interspersed with private retreats fashioned from canvas awnings spread against the trunks of adjacent trees, in which disregarded asenoi still smoke in anticipation of afternoon devotions. Spock leads them along the central thoroughfare, and it’s only when they reach the circular pool at its head that Kirk realizes that the intricate pattern of pathways forms the triangle of the IDIC.
Beneath the spreading canopy of the pagoda, Eridani’s heat is diluted to the comfortable, lazy warmth of an Iowan midsummer’s day. Icons punctuate the wide flagstones that surround the pool - figures both contemplative and warlike; arms outstretched in peace, or closed around lirpas - and between them are spread meditation mats of various degrees of antiquity and repair. Spock lowers himself onto one in that elegant way he has - like water pouring from a jug - and Kirk, after a moment’s hesitation, settles himself beside his friend.
“You require rest and sustenance,” says Spock simply.
Kirk’s not about to argue with that, so he pulls his canteen from his shoulder and allows himself the luxury of unreservedly slaking his violent thirst without breaking for air. When he physically can’t fit another ounce of water into his body, he runs a sleeve across his lip and, in a moment of wickedness, offers the bottle to his friend. Spock, to his credit, manages not to look completely disgusted and instead shakes his head with only the faintest air of offended dignity. “I do not require water at this time,” he says.
“You haven’t touched a drop all day,” says Kirk.
“My people evolved on a desert planet,” Spock replies. “We conserve water more efficiently than Humans.”
The Captain allows himself a small smile. “I should have guessed,” he says.
He sits back on his hands, stretches his legs in front of him, ironing out the aches and tensions in his muscles. The fragranced smoke of the firepots is weaker here, just enough to brush the desert winds with a faint perfume, and it sits easily on the cooler air. The shaded warmth, the scented breeze, the sleepless night he’s just passed, the silence; it’s intoxicating, narcotic, and he fights the urge to close his eyes.
Instead he says, “I owe you an apology, Mr. Spock.”
Spock is sitting perfectly still, legs folded in front of him, eyes closed, so it’s not possible that he freezes, but a sharp change in the atmosphere around him indicates the metaphorical equivalent. He says, “I am not aware of any offense committed against me, Captain.”
Captain. Still captain. It basically gives the lie to his denial. Kirk says, “I knew you didn’t want to spend time planetside this shore leave. I’m sorry I interfered in your personal business. It wasn’t my right.”
There is a long silence. It’s almost impossible to restrain the urge to fill it with meaningless words, but Kirk holds himself in check and waits for Spock to speak.
Finally, his First says, “I believe I have accustomed myself to the inevitability of Human emotional interventions, Captain.”
Another time, Kirk would be certain he was deliberately seeking a reaction and would happily respond in kind, but today…? “Nevertheless,” he says, “I believe my actions may have made you… uncomfortable.”
Spock is anything but stupid. Nor is he as emotionally inarticulate as he likes to pretend. There is no way he will miss the double meaning buried in the Captain’s carefully-chosen words, but he can choose to ignore it. If he does, it will be an answer in itself.
But instead he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. They fix on the still surface of the pool and do not move. Spock says, “Your actions are not at fault, Jim.”
His voice is steady, impassive; only the relentless, unfocused stare suggests an air of weary defeat. Kirk says, “This… endeavor… was at my insistence. I value your friendship too highly to have any misunderstandings between us.”
Spock hesitates, and his eyes restlessly scour the water. “Understand, Jim,” he says slowly. “You neither insisted nor was I coerced. If there has been an error… it has been mine.”
“I don’t believe that,” says Kirk softly.
Half-seen in profile, an eyebrow arcs and immediately drops. “I see no reason to doubt it.”
“I was there,” says Kirk. He shifts his hips slightly so that he’s canted towards his friend. “Spock, I just wanted…” He hesitates. “Never mind. I believe you know what I wanted.”
Silence descends like a curtain of lead. Insects hum in the moist air above the pool and pull concentric circles from the surface as they dip to drink; it’s the only indication that time continues to flow. After a moment, Kirk risks a upwards glance and sees that Spock’s eyes have dropped so that they’re fixed on the folds of his robe in his lap, but they’re unfocused; unseeing. He says, “If it’s not what you want… I’ll respect that.” A beat; two beats. Three, and he makes himself add, “But it’s what I want.”
Spock says, “You do not know what it is that you ask.”
Kirk fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Commander, the sum total of what I don’t know about this would fill the databanks at Memory Alpha. I’m groping blindly in the dark. The least you could do is explain.”
“It is not…” And he hesitates, and Kirk is certain that he’s never seen his First Officer struggle for a word. Hope prickles in his chest, and scatters as Spock finishes, “…safe.”
“Safe?” Anger flares, geysering like a pot left too long on the stove. “Don’t patronize me, Mister! I’m the Captain of a starship! I’m your superior officer, in case you’ve forgotten. My whole life is one long, calculated risk, so don’t talk to me about safe!”
The words are no sooner out of his mouth than he wants them back; even before the veil of ice descends again over his First, he knows that it’s too late. Spock stands quickly in one long, fluid movement, and folds his hands in front of him as Kirk scrambles to his feet.
“Spock…” says the Captain, but his friend’s eyes are shuttered and locked.
“If you are sufficiently rested, I suggest we begin our return journey,” says Spock in a tone that Kirk hasn’t heard for more than four years.
“And if I’m not ‘sufficiently rested’?” he says. It’s only partially a challenge - the rest is apology, and he sees the moment that Spock recognizes this when his blank expression softens slightly. It’s limestone for granite on the scale of stone-faced Vulcan obstinacy, but there’s an opening there and Kirk presses his advantage. “I slept poorly last night, Mr. Spock. I’m prepared to bet that you did too.”
“I spent the night in meditation,” says Spock.
Kirk huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Yes,” he says, “I tried that myself, if you can believe it.”
There is a moment of appalled silence. “I… believe that you tried,” says Spock.
Kirk turns a half-smile on his friend. “And you? How far did you get?”
Spock hesitates. “I was unable to progress beyond the second level of the trance.”
“Let me guess - there was more noise than you could subdue?”
It’s a throwaway comment, designed to seal their entente with something like humor, and Kirk is utterly unprepared for the flash of misery that darkens Spock’s eyes for an unguarded moment. Instinctively, he reaches a hand towards his friend’s arm, but catches it mid-movement, and it hangs, uselessly, between them, a hand’s breadth from the dark fabric of Spock’s sleeve. Suddenly, from nowhere, the Captain’s brain replays his friend’s words from last night: I have fought so hard, Jim.
