fanfic | stxi | leave no soul behind 6.5/7.4 (6 remaining)
Title: Leave No Soul Behind 6.5, 7,533 words of 230,000+
Fandom: Star Trek XI, TOS references.
Characters: Kirk/Spock, ensemble, OCs.
Rating & Warnings: Strong R - slash, language, adult themes.
Spoilers: For the 2009 movie mostly.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction and fanfiction only, folks.
Betas: the_arc5 is doing this at the very last minute again, because I'm deadline-phobic, so a round of applause, if you please?
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. This is the beginning of the end, in more ways than one. Both Jim and Spock have secrets, but it's an irrefutable fact that one day, eventually, every secret sees the light of day ...
previous
Chapter 6.5
Jim finds a seat on the arm of the sofa, elbows on his knees. Spock is already seated at the opposite end, folded neatly in upon himself with a casual grace. His fingers rest on the upholstery, long and elegant, fractured by scars like he's sculpted from old marble.
“Okay,” says Jim. “The Enterprise.”
Spock watches him for a handful of seconds, his gaze measuring. “You have nominated me as your superior officer,” he says. “It is a military position and one that I have never sought for myself.”
“I know that, but I'm not about to apologize.”
“To decline the nomination in the presence of Admiral Komack and Minister Lawson would have undermined Admiral Pike. I could not, in conscience, destabilize EPAS so thoroughly, no matter my personal misgivings.” He delivers this as a simple statement, even though it is a clear reprimand.
“At least it’s given you some time to think about it,” Jim suggests, palms out in placation.
“Time will not provide the answers I seek.”
“What will?”
“Perhaps you, Jim.”
“Me?”
“If you are to serve aboard the Enterprise, under my command as you and the Admiral have orchestrated, then we must discuss the Narada.” Spock’s expression is unreadable. “Specifically the events aboard the Romulan escape pod.”
Jim swallows. “I have to admit, I don’t remember much.”
“Do you recall declining my assistance?”
“What assistance?”
Spock falters slightly, but recovers so quickly it’s almost imperceptible. “I might have been able to stabilize your condition via a mindmeld. You forbade me to do so.”
Jim feels his gut drop away. He reaches for the arm of the sofa with one hand, anchoring himself against a shift that only he can feel. "I can't believe we haven't spoken about that," Jim whispers, then laughs once. "We can kiss and screw and eat French toast but we haven't talked have we?" He looks up to find Spock's troubled eyes waiting. "What happened?"
"Distance," Spock supplies. "Distance and time."
Jim lets that sink in, thinks about the many secrets in his life, the way each and every one has leached into his soul like a stain that won’t wash out. The memory of Spock’s mind rushes up to meet him in a flurry of remembered heat and spaciousness, only to be followed by the intense precision of his counterpart’s and the way both of them have been forced to use their telepathic skills as a weapon. The trade-off here is guilt for honesty; potential pain for peace of mind.
“The other Spock, the older Spock, I’m sure he put something in my head,” Jim begins cautiously. “I have this sensation like the beginning of a migraine whenever I think too hard about it. All I know for sure is I have to be there when Nero comes. Whenever that is, however it happens, I have to be there. A lot of other crap bled through, but I...” he looks up, surprised to have glanced away, unsure when the pressure of Spock’s attention became too much to bear. “I’ve never been keen on the idea of destiny or fate, but this is less of a choice and more of a compulsion. And now I know things about the other Spock, about you I guess, that I’m not supposed to know,” he confesses. “His memories and mine … there are things that you should never have to see; things about both of us and my past.”
"Emotional transference can be a side-effect of the meld." His regard intensifies, those dark brows drawn in tightly over the bridge of his nose. "You were attempting to protect me?"
Jim nods. "Essentially, yeah."
"You were in mortal danger, stranded in uncharted space, suffering life-threatening injuries and you failed to consent to the mindmeld that might have been necessary to save your life because you wanted to spare me emotional distress?"
Jim draws breath but doesn't speak immediately, startled into silence by the fact that Spock sounds angry. No, hold that, he sounds pissed. It's a cold, hard, edgy kind of anger he's radiating; a very Vulcan rage. Jim wants to swallow but his mouth is suddenly too dry. All he can do is nod lamely and wonder when he lost control of the conversation so comprehensively.
Spock unfolds from the sofa like a weapon of war, he closes the distance between them in three measured strides and his hands are like vices when they close around Jim's upper arms. "Jim, I have seen your mind and have not suffered for it. If you ever do anything so pointlessly self-sacrificing again, I will personally declare you psychologically unfit for duty and have you expelled from the service," he says, deadly soft. "Do I make myself clear?"
"I won't hurt you if I can avoid it," Jim counters, holding his ground because this is too important for lies. "Someone else has, I just know it, and I won't be that person all over again."
Spock's hands clench harder. "No future revelation, no secret from my past or yours, no memory from an alternate universe could possibly cause me more pain than your death."
"You don't know that." His laugh is bitter, has a bit of an hysterical edge.
Spock searches Jim’s face. The clipped diction and sheer vehemence of his next words resonate between them. "Never sacrifice yourself for me. I will have your word."
"No," Jim denies without hesitation. "I can't swear to that."
Spock's hands fall away. "What if I require it?"
"Protect yourself," he counters quickly, "so that it's less of an issue."
"You cannot possibly be so naive," Spock chastises. "There is too much at stake."
"It's something about the meld, isn't it?" Jim's eyes narrow. "Something specific."
Spock's silence speaks volumes. They pause, studying each other. Jim watches those dark eyes flick side to side in study, up and down, cataloguing, categorizing. Spock is searching for something and Jim wants to help, but can't. They’re both stuck in the awkward silence that precedes disclosure or retreat.
Spock stands without replying and crosses to the transparent door. He pauses there with his bare feet pressed against the hardwood and reaches out to place a single fingertip against the transparent aluminium. He looks both young and determined there, haloed by the sunlight. "A leader should be decisive and confident, not afflicted with doubts and uncertainties."
"You're wrong," Jim says, fighting the urge to follow him across the room. "I've served under both kinds of Captains, lost ships, battles and countless lives while I was at it. The best Captain is one who looks at things from all angles, who questions everything, including themselves. The only danger in uncertainty is wallowing in it, but doubt has never paralyzed you. I could cite a dozen examples without even thinking. Come on, you already know I'm right. Whatever it is that's holding you back, it's time to let go and get on with your life," Jim insists, unwilling to generalize the problem but seeing no alternative. "Just lay the mindmeld issue to rest."
Spock's lips are the only things that move. "I would prefer to be alone for a time."
Frustrated and confused, Jim leaves him staring out into the sunshine and stalks into the spare room, has to stand in the center of it for a moment with his hands on his hips to collect himself.
It feels like he and Spock are having two separate conversations, but he knows deep in his gut that they're one and the same. He's done enough psychotherapy in his teenage years, and also more recently with Bones, to know that his need for Spock to accept his commission is rooted in far more than respect and confidence. Sure enough, it is about trust, only at a deeper level than any second in command should require from their superior officer. He can invest in both his professional and personal ties with Spock because he knows, he believes that although Spock might be fallible, he might disappoint, he might even leave again, the one thing he will never do is violate the essence of what they are to each other.
His throat is tight and his eyes are burning so he powers up the terminal with a frustrated slap, determined to distract himself with the first few encrypted orders from Pike. A mere fifteen minutes later, he's forced to admit that his mind refuses to be derailed. If Spock declines this posting, if he tells Pike he won't do it, then the center seat will fall to Jim, who really, honestly, right down to the mattresses doesn't fucking want it. He used to think that gold shirt was his first, best destiny. He used to believe he could excel there. Two years in EPAS have shown him that his real talent is far more nebulous.
Jim learned early that he had to be a good judge of character, needed to uncover people, to pin down their motives. When you do that as a child, the world loses some of it's shine, torn away along with a good proportion of naivete. The payoff is all about hard truths and a bitter kind of self-awareness. The bonus, if there is one, has always been the ability to take a situation and see it from all angles. Truthfully, nothing has given Jim quite the same buzz as hanging from the side of a medevac shuttle and taking that leap of faith, confident that his target will veer left, or duck low, or even grab hold. It's now so fundamental to his being that it's hard to imagine living without it. He yearns for that visceral sixth sense of an unspoken connection. Jim looks at a battlefield now and it all just falls into place. He's confident he can benefit the greatest number of people by relaying that insight to someone like Spock, someone who can think above the chaos and put Jim's instincts to best use. Jim is a born First Officer, not a Captain. It's a humbling but liberating revelation.
His nerves are fried and his patience with himself almost exhausted by the time a cautious knock sounds and Spock slips into the study.
Jim swivels in his chair and waits.
"Inform Admiral Pike that I require Lieutenant Montgomery Scott to oversee the final stages of the Enterprise's warp core testing," Spock requests calmly. "Also, that I am promoting Pavel A. Chekov to the rank of First Lieutenant and placing him in charge of technical recruitment."
"Can do," Jim nods, feeling his body flush with relief.
Spock turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway, glancing at the carpeting then up at Jim's face. "Divisional Commander Kirk, will you do me the honour of accepting the position of First Officer aboard the USS Enterprise and all the summary duties and responsibilities that entails?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good," Spock nods, still pensive, "and Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"If you place me in the position of having to choose between your life and the good of the many, I cannot vouch for my ability to act in a manner that remotely resembles logic of any kind."
"Duly noted," Jim nods, finding a smile from somewhere deep inside. They still need to talk, he understands that. At least the first line of defense has fallen.
-:-
Two weeks pass in a flurry of diplomatic posturing, endless committee meetings and construction inspections. Captain S'chn T'gai Spock emerges from his shuttle to EPAS' Luna headquarters characteristically pressed and starched, but with a hint of fatigue showing in his eyes. Some might question his single-mindedness in regards to this one particular crew appointment, but if there is to be a perk of accepting such great responsibility, he supposes it is the right to indulge his preferences from time to time.
The appointment of his Chief Tactical Officer has been blocked repeatedly by both the Ministry of Health and F-Sec. Each time the denial crosses his desk, Spock refiles his decision with new supporting arguments, following the Kirk model of slowly wearing down the opposition, although Jim phrases it somewhat more colourfully. Finally, Pike sent a comm to the apartment and ordered Spock to his office.
When the screen blanked, Jim had kissed him soundly, grinning and shaking his head. "About time," he'd said, fondly.
"For?"
And then Jim's smile had been blinding. "A little rebellion."
Now, Spock unconsciously lengthens his stride through the spaceport, hands open at his sides and free of even carry-on luggage. He will be staying only long enough to push through this appointment, and not a moment longer. There is a queue of technical and material requests waiting on his terminal, along with several other items that require his authorization, each too sensitive for electronic channels.
"Captain Spock for Admiral Pike," he announces to Christopher's new secretary. His wife, Jessica, no longer works for EPAS and Spock knows there is a reason for that. It may have to do with the way F-Sec are leaning harder on Pike every day, examining his expense reports and goading him endlessly in Council forums. It may also be related to the way Pike and Jim both pore over the Intelligence reports from the Neutral Zone, their dedication interrupted only to share pointed, worried looks.
The young man behind the desk nods and buzzes him through.
Pike is standing with the aid of only a single stick, staring at the bleak moonscape, but he turns as the doors swish open. "Captain," he smiles wryly, never passing up an opportunity to throw Spock's new rank in his face. "Are you trying to make me fire you?"
"If I no longer wished employment with EPAS, I would simply resign my commission, Admiral."
Pike gestures at the sofas, crossing the distance himself with only the slightest limp, the new mircrolite brace small enough to fit beneath his uniform, unseen except where it presses against the material. Spock joins him, sitting opposite so they are eye to eye.
"Spock, you know I can't approve this posting."
"You have the authority."
"On paper, Enterprise is a search and rescue vessel, but you and I both know differently," Pike frowns. "How can I exercise my authority in support of something that potentially jeopardizes your mission?"
"Mandatory physical and psychological aptitude tests have been satisfied," Spock counters. "Is your objection personal?"
"Is my..." Pike winces in disbelief. "I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that."
"Then please clarify the nature of your objection to this posting," Spock requests, falling back on Vulcan directness.
"Okay, fine," Pike nods, eyes glinting. "Let's play hardball. You emotionally compromise each other."
Spock blinks. This is one line of rebuttal for which he has not prepared. His instincts are to deny it, to bury the twinge of guilt he feels beneath a mountain of repression and misdirection. Instead, he takes a deep, slow breath and holds Pike's gaze. "Once perhaps, but not anymore."
A slow, approving smile spreads across Pike's face. He starts nodding to himself, letting the motion settle before he reaches out and signs the appointment form with a flourish. "If you'd lied to me, I'd have turned you down again." He looks up as he hands the PADD over. "If this is Jim's influence, then I'm glad. You two are good together."
"I am gratified by your approval," Spock replies, unsure of the nature or depth of that selfsame emotion. He stands, PADD tucked under his arm.
"Just..." Pike forestalls him with a gesture. "Have you made it official?"
"Sir?"
"Have you bonded, Spock?"
Deeply uncomfortable, he shakes his head. "We have not."
"Look," Pike pushes to his feet with the aid of the stick, looking rather uncomfortable himself, "I'm the closest thing to a father Jim ever had, so I want you to know that what I'm about to say comes from a good place."
"I would hardly assume otherwise."
"Good, good," Pike nods, buying himself some time. "So you'll forgive me when I confess to re-reading your file." Spock just looks at him blankly so he clarifies. "Your whole file."
That one qualifier drops like a stone into the center of Spock's fatigued control. No, like a boulder. He reaches out with his free hand, finds the arm of the sofa and sinks back into it slowly. "I understand."
Pike remains standing, offering a view of his knees rather than his eyes, as though he knows his mere presence is more than Spock can handle right now. "I never pulled rank in order to unseal it before; I never thought I needed to. Your academic record spoke for itself, your physical and psychological aptitude scores were off the charts, and Vulcans are notoriously tight-lipped about everything, let alone their sole successful Vulcan-human hybrid. Now, I look back on that decision and I wonder if I did you a massive disservice."
Spock does look up at that. "Sir?"
"I'm going to say this, and I really want you to hear me. Talk to Jim; he’ll understand."
Spock's heart tries to beat out of his throat and he is certain, absolutely sure, that Pike can tell.
-:-
Ashe Ho arrives at Luna spaceport with her whole life divided between a backpack and her faith in one half-Vulcan. It's a hell of a gamble for most people, but Spock's tall, serene presence in the lounge instantly justifies it. She smiles at him and spins herself over, forever preferring to propel herself independently of servos and motors even though the chair is fully automated. Wheeling it keeps her cardiovascularly fit.
Spock looks almost exactly as she remembers, even so many months later. His hair sits severely across his forehead, his dark EPAS blacks a sharp contrast to the space-paleness of his skin, and his hands clasp together in the small of his back. When he moves to greet her, it is with the same fluid strength, the same flat-palmed ta'al.
"Captain," she salutes.
"Lieutenant."
Something in his tone finally tips her off. She tries not to let the perception show on her face, hoping the tightness is a product of his respiratory injury, still healing. "Thank you for believing in me."
"Faith was unnecessary," he corrects. "You have proven yourself more than capable of filling the position."
"Still, there aren't many Captains who'll have a cripple on their senior staff." She says it because the word still holds power over her and she hates it. Far better to use it herself than to suffer the reaction of others doing so.
He pins her with his dark eyes, concealing so much and yet so open. "If I harbored any doubts about this appointment I would hardly have insisted upon your nomination."
"Why did you?" she asks, "second it and then push so hard? Not that I'm ungrateful."
Spock unbends just enough to raise one eyebrow. "Despite our frequent disagreements, I have learned to respect doctor McCoy's professional opinion. He nominated you because you are qualified, but also because he is of the opinion that you possess unique qualities crucial to the success of our mission."
"And what are they, precisely?”
"I believe his exact words were: 'the ability to tell when something is inspired or just plain batshit insane.'" His eyebrow lowers after the delivery. "This is an indisputably desirable skill in a tactical officer."
Ashe laughs, she can't help it, and so turns it into a cough and aligns her chair with Spock's trajectory as he leads her from the gate lounge. She's never heard him curse before, at least, not in Standard. "Good, because I don't accept charity."
"A common theme among our command staff, it seems."
She's not sure how, but she's certain he's talking about Kirk.
-:-
Spock returns to the apartment several hours later, having been waylaid at F-Sec Headquarters by an awkward piece of funding manoeuvring that had the potential to delay the Enterprise's refit to EPAS specifications. Minister Lawson appeared fortuitously at the end of a lengthy and exhausting confrontation with a minor Starfleet official and promptly circumnavigated the latest F-Sec objections in a manner Spock can only refer to as one which verges on blackmail. He is not entirely comfortable with the technique, but cannot fault her motive or efficacy.
Jim looks up from his PADD as Spock closes the door, blinking a few times to adjust his focus. "You're home late."
Spock shrugs out of his coat and hangs it neatly on the peg by the door. "If you persist in reading reports with inadequate lighting you will damage your eyesight."
"What did Pike say?" Jim asks, ignoring his concerns as he uncrossing his ankles and rolls to his feet.
"He approved Lieutenant Ho's nomination."
"He did?" Jim beams. "About time, the grumpy old bastard."
"The Admiral believes my insistence on the matter is your doing."
"Does he want me to stop corrupting his favorite Vulcan?" Jim's tone is light, filled with amusement.
"As far as I am aware, I am the only Vulcan with whom Admiral Pike can claim any form of social relationship," Spock corrects him, "which hardly makes me his 'favorite.’"
"That's not true; he knows your father and that other dude they sent to the Security Council meeting when your father couldn't make it. He kind of knows Senekot, too, not that Senekot could be anyone's favorite anything."
"You are allowing your personal feelings on the matter to cloud your judgement."
"Whereas you're totally impartial, right?" Jim is smiling, casually circling the sofa so they're face to face. "Never had a favorite Point Two? Type of food? Favorite human?"
Spock's eyes narrow even as his lips quirk. "I admit to having preferences in regards to food."
"You're such a tease," Jim tells him, eyes dancing. "This thing with Ashe; we did good." Jim steps up close, brushing the back of his hand against Spock's own. They're silhouetted against the window, dark shadows against the afternoon sun. The air is still faintly warm and tinted gold.
"Yes, I believe we did." Spock allows his fingers to be captured.
"Then what's on your mind?"
Spock massages his thumb into the palm of Jim's hand and rests their brows together. "There is a matter we ought to discuss; however the thought of it makes me feel uneasy."
"Mmm," Jim hums in the small space between them. "I still love it when you say the word 'feel.'"
The gentle exhalation is Spock's version of a laugh. "You are easily pleased."
Jim finds the hem of Spock's shirt and slips his fingers beneath the thin thermal layer, brushing up against the warmth of his waist, tracing around until he can press his thumb into the hollow of one hip and hold him still.
"I bet I can do something about your unease."
"Such arrogance," Spock whispers, lacing their fingers together more tightly and pressing into the hand beneath his shirt.
"Ahem."
A pointed cough startles them apart a few inches, but it's impossible to hide the moment they just shared.
Doctor McCoy swallows and frowns mightily, waving a handful of data PADDs. "I thought you might like to see these, but it can wait."
"Hey, Bones. Don't knock or anything," Jim shakes his head and steps away from Spock, his hand trailing behind him, reluctant to part ways. "Are those the preliminary crew rotations? Heavy on the Starfleet side of things like Pike promised?"
"Uh, drop outs or washouts mostly," McCoy corrects him gruffly, walking further into the room to meet him halfway. "The Admiralty don't know what Pike's planning but they know he's up to something and they're making it very hard for him to get anything he really wants. Academy grads, interns and people on extended sick leave make up the better end of the curve. On the other side you've got dissenters and troublemakers, both enlisted and private sector. I've sent them all that preliminary psych eval we discussed, which should at least weed out the sociopaths, xenophobes, suicidals and extremists."
"Oh, that’s wonderful," Jim sighs, taking the first PADD from McCoy's outstretched hand and thumbing through it. "Got any good news?"
"Engineering report, Ops report, Internal Services report," the doctor counts them out into Jim's waiting hands, pausing at the last. "I didn't even realize we kept an inventory of everyone's socks," he quirks a crazy eyebrow. "Did you know that, Jim? Those bean counters on Luna want to know what happens to socks in the wash." The doctor's eyes widen further. "They can get in line behind every other living thing with feet."
Spock leans over Jim's shoulder and plucks the Engineering and Ops reports out of his hands.
"Oi," Jim objects.
Spock ignores him.
McCoy watches them both carefully. "So, you two are..."
"What?" Jim raises his eyes and his eyebrows, pinning McCoy with a look that just dares him to finish that sentence. He knows the doctor has been working up to this moment.
"Busy for the night," Bones says easily. "You're busy for the night."
"Not at all." Spock seems totally at ease despite the awkwardness of the situation, although he surreptitiously straightens his shirt while McCoy isn't looking. "You are most welcome to stay. Your insight has proven valuable with respect to recruitment."
"Well now," McCoy tries to hide his satisfaction upon hearing that. "I don't want to intrude."
"Too late for that," Jim grins, shooting a mischievous look in Spock's direction.
Spock sighs, which is more emotion than McCoy's ever seen him show outside of extenuating circumstances. "Perhaps you could invite Lieutenant Ho to join us?" he then suggests.
If Bones was shocked by what he'd seen earlier, it's nothing compared to how he looks now. Spock gives him the patented, please do not assume that I am an idiot, doctor expression with an extra little hint of extra superiority thrown in for good measure.
McCoy opens his mouth to curse or laugh, seeming unsure which, but it turns into a small sound of acknowledgement. He nods at them with his lips pursed, "how long have you two known?"
"Two point six weeks."
"Two point seven," Jim corrects Spock quickly, a frown on his face. "I told you before that second meeting with Pike, remember?"
"That was pure conjecture."
Jim holds up his index finger sternly. "When you're proven right, it's called intuition."
McCoy wipes a hand down his face wearily. "You're kind of sickeningly domestic together."
Both men turn. One offers an eyebrow, the other a one-fingered salute.
"Sweet Jesus."
"Go get your girlfriend," Jim taunts in response. "Spock and I have to drop some new blueprints off at the courier. Meet you back here in an hour."
-:-
Jim and Spock exit the subway wrapped in wonderful anonymity. The night has descended with a coastal chill, bundling them into coats and scarves; disguising Spock even further with a beanie pulled down low over his ears. Here, out of uniform and away from officialdom, Jim can pretend they're just two guys, two people together, getting on with life the way everyone else seems to. He pushes the ever-present threat of Nero to the back of his mind and takes Spock's hand where it swings between them, relishing the instant return pressure of those gloved fingers against his own. They converse softly as they walk, heads bent together as they trade concerns and solutions that cover everything from personnel to completion deadlines, all identifiers removed, safely censored for the sidewalk.
With the trusted courier in sight, Jim acts on impulse and bundles Spock into an alley. Alert but trusting, Spock allows himself to be pulled out of sight, hardly even seeming surprised when Jim presses him back into the brick wall and kisses him with feeling.
"With Bones and Ashe coming over, I just wasn't sure how long I'd have to wait to do this," Jim breathes against his lips, eyes darting up to Spock's and then closed again as he repeats the gesture, pressing closer in the night air. "It definitely couldn't wait until they leave."
"No?" Spock asks, voice warm and intimate.
"Hell no," Jim insists, leaning back to pull his gloves off with his teeth so he can press his bare hands against Spock's chilled face. He stares at him, bewildered by the unfamiliar depth of feeling all over again, as though it's a new revelation, not one he keeps continually rediscovering.
Spock reaches up, one hand circling Jim's wrist, not to push away from the contact, but to hold it closer. "I am grateful you did not do this in the presence of our CMO and Chief Tactical Officer," he says roughly.
"Might have really given Bones something to be surprised about?" Jim's low chuckle fills the small alley with sudden humor, his blue eyes twinkling.
Spock's demeanor shifts in response as he turns his head to kiss the palm of Jim's bare hand. "I anticipate familiarity will soon negate such a response."
"You planning on making out with me in front of Bones on this mission?"
"Certainly not," Spock replies, straightening his posture and his clothing. "However, there are still seven days before our shakedown cruise."
Jim laughs heartily even has his heart rate increases in anticipation. "You're joking!" he scoffs, allowing Spock to extricate himself and reposition his satchel over his shoulder. He grins harder, standing in the alley with his hands on his hips as Spock walks away wrapped in dignity. "You are joking, right?" When no answer is forthcoming, he jogs after him. "Seriously, though?"
"I shall meet you at the apartment," Spock informs him without turning. "Please do not forget Doctor McCoy's preference for hot sauce."
"What? No! Answer the damn question!" Jim calls after him, disrupted by his own laughter. "I call bullshit!"
-:-
Long after dinner, just before midnight, McCoy carries Ashe from the apartment, her thin and wasted legs dangling over his arm, bouncing limply with each of his energetic steps. The wheelchair doesn't fit in the single person elevator, a design flaw that Spock has no doubt made a mental note to raise with Equal Opportunity. It breaks Jim's heart a little, but Ashe is smiling blindingly, her arms hooked around McCoy's neck, her laughter bubbling over, breaking through the doctor's defensive gruffness and revealing the tenderness within. He'd never have thought it, but the two of them are a good fit, better in their differences than Jim and Ashe could ever have been in their similarity.
Spock sees them to the door, unsmiling, but somehow it isn't required. Everyone in the room can read between the lines, can read Spock just a little. When they're gone, he turns, all fluid grace and questioning eyebrows. Jim feels an ache in his chest, a reminder of the emptiness that is left whenever they're apart. It leaves a fear-filled new hole in Jim's life; this connection.
"Help me tidy?" he asks, more to keep Spock in the room than because he has any true desire for neatness. Their half-finished conversation hovers between them like a preliminary alert, making Jim feel jumpy and cautious.
They clean away the cups and plates, Jim keeping up a steady stream of chatter while Spock says nothing, merely placing things within easy reach by Jim's elbow or hand as he stands at the sink. Finally, there's nothing left to clean and Jim leans back against the counter, propped up on one hip, drying his hands on the towel.
"You want to play chess?"
"If you wish."
Jim nods, throwing down the towel and crossing into the main room to begin setting up the pieces. In all honesty, he's tired and it won't be much of a game, but it means at least another hour of grace. He lines up the pawns, trying not to think of how Ashe had allowed McCoy to drape her legs over his lap, or the way they'd traded gentle kisses from time to time. It had seemed easy, intimate, tender even. Spock didn't do that with him, probably never would, and that was okay so long as …
Warm hands settle on Jim's shoulders from behind. "I am not by nature a publicly demonstrative person," Spock confesses, voice low and soft by Jim's ear.
"That's okay," Jim assures him quickly, knowing he means it, barely even surprised that Spock judged his mood to perfection. "I don't think it's that, I just ..."
Spock turns him gently, searching his face with warm, brown eyes. "You wish for people to know."
