A Dance In Shadow And Silence (Part 2)
Title: A Dance In Shadow And Silence (Part 2)
Author: eimeo
Beta: T'Lara
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: R
Relationship status: Pre-slash/slash
Chapter: 1/1
Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Additional Pairings: Implied Chulu (if you want to read it that way)
Part 2
Sulu has rigged two blankets to the stern end of the raft and propped them up with their oars, whose function is largely decorative, now that there is nothing to row from, on a world on which there is almost nowhere to row to. It is difficult to say how much time has passed. The planet is tidally locked to its erstwhile sun and, on this side of the equator, there is no such thing as night, but the brain is accustomed to a circadian rhythm, and it wants to see the shadows lengthening after so many hours of dusk. To occupy himself in the long, quiet hours, Spock attempts to persuade the tricorder to map the gravity storm that dances a silent, destructive waltz above their heads, but the machine is not equipped to process data so complex, and it spits out error message after error message in a series of tinny little beeps.
This mission was lunacy. Worse: it was hubris. He ought to have let the Captain win.
“I know what you’re thinking, sir,” says Sulu quietly. He has wrapped Ensign Chekov in a thermal blanket and shuffled them both into their makeshift shelter, where he has laid the younger man’s head on his lap again, hand absently resting on his shoulder. It’s a gesture that is at once careless and fiercely protective, the way a mother might sleep with one hand touching her child.
Spock glances up. “Whilst psionic ability has been observed in some members of your species, Lieutenant,” he says, “I am unaware of any verified cases in which spontaneous thought transference has taken place between a Vulcan and a Human.”
Inexplicably, Sulu huffs a gentle laugh. “You’re right, Mr Spock,” he says. “I mean, I can guess what you’re thinking.”
An eyebrow arcs. “I find this unlikely.”
“You’re thinking that this is all your fault.”
Perhaps this is a side-effect of having no access to the minds of one’s contemporaries, this constant need to second-guess, to read, to probe, to understand. Nevertheless, there is no point in lying. Spock says, “You are partially correct. I was reflecting on the eminent avoidability of our present situation. Regret is, however, illogical. There is only what is.”
But Sulu shakes his head. “We all volunteered for this mission, sir,” he says. “Everyone on board that shuttle was there because they wanted to be.” A wistful smile catches the edges of his lips. “There was a moment, sir,” he says. “Before the engine shields denatured, before we lost control… she was so light, it was like I was piloting the air itself. You hear about the perfect grav-field, where the flux is so completely balanced by the anti-flux that it feels like you could steer her with a thought… I wanted to find that, sir. And I did. Whatever happens, I wouldn’t change it.”
Spock turns his gaze down into the belly of the raft, where brackish pink water worries at his boots. Tiny waves lap at his feet with the gentle rocking of the boat; an ocean in microcosm. He looks up. “And Mr Chekov?” he says.
Fingers resting on gold Starfleet fabric tighten reflexively for a second, then release. “He’ll be all right, sir.”
That was not the question, but Spock decides to let it go.
*
“And I understand that the cloud cover is quite beautiful at sunset,” Kirk is saying. He hesitates, then visibly changes tactics. “It’s the high allurite content in the water vapor, apparently. Its refractive properties create a prismatic effect.” A beat. “No other world in the Federation has the precise climatological conditions necessary to maintain atomized allurite within the troposphere.” Another beat. “So I hear.”
A long, expectant pause obliges Spock to lift his gaze from his steepled fingers, which effectively erases all hope of surreptitiously avoiding the Captain’s eye. Further equivocation is now impossible. Kirk is clearly waiting for a response.
“Indeed,” he says, in hope rather than expectation.
Predictably, it fails to placate. Kirk rolls his eyes and pivots on his heel, taking one full step across his quarters before spinning back to face his First. “Look, Spock,” he says. “If you don’t want to spend shore leave with me, just say so.”
It’s precisely the sort of aggrieved illogic that Spock finds so exasperating, primarily because it is its own confirmation bias. There is absolutely nothing he can say at this point that will be correct. And now deflection is manifestly off the table as well, so he’s not sure where that leaves him.
