Fic: Somewhere Where They Can Forget, Kirk/Spock, NC-17
Title: Somewhere Where They Can Forget
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, violence
Word count: 9000
Summary: AU. Nero escaped from Rura Penthe early and managed to destroy both Vulcan and Earth. Most of the remaining Vulcans and Humans are taken to a Romulan penal colony. In this harsh new world, Spock meets and falls in love with Jim Kirk.
Notes: This is a sort of prequel to my big bang fic, Refractions. However, it's written as a stand-alone, so you don’t have to have read Refractions to understand this one. Big thanks to cicero_drayon for the beta, and thanks to pasty_pants, who fangirled and wanted it written more than I did.
Soundtrack: I don't know about you, but I usually have songs in mind when I write fics, except this one had enough songs that I decided to include them as a soundtrack of sorts. There's no cover art or anything, but I zipped them up so if some of you are inclined, you can listen while you read or just snag it for some new tunes. Download here.
Inside you're pretending
Crimes have been swept aside
Somewhere, where they can forget
-"Mysterons" by Portishead
*
"I've got your Mommy and Daddy, Spock," Nero hissed into Spock's ear. Two of his Romulan shipmates brought out his parents and threw them onto their knees. Spock struggled minutely against his shackles, but to no avail as the cuffs were designed for the equal strength of Romulans.
Both were scared, and the fact that Spock could read the fear on his father's face said much to their predicament and the constant string of devastating events that had led them here.
"See, I'm just an average working guy, Spock, " Nero said, walking away from Spock and back to his command chair. "I believe in justice. Destroying both of your home worlds has given me that justice. My people have the opportunity to engage in a fair war, without the Federation conquering everyone else and strong arming them into taking over all civilizations. I stand apart from the Romulan Empire, but they're not above giving me gratitude for destroying at least two bothersome enemies. I'm in such a charitable mood that I'm willing to spare your life. As for your parents, you have to tell me which one you want me to spare."
*
There were thirty-two Vulcans and Humans trapped in the malfunctioning elevator shaft. The humans screamed in fear or vain threat while the Vulcans stoically watched as volleys of sparks issued from the lift, knowing just as well as Spock that the elevator would give in no more than two minutes. The Romulan guards were engaged in taking bets on when the lift was going to plummet down over one hundred stories. Spock and a few stray workers for mining duty were witnessing this nihilistic display, but could do nothing as the elevator door was locked, and even if it were not, they dared not try to free the victims. If they did try to save the prisoners in the elevator, they would be killed, and the freed prisoners would most likely be summarily executed before they could exult in their safety.
The other workers around Spock kept digging, turned away from the scene, illogically convincing themselves that if they pretended it was not happening, then they could have peace of mind. Spock continued to dig, his breath crystallizing in the dank ice cave, eyes locked on the elevator. Thirty-two lives. Once such a small amount, but now a significant portion of two species.
As Spock was paying little attention to the others in the work party, he missed when exactly one of the diggers broke from the group, but was watching when the worker rushed the elevator, pick axe held aloft, and drove it onto the latch, springing it open. Immediately a guard intercepted him, interestingly not choosing to simply kill him, but to incapacitate him with a kick to the stomach. The other guards did not go after or start executing the freed prisoners. One of them half-heartedly killed an elderly human and another guard used a laser to puncture a hole in a Vulcan woman’s kneecap, but they barely paid attention to the events that were unfolding, resuming the card game they had been playing, which seemed to be more critical to them than their previous bet.
The digger who had freed the other prisoners was trying to get to his knees, holding his stomach in pain. Spock wondered why he didn’t just lay down, as it was obvious that the guard would have no qualms with kicking him in the stomach until he died from internal hemorrhages. The guard punched his face three times and drew a knife out of his boot while the prisoner was disoriented from the pummeling. The guard, intent on maiming the prisoner, slashed the knife at an angle that would dig into the man’s face and slice deep into his eye socket, but the prisoner jerked back just enough so that there was only a long cut from his forehead to cheek, blood pouring profusely from the wound. The prisoner then kicked the legs out from underneath the guard and began to run as well as he could with his sustained injuries, stumbling on loose rocks. The guard scrambled to his feet in a rage. Spock scanned a nearby rock crevice that he had been carefully digging around and drove his shovel into it. Just as he had ascertained, the foundation of the wall shook and the rock above their heads began to avalanche. He regretted that two workers were in the path of a couple of heavy rocks, but they should come out of it with only minor abrasions. All the guards heard the noise and it successfully distracted the one guard Spock was concerned with, who thought better of chasing after the prisoner and instead went with the other guards to clear out the tunnel.
It took Spock three days to locate the man who saved the lives of those Vulcans and humans. He finally encountered him during the daily meal, at one of the locations Spock did not take his own meal in. The man was seated by himself, legs sprawled out in front of him, leaning back against a building. His face was bruised a deep purple, the cut on his face healing. It would scar. The man seemed to recognize him and he silently scooted over when Spock walked up to him. Spock sat next to him on the cold ground.
“What you did was illogical,” Spock said.
He spooned soup into his mouth. The humans reported that the soup had a nondescript flavor, but to Spock it tasted vaguely like sewage water. It seemed Vulcans were spared little in this new environment. The Vulcans' superior strength and ability to heal their bodies by going into a trance were the only assets they possessed. The cold, however, was so crippling that it weakened their strength and impaired their ability to heal properly.
The man smirked.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Vulcan.”
“I am rarely wrong,” Spock informed him, slightly irritated. He marveled at the feeling. At feeling anything.
“Standing by and doing nothing is illogical. Either you sit around with your head down and hope you aren’t one of the unlucky bastards who the guards just want to kill for no reason, or you fight.”
“There is little logic in doing so. We are statistically outnumbered, not only on this planet but in the galaxy. Fighting merely guarantees a more expedient death.”
The man moved a couple of inches closer, voice low, almost seductive.
“Then why not fight? If we’re all doomed, why not try anything to survive? Are you one of those who’s given up too?”
“While I contend that it is illogical to fight, I am nevertheless compelled by nature to struggle for survival.”
“I saw you cause that cave in. It looked like you were doing a little more than just being ‘compelled to struggle for survival.'”
“It was a calculated maneuver with minor risk to myself.”
“Call it whatever you want; I don’t care as long as you keep doing it. Name’s Jim Kirk,” he said, reaching out as if to shake Spock’s hand. Spock could see him realize his mistake and begin to retract his hand awkwardly, but Spock made a decision and took Kirk’s hand, the point of contact an almost unbearable heat.