Spock says, “That has been the case for some time now.”
There is a beat - a heavy, frozen moment in which Kirk struggles to collect his wildly reverberating thoughts - and, in the absence of any clear idea of how to respond, his hand stretches the final inches towards Spock.
And Spock turns and walks away.
Kirk blinks. Catches his breath. Calls, “Spock - stop!”
It’s not an order - not quite - and they both know it. Spock stills but does not turn. He says, “Captain, we must proceed to the beam-up point. The journey will take some hours.”
“Spock…” says Kirk, but there’s nothing to add to that, not even when Spock starts walking again.
He can’t match Spock’s pace at the best of times and that’s always been a source of gentle amusement between them: Spock’s tolerant moderation of his natural advantages, both muscle-mass and stride-length, and Kirk’s awareness that he’s being humored. This is not the best of times - for a number of reasons, the most pressing of which is the fact that he’s under the direct sunlight of a planet for which only one of them has evolved, but only slightly behind that is the fact that, this time, Spock does not want to be caught.
Kirk refuses to run after him. He’s exhausted within moments of leaving the shelter of the trees, even before he hits the sands at twice his comfortable speed, so it’s not a practical option regardless of pride or chain of command or even common courtesy. He knows that Spock won’t disregard a direct order, and he knows that, even now, it’s extremely unlikely that he’ll pretend not to hear it, but the fact is that he doesn’t want Spock to stop because he has to. This isn’t a mission. This isn’t business; they’re not even on duty. Nothing vital depends on the maintenance of military discipline or the rigid policing of the command structure. There is no reason to exert his authority right now other than the fact that he wants to, and that’s not good enough. So he chokes down his abraded pride and he follows at the best pace he can manage while Eridani streams a blistering soup of desert heat into the silence of the sanctuary plateau.
He emerges, sweating and furious, into the shaded stairwell, to find his First folded into the shadows, eyes hooded and face turned away.
“What the hell was that?” snaps Kirk.
Spock does not pretend to misunderstand. He says, “I saw no benefit in prolonging the discussion.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that I might have a different opinion?”
“On the contrary,” says Spock. “I was certain that you would.”
Kirk rolls his eyes, pivots on his heel, turns back again. “My actions are not at fault,” he says. “That’s what you said. So why must you act as though I’m some kind of threat to you?” Spock opens his mouth to speak, but Kirk carries on. “Did you believe I’d abuse the chain of command to get what I wanted? Do you really think so little of me, even after all this time? Have I ever given you reason to think that I would do anything other than respect your heritage, or your person, or your wishes? If I haven’t done anything wrong, Spock, then how have I managed to destroy all of your trust in me?”
“You misunderstand me, Jim,” says Spock quietly. “It is not your responses that I do not trust.”
Bitter laughter chokes from Kirk’s throat. “This is ridiculous,” he says, and pushes past his First onto the stairs.
“Jim,” says Spock behind him. It’s enough to stall Kirk, though it’s several seconds before he turns, and it’s only then that his friend descends the seven steps to where the Captain stands, drawing level with him in the narrow passageway. He stands in front of Kirk, too close even for this constricted space, and meets his eyes.
Spock says, “Have I ever given you cause to think that my actions are motivated by anything but a regard for your wellbeing?”
It’s impossible to say who reaches for whom, but they are no more than a foot apart; it’s the work of a split second to close the distance between them, and their mouths collide violently in a kiss that is more about need than passion. There is no solicitous prelude, no gentle caress, no preliminary brush of lips on lips - just a raw collision of anger and yearning and confusion that welds them together so tightly that for long moments they can barely move. And Kirk knows when his hands fist in Spock’s robes and he slams them into the canyon wall so that he can press every inch of his body against his First - so that he can feel the sinewy lines of flesh and muscle beneath the heavy, rich fabric; feel his hardness and his desire - that it’s fleeting, transitory. That there’s an end even in the beginning and that Spock’s hands grip him so tightly and so possessively because they will release him again. He knows this even before Spock breaks the seal that joins them at their lips and digs his fingernails into the Captain’s back through the light fabric of his tunic, hard enough to bruise, and says, for the last time, “Forgive me, Jim.”
It would be easy to refuse. The words are almost in his mouth, bitter and vicious: a challenge - and what if I don’t? But he swallows them. He releases his hold on his friend’s robes and steps back a little to disengage their bodies, to let empty air rush in between them, and Spock turns away from him, straightens his robes, and begins to descend the stairs.
Kirk lets him get safely out of sight before he channels all of his fury into a vicious strike against the rock with the flat of his right hand. Pain sears up his arm, white hot and cleansing, and he feels the bite of a dozen small abrasions where the ragged surface has torn the skin, but it’s better than the impotent rage that burns in his chest, and it’s better than the creeping cold panic in his belly. He slams his fist against the rock wall again, harder, and grunts as little spots of blood appear in craters of white skin.
Perhaps thirty feet of sanctified ground separate him from his First Officer, but it might just as well be half the galaxy. Spock’s footsteps echo against the high mountain walls, plosive slap of sole against rock sounding cleanly in the silence and retreating into distance. His taste is in Kirk’s mouth and on the air around him, and the memory of his grip aches in bruise-points along Kirk’s shoulders, but it’s all fading, receding into the past. Spiky creases of twisted tunic fabric describe the passage of clutching fingers, and they are obliterated by a perfunctory brush of his hand, as though they never were. It’s all so easily cemented over, evidence erased, obscuring the irreparable fractures beneath a thin veneer of civility. There is nothing else to do but suck in a breath and suppress the swelling sense of loss, and follow his friend down the mountain.
He’s taken no more than ten steps before his communicator gives a sickly twitter. The Captain curses quietly and fishes it from his back pocket.
“Kirk here,” he snaps.
“Captain!” There is an air of relief to Scotty’s voice that does not bode well. “We’ve bin tryin’ tae hail ye for almost an oor.”
Kirk licks his lips in order to give himself a moment’s composure and says, more evenly, “Yes, Mr. Scott - we’re at the very south of Vulcan’s Forge. The geomagnetic fields here tend to interfere with electronic devices. What’s happened?”
