Spice - Chapter 46
Title: Spice
Author: eimeo
Beta: miloowen
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Pre-slash to slash
Chapter: 46/54
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 46
The journey from San Francisco has taken less than two hours, though it has felt alternately much longer and much shorter. Spock is beyond illogic now, however, and decided before the car had cleared the snow-swept peaks of the Sierra Nevada that he was going to ignore every whisper of disquiet or ambivalence that might attempt to unsettle his resolve, and so he has passed the time in studious contemplation of the changing terrain below as the miles race by. He has not so much as attempted a trance. If it wouldn’t come on the journey to Earth, it’s hardly likely to effect a sudden triumphant return now that he’s en route to Idaho, and, in any case, this is precisely the sort of Sisyphean endeavor that’s liable to produce the opposite of its intended effect, in that its failure must serve only to call attention to his fractured controls. Spock’s peace of mind is precarious enough right now; he does not require any assistance in destabilizing it further.
His robes are travel-creased and uncomfortable against his skin, and they carry the faint scent of civilian interstellar transit woven through the fabric. They seem… ill-suited to the current venture, but it was this or his uniform, and, though Spock can’t put his finger on exactly why the latter seems like a bad idea, some hidden instinct is quite insistent about this, and, in the absence of any rational alternative, he’s prepared to acquiesce. McCoy’s wardrobe, fortunately, is better stocked than the modest valise that Spock has brought with him from Gol, and he insisted that Spock take temporary possession of a thick waterproof jacket, formerly employed against the heavy rains of Beta Auraculi, along with a set of woolen gloves and some sort of oiled canvas headgear that smells of unpolished copper and mothballs. Spock has shrugged on the coat-homespun desert wool is a poor defense against the chill of a north-Californian winter day-but the other items sit, untouched, on the seat beside him. He’ll decide what to do about them later.
Later. The arid scrublands of Nevada and southeastern Oregon have given way to the urban greenery of Ada County, and, ahead of him on the horizon, he can see the flat plain buckle as it begins the long climb into the Rockies. There is not much later left.
He would like to be more certain of his welcome. McCoy has been adamant on the subject, in terms that hinted of some non-specific threat of retributive violence, should Spock elect to remain in San Francisco, as per his stated intention, and await the admiral’s return, but he cannot truthfully believe that Kirk’s decision to remove himself from Starfleet Headquarters this week evidences a desire for anybody’s company, let alone Spock’s. He could comm, of course, announce his intentions and see what happens next, and the fact that he has not done this-that he has contented himself with nothing more than a brief message to Kirk’s yeoman, asking that she notify her commander of Spock’s intent-unsettles him further. Still. Alea iacta est, as the ancient Terran general said; the car is over Boise now, and Spock’s communicator is on. If Kirk wants to comm him to tell him to turn around, he still has time; otherwise, Spock will continue as he is. It is, perhaps, not the most watertight plan he has ever devised, but it's the one he's following just the same.
He’d simply rest a little easier if he were confident that this decision was correct. His history with Kirk is littered with miscalculation and tactical error; it seems presumptuous to think that he’s suddenly developed clarity of reasoning in the past week, simply because he’d like it to be so. Spock’s logic has always been uncertain where James Kirk is concerned.
The car lurches as it slices through a mountain thermal, and, in the moment before the inertial dampeners kick in, Spock is obliged to throw out a hand to steady himself against the window. The glass is cool beneath his touch, and the water vapor that has condensed against the pane is beginning to freeze as the altitude climbs. A tinny little chirrup from the navcom announces their imminent arrival at his programmed coordinates, and Spock is obliged to suppress a spike of something that feels alarmingly like unmitigated horror, and to lament the speed and efficiency of Terran domestic transportation methods that deliver a traveler to his destination with scarcely enough time to reconcile himself to the prospect of the conversation to come, let alone implement adequate preparations. And yet, even in the midst of his distraction, he cannot help but wonder if any length of preparation would be sufficient for this. Everything is about to change, he thinks; all there is left to him now is to hold on tightly as the world shifts beneath him, and hope he can find his feet again when it’s over.
Because he understands now, and it is, after all, as simple as it has always seemed. He loves James Kirk. He is in love with James Kirk. And he is loved in return; it has been so for many years, and running from it has only made it stronger. As the car crests the final hill, as a smoking chimney climbs above a thicket of snow-capped evergreens to reveal the house beneath it, Spock wonders if, perhaps, the intense antipathy he experienced that first day of Kirk’s command might not have been the early manifestation of an attraction so instinctive and profound that it shook him to the core of his Discipline; if the hostility that soured the air between them for so many weeks was nothing more than the fear that has haunted him for all these years, trying to find its way out in a manner that he could understand, sublimate, and condone. He supposes that it no longer matters. He may never be able to pinpoint the hour that he fell in love, but, as the car descends to the frost-sown yard, as the front door of the house opens and his friend steps out onto the porch, buried in a thick coat two sizes too big for him and absently toweling his hands, Spock can pinpoint the moment, the second, that he decided to stop fighting it.
Kaiidth.
He takes a moment to collect himself before he orders the car to open its doors. A second, no longer-there is protocol to observe, after all-but even that brief interlude is enough to convince him that he’s prevaricating: an hour or more would not be sufficient to gather his reverberating thoughts, to ease out the tension in his shoulders and his neck, to settle the rush of apprehension and desire that slams into his controls like a landslide as he considers the task ahead. Where it may lead and what it may mean. If any of this is possible; if Spock can make it so. If he even ought to try.
Enough. Spock engages the egress mechanism. The doors slide open.
He’s expecting the chill-it would be difficult to overlook it, given the thick carpet of snow that hangs upon every open surface-but the strength of its assault is startling. Spock was not aware that the Terran temperature dropped so obscenely, preposterously low, and he cannot for the life of him imagine why any sentient being would choose to make its home amongst such extremes. McCoy’s hat and gloves, discarded in the back seat of the car and now out of unobtrusive reach, are beginning to make considerable sense, but there’s already a faint smile playing at the edge of the admiral’s lips as he slings the towel over his shoulder and leans his arms against the veranda’s rail, a light behind his eyes that bodes poorly for Spock’s dignity, and he prefers to mitigate against any further injury to his self-respect.
“Beautiful day,” says Jim innocently, as Spock steps onto the frozen ground and attempts to fold his hands at his stomach without succumbing to a violent shiver.
An eyebrow arches. Even that makes him feel colder. “It is…” says Spock, and allows a meaningful glance at the banked snow above the eaves to make his point for him, “…regional.”
A low chuckle from his friend gusts a veil of steam into the air. “There’s a fire inside,” he says. “Please come in, Mr. Spock. You look absolutely bloodless.”
For a brief moment, Spock considers arguing, and it’s only partially in defense of Vulcan honor. Inside seems disproportionately personal just now, as though it represents a final abdication of control, and old habits die hard.
On the other hand, though, he has never in his life felt cold like this, and there’s a fire in the house. Control may be overrated. “Thank you,” he says, and experiences a moment of satisfaction at the brief flash of panic that ghosts across his commander's face before he’s able to school it back into his habitual casual charm. There is something enormously comforting in the knowledge that, as ill-prepared as Spock might feel, he’s not the only one flying blind just now. He’s not the only one without any notion of what happens next, and he’s not the only one who finds that prospect more than a little terrifying.
But, alea iacta est. He follows Kirk onto the veranda, and from there into the house.
“Please forgive my intrusion,” says Spock as his friend leads the way into the main living quarters: comfortably furnished, with two throw-scattered couches and an assortment of armchairs arranged around a wide hearth, where a fire crackles heat and warmth into a room that smells of pine and rosewater and burning wood. “I asked your office to inform you of my itinerary….”
“It’s no intrusion,” says Kirk, and there’s something in his face that Spock can’t quite place-consternation? Or frustration? “I’ve been out back all afternoon; if the office called, I haven’t picked it up. Please-have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
The words are evenly spoken, unhurried, but there’s a sense of urgency to them that mirrors the trepidation tightening Spock’s chest. He lowers himself into the chair closest to the fire-sweet and blessed heat again in a world turned to ice-and says, “Tea would be welcome.”
“Tea, of course,” says Jim. His brow furrows. “I don’t think the synthesizer is set for theris-masu…”
This is not unexpected. Or, at least, it wouldn’t be, if Spock’s thoughts were less fragmented just now.
“Earl Gray will be a satisfactory substitute,” he says, “or chamomile, if it is available.”
Kirk nods distractedly and turns for the kitchen, and, belatedly, it occurs to Spock to wonder if his commander’s coffee habit is a familial trait and if it would, in fact, have been less trouble to request a glass of water. It appears to be impossible to persuade his brain to process these thoughts at a useful speed, however. No matter. The very thought of introducing any form of refreshment or sustenance to his stomach at this moment sends nausea curling through his abdomen, and this, surely, is the larger problem in the general scheme of things. He wonders if Kirk will notice if he simply cradles the cup between his hands for warmth and declines to sample its contents.
Alone, restive, he stands to shed his coat, folding it neatly to store on the back of his chair, and, freshly chilled through the spare fabric of his robes, he takes a step closer to the warmth of the fire, rubbing his hands while he remains unobserved. The chimneybreast is broad and rough-plastered, whitewash overlaid with the patina of many years’ use, and he lets his eyes roll over its contents as he waits for Jim to return. A lintel crosses it above the firebox, a thick slab of untreated oak hardened by the heat, and, on the mantelpiece, someone has arranged a collection of mementoes so eclectic as to tell a tale through their diversity alone. An old clock keeps time half a minute slow in the center of the melée, flanked on either side by two ornate brass candlesticks topped with waxy stubs long since burned past usefulness. An assortment of china vases jostle for space with a darkwood box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; a glass bowl full of marbles; and an ancient oil lamp, black with soot. And above them, suspended from the wall, hangs a holo of a man and a woman that Spock recognizes immediately, though it is six years since he has seen either face, and they must be fifteen years younger again in their picture. He is George Kirk, Jr., whose brother always called him Sam; she is Aurelan, his wife, who survived him by a day.
Theirs is the only portrait to hang on this wall. Elsewhere in the room, faces known and unknown keep company with starmaps and landscapes and images of assorted Terran fauna, but here, on the chimneybreast, a couple long dead hold lonely court. And yet, to their left, an unused hook and an asymmetric arrangement testifies to the presence, at one time, of another photograph. Its absence tells a story of its own, Spock thinks, but this, like everything else in the room, belongs to a different Kirk, a Kirk that Spock has seen only rarely, and the shift in matters between them has not yet resolved itself into the kind of easy familiarity that they used to share. He will not ask; not today. Perhaps he will wait to be told.
“Chamomile,” says Kirk briskly as he returns, a steaming mug in either hand, and the moment is lost in confusion as Spock’s erstwhile CO crosses the room towards him to stand by the fire. He stops a cautious distance away, at the apex of his arm’s reach, and Spock is obliged to take a half step forward to retrieve his tea.
“Thank you,” he says, and cradles the cup to his chest. He can feel it warming his sternum through the fabric of his robe, almost past the point of comfort, but drinking it remains impossible, and he’d prefer to avoid drawing attention to this fact if at all possible. Kirk, he notices, has mirrored the gesture. Neither of them sips. Neither of them speaks. If Spock were not Vulcan, he thinks, he might find the moment uncomfortable.
“So,” says his friend after a moment. “You found your way here, then.”
Evidently. But Spock suspects he’s beginning to reacquire some of his hard-won fluency in Human emotional nuance, and his answer, he thinks, requires a little more subtlety than simple recognition of fact. Carefully, he says, “The journey presented little difficulty.”
A brief nod. Kirk’s face is unreadable. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
There's something quite remarkable about the way that, despite everything, despite all they’ve shared and all they’ve lost, Jim remains unaware of the hold that he has always exercised over Spock. It is not logical, of course, but Spock cannot claim any particular superiority himself in that respect, and so he says nothing. He thinks, perhaps, he’s beginning to understand at last.
“I believe,” he says now, slowly, testing the words on his tongue before they leave his lips, “that an offer was made some years hence, that, in the event of a successful conclusion to our former mission, I might be introduced to this region in your company.”
Kirk’s brow furrows and for a long, protracted second, Spock fears that he has misjudged: that the moment was not, in fact, appropriate to reminiscence, and that he has inadvertently pushed the limits of his latitude. Three years’ absence has frosted over the easy familiarity that they used to share, and he is, in any case, unequivocally out of practice in the art of camaraderie, even if he were certain of how to say the words he needs to say. And then, sudden warmth lights his companion’s face as understanding dawns, and Spock can almost see the memory of that long-ago conversation flash behind Jim’s eyes: a late night after a difficult mission and its unsatisfactory end; a fractious commander, haunted by his ghosts; his second in command, lost for reassurances, who must have loved him even then. He sees it whisper across his friend’s face as recollection carries him back across the years, and Spock resists the urge to release the breath that has caught in his chest. The room may be warmer than the yard, but he’s not entirely convinced that any sudden exhalation will not mist in front of his face.
“You remembered,” says Kirk. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips; Spock considers that it’s probably redundant to reference his eidetic memory. “Of course you did. Well. Far be it from me to go back on my word.” The smile breaks free, sunshine in a world of darkness, and Spock wonders how he ever managed to convince himself that this was something he could live without. “Welcome to the Rockies, Mr. Spock.”
Spock nods. Something has released in his chest and his breathing is easier, more even, than it was a moment ago. “I was uncertain,” he says, “as to whether or not the invitation still held.”
An arched eyebrow indicates that Kirk has not missed his meaning. “The invitation will always hold, Mr. Spock,” he says, but his tone has changed. The commander’s voice is creeping in. “Though I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. Seven days, I thought you’d said?”
Spock has no intention of acknowledging the indecent haste with which he made his way back to Earth from Iota Cilicia XII, where Ambassador Sarek and his wife are currently in attendance at the Polemius conference, but there are undoubtedly matters to be discussed. He wishes he could unobtrusively set down his mug of tea; it is beginning to be inconvenient, and he’d like to be able to fold his hands for this. So, instead, and in the absence of any alternative exterior signifier of extreme dignity under duress, he lengthens his spine and elects to open with, “In the event, affairs were settled more rapidly than I had expected.”
“Clearly,” says Kirk. “It’s been almost… three days, by my count. That’s not enough time to get to Vulcan and back.”
“Correct,” says Spock, who is beginning to wonder why he failed to consider the fact that James Kirk can calculate warp trajectories and relative distance with a speed and precision that approaches Spock’s own. “As I stated on board the Enterprise, my task on Vulcan is complete.”
There is a lengthy silence, filled with the absence of capitulation. Kirk purses his lips.
“Of course,” he says, “if you don’t want to discuss it, that’s your right….”
Ah. The trailing sentence. The ultimate weapon in the Human arsenal of passive interrogation. Kirk’s preferred approach is direct assault; his deployment now of the subtler inquisitive arts says more about his emotional state than he might prefer to telegraph. Spock suppresses the sigh that is attempting to escape his disordered controls, and considers how best to begin the least welcome conversation of his life.
“I did not return to Vulcan,” he says slowly. It helps to fix his eyes on a point two inches above the top of Kirk’s head. “My parents are not currently in residence on my homeworld.”
There’s a pause. And then a nod. Spock has the distinct impression that the information is not unexpected, and takes a moment to lament the passage of sufficient time as to allow the admiral the opportunity for a really good think.
Kirk peers into his untouched mug, makes an expression of faint distaste, and sets it on the mantelpiece. Spock would have been pleased to learn earlier in their discussion that this was an option, but, he reflects, as his friend turns away from the fire and crosses to a sideboard in the corner of the room, where a half-full decanter rests alongside three cut-crystal tumblers, the data remains relevant. He stashes his tea beside a floral vase and folds his hands at his stomach, as the admiral unstoppers the bottle with a plosive pop and pours himself a generous measure.
Whisky splashes against glass, and Kirk turns over one shoulder, beaker raised in mute enquiry. “Thank you, no,” says Spock, and his friend nods, as though this, too, is expected. He turns back to the room, glass in hand, and, though his face has hardened into command focus, the eyes behind the mask are tired as he lowers himself onto the couch in front of the fire. An upward glance meets Spock’s eye for the first time in many minutes, and Kirk nods towards the chair to his left.
“Please sit down,” he says. “You may not have been to Vulcan, but you’ve been somewhere. You must be tired from your journey.”
It’s a variation on the theme of questions that aren’t quite questions. Spock is beginning to understand a little more clearly how his former captain has always been so adept at wrangling information from his conversational partners over inconsequentials and small talk, and it occurs to him to wonder, for the first time, how often Spock himself has been the unwitting subject of James Kirk's particular brand of data-gathering. But he sits just the same: he has seen almost twenty years’ service in deep space and nearly as many again at his parents’ side on their frequent interstellar travels, but none of them have been quite as exacting as the passage he’s just completed. And besides: by settling into the armchair at his back, the chamomile tea is placed definitively out of reach.
“Thank you,” he says, as he lowers himself onto a fire-warmed cushion. “I am not excessively fatigued.”
Kirk’s lips quirk upwards into half a smile. “Really?" he says pleasantly. "That hasn’t been my experience of the aftermath of a conversation with your father.”
A filial defense is probably expected here, but denial is illogical. “Perhaps,” says Spock, and experiences a moment of satisfaction at the consternation that flashes briefly across his friend’s face. “However, I have not had the opportunity to speak with the Ambassador.”
“Oh?” An eyebrow arches as Kirk raises his glass to his lips, sips amber liquid. “I thought you said you’d visited with your parents?”
How can he explain it? It’s important to get this right, but, equally, Spock is still finding his way over unfamiliar terrain, guided, for the first time in his life, by little more than instinct and ideas, and he’s not certain he has the words just yet. When he left the Enterprise, it was with the express intention of seeking out his mother, in the hope that the question of his absence from Gol could be summarily discharged with the minimum of controversy, and establishing to his satisfaction that his initial hypothesis was fundamentally flawed and informed by an insufficiently rigorous theoretical framework. He could have commed ahead to advise of his intent, but he appears to be making a habit of the surprise appearance of late, and, in any case, he suspected that any discussion of his failure to complete Kolinahr, emotional as it was bound to be, was better suited to direct interview. The Ambassador’s attendance on Iota Cilicia XII is a matter of public record and the work of a few moments’ searching to determine; another thirty-seven seconds’ investigation established Sigma Cilicia IV as the closest spaceport to the ship’s current trajectory, as plotted that morning and adjusted some 3.3 hours earlier. Given a steady course heading and the procurement of suitable onward travel, the entire endeavor was likely to be concluded in no more than 173 hours, allowing for flight delays and travel lag, and assuming a total of two Cilician days planetside in order to ensure that his mother’s itinerary was not disrupted by her son's arrival. It was a plan that offered very little in the way of contraindications, and a high statistical probability of success.
What he had not anticipated-what he had no way of predicting, as it turns out-was his own reaction to seeing her.
Spock has always thought that fear for his mother drove his anger at his father; it has been a fundamental tenet of their interaction for as long as he cares to remember, and it has colored every word and every action that has passed between them. He arrived on Iota Cilicia XII with the understanding that a logical error may have crept into his reasoning along the way, and that his fear may have been built on a child’s misreading of a situation for which he had no context, but he had never considered that the entire edifice upon which his parental relationship is constructed could itself be fundamentally unstable. Because it turns out that he might, in fact, be afraid for his mother because he’s angry at his father, and this changes things considerably. It’s possible this is much more complicated than he thought.
Amanda walked beside her husband, hands joined in the ozh’esta as the crowd filtered out of the great stadium that takes up the entire central sector of the northern city of Rhee: two elegant figures on their own private island of calm, amongst a tidal wave of senators and diplomats and admirals and reporters that bustled and swirled and spilled around them, and could not break the touch that connected them. Forty years have passed since she made her decision; seasons have come and gone; the son she bore and raised has grown to manhood and begun his own search for his place in the universe, and still she walks proudly by her husband; still she joins her hand to his so that everyone can see the choice that she has made. Captivity, Spock once told his commander, is often a question of perspective, but it turns out that Spock's own perspective might have been shuttered by filial resentment and frustration, the blind defiance of the son of an exacting father. Many times, his mother could have left. Many times, she could have walked away, and, true, there's a sense of duty deeply ingrained into the fibers that make up Amanda Grayson, but there's also a stubbornness there, so robust that it could warp steel, if focused correctly, and she has never been a woman to be underestimated or misused. Spock found himself on the edge of the melee, following a few yards behind as they made their way back to the Ambassador's rooms, and, from nowhere, a memory crept out the depths of recall: a bright summer's day, sunlight spilling like thick cream through the open window, the scent of vinegar and spice on the warm air as his mother hums an aria from an old Vulcan opera while she stirs a bubbling pot on the stove….
Whatever she knew before she made her choice, whatever she has discovered since, she has no regrets. He saw this in the look she turned on his father when a stray arm jostled her from the crowd and he caught her, mid-stumble, without question and without thought. He saw it in the unguarded moment that passed between them: her smile, his tolerant acceptance of her smile, their easy warmth borne of long years of contentment. This is love, and this is logic, and there was no need to hear it spoken aloud in order to be certain. Spock saw his parents and he knew.
He thinks Jim will understand this, when Spock can find the words to explain it: the way the pieces fell suddenly into place and all that was left was to find the first and quickest transport across the sector, make his way back to Earth, find Jim and tell him what he'd learned. He suspects that, eventually, this will become the stuff of I told you sos and private jokes, and that McCoy, though he will not be privy to the details, will indulge his penchant for knowing smiles at Spock's expense for many years to come. And Spock will accept this without hesitation, without so much as a pause for reflection, because there is no question now: his choice is also made. It was made eight years ago, in fact, before he was ever aware of the choosing.
But he says none of this. He doesn't have the words just yet. So, instead, he quirks an eyebrow, meets a hazel-eyed scrutiny head on, and says, impassively, "Indeed."
Gentle laughter meets his answer. "I see we're still practicing the ancient Vulcan art of inscrutability," says Kirk, and takes another sip from his whisky. The hand that holds the glass, Spock cannot help but notice, is trembling faintly, and there is a part of him, a newborn, unfamiliar part, that would like to rise from his seat, take a half-step towards the couch and lower himself down beside his friend; wrap his fingers around Jim's and press his lips to the knuckles, one by one, until the tremors cease. The thought of it-the intimacy of the gesture, and the ease; the way Jim's eyes will close and his head will roll back on his shoulders; the way he will surrender himself to the moment as though it were as natural as the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins-makes Spock's breath catch in his throat. The man who could do this has not quite finished forming yet, but he will. It is only a matter of time.
"I would prefer," he says, and there's a hoarseness to his voice that was not there a moment ago, and he does not have to search too deeply to find the cause, "that there be no misunderstandings between us."
Kirk looks up sharply, eyebrows raised. "Yes," he says. "You've said that before."
"It remains the case."
"And I remain as far as ever from understanding, Mr. Spock."
The words are lightly spoken, but there's a tension behind them that Spock cannot fault; he has, as yet, said nothing of consequence, and it was always a long shot that the simple fact of his appearance here would be enough to bury the hurts and confusions and frustrations that they have spent almost a decade constructing. It is suddenly difficult to remain seated, and he finds himself moving without conscious thought, standing before he's aware of the urge to rise, and crossing to the fireplace once more. Flames crackle and spit at his knees, and Spock turns towards them, facing the solitary portrait and its missing twin, facing away from Kirk. It is easier to speak if he does not have to look him in the eye.
Easier, perhaps, but not exactly easy. He should have accepted the offer of whisky, he thinks, though it's not as though it would have had any effect; this is, in a sense, precisely the problem. Spock takes a deep breath, releases it, and makes himself speak.
"It is a question," he says slowly, "of biology."
A long pause. And then: "Vulcan… biology?"
"Yes." He hesitates. "And Human."
"Ah." A soft puff of breath. "Well. This conversation feels alarmingly familiar."
"I assure you, Jim," says Spock, and he does not need to look at his friend to know that the use of his given name has softened his eyes, his face, "this conversation is entirely new."
Silence behind him; the sound of a swallow, a glass coming to rest against the wooden floor. A creak, as of couch springs protesting the sudden absence of a body, and a soft footfall that marks the passage of two feet across the faded throw rug in front of the hearth. Spock does not turn his head; he does not need to. He could follow Jim’s motion in a lightless room.
"All right," says his friend at his shoulder. He is close enough to touch, but he makes no move to do so, and Spock is profoundly grateful for this: for his proximity, and for his distance. "Tell me."
Well. Kaiidth. He knew what he was coming here to do. Spock folds his hands at his stomach, feeling the heat of the fire lick across his chilled skin, and begins.
"My mother is Human," he says, "but my blood is my father's. His genetic legacy is dominant, and it has governed my physiological constitution."
Kirk does not speak, makes no noise of confirmation or assent, though nothing Spock has said so much as supplements his existing knowledge. He simply waits. There is not a sentient being that might pass Spock on the street who would not be able to determine from observation alone the salient facts of the information he has just imparted, but this, he thinks, is not really the point. The point is, he is a scientist, and there is, therefore, a certain measure of comfort in defaulting to the language of science. It permits a level of distance, of academic detachment from the words he speaks, and detachment is what he needs right now.
"My medical files list my species as Vulcan," he continues into the silence, eyes fixed unwaveringly on a fluted china vase glazed in dark olive-green, "and, broadly speaking, this is correct. My genetic profile follows that of my father's people, and this codes for more than just my psi-channels, my muscular composition, the positioning of my heart…"
"Your ears," adds Jim placidly, but there's an undercurrent of warm amusement to his tone that references his long-standing determination to elide their physical and cultural differences under a general rubric of compassionate intelligence. He has always found it easier to see what makes them the same than what makes them different; it is one of the many admirable traits that make him so good at what he does, and which spoke, once upon a time, to the segregated heart of a man who had spent a lifetime trying to discover where he belonged. But the sentiment, worthy as it may be, is not appropriate right now. Right now, he needs to understand that they are separated by more than the superficial. He needs to understand, as Amanda once did, so that he can make his choice.
"Yes," says Spock, and he is careful to ensure that his tone, though casual, discourages any further interruption. "Also my ears. Any external signifier of my genetic inheritance has followed Vulcan genotypical characteristics. Although traces of my mother's DNA are to be found in my chromosomal make-up, they are few, and they are, almost without exception, recessive. I have, for example, the rudiments of an appendix, but, as you know, no innate resistance to the effects of choriocytosis." A beat. Spock sucks in a breath. "Moreover, my biochemical makeup is markedly different to that of my mother. Including my dermal sensitivity to the chemical known on Earth as capsaicin."
The bewildered pause is not unexpected. As far as his companion’s context for this conversation goes, the reference has come from nowhere. But he is not James Kirk for nothing; there is barely the faintest trace of confusion in his tone as he breaks the silence to say, slowly, "Capsaicin…"
"Yes," says Spock. "On Earth, it is generally found in…"
"Chili peppers," says Kirk. A sharp intake of breath, and then he's moving, crossing to the far side of the fireplace to lean his back against the mantle, one arm folded across his chest, the other raised to his face, where his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. "I believe," he says, "that the substance of this discussion has escaped me. Why are we talking about chili peppers?"
He has moved back into Spock's line of sight, but there is no need to meet his eye. Spock fixes his gaze once more on the green fluted vase and says, "The Human physiological response to excessive heat is to manufacture a cooling excretion composed of water, lactic acid, trace minerals, and urea, which is expelled through the eccrine glands onto the surface of the skin."
On the edge of vision, he sees Kirk’s brow furrow. "You mean, we sweat," says his friend, and there's a frustration to his voice now that speaks of his abject failure to grasp the unifying theme behind the analogy.
"Correct," says Spock. "The Vulcan system, however, has no such thermoregulationary response. In fact, the Human body has the capacity to secrete sodium reserves through perspiration in quantities that would induce hyponatremic shock in a Vulcan. I reference this," he adds, as Kirk opens his mouth, undoubtedly to voice some form of protest at the incomprehensible direction of his companion's narrative, "to draw attention to the fact that the chemical processes that have evolved to support the biological functions of our two species diverge in many unexpected ways. For the most part, this presents no obstacle to routine interactions: there are no significant adverse effects, medically speaking, associated with the limited physical proximity required to achieve, say, efficient command of a starship. There has been…"--and here he hesitates--"…no prior reason for concern."
A long pause. "I see," says Kirk. His hands come up to his face, balled into fists, and he scrubs at his eyes, his temples. "But… other actions, perhaps…." He trails off, hands falling away and folding across his chest once more. "Other actions requiring… closer proximity. That might be a different story. That's what you're saying."
Spock inclines his head. His neck feels as though it were made of lead. "Yes," he says.
"And that…." A beat. "That's what you meant. On Vulcan. That's what you meant when you said it wasn't safe."
Of course Jim would remember this. Spock can recall every word they spoke, every look and every touch they exchanged that day, but this is the consequence of an eidetic memory: everything is recorded, and there is no opportunity to purge that which he would not choose to revisit. He wonders just how often Jim has walked those sands again in his mind, these past four years, and decides he doesn't want to know.
"The chemical is known as kavek-sash-guv-kastorilauk," he tells the green vase. He cannot lift his eyes. "It is not identical to capsaicin, but the structures and mechanisms of action of the two compounds are extremely similar. It is a component of a mucal lubricant secreted onto the appropriate area of skin by the guvik-pi'nafek during…"--and, though it is many years since Spock has been a prepubescent schoolboy, shrinking under his tutor's stony glare, he is still obliged to force himself to say the word--"…arousal."
Those three loaded syllables disappear into a sudden, startled hush. Presently, Kirk says, "…Arousal."
"Yes."
"You mean…"
"Yes," says Spock firmly, though he's not sure what grounds he has for modesty now, given what happened between them in the billet above the Bay. Still. It's the principle of the thing. He wasn't raised to talk about this.
"I see," says Kirk. He pushes himself off the mantlepiece in one fluid movement, paces to the far wall. It is, quite literally, the most distance he could put between them without leaving the room, and Spock feels his chest tighten. "So it's secreted when…?"
Spock closes his eyes. "Yes."
"By the skin of the…?"
"Yes."
"And your concern is that… what?"
Spock's eyes snap open. Kiek is standing with one hand resting on the back of an armchair, and his gaze, focused sharply and directly on Spock, is level, evaluative. The admiral's shoulders twitch in a brief, recalcitrant shrug; challenge is written into the set of his jaw. He understands what he's been told, Spock realizes; he simply refuses to accept that it's a problem. Spock suppresses the urge to roll his eyes; he knew this would be his friend's reaction.
"My concern," he says slowly, carefully, meticulously stripping all traces of pedantry from his tone as he goes, "is that the Vulcan dermis is evolutionarily adapted to tolerate prolonged contact with this substance. It is, in fact, a critical component of the…"--and again, the hesitation. He’d thought he was better prepared to discuss this--"…the mating ritual. Kavek-sash-guv-kastorilauk stimulates the cardiovascular and metabolic processes, promoting increased blood flow to… the affected area, and acting in conjunction with the associated hormonal response." A pause for emphasis. He cannot emphasise this enough. "This is not true of the Human system."
For a moment, there is no response from the figure by the chair. Then Kirk releases a soft puff of air and shakes his head. "And this," he says, "this… accident of biology. This is why…?" A humorless laugh, and he shakes his head again. "This is why," he repeats, and it's no longer a question.
Yes. This is why, though it's not only this, of course. It's the heart of the matter, but it is not its essence. There’s a frightened child in there somewhere; a fragile mother with a pale face who moves stiffly and who will not tell his eleven-year-old self why; there's a father possessed of impossible standards who demands more from his half-Human son than the son can ever hope to deliver; there's a terrifying storm of emotion, an attachment that cannot be rationalized, a bond so strong that the rigors of Kolinahr could not so much as crack a hairline fracture through its hold. There’s the knowledge that this ought to be manageable and it is not; there's the shame of imperfectly mastered Disciplines; and, below it all, there's the creeping fear that this man he loves, for whom he would lay down his life without a second's thought, shines so brightly, feels so deeply, loves so completely, that someone like Spock--contained, meticulous, ordered--will never be enough for him. And yet here they are once more: this familiar place to which they are drawn time and time again, and nothing is different, nothing is resolved, and nothing ever changes, no matter how hard he fights.
So this is why, but it's also not. The truth is, as ever, more complicated than any series of unornamented facts that can be rendered clearly in black and white, but that's another story for another time. For now, this is why. This is their truth. This is what matters.
"Yes," says Spock, and across the room, Kirk drops his head towards the floor, draws in a deep breath. There is a moment of absolute stillness. And then another. Spock waits.
"Mr. Spock," says his friend at last, "for a man of such prodigious intelligence, you can be remarkably obtuse sometimes."
So can Kirk, of course, but it hardly seems like the time to point this out. "Indeed," says Spock.
"That's quite the sweeping conclusion you've managed to draw. And from minimal evidence, too."
"The effect of capsaicin on the Human epidermis is not disputed…" Spock begins, but Kirk cuts him off.
"Agreed," he says, "but that's beside the point." The hand on the armchair flexes, relaxes, flexes again. "Please tell me, Mr. Spock, that you haven't taken it upon yourself to extrapolate an entire theoretical model of Human behavior and risk, based on a single epithelial reaction?"
Well. That's not quite how Spock would have phrased it, but it's difficult to dispute the substance of the allegation. He contents himself with a sharp nod of acknowledgment that could go either way.
"It is possible," he says, "that my data sample may have been incomplete."
A burst of laughter--sudden, unexpected, but genuine--escapes his friend, rattling Kirk’s chest as it breaks free, and something in the room, some hidden tension that has strung the air like an overtuned ka'athyra, releases. Spock cannot truthfully claim to be delighted at this turn of events, but he'll take it over the alternative. This at least indicates progress.
"Given the shortage of data in your sample," says Kirk, "I think you may be right."
Spock inclines his head. "Perhaps," he says.
"Your methodology lacks something in the way of rigor, Science Officer."
"I have reached the same conclusion," says Spock, and he cannot quite eliminate the slight bristle that has crept into his tone, because, yes, it's possible that he's earned this, but there's a limit. He’s still Vulcan.
Across the room, Kirk fixes his gaze and waits for Spock to meet it. He's still smiling, though he's stripped the amusement from his face, and his eyes are bright, lit by a warmth that Spock was not expecting.
"Didn't it ever occur to you," asks his friend, "to ask your mother?"
Spock returns the scrutiny, eyebrow arched. "No, Jim," he says evenly. "I have never asked my mother about her experiences during sexual congress with my father."
Kirk sucks in a deep breath, and the smile widens, deepens. "I guess not," he says. "Though I can't help thinking that there must have been some way you could have gauged her reaction to your hypothesis. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Spock. Couldn't you have found a way to ask if there was anything she would have changed, given the chance? If it was worth a little… incompatibility in the end?"
Spock turns his eyes towards his hands, neatly folded at his stomach. He thinks of his mother's face as she stepped off a transport and into the terminal at ShiKahr; of his father's as his eyes found hers across a bustling lobby. He thinks of their joined hands in the crowds of Rhee, an unbreakable link in a tidal wave of chaos, and of the look they shared when they thought nobody else could see.
"Perhaps," he says. "I traveled to Iota Cilicia XII with that broad intention. However," he adds, and hesitates, because he's not certain how to phrase this in a way that makes sense outside of his own head. "However, when the opportunity presented itself, it became clear that to make such an inquiry would be to invade my mother's privacy no less than any attempt to discuss the… biochemical implications of the match." He pauses, stares at his fingers. "The decision-her decision-is her own," he says at last, and trusts that his friend will understand. He has always been fluent at decoding the words that Spock does not say. "It is not mine to question."
The admiral's eyes are relentless. Spock does not need to look up to know that they are locked on the place where Spock's should be; that they do not move. Jim watches him for a long moment, and then he releases a soft puff of air and drops his head. He nods once, gently, and then again.
"I see," he says quietly. "Yes, Mr. Spock. I think I understand your dilemma."
"Thank you," says Spock.
"But," adds his friend, "perhaps you could have asked me."
He’s right. Of course he is. If he were not, Spock would not have come: the conclusion he has drawn has been formulated from inadequate data, and he is a scientist; he is bound to expand his field of enquiry to incorporate whatever information might become available. But he is also the man who sought the complete abrogation of his mother's emotional legacy rather than trust to his own ability to love and remain himself; everything about this venture represents a paradigm break with the person he thought he was. He wants this-he wants it so badly that his hands, folded tightly in front of him, tremble with the effort of remaining still when his body is telling him to simply reach out and ask for what he needs-but the wanting itself feels dangerous, volatile, unstable. It's as though he were attempting to calibrate a warp coil in absolute darkness: it doesn't matter how well he knows the theory, everything is unfamiliar, everything is different, and he has no idea what will happen when the chambers mix. Spock can count on one hand the number of times he's released the tight hold he keeps on the world around him and just sat back and trusted to Fate, and there's a reason that his default reaction to danger is to fall back into numbers and statistics: numbers and statistics are knowable, predictable, quantifiable. Safe.
But safe is not what they do. There is no safe for James Kirk and Spock of Vulcan. There never was.
It’s time to let go.
"You are correct," he says now, and it’s amazing, really, how easy it is to speak the words now that he's made his choice. This thing has grown wild and monstrous in the captivity of his mind, but, released, it turns out that it was never dangerous, never terrible. It's amazing how easy it is to look up, to find and meet his friend's answering gaze, to cast the dice and let them fall where they may. "If you will permit me, Jim, I will ask you now."
His eyes are fixed on Jim's. He sees an eyebrow arch, but it's not a question, it's not consternation: it's an acknowledgment, a recognition of what's been offered. The world falls away and the moment focuses itself into a point, a singularity, from which all possible futures flow. And then time unfreezes, resolves itself into motion and action, and Jim drops his right hand from the back of the armchair, folds it with his left at his back, and walks slowly, unhurriedly, across the floor to where Spock stands. His head is bowed, but he lifts it as he steps inside his friend's circle of personal space, and his gaze is open, artless, completely exposed. He is close enough that Spock can feel his breath agitate the fine hairs around his face, that he can feel the radiant heat from Jim's body in the shadows that the fire does not reach. He is close enough to smell the buttery sweetness of Human skin--iron and salt and rust-- and the sharp, spiced pine of his aftershave; close enough to hear the whispered memories of another time, another place, in the air between them. This is the ghost that has haunted him for a thousand nights, made flesh in front of him, and Spock cannot begin to understand how he has ever managed to fight against it.
This is his choice. This is what they've chosen. It's like freefall, like gravity, like quantum entanglement. It's like coming home.
"There's only one answer to that question," says Jim, and he lifts his lips to meet Spock's.
~*~
A/N: I've done it! I've finally, FINALLY--200,000 words later--got to T'Lara's prompt! WOOO! (In my chapter notes, I've been referring to it as the Lava Lube Issue, because I have the maturity of an eleven-year-old.) Did anyone guess it, by the way? Because if you did, quite frankly... wow. Hot DAMN, you're good. I'd like to shake your hand.
Chapter 45
Chapter 47
Author: eimeo
Beta: miloowen
Universe/Series: TOS
Rating: NC-17
Relationship status: Pre-slash to slash
Chapter: 46/54
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 46
The journey from San Francisco has taken less than two hours, though it has felt alternately much longer and much shorter. Spock is beyond illogic now, however, and decided before the car had cleared the snow-swept peaks of the Sierra Nevada that he was going to ignore every whisper of disquiet or ambivalence that might attempt to unsettle his resolve, and so he has passed the time in studious contemplation of the changing terrain below as the miles race by. He has not so much as attempted a trance. If it wouldn’t come on the journey to Earth, it’s hardly likely to effect a sudden triumphant return now that he’s en route to Idaho, and, in any case, this is precisely the sort of Sisyphean endeavor that’s liable to produce the opposite of its intended effect, in that its failure must serve only to call attention to his fractured controls. Spock’s peace of mind is precarious enough right now; he does not require any assistance in destabilizing it further.
His robes are travel-creased and uncomfortable against his skin, and they carry the faint scent of civilian interstellar transit woven through the fabric. They seem… ill-suited to the current venture, but it was this or his uniform, and, though Spock can’t put his finger on exactly why the latter seems like a bad idea, some hidden instinct is quite insistent about this, and, in the absence of any rational alternative, he’s prepared to acquiesce. McCoy’s wardrobe, fortunately, is better stocked than the modest valise that Spock has brought with him from Gol, and he insisted that Spock take temporary possession of a thick waterproof jacket, formerly employed against the heavy rains of Beta Auraculi, along with a set of woolen gloves and some sort of oiled canvas headgear that smells of unpolished copper and mothballs. Spock has shrugged on the coat-homespun desert wool is a poor defense against the chill of a north-Californian winter day-but the other items sit, untouched, on the seat beside him. He’ll decide what to do about them later.
Later. The arid scrublands of Nevada and southeastern Oregon have given way to the urban greenery of Ada County, and, ahead of him on the horizon, he can see the flat plain buckle as it begins the long climb into the Rockies. There is not much later left.
He would like to be more certain of his welcome. McCoy has been adamant on the subject, in terms that hinted of some non-specific threat of retributive violence, should Spock elect to remain in San Francisco, as per his stated intention, and await the admiral’s return, but he cannot truthfully believe that Kirk’s decision to remove himself from Starfleet Headquarters this week evidences a desire for anybody’s company, let alone Spock’s. He could comm, of course, announce his intentions and see what happens next, and the fact that he has not done this-that he has contented himself with nothing more than a brief message to Kirk’s yeoman, asking that she notify her commander of Spock’s intent-unsettles him further. Still. Alea iacta est, as the ancient Terran general said; the car is over Boise now, and Spock’s communicator is on. If Kirk wants to comm him to tell him to turn around, he still has time; otherwise, Spock will continue as he is. It is, perhaps, not the most watertight plan he has ever devised, but it's the one he's following just the same.
He’d simply rest a little easier if he were confident that this decision was correct. His history with Kirk is littered with miscalculation and tactical error; it seems presumptuous to think that he’s suddenly developed clarity of reasoning in the past week, simply because he’d like it to be so. Spock’s logic has always been uncertain where James Kirk is concerned.
The car lurches as it slices through a mountain thermal, and, in the moment before the inertial dampeners kick in, Spock is obliged to throw out a hand to steady himself against the window. The glass is cool beneath his touch, and the water vapor that has condensed against the pane is beginning to freeze as the altitude climbs. A tinny little chirrup from the navcom announces their imminent arrival at his programmed coordinates, and Spock is obliged to suppress a spike of something that feels alarmingly like unmitigated horror, and to lament the speed and efficiency of Terran domestic transportation methods that deliver a traveler to his destination with scarcely enough time to reconcile himself to the prospect of the conversation to come, let alone implement adequate preparations. And yet, even in the midst of his distraction, he cannot help but wonder if any length of preparation would be sufficient for this. Everything is about to change, he thinks; all there is left to him now is to hold on tightly as the world shifts beneath him, and hope he can find his feet again when it’s over.
Because he understands now, and it is, after all, as simple as it has always seemed. He loves James Kirk. He is in love with James Kirk. And he is loved in return; it has been so for many years, and running from it has only made it stronger. As the car crests the final hill, as a smoking chimney climbs above a thicket of snow-capped evergreens to reveal the house beneath it, Spock wonders if, perhaps, the intense antipathy he experienced that first day of Kirk’s command might not have been the early manifestation of an attraction so instinctive and profound that it shook him to the core of his Discipline; if the hostility that soured the air between them for so many weeks was nothing more than the fear that has haunted him for all these years, trying to find its way out in a manner that he could understand, sublimate, and condone. He supposes that it no longer matters. He may never be able to pinpoint the hour that he fell in love, but, as the car descends to the frost-sown yard, as the front door of the house opens and his friend steps out onto the porch, buried in a thick coat two sizes too big for him and absently toweling his hands, Spock can pinpoint the moment, the second, that he decided to stop fighting it.
Kaiidth.
He takes a moment to collect himself before he orders the car to open its doors. A second, no longer-there is protocol to observe, after all-but even that brief interlude is enough to convince him that he’s prevaricating: an hour or more would not be sufficient to gather his reverberating thoughts, to ease out the tension in his shoulders and his neck, to settle the rush of apprehension and desire that slams into his controls like a landslide as he considers the task ahead. Where it may lead and what it may mean. If any of this is possible; if Spock can make it so. If he even ought to try.
Enough. Spock engages the egress mechanism. The doors slide open.
He’s expecting the chill-it would be difficult to overlook it, given the thick carpet of snow that hangs upon every open surface-but the strength of its assault is startling. Spock was not aware that the Terran temperature dropped so obscenely, preposterously low, and he cannot for the life of him imagine why any sentient being would choose to make its home amongst such extremes. McCoy’s hat and gloves, discarded in the back seat of the car and now out of unobtrusive reach, are beginning to make considerable sense, but there’s already a faint smile playing at the edge of the admiral’s lips as he slings the towel over his shoulder and leans his arms against the veranda’s rail, a light behind his eyes that bodes poorly for Spock’s dignity, and he prefers to mitigate against any further injury to his self-respect.
“Beautiful day,” says Jim innocently, as Spock steps onto the frozen ground and attempts to fold his hands at his stomach without succumbing to a violent shiver.
An eyebrow arches. Even that makes him feel colder. “It is…” says Spock, and allows a meaningful glance at the banked snow above the eaves to make his point for him, “…regional.”
A low chuckle from his friend gusts a veil of steam into the air. “There’s a fire inside,” he says. “Please come in, Mr. Spock. You look absolutely bloodless.”
For a brief moment, Spock considers arguing, and it’s only partially in defense of Vulcan honor. Inside seems disproportionately personal just now, as though it represents a final abdication of control, and old habits die hard.
On the other hand, though, he has never in his life felt cold like this, and there’s a fire in the house. Control may be overrated. “Thank you,” he says, and experiences a moment of satisfaction at the brief flash of panic that ghosts across his commander's face before he’s able to school it back into his habitual casual charm. There is something enormously comforting in the knowledge that, as ill-prepared as Spock might feel, he’s not the only one flying blind just now. He’s not the only one without any notion of what happens next, and he’s not the only one who finds that prospect more than a little terrifying.
But, alea iacta est. He follows Kirk onto the veranda, and from there into the house.
“Please forgive my intrusion,” says Spock as his friend leads the way into the main living quarters: comfortably furnished, with two throw-scattered couches and an assortment of armchairs arranged around a wide hearth, where a fire crackles heat and warmth into a room that smells of pine and rosewater and burning wood. “I asked your office to inform you of my itinerary….”
“It’s no intrusion,” says Kirk, and there’s something in his face that Spock can’t quite place-consternation? Or frustration? “I’ve been out back all afternoon; if the office called, I haven’t picked it up. Please-have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
The words are evenly spoken, unhurried, but there’s a sense of urgency to them that mirrors the trepidation tightening Spock’s chest. He lowers himself into the chair closest to the fire-sweet and blessed heat again in a world turned to ice-and says, “Tea would be welcome.”
“Tea, of course,” says Jim. His brow furrows. “I don’t think the synthesizer is set for theris-masu…”
This is not unexpected. Or, at least, it wouldn’t be, if Spock’s thoughts were less fragmented just now.
“Earl Gray will be a satisfactory substitute,” he says, “or chamomile, if it is available.”
Kirk nods distractedly and turns for the kitchen, and, belatedly, it occurs to Spock to wonder if his commander’s coffee habit is a familial trait and if it would, in fact, have been less trouble to request a glass of water. It appears to be impossible to persuade his brain to process these thoughts at a useful speed, however. No matter. The very thought of introducing any form of refreshment or sustenance to his stomach at this moment sends nausea curling through his abdomen, and this, surely, is the larger problem in the general scheme of things. He wonders if Kirk will notice if he simply cradles the cup between his hands for warmth and declines to sample its contents.
Alone, restive, he stands to shed his coat, folding it neatly to store on the back of his chair, and, freshly chilled through the spare fabric of his robes, he takes a step closer to the warmth of the fire, rubbing his hands while he remains unobserved. The chimneybreast is broad and rough-plastered, whitewash overlaid with the patina of many years’ use, and he lets his eyes roll over its contents as he waits for Jim to return. A lintel crosses it above the firebox, a thick slab of untreated oak hardened by the heat, and, on the mantelpiece, someone has arranged a collection of mementoes so eclectic as to tell a tale through their diversity alone. An old clock keeps time half a minute slow in the center of the melée, flanked on either side by two ornate brass candlesticks topped with waxy stubs long since burned past usefulness. An assortment of china vases jostle for space with a darkwood box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; a glass bowl full of marbles; and an ancient oil lamp, black with soot. And above them, suspended from the wall, hangs a holo of a man and a woman that Spock recognizes immediately, though it is six years since he has seen either face, and they must be fifteen years younger again in their picture. He is George Kirk, Jr., whose brother always called him Sam; she is Aurelan, his wife, who survived him by a day.
Theirs is the only portrait to hang on this wall. Elsewhere in the room, faces known and unknown keep company with starmaps and landscapes and images of assorted Terran fauna, but here, on the chimneybreast, a couple long dead hold lonely court. And yet, to their left, an unused hook and an asymmetric arrangement testifies to the presence, at one time, of another photograph. Its absence tells a story of its own, Spock thinks, but this, like everything else in the room, belongs to a different Kirk, a Kirk that Spock has seen only rarely, and the shift in matters between them has not yet resolved itself into the kind of easy familiarity that they used to share. He will not ask; not today. Perhaps he will wait to be told.
“Chamomile,” says Kirk briskly as he returns, a steaming mug in either hand, and the moment is lost in confusion as Spock’s erstwhile CO crosses the room towards him to stand by the fire. He stops a cautious distance away, at the apex of his arm’s reach, and Spock is obliged to take a half step forward to retrieve his tea.
“Thank you,” he says, and cradles the cup to his chest. He can feel it warming his sternum through the fabric of his robe, almost past the point of comfort, but drinking it remains impossible, and he’d prefer to avoid drawing attention to this fact if at all possible. Kirk, he notices, has mirrored the gesture. Neither of them sips. Neither of them speaks. If Spock were not Vulcan, he thinks, he might find the moment uncomfortable.
“So,” says his friend after a moment. “You found your way here, then.”
Evidently. But Spock suspects he’s beginning to reacquire some of his hard-won fluency in Human emotional nuance, and his answer, he thinks, requires a little more subtlety than simple recognition of fact. Carefully, he says, “The journey presented little difficulty.”
A brief nod. Kirk’s face is unreadable. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
There's something quite remarkable about the way that, despite everything, despite all they’ve shared and all they’ve lost, Jim remains unaware of the hold that he has always exercised over Spock. It is not logical, of course, but Spock cannot claim any particular superiority himself in that respect, and so he says nothing. He thinks, perhaps, he’s beginning to understand at last.
“I believe,” he says now, slowly, testing the words on his tongue before they leave his lips, “that an offer was made some years hence, that, in the event of a successful conclusion to our former mission, I might be introduced to this region in your company.”
Kirk’s brow furrows and for a long, protracted second, Spock fears that he has misjudged: that the moment was not, in fact, appropriate to reminiscence, and that he has inadvertently pushed the limits of his latitude. Three years’ absence has frosted over the easy familiarity that they used to share, and he is, in any case, unequivocally out of practice in the art of camaraderie, even if he were certain of how to say the words he needs to say. And then, sudden warmth lights his companion’s face as understanding dawns, and Spock can almost see the memory of that long-ago conversation flash behind Jim’s eyes: a late night after a difficult mission and its unsatisfactory end; a fractious commander, haunted by his ghosts; his second in command, lost for reassurances, who must have loved him even then. He sees it whisper across his friend’s face as recollection carries him back across the years, and Spock resists the urge to release the breath that has caught in his chest. The room may be warmer than the yard, but he’s not entirely convinced that any sudden exhalation will not mist in front of his face.
“You remembered,” says Kirk. There’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips; Spock considers that it’s probably redundant to reference his eidetic memory. “Of course you did. Well. Far be it from me to go back on my word.” The smile breaks free, sunshine in a world of darkness, and Spock wonders how he ever managed to convince himself that this was something he could live without. “Welcome to the Rockies, Mr. Spock.”
Spock nods. Something has released in his chest and his breathing is easier, more even, than it was a moment ago. “I was uncertain,” he says, “as to whether or not the invitation still held.”
An arched eyebrow indicates that Kirk has not missed his meaning. “The invitation will always hold, Mr. Spock,” he says, but his tone has changed. The commander’s voice is creeping in. “Though I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. Seven days, I thought you’d said?”
Spock has no intention of acknowledging the indecent haste with which he made his way back to Earth from Iota Cilicia XII, where Ambassador Sarek and his wife are currently in attendance at the Polemius conference, but there are undoubtedly matters to be discussed. He wishes he could unobtrusively set down his mug of tea; it is beginning to be inconvenient, and he’d like to be able to fold his hands for this. So, instead, and in the absence of any alternative exterior signifier of extreme dignity under duress, he lengthens his spine and elects to open with, “In the event, affairs were settled more rapidly than I had expected.”
“Clearly,” says Kirk. “It’s been almost… three days, by my count. That’s not enough time to get to Vulcan and back.”
“Correct,” says Spock, who is beginning to wonder why he failed to consider the fact that James Kirk can calculate warp trajectories and relative distance with a speed and precision that approaches Spock’s own. “As I stated on board the Enterprise, my task on Vulcan is complete.”
There is a lengthy silence, filled with the absence of capitulation. Kirk purses his lips.
“Of course,” he says, “if you don’t want to discuss it, that’s your right….”
Ah. The trailing sentence. The ultimate weapon in the Human arsenal of passive interrogation. Kirk’s preferred approach is direct assault; his deployment now of the subtler inquisitive arts says more about his emotional state than he might prefer to telegraph. Spock suppresses the sigh that is attempting to escape his disordered controls, and considers how best to begin the least welcome conversation of his life.
“I did not return to Vulcan,” he says slowly. It helps to fix his eyes on a point two inches above the top of Kirk’s head. “My parents are not currently in residence on my homeworld.”
There’s a pause. And then a nod. Spock has the distinct impression that the information is not unexpected, and takes a moment to lament the passage of sufficient time as to allow the admiral the opportunity for a really good think.
Kirk peers into his untouched mug, makes an expression of faint distaste, and sets it on the mantelpiece. Spock would have been pleased to learn earlier in their discussion that this was an option, but, he reflects, as his friend turns away from the fire and crosses to a sideboard in the corner of the room, where a half-full decanter rests alongside three cut-crystal tumblers, the data remains relevant. He stashes his tea beside a floral vase and folds his hands at his stomach, as the admiral unstoppers the bottle with a plosive pop and pours himself a generous measure.
Whisky splashes against glass, and Kirk turns over one shoulder, beaker raised in mute enquiry. “Thank you, no,” says Spock, and his friend nods, as though this, too, is expected. He turns back to the room, glass in hand, and, though his face has hardened into command focus, the eyes behind the mask are tired as he lowers himself onto the couch in front of the fire. An upward glance meets Spock’s eye for the first time in many minutes, and Kirk nods towards the chair to his left.
“Please sit down,” he says. “You may not have been to Vulcan, but you’ve been somewhere. You must be tired from your journey.”
It’s a variation on the theme of questions that aren’t quite questions. Spock is beginning to understand a little more clearly how his former captain has always been so adept at wrangling information from his conversational partners over inconsequentials and small talk, and it occurs to him to wonder, for the first time, how often Spock himself has been the unwitting subject of James Kirk's particular brand of data-gathering. But he sits just the same: he has seen almost twenty years’ service in deep space and nearly as many again at his parents’ side on their frequent interstellar travels, but none of them have been quite as exacting as the passage he’s just completed. And besides: by settling into the armchair at his back, the chamomile tea is placed definitively out of reach.
“Thank you,” he says, as he lowers himself onto a fire-warmed cushion. “I am not excessively fatigued.”
Kirk’s lips quirk upwards into half a smile. “Really?" he says pleasantly. "That hasn’t been my experience of the aftermath of a conversation with your father.”
A filial defense is probably expected here, but denial is illogical. “Perhaps,” says Spock, and experiences a moment of satisfaction at the consternation that flashes briefly across his friend’s face. “However, I have not had the opportunity to speak with the Ambassador.”
“Oh?” An eyebrow arches as Kirk raises his glass to his lips, sips amber liquid. “I thought you said you’d visited with your parents?”
How can he explain it? It’s important to get this right, but, equally, Spock is still finding his way over unfamiliar terrain, guided, for the first time in his life, by little more than instinct and ideas, and he’s not certain he has the words just yet. When he left the Enterprise, it was with the express intention of seeking out his mother, in the hope that the question of his absence from Gol could be summarily discharged with the minimum of controversy, and establishing to his satisfaction that his initial hypothesis was fundamentally flawed and informed by an insufficiently rigorous theoretical framework. He could have commed ahead to advise of his intent, but he appears to be making a habit of the surprise appearance of late, and, in any case, he suspected that any discussion of his failure to complete Kolinahr, emotional as it was bound to be, was better suited to direct interview. The Ambassador’s attendance on Iota Cilicia XII is a matter of public record and the work of a few moments’ searching to determine; another thirty-seven seconds’ investigation established Sigma Cilicia IV as the closest spaceport to the ship’s current trajectory, as plotted that morning and adjusted some 3.3 hours earlier. Given a steady course heading and the procurement of suitable onward travel, the entire endeavor was likely to be concluded in no more than 173 hours, allowing for flight delays and travel lag, and assuming a total of two Cilician days planetside in order to ensure that his mother’s itinerary was not disrupted by her son's arrival. It was a plan that offered very little in the way of contraindications, and a high statistical probability of success.
What he had not anticipated-what he had no way of predicting, as it turns out-was his own reaction to seeing her.
Spock has always thought that fear for his mother drove his anger at his father; it has been a fundamental tenet of their interaction for as long as he cares to remember, and it has colored every word and every action that has passed between them. He arrived on Iota Cilicia XII with the understanding that a logical error may have crept into his reasoning along the way, and that his fear may have been built on a child’s misreading of a situation for which he had no context, but he had never considered that the entire edifice upon which his parental relationship is constructed could itself be fundamentally unstable. Because it turns out that he might, in fact, be afraid for his mother because he’s angry at his father, and this changes things considerably. It’s possible this is much more complicated than he thought.
Amanda walked beside her husband, hands joined in the ozh’esta as the crowd filtered out of the great stadium that takes up the entire central sector of the northern city of Rhee: two elegant figures on their own private island of calm, amongst a tidal wave of senators and diplomats and admirals and reporters that bustled and swirled and spilled around them, and could not break the touch that connected them. Forty years have passed since she made her decision; seasons have come and gone; the son she bore and raised has grown to manhood and begun his own search for his place in the universe, and still she walks proudly by her husband; still she joins her hand to his so that everyone can see the choice that she has made. Captivity, Spock once told his commander, is often a question of perspective, but it turns out that Spock's own perspective might have been shuttered by filial resentment and frustration, the blind defiance of the son of an exacting father. Many times, his mother could have left. Many times, she could have walked away, and, true, there's a sense of duty deeply ingrained into the fibers that make up Amanda Grayson, but there's also a stubbornness there, so robust that it could warp steel, if focused correctly, and she has never been a woman to be underestimated or misused. Spock found himself on the edge of the melee, following a few yards behind as they made their way back to the Ambassador's rooms, and, from nowhere, a memory crept out the depths of recall: a bright summer's day, sunlight spilling like thick cream through the open window, the scent of vinegar and spice on the warm air as his mother hums an aria from an old Vulcan opera while she stirs a bubbling pot on the stove….
Whatever she knew before she made her choice, whatever she has discovered since, she has no regrets. He saw this in the look she turned on his father when a stray arm jostled her from the crowd and he caught her, mid-stumble, without question and without thought. He saw it in the unguarded moment that passed between them: her smile, his tolerant acceptance of her smile, their easy warmth borne of long years of contentment. This is love, and this is logic, and there was no need to hear it spoken aloud in order to be certain. Spock saw his parents and he knew.
He thinks Jim will understand this, when Spock can find the words to explain it: the way the pieces fell suddenly into place and all that was left was to find the first and quickest transport across the sector, make his way back to Earth, find Jim and tell him what he'd learned. He suspects that, eventually, this will become the stuff of I told you sos and private jokes, and that McCoy, though he will not be privy to the details, will indulge his penchant for knowing smiles at Spock's expense for many years to come. And Spock will accept this without hesitation, without so much as a pause for reflection, because there is no question now: his choice is also made. It was made eight years ago, in fact, before he was ever aware of the choosing.
But he says none of this. He doesn't have the words just yet. So, instead, he quirks an eyebrow, meets a hazel-eyed scrutiny head on, and says, impassively, "Indeed."
Gentle laughter meets his answer. "I see we're still practicing the ancient Vulcan art of inscrutability," says Kirk, and takes another sip from his whisky. The hand that holds the glass, Spock cannot help but notice, is trembling faintly, and there is a part of him, a newborn, unfamiliar part, that would like to rise from his seat, take a half-step towards the couch and lower himself down beside his friend; wrap his fingers around Jim's and press his lips to the knuckles, one by one, until the tremors cease. The thought of it-the intimacy of the gesture, and the ease; the way Jim's eyes will close and his head will roll back on his shoulders; the way he will surrender himself to the moment as though it were as natural as the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins-makes Spock's breath catch in his throat. The man who could do this has not quite finished forming yet, but he will. It is only a matter of time.
"I would prefer," he says, and there's a hoarseness to his voice that was not there a moment ago, and he does not have to search too deeply to find the cause, "that there be no misunderstandings between us."
Kirk looks up sharply, eyebrows raised. "Yes," he says. "You've said that before."
"It remains the case."
"And I remain as far as ever from understanding, Mr. Spock."
The words are lightly spoken, but there's a tension behind them that Spock cannot fault; he has, as yet, said nothing of consequence, and it was always a long shot that the simple fact of his appearance here would be enough to bury the hurts and confusions and frustrations that they have spent almost a decade constructing. It is suddenly difficult to remain seated, and he finds himself moving without conscious thought, standing before he's aware of the urge to rise, and crossing to the fireplace once more. Flames crackle and spit at his knees, and Spock turns towards them, facing the solitary portrait and its missing twin, facing away from Kirk. It is easier to speak if he does not have to look him in the eye.
Easier, perhaps, but not exactly easy. He should have accepted the offer of whisky, he thinks, though it's not as though it would have had any effect; this is, in a sense, precisely the problem. Spock takes a deep breath, releases it, and makes himself speak.
"It is a question," he says slowly, "of biology."
A long pause. And then: "Vulcan… biology?"
"Yes." He hesitates. "And Human."
"Ah." A soft puff of breath. "Well. This conversation feels alarmingly familiar."
"I assure you, Jim," says Spock, and he does not need to look at his friend to know that the use of his given name has softened his eyes, his face, "this conversation is entirely new."
Silence behind him; the sound of a swallow, a glass coming to rest against the wooden floor. A creak, as of couch springs protesting the sudden absence of a body, and a soft footfall that marks the passage of two feet across the faded throw rug in front of the hearth. Spock does not turn his head; he does not need to. He could follow Jim’s motion in a lightless room.
"All right," says his friend at his shoulder. He is close enough to touch, but he makes no move to do so, and Spock is profoundly grateful for this: for his proximity, and for his distance. "Tell me."
Well. Kaiidth. He knew what he was coming here to do. Spock folds his hands at his stomach, feeling the heat of the fire lick across his chilled skin, and begins.
"My mother is Human," he says, "but my blood is my father's. His genetic legacy is dominant, and it has governed my physiological constitution."
Kirk does not speak, makes no noise of confirmation or assent, though nothing Spock has said so much as supplements his existing knowledge. He simply waits. There is not a sentient being that might pass Spock on the street who would not be able to determine from observation alone the salient facts of the information he has just imparted, but this, he thinks, is not really the point. The point is, he is a scientist, and there is, therefore, a certain measure of comfort in defaulting to the language of science. It permits a level of distance, of academic detachment from the words he speaks, and detachment is what he needs right now.
"My medical files list my species as Vulcan," he continues into the silence, eyes fixed unwaveringly on a fluted china vase glazed in dark olive-green, "and, broadly speaking, this is correct. My genetic profile follows that of my father's people, and this codes for more than just my psi-channels, my muscular composition, the positioning of my heart…"
"Your ears," adds Jim placidly, but there's an undercurrent of warm amusement to his tone that references his long-standing determination to elide their physical and cultural differences under a general rubric of compassionate intelligence. He has always found it easier to see what makes them the same than what makes them different; it is one of the many admirable traits that make him so good at what he does, and which spoke, once upon a time, to the segregated heart of a man who had spent a lifetime trying to discover where he belonged. But the sentiment, worthy as it may be, is not appropriate right now. Right now, he needs to understand that they are separated by more than the superficial. He needs to understand, as Amanda once did, so that he can make his choice.
"Yes," says Spock, and he is careful to ensure that his tone, though casual, discourages any further interruption. "Also my ears. Any external signifier of my genetic inheritance has followed Vulcan genotypical characteristics. Although traces of my mother's DNA are to be found in my chromosomal make-up, they are few, and they are, almost without exception, recessive. I have, for example, the rudiments of an appendix, but, as you know, no innate resistance to the effects of choriocytosis." A beat. Spock sucks in a breath. "Moreover, my biochemical makeup is markedly different to that of my mother. Including my dermal sensitivity to the chemical known on Earth as capsaicin."
The bewildered pause is not unexpected. As far as his companion’s context for this conversation goes, the reference has come from nowhere. But he is not James Kirk for nothing; there is barely the faintest trace of confusion in his tone as he breaks the silence to say, slowly, "Capsaicin…"
"Yes," says Spock. "On Earth, it is generally found in…"
"Chili peppers," says Kirk. A sharp intake of breath, and then he's moving, crossing to the far side of the fireplace to lean his back against the mantle, one arm folded across his chest, the other raised to his face, where his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. "I believe," he says, "that the substance of this discussion has escaped me. Why are we talking about chili peppers?"
He has moved back into Spock's line of sight, but there is no need to meet his eye. Spock fixes his gaze once more on the green fluted vase and says, "The Human physiological response to excessive heat is to manufacture a cooling excretion composed of water, lactic acid, trace minerals, and urea, which is expelled through the eccrine glands onto the surface of the skin."
On the edge of vision, he sees Kirk’s brow furrow. "You mean, we sweat," says his friend, and there's a frustration to his voice now that speaks of his abject failure to grasp the unifying theme behind the analogy.
"Correct," says Spock. "The Vulcan system, however, has no such thermoregulationary response. In fact, the Human body has the capacity to secrete sodium reserves through perspiration in quantities that would induce hyponatremic shock in a Vulcan. I reference this," he adds, as Kirk opens his mouth, undoubtedly to voice some form of protest at the incomprehensible direction of his companion's narrative, "to draw attention to the fact that the chemical processes that have evolved to support the biological functions of our two species diverge in many unexpected ways. For the most part, this presents no obstacle to routine interactions: there are no significant adverse effects, medically speaking, associated with the limited physical proximity required to achieve, say, efficient command of a starship. There has been…"--and here he hesitates--"…no prior reason for concern."
A long pause. "I see," says Kirk. His hands come up to his face, balled into fists, and he scrubs at his eyes, his temples. "But… other actions, perhaps…." He trails off, hands falling away and folding across his chest once more. "Other actions requiring… closer proximity. That might be a different story. That's what you're saying."
Spock inclines his head. His neck feels as though it were made of lead. "Yes," he says.
"And that…." A beat. "That's what you meant. On Vulcan. That's what you meant when you said it wasn't safe."
Of course Jim would remember this. Spock can recall every word they spoke, every look and every touch they exchanged that day, but this is the consequence of an eidetic memory: everything is recorded, and there is no opportunity to purge that which he would not choose to revisit. He wonders just how often Jim has walked those sands again in his mind, these past four years, and decides he doesn't want to know.
"The chemical is known as kavek-sash-guv-kastorilauk," he tells the green vase. He cannot lift his eyes. "It is not identical to capsaicin, but the structures and mechanisms of action of the two compounds are extremely similar. It is a component of a mucal lubricant secreted onto the appropriate area of skin by the guvik-pi'nafek during…"--and, though it is many years since Spock has been a prepubescent schoolboy, shrinking under his tutor's stony glare, he is still obliged to force himself to say the word--"…arousal."
Those three loaded syllables disappear into a sudden, startled hush. Presently, Kirk says, "…Arousal."
"Yes."
"You mean…"
"Yes," says Spock firmly, though he's not sure what grounds he has for modesty now, given what happened between them in the billet above the Bay. Still. It's the principle of the thing. He wasn't raised to talk about this.
"I see," says Kirk. He pushes himself off the mantlepiece in one fluid movement, paces to the far wall. It is, quite literally, the most distance he could put between them without leaving the room, and Spock feels his chest tighten. "So it's secreted when…?"
Spock closes his eyes. "Yes."
"By the skin of the…?"
"Yes."
"And your concern is that… what?"
Spock's eyes snap open. Kiek is standing with one hand resting on the back of an armchair, and his gaze, focused sharply and directly on Spock, is level, evaluative. The admiral's shoulders twitch in a brief, recalcitrant shrug; challenge is written into the set of his jaw. He understands what he's been told, Spock realizes; he simply refuses to accept that it's a problem. Spock suppresses the urge to roll his eyes; he knew this would be his friend's reaction.
"My concern," he says slowly, carefully, meticulously stripping all traces of pedantry from his tone as he goes, "is that the Vulcan dermis is evolutionarily adapted to tolerate prolonged contact with this substance. It is, in fact, a critical component of the…"--and again, the hesitation. He’d thought he was better prepared to discuss this--"…the mating ritual. Kavek-sash-guv-kastorilauk stimulates the cardiovascular and metabolic processes, promoting increased blood flow to… the affected area, and acting in conjunction with the associated hormonal response." A pause for emphasis. He cannot emphasise this enough. "This is not true of the Human system."
For a moment, there is no response from the figure by the chair. Then Kirk releases a soft puff of air and shakes his head. "And this," he says, "this… accident of biology. This is why…?" A humorless laugh, and he shakes his head again. "This is why," he repeats, and it's no longer a question.
Yes. This is why, though it's not only this, of course. It's the heart of the matter, but it is not its essence. There’s a frightened child in there somewhere; a fragile mother with a pale face who moves stiffly and who will not tell his eleven-year-old self why; there's a father possessed of impossible standards who demands more from his half-Human son than the son can ever hope to deliver; there's a terrifying storm of emotion, an attachment that cannot be rationalized, a bond so strong that the rigors of Kolinahr could not so much as crack a hairline fracture through its hold. There’s the knowledge that this ought to be manageable and it is not; there's the shame of imperfectly mastered Disciplines; and, below it all, there's the creeping fear that this man he loves, for whom he would lay down his life without a second's thought, shines so brightly, feels so deeply, loves so completely, that someone like Spock--contained, meticulous, ordered--will never be enough for him. And yet here they are once more: this familiar place to which they are drawn time and time again, and nothing is different, nothing is resolved, and nothing ever changes, no matter how hard he fights.
So this is why, but it's also not. The truth is, as ever, more complicated than any series of unornamented facts that can be rendered clearly in black and white, but that's another story for another time. For now, this is why. This is their truth. This is what matters.
"Yes," says Spock, and across the room, Kirk drops his head towards the floor, draws in a deep breath. There is a moment of absolute stillness. And then another. Spock waits.
"Mr. Spock," says his friend at last, "for a man of such prodigious intelligence, you can be remarkably obtuse sometimes."
So can Kirk, of course, but it hardly seems like the time to point this out. "Indeed," says Spock.
"That's quite the sweeping conclusion you've managed to draw. And from minimal evidence, too."
"The effect of capsaicin on the Human epidermis is not disputed…" Spock begins, but Kirk cuts him off.
"Agreed," he says, "but that's beside the point." The hand on the armchair flexes, relaxes, flexes again. "Please tell me, Mr. Spock, that you haven't taken it upon yourself to extrapolate an entire theoretical model of Human behavior and risk, based on a single epithelial reaction?"
Well. That's not quite how Spock would have phrased it, but it's difficult to dispute the substance of the allegation. He contents himself with a sharp nod of acknowledgment that could go either way.
"It is possible," he says, "that my data sample may have been incomplete."
A burst of laughter--sudden, unexpected, but genuine--escapes his friend, rattling Kirk’s chest as it breaks free, and something in the room, some hidden tension that has strung the air like an overtuned ka'athyra, releases. Spock cannot truthfully claim to be delighted at this turn of events, but he'll take it over the alternative. This at least indicates progress.
"Given the shortage of data in your sample," says Kirk, "I think you may be right."
Spock inclines his head. "Perhaps," he says.
"Your methodology lacks something in the way of rigor, Science Officer."
"I have reached the same conclusion," says Spock, and he cannot quite eliminate the slight bristle that has crept into his tone, because, yes, it's possible that he's earned this, but there's a limit. He’s still Vulcan.
Across the room, Kirk fixes his gaze and waits for Spock to meet it. He's still smiling, though he's stripped the amusement from his face, and his eyes are bright, lit by a warmth that Spock was not expecting.
"Didn't it ever occur to you," asks his friend, "to ask your mother?"
Spock returns the scrutiny, eyebrow arched. "No, Jim," he says evenly. "I have never asked my mother about her experiences during sexual congress with my father."
Kirk sucks in a deep breath, and the smile widens, deepens. "I guess not," he says. "Though I can't help thinking that there must have been some way you could have gauged her reaction to your hypothesis. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Spock. Couldn't you have found a way to ask if there was anything she would have changed, given the chance? If it was worth a little… incompatibility in the end?"
Spock turns his eyes towards his hands, neatly folded at his stomach. He thinks of his mother's face as she stepped off a transport and into the terminal at ShiKahr; of his father's as his eyes found hers across a bustling lobby. He thinks of their joined hands in the crowds of Rhee, an unbreakable link in a tidal wave of chaos, and of the look they shared when they thought nobody else could see.
"Perhaps," he says. "I traveled to Iota Cilicia XII with that broad intention. However," he adds, and hesitates, because he's not certain how to phrase this in a way that makes sense outside of his own head. "However, when the opportunity presented itself, it became clear that to make such an inquiry would be to invade my mother's privacy no less than any attempt to discuss the… biochemical implications of the match." He pauses, stares at his fingers. "The decision-her decision-is her own," he says at last, and trusts that his friend will understand. He has always been fluent at decoding the words that Spock does not say. "It is not mine to question."
The admiral's eyes are relentless. Spock does not need to look up to know that they are locked on the place where Spock's should be; that they do not move. Jim watches him for a long moment, and then he releases a soft puff of air and drops his head. He nods once, gently, and then again.
"I see," he says quietly. "Yes, Mr. Spock. I think I understand your dilemma."
"Thank you," says Spock.
"But," adds his friend, "perhaps you could have asked me."
He’s right. Of course he is. If he were not, Spock would not have come: the conclusion he has drawn has been formulated from inadequate data, and he is a scientist; he is bound to expand his field of enquiry to incorporate whatever information might become available. But he is also the man who sought the complete abrogation of his mother's emotional legacy rather than trust to his own ability to love and remain himself; everything about this venture represents a paradigm break with the person he thought he was. He wants this-he wants it so badly that his hands, folded tightly in front of him, tremble with the effort of remaining still when his body is telling him to simply reach out and ask for what he needs-but the wanting itself feels dangerous, volatile, unstable. It's as though he were attempting to calibrate a warp coil in absolute darkness: it doesn't matter how well he knows the theory, everything is unfamiliar, everything is different, and he has no idea what will happen when the chambers mix. Spock can count on one hand the number of times he's released the tight hold he keeps on the world around him and just sat back and trusted to Fate, and there's a reason that his default reaction to danger is to fall back into numbers and statistics: numbers and statistics are knowable, predictable, quantifiable. Safe.
But safe is not what they do. There is no safe for James Kirk and Spock of Vulcan. There never was.
It’s time to let go.
"You are correct," he says now, and it’s amazing, really, how easy it is to speak the words now that he's made his choice. This thing has grown wild and monstrous in the captivity of his mind, but, released, it turns out that it was never dangerous, never terrible. It's amazing how easy it is to look up, to find and meet his friend's answering gaze, to cast the dice and let them fall where they may. "If you will permit me, Jim, I will ask you now."
His eyes are fixed on Jim's. He sees an eyebrow arch, but it's not a question, it's not consternation: it's an acknowledgment, a recognition of what's been offered. The world falls away and the moment focuses itself into a point, a singularity, from which all possible futures flow. And then time unfreezes, resolves itself into motion and action, and Jim drops his right hand from the back of the armchair, folds it with his left at his back, and walks slowly, unhurriedly, across the floor to where Spock stands. His head is bowed, but he lifts it as he steps inside his friend's circle of personal space, and his gaze is open, artless, completely exposed. He is close enough that Spock can feel his breath agitate the fine hairs around his face, that he can feel the radiant heat from Jim's body in the shadows that the fire does not reach. He is close enough to smell the buttery sweetness of Human skin--iron and salt and rust-- and the sharp, spiced pine of his aftershave; close enough to hear the whispered memories of another time, another place, in the air between them. This is the ghost that has haunted him for a thousand nights, made flesh in front of him, and Spock cannot begin to understand how he has ever managed to fight against it.
This is his choice. This is what they've chosen. It's like freefall, like gravity, like quantum entanglement. It's like coming home.
"There's only one answer to that question," says Jim, and he lifts his lips to meet Spock's.
~*~
A/N: I've done it! I've finally, FINALLY--200,000 words later--got to T'Lara's prompt! WOOO! (In my chapter notes, I've been referring to it as the Lava Lube Issue, because I have the maturity of an eleven-year-old.) Did anyone guess it, by the way? Because if you did, quite frankly... wow. Hot DAMN, you're good. I'd like to shake your hand.
Chapter 45
Chapter 47