Carefully, he says, “Captain, I would remind you that no such invitation has been issued.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Spock!” There is nothing he can say. Absolutely nothing. “Very well. I’ve reserved a villa in the Fretanian Mountains for two nights. I can go on my own, but I’m requesting the pleasure of your company. Is that clear enough for you?”
It certainly removes one prevaricatory option, yes. Spock finds himself somewhat at a loss. He says, slowly, “I had planned to make use of the shore leave period to conclude my report on the ionic phase-shift we encountered en route to Magellan V.”
Kirk raises an eyebrow, but it is testament to the understanding that has developed between them that he makes no comment on Spock’s choice of vacationary activity. Instead, he says, “Well, you can do that in a villa in the Fretanian Mountains just as easily as you can on board the ship.”
“Surely this negates the imperative of the exercise?” says Spock, without thinking.
A wide grin spreads across the Captain’s face. “Why, Mr Spock,” he says. “I believe you’ve just inadvertently recognized the rationale behind shore leave.”
He has. There is no denying this. The entire enterprise seems eminently illogical, and, thus far at least, his evident distaste for the pursuit of recreation without discernible purpose has been sufficient to excuse him. And now, with eight ill-considered words, he has backed himself into a corner from which he knows better than to think he can extricate himself. He has conceded that to occupy himself in report-writing is to invalidate the exercise that he has steadfastly refused to acknowledge. There’s probably no way out of this now.
“Captain,” he says slowly.
“Jim,” says Kirk.
Spock resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Jim,” he amends. “I am unskilled at collegiality. I see no reason to believe that I will be a satisfactory companion on your vacation.”
Kirk’s brow furrows. “Spock…” he says. “Do you really…? Is that what you believe? That I find you poor company?”
“I believe,” says Spock cautiously, “That you would find Dr McCoy a more suitable associate in this endeavor.”
Kirk shakes his head, waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, Bones is heading off with Scotty to the capital. Apparently, there’s a twelve star hotel on the main plaza that he’s always wanted to visit. I think I spend quite enough time indoors without wasting shore leave in a city center, don’t you?”
Perhaps, but that doesn’t answer the question. Spock allows his eyebrow to comment on his behalf.
Kirk grins - that warm, honey smile that lights his eyes from within and colors the air around him. He says, “Spock, Bones and I have been friends for a long time. You and I have not. I don’t seek out your company out of any misplaced sense of duty, I do it because I want to. I can think of no other person with whom I’d rather watch the sky turning all the colors of the rainbow than you.” He hesitates, and uncertainty clouds his face. “If I’ve misspoken, I apologize. I consider you a close friend, Spock. You’re under no obligation to return the sentiment.”
It’s not the first time that Kirk has used the word to describe their relationship. It’s not even the first time that his actions have reinforced the rhetoric. But there is no disguising the motivation behind this gesture: evening games of chess; invitations to long post-shift debates, propelled by brandy and enthusiasm into the small hours of the morning; easy familiarity; respect and courtesy; all these things are the mark of esteem, but none of them speak so irrefutably of naked affection than the simple desire to share these days of quiet time with his colleague.
This, then, is what they have become. And Spock finds himself disturbed.
He says, “Forgive me, Captain. I have no frame of reference from which to proceed. I am uncertain of the protocol.”
An uneasy laugh. “There is no protocol, Spock. We vacation together, as friends do. We’ll either get along just fine or we’ll barely avoid killing each other. Either way, the worlds of the Federation will keep turning. What do you say?”
What can he say? Spock inclines his head. “I accept your offer, Captain,” he says. “Thank you.”
Kirk’s grin flares widely, obliterating the creeping doubt. “Excellent!” he says. “Pack warm clothes, Spock - I hear it gets chilly at night…”
And in the end, it turns out that the guidebook was not wrong: the clouds of the Fretanian Mountains at sunset cast geometric rainbows into the heavens that could disappoint neither a poet nor a scientist. Spock and his Captain talk easily of many things, and when there is no need to talk, they sit quietly in silence, like two men who have known each other all their lives. There is no reason to feel so uneasy, no reason for the noisy tumult in his unsettled mind, and yet he finds he cannot suppress it, no matter how he tries.
*
Sulu is sleeping, head lolling on his neck and bobbing upwards in periodic little fits and starts as his breathing is obstructed by the angle of his throat. It does not look particularly restful, but his eyes never open, and, anyway, how would Spock know what passes for acceptable slumber amongst his Human peers? His arms, slackened by unconsciousness, loosely grip the supine chest of their navigator, who is pressed up tight against his friend’s ribcage and cocooned in a thermal blanket. Chekov’s temperature has dropped alarmingly in the hours they’ve been aboard and they have no way to regulate it, so Sulu is attempting to use his own body as a thermostat of sorts, and, after long, empty minutes spent staring silently into the featureless ocean, his eyes have closed of their own accord. He looks younger when he sleeps. They both do.
Spock watches them absently. The pain in his chest has eased, now that he has the time to devote to its control, and it would be easy to slip from this twilight haze of contemplative stillness into a meditative trance. But he finds that, afforded the luxury of observation, he prefers to simply sit and look. Chekov’s face is slack and motionless, but the delicate crest and fall of the blanket speaks of life that refuses to fail. It is not logical, but, then again, when was life ever logical? Tenacity is its hallmark; chaos and asymmetry and anomaly its lifeblood. His people can turn away from discord and disorder and seek to systematize the business of survival, but the thunder and turmoil of procreation exposes the Disciplines as a facade. Life simply takes what it needs and carries on.
The life of one man is, objectively, worth very little. One hundred years from now, had Chekov simply slipped with the shuttlecraft into the Stygian deep, he might be remembered as a footnote at the bottom of a long and crowded page in the lives of those who knew him once. Two hundred years from now, and there will be no-one left to care. Sulu had a choice, in those disordered moments, and he made it so easily it was as though it was no decision at all. I’ll get him out of this craft or I’ll die trying, he said, and the fact is that he would have died trying, had Spock not been available to lend his superior strength, and then two lives would have been lost for the sake of one. Subjectively, then, the life of one man might be worth more than everything. More, even, than the chance for continued survival. This makes absolutely no sense, from an evolutionary perspective, and yet… And yet Spock knows that he has walked in those shoes and made those choices; he knows from experience that, sometimes, continued survival is unthinkable if it’s at the expense of one particular life. And he cannot bring himself to call this wrong.
Spock watches his companions sleeping, watches the care with which the Lieutenant protects his fragile charge, the tenderness of his touch and the devotion it betrays. He watches, and he wonders.
*
“There you are, Spock,” says a familiar voice as he exits the turbolift. “Are you avoiding me?”
Well, not anymore. “My presence has been necessary in the computer laboratory,” says Spock. It’s not an answer, but he understands that Kirk will process it as such. It allows them both to take what they need from this exchange.
“Yes,” says Kirk. “That often seems to be the case these days. Since we got back from shore leave, in fact.”
Too late, Spock realizes that there is nothing he can do to prevent this conversation from happening. Moreover, by specifically seeking to avoid it, he has essentially ceded control of it to Kirk, which means that the Captain gets to choose where and when it will take place. And if the ‘where’ turns out to be the corridor outside the turbolift on Deck 5, then there is very little that Spock can do to obviate this, since it’s clear that the ‘when’ is going to be right now.
At the very least, he can attempt to steer them towards his quarters, which he does by striking off at a purposeful pace. As expected, the Captain falls into step alongside him.
Spock elects to open with a defensive maneuver. “In the event,” he says, “I was able to devote very little time to report-writing while we were planetside.”
Beside him, the Captain’s face creases into a censored smile. “Yes,” he says. “I believe I may have encouraged a certain air of complacency…”
Spock quirks an eyebrow, but on the side of his face that Kirk can’t see. “Indeed,” he says.
They have reached the door to his cabin. Kirk rocks back on his heels, and Spock wonders if he needs to invite his Captain inside or whether they can quietly conclude their business now. There is an air of restless energy buzzing around his companion that is difficult to read.
Kirk casts his eyes towards the ground. “Spock…” he says slowly. He hesitates, catches a breath, tries again: “It’s not my intention to…” And this sentence fragment goes the way of the first. With obvious effort, he schools his features and makes a third attempt: “Look, Spock - I would hate to think that my actions made you uncomfortable in any way. I simply… I never know. I value our… our time together. But perhaps…” He trails off, and now he glances up. His eyes meet Spock’s, and there is nowhere to look but directly into their relentless gaze. “Perhaps I’m projecting my own… my own desires?”
The question is clear, and it needs an answer. Prevarication will not work. But what is the truth?
The truth is that he has never felt so easy in himself as he did in those quiet days of indolence, when there was nothing to do but enjoy the company of the single person who has ever sought out Spock’s companionship for its own sake. He has never felt so contented as he does at his Captain’s side. Kirk’s simple, uncomplicated regard washed over him like the waves of a warm sea: his smiles, sunshine-bright and uncountable; his ready laughter; his hand on Spock’s shoulder, on his elbow, on his forearm, on his wrist. Inches from his fingers, casual intimacy, and yet he said nothing and did not pull away. He fears that he has come to accept the gradual erosion of the walls between them; that he will come to depend on the affection that swims between them. That he will come to depend upon the man who accepts him wholly and in all parts; that he will begin to require the evidence of his esteem as he now requires food and air.
That this has already happened.
But he cannot say any of these things. To speak of them aloud is unthinkable. So he says, “I merely require time to moderate my present workload, Captain.”
Kirk holds his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, and it seems as though he will press the issue. But then he smiles, and the challenge in his eyes is erased behind an easy camaraderie.
“All right, Spock,” he says. “Just don’t work too hard. The point of shore leave is to alleviate stress, you know.” His hand rises swiftly to grip Spock’s elbow: careless, familiar appropriation of Spock’s personal space. It is an effort not to react.
*
The craft jerks, rests, twists, and suddenly there is a powerful tremor running through the hull. Spock sucks in a breath and it is half a second before he realizes that he has been woken from a deep sleep; a half second longer before his furiously re-booting brain will supply him with details of his current location. It is, therefore, almost 1.25 seconds before he realizes that the source of the agitation is Ensign Chekov, and the cause is a violent seizure that grips and trembles his supine body.
Sulu is a moment behind his CO, and then his eyes flash panic. “Pavel!” he cries, and slides out from behind his friend to take hold of the navigator’s shoulders as though he can force the fit to stop if only he can pin him down tightly enough. “Pavel, stop! Stop!”
Spock moves swiftly to the central bunker and fishes inside for the medical kit. “Lieutenant, you are attempting to talk a comatose man out of an autonomic bodily reaction,” he says as he selects the hypospray and an ampule of cordrazine. It is far from ideal as an anti-seizure medication, and he has no real idea of what dosage is effective in a Human, but he reasons that convenience is the prime consideration when compiling a standard medkit, and they have presumably settled on the volume inside the applicator for a reason. He presses the hypo to Chekov’s neck and releases, and then, on the basis that it can’t hurt, he reloads with tri-ox compound and waits.
“Sir, it’s not working!” says Sulu desperately, as Chekov writhes and thrashes in the bilge water. The raft bucks beneath him, dancing on the gentle waves, spilling seawater over the sides in irregular splashes.
This much is obvious, but Spock swallows the words before they can form. “Patience, Lieutenant,” he says, though he’s not sure how long a Human can be allowed to fit before the risk of permanent damage becomes acute. There is another ampule of cordrazine in the kit, but can he use it safely? And what if another emergency should arise - will melenex be sufficient if they run out of cordrazine? More to the point, when did he start thinking along the lines of their long-term survival?
“Patience,” he says again, though, in truth, Spock is becoming more than a little impatient himself. They have not prevailed this far, risked life and limb to bring Ensign Chekov with them, only to fail now. He will not succumb to a seizure in the bottom of a life raft, swaddled in salt water and watched helplessly by his shipmates.
It has been almost ninety seconds, Spock realizes, and the Ensign cannot be receiving sufficient oxygen. Quietly, he passes the tri-ox spray to Sulu, who takes it without comment and delivers it into his friend’s jugular vein. Perhaps it works; perhaps it doesn’t. There is no way to tell. Even as the convulsion releases its clutch, even as the feverish tremor settles and gradually stills, there is no way to know what chaos has been wrought inside the navigator’s skull. Sulu takes the tricorder from Spock with trembling hands and runs it over Chekov’s head, but he looks up, ashen-faced, and shrugs.
“In the absence of a definite prognosis,” says Spock firmly, “Let us proceed as before.”
Part 1
Part 3