“We’ve heard from the VSA, sir,” says Scotty.
A movement in his peripheral vision makes Kirk glance up in time to see Spock ascending towards him. He stops a couple of feet below the Captain and arches an eyebrow, but his face is blank. Kirk says, “Oh?”
“Aye, sir,” says Scotty. “The Professor’s aboard, sir.”
Kirk opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Professor Sorelan?” he says. “Are you telling me... He’s on the Enterprise? Now?”
“Aye, sir,” says Scotty. “We’ve bin tryin’ to hail ye. Seems like they suddenly found him, sir, and I didnae want tae risk them losin’ him agin.”
Spock’s eyes are dark, shrouded, and stripped of expression, and Kirk realizes, suddenly, that it’s over. Whatever this intermezzo was - or could have been - it’s finished now, and there’s no chance to fix what it has broken. A hollow pit opens up at the base of Kirk’s stomach and threatens to suck the air out of his chest. “Very good, Mr. Scott,” he says. “Do you have a lock on us now?”
“Aye, sir,” says Scott. “First time in an oor, sir. Are ye ready for beam-out?”
No. “Yes, Mr. Scott. Beam out at will. Kirk out.”
He lifts his eyes to meet Spock’s and opens his mouth to speak, but there’s nothing to say. And then the beam takes him and the opportunity is lost.
~*~
“Dress uniforms for all command crew, Mr. Scott,” says Kirk as he steps down from the platform.
If his Chief Engineer is taken aback at the utilitarian greeting, he covers it quickly. “Aye, sir, so ordered,” he says.
“Good work, Scotty,” says Kirk. “Where’s the Professor now?”
“Gettin’ settled intae his quarters,” says Scotty. “I’ve assigned Yeoman Rogers tae him, sir. He seems happy enough.”
Spock stands behind him and to the right - close enough that Kirk can feel him hovering on the edge of his personal space, but just out of sight. The Captain turns to Lieutenant Kyle.
“Lieutenant, please arrange to beam up Mr. Spock’s and my luggage and have it sent to our respective quarters,” he says. “Scotty,” he adds, as Kyle nods and sets to work, “I’m going to change and then I’ll meet you up on the bridge. Let’s get started on the disembarkation protocols in the meantime.”
“Aye, sir,” he says. “Bin wantin’ tae see how she handles warp since I tweaked the antimatter relay circuits, sir - give the word and I’ll have her on the road in no time.”
Scott crosses to the door, which swishes open on the figure of Dr. McCoy, resplendent and uncomfortable in the blue dress uniform of the Science division. They pass in the doorway with perfunctory nods, and Bones saunters into the transporter room with an impassive smile that broadens when he turns it on the Captain.
“Welcome home, Jim,” he says. “How was shore leave?”
“Fine,” says Kirk before his face can call him a liar, and turns to his First.
“Mr. Spock,” he says, “No doubt some members of our crew are still planetside. I’ll leave it to you to co-ordinate their immediate return to Enterprise. I’d like to depart in no more than an hour’s time.”
“Yes, Captain,” says Spock, and there’s nothing about his tone or his expression that screams change, nothing that might indicate that anything is different between the two of them. Only the knowledge of that lacerating embrace colors his words in darker tones. There is the smallest of hesitations - half a second, nothing more - and then he’s gone and Kirk has to fight the sensation that he’s just been slugged in the gut.
He turns into McCoy’s upraised eyebrow. Bones misses nothing.
“Fine?” says the Doctor. “That’s it? No heart-warming tales of reminiscing with the Sareks? No holos of Seleya? Just ‘fine’, huh?”
“I didn’t think you were interested,” says Kirk, starting towards the door. He’s not actually expecting that to put Bones off, so it’s not really a surprise when he follows.
“Who says I’m interested?” he says, falling into step alongside the Captain. “Just bein’ polite. K’lan-ne was ‘fine’ too, thanks for askin’. Never did catch sight of a bottle of bourbon, but Jabilo knows this place serves somethin’ called kellorica - and, damn, Jim, tastes like paint stripper and cactus sap but it sure hits the spot. So, who sneezed in the hobgoblin’s plomeek soup?”
The abrupt subject-change is designed to catch him off his guard, but Kirk has known the Doctor for a long time. So he makes himself smile and says, “Who do you think, Bones? It was just the two of us on a long desert trek. Are you surprised I managed to get on his nerves?”
“Surprised he has a nerve to get on,” says Bones cheerfully. “Lord knows, I been tryin’ to do it for years.” A beat. “You gonna tell me how you managed it, or am I just gonna have to keep guessing?”
The tone is light, but Kirk knows better than to underestimate the Doctor’s penchant for niggling at a mystery. As they step into the turbolift, he says, airily, “Another time, Bones. Let’s just finish this mission first. How’s the Professor?”
“Ha!’ says Bones, inexplicably. Then: “I think you’ll like him. God help me, Jim he’s - he’s almost fun.”
Despite himself, Kirk’s lips twitch. “High praise indeed, coming from you, Bones,” he says. “I meant his health. Is he fit to travel?”
“Bit of dehydration, nothing major,” says McCoy. “Official story from the VSA is they just suddenly rustled him up and sent him straight over to us. His story is he’s partial to a bit of alone-time in the desert, takes off now and then for a few days and just kind of… hangs out. Helps his thought processes, he says. Not much by way of a calendar out in the Fire Plains, so I hear, and he got his dates mixed up, forgot he was supposed to be beaming up to the Enterprise. I’m not kidding, Jim. I like this guy.”
“But why would the VSA conceal his whereabouts from Starfleet?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” says Bones as the doors slide open onto Deck 5. “Don’t sound too logical to me, though, all this wandering in the desert. Kind of hard to explain to the Federation why you can’t find one of your Faculty all of a sudden, ‘specially when you’re supposed to be above that sort of thing.” They pull up outside the Captain’s quarters and Bones rocks back on his heels, clasping his hands behind his back. “Don’t mean you and the hobgoblin were wrong, of course. Just that the man’s just south of two hundred years old, and he looks mighty sprightly for an old guy who’s just gone through pon farr. But, then, I’m no expert.”
Kirk’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or punch a hole in something. He settles for hitting the door release button with more force than is strictly necessary, and turns to his friend. He says, “I need to get up to the bridge, Bones. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure,” says the Doctor, but as Kirk turns to walk into the empty chill of his quarters, he says, “Everything okay, Jim?”
Kirk blanks his face. “Fine, Bones,” he says.
“Fine, huh?” says the Doctor.
“Fine,” says Kirk, and shuts the door.
~*~
There’s a psychological power to the dress uniform that’s two parts superstition to one part subconscious conditioning. Maybe it’s because it’s what he was wearing the first time he set foot aboard his ship, but it’s always felt to Kirk as though the essence of his captaincy is woven into the rich, satin threads; as though authority is a question of external manifestation as much as a state of mind. Maybe there’s something in that, but now’s not the time to pursue it, and he’s uncomfortably aware that the last time he wore these clothes everything was different, so whatever bureaucratic black magic is contained within the synthetic imitation-silk fibers, it’s lost a little of its luster today.
He strides out of the turbolift to Scotty’s hasty, “Captain on the bridge,” and waves a hand vaguely to seat his command crew as they start to get to their feet. His eyes drift towards the science console entirely of their own volition and the sight of his First, poker-straight and unreachable, stabs an angry little burning pain into the hollow beneath his ribs. Spock meets his gaze, and that’s worse than an evasion, because at least when he was avoiding the Captain’s scrutiny it meant that there was something there that Spock didn’t want his friend to see. Now he lets his eyes lock onto Kirk’s, and there’s the briefest flash of acknowledgement - of buried, brutalized sadness - before it’s locked firmly away in that place Spock goes to when he doesn’t want to be found. His face is blank. He’s someone Kirk doesn’t know.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” says Kirk. “At ease, everyone. Let’s keep the bridge informal unless our guest is present. Mr. Spock” - and the angry pain twists against his chest - “are all the crew aboard?”
“All hands accounted for, Captain,” says Spock.
Kirk slides into the command chair and fixes his eyes on the viewscreen, where T’Khasi sprawls lazily below them, haunted by the eternal shadow of her sister-world. “Then let’s get the hell out of here,” he says.
END OF PART I
Chapter 13 (Section 1)
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Author: eimeo
Beta: penguin_attie
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Pre-slash to slash
Chapter: 13.2/54
Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Additional Pairings: Kirk/Lori
Summary: It’s a question of biology. Vulcan biology.
The problem with falling in love with a member of an insanely private species is that it just might take you the best part of a five year mission to work out that the feelings are requited. And then you might discover that he’s already decided that the two of you can never be together.
And what are you supposed to do if he won’t tell you why?
~*~
Chapter 13 (Section 2)
The T’Let'theiri Sanctuary is set into a sheltered plateau where the foothills meet the mountain proper, shaded from the glare of the sun by the high lip of a shattered volcanic dome that rings it on three sides. It mitigates Eridani’s assault sufficiently to allow a small spring to be coaxed from its underground retreat, and a steady stream of acolytes have channelled it into irrigation furrows that water a ragged copse of scrawny trees, through which a series of pergolas weave shade and privacy and secluded arbors. The grove abuts the spreading walls of the sanctuary building, which jut from the rockface and spill impenetrable shadow through the pillared entrance and into the brightness of late morning. Here and there, scattered, white-robed figures sit cross-legged beneath the trees or move silently across the wide, immaculate plaza that fronts the complex and culminates in an ancient altar halfway between the gardens and the top of the stairs. Kirk stands in the disregarded entryway, where huge boulders scrabble for space at the base of a forbidding, scree-scattered slope, and even here meditation mats litter the shadows and firepots choke sweet-smoking incense into the blistering heat.
“The journey from here to the peak typically takes 1.7 days,” says Spock. These are the first words he’s spoken since they began their climb, and they startle Kirk, who spooks and struggles to cover it. Spock gives no sign of having noticed. “This is the last shelter before the Hall of Ancient Thought. We will end our expedition here.”
Kirk nods at the distant figures. “Are they priests?”
“Perhaps,” says Spock. He is standing on the top step, half a head lower than Kirk, and he makes no move to step onto the rough stone platform beside his Captain. “It is not unusual to find adepts in residence at the Sanctuary.”
“It seems… peaceful. Too peaceful to disturb.”
“The sun is approaching the highest point in the sky,” says Spock. “Traditionally, acolytes pass the middle of the day cloistered in the meditation rooms. We will not disturb them.”
“They won’t wonder why you’re not joining them?”
“I believe,” says Spock, “That your presence will be explanation enough.”
“I see,” says Kirk. He stretches his shoulders back against the weight of his backpack. “Well, if you think it might be possible to find a patch of shade in which the ground temperature is below the threshold at which water boils, I’d be glad of the opportunity to get out of the sun.”
“Atmospheric pressure is lower on Vulcan than on Earth,” says Spock, and glances sideways. An eyebrow arcs. “Water boils at a lower temperature here.”
A smile spreads uncertainly across Kirk’s face, hesitant but hopeful. He says, “I’d settle for any place with shadows, Mr. Spock.”
“There is a shallow pool in the centre of the arboretum,” says Spock. “It is set beneath a pagoda to shield it from the sun. We can rest there.”
Kirk pulls his hiking boots from their bootlace-sling around his shoulder and crouches in the relative cool of the stairwell to pull them on. He’s looping a knot into the laces of his right shoe when a gong chimes from within the shadowed building across the plaza, bouncing off the high craterous walls, and he glances up.
“The call to meditation,” says Spock. “It is midday. We must find shade.”
His eyes are fixed on the diorama before him: close enough to hear the occasional sibilant snatch of conversation on the still air as figures in white move elegantly across the sand, but distant, separate, as though a screen divides them from the ranks of the devout. Kirk straightens, following his gaze, and says, “I won’t argue with that.”
Spock leads the way at a brisk pace, sweeping up from the stairwell in a billow of robes and silence, and the Captain falls into step behind him as they cross the wide expanse of plateau. Out of the shade of the overhanging rocks, the heat of the direct sun is like walking into a wall of fire, sucking the breath and the words from Kirk, and it occurs to him, not for the first time, to wonder what the hell he’s doing. Not just Seleya - though that’s also a good question, why a grown man would voluntarily place himself in a position in which every single breath burns the inside of his nostrils - but Spock. Their friendship is too important to throw away on lust and vague hope; it’s too important to force into a new shape just because the Captain’s desires have changed. He knows that whatever happened last night wasn’t his fault, not in the sense of having forced something on his friend against his wishes, but he’s also pretty certain that, of the two of them, he’s the one with the experience in dealing with that sort of situation, and there was definitely a line that he ought to have known better than to cross. Spock is a pace ahead of him, close enough to reach out and touch, but a distance separates them that has nothing to do with physical space, and Kirk has no idea what to do about it, and no idea if it’s fixable. Anxiety clutches at his throat, which isn’t exactly helpful, given the effort he’s already expending on breathing.
He says, “Spock.” A small tightening of the shoulders in front of him indicates that he’s been heard, but the head doesn’t turn. Kirk has had just about enough of this. “Spock!” he says again.
“Captain, it is advisable that we proceed directly to the shaded area…” says his First, but he doesn’t look at him and he doesn’t slow his pace.
“That’s what we’re doing,” says Kirk evenly. And then, before he can change his mind, he adds, “I want to know if you’re planning to put in for a transfer when we get back to the ship.”
And it’s only because he’s watching so intently that he sees the tiny stumble - too tiny to dignify it with the description, and looped smoothly into Spock’s stride as though it never happened. But Kirk sees it, and for a horrible, frozen instant his brain takes it for an answer.
Then Spock says, “No. No, I am not.”
Relief is like an assault; it punches him in the gut and catches his breath. It’s a moment before Kirk can strip it from his voice, before he can even out his words. He says, “Good. Because I wouldn’t have approved it in any case.”
There is a long, difficult moment of silence, punctuated only by the crunch of two sets of feet on sand and the keening, lonely cry of a circling bird of prey coasting the thermals high above them. Presently, Spock says, icily, “May I ask why not?”
“You’re the best First Officer in the fleet,” says Kirk. “I won’t lose you. Promotion - illness, even - that’s different. But I won’t have you running away. There’s another six months of this mission left, and I’ve lost more than enough crew as it is.”
They have passed from the ragged wastelands onto the sanctuary grounds, bounded by the massive stone altar on its raised dais of ochre stone. Symbols cluster along the base, shallowed by millennia of dust-laden, abrasive winds, and Kirk recognizes Golic Vulcan, although he can’t read the words. Another time he would ask for a translation, hover by Spock’s shoulder as he traced the lettering with his hand and sounded out the glottals and the fricatives, and repeat them as Spock spoke, ignoring the barely-concealed rush of exasperation as ill-adapted Human vocal chords mangled the imitation.
Spock barely spares it a glance. He says, “The question is academic in any case. It is my intention to remain with the ship.”
The sand is different here, where it is cared for: buffeted into peaks and whorls by micro-currents of desert air, but softened and flattened, filtered of shale and pebbles, so that the ground beneath Kirk’s boots has the consistency of cookie crumbs. The effect is perceptually startling, and he has a sudden, disorienting sense of temporal vertigo, as though he’s standing on a precipice and staring into the depths of countless years of devotion. Kirk says, “Whatever happens - I said I wouldn’t choose to be separated from you, Spock. That’s… not contingent on anything.”
As though a string has been cut, the tension sags from Spock’s shoulders, and it’s only when it’s gone that Kirk realizes how tightly his friend had been holding himself. Spock half-glances backwards towards his Captain, and, though his eyes are lowered, it looks as though he’ll say something. But the small indrawn breath catches halfway through and he turns back towards the approaching gardens.
As they draw closer to the copse, the air begins to alter - subtly at first, then more distinctly. The scent of water begins to seep into the arid heat: the dankness of the sanctuary halls and their underground spring, the sweetness of the shaded pool and its myriad artificial tributaries, the damp, verdant fragrance of leaves warmed by the sun. Through the gaping pillars of the entrance, it’s now possible to see, recessed into the darkness, a series of doorways lit by a stream of torches and to hear muffled, distant footsteps on stone floors and the occasional fragment of whispered conversation. Spock flickers a brief gaze towards the shadowed depths, face outlined in profile on the edge of Kirk’s vision, and then turns away.
Kirk follows him along a gravel path, flagged with square chunks of mountain stone, into the trees. Shade is, perhaps, optimistic: these are desert plants, designed to economize on limited resources, and their leaf-cover is patchy, sufficient only to dapple the ground in erratic, fractal patterns, but the contrast with the plaza is pronounced. The avenues are laid out on a complex grid of geometric lines, intersecting at sharp, rigid angles and interspersed with private retreats fashioned from canvas awnings spread against the trunks of adjacent trees, in which disregarded asenoi still smoke in anticipation of afternoon devotions. Spock leads them along the central thoroughfare, and it’s only when they reach the circular pool at its head that Kirk realizes that the intricate pattern of pathways forms the triangle of the IDIC.
Beneath the spreading canopy of the pagoda, Eridani’s heat is diluted to the comfortable, lazy warmth of an Iowan midsummer’s day. Icons punctuate the wide flagstones that surround the pool - figures both contemplative and warlike; arms outstretched in peace, or closed around lirpas - and between them are spread meditation mats of various degrees of antiquity and repair. Spock lowers himself onto one in that elegant way he has - like water pouring from a jug - and Kirk, after a moment’s hesitation, settles himself beside his friend.
“You require rest and sustenance,” says Spock simply.
Kirk’s not about to argue with that, so he pulls his canteen from his shoulder and allows himself the luxury of unreservedly slaking his violent thirst without breaking for air. When he physically can’t fit another ounce of water into his body, he runs a sleeve across his lip and, in a moment of wickedness, offers the bottle to his friend. Spock, to his credit, manages not to look completely disgusted and instead shakes his head with only the faintest air of offended dignity. “I do not require water at this time,” he says.
“You haven’t touched a drop all day,” says Kirk.
“My people evolved on a desert planet,” Spock replies. “We conserve water more efficiently than Humans.”
The Captain allows himself a small smile. “I should have guessed,” he says.
He sits back on his hands, stretches his legs in front of him, ironing out the aches and tensions in his muscles. The fragranced smoke of the firepots is weaker here, just enough to brush the desert winds with a faint perfume, and it sits easily on the cooler air. The shaded warmth, the scented breeze, the sleepless night he’s just passed, the silence; it’s intoxicating, narcotic, and he fights the urge to close his eyes.
Instead he says, “I owe you an apology, Mr. Spock.”
Spock is sitting perfectly still, legs folded in front of him, eyes closed, so it’s not possible that he freezes, but a sharp change in the atmosphere around him indicates the metaphorical equivalent. He says, “I am not aware of any offense committed against me, Captain.”
Captain. Still captain. It basically gives the lie to his denial. Kirk says, “I knew you didn’t want to spend time planetside this shore leave. I’m sorry I interfered in your personal business. It wasn’t my right.”
There is a long silence. It’s almost impossible to restrain the urge to fill it with meaningless words, but Kirk holds himself in check and waits for Spock to speak.
Finally, his First says, “I believe I have accustomed myself to the inevitability of Human emotional interventions, Captain.”
Another time, Kirk would be certain he was deliberately seeking a reaction and would happily respond in kind, but today…? “Nevertheless,” he says, “I believe my actions may have made you… uncomfortable.”
Spock is anything but stupid. Nor is he as emotionally inarticulate as he likes to pretend. There is no way he will miss the double meaning buried in the Captain’s carefully-chosen words, but he can choose to ignore it. If he does, it will be an answer in itself.
But instead he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. They fix on the still surface of the pool and do not move. Spock says, “Your actions are not at fault, Jim.”
His voice is steady, impassive; only the relentless, unfocused stare suggests an air of weary defeat. Kirk says, “This… endeavor… was at my insistence. I value your friendship too highly to have any misunderstandings between us.”
Spock hesitates, and his eyes restlessly scour the water. “Understand, Jim,” he says slowly. “You neither insisted nor was I coerced. If there has been an error… it has been mine.”
“I don’t believe that,” says Kirk softly.
Half-seen in profile, an eyebrow arcs and immediately drops. “I see no reason to doubt it.”
“I was there,” says Kirk. He shifts his hips slightly so that he’s canted towards his friend. “Spock, I just wanted…” He hesitates. “Never mind. I believe you know what I wanted.”
Silence descends like a curtain of lead. Insects hum in the moist air above the pool and pull concentric circles from the surface as they dip to drink; it’s the only indication that time continues to flow. After a moment, Kirk risks a upwards glance and sees that Spock’s eyes have dropped so that they’re fixed on the folds of his robe in his lap, but they’re unfocused; unseeing. He says, “If it’s not what you want… I’ll respect that.” A beat; two beats. Three, and he makes himself add, “But it’s what I want.”
Spock says, “You do not know what it is that you ask.”
Kirk fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Commander, the sum total of what I don’t know about this would fill the databanks at Memory Alpha. I’m groping blindly in the dark. The least you could do is explain.”
“It is not…” And he hesitates, and Kirk is certain that he’s never seen his First Officer struggle for a word. Hope prickles in his chest, and scatters as Spock finishes, “…safe.”
“Safe?” Anger flares, geysering like a pot left too long on the stove. “Don’t patronize me, Mister! I’m the Captain of a starship! I’m your superior officer, in case you’ve forgotten. My whole life is one long, calculated risk, so don’t talk to me about safe!”
The words are no sooner out of his mouth than he wants them back; even before the veil of ice descends again over his First, he knows that it’s too late. Spock stands quickly in one long, fluid movement, and folds his hands in front of him as Kirk scrambles to his feet.
“Spock…” says the Captain, but his friend’s eyes are shuttered and locked.
“If you are sufficiently rested, I suggest we begin our return journey,” says Spock in a tone that Kirk hasn’t heard for more than four years.
“And if I’m not ‘sufficiently rested’?” he says. It’s only partially a challenge - the rest is apology, and he sees the moment that Spock recognizes this when his blank expression softens slightly. It’s limestone for granite on the scale of stone-faced Vulcan obstinacy, but there’s an opening there and Kirk presses his advantage. “I slept poorly last night, Mr. Spock. I’m prepared to bet that you did too.”
“I spent the night in meditation,” says Spock.
Kirk huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “Yes,” he says, “I tried that myself, if you can believe it.”
There is a moment of appalled silence. “I… believe that you tried,” says Spock.
Kirk turns a half-smile on his friend. “And you? How far did you get?”
Spock hesitates. “I was unable to progress beyond the second level of the trance.”
“Let me guess - there was more noise than you could subdue?”
It’s a throwaway comment, designed to seal their entente with something like humor, and Kirk is utterly unprepared for the flash of misery that darkens Spock’s eyes for an unguarded moment. Instinctively, he reaches a hand towards his friend’s arm, but catches it mid-movement, and it hangs, uselessly, between them, a hand’s breadth from the dark fabric of Spock’s sleeve. Suddenly, from nowhere, the Captain’s brain replays his friend’s words from last night: I have fought so hard, Jim.
Spock says, “That has been the case for some time now.”
There is a beat - a heavy, frozen moment in which Kirk struggles to collect his wildly reverberating thoughts - and, in the absence of any clear idea of how to respond, his hand stretches the final inches towards Spock.
And Spock turns and walks away.
Kirk blinks. Catches his breath. Calls, “Spock - stop!”
It’s not an order - not quite - and they both know it. Spock stills but does not turn. He says, “Captain, we must proceed to the beam-up point. The journey will take some hours.”
“Spock…” says Kirk, but there’s nothing to add to that, not even when Spock starts walking again.
He can’t match Spock’s pace at the best of times and that’s always been a source of gentle amusement between them: Spock’s tolerant moderation of his natural advantages, both muscle-mass and stride-length, and Kirk’s awareness that he’s being humored. This is not the best of times - for a number of reasons, the most pressing of which is the fact that he’s under the direct sunlight of a planet for which only one of them has evolved, but only slightly behind that is the fact that, this time, Spock does not want to be caught.
Kirk refuses to run after him. He’s exhausted within moments of leaving the shelter of the trees, even before he hits the sands at twice his comfortable speed, so it’s not a practical option regardless of pride or chain of command or even common courtesy. He knows that Spock won’t disregard a direct order, and he knows that, even now, it’s extremely unlikely that he’ll pretend not to hear it, but the fact is that he doesn’t want Spock to stop because he has to. This isn’t a mission. This isn’t business; they’re not even on duty. Nothing vital depends on the maintenance of military discipline or the rigid policing of the command structure. There is no reason to exert his authority right now other than the fact that he wants to, and that’s not good enough. So he chokes down his abraded pride and he follows at the best pace he can manage while Eridani streams a blistering soup of desert heat into the silence of the sanctuary plateau.
He emerges, sweating and furious, into the shaded stairwell, to find his First folded into the shadows, eyes hooded and face turned away.
“What the hell was that?” snaps Kirk.
Spock does not pretend to misunderstand. He says, “I saw no benefit in prolonging the discussion.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that I might have a different opinion?”
“On the contrary,” says Spock. “I was certain that you would.”
Kirk rolls his eyes, pivots on his heel, turns back again. “My actions are not at fault,” he says. “That’s what you said. So why must you act as though I’m some kind of threat to you?” Spock opens his mouth to speak, but Kirk carries on. “Did you believe I’d abuse the chain of command to get what I wanted? Do you really think so little of me, even after all this time? Have I ever given you reason to think that I would do anything other than respect your heritage, or your person, or your wishes? If I haven’t done anything wrong, Spock, then how have I managed to destroy all of your trust in me?”
“You misunderstand me, Jim,” says Spock quietly. “It is not your responses that I do not trust.”
Bitter laughter chokes from Kirk’s throat. “This is ridiculous,” he says, and pushes past his First onto the stairs.
“Jim,” says Spock behind him. It’s enough to stall Kirk, though it’s several seconds before he turns, and it’s only then that his friend descends the seven steps to where the Captain stands, drawing level with him in the narrow passageway. He stands in front of Kirk, too close even for this constricted space, and meets his eyes.
Spock says, “Have I ever given you cause to think that my actions are motivated by anything but a regard for your wellbeing?”
It’s impossible to say who reaches for whom, but they are no more than a foot apart; it’s the work of a split second to close the distance between them, and their mouths collide violently in a kiss that is more about need than passion. There is no solicitous prelude, no gentle caress, no preliminary brush of lips on lips - just a raw collision of anger and yearning and confusion that welds them together so tightly that for long moments they can barely move. And Kirk knows when his hands fist in Spock’s robes and he slams them into the canyon wall so that he can press every inch of his body against his First - so that he can feel the sinewy lines of flesh and muscle beneath the heavy, rich fabric; feel his hardness and his desire - that it’s fleeting, transitory. That there’s an end even in the beginning and that Spock’s hands grip him so tightly and so possessively because they will release him again. He knows this even before Spock breaks the seal that joins them at their lips and digs his fingernails into the Captain’s back through the light fabric of his tunic, hard enough to bruise, and says, for the last time, “Forgive me, Jim.”
It would be easy to refuse. The words are almost in his mouth, bitter and vicious: a challenge - and what if I don’t? But he swallows them. He releases his hold on his friend’s robes and steps back a little to disengage their bodies, to let empty air rush in between them, and Spock turns away from him, straightens his robes, and begins to descend the stairs.
Kirk lets him get safely out of sight before he channels all of his fury into a vicious strike against the rock with the flat of his right hand. Pain sears up his arm, white hot and cleansing, and he feels the bite of a dozen small abrasions where the ragged surface has torn the skin, but it’s better than the impotent rage that burns in his chest, and it’s better than the creeping cold panic in his belly. He slams his fist against the rock wall again, harder, and grunts as little spots of blood appear in craters of white skin.
Perhaps thirty feet of sanctified ground separate him from his First Officer, but it might just as well be half the galaxy. Spock’s footsteps echo against the high mountain walls, plosive slap of sole against rock sounding cleanly in the silence and retreating into distance. His taste is in Kirk’s mouth and on the air around him, and the memory of his grip aches in bruise-points along Kirk’s shoulders, but it’s all fading, receding into the past. Spiky creases of twisted tunic fabric describe the passage of clutching fingers, and they are obliterated by a perfunctory brush of his hand, as though they never were. It’s all so easily cemented over, evidence erased, obscuring the irreparable fractures beneath a thin veneer of civility. There is nothing else to do but suck in a breath and suppress the swelling sense of loss, and follow his friend down the mountain.
He’s taken no more than ten steps before his communicator gives a sickly twitter. The Captain curses quietly and fishes it from his back pocket.
“Kirk here,” he snaps.
“Captain!” There is an air of relief to Scotty’s voice that does not bode well. “We’ve bin tryin’ tae hail ye for almost an oor.”
Kirk licks his lips in order to give himself a moment’s composure and says, more evenly, “Yes, Mr. Scott - we’re at the very south of Vulcan’s Forge. The geomagnetic fields here tend to interfere with electronic devices. What’s happened?”
“We’ve heard from the VSA, sir,” says Scotty.
A movement in his peripheral vision makes Kirk glance up in time to see Spock ascending towards him. He stops a couple of feet below the Captain and arches an eyebrow, but his face is blank. Kirk says, “Oh?”
“Aye, sir,” says Scotty. “The Professor’s aboard, sir.”
Kirk opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Professor Sorelan?” he says. “Are you telling me... He’s on the Enterprise? Now?”
“Aye, sir,” says Scotty. “We’ve bin tryin’ to hail ye. Seems like they suddenly found him, sir, and I didnae want tae risk them losin’ him agin.”
Spock’s eyes are dark, shrouded, and stripped of expression, and Kirk realizes, suddenly, that it’s over. Whatever this intermezzo was - or could have been - it’s finished now, and there’s no chance to fix what it has broken. A hollow pit opens up at the base of Kirk’s stomach and threatens to suck the air out of his chest. “Very good, Mr. Scott,” he says. “Do you have a lock on us now?”
“Aye, sir,” says Scott. “First time in an oor, sir. Are ye ready for beam-out?”
No. “Yes, Mr. Scott. Beam out at will. Kirk out.”
He lifts his eyes to meet Spock’s and opens his mouth to speak, but there’s nothing to say. And then the beam takes him and the opportunity is lost.
~*~
“Dress uniforms for all command crew, Mr. Scott,” says Kirk as he steps down from the platform.
If his Chief Engineer is taken aback at the utilitarian greeting, he covers it quickly. “Aye, sir, so ordered,” he says.
“Good work, Scotty,” says Kirk. “Where’s the Professor now?”
“Gettin’ settled intae his quarters,” says Scotty. “I’ve assigned Yeoman Rogers tae him, sir. He seems happy enough.”
Spock stands behind him and to the right - close enough that Kirk can feel him hovering on the edge of his personal space, but just out of sight. The Captain turns to Lieutenant Kyle.
“Lieutenant, please arrange to beam up Mr. Spock’s and my luggage and have it sent to our respective quarters,” he says. “Scotty,” he adds, as Kyle nods and sets to work, “I’m going to change and then I’ll meet you up on the bridge. Let’s get started on the disembarkation protocols in the meantime.”
“Aye, sir,” he says. “Bin wantin’ tae see how she handles warp since I tweaked the antimatter relay circuits, sir - give the word and I’ll have her on the road in no time.”
Scott crosses to the door, which swishes open on the figure of Dr. McCoy, resplendent and uncomfortable in the blue dress uniform of the Science division. They pass in the doorway with perfunctory nods, and Bones saunters into the transporter room with an impassive smile that broadens when he turns it on the Captain.
“Welcome home, Jim,” he says. “How was shore leave?”
“Fine,” says Kirk before his face can call him a liar, and turns to his First.
“Mr. Spock,” he says, “No doubt some members of our crew are still planetside. I’ll leave it to you to co-ordinate their immediate return to Enterprise. I’d like to depart in no more than an hour’s time.”
“Yes, Captain,” says Spock, and there’s nothing about his tone or his expression that screams change, nothing that might indicate that anything is different between the two of them. Only the knowledge of that lacerating embrace colors his words in darker tones. There is the smallest of hesitations - half a second, nothing more - and then he’s gone and Kirk has to fight the sensation that he’s just been slugged in the gut.
He turns into McCoy’s upraised eyebrow. Bones misses nothing.
“Fine?” says the Doctor. “That’s it? No heart-warming tales of reminiscing with the Sareks? No holos of Seleya? Just ‘fine’, huh?”
“I didn’t think you were interested,” says Kirk, starting towards the door. He’s not actually expecting that to put Bones off, so it’s not really a surprise when he follows.
“Who says I’m interested?” he says, falling into step alongside the Captain. “Just bein’ polite. K’lan-ne was ‘fine’ too, thanks for askin’. Never did catch sight of a bottle of bourbon, but Jabilo knows this place serves somethin’ called kellorica - and, damn, Jim, tastes like paint stripper and cactus sap but it sure hits the spot. So, who sneezed in the hobgoblin’s plomeek soup?”
The abrupt subject-change is designed to catch him off his guard, but Kirk has known the Doctor for a long time. So he makes himself smile and says, “Who do you think, Bones? It was just the two of us on a long desert trek. Are you surprised I managed to get on his nerves?”
“Surprised he has a nerve to get on,” says Bones cheerfully. “Lord knows, I been tryin’ to do it for years.” A beat. “You gonna tell me how you managed it, or am I just gonna have to keep guessing?”
The tone is light, but Kirk knows better than to underestimate the Doctor’s penchant for niggling at a mystery. As they step into the turbolift, he says, airily, “Another time, Bones. Let’s just finish this mission first. How’s the Professor?”
“Ha!’ says Bones, inexplicably. Then: “I think you’ll like him. God help me, Jim he’s - he’s almost fun.”
Despite himself, Kirk’s lips twitch. “High praise indeed, coming from you, Bones,” he says. “I meant his health. Is he fit to travel?”
“Bit of dehydration, nothing major,” says McCoy. “Official story from the VSA is they just suddenly rustled him up and sent him straight over to us. His story is he’s partial to a bit of alone-time in the desert, takes off now and then for a few days and just kind of… hangs out. Helps his thought processes, he says. Not much by way of a calendar out in the Fire Plains, so I hear, and he got his dates mixed up, forgot he was supposed to be beaming up to the Enterprise. I’m not kidding, Jim. I like this guy.”
“But why would the VSA conceal his whereabouts from Starfleet?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” says Bones as the doors slide open onto Deck 5. “Don’t sound too logical to me, though, all this wandering in the desert. Kind of hard to explain to the Federation why you can’t find one of your Faculty all of a sudden, ‘specially when you’re supposed to be above that sort of thing.” They pull up outside the Captain’s quarters and Bones rocks back on his heels, clasping his hands behind his back. “Don’t mean you and the hobgoblin were wrong, of course. Just that the man’s just south of two hundred years old, and he looks mighty sprightly for an old guy who’s just gone through pon farr. But, then, I’m no expert.”
Kirk’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or punch a hole in something. He settles for hitting the door release button with more force than is strictly necessary, and turns to his friend. He says, “I need to get up to the bridge, Bones. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Sure,” says the Doctor, but as Kirk turns to walk into the empty chill of his quarters, he says, “Everything okay, Jim?”
Kirk blanks his face. “Fine, Bones,” he says.
“Fine, huh?” says the Doctor.
“Fine,” says Kirk, and shuts the door.
~*~
There’s a psychological power to the dress uniform that’s two parts superstition to one part subconscious conditioning. Maybe it’s because it’s what he was wearing the first time he set foot aboard his ship, but it’s always felt to Kirk as though the essence of his captaincy is woven into the rich, satin threads; as though authority is a question of external manifestation as much as a state of mind. Maybe there’s something in that, but now’s not the time to pursue it, and he’s uncomfortably aware that the last time he wore these clothes everything was different, so whatever bureaucratic black magic is contained within the synthetic imitation-silk fibers, it’s lost a little of its luster today.
He strides out of the turbolift to Scotty’s hasty, “Captain on the bridge,” and waves a hand vaguely to seat his command crew as they start to get to their feet. His eyes drift towards the science console entirely of their own volition and the sight of his First, poker-straight and unreachable, stabs an angry little burning pain into the hollow beneath his ribs. Spock meets his gaze, and that’s worse than an evasion, because at least when he was avoiding the Captain’s scrutiny it meant that there was something there that Spock didn’t want his friend to see. Now he lets his eyes lock onto Kirk’s, and there’s the briefest flash of acknowledgement - of buried, brutalized sadness - before it’s locked firmly away in that place Spock goes to when he doesn’t want to be found. His face is blank. He’s someone Kirk doesn’t know.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” says Kirk. “At ease, everyone. Let’s keep the bridge informal unless our guest is present. Mr. Spock” - and the angry pain twists against his chest - “are all the crew aboard?”
“All hands accounted for, Captain,” says Spock.
Kirk slides into the command chair and fixes his eyes on the viewscreen, where T’Khasi sprawls lazily below them, haunted by the eternal shadow of her sister-world. “Then let’s get the hell out of here,” he says.
END OF PART I
Chapter 13 (Section 1)
Chapter 12
Chapter 14