"Is that so bad?"
"I had thought to spare you the difficulty of appearing to have earned your sustained position of Divisional Commander in an underhanded manner."
Jim huffs out a little laugh, feeling the absurdity of such a thing eclipse his fear of Spock's reaction. "You didn't want me to look like an ambitious floozy?" He shakes his head. "Spock, I am an ambitious floozy. I have been for years."
"Not everyone will see our situation as you do."
"No," Jim's eyes narrow with concern. "Some of them will think you've lost it."
Spock quirks an eyebrow.
"The plot," Jim clarifies, "your marbles, that you're unstable or something."
"I have never been more mentally at peace than I am when I am with you."
Spock lays it out in such a quietly honest way that it makes Jim suddenly breathless. He's left standing, lips slightly parted, wondering if it's possible to blank his whole life and start over again from right there. "That has to be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Spock's thumbs rub gently at Jim's shoulders. "And this is the first time in my life I recall being referred to as romantic."
There's a goofy smile blooming on Jim's face as he lifts one long fingered hand from his shoulder and turns it, pressing a fond kiss into the palm. "We're going to own this, the Enterprise, the mission, everything."
Spock slides his hand away from Jim's shoulders to cup his jaw. "Yes."
"In that case," Jim musters all his tattered courage and takes a deep breath, "there's something I'd like to ask you."
Spock stills, instantly attentive. “Perhaps we should conclude our earlier conversation prior to…”
"Keep staying with me?" Jim blinks and rushes on hurriedly, "I mean, it's okay to say no, I totally understand. Logical to say no, even, because Vulcans live so much longer than humans, so I'm assuming half Vulcans do too, and I know I drive you crazy but I'm just selfish when it comes to you and I really ... mpfh."
"Cease speaking." Spock firmly covers Jim's mouth with his hand.
"That's a no then," Jim whispers when the hand is cautiously removed, but there's a strange look about Spock. His eyes are incredibly wide, his brows almost drawn flat, face paler than Jim can remember seeing it outside of the sickbay or decontam.
"Woah," says Jim, gripping him by the elbows.
"Ask me again," Spock demands tightly.
"Spock, what the hell?"
"Ask me."
Jim swallows around a dry mouth. "Stay with me?"
"Yes."
The reply comes so quickly upon the heels of his own words that Jim takes an involuntary step back. "I'm sorry?"
"I said yes," Spock repeats, looking as shocked as Jim feels. "Provided of course that you fully comprehend what the undertaking entails."
"I do," Jim insists, then reconsiders, "at least, I think I do." He quickly gathers everything he's gleaned from being with Spock and combines it with the mindmeld flotsam Prime left behind and the measly scraps of information he's managed to extract from the Core. "A mental bond, monogamy, proximity telepathy, pon farr ..."
"You are aware of pon farr and you still wish to be bonded?"
"How could you think I'd let you do that with someone else?"
"Jim," Spock says, a little brokenly. "I do not know what to think."
“Well, I do,” he insists firmly. “I don’t care what else happens, I want you in my life. EPAS, Starfleet, VSA, Fleet Academy,” Jim flails his arms expressively, cutting through his own litany of potential futures, “a goddamn auto garage, I don’t care what we do after Nero. None of that matters, none of it changes anything.” Wordlessly, he takes Spock's hand and shapes the fingers, presses them into his face, eyes never wavering. "My mind to your mind," he says firmly.
"... my thoughts to your thoughts," Spock finishes for him, fingertips shaking against Jim's skin as they slide together in a dark mix of fear and longing.
"Spock, what could you possibly be afraid of?"
... a hand that slips from his | fists in his face, too different, too human | fingers digging into his skin, pulling roughly away from his mind | shame and loss and overwhelming wrongness | flight and fear | on his knees, Vulcan is gone, no need for the comm from his father, he already knows about Mother | Pike, who comes so far and no further | fleeting touches on his hand that he misses so much | a lonely life, isolated, difficult, uncertain | Jim, I do not know how to tell you this ...
Jim's vision is shorting in and out, jerky camera flashes of reality against the overwhelming presence of Spock in his mind's eye. All he knows is there's hot breath against his neck, a bruising grip on his face.
"I am sorry," Spock whispers. "I cannot permit this. In order to make the bond, I must drop every control."
"So do it," Jim manages. "I guarantee you'll find far worse in my brain."
Still Spock hesitates, skirting the fringes of Jim's consciousness and the edges of his personal space. “You do not know what you ask.”
"Tell you what," Jim let his eyes slide closed. "Show me whatever it is you're so worked up about, just put it on out there, and if I'm as horrified as you obviously think I'm going to be, then we can reconsider."
The sound of Spock swallowing fills the room. "Acceptable," he says, then wham, Jim is watching a younger version of Spock ...
... dressed in Vulcan robes. The day is hot, even by Shi’Khar standards, and his mother does not cope well with the heat. It is a trait that Spock has inherited to a degree. It makes him perspire in the middle of the day, small beads of moisture on his brow and between his shoulder blades. It is a human thing to do, but more to the point, it is wasteful, and Spock rages inwardly at his inability to overcome this weakness.
"Spock, please reconsider accepting," his mother presses patiently, her damp hair sticking to her forehead even inside. "Either the Science Academy or Starfleet, whichever you prefer."
"Father does not consider Starfleet suitable employment for someone of our House," Spock answers, his inner turmoil making his voice sharp. "And you do not believe I will succeed at the Academy."
Amanda shakes her head. "No, I said I do not believe you will be content there. I said nothing about success or failure."
Spock's fists clench at his sides. "Knowing my father's opinion of Starfleet, why do you continue to present it as a viable option? Is it because you, like others, believe that I will fare better amongst humans than I do here, on Vulcan?"
"Spock," she sighs. "This is not about how Vulcan you are."
"No," he says through clenched teeth. "It is about how human I am."
His mother's eyebrows arch in concern. "Your control is poor today."
"The practices are harder for me," he snaps. "Everything is harder for me."
Her face softens. "You mustn't blame yourself."
"I do not," he assures her, his eyes filled with accusation.
His mother presses her lips together, sits back in her chair. "I will not apologize to you for giving birth to you, or for being human."
"I want neither your remorse nor your pity."
"Spock, please, you're young now, but one day you'll understand that ..."
"Enough!" The sound of his shout echoes around the stone walls, reverberating back in snatches, a dysmorphic and unintelligible explosion of anger and sorrow. "I leave Vulcan within the hour. I did not come here to debate my decision, merely to inform you of it."
Amanda's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You can't deny who you are, Spock. You can't run from this forever."
"I am merely attempting to focus my energies in a productive manner."
"Don't think I don't know the average lifespan of an EPAS Point," she accuses, rising from her chair, her voice rising with her. "What happened with T’Pring, Spock, don’t let it shape your future to this extent. There will be other offers, other minds that ..."
"You are laboring under a misapprehension," he informs her coldly. "My decision has nothing to do with T’Pring or the bond."
"Right now, everything about you is informed by that experience," she objects, bottom lip trembling. "I know you’ll deny it, but I see the pain in your eyes, I see what their words made you feel. To reject you on such spurious grounds speaks only to their own close-mindedness and inability to see past their prejudice. I hate that you believe the things they said. I’m furious with your father for allowing that so-called ‘test’ in the first place. You’re supposed to have emotions, we all are, even Vulcans. If yours are more dynamic, closer to the surface, then it’s only logical considering your genetics. If they’d only allowed you more time to prepare..."
“You delayed the bonding ten years to allow me sufficient time and I failed.”
“Don’t say that!” she orders, coldly furious. “Don’t you dare say that. I won’t allow my influence to ruin your future like this. I’ll talk to T’Pring’s family, make them see reason…”
Spock clenches his jaw at her words. "Mother, please..."
"Stay," she begs, "and we can petition the Kholinar Adepts at Gol to help you. If you truly want to follow the Vulcan way, I have faith in your ability to purge all emotion. Try to put this behind you and move on with your life."
"I am moving on," he clasps his trembling hands behind his back. "Just not in the manner most convenient to you."
"What is it that you need from me?" she pleads. "What haven't I done?"
"The past cannot be changed. It is illogical to persist in trying." He is calm, suddenly, as though all the rage and fear has leached away to leave behind a chill, hard emptiness. He will never have what she wants for him, will never be truly Vulcan. "I have no wish to debate this further."
"Spock," his mother says sternly. "So help me, if you do this..."
His fluid bow is full of mockery and bitterness. "Goodbye, Mother."
-:-
Spock makes to pull away, to break the meld, but Jim takes a step forward as he takes one backwards and grabs his elbow before it falls.
"I never spoke to my mother again."
"And you think, what?" Jim whispers, "that I'm going to hate you for that?"
"I am not who you think I am. A bond with me could be dangerous for you."
"Because you’re not a perfect Vulcan, whatever the hell that is?” Jim laughs weakly through the wake of emotional transference. “You’ve got to be joking…”
But Spock tears his hand away, leaving Jim reeling, disorientated, unable to stop him as he stalks from the room, not even bothering to close the door in his wake. Breathing hard, eyes watering, Jim leans on the bench for support and wonders what the hell just happened.
next
Fandom: Star Trek XI, TOS references.
Characters: Kirk/Spock, ensemble, OCs.
Rating & Warnings: Strong R - slash, language, adult themes.
Spoilers: For the 2009 movie mostly.
Disclaimer: Fanfiction and fanfiction only, folks.
Betas: the_arc5 is doing this at the very last minute again, because I'm deadline-phobic, so a round of applause, if you please?
Author's Note: This is written for stripedpetunia on trek_exchange. This is the beginning of the end, in more ways than one. Both Jim and Spock have secrets, but it's an irrefutable fact that one day, eventually, every secret sees the light of day ...
previous
Chapter 6.5
Jim finds a seat on the arm of the sofa, elbows on his knees. Spock is already seated at the opposite end, folded neatly in upon himself with a casual grace. His fingers rest on the upholstery, long and elegant, fractured by scars like he's sculpted from old marble.
“Okay,” says Jim. “The Enterprise.”
Spock watches him for a handful of seconds, his gaze measuring. “You have nominated me as your superior officer,” he says. “It is a military position and one that I have never sought for myself.”
“I know that, but I'm not about to apologize.”
“To decline the nomination in the presence of Admiral Komack and Minister Lawson would have undermined Admiral Pike. I could not, in conscience, destabilize EPAS so thoroughly, no matter my personal misgivings.” He delivers this as a simple statement, even though it is a clear reprimand.
“At least it’s given you some time to think about it,” Jim suggests, palms out in placation.
“Time will not provide the answers I seek.”
“What will?”
“Perhaps you, Jim.”
“Me?”
“If you are to serve aboard the Enterprise, under my command as you and the Admiral have orchestrated, then we must discuss the Narada.” Spock’s expression is unreadable. “Specifically the events aboard the Romulan escape pod.”
Jim swallows. “I have to admit, I don’t remember much.”
“Do you recall declining my assistance?”
“What assistance?”
Spock falters slightly, but recovers so quickly it’s almost imperceptible. “I might have been able to stabilize your condition via a mindmeld. You forbade me to do so.”
Jim feels his gut drop away. He reaches for the arm of the sofa with one hand, anchoring himself against a shift that only he can feel. "I can't believe we haven't spoken about that," Jim whispers, then laughs once. "We can kiss and screw and eat French toast but we haven't talked have we?" He looks up to find Spock's troubled eyes waiting. "What happened?"
"Distance," Spock supplies. "Distance and time."
Jim lets that sink in, thinks about the many secrets in his life, the way each and every one has leached into his soul like a stain that won’t wash out. The memory of Spock’s mind rushes up to meet him in a flurry of remembered heat and spaciousness, only to be followed by the intense precision of his counterpart’s and the way both of them have been forced to use their telepathic skills as a weapon. The trade-off here is guilt for honesty; potential pain for peace of mind.
“The other Spock, the older Spock, I’m sure he put something in my head,” Jim begins cautiously. “I have this sensation like the beginning of a migraine whenever I think too hard about it. All I know for sure is I have to be there when Nero comes. Whenever that is, however it happens, I have to be there. A lot of other crap bled through, but I...” he looks up, surprised to have glanced away, unsure when the pressure of Spock’s attention became too much to bear. “I’ve never been keen on the idea of destiny or fate, but this is less of a choice and more of a compulsion. And now I know things about the other Spock, about you I guess, that I’m not supposed to know,” he confesses. “His memories and mine … there are things that you should never have to see; things about both of us and my past.”
"Emotional transference can be a side-effect of the meld." His regard intensifies, those dark brows drawn in tightly over the bridge of his nose. "You were attempting to protect me?"
Jim nods. "Essentially, yeah."
"You were in mortal danger, stranded in uncharted space, suffering life-threatening injuries and you failed to consent to the mindmeld that might have been necessary to save your life because you wanted to spare me emotional distress?"
Jim draws breath but doesn't speak immediately, startled into silence by the fact that Spock sounds angry. No, hold that, he sounds pissed. It's a cold, hard, edgy kind of anger he's radiating; a very Vulcan rage. Jim wants to swallow but his mouth is suddenly too dry. All he can do is nod lamely and wonder when he lost control of the conversation so comprehensively.
Spock unfolds from the sofa like a weapon of war, he closes the distance between them in three measured strides and his hands are like vices when they close around Jim's upper arms. "Jim, I have seen your mind and have not suffered for it. If you ever do anything so pointlessly self-sacrificing again, I will personally declare you psychologically unfit for duty and have you expelled from the service," he says, deadly soft. "Do I make myself clear?"
"I won't hurt you if I can avoid it," Jim counters, holding his ground because this is too important for lies. "Someone else has, I just know it, and I won't be that person all over again."
Spock's hands clench harder. "No future revelation, no secret from my past or yours, no memory from an alternate universe could possibly cause me more pain than your death."
"You don't know that." His laugh is bitter, has a bit of an hysterical edge.
Spock searches Jim’s face. The clipped diction and sheer vehemence of his next words resonate between them. "Never sacrifice yourself for me. I will have your word."
"No," Jim denies without hesitation. "I can't swear to that."
Spock's hands fall away. "What if I require it?"
"Protect yourself," he counters quickly, "so that it's less of an issue."
"You cannot possibly be so naive," Spock chastises. "There is too much at stake."
"It's something about the meld, isn't it?" Jim's eyes narrow. "Something specific."
Spock's silence speaks volumes. They pause, studying each other. Jim watches those dark eyes flick side to side in study, up and down, cataloguing, categorizing. Spock is searching for something and Jim wants to help, but can't. They’re both stuck in the awkward silence that precedes disclosure or retreat.
Spock stands without replying and crosses to the transparent door. He pauses there with his bare feet pressed against the hardwood and reaches out to place a single fingertip against the transparent aluminium. He looks both young and determined there, haloed by the sunlight. "A leader should be decisive and confident, not afflicted with doubts and uncertainties."
"You're wrong," Jim says, fighting the urge to follow him across the room. "I've served under both kinds of Captains, lost ships, battles and countless lives while I was at it. The best Captain is one who looks at things from all angles, who questions everything, including themselves. The only danger in uncertainty is wallowing in it, but doubt has never paralyzed you. I could cite a dozen examples without even thinking. Come on, you already know I'm right. Whatever it is that's holding you back, it's time to let go and get on with your life," Jim insists, unwilling to generalize the problem but seeing no alternative. "Just lay the mindmeld issue to rest."
Spock's lips are the only things that move. "I would prefer to be alone for a time."
Frustrated and confused, Jim leaves him staring out into the sunshine and stalks into the spare room, has to stand in the center of it for a moment with his hands on his hips to collect himself.
It feels like he and Spock are having two separate conversations, but he knows deep in his gut that they're one and the same. He's done enough psychotherapy in his teenage years, and also more recently with Bones, to know that his need for Spock to accept his commission is rooted in far more than respect and confidence. Sure enough, it is about trust, only at a deeper level than any second in command should require from their superior officer. He can invest in both his professional and personal ties with Spock because he knows, he believes that although Spock might be fallible, he might disappoint, he might even leave again, the one thing he will never do is violate the essence of what they are to each other.
His throat is tight and his eyes are burning so he powers up the terminal with a frustrated slap, determined to distract himself with the first few encrypted orders from Pike. A mere fifteen minutes later, he's forced to admit that his mind refuses to be derailed. If Spock declines this posting, if he tells Pike he won't do it, then the center seat will fall to Jim, who really, honestly, right down to the mattresses doesn't fucking want it. He used to think that gold shirt was his first, best destiny. He used to believe he could excel there. Two years in EPAS have shown him that his real talent is far more nebulous.
Jim learned early that he had to be a good judge of character, needed to uncover people, to pin down their motives. When you do that as a child, the world loses some of it's shine, torn away along with a good proportion of naivete. The payoff is all about hard truths and a bitter kind of self-awareness. The bonus, if there is one, has always been the ability to take a situation and see it from all angles. Truthfully, nothing has given Jim quite the same buzz as hanging from the side of a medevac shuttle and taking that leap of faith, confident that his target will veer left, or duck low, or even grab hold. It's now so fundamental to his being that it's hard to imagine living without it. He yearns for that visceral sixth sense of an unspoken connection. Jim looks at a battlefield now and it all just falls into place. He's confident he can benefit the greatest number of people by relaying that insight to someone like Spock, someone who can think above the chaos and put Jim's instincts to best use. Jim is a born First Officer, not a Captain. It's a humbling but liberating revelation.
His nerves are fried and his patience with himself almost exhausted by the time a cautious knock sounds and Spock slips into the study.
Jim swivels in his chair and waits.
"Inform Admiral Pike that I require Lieutenant Montgomery Scott to oversee the final stages of the Enterprise's warp core testing," Spock requests calmly. "Also, that I am promoting Pavel A. Chekov to the rank of First Lieutenant and placing him in charge of technical recruitment."
"Can do," Jim nods, feeling his body flush with relief.
Spock turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway, glancing at the carpeting then up at Jim's face. "Divisional Commander Kirk, will you do me the honour of accepting the position of First Officer aboard the USS Enterprise and all the summary duties and responsibilities that entails?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good," Spock nods, still pensive, "and Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"If you place me in the position of having to choose between your life and the good of the many, I cannot vouch for my ability to act in a manner that remotely resembles logic of any kind."
"Duly noted," Jim nods, finding a smile from somewhere deep inside. They still need to talk, he understands that. At least the first line of defense has fallen.
-:-
Two weeks pass in a flurry of diplomatic posturing, endless committee meetings and construction inspections. Captain S'chn T'gai Spock emerges from his shuttle to EPAS' Luna headquarters characteristically pressed and starched, but with a hint of fatigue showing in his eyes. Some might question his single-mindedness in regards to this one particular crew appointment, but if there is to be a perk of accepting such great responsibility, he supposes it is the right to indulge his preferences from time to time.
The appointment of his Chief Tactical Officer has been blocked repeatedly by both the Ministry of Health and F-Sec. Each time the denial crosses his desk, Spock refiles his decision with new supporting arguments, following the Kirk model of slowly wearing down the opposition, although Jim phrases it somewhat more colourfully. Finally, Pike sent a comm to the apartment and ordered Spock to his office.
When the screen blanked, Jim had kissed him soundly, grinning and shaking his head. "About time," he'd said, fondly.
"For?"
And then Jim's smile had been blinding. "A little rebellion."
Now, Spock unconsciously lengthens his stride through the spaceport, hands open at his sides and free of even carry-on luggage. He will be staying only long enough to push through this appointment, and not a moment longer. There is a queue of technical and material requests waiting on his terminal, along with several other items that require his authorization, each too sensitive for electronic channels.
"Captain Spock for Admiral Pike," he announces to Christopher's new secretary. His wife, Jessica, no longer works for EPAS and Spock knows there is a reason for that. It may have to do with the way F-Sec are leaning harder on Pike every day, examining his expense reports and goading him endlessly in Council forums. It may also be related to the way Pike and Jim both pore over the Intelligence reports from the Neutral Zone, their dedication interrupted only to share pointed, worried looks.
The young man behind the desk nods and buzzes him through.
Pike is standing with the aid of only a single stick, staring at the bleak moonscape, but he turns as the doors swish open. "Captain," he smiles wryly, never passing up an opportunity to throw Spock's new rank in his face. "Are you trying to make me fire you?"
"If I no longer wished employment with EPAS, I would simply resign my commission, Admiral."
Pike gestures at the sofas, crossing the distance himself with only the slightest limp, the new mircrolite brace small enough to fit beneath his uniform, unseen except where it presses against the material. Spock joins him, sitting opposite so they are eye to eye.
"Spock, you know I can't approve this posting."
"You have the authority."
"On paper, Enterprise is a search and rescue vessel, but you and I both know differently," Pike frowns. "How can I exercise my authority in support of something that potentially jeopardizes your mission?"
"Mandatory physical and psychological aptitude tests have been satisfied," Spock counters. "Is your objection personal?"
"Is my..." Pike winces in disbelief. "I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that."
"Then please clarify the nature of your objection to this posting," Spock requests, falling back on Vulcan directness.
"Okay, fine," Pike nods, eyes glinting. "Let's play hardball. You emotionally compromise each other."
Spock blinks. This is one line of rebuttal for which he has not prepared. His instincts are to deny it, to bury the twinge of guilt he feels beneath a mountain of repression and misdirection. Instead, he takes a deep, slow breath and holds Pike's gaze. "Once perhaps, but not anymore."
A slow, approving smile spreads across Pike's face. He starts nodding to himself, letting the motion settle before he reaches out and signs the appointment form with a flourish. "If you'd lied to me, I'd have turned you down again." He looks up as he hands the PADD over. "If this is Jim's influence, then I'm glad. You two are good together."
"I am gratified by your approval," Spock replies, unsure of the nature or depth of that selfsame emotion. He stands, PADD tucked under his arm.
"Just..." Pike forestalls him with a gesture. "Have you made it official?"
"Sir?"
"Have you bonded, Spock?"
Deeply uncomfortable, he shakes his head. "We have not."
"Look," Pike pushes to his feet with the aid of the stick, looking rather uncomfortable himself, "I'm the closest thing to a father Jim ever had, so I want you to know that what I'm about to say comes from a good place."
"I would hardly assume otherwise."
"Good, good," Pike nods, buying himself some time. "So you'll forgive me when I confess to re-reading your file." Spock just looks at him blankly so he clarifies. "Your whole file."
That one qualifier drops like a stone into the center of Spock's fatigued control. No, like a boulder. He reaches out with his free hand, finds the arm of the sofa and sinks back into it slowly. "I understand."
Pike remains standing, offering a view of his knees rather than his eyes, as though he knows his mere presence is more than Spock can handle right now. "I never pulled rank in order to unseal it before; I never thought I needed to. Your academic record spoke for itself, your physical and psychological aptitude scores were off the charts, and Vulcans are notoriously tight-lipped about everything, let alone their sole successful Vulcan-human hybrid. Now, I look back on that decision and I wonder if I did you a massive disservice."
Spock does look up at that. "Sir?"
"I'm going to say this, and I really want you to hear me. Talk to Jim; he’ll understand."
Spock's heart tries to beat out of his throat and he is certain, absolutely sure, that Pike can tell.
-:-
Ashe Ho arrives at Luna spaceport with her whole life divided between a backpack and her faith in one half-Vulcan. It's a hell of a gamble for most people, but Spock's tall, serene presence in the lounge instantly justifies it. She smiles at him and spins herself over, forever preferring to propel herself independently of servos and motors even though the chair is fully automated. Wheeling it keeps her cardiovascularly fit.
Spock looks almost exactly as she remembers, even so many months later. His hair sits severely across his forehead, his dark EPAS blacks a sharp contrast to the space-paleness of his skin, and his hands clasp together in the small of his back. When he moves to greet her, it is with the same fluid strength, the same flat-palmed ta'al.
"Captain," she salutes.
"Lieutenant."
Something in his tone finally tips her off. She tries not to let the perception show on her face, hoping the tightness is a product of his respiratory injury, still healing. "Thank you for believing in me."
"Faith was unnecessary," he corrects. "You have proven yourself more than capable of filling the position."
"Still, there aren't many Captains who'll have a cripple on their senior staff." She says it because the word still holds power over her and she hates it. Far better to use it herself than to suffer the reaction of others doing so.
He pins her with his dark eyes, concealing so much and yet so open. "If I harbored any doubts about this appointment I would hardly have insisted upon your nomination."
"Why did you?" she asks, "second it and then push so hard? Not that I'm ungrateful."
Spock unbends just enough to raise one eyebrow. "Despite our frequent disagreements, I have learned to respect doctor McCoy's professional opinion. He nominated you because you are qualified, but also because he is of the opinion that you possess unique qualities crucial to the success of our mission."
"And what are they, precisely?”
"I believe his exact words were: 'the ability to tell when something is inspired or just plain batshit insane.'" His eyebrow lowers after the delivery. "This is an indisputably desirable skill in a tactical officer."
Ashe laughs, she can't help it, and so turns it into a cough and aligns her chair with Spock's trajectory as he leads her from the gate lounge. She's never heard him curse before, at least, not in Standard. "Good, because I don't accept charity."
"A common theme among our command staff, it seems."
She's not sure how, but she's certain he's talking about Kirk.
-:-
Spock returns to the apartment several hours later, having been waylaid at F-Sec Headquarters by an awkward piece of funding manoeuvring that had the potential to delay the Enterprise's refit to EPAS specifications. Minister Lawson appeared fortuitously at the end of a lengthy and exhausting confrontation with a minor Starfleet official and promptly circumnavigated the latest F-Sec objections in a manner Spock can only refer to as one which verges on blackmail. He is not entirely comfortable with the technique, but cannot fault her motive or efficacy.
Jim looks up from his PADD as Spock closes the door, blinking a few times to adjust his focus. "You're home late."
Spock shrugs out of his coat and hangs it neatly on the peg by the door. "If you persist in reading reports with inadequate lighting you will damage your eyesight."
"What did Pike say?" Jim asks, ignoring his concerns as he uncrossing his ankles and rolls to his feet.
"He approved Lieutenant Ho's nomination."
"He did?" Jim beams. "About time, the grumpy old bastard."
"The Admiral believes my insistence on the matter is your doing."
"Does he want me to stop corrupting his favorite Vulcan?" Jim's tone is light, filled with amusement.
"As far as I am aware, I am the only Vulcan with whom Admiral Pike can claim any form of social relationship," Spock corrects him, "which hardly makes me his 'favorite.’"
"That's not true; he knows your father and that other dude they sent to the Security Council meeting when your father couldn't make it. He kind of knows Senekot, too, not that Senekot could be anyone's favorite anything."
"You are allowing your personal feelings on the matter to cloud your judgement."
"Whereas you're totally impartial, right?" Jim is smiling, casually circling the sofa so they're face to face. "Never had a favorite Point Two? Type of food? Favorite human?"
Spock's eyes narrow even as his lips quirk. "I admit to having preferences in regards to food."
"You're such a tease," Jim tells him, eyes dancing. "This thing with Ashe; we did good." Jim steps up close, brushing the back of his hand against Spock's own. They're silhouetted against the window, dark shadows against the afternoon sun. The air is still faintly warm and tinted gold.
"Yes, I believe we did." Spock allows his fingers to be captured.
"Then what's on your mind?"
Spock massages his thumb into the palm of Jim's hand and rests their brows together. "There is a matter we ought to discuss; however the thought of it makes me feel uneasy."
"Mmm," Jim hums in the small space between them. "I still love it when you say the word 'feel.'"
The gentle exhalation is Spock's version of a laugh. "You are easily pleased."
Jim finds the hem of Spock's shirt and slips his fingers beneath the thin thermal layer, brushing up against the warmth of his waist, tracing around until he can press his thumb into the hollow of one hip and hold him still.
"I bet I can do something about your unease."
"Such arrogance," Spock whispers, lacing their fingers together more tightly and pressing into the hand beneath his shirt.
"Ahem."
A pointed cough startles them apart a few inches, but it's impossible to hide the moment they just shared.
Doctor McCoy swallows and frowns mightily, waving a handful of data PADDs. "I thought you might like to see these, but it can wait."
"Hey, Bones. Don't knock or anything," Jim shakes his head and steps away from Spock, his hand trailing behind him, reluctant to part ways. "Are those the preliminary crew rotations? Heavy on the Starfleet side of things like Pike promised?"
"Uh, drop outs or washouts mostly," McCoy corrects him gruffly, walking further into the room to meet him halfway. "The Admiralty don't know what Pike's planning but they know he's up to something and they're making it very hard for him to get anything he really wants. Academy grads, interns and people on extended sick leave make up the better end of the curve. On the other side you've got dissenters and troublemakers, both enlisted and private sector. I've sent them all that preliminary psych eval we discussed, which should at least weed out the sociopaths, xenophobes, suicidals and extremists."
"Oh, that’s wonderful," Jim sighs, taking the first PADD from McCoy's outstretched hand and thumbing through it. "Got any good news?"
"Engineering report, Ops report, Internal Services report," the doctor counts them out into Jim's waiting hands, pausing at the last. "I didn't even realize we kept an inventory of everyone's socks," he quirks a crazy eyebrow. "Did you know that, Jim? Those bean counters on Luna want to know what happens to socks in the wash." The doctor's eyes widen further. "They can get in line behind every other living thing with feet."
Spock leans over Jim's shoulder and plucks the Engineering and Ops reports out of his hands.
"Oi," Jim objects.
Spock ignores him.
McCoy watches them both carefully. "So, you two are..."
"What?" Jim raises his eyes and his eyebrows, pinning McCoy with a look that just dares him to finish that sentence. He knows the doctor has been working up to this moment.
"Busy for the night," Bones says easily. "You're busy for the night."
"Not at all." Spock seems totally at ease despite the awkwardness of the situation, although he surreptitiously straightens his shirt while McCoy isn't looking. "You are most welcome to stay. Your insight has proven valuable with respect to recruitment."
"Well now," McCoy tries to hide his satisfaction upon hearing that. "I don't want to intrude."
"Too late for that," Jim grins, shooting a mischievous look in Spock's direction.
Spock sighs, which is more emotion than McCoy's ever seen him show outside of extenuating circumstances. "Perhaps you could invite Lieutenant Ho to join us?" he then suggests.
If Bones was shocked by what he'd seen earlier, it's nothing compared to how he looks now. Spock gives him the patented, please do not assume that I am an idiot, doctor expression with an extra little hint of extra superiority thrown in for good measure.
McCoy opens his mouth to curse or laugh, seeming unsure which, but it turns into a small sound of acknowledgement. He nods at them with his lips pursed, "how long have you two known?"
"Two point six weeks."
"Two point seven," Jim corrects Spock quickly, a frown on his face. "I told you before that second meeting with Pike, remember?"
"That was pure conjecture."
Jim holds up his index finger sternly. "When you're proven right, it's called intuition."
McCoy wipes a hand down his face wearily. "You're kind of sickeningly domestic together."
Both men turn. One offers an eyebrow, the other a one-fingered salute.
"Sweet Jesus."
"Go get your girlfriend," Jim taunts in response. "Spock and I have to drop some new blueprints off at the courier. Meet you back here in an hour."
-:-
Jim and Spock exit the subway wrapped in wonderful anonymity. The night has descended with a coastal chill, bundling them into coats and scarves; disguising Spock even further with a beanie pulled down low over his ears. Here, out of uniform and away from officialdom, Jim can pretend they're just two guys, two people together, getting on with life the way everyone else seems to. He pushes the ever-present threat of Nero to the back of his mind and takes Spock's hand where it swings between them, relishing the instant return pressure of those gloved fingers against his own. They converse softly as they walk, heads bent together as they trade concerns and solutions that cover everything from personnel to completion deadlines, all identifiers removed, safely censored for the sidewalk.
With the trusted courier in sight, Jim acts on impulse and bundles Spock into an alley. Alert but trusting, Spock allows himself to be pulled out of sight, hardly even seeming surprised when Jim presses him back into the brick wall and kisses him with feeling.
"With Bones and Ashe coming over, I just wasn't sure how long I'd have to wait to do this," Jim breathes against his lips, eyes darting up to Spock's and then closed again as he repeats the gesture, pressing closer in the night air. "It definitely couldn't wait until they leave."
"No?" Spock asks, voice warm and intimate.
"Hell no," Jim insists, leaning back to pull his gloves off with his teeth so he can press his bare hands against Spock's chilled face. He stares at him, bewildered by the unfamiliar depth of feeling all over again, as though it's a new revelation, not one he keeps continually rediscovering.
Spock reaches up, one hand circling Jim's wrist, not to push away from the contact, but to hold it closer. "I am grateful you did not do this in the presence of our CMO and Chief Tactical Officer," he says roughly.
"Might have really given Bones something to be surprised about?" Jim's low chuckle fills the small alley with sudden humor, his blue eyes twinkling.
Spock's demeanor shifts in response as he turns his head to kiss the palm of Jim's bare hand. "I anticipate familiarity will soon negate such a response."
"You planning on making out with me in front of Bones on this mission?"
"Certainly not," Spock replies, straightening his posture and his clothing. "However, there are still seven days before our shakedown cruise."
Jim laughs heartily even has his heart rate increases in anticipation. "You're joking!" he scoffs, allowing Spock to extricate himself and reposition his satchel over his shoulder. He grins harder, standing in the alley with his hands on his hips as Spock walks away wrapped in dignity. "You are joking, right?" When no answer is forthcoming, he jogs after him. "Seriously, though?"
"I shall meet you at the apartment," Spock informs him without turning. "Please do not forget Doctor McCoy's preference for hot sauce."
"What? No! Answer the damn question!" Jim calls after him, disrupted by his own laughter. "I call bullshit!"
-:-
Long after dinner, just before midnight, McCoy carries Ashe from the apartment, her thin and wasted legs dangling over his arm, bouncing limply with each of his energetic steps. The wheelchair doesn't fit in the single person elevator, a design flaw that Spock has no doubt made a mental note to raise with Equal Opportunity. It breaks Jim's heart a little, but Ashe is smiling blindingly, her arms hooked around McCoy's neck, her laughter bubbling over, breaking through the doctor's defensive gruffness and revealing the tenderness within. He'd never have thought it, but the two of them are a good fit, better in their differences than Jim and Ashe could ever have been in their similarity.
Spock sees them to the door, unsmiling, but somehow it isn't required. Everyone in the room can read between the lines, can read Spock just a little. When they're gone, he turns, all fluid grace and questioning eyebrows. Jim feels an ache in his chest, a reminder of the emptiness that is left whenever they're apart. It leaves a fear-filled new hole in Jim's life; this connection.
"Help me tidy?" he asks, more to keep Spock in the room than because he has any true desire for neatness. Their half-finished conversation hovers between them like a preliminary alert, making Jim feel jumpy and cautious.
They clean away the cups and plates, Jim keeping up a steady stream of chatter while Spock says nothing, merely placing things within easy reach by Jim's elbow or hand as he stands at the sink. Finally, there's nothing left to clean and Jim leans back against the counter, propped up on one hip, drying his hands on the towel.
"You want to play chess?"
"If you wish."
Jim nods, throwing down the towel and crossing into the main room to begin setting up the pieces. In all honesty, he's tired and it won't be much of a game, but it means at least another hour of grace. He lines up the pawns, trying not to think of how Ashe had allowed McCoy to drape her legs over his lap, or the way they'd traded gentle kisses from time to time. It had seemed easy, intimate, tender even. Spock didn't do that with him, probably never would, and that was okay so long as …
Warm hands settle on Jim's shoulders from behind. "I am not by nature a publicly demonstrative person," Spock confesses, voice low and soft by Jim's ear.
"That's okay," Jim assures him quickly, knowing he means it, barely even surprised that Spock judged his mood to perfection. "I don't think it's that, I just ..."
Spock turns him gently, searching his face with warm, brown eyes. "You wish for people to know."
"Is that so bad?"
"I had thought to spare you the difficulty of appearing to have earned your sustained position of Divisional Commander in an underhanded manner."
Jim huffs out a little laugh, feeling the absurdity of such a thing eclipse his fear of Spock's reaction. "You didn't want me to look like an ambitious floozy?" He shakes his head. "Spock, I am an ambitious floozy. I have been for years."
"Not everyone will see our situation as you do."
"No," Jim's eyes narrow with concern. "Some of them will think you've lost it."
Spock quirks an eyebrow.
"The plot," Jim clarifies, "your marbles, that you're unstable or something."
"I have never been more mentally at peace than I am when I am with you."
Spock lays it out in such a quietly honest way that it makes Jim suddenly breathless. He's left standing, lips slightly parted, wondering if it's possible to blank his whole life and start over again from right there. "That has to be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Spock's thumbs rub gently at Jim's shoulders. "And this is the first time in my life I recall being referred to as romantic."
There's a goofy smile blooming on Jim's face as he lifts one long fingered hand from his shoulder and turns it, pressing a fond kiss into the palm. "We're going to own this, the Enterprise, the mission, everything."
Spock slides his hand away from Jim's shoulders to cup his jaw. "Yes."
"In that case," Jim musters all his tattered courage and takes a deep breath, "there's something I'd like to ask you."
Spock stills, instantly attentive. “Perhaps we should conclude our earlier conversation prior to…”
"Keep staying with me?" Jim blinks and rushes on hurriedly, "I mean, it's okay to say no, I totally understand. Logical to say no, even, because Vulcans live so much longer than humans, so I'm assuming half Vulcans do too, and I know I drive you crazy but I'm just selfish when it comes to you and I really ... mpfh."
"Cease speaking." Spock firmly covers Jim's mouth with his hand.
"That's a no then," Jim whispers when the hand is cautiously removed, but there's a strange look about Spock. His eyes are incredibly wide, his brows almost drawn flat, face paler than Jim can remember seeing it outside of the sickbay or decontam.
"Woah," says Jim, gripping him by the elbows.
"Ask me again," Spock demands tightly.
"Spock, what the hell?"
"Ask me."
Jim swallows around a dry mouth. "Stay with me?"
"Yes."
The reply comes so quickly upon the heels of his own words that Jim takes an involuntary step back. "I'm sorry?"
"I said yes," Spock repeats, looking as shocked as Jim feels. "Provided of course that you fully comprehend what the undertaking entails."
"I do," Jim insists, then reconsiders, "at least, I think I do." He quickly gathers everything he's gleaned from being with Spock and combines it with the mindmeld flotsam Prime left behind and the measly scraps of information he's managed to extract from the Core. "A mental bond, monogamy, proximity telepathy, pon farr ..."
"You are aware of pon farr and you still wish to be bonded?"
"How could you think I'd let you do that with someone else?"
"Jim," Spock says, a little brokenly. "I do not know what to think."
“Well, I do,” he insists firmly. “I don’t care what else happens, I want you in my life. EPAS, Starfleet, VSA, Fleet Academy,” Jim flails his arms expressively, cutting through his own litany of potential futures, “a goddamn auto garage, I don’t care what we do after Nero. None of that matters, none of it changes anything.” Wordlessly, he takes Spock's hand and shapes the fingers, presses them into his face, eyes never wavering. "My mind to your mind," he says firmly.
"... my thoughts to your thoughts," Spock finishes for him, fingertips shaking against Jim's skin as they slide together in a dark mix of fear and longing.
"Spock, what could you possibly be afraid of?"
... a hand that slips from his | fists in his face, too different, too human | fingers digging into his skin, pulling roughly away from his mind | shame and loss and overwhelming wrongness | flight and fear | on his knees, Vulcan is gone, no need for the comm from his father, he already knows about Mother | Pike, who comes so far and no further | fleeting touches on his hand that he misses so much | a lonely life, isolated, difficult, uncertain | Jim, I do not know how to tell you this ...
Jim's vision is shorting in and out, jerky camera flashes of reality against the overwhelming presence of Spock in his mind's eye. All he knows is there's hot breath against his neck, a bruising grip on his face.
"I am sorry," Spock whispers. "I cannot permit this. In order to make the bond, I must drop every control."
"So do it," Jim manages. "I guarantee you'll find far worse in my brain."
Still Spock hesitates, skirting the fringes of Jim's consciousness and the edges of his personal space. “You do not know what you ask.”
"Tell you what," Jim let his eyes slide closed. "Show me whatever it is you're so worked up about, just put it on out there, and if I'm as horrified as you obviously think I'm going to be, then we can reconsider."
The sound of Spock swallowing fills the room. "Acceptable," he says, then wham, Jim is watching a younger version of Spock ...
... dressed in Vulcan robes. The day is hot, even by Shi’Khar standards, and his mother does not cope well with the heat. It is a trait that Spock has inherited to a degree. It makes him perspire in the middle of the day, small beads of moisture on his brow and between his shoulder blades. It is a human thing to do, but more to the point, it is wasteful, and Spock rages inwardly at his inability to overcome this weakness.
"Spock, please reconsider accepting," his mother presses patiently, her damp hair sticking to her forehead even inside. "Either the Science Academy or Starfleet, whichever you prefer."
"Father does not consider Starfleet suitable employment for someone of our House," Spock answers, his inner turmoil making his voice sharp. "And you do not believe I will succeed at the Academy."
Amanda shakes her head. "No, I said I do not believe you will be content there. I said nothing about success or failure."
Spock's fists clench at his sides. "Knowing my father's opinion of Starfleet, why do you continue to present it as a viable option? Is it because you, like others, believe that I will fare better amongst humans than I do here, on Vulcan?"
"Spock," she sighs. "This is not about how Vulcan you are."
"No," he says through clenched teeth. "It is about how human I am."
His mother's eyebrows arch in concern. "Your control is poor today."
"The practices are harder for me," he snaps. "Everything is harder for me."
Her face softens. "You mustn't blame yourself."
"I do not," he assures her, his eyes filled with accusation.
His mother presses her lips together, sits back in her chair. "I will not apologize to you for giving birth to you, or for being human."
"I want neither your remorse nor your pity."
"Spock, please, you're young now, but one day you'll understand that ..."
"Enough!" The sound of his shout echoes around the stone walls, reverberating back in snatches, a dysmorphic and unintelligible explosion of anger and sorrow. "I leave Vulcan within the hour. I did not come here to debate my decision, merely to inform you of it."
Amanda's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You can't deny who you are, Spock. You can't run from this forever."
"I am merely attempting to focus my energies in a productive manner."
"Don't think I don't know the average lifespan of an EPAS Point," she accuses, rising from her chair, her voice rising with her. "What happened with T’Pring, Spock, don’t let it shape your future to this extent. There will be other offers, other minds that ..."
"You are laboring under a misapprehension," he informs her coldly. "My decision has nothing to do with T’Pring or the bond."
"Right now, everything about you is informed by that experience," she objects, bottom lip trembling. "I know you’ll deny it, but I see the pain in your eyes, I see what their words made you feel. To reject you on such spurious grounds speaks only to their own close-mindedness and inability to see past their prejudice. I hate that you believe the things they said. I’m furious with your father for allowing that so-called ‘test’ in the first place. You’re supposed to have emotions, we all are, even Vulcans. If yours are more dynamic, closer to the surface, then it’s only logical considering your genetics. If they’d only allowed you more time to prepare..."
“You delayed the bonding ten years to allow me sufficient time and I failed.”
“Don’t say that!” she orders, coldly furious. “Don’t you dare say that. I won’t allow my influence to ruin your future like this. I’ll talk to T’Pring’s family, make them see reason…”
Spock clenches his jaw at her words. "Mother, please..."
"Stay," she begs, "and we can petition the Kholinar Adepts at Gol to help you. If you truly want to follow the Vulcan way, I have faith in your ability to purge all emotion. Try to put this behind you and move on with your life."
"I am moving on," he clasps his trembling hands behind his back. "Just not in the manner most convenient to you."
"What is it that you need from me?" she pleads. "What haven't I done?"
"The past cannot be changed. It is illogical to persist in trying." He is calm, suddenly, as though all the rage and fear has leached away to leave behind a chill, hard emptiness. He will never have what she wants for him, will never be truly Vulcan. "I have no wish to debate this further."
"Spock," his mother says sternly. "So help me, if you do this..."
His fluid bow is full of mockery and bitterness. "Goodbye, Mother."
-:-
Spock makes to pull away, to break the meld, but Jim takes a step forward as he takes one backwards and grabs his elbow before it falls.
"I never spoke to my mother again."
"And you think, what?" Jim whispers, "that I'm going to hate you for that?"
"I am not who you think I am. A bond with me could be dangerous for you."
"Because you’re not a perfect Vulcan, whatever the hell that is?” Jim laughs weakly through the wake of emotional transference. “You’ve got to be joking…”
But Spock tears his hand away, leaving Jim reeling, disorientated, unable to stop him as he stalks from the room, not even bothering to close the door in his wake. Breathing hard, eyes watering, Jim leans on the bench for support and wonders what the hell just happened.
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