“I am Spock.”
*
They spent more time together after that first meeting. Spock rationalized that even Vulcans had an instinctual need for social contact, but he realized that this was a flawed rationalization, as it was borne of emotion.
At first they merely spent their daily meal together. They would huddle together against the perpetual harsh wind that seemed to pound ice into any exposed skin and talk about their day or unimportant information. Eventually their discussions turned more serious. The day Spock told Jim about Nero brutally killing his parents in front of him, Jim had walked with him back to his barracks, where they talked well into the night about what they had lost. They began to walk together whenever they were off duty, which was not often, and Spock found himself craving more of this man who was so different than the others, who was passionate, human, alive.
"I think they feed us just enough for us to die slowly," Jim remarked one day, his face scrunched in annoyance as he bit into his ration of bread.
"We consume roughly 1500 calories a day, give or take the fluctuating contents of the soup. It would be sufficient if it were not for the hard labor that burns the necessary caloric intake away. There is merit to your statement."
"Why don't you just say, 'Jim, we're fucked?’"
"I see no point in stating the obvious.”
“And yet in a roundabout way, you did.”
“Has it occurred to you that there is a certain...inefficiency in constantly questioning me about things you've already made up your mind about?"
Jim smiled at him disarmingly. "It gives me emotional security."
"Emotions are not in my nature."
"Bullshit."
Spock turned his head slowly to stare at Jim. "I am Vulcan."
"And you're human."
"I chose to follow a Vulcan way of life."
"Well yeah, you lived on Vulcan most of your life, makes sense. But it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re still half human.”
"That is not the only factor in my overall decision,” Spock said, knowing that he was beginning to sound defensive even to himself. "The Vulcan way is satisfying, and I respect their value of pure logic and the equilibrium it brings to chaos."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do. Because it sure is easy, isn't it?" Jim said, dropping his spoon irritably into his empty bowl and setting it on the ground in front of him. Spock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, trying to follow the thread of conversation.
"On the contrary, it is very difficult to achieve the desired state of being. Only a few Vulcans have been successful in fully purging themselves of all emotion."
"I don't mean that. I meant that it's easier to try and be Vulcan than to be human and feel things. Me? I wouldn't give up feeling for anything. It keeps me sane."
"I fail to understand how enduring all the emotions associated with our mutual fate is logical or even desirable."
"Because if you can't feel the anger and the hatred, you don't get the good stuff either. You don't remember or care what it felt like to have clean clothes, a warm fire, a decent meal, a soft bed. Instead you count calories, you calculate just how hard to work to avoid pissing off the guards, and you are nothing. You're one of them," he said, gesturing over to a large group of nearby Vulcans, all a respectable distance away from each other, barely talking. "Dead inside. All logic and calculations, resigned to being a cog in the machine. I'm better than that, and I don't know about you and your goddamn Vulcan heritage, but I fucking want revenge. As a Vulcan, you'd be able to kill Nero, but that would be logical, as he is a maniac and must be stopped. But as a human, you'd want to tear him apart, make him die a slow, agonizing death."
"It does not matter how he is exterminated; death will occur either way."
"Yeah, but you won't even get that far, because you wouldn't even try for it. You wouldn‘t even have the desire to escape. You'd just sit there like them, trying to hide your shivering from being on this ice block of a planet. That's why you don't wear anything on your head, isn't it, Spock? The Vulcans walk around with their shaved heads exposed to the elements, and you damn well know that that is the fastest way to lose body heat. That's illogical, but oh, god forbid you show weakness and wear headgear like the weak humans who, ironically, are actually warmer in this environment than you are in the first place."
Spock had not even thought about wearing a covering for his head. Still, Spock bristled against these unfounded negative accusations against his people, his culture, the fragments of his former life.
"This conversation is over. I have no further input on the matter," Spock said.
"I'm just getting started,” Jim said, voice low, intimate, confiding. “Really, you're just scared and you want to cower away from doing a damn thing about your situation. You won't even try to live, to feel alive, so you can maybe get out and get revenge. No, you're fine letting Nero roam free, fine letting him live and rule over us-the man who killed your parents. What the fuck would they say to that, Spock?”
“Back away from me Mr. Kirk,” Spock said, his voice a thinly-veiled warning. He felt rather like a caged animal being taunted as Kirk leaned closer, voice rising.
“Maybe Sarek would be proud, but what would your mother think of you? You don't even give a shit about what she thinks of you, because she's human, like me, an emotional being that feels things. You can’t; you never loved her!"
Spock did not know where the punch came from. All he knew was that his fist connected with Jim’s jaw, and then Jim was on the ground, his mouth bleeding profusely. Spock then launched himself onto Kirk, pulling his fist back to punch him again, but Spock stilled when he saw red blood flow down Jim's face and onto the hand Spock was using to grip Jim's shirt. Spock released Jim and fell back, a similar memory of red blood covering his hands assailing him. Spock shivered; Jim could not have known. Jim laughed, and Spock shifted his gaze back to him, perplexed.
"Score one for the human column." Jim dug in his pocket and produced a dirty rag. He tossed it at Spock. "Put some fucking ice in that and give it to me. Fuck, you can smack a bitch."
*
Jim, quite irrationally, forgave him almost immediately after their altercation and even seemed to be in good spirits afterwards. Yet Spock could not forgive himself so easily and had trouble finding the words to express the emotion of contrition, especially when it warred with the emotion of vindication; he was equally glad that he had punched Jim and sorry that he had done so. He avoided Jim for two days, overwhelmed by these new sensations. He had strove his entire life to be void of any emotion, and now he was not only letting just one emotion dictate his actions, but two.
If this was really how humans lived their lives, immersed in the duality of two separate, opposing emotions, both equally felt and equally believed in, then he respected the species more than he ever had.
His only logical conclusion was to ask a human what to do. He knew no other humans to ask, and as this was an entirely emotional situation, he could not hope to garner advice from an Elder. Eventually he arrived at a solution one day as he stood in an assembly line that made ship parts. This was one of the most distasteful jobs to Spock, being a quite redundant and simple one that required him to stand for hours on end with no variation. Vulcans comprised most of the assembly line for this very reason. That day Spock was behaving distinctly non-Vulcan, recalling events from his childhood in the undeviating, dull hours. Each memory, whether happy or sad, was painful to think about, and yet still he went through them like counting out bunches of roses and letting the thorns drag across his fingers until they poured blood. It was for this reason that emotions were to be controlled, and there was wisdom in that. But still Spock remembered, illogically wanting to feel the pain.
One of his earliest memories had been of Vulcan nursery school and being left alone by the other children. One day he had broken one of the many non-spoken rules of Vulcan by grabbing a little girl’s hand to play a game with him. He had been sent home with a stern warning. When his mother found him crying, he told her that he was sorry and he didn’t know how to make it better. His mother, knowing that showing regret was distasteful but also knowing that his human half was hurting, told him that the best way for a Vulcan to apologize is to compromise. When he went back to the nursery, he never grabbed hands with anyone again and he made sure to honestly praise the girl’s ability to swiftly answer her mathematics set.
Spock thought of compromise and what that meant when he was dealing with a human, not a Vulcan. After he was relieved for the night, Spock went by the laundry room and traded his bread ration for a knit cap.
The pleased expression on Jim’s face when they met again made Spock unaccountably nervous, but Jim chose not to remark on it and talked to Spock just like he always did.
*
"How am I to be sure that you will not simply kill all of us?" Spock asked.
"Unlike the Federation, I am not a liar. This is almost poetic, choosing between mother and father, Human and Vulcan. The Vulcans always thought they were so much better than us with their cold logic and unbiased reasoning. The Humans thought that their emotions and pursuit of peace made them stronger than us as well. So which is stronger, Spock? A mother's love or a father's legacy? I'll give you a couple of minutes to let you decide."
Nero adjourned to his chair. Spock looked at both his mother and father and shook his head.
"I am unable to decide between them. Their worth is equal to me."
"Then they'll be equally dead," Nero responded. "Maybe you should ask yourself which one's life is more important in the grand scheme of things, then."
Spock once again looked to his parents. His father, a Vulcan elder who had yet to impart his katra to the katric ark and preserve their culture, an ambassador who could be a voice for what remained of their people, a father who had not spoken to his son since his son left to join Starfleet four years ago. His mother, who was only a librarian, who was looked down on by the rest of Vulcan society, who told him that she would be proud no matter what path he chose, who had helped Spock move into his dormitory at the academy.
But the needs of society were more than just his own personal rationalizations. It was likely that the remaining population would be enslaved, leading to a harsh life. His father would live longer and survive more adequately. Yet Spock needed his mother, could send neither of them to their deaths.
"Tell me which course to take," he asked his parents.
*
In the following months, the weather took a turn for the worse. Many fell ill and died. There were no medical facilities set up to provide adequate treatment for the prisoners. The Vulcans were more fortunate than the humans in that they could go into healing trances and Vulcan healers could handle a good number of illnesses without tools or medicine. The humans, however, were left with those who were medically trained, but who could only diagnose and provide the most primitive of care. In the middle of the winter season, Jim became sick with a cold. He was, of course, unable to rest and forced to work instead, making his weakened condition fester and worsen. The cold swiftly developed into the flu. They stopped taking their meals with the other prisoners. Instead, they received their meals and went back to their barracks. When Jim became too weak to stand in line and procure his meal, Spock gave his own meal to Jim since he, as a Vulcan, could go longer without food. Just knowing that Jim received proper sustenance and bed rest each night helped Spock ignore his own gnawing hunger. Spock also ceased returning to his own barracks altogether and instead stayed with Jim, offering his warmth, sharing Jim’s bed, securely fastened with each other. The other humans mocked them, made insidious jokes of a sexual nature about the two of them, but Spock never listened to them, for it was not in ignorance that they made the jokes, but because of an abundance of malice. Anyone who took one look at Jim’s fevered, pale, shaking form would know why they did this.
When Jim started to have difficulty breathing, Spock listened carefully over the next two days, fearing the inevitable. It happened in the middle of the night, Jim coughing for hours on end, Spock resting his ear against Jim‘s chest to listen to his struggling lungs.
“Well, we had a good run, Spock.”
“Do not speak,” Spock said, running a hand flat over Jim’s side, counting his ribs.
“I’m dead. You and I both know that. I can’t work, and they’ll come in here tomorrow while you’re working, shoot me, and throw me out like yesterday’s garbage.”
“I will not let that happen," Spock said, an emotion he identified as ferocity in his voice. Jim gingerly lifted a pale, shaking hand to touch Spock’s cheek lightly.
“You never give up, do you?” Jim said, his weakened voice filled with pride.
“Only when the benefits of conceding are worth the loss.”
Jim nodded and dropped his hand like he could no longer hold it up himself. When he finally drifted into a troubled sleep, Spock covered him with their coats and headed out in search of a miracle.
It was illogical to petition the humans for help. He had attempted to receive help from them a week into Jim’s illness but was told in no uncertain terms that either Jim would recover from his sickness or die, and that there was nothing that they could do. But there was a part of Spock that could not accept this answer, even if he agreed wholeheartedly with it.
Somehow Jim Kirk had become Spock’s only logic, and therefore anything that impeded with the life of Jim Kirk was illogical in turn.
The human medics took shifts during the night, as they had to work just as hard as anyone else during the day. This late at night, there was usually only one or two available for help. When Spock entered the medics' section of the outer barracks, there was indeed only one person awake. She was a middle-aged woman who was currently smoking a cigarette, a habit that many had picked up, including Jim.
“I wish to request medical assistance for my…friend,” Spock said, hesitating because he had never considered anyone a friend before, but it was obviously true now.
“Wouldn’t it be smarter to ask a Vulcan for help?” she asked, voice low and gravelly.
“As he is human, it is not.”
“Well thank god my shift’s over.” To Spock’s surprise, she got up and walked three feet over to where a man was nestled in a bundle of blankets, and kicked him in the side. “Wake up, McCoy, you take this one.”
“Goddamnit! Is it so hard to just yell at me to wake up?”
"You'd still sleep through it. Got a Vulcan who needs your help."
She walked through the door to presumably return to her own barracks. The man named McCoy let out a quite impressive stream of curses as he got to his feet, lit a lamp that had burned out, and slid into the seat the woman had occupied previously. Spock waited impatiently as the man then took out a flask for a drink. He looked to be several years older than Spock, but almost all prisoners looked older than their accumulated years. His face was unshaven and covered in a battery of scars.
"What the hell do you want?" McCoy finally asked.
"I am seeking medical attention for a human friend," Spock said, wasting no time with preliminaries as he continued. "He has been sick for two weeks, first with a simple cold and then the flu. Now he is having difficulty breathing and is coughing continuously. I believe that he may have pneumonia."
"Why are you here?" McCoy asked abruptly, folding his arms and scrutinizing Spock. Spock narrowed his eyes.
"I have already informed you of my reason..."
"You know as well as I do that there's nothing I can do if it's pneumonia. If you already know this-and I'm sure you're smart enough to figure out the right diagnosis-then you must have another reason."
"I do not understand to what you are referring. Perhaps I have not made my intentions clear. My friend is ill, and I am attempting to seek medical treatment for him. If you are unwilling to treat the patient, then perhaps you can direct me to someone who will try."
"Wait a second." McCoy leaned forward and set his flask on the table before him. "You came here, knowing it was pointless?"
Spock fervently wished there was a different answer, but McCoy was not wrong. From what he had gathered in his time studying human behavior through Jim, Spock knew that logic was not always the most prized way to convince someone of truth. So he instead cast his eyes to the floor and simply said what he felt.
"If I did not try, the cost would be unbearable."
McCoy gaped at Spock, his surly demeanor stripped away. Then almost instantaneously it was back in place, and McCoy got up from his chair and walked toward the back of the building, effectively ending the conversation. Fighting a surge of disappointment and slight humiliation for laying himself open for McCoy to witness, Spock took his leave.
He walked twenty yards from the door before he heard a shouted "Wait!"
It was McCoy, buried in a large coat and carrying a black, old-fashioned medical bag, jogging after Spock. "A Vulcan actually giving a damn about something is definitely worth seeing."
Spock led him back to where Jim was, still buried under a blanket and their coats. When Spock pulled down the makeshift covers, McCoy gasped.
"Your friend is Jim fucking Kirk? Why didn't you just say that in first damn place?"
"It did not seem relevant at the time."
McCoy ignored him and opened his bag, producing an actual medical tricorder. It was obviously a smuggled item. He ran it over the length of Jim's body, muttering, "Temperature 104.2, pulmonary infection...it's pneumonia, all right."
He glanced around before going into his bag and pulling out a bottle. He shook out three pills, giving two to Spock and shaking Jim's shoulder to waken him.
"Hey kid, wake up and take this," McCoy said.
Jim's eyes fluttered open, and then he went through his customary coughing fit. The sound set Spock's teeth on edge, even more so because he wanted to hold Jim through it as he always did. Finally the coughs subsided, and Jim opened his cracked lips far enough for the pill to be inserted and for McCoy to help Jim take a drink from his flask. Jim wakened a little more after that and smiled crookedly at McCoy.
"Hey, Bones. Long time, no see."
McCoy guiltily screwed the lid back onto his flask, not looking at Jim directly. "Been busy."
"Bullshit," Jim said, warm affection somehow in his voice despite its brittle, ragged quality. "I get it, but let's not do it again."
"Jim, how are you and Doctor McCoy acquainted?"
Instead of answering, Jim cut his eyes over to McCoy, whose eyes hardened in response, and Spock recognized it as one of the many haunted looks he had seen in others' eyes from a remembered trauma. McCoy and Jim shared a meaningful look, communicating something.
"You can tell him later," McCoy told Jim. "Go back to sleep, you'll need your strength."
Jim nodded and was so fatigued that he instantly fell back into a fitful slumber.
"Give him another pill when he wakes up," McCoy told Spock, closing his bag and standing up, still looking down at Jim. "He'll be a little better by then. I can pull a favor and have Chekov change the work roster around, give Jim some light work. When he gets back at the end of the day, give him the last pill, and he should be fine after that."
"Thank you," Spock said. McCoy nodded in acknowledgment before narrowing his eyes and running the tricorder over Spock.
"I don't know a hell of a lot about Vulcan anatomy, but it's not hard to tell when someone is starving themselves. I'll give you a nutrient hypo; it should work on Vulcans to some extent. Just start eating again."
Spock nodded. McCoy injected the hypospray into his neck.
"If I may ask a parting question, Doctor."
"You can ask, but I don't have to answer."
"How were you able to procure your medication and equipment?"
"Well, it's not state-of-the-art stuff, and there's not a lot to begin with, so we work on a triage basis. To tell the truth, I shouldn't have even cured Jim. Everyone's telling me I'm a big softie, which I should listen to," McCoy said, almost angry. "But I can't just sit around and let people die when I can help them. There's this guy I knew who worked on ships, and he would skim supplies for us. He was killed last week, so we don't have a lot left. We had a good system going, him getting us supplies, Chekov on the inside changing the duty rosters so that people with things like broken legs could be switched to work that let them sit down. It doesn't save a lot of lives, but it does save some."
"It may have very well saved Jim's life. I am in your debt."
"No, you're not," McCoy said, scowling. "I owed Jim; we're just even, that's all. Tell him I'll see him around."
With that parting statement, McCoy left.
Just as McCoy predicted, Jim swiftly regained his strength. Three days later, when he was completely well, Spock asked Jim how he knew McCoy. Jim lit a cigarette that Spock had only just allowed him to start smoking occasionally again and told him.
"When we were evacuated from Earth, I was in the same transport ship as Bones. He'd taken a hypo of something, tried to kill himself. I resuscitated him, even though he tried to stop me, but the dumb ass was too weak to put up a fight. Later, he told me that three Romulans raped and killed his wife, right in front of him and his daughter, and then they killed his daughter last. Poor fucking bastard had to listen to his baby cry out for him as her throat was cut. It'd make anyone want to die."
"How did you convince him to live?" Spock asked, physically trembling as his own memories of Nero slaughtering his mother and father came to the forefront of his mind. Jim clasped his hand, and Spock felt Jim's emotions, an overpowering wave of rage, pity, and concern.
"I told him that dying now means they've won, and we deserve revenge. You never said it, Spock, but I know what kept you going. You hated Nero, and even if you didn't believe it would ever happen, you wanted revenge. One day, we'll have it. It turned out that Bones was more of a fighter than he thought. Most people are."
*
"Choose me, Spock," his mother said quietly, eyes fixated on his.
"No, save your mother," Sarek said. "You will need her guidance if you are to continue."
"You have not saved your katra, Father," Spock said, his gaze never leaving his mother.
"There is little hope that our culture can be preserved when we have been conquered so thoroughly. My life is no more equal to any other."
"It is more," Mother insisted. "You can survive, you can meld with Spock, keep my memory alive in him. Spock," she said, attempting to crawl to him, but was shoved roughly back by a guard. "Whatever you choose will not be your fault. You love both of us and being forced to choose is tearing you apart."
"Whoever lives," Spock said, gravely, "Will resent me for the rest of their days. I must make the logical choice in light of this."
"Not everything is about logic, my son," Sarek said. Spock looked to him in surprise at those words. Sarek was not making the decision easier by choosing now to say such things to him.
"It can be about logic as well, Spock," Mother said, eyes pleading. "It is who you are as much as anything else."
Spock went silent. "I have made my decision."
*
When Spock had been transported here from Nero's ship, the guards had at first verbally and sometimes physically abused him, singling him out from the masses for special treatment. After the first several weeks of Nero-inspired taunts about the loss of all that he knew, among other less-demeaning insults and physical blows, Spock had hardened and drawn even more into his Vulcan ways, shielding himself from the violent emotions that threatened to consume him. Eventually he disappeared into anonymity along with the thousands of others who were here, the guards and Nero alike convinced that there was nothing more they could do, short of torture (and even that would likely provoke no response from Spock), to mangle his spirit further.
Until the curious gossip of how odd it was to see a Vulcan and a Human cling to each other through cold nights, only parting when duty forced them apart, began to spread and reach the notice of their captors.
Ever since Jim recovered from his terrible illness, Spock had begun spending less time in his own barracks, choosing instead to spend hours with Jim, leaving well after Jim went to sleep because Spock would shamefully sit for an hour or more just watching Jim sleep, observing his vitals, a habit he would perhaps never break. Sometimes, if he was experiencing some great well of feeling, he would put a hand on Jim’s chest so he could watch the rise and fall of it as he breathed, feel Jim’s heartbeat through the touch and that would bring temporary peace to Spock.
Spock knew an attack would come eventually from this weakness, and thus tried several times to turn away from Jim Kirk, to slow what was growing inexorably between them, yet even his Vulcan half remembered the weeks in the camp before meeting Jim. He had been a ghost, a pale gossamer waif, aimlessly existing in a barren graveyard among tombs and their ghosts-ghosts that had once been full of life and purpose. Meeting Jim was akin to finding a bright soul in that graveyard, alive and illuminating the ground it stood on, holding a flaming candle in the gloom, a hand reaching out for him, ready to bestow life in him as well.
He could no more turn away from Jim Kirk than he could stop his heart from beating. Both were vital, and both would lead to his demise.
The guard was the same one who had given Kirk his disfiguring scar. Spock and Jim's habits were by now well known to everyone. After they ate their meal together, they had to walk through several long, dark alleys before they could return to their bed. As they were walking together that particular night, that same guard struck, pulling Jim deep into an alley and placing a phaser to his temple so that Spock would stay back. Spock stood a few feet from them, muscles bunched tight, all of his nerves alight and burning in anger. Jim, always bold, began to taunt the man.
"You know, if you're trying to rob us, you're doing a piss poor job as we don't really have anything you'd want. I mean, maybe Spock has some leftover bread, but other than that, you're pretty fucked."
"Interesting choice of words, human." Spock tensed as the man began to stroke Jim's face with the phaser. Jim, disgusted, sneered and struggled some more. "There is, actually, something you have that I want."
The guard used the phaser to nudge Jim's chin up. He addressed Spock. "This human was quite brave, saving all those elevator passengers. It also seems that he means something to you, Spock."
"He means nothing to me," Spock immediately responded, hoping that the blatant lie would not be discovered.
"Then you won't mind at all if I have a little fun with him," the Romulan said easily, his spare hand moving across Jim's side and over his hip, possessive. Spock willed himself not to move, to not betray how hot his blood was coursing through his veins, ready to give him the strength needed to kill this man. But doing so would only guarantee Jim's death, so instead he stayed silent and tried to remain impassive as the guard’s hand moved around to the front of Jim, undoing the strip of cloth that served as a belt. Jim, his brave Jim, did not even flinch as his pants fell. The guard moved the phaser to the back of Jim's neck and he moved them over to a large crate, bending Jim over it. Instead of closing his eyes, Jim looked straight at Spock, no emotion on his face at all. Spock found this highly ironic, as he could feel his lips form into a snarl. He even took a step closer when he saw the Romulan pig undo his own belt. The phaser was pressed tighter to Jim's head and Spock forced himself to stop.
"You will stay over there and watch, Spock. Otherwise I'll kill him and then shoot you in the gut so you can live long enough to watch me fuck his corpse." Spock stopped, knowing it was useless. He couldn't even use his mild telepathic abilities to try to implant the desire to leave Jim alone in the guard‘s head, as Romulans were immune to them. Jim seemed to be glaring at Spock as if he knew his thoughts, and it was absurd that he could be more upset with Spock's behavior than the guard’s current ministrations.
The only positive thing about what happened next was that it was quick. The Romulan spit into his hand, most likely only doing so for his own comfort. Spock had to watch him enter Jim, had to watch Jim grimace and grunt as he was taken roughly, face flushed red from the pressure. Spock didn't even spare the Romulan a single glance. Instead his eyes were locked on Jim's, and he wished intensely that they both knew some form of code using blinks. As it was, all he knew was that Kirk was both angry and concerned, but not for himself, never for himself. Instead he seemed to be reassuring Spock with his stare. Spock didn't know what his own stare was communicating, but it made Jim's lip twitch up in wry amusement. Spock heard a barely audible gasp behind him, but did not turn as he could see two humans in his peripheral vision backing away from the mouth of the alley and finding another place to be. When the guard finished, he put the phaser on the back of Jim’s head and fired. Spock shouted and ran toward the man, heedless of the phaser now pointed at himself, not caring about anything at all. He shot Spock as well.
Spock woke some minutes later, disoriented. He was still in that accursed alleyway, and the first thought that went through his mind was Jim. He crawled over to where Jim lay, and was immediately relieved when he saw his chest moving up and down, unconscious but alive. He surmised that they had both been stunned. It would be perhaps another half hour until Jim woke, so Spock pulled up Jim's pants, righting his disarrayed clothing, trying not to vomit from the nausea he felt from the memory. Instead, he gathered Jim in his arms and walked back to their bed through the frigid and uncaring night.
*
Spock did not seek revenge until a full week had passed. After he had woken the morning after the attack, Jim had not mentioned the incident at all. In fact, he stubbornly refused to discuss what had transpired that night at all. Spock did not push him, because it was an intensely personal thing, and he knew that he too would have kept silent on the matter. Spock had tried to sleep in his own bunk the next night, sure that Jim would appreciate the space, but Jim had crawled in with him, and Spock did not protest, even if he should have. In the week after, the Romulan guard did not speak a word to them, but would sometimes throw smug looks in their direction. Jim took no notice of the looks, but Spock made sure that the Romulan knew that Spock saw each and every one. He studied the man's habits, and would have acted sooner, but Spock needed a name. Not for any logical reason, but for a more personal reason; if he were to end this man's life, he wanted to know what life he was taking. When he heard another guard refer to him as Nnerhin, it was time.
He waited behind a trash receptacle in an alley, utterly calm and collected as he held a sharp piece of rock that was no more than six inches long. When Nnerhin appeared, Spock launched himself at him, using the rock to tear into his windpipe, just deeply enough to maim but not kill. Yet. Nnerhin fell to his knees, grasping his neck, trying to stem the flow of green blood that poured over his hands. Spock got down on one knee before him, taking the phaser from Nnerhin's holster with a cloth, tossing it several feet away. He stared into the man's fearful eyes, disgusted that they shared a common ancestry.
"You don't deserve the death I am going to give you," Spock said. He brought the rock down hard, ruthlessly carving a twin scar on Nnerhin's face to match the one he had given Jim long ago. Nnerhin face contorted in pain, silently screaming as Spock did not bother sparing Nnerhin's eye. He sliced a couple of more cuts on the other side of Nnerhin's face, making sure that no one would see just the one cut and link it to Jim. Finally, he plunged the rock into his victim's neck, directly into an artery. Nnerhin fell to his back, blood darkening the alley floor, dead within a few seconds.
Spock surveyed his work, and though the feeling of disgust and horror remained, his anger was abated.
*
“You killed him,” Jim said as soon as Spock returned to their quarters late that night.
Jim was sitting against an iron bed post, the only lights in the large room emanating from a lantern 4.2 meters behind him and the end of Jim’s burning cigarette in the dark. He could see Jim take a drag, his cheeks hollowed. Spock said nothing in response, as it was not a question.
“You mind telling me why?” Jim stubbed his cigarette out on a post and stood up, his movements short and angry, but not disruptive or obvious to the other occupants of the barracks.
“He violated you, beyond what his position allows. A being with that much malice and cruelty cannot be allowed to live.”
“I don’t give a fuck; it’s just sex, Spock. What would happen to you if they connect his death to you?”
“I would die a slow and painful death. It was a price I was willing to pay.”
“And you think that’s what I want? I’d rather that guy try to make me his bitch until eternity than have that happen to you. I’d have let him do over and above that.”
“Why?”
Jim looked at Spock like he was a complete idiot before shaking his head, almost amused. “Because it’s illogical, that I should place my life and well-being below yours.”
“That is illogical,” Spock said, not looking directly at Jim, breathing harshly through his nose. “But I would be remiss if I did not inform you that I too have behaved illogically, for it is not logical that I should have known you were necessary to my continued existence from the moment we met. No one is allowed to harm you. I will make sure of that.”
Jim stepped closer, looking at Spock fiercely, forcing their eyes to meet. "I can protect myself."
"Naturally. But there are times when one of us will simply be unable to do so. If the situation were reversed, what would you have done?"
Jim didn't answer. Instead, he pulled Spock flush against him, and kissed him. Spock immediately opened his mouth to Jim, let him take whatever it was he wanted, and Spock took whatever was offered in turn. It was the best kiss he had ever had. It was also the only kiss he had ever had. Jim tasted like stale cigarettes and something grimier, months with only basic hygiene at their disposal. But this was Jim, and that one word echoed in his mind as his mouth opened time and time again, a shock of unbearable heat crawling through his spine, spreading through his nerve endings to other parts of his body, burning him throughout. Jim stopped the kiss long enough to pull Spock to the bottom bunk, and there was no hope of pulling away.
Now they were locked together, hips aligning, and when he felt Jim's erection brush against his own, he choked out a strangled breath. He tried to look at Jim's face, but it was mostly dark; even with his heightened vision, he could only barely make out the expression on Jim's face. It was the look of a starving man invited to feast. Spock slowed, reaching up to touch Jim's face. Jim grabbed his hand, running his fingers lightly over Spock's.
"I want you to fuck me," Jim said gruffly, as if there was nothing at all tender happening, his words and voice at contrasts to what his face and body were communicating. That human ability to have two conflicting emotions exist simultaneously.
"Jim," he protested, trying to move his hand away, to back away. Jim gripped his hand, taking it and running it over his chest, finally stopping to lay it on the front of Jim's pants. "Jim, after what happened-"
"Spock. I know what the fuck happened, I was there." Jim used the hand that was not occupied with grinding Spock's hand into his crotch to twist the lapel of Spock's shirt and yank him forward until their lips barely touched. "Make me forget him."
Doubt still raged in Spock’s mind. He should stop this now because he knew enough about human psychology to recognize that this was a woefully inadequate way to handle a post-rape victim. Yet still he brushed his lips against Jim’s, breathing out; worshipful, giving in. Jim let Spock linger, but writhed beneath him maddeningly, all that energy and emotion and life failing to contain itself in this one fragile human body.
“Can’t get much worse, can it?” Jim asked, rhetorically. These simple words seared through Spock’s mind, answering a thousand other questions he had asked himself for weeks, letting him arrive at a natural conclusion. It was pointless to hold back, to try to adhere to either his Vulcan or human half exclusively, because what did it all matter when death was always over his shoulder, when there was no one left to expect anything from him anymore? All that mattered was Jim, who inexplicably wanted Spock, who maybe even loved Spock, despite knowing all of his flaws, despite his inability to choose one side or the other. Jim wanted both halves, wanted all of him. Spock could choose to be whatever he himself wanted, and he wanted Jim.
Spock used a surge of strength to grab Jim and roll them until Jim was on top. Spock then held onto Jim's hips and ground their pelvises together.
“God damn,” Jim cursed, panting loudly.
They barely got enough clothing pushed aside to make their rutting easier. Spock's head felt heavy and fevered as he reached down, took both of them in one hand. Jim surged upwards at the contact, mouth latching onto Spock's neck, muffling his sobs as Spock sped up, barely managing to control the small moans that escaped his own mouth. Spock's entire body burned with arousal. The hand Jim was using to hang onto Spock's hip moved higher, sliding under Spock's shirt, resting over Spock's heart. Spock moaned loudly and came moments later, his grip loosening as he shuddered, Jim's mouth next to his ear, whispering, "Yeah baby, so fucking sweet."
Before Spock could focus his attention on Jim again, Jim rolled them over until he was on top, straddling Spock. Spock watched as Jim's mouth fell open and his eyelashes lowered. Jim then ran his hand down his chest, lingering at his stomach where Spock's ejaculate was, covering his hand with it, and finally he took his erection one hand and stroked himself, body rocking on Spock's lap. When Spock moved a hand to help, Jim batted it away.
"Just watch."
Spock obeyed, but he didn't understand Jim's desire to 'just watch' until Jim locked eyes with Spock. Even in the dim lighting of their small bunk, Spock could still see the intensity of that gaze, like watching a flame, the blue burning the hottest.
"I'm going to make you hard again, and then you're going to fuck me," Jim said, steadily grinding himself against Spock.
Spock was already feeling his arousal returning, and knew it would only be a few minutes more until he was ready again, if even that. Jim stopped pleasuring himself and instead put his hands on Spock's chest.
"You're going to fuck me because I'm not broken, and you're not broken, but they don't know that. It starts here, with us."
Spock did not ask what exactly started that night, for he was fully aroused again and they didn't speak coherently until they woke the next day, and by then Spock had figured it out.
Revenge.
*
"And your decision is?" Nero asked.
Spock kept his eyes on his mother's face, not daring to look away.
"I want you to spare my father."
"Very well," Nero said. The guard next to Mother slid a knife from the top of his boot and with a nod to Nero, picked her up and plunged the knife into her abdomen. Spock cried out as if the knife had gone into him instead. The guard stabbed her again; it might have been an act of mercy, as she would have died slowly otherwise. She looked at Spock one last time, and smiled. He didn't look over at his father, knowing the shame and devastation that would be there.
"Mother," Spock whispered, as if he could call her back, undo what he had done. He felt a strange sensation around his eyes, and realized that this was crying.
"Kill him too," he heard Nero say.
"No!" Spock shouted, but was too late as the guard by his father lifted him by his chin and cut his throat. Green blood poured down his front, and he died swiftly, efficiently, stoically. Spock sobbed, lowering his head. There was nothing more to lose, no hope left. All that he loved was dead, billions of lives, but more importantly, these two that were precious to him, who he was in part responsible for murdering. Nero left his chair and surveyed his parents' lifeless forms. A hatred Spock had never known burned within him. If he could, he would have torn Nero apart with his bare hands. Pulled apart his skin, relished his screams of pain, slowly cut and peeled him until he was unrecognizable.
"You said you would spare one," Spock growled, low, primal.
"No, I said I would let you choose one. I never said I'd let them live. Now you know what it feels like to lose everything."
"I surmise that you wish to kill me now," Spock said.
"I want nothing more than to have you live, Spock, so that you can spend the rest of your life knowing that you were responsible for all this. Because you lied, relying on the precious logic that destroyed my people, the same logic that you chose over your own mother. Tomorrow you will join the other prisoners."
Nero left. One of the guards released Spock's shackles. Spock surged forward to gather his mother in his arms. He reached down to touch her stomach, and his hand came away bloody. The smell of iron and copper permeated the air, and there was nothing or no one left in the universe for him.
End
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, violence
Word count: 9000
Summary: AU. Nero escaped from Rura Penthe early and managed to destroy both Vulcan and Earth. Most of the remaining Vulcans and Humans are taken to a Romulan penal colony. In this harsh new world, Spock meets and falls in love with Jim Kirk.
Notes: This is a sort of prequel to my big bang fic, Refractions. However, it's written as a stand-alone, so you don’t have to have read Refractions to understand this one. Big thanks to cicero_drayon for the beta, and thanks to pasty_pants, who fangirled and wanted it written more than I did.
Soundtrack: I don't know about you, but I usually have songs in mind when I write fics, except this one had enough songs that I decided to include them as a soundtrack of sorts. There's no cover art or anything, but I zipped them up so if some of you are inclined, you can listen while you read or just snag it for some new tunes. Download here.
Inside you're pretending
Crimes have been swept aside
Somewhere, where they can forget
-"Mysterons" by Portishead
*
"I've got your Mommy and Daddy, Spock," Nero hissed into Spock's ear. Two of his Romulan shipmates brought out his parents and threw them onto their knees. Spock struggled minutely against his shackles, but to no avail as the cuffs were designed for the equal strength of Romulans.
Both were scared, and the fact that Spock could read the fear on his father's face said much to their predicament and the constant string of devastating events that had led them here.
"See, I'm just an average working guy, Spock, " Nero said, walking away from Spock and back to his command chair. "I believe in justice. Destroying both of your home worlds has given me that justice. My people have the opportunity to engage in a fair war, without the Federation conquering everyone else and strong arming them into taking over all civilizations. I stand apart from the Romulan Empire, but they're not above giving me gratitude for destroying at least two bothersome enemies. I'm in such a charitable mood that I'm willing to spare your life. As for your parents, you have to tell me which one you want me to spare."
*
There were thirty-two Vulcans and Humans trapped in the malfunctioning elevator shaft. The humans screamed in fear or vain threat while the Vulcans stoically watched as volleys of sparks issued from the lift, knowing just as well as Spock that the elevator would give in no more than two minutes. The Romulan guards were engaged in taking bets on when the lift was going to plummet down over one hundred stories. Spock and a few stray workers for mining duty were witnessing this nihilistic display, but could do nothing as the elevator door was locked, and even if it were not, they dared not try to free the victims. If they did try to save the prisoners in the elevator, they would be killed, and the freed prisoners would most likely be summarily executed before they could exult in their safety.
The other workers around Spock kept digging, turned away from the scene, illogically convincing themselves that if they pretended it was not happening, then they could have peace of mind. Spock continued to dig, his breath crystallizing in the dank ice cave, eyes locked on the elevator. Thirty-two lives. Once such a small amount, but now a significant portion of two species.
As Spock was paying little attention to the others in the work party, he missed when exactly one of the diggers broke from the group, but was watching when the worker rushed the elevator, pick axe held aloft, and drove it onto the latch, springing it open. Immediately a guard intercepted him, interestingly not choosing to simply kill him, but to incapacitate him with a kick to the stomach. The other guards did not go after or start executing the freed prisoners. One of them half-heartedly killed an elderly human and another guard used a laser to puncture a hole in a Vulcan woman’s kneecap, but they barely paid attention to the events that were unfolding, resuming the card game they had been playing, which seemed to be more critical to them than their previous bet.
The digger who had freed the other prisoners was trying to get to his knees, holding his stomach in pain. Spock wondered why he didn’t just lay down, as it was obvious that the guard would have no qualms with kicking him in the stomach until he died from internal hemorrhages. The guard punched his face three times and drew a knife out of his boot while the prisoner was disoriented from the pummeling. The guard, intent on maiming the prisoner, slashed the knife at an angle that would dig into the man’s face and slice deep into his eye socket, but the prisoner jerked back just enough so that there was only a long cut from his forehead to cheek, blood pouring profusely from the wound. The prisoner then kicked the legs out from underneath the guard and began to run as well as he could with his sustained injuries, stumbling on loose rocks. The guard scrambled to his feet in a rage. Spock scanned a nearby rock crevice that he had been carefully digging around and drove his shovel into it. Just as he had ascertained, the foundation of the wall shook and the rock above their heads began to avalanche. He regretted that two workers were in the path of a couple of heavy rocks, but they should come out of it with only minor abrasions. All the guards heard the noise and it successfully distracted the one guard Spock was concerned with, who thought better of chasing after the prisoner and instead went with the other guards to clear out the tunnel.
It took Spock three days to locate the man who saved the lives of those Vulcans and humans. He finally encountered him during the daily meal, at one of the locations Spock did not take his own meal in. The man was seated by himself, legs sprawled out in front of him, leaning back against a building. His face was bruised a deep purple, the cut on his face healing. It would scar. The man seemed to recognize him and he silently scooted over when Spock walked up to him. Spock sat next to him on the cold ground.
“What you did was illogical,” Spock said.
He spooned soup into his mouth. The humans reported that the soup had a nondescript flavor, but to Spock it tasted vaguely like sewage water. It seemed Vulcans were spared little in this new environment. The Vulcans' superior strength and ability to heal their bodies by going into a trance were the only assets they possessed. The cold, however, was so crippling that it weakened their strength and impaired their ability to heal properly.
The man smirked.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Vulcan.”
“I am rarely wrong,” Spock informed him, slightly irritated. He marveled at the feeling. At feeling anything.
“Standing by and doing nothing is illogical. Either you sit around with your head down and hope you aren’t one of the unlucky bastards who the guards just want to kill for no reason, or you fight.”
“There is little logic in doing so. We are statistically outnumbered, not only on this planet but in the galaxy. Fighting merely guarantees a more expedient death.”
The man moved a couple of inches closer, voice low, almost seductive.
“Then why not fight? If we’re all doomed, why not try anything to survive? Are you one of those who’s given up too?”
“While I contend that it is illogical to fight, I am nevertheless compelled by nature to struggle for survival.”
“I saw you cause that cave in. It looked like you were doing a little more than just being ‘compelled to struggle for survival.'”
“It was a calculated maneuver with minor risk to myself.”
“Call it whatever you want; I don’t care as long as you keep doing it. Name’s Jim Kirk,” he said, reaching out as if to shake Spock’s hand. Spock could see him realize his mistake and begin to retract his hand awkwardly, but Spock made a decision and took Kirk’s hand, the point of contact an almost unbearable heat.
“I am Spock.”
*
They spent more time together after that first meeting. Spock rationalized that even Vulcans had an instinctual need for social contact, but he realized that this was a flawed rationalization, as it was borne of emotion.
At first they merely spent their daily meal together. They would huddle together against the perpetual harsh wind that seemed to pound ice into any exposed skin and talk about their day or unimportant information. Eventually their discussions turned more serious. The day Spock told Jim about Nero brutally killing his parents in front of him, Jim had walked with him back to his barracks, where they talked well into the night about what they had lost. They began to walk together whenever they were off duty, which was not often, and Spock found himself craving more of this man who was so different than the others, who was passionate, human, alive.
"I think they feed us just enough for us to die slowly," Jim remarked one day, his face scrunched in annoyance as he bit into his ration of bread.
"We consume roughly 1500 calories a day, give or take the fluctuating contents of the soup. It would be sufficient if it were not for the hard labor that burns the necessary caloric intake away. There is merit to your statement."
"Why don't you just say, 'Jim, we're fucked?’"
"I see no point in stating the obvious.”
“And yet in a roundabout way, you did.”
“Has it occurred to you that there is a certain...inefficiency in constantly questioning me about things you've already made up your mind about?"
Jim smiled at him disarmingly. "It gives me emotional security."
"Emotions are not in my nature."
"Bullshit."
Spock turned his head slowly to stare at Jim. "I am Vulcan."
"And you're human."
"I chose to follow a Vulcan way of life."
"Well yeah, you lived on Vulcan most of your life, makes sense. But it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re still half human.”
"That is not the only factor in my overall decision,” Spock said, knowing that he was beginning to sound defensive even to himself. "The Vulcan way is satisfying, and I respect their value of pure logic and the equilibrium it brings to chaos."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do. Because it sure is easy, isn't it?" Jim said, dropping his spoon irritably into his empty bowl and setting it on the ground in front of him. Spock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, trying to follow the thread of conversation.
"On the contrary, it is very difficult to achieve the desired state of being. Only a few Vulcans have been successful in fully purging themselves of all emotion."
"I don't mean that. I meant that it's easier to try and be Vulcan than to be human and feel things. Me? I wouldn't give up feeling for anything. It keeps me sane."
"I fail to understand how enduring all the emotions associated with our mutual fate is logical or even desirable."
"Because if you can't feel the anger and the hatred, you don't get the good stuff either. You don't remember or care what it felt like to have clean clothes, a warm fire, a decent meal, a soft bed. Instead you count calories, you calculate just how hard to work to avoid pissing off the guards, and you are nothing. You're one of them," he said, gesturing over to a large group of nearby Vulcans, all a respectable distance away from each other, barely talking. "Dead inside. All logic and calculations, resigned to being a cog in the machine. I'm better than that, and I don't know about you and your goddamn Vulcan heritage, but I fucking want revenge. As a Vulcan, you'd be able to kill Nero, but that would be logical, as he is a maniac and must be stopped. But as a human, you'd want to tear him apart, make him die a slow, agonizing death."
"It does not matter how he is exterminated; death will occur either way."
"Yeah, but you won't even get that far, because you wouldn't even try for it. You wouldn‘t even have the desire to escape. You'd just sit there like them, trying to hide your shivering from being on this ice block of a planet. That's why you don't wear anything on your head, isn't it, Spock? The Vulcans walk around with their shaved heads exposed to the elements, and you damn well know that that is the fastest way to lose body heat. That's illogical, but oