Fic: You Birthed It, Chapter 6

[katiemariie]

Title: You Birthed It
Chapter Title: Spock: Banik Pixie Dream Girl
Author: katiemariie
Artist: azuremonkey
Mixer: jactrades
Mixer: pearlstar178
Beta: Renn
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS/Farscape
Word Count: 10,535
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mind sex

“Outsiders think that we do not feel. But it's only that our feelings don't always show.”
-Stark, “The Hidden Memory”

“Jim, I just lost my planet. I can tell you, I am emotionally compromised.”
-Spock Prime, Star Trek

-

Spock does not have the same emotional trauma stemming from the Scarran Conflict that his fellow veterans aboard the Enterprise appear to have acquired. Mr. Scott drowns his guilt in alcohol. The captain fights alienation with casual sex. Spock, however, is a Vulcan and therefore entirely unaffected emotionally.

So, resist the urge to invest Spock's current actions with any deeper meaning.

Sitting alone, in the dark (preserving both energy and his eyesight), Spock replays the clip on his console for the fourth time this evening.

“Having thoroughly reviewed your testimony and Starfleet service record, the High Council has determined that your actions during the Scarran Conflict constitute an act of genocide. Your Vulcan citizenship and membership in the Vulcan seek have been revoked. You may appeal this decision after the requisite waiting period-in this case, set at one hundred and thirteen years. In the interim, you are forbidden from visiting any space station, planet, or other geological formation under Vulcan control. Under Federation code five-alpha-seven referring to commerce and culture, whensoever it would be profitable to you, you are forbidden from marketing yourself as Vulcan-or, in this instance, half-Vulcan. Due to the extreme nature of your crime, any property or capital you hold on Vulcan land will be seized and donated to the sole survivor of the genocide you enacted-a Mr. Scorpius of Terra. If you should file an appeal and the council's decision be reversed, that donation will not be returned to you. Do you understand the terms of your sentence as I have explained them?”

“Yes, Father.”

Spock stops the clip there, freezing it on his one last moment of childish defiance before being beamed off Vulcan forever. He doesn't plan on filing an appeal.

Being a man without a country would likely affect Spock more were he Human or if he ever truly belonged in Vulcan society.

As he is, it is rather easy to ignore his banishment. He goes fifteen years without talking about it until he finds himself intoxicated on polywater, sharing sorrows with Aeryn Sun.

“My mother...” She chokes back a sob. “My mother wants me to be her, but I can't. I'm...” She lays her head on the table, crying.

Spock pats her hair. “You have to live your life.”

“I know, but...”

“Doing so doesn't lessen the pain you feel at your parent's rejection.”

“Exactly.” She looks up at him, snot streaming down her face. “It's like you're seeing into my soul.”

“My father disapproved of me joining Starfleet, too. He disowned me because of it. Then he banished me from my home planet.”

“That's awful.”

“I know,” Spock sobs, laying his head on Aeryn's shoulder.

She wraps her arms around him, bringing him into a hug. “I miss my mummy,” she cries into the crook of his neck.

“As do I.”

He's spared any further humiliation by a bright, white light searing the psionic core of his being. It feels like... It feels like an orgasm dipped in chocolate fondue. He flinches away from Aeryn. “Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

After the polywater is cleared from his system, Spock doesn't take long to conclude that the likeliest source of the psionic pulse-as he has taken to terming it-was Chaplain Stark, the only other telepath on board the Enterprise since the unfortunate incident involving the galactic barrier and Dr. Dehner. Spock plans to confirm with the chaplain that he created the pulse, and, if so, caution Stark from taking such liberties with his own psionic being again. The experience was no doubt pleasurable on Spock's end, but any Vulcan caught being as generous with their psionic abilities as Stark would find themselves sleeping in a tent on Delta Vega.

Tracking Stark down is easier said than done-even with the ship's censors. Having used the computer to locate Stark three times and not finding him in the room specified, Spock resorts to meeting Stark at the one location he is guaranteed to be on a regular basis: his weekly sermons in the ship's chapel, where Stark appears to be having some difficulty with maintaining the non-denominational stance of the Galactic Commission of Military Chaplains. No mean feat in a galaxy of over three thousand known religions.

“Some people,” Stark says, leaning his elbows on his podium, “believe that all life sprung from a large explosion. Other people believe that life was intelligently designed by a higher being.” When Spock (and much of the largely female congregation) thinks Stark is going to go in for a comparison, Stark continues on with a list. “Other people believe life on this plane of reality descended from a higher plane. Then some other people believe life doesn't exist at all except for in their own mind. Other people believe...” Stark continues in this fashion for twenty-two minutes, before checking the chronometer, smiling at the time passed. “Let us now partake in the sacramental wine.” Stark removes three bottles of wine from behind his podium-more than enough for his dozen or so parishioners.

As far as Spock knows, the ritual that follows does not belong to any of the galaxy's three thousand religions. Unless sitting on the floor while swilling wine straight from the bottle is a Banik holy rite.

“I mean,” Lieutenant Masters starts, “I don't know why I'm not lab chief yet.”

Uhura passes her a bottle. “Girl, you know why.”

Masters sighs and takes a swig before handing the bottle down to Yeoman Rand, who shakes her head. “None for me.”

Nurse Chapel snags the bottle. “Your loss.”

Observing from the corner of the room, Spock is disturbed by the display. He never expected any of the fine women serving aboard the Enterprise to drink wine to the point of mild intoxication on a Sunday morning. The participation of Mr. Scott, the only male present besides Spock and Stark, is less jarring.

“There's nothing quite like church wine,” Scotty says, handing the bottle off to Stark.

Stark takes a modest sip. “It is very generous of Starfleet to provide us with this.”

Spock speaks up, “Starfleet requisitions sacramental wine for religious rituals, not recreation.”

“And who's to say this isn't a religious ritual?” Scotty slurs.

“Yeah.” Uhura smiles. “Some people believe that we all evolved from ethanol,” she quotes Stark's sermon. “We're just paying tribute to our ancestors.”

Spock raises his eyebrows. “Pardon my intrusion in this 'ritual,' but I require Chaplain Stark's attention.”

With a good deal of eye-rolling, the ritual breaks up and its participants file out, leaving Spock alone with Stark. “Am I in trouble?”

“No. As Mr. Scott so cogently argued, your use of the sacramental wine could very well constitute a sacred ritual. I am here to speak with you about something I perceived telepathically during our mission to Psi 2000.”

Stark winces. “You felt that?”

“I did not feel. I perceived. Am I correct in assuming you were the source?”

"Yes, but it wasn't my idea. And Dr. McCoy will vouch for that. And it was necessary to save the ship. I didn't know how to fly the Enterprise but some people-"

"You raided the minds of the crew for the information."

"Only the dead ones. What you felt was the loosening of my telepathic control to access their memories."

"Why wasn't this included in the statement you gave about the incident?"

"Sir... keeping the abilities of the Banik people secret is fundamental to our survival. Were Starfleet to know everything that we could do..."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Even the Vulcan people, known for the pragmatism, keep certain aspects of their culture private from the Federation."

"Their culture? Aren't you Vulcan?"

"Half-Vulcan on a biological level. Culturally, I am..."

"Human?"

"Prohibited from identifying as Vulcan."

"Oh."

"Chaplain, as another telepath, I must caution you from using your abilities in such a fashion. Not only does it endanger the sacredness of your species' abilities, but you must also consider the effect it has on the condition of your own mind."

"My mind?"

"Yes. By sharing yourself with so many, you risk losing yourself. Losing the sanctity of your mind."

"You needn't worry, Mr. Spock. I won't be doing anything like that again and I don't have a mind to tarnish."

Spock raises an eyebrow, working to parse that idiom. "Chaplain, while you have no formal theological training-" (A fact Spock takes some trouble with, but as Dr. McCoy once said, "He's Stykera! You wouldn't ask an angel to go to the seminary!") "-you are no doubt an intelligent, young man with a functioning mind to offer his parishioners. Starfleet would not have contracted you otherwise."

"Thank you, sir. But what I mean is that, as a species, Baniks do not have minds to speak of. We are creatures of pure telepathic energy. You might say we are all spirit."

"Fascinating." Spock feels the familiar itch in his fingertips, aching to reach and taste-an itch that has led him astray in the past, an itch mostly subdued for a time, until awakened by the demands of duty. If not for the good of the Enterprise and the safety of the his crew mates-and out of a respect for the sanctity of all living beings-Spock would have never fallen back into the habit of wanting. The mother Horta does not know what Spock sacrificed to save her and her offspring. The impossible sensation he experienced due to Stark's labors only enflamed that itch, pressing it hard in the back of Spock's mind. And, now, a palpable physical sensation of that want.

He should go, leave Stark now that the man has been properly warned about psionic impropriety, but... If Stark has no mind to lose, then the risk would be Spock's alone. And it is not as if there is anyone for Spock to save it for. The way Spock's guided meditation has been progressing, he will likely die during his first pon farr. If that never comes to pass (and a cynical portion of Spock believes that it must-as a half-breed, he is destined to possess all of Vulcanity's defects and none of its benefits), Spock faces an increased probability of death during the next four years due to Captain Kirk's recklessness and Spock's sworn duty to protect his life.

Spock's sanity and purity will surely last him for at least the next four years, even if he... Even if he...

"Chaplain, would you like to join me for dinner?"

-

“I am surprised to hear that Stykera consume meat,” Spock says, setting another portion of salad onto Stark's plate.

“Baniks eat what we can to survive.” Spock can see that; Stark is on his third serving.

“And it does not weigh on you spiritually?”

“No.” Stark wipes his mouth. “The distinction between plant and animal isn't so great when you grow up alongside sentient plants. Of course, to a Banik, plants and animals are just two different categories of corporeal life from this realm.”

“Yet you yourself present as animal in this realm.”

“It isn't a choice... The Baniks present in this realm were selectively bred to appear similar to their first masters.”

“Sebaceans?”

“Yes.”

“As an emotional creature, how then can you socialize so closely with Lieutenants Sun and Braca?”

Stark stares down at an olive on his plate. “Many times it is easier to be among other aliens-even Sebaceans-than it is to be among Humans. As a species, the Humans have been quite kind to my people, but that kindness can manifest as an over-eagerness to help, even when that help isn't wanted or needed.”

Spock finishes his bite of food. “I have heard reports of the Banik compound's difficulties with visiting missionaries.”

Stark looks up from his plate, his manner somehow brighter. “The Pope visited when I was young. He left rather quickly.”

“I imagine he did not like being told his understanding of the cosmos was wrong.”

“Not wrong, just incomplete. I remember him being mad when one of the adults suggested that the Virgin Mary might be one of the many iterations of the Goddess.” He smiles. “The Mormons were nice, very persistent. They still send us casseroles.”

“Do you like casserole? I have programmed into the synthesizer a number of the vegetarian casseroles my mother prepared when I was a child. I could serve one the next time we have dinner. That is, if you wish to dine with me again.”

“That would be nice.”

Spock wasn't initially intending on supping with Stark multiple times, assuming he could follow his captain's example in “closing the deal” quickly, but Banik culture is fascinating and, being an emotional creature, Stark would be unlikely to engage in close philosophical discussions with Spock after receiving “the brush-off.”

Spock serves green bean casserole, which proves palatable to Stark, but not as tasty as the Mormon recipe. (“I don't think anyone is as good at making casseroles as the Church of Latter-Day Saints.”) Their conversation centers around the same topics as their previous dinner with Stark doing most of the talking at Spock's gentle prodding.

“I know what people think about Stykera-those who know about us.” Stark pushes a bit of green bean around his plate with a fork. “To other telepaths, we're like candy. Telepathic candy.”

“I was not aware of this reputation.”

Stark's eye slowly drags from his plate, across the table, and up to Spock's face. “Of course,” he says, his voice lower than usual. “Are you as telepathic as a full-Vulcan?”

“Vulcan telepathy levels run a broad spectrum, but I have been told I am quite... gifted.”

“In my duties as Stykera, I have made contact with a variety of species, but never a Vulcan... I've heard rumors that your priestesses can raise the dead.”

“In the past, yes.”

“To my people, that would be an abomination.”

“Indeed.”

Stark licks his lips, which always look a little chapped. “You look like the being many Terran cultures called the Devil.”

“I have been told as much.”

In one fell swoop, Stark throws the table to the deck (impressive, considering it is bolted to the wall), sending the remaining casserole splattering across the room. For a moment, Spock thinks he has misread the situation entirely, formulating an exit strategy as Stark advances. But then Stark grabs Spock's wrist, radiating want and the itch so strongly, before placing Spock's hand on his face. “Is this how it's done?”

“Yes. May I?”

“Wait.” One-handed, Stark unfastens his mask, sending a wave of yellow light across Spock's face, tingling at his psi points. More remarkable than the sensation (and the sensation is remarkable) is the restraint evident behind it. Stark holds greater power than Spock had imagined. “Okay.”

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts...”

Spock presses in and realizes that he is mind-melding with a being without mind. A being of pure katra. Inside, rather than billions of connections and synapses, Stark is that same light radiating from his face. It is quite unlike anything Spock has felt before-even better than the first time when he was infected with polywater. His mind tries to wrap itself around the light, hold it close, but it is as allusive as any other light. Spock desperately tries to grab purchase on the smaller flecks of light that make up the whole, but as Spock progresses deeper inside, the light grows ever more brilliant, overloading Spock's perception in a satisfying flash.

Spock blinks, his eyes burning like he just went outdoors after hours of intense study. The room grows dimmer as Stark fumbles his mask back into place. “I should go,” Stark mumbles. “It was...” Stark backs away from the table, his back hitting the locked door. “Sorry about the mess.” (Spock cannot be certain whether Stark is referring to the mess on the floor or in Spock's pants.)

By the time Stark manages to unlock the door and place himself on the other side of it, Spock's timesense has re-engaged.

One minute and twenty-four seconds have elapsed since he initiated the meld. The experience felt longer in his mind.

-

Were Spock fully-Human, he imagines he would be embarrassed by his performance (or lack thereof) in the meld with Stark. As he is, Spock merely regrets his inability to practice the old Earth axiom, “Do unto others...” Spock is a strong believer in fairness and equanimity whensoever possible, and thus, according to his personal ethics, it would only be logical to approach Stark with an offer of bringing him the same stimuli as Spock experienced in their previous encounter.

The possibility of Spock experiencing that stimulus once more is a mere secondary benefit.

Unfortunately, Spock hasn't much opportunity to approach Stark about engaging in another aventure-with the demands of duty and Stark's skillfulness at fooling the ship's censors. (The Enterprise, apparently, was not built for detecting creatures existing on multiples planes of reality at once.) At his earliest convenience, Spock goes to the one place where Stark is guaranteed to be no matter what the censors say-once again to Stark's sermon.

Stark seems to have moved on from facile attempts at pan-universal, non-denominationalism to taking refuge in the absurd. Namely, holding a funeral for a god.

When Spock enters the chapel, Stark is addressing his usual congregation from the pulpit. "And while we may not have known Him for very long, and while He might have tried to kill us, it is still important that we ask ourselves, 'Who mourns for Apollo?' Should we mourn for Apollo? What are the limits of our grief and compassion?" Stark pauses for a moment, looking out at the congregation expectantly. "Anyone? Does anyone want to...?"

"I thought that was a rhetorical question," Yeoman Rand whispers to Uhura.

"Anyone?"

Spock raises his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Spock."

"While practitioners of the Vulcan faith do not indulge in emotionalism, there is a phrase common to the Vulcan people. When we hear of a death, we say, 'I grieve with thee.' Grief is permitted. Given that Vulcan beliefs discourage a hierarchization of lifeforms, I would venture that all life is grievable under Vulcan spirituality, even if that life was what some might term a 'god' and abused their 'divine' powers reprehensibly. To summarize, yes, we should mourn for Apollo."

"Thank you, Mr. Spock." Stark smiles, his eye darting around the chapel. "Anyone else? Anyone? Anyone? Yes, Mr. Spock.”

"What do you believe?"

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Er... Well, as Stykera, I mourn for all. Even the gods."

"You think Apollo really was a god?" Uhura asks.

"If people worshipped Him as a god, then He was one."

"That's it?" Rand asks. "That's all it takes?"

"According to Banik beliefs, yes... And, in my experience, the beliefs people hold about the afterlife, no matter how different, tend to be true when their time comes."

"But what about yer Goddess?" Scotty asks. "If everything's true and there's some pantheon o' gods waitin' for us, why do you talk about that Goddess of yours so often?"

"The Goddess is my belief. We may not be entitled to much, but even Baniks are allowed to have their own spirituality."

"But if your Goddess is just as true as Apollo or God or whoever," Lieutenant Masters says, "how can you put so much faith in her alone?"

"As Mr. Scott said, everything is true. And if everything's true, we can pick which truths to hold as our own. That doesn't make anyone else's truths any less valid. Faith isn't mathematics; there can be as many right answers as we need."

By the time Stark looks to the chronometer to start the binge-drinking portion of his service, they are already to the end of their allotted time. For what Spock guesses to be the first time, Stark manages to fill his weekly service with actual religious and spiritual content. And, for the most part, his congregants seem pleased with the change, vacating the room only after the next group scheduled to use it filters in.

"Father," Scotty says, stopping by Stark on his way out the chapel, "er, will we be doing this again next week? I mean, the religious talk the whole time?"

"Yes." Stark nods happily. "I think we will."

Scotty grimaces. "Don't wait up for me then.”

Stark opens his mouth as if to speak, but Scotty is gone. Stark frowns.

“I believe,” Spock says, joining Stark in the doorway, “Commander Scott is disappointed by the lack of ethanol in today's sermon.”

“That's my belief, as well.” Stark glances at the new faces in the room before leaning in to whisper, “I know of many mystics who use intoxicants to reach a higher state of consciousness... I don't think this is what Mr. Scott is attempting.”

“I can say with near certainty that that is not Mr. Scott's intention.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Starfleet has been advised of the matter. They will take the appropriate action when they see fit.”

Stark nods.

"Could I discuss something with you? In a more private location."

"Yes, of-" Stark's communicator whistles in his pocket. "Excuse me." He brings the comm to his mouth. "Stark here."

"My quarters. Five minutes," says a voice over the communicator Spock judges to be Lieutenant Scorpius.

"I'll be there. Stark out." Stark jams the communicator back in his pocket before smiling at Spock apologetically. "I have to go."

"Perhaps we could have that discussion over dinner."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

-

Stark is considerably more agitated physically this dinner. When he drops his fork for the third time, Spock has to ask, "Stark, is something wrong?"

"No. It's fine. Everything's fine."

"You are having difficulty regulating your motor functions."

"Oh." Stark sets down his fork and folds his hands in his lap.

"Are you nervous?"

"No. I'm... I'm a bit confused."

"Confused?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"This. I... You got what you wanted. Once is usually enough. And with the way you acted when we were... I don't think you cared to see me again."

"I see." Spock clears his throat. "I regret the manner in which our last encounter ended. Typically, my mind melds have been of greater mutual benefit. What transpired while we were melding has not happened to me before."

"It probably happens to a lot of Vulcans."

"Even so, it was not entirely equitable." Spock folds his hands, resting them on the table. "I hypothesize if we were to repeat the encounter, it would end in a more mutually beneficial manner."

"You want to...?"

"If you so desire it."

Stark looks down at his glass. "Most people don't care what I desire."

“In this instance, it is of utmost importance.”

Stark looks up at him, smiling shyly. “Okay.”

Five minutes and seventeen seconds later, Spock is sitting at the edge of his bed, glowering at the floor, while Stark straps his mask back on.

“So...” Stark drawls. “Perhaps in a couple minutes, we could try again?”

“I require at the very minimum five minutes to recenter my katra.”

“I can wait.”

Spock pulls his legs off the ground, sliding to the middle of the bed, where he faces Stark. “Perhaps our next meld would be more successful if I knew more about your psionic anatomy. In particular, what areas are the most sensitive.”

“Oh.” A slight blush forms on Stark's cheek. “Well, the true core of my being is probably the most sensitive.”

“And where would that be located?”

“In the deepest recesses of my soul. It is the source of the light.”

“I believe I have seen that. In our past unions, I attempted to approach a very bright light before... becoming overloaded.”

“Yes, that would be the core of my being.”

“Good. Surrounding that area, there were smaller flecks of light. Do those hold any particular purpose?”

“Not for this. The souls of those I aided in death are not very, er, sensuous.”

“The flecks are the souls of others.”

Stark nods.

“I see.” Spock thinks back to exactly how many flecks of light he saw in the meld. Far too many for even him to count. “How many souls would you estimate you have acquired?”

“I don't know.” Stark thinks for a moment. “At least a thousand.”

“One thousand?”

“I would've aided more if I hadn't been rescued from Katratzi. Living aboard the Enterprise has helped me catch up, I suppose... Do you ever notice that the dying wear red?”

Spock finds himself too distracted to consider Stark's inane question. One thousand? No Vulcan-not even the great priestesses at Gol, who are permitted such things by the very purity of their minds-has ever joined with so many minds. Such a thing would be unclean-a matter of public health. There is a maxim taught to Vulcans reaching psionic maturity: “For however many katra thy beloved has known, shall be known to thyself.” In lay terms, when a Vulcan mind melds with someone, they are melding with everyone that person has melded with.

One thousand.

One thousand.

Stark leans over, pressing a hand on Spock's knee. “Are you okay?”

Spock blinks once. “I am adequate.”

“Do you still want to...?”

The damage is done; Spock has already soiled himself with Stark's liberality. No harm could befall him from giving Stark the same pleasure he (and a thousand others) have taken from Stark. “Yes. My energies are sufficiently refocused.”

“Good.” Stark unstraps his masks and, as the light pours onto him, Spock raises his hand to Stark's cheek.

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts...”

The light is just as brilliant, but Spock's perception of it is somewhat dulled by their recent encounter. The sensation remains enjoyable. Spock may yet be able to appreciate it more now that he is not overloaded by stimuli. With a target in mind, Spock proceeds further into the glow, seeking out the source of the light. The journey is longer than Spock anticipates, and even with the prickling sensations across Spock's mind, he finds himself losing his telepathic focus until he slips out of Stark's mind entirely.

Back on the physical plane, Stark's mask dangles from his face halfway off, his eye locked with Spock's, wide in confusion. “What just...”

Spock jolts away, scooting himself off the bed, to his feet, and into the corner of the room, where he glares at Stark with his fingers steepled. “I appear to be having continued difficulties with my telepathy.”

“Oh. Maybe you're just nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Or maybe my mind overpowered yours.”

“Or maybe I could not find your core because they were too many souls in the way.”

Stark wrinkles his forehead. “What are you saying?”

“I am suggesting that perhaps your telepathic promiscuity has irrevocably altered your psionic anatomy to the point of insensitivity.”

Stark scowls, pushing himself off the bed. “Or perhaps I can't feel you because you're a half-breed from a barely telepathic species and I...” Stark crosses the room, pressing himself uncomfortably close to Spock. “I am a frelling unicorn.” He taps twice on his mask before storming out.

Fascinating, Spock thinks despite himself.

-

Spock realizes now that attempting any kind of telepathic association with Stark was deeply illogical. The ephemeral pleasure was not worth the permanent damage to Spock's mind. Spock has yet to perceive any damage to his mind resulting from their three brief unions, but his Vulcan upbringing tells him the seeds of insanity (the loss of logic and the rise of emotion) have already been sown-so deep within him that they cannot be felt. Spock, in particular, has to maintain a state of constant vigilance regarding insanity given his heritage. Not only is he half-Human, but the genetic markers for emotionalism might lie dormant in the Vulcan portion of his ancestry-made evident only by Sybok's slip into pagan fanaticism.

Early detection being key, Spock visits Dr. M'Benga for a full neural scan.

“Is there any particular reason for today's visit?” Dr. M'Benga asks, stepping behind the neural imaging console. “Usually I can't get you in here on pain of death.”

“I am concerned that-”

“Keep your head still.”

“-my recent telepathic contact with alien species could negatively impact my health.”

M'Benga looks up over the console. “Have you been experiencing any symptoms? Headaches? Fatigue? Ringing in your ears?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He peers down at the neural scan. “Everything looks good from here.”

“Are you certain? I've been rather telepathically active as of late.”

“Have you been properly starting and ending your melds?”

Spock breaks eye-contact. “My endings have been more abrupt recently.”

M'Benga's eyes grow wide. “I mean, have you been severing the telepathic link completely to prevent Pa'nar Syndrome?”

“Yes.”

“Then you shouldn't have anything to worry about. As long as you practice safely, your brain will be unaffected.”

“But what of my katra?”

“I'm afraid that's outside my expertise. You could always talk to the chaplain about it.”

Spock doesn't plan on talking to or even seeing Chaplain Stark again, but when he leaves the neural imaging suite, he finds him staring right at the man he once found so elusive. As Stykera, Stark is hardly unexpected in sickbay, but Spock doesn't believe fluttering about someone who just won't die-much to the annoyance of Spock-is part of a Stykera's duty.

Spock can see it all quite clearly through the exam room's transparent aluminum walls, but the conversation is slightly muffled.

“Stark,” Scorpius hisses, pushing him away-far more gently than if he was actually annoyed. “I'm fine.”

Stark backs into a corner, stuffing his hands under his armpits.

“Well, I got good news for you,” Dr. McCoy says, staring down at a padd. “According to the stress test we ran, your cooling apparatus is running more efficiently. Meaning it took you significantly longer than last month to run through a single cooling rod under the same conditions. Now, seeing as you haven't made any structural modifications, your body itself is what's grown more efficient at keeping you cool. Have you made any lifestyle changes this month? Any changes in diet? Are you getting more exercise?”

“Yes, of a sort.” Scorpius leers at Stark, who seems to be in on the joke.

“Whatever it is you're doing, keep it up.”

“Oh, I plan on it.”

Were he fully Human, Spock would exit “in a huff,” but given his hybrid genetics, he leaves sickbay with a small, imperceptible exhalation. The prospect of Lieutenant Scorpius having intimate relations with Stark is admittedly distressing, pressing upon old wounds. Scorpius has quite literally taken everything from Spock. His home on Vulcan, all the possessions therein, and now the one source of pleasure in his life, Stark. Not to mention Admiral Pike's favor and the opportunity to give him a life worth living.

While emotionally unaffected by Pike's accident and subsequent convalescence, Spock nonetheless found he could not live with Pike's pitiful condition-nor could Pike, Spock imagined. Doing what he could, Spock devised a complex plan that would free Pike from his own mind. He need only wait until Spock was serving once again on the Enterprise. However, in the interim, Scorpius took it upon himself to engineer a wheelchair that granted Pike greater mobility and communication-although not as great as what he would have had on Talos IV. Pike remains to some extent trapped in his own mind (at least as much Spock is), but he has a life now.

A life that occasionally permits him to speak to his old science officer over subspace.

After discussing a recent coup in the Hynerian empire, Spock remarks upon something that caught his eye throughout their call. “That is a very authentic-looking lirpa on your wall. I used to own one just like it.”

“Thank you. It was a gift from Scorpius.”

Were Spock Klingon, he would swear death to Scorpius and all his progeny. As he is, Spock merely allows a small twitch of his mouth-a gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by someone who has known him as long as Christopher has.

“Is something the matter?”

Vulcans do not lie. (And Spock is Vulcan even if he can never profess to be one.) “I am experiencing what Humans might call 'inner turmoil.'”

“You? Inner turmoil? That's unheard of.” Spock takes half a second to appreciate the machine's ability to replicate Human sarcasm. Scorpius truly is a genius. (And Spock will destroy him.)

“I believe I may have strayed from my chosen path. I have done things that run counter to everything I was taught to believe.”

Accustomed to Spock's caginess when speaking about personal matters, Pike asks, “And what you did, did it hurt anyone?”

Spock shakes his head. “Not the deed itself, but I may have allowed my own conflictedness about my actions to negatively influence my behavior towards those involved.”

“Then to me it sounds like your actions aren't the problem here. It's your conflictedness. Now, you can either change what you believe or change what you do, but you can't keep doing things you believe are wrong and not expect to act like complete jackass to the people around you. Even if you are half-Vulcan.”

That-being half-Vulcan-seems to be the crux of the problem once again. He was raised to follow the Vulcan way, knowing the path of logic-Vulcan logic, in particular-would lead him to all the good Vulcan has to offer-a career, a home, a place in society, a bondmate, the deepest telepathic connection one could have. Those goods are forbidden to him now. The Vulcan scientific community refuses to acknowledge his accomplishments and discoveries while in Starfleet. Scorpius owns his home. There has never been a place for him in society. And no Vulcan will ever bond to him or even spare him a passing mind touch. Yet, his need as a Vulcan (telepathic contact inserting itself somewhat awkwardly into Maslow's hierarchy of needs) remains.

The itch in his hand-perhaps more than sign of perversion. Yet, if it truly is a sign of perversion, Spock is quickly forgetting how to care.

Stark could be his only chance. (Spock feels incredibly old then, like a Human woman in one of his mother's holoserials well past her prime trying not to die alone.)

-

Spock is unable to find a seat at Stark's next sermon, so he waits outside until the congregation has dispersed. Inside, Stark is stacking standard-issue Bibles back in their cupboard.

“Chaplain.”

Stark doesn't face him. “Commander.”

“I apologize for the manner in which I treated you following our last encounter. I hope that my mistake does not preclude the possibility of being intimate again.”

Stark scoffs. “You can't call me a tralk and then expect to join with me whenever you wish.”

Spock is surprised. He did not anticipate Stark to stand up for himself (or do much else but fall into Spock's waiting embrace), because in the past Stark gave away his psionic-self freely and absorbed any benign attention from others like a dying houseplant. Spock isn't certain how he would administer to this less-malleable being.

“But,” Stark says, turning so that Spock can see the slightly upturned corner of his mouth, “there are other ways of being intimate.”

And this is how Spock finds himself kneeling on the deck of Stark's quarters, administering oral sex. Overall, a rather tedious exercise until Stark flips off his mask, shining his light down onto Spock's psi points, and then starts squeezing the hands Spock has left awkwardly resting on his thighs. Then it is close to whatever Sybok considers “seeing God.” In more technical terms, a feedback loop of psionic and physical pleasure running unendingly between Spock and Stark. Heaven on Earth and then back again.

Spock faintly hears a door slide open. “Stark, have you seen my game padd?” Of course, Lieutenant Scorpius would barge in. Obviously, he would. As a half-Scarran, he must possess a low-level telepathic field that alerts him whenever Spock's life is going in a positive direction. This is obviously revenge for beating him in chess recently.

“No,” Stark says, throwing a blanket over Spock and the lower half of his body.

“I thought I left it in here last night.” Last night? “What are you doing?”

Spock feels the light disappear as Stark closes his mask. “Praying?”

Scorpius snorts. “Of course. What else do you do? ...If you see my game padd, put it on the bathroom counter.”

“I will.”

Spock hears Scorpius stomp off and the double doors of the bathroom open and close. Stark lifts up the blanket. “Sorry.”

Spock removes his mouth from Stark's person. “Does he often enter your quarters unannounced?”

“Constantly. This is not the first time he has walked in on me having an intimate moment. This is first time another person has been there though.” Spock finds himself oddly relieved by that addendum. Stark cups his cheek. “Are you jealous?”

“Would it please you if I were?” Spock knows some Humans find jealousy in a partner validating of their desirability.

“No. Jealousy is a sign of possessiveness.”

“And you do not wish to be a possession.”

Stark nods.

Spock had forgotten how easy it is to relate to another telepath.

“It is nice,” Stark says.

-

An outbreak of Arethian flu amongst the crew forestalls any opportunity for Spock and Stark to officially define the terms of their association. Given the limited probability of finding another telepath during the Enterprise's mission, Spock realizes the benefits of locking down Stark's services for the foreseeable future, yet he finds himself somewhat thankful for the heavy workload preventing him from doing so. Even after his exile from Vulcan, Spock has never been a man to settle for the convenient-and even with his new conditions for their dalliances, Stark is by his very nature convenient, ready and available for use. By almost anyone.

That fact doesn't escape Spock as he portions out vaccines in the lab. As the death toll rises, so does the number of souls residing within Stark. Thirteen since yesterday-one at a time rolling into Stark like an assembly line as he is encamped in sickbay. Every living thing dies, Spock muses bitterly as he loads the vaccines into a cart, so everyone can take their turn with Stark.

Pushing the cart down the corridor to sickbay, Spock is doubtful that he could countenance the sight of Stark's “sacred duty” without a facial muscle twitch that would give Dr. McCoy another excuse to assert that Spock is an emotional creature in denial. (As if Spock needs another person telling him he isn't Vulcan.)

As the door swishes open, Spock keeps his eyes on the cart and away from the makeshift triage in the middle of sickbay. Vulcan hearing isn't so easily circumvented.

“Get outta here, you metal-faced bastard!” McCoy growls. “He ain't dead yet.”

The slowing beeps of the biosensor speak differently.

“Doctor,” Stark says.

“Goddamnit...” He sighs. “Make it quick.”

McCoy brushes past as Spock feels rather than sees Stark remove his mask. Spock may be “a half-breed from a barely telepathic species,” but even he can perceive the shift in the psionic field as Stark gets to work. At this distance at least. From his lab Spock may have read the numbers, registered how many souls were passing through Stark, yet until now he remained wholly ignorant of what Stark does for each of those souls.

Ashamed like a child stepping on an insect, Spock leaves the vaccines and returns to his work.

-

After the outbreak has been contained and the death stopped, Spock seeks out Stark with the computer's help and is faced once again with an empty room.

“Stark?” Spock calls, his voice echoing slightly in the deserted mess hall.

A head pokes out from under a table. “Yes?”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “You are sitting underneath the table.”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Would you like to join me? There's room.”

Spock looks around the room, verifying that it is empty. “Very well.” He crouches down and crawls beside Stark, who has a partially eaten plate of crudites resting on his lap.

“Carrot?”

“No, thank you.”

Stark chomps happily on a piece of celery, leaving Spock to an awkward silence-unusual given that Stark is one to fill any and all silences.

“Is there a particular reason why you are eating underneath the table?”

Stark swallows. “I have food aggression.”

“Food aggression? Like a domestic canine?”

Stark nods. “When I was growing up, we were never given much food. We were always fighting to get our portion.”

“And the behavior become engrained.”

“Yes... I used to bite. The elders made me eat away from everyone else. I suppose I got used to it.”

“You could eat in your quarters.”

Stark shakes his head. “I can't fit under the table in my quarters.”

Spock straightens his neck, his head brushing the bottom of the table. “You don't find this uncomfortable?”

Stark smiles slightly. “When Starfleet was liberating Katratzi, I hid in a crate for five solar days. This is roomy by comparison.”

“If you value 'roominess,' why do you eat under a table?”

Stark shrugs. “It's nice down here. Cozy. Very... womblike.” The word choice reminds Spock that Stark has no mother-and for all intents and purposes neither does he. They have more in common than perhaps Spock would prefer. “I felt you today.”

“Indeed?”

“While I was passing over Ensign Mailer. You seemed surprised.”

“It was not what I expected.”

“No?”

“I thought the dying were using you.”

“No, that would be the living.”

Spock lets the subtle barb pass. “You get as much from them as they from you. It is a mutually beneficial transaction.”

“I wouldn't choose to do it if it wasn't.”

“Selflessness doesn't have value amongst your people?”

Stark rolls his eye. “When someone's been forcing you to be selfless for the past five millennia, it tends to lose its value.”

“Even it means abrogating the needs of the many in favor of those of the few?”

“Yes! We even have an old saying, 'The many are your oppressors.'”

“Really?”

“Yes. Sort of. It's a very rough translation. Actually, it's probably something more like, 'Everyone is oppressing you.'”

“Am I oppressing you?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not presently?”

“No, presently you're under the table.” Stark nudges him like this holds some greater significance and perhaps it does.

Spock picks up a carrot, considering it for a moment. “You are a very complex and dynamic individual.”

Stark nods like Spock just told him water was wet. “I contain multitudes.”

And while Stark might be one of the most open telepaths Spock has met... “You are a very inconvenient person.” Spock runs a hand over his upper back, which aches mildly from crouching. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My entire life.” That would include his time as a slave-something that remains unstated but still causes a curl of empathy? affection? to roil in Spock's abdomen dangerously close to his heart.

Spock takes a bite of his carrot, chewing slowly. “The Vulcan people have never been conquered.”

“Good for them,” Stark mumbles.

“I am beginning to realize how limited that makes them. And me. Suffice to say, Vulcans do not eat under tables.”

“But you are.”

“Only because you invited me. The idea would not have occurred to me otherwise.” Spock looks Stark directly in the eye. “I think perhaps we could be mutually beneficial to one another.”

“Are you sure you won't be 'settling?'” That is the problem with relating to a telepath-on occasion they can read one's mind. Especially if they are more skilled than one could ever aspire. The corners of Stark's mouth quirk at the sensed compliment.

“On the contrary. If Humans are but a little lower than the angels-” Spock's thumb traces the smile forming on Stark's lips. “-then any continued association with you would be a form of celestial upward mobility.”

Stark grabs a handful of Spock's shirt, yanking him closer with a surprising burst of strength. “Talk theology to me, Mr. Spock.”

-

In the coming months, during Spock's off-time, if he isn't sitting underneath a table, he's on his knees in front of Stark, and, with the exception of one notable occasion, he is not praying. (Stark occasionally lapses into prayer while Spock is in that position-something Spock found unnerving until Stark explained that the Banik orgasm is a transcendental experience wherein the corporeal body and spirit become fused by the grace of the Goddess. It seems then that Spock is pleasuring Stark telepathically. Although the Goddess appears to be getting most of the credit.) Afterwards, Stark flops his back onto Spock's bed, letting his legs dangle off the edge so Spock can rest a cheek on his thigh.

“We should try this in your spa bath,” Stark says, sitting up.

Spock looks up at Stark with a questioning eyebrow.

“The light refracts differently in water.”

“Interesting. The captain has informed me that the baths in senior officers' quarters are capable of holding two people.”

“That's one way of beating the loneliness.”

“You believe Captain Kirk is lonely?” He is never short on female company.

“I think most people are... but the captain in particular.”

“And Dr. McCoy?” Spock felt a whisper of that name in Stark's mind.

“Him, too.” Stark's voice grows cold. “But perhaps that is a fate he deserves.”

“I thought you liked Dr. McCoy. He speaks very highly of you.”

“He only does so because he doesn't know me.”

“I know you.” Spock brushes a kiss along Stark's inner thigh.

“Biblically... but if you knew me, you'd find another telepath.”

“I imagine you would do much the same if you knew me.”

“That's what I'm talking about.” Stark reaches down, cupping the back of Spock's head. “I do know you. I know what you did. During the war. And I don't care. I'm grateful.” Spock turns his head, unable to look Stark in the eye. “I would've done it. If I could've done it, I would have.”

“You are Stykera.”

“But I am Banik first. And I have never met not one Banik who wouldn't praise your name to the Goddess for destroying the Scarran species.”

“To my people, I am a monster, but to yours, I am a hero.”

“Your people would say that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. But the only reason there are so few Baniks (and only one Scorpius) is that the many slaughtered us, ate our children, choked us with pesticides for their precious crystherium.” Stark's fingers curl around Spock's hair. “I wouldn't worry what the Vulcans think of you; they're not your people anymore.”

“Then who is?” It is a question Spock has asked many times, but never aloud.

Stark shrugs. “Whatever company you keep.”

He looks up at Stark. “Would that include you?”

“If you'll keep me.”

Spock untangles Stark's fingers from his hair. “You are not something to be kept.” He twines their fingers together. “But I am willing to share the future with you. For however long that may last.”

They start with shore leave.

“You do not mind staying aboard the Enterprise?” Spock asks, brushing his fingertips along the short hair on Stark's head-now resting on Spock's lap.

“I probably would have stayed here even if you hadn't asked me. I appreciate the quiet.” One of the benefits of engaging with another telepath is that Spock knows intuitively, from experience that Stark is referring to much more than the lack of audible noise. “It's nice having just one soul to consider.”

Spock smiles slightly down at Stark. “I would hope that by now you would be thinking of two souls.”

“No, I think I can trust you to take care of my own.”

Spock traces the edge of Stark's mask, feeling the energy humming beneath. Stark gives something between a moan and a sigh. “Is this pleasing?”

Stark nods. “I was thinking we could-” Spock lets a fingernail slips beneath the mask. “-mmhmm...”

“Yes?”

“...try something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Stark sits up, playfully batting away Spock's hands. “You have some sensation in the psionic pressure points on your face. When I remove my mask.”

“True.”

“But not as much as your hands.”

“Correct.”

“Perhaps we could try to heighten that sensation by getting closer.” Stark swings one knee over Spock's thighs, straddling his lap.

Spock rests his forehead against Stark's. “The proximity might overload my psionic capabilities sooner than is desirable.”

“We'll have to see. It's worth trying.”

“Very well.” Spock wraps his arms around Stark's middle, pulling him chest-to-chest and cheek-to-cheek, the cool metal of the mask chilling his face.

“Okay.” Stark drapes his arms around Spock's neck, propping his elbows up on his shoulders. “Are you ready?”

Spock rolls his hips. “In body and mind.”

“I can feel that.” (Stark is not talking about telepathy.) He unfastens the neck strap, lifting the mask up and away from his head.

The light casts upon Spock's psi points like a sun bringing to life a flower-or, from Stark's memories, an artificial growth light setting to bloom a crystherium. Stark may be Stykera by birth, but his first training was as a gardner. He has a way of making things grow-even without trying. Spock can see that now. But he also knows that this talent became second-nature through beatings, Scarran heat rays, and the constant threat of being sold to a budong mining operation.

Spock leans into the light (behaving very much like a phototropic planet, if he is to continue with the horticultural metaphor in his internal monologue), rubbing his own foundations along Stark's. He can't perceive exactly what he is projecting to Stark (mind touches are never so transparent as shouting across a room), but he tries to convey himself as a child split between two worlds and ends up at a man belonging to neither.

“You have a home here,” Stark says, but the words come out of Spock's mouth.

“In you?” Stark's voice asks.

“On the Enterprise.”

A flash from the man alone to the gleaming metal of the Enterprise, cold but close, wrapping around like a mask. A home away from home for people who no longer have one. Or those who never did. The Banik refugee. The boy of two worlds and nowhere. Spock rests himself on that comparison, making it bloom between them, exploding softly in the full spectrum of light and shadow. It's not the brilliant beam of their earliest joinings, but being there with Stark is so much better. (Spock realizes later that he might be the darkness during their union, and counts himself fortunate that he grew up far from Earth, able to appreciate the value of darkness. Even the crystherium mother plant will not grow in constant sunshine.) The light and the dark fade, coalescing into the dull midtones of the corporeal realm.

“Stark?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you-”

“I'm fine. Better than fine.” Stark pulls away to slip his mask back on. “How are you?”

“Above adequate.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“As it was-” On the bedside table, a communicator chirps. “-intended.”

“I think that's mine.” He climbs off Spock, wobbling slightly even with Spock's steadying hand on his shoulder. “It could be Scorpius.”

“Scorpius,” Spock says flatly.

“Yes. It could be an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency would Scorpius have that he would call you for? A crisis of faith?”

“That was almost a joke.” Stark manages to get his two feet on the ground without any major injuries. “He might need my help. If he's thrown Braca out again, there would be no one on planet to change his cooling rods.”

“And this duty would fall to you?”

“It's my job. It's the entire reason I'm stationed aboard the Enterprise. You didn't know? No one told you?”

“No, I was not informed.”

“I don't think Scorpius wanted many people to know.”

“I understand why Starfleet would have a vested interest in keeping this secret.”

“Hold on.” Stark grabs the comm. “Stark here.”

“Sun,” the lieutenant says over the communicator. “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry. I was, er, meditating.”

“Right. Braca and Scorpius are taking a break from their weeken-long frellfest to get a bite to eat. They want to know if we'll tag along.”

“Er...”

“Keep in mind that it will be extremely awkward if I'm there alone with them playing footsy underneath the table.”

“Er... I...” Stark looks to Spock as if asking permission.

“I will be here when you return,” Spock says.

“Yeah,” Stark says into the comm. “I'll be there.”

“Great. I've rented a runner for the week; I'll pick you up at space dock at 1800 hours. Sun out.”

Stark places his comm back on the table. “I'm sorry.”

Spock shrugs. “They are your friends; it is logical that you would wish to spend time with them.”

Before Stark leaves Spock's quarters for space dock, Spock says, “They don't know of our relationship.”

“No.”

“You are free to tell them.”

“I know, but... Baniks don't share what is sacred.”

-

The two months following the Enterprise's first shore leave are so densely packed with events that time has the subjective appearance of elapsing more quickly than possible in normal space. Spock has studied the history of Starfleet closely and he is most certain that no first officer has ever had to deal with an elicit pornographic recording of two of his officers, a secret Scarran wedding, a half-Scarran in a blood rage, a Peacekeeper with childhood trauma, a Stykera convinced that the color red is a harbinger of doom, and a Sebacean supremacist teaching self-defense. The stress of these events is so profound that Spock barely protests when Dr. McCoy drags him and the captain down to sickbay for long overdo physicals.

The actual exam passes as it normally does (with the exception of Spock muttering, “yes” and averting his eyes when asked if he is sexually active), but afterwards, a most peculiar thing happens. Not only is he invited to take part in a social drinking occasion, but he says yes. Spock does not enjoy drinking to the point of intoxication (even when imbibing Altair water, which has numerous health benefits that outweigh the temporary loss in cognitive and motor function accompanying intoxication), but Spock senses that Dr. McCoy is offering friendship as much as he is offering beverages.

Since beginning his relationship with Stark in earnest, Spock has found his need for social stimulation increase exponentially (he has a graph illustrating this on his console), yet much of the need remains unfulfilled. Spock has tried to explain his increased need for contact to Stark (using the aforementioned graph) and presented the solution of Stark using all or at least most of his social interaction on him. However, Stark rejected this plan as entirely unfeasible given his commitments to his friends, suggesting, “Why don't you make your own friends? And then I can be with my friends and you can be with your friends. My friends, your friends. My friends, your friends.”

A suggestion easier stated than accomplished, it would seem, until Dr. McCoy offers friendship with a side of chess and Altair water. All Spock has to do is drink.

A bottle of Altair water later, Spock realizes that perhaps he should not have taken that requirement so literally.

He can't recall exactly what they spoke of that night, but he imagines it was quite profound. Not profound enough to warrant the debilitating hangover he has for the next two days, but profound enough to plant the seeds of a friendship. A friendship that is partially based upon the shared hangover.

“This is deplorable,” Spock says, staring down at his oatmeal.

Kirk massages his forehead. “Why did we do this? We're hungover like a bunch of probies.”

“I'd like to think this'll all be worth it, but...” McCoy picks up his spoon, letting the congealed grits ooze off its edge. “...I'd also like to think this is real food.”

“You know, I'm beginning to think I'm not fit for duty.”

“Jim, don't even go there, because it ain't gonna work. You've been up on that bridge with Sheyang fever, a phaser burn, and no clothes on. You can man the conn with a hangover.”

Spock looks up, suddenly remembering something, “Who won the chess tournament?”

“Last I remember, you two were tied. And then Jim started teaching us how to juggle using pawns.”

“Wait,” Jim says, “I don't know how to juggle.”

“Yeah, we gathered that pretty quickly.”

Jim huffs, resting his cheek bones on the balls of his hands. “Do me a favor and don't tell anybody whatever other foolish nonsense I got up to last night. In fact, let's not tell anyone what happened last night.”

Spock and McCoy share a look over Kirk's head, before saying, “Agreed.”

-

Spock quickly learns that friendship on a starship means much more than having someone to take meals with. When Spock feels the Intrepid die, all four hundred souls crying out in astonishment, Kirk is at his side, calling for Dr. McCoy. Despite Spock's protests, Dr. McCoy mother hens him all the way to sickbay. It is comforting knowing that people care for his well-being beyond the demands of duty. As it is, McCoy cares so much that he barely leaves Spock alone long enough for Stark to check on him.

Stark, unlike Dr. McCoy, says nothing and merely presses their foreheads together.

“You have known that horror?” Spock asks.

“In the last days of the Imperium, the Scarrans slaughtered my people by the thousands to prevent an uprising. Each death knell reverberated in my mind like an empty house. No matter how far from them I was.”

“You were yo-”

McCoy bustles back into the exam room. “For god's sake, Stark, he's not dying yet. Give the man some peace.”

An hour later, Spock learns that friendship on the Enterprise also means sacrifice.

“Damnit, Jim,” McCoy protests, “He's a scientist, not a doctor. He's got no place manning that shuttlecraft.”

“I beg to differ,” Spock says. “I am just as knowledgeable of single cell biology as you, and my reflexes are superior to your own.”

“Reflexes don't count for beans if you don't know where to shoot!”

“Gentleman,” Kirk cuts in. “Enough. I'll be flying the shuttlecraft.”

“Like hell you are!”

“I must agree with Dr. McCoy,” Spock says. “You are needed aboard the Enterprise.”

“It's between me and the pointy-eared hobgoblin with a martyr complex,” McCoy says.

Kirk sighs. “Return to preparing the shuttlecraft. I'll have my answer within the half hour.”

Long before then, Stark corners Spock in the shuttlebay. “Let McCoy go.”

“That is no longer my decision.”

“It is a suicide mission! Let McCoy go.”

“And let him die?”

“Yes, if one of you has to die, let it be him.”

“Is you capacity for grief so limited that you would be completely unaffected by Dr. McCoy dying?”

“Yes! I'm fine with McCoy dying. I'm an expert on dying! But... I am not an expert on you dying.”

Spock sets down his hydrospanner. “I have long reconciled myself with your duties as Stykera. Now it is time for you to accept what I must do as part of my duties as first officer and friend to McCoy.”

Stark frets for a moment, pulling the hem of his shirt into numerous contorted shapes. “But-he-he made me watch Gone with the Wind.”

“I know.” Spock discreetly touches the pads of his index and middle fingers to Stark's.

“I'll be waiting for you. No matter how this ends.”

Approximately one hour and fifteen minutes later, Spock learns that friendly sacrifice can go both ways. “Captain, I recommend you-”

Spock is interrupted over by comms by Stark. “He's alive! I told you he was alive. I told you.”

Hearing that voice and the voice of his captain, it is very tempting for Spock to agree to be rescued from inside the creature, to perhaps see another day with those two people. Yet, for those same two people and for all others aboard the Enterprise, he cannot allow himself to be rescued. “Do not risk the ship further on my behalf.”

“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy snaps over the communicator. “We're rescuing you.”

Spock feels the tractor beam lock onto the shuttlecraft with a jolt. “Why, thank you, Captain McCoy.”

-

“When I suggested you make friends,” Stark says, still pouting, “I didn't think you'd get yourself killed for them.”

Spock unscrews the lid to the nail polish. “I'm still alive. Give me your hand.”

“For now you're alive.” Used to the routine, Stark lays his right hand flat on the desk. “Barely.”

“I have fully recovered from the bullet wound.” Spock dips the brush, wiping the excess on the sides of the bottle, before painting a stripe along Stark's thumbnail. “I'm cleared for active duty beginning tomorrow.”

“Kirk will be happy to have his living shield back.”

“The captain has saved my life as many times as I have saved his.”

“Good for him.”

Spock starts on the index fingernail. “Can you honestly say you would not endanger your life to save Scorpius' or Aeryn's or Braca's?”

“Yes! But I'm different. I'm Banik.”

“And that makes your life worth less?”

“Have you not been paying attention for the past five thousand cycles?” Despite his agitation, Stark's hand remains still enough for Spock to apply a coat to the next fingernail. “You're going to die before me. Even if you live to be an old man, I will watch you die the same as everyone else.”

After finishing up the pinky, Spock brings his mouth to Stark's fingertips, blowing cool air on the drying nail polish-an intensely intimate gesture amongst Vulcans, but even without the proper nerve endings, Stark manages to understand the significance. “My mother was always saddened that my father would see her die long before he did. She knew that even if he did not show it, his grief would be incalculable.”

“And your father?”

“He never spoke of it to me, but perhaps you could persuade him.” Spock takes Stark's left hand, placing it on the desk. “They will be staying aboard the Enterprise before the conference at Babel next month.”

“You want me to meet your parents?”

Spock nods. “I may not speak to them again for another seventeen years. I would like them to know I will not die alone.”

“No one has asked me to meet their parents before.”

“To be fair, most people you associate with do not have parents.”

“True. If I had parents, I would-” Stark jerks his hand away, sending a splatter of peach polish down the desk.

“What-”

Stark gasps as if choked by an invisible force (which he very well could be; stranger things have happened aboard the Enterprise). “Scotty.” He grabs Spock's wrist bruisingly tight, the wet polish on his nails sticking to Spock's arm hair. “Scotty's dying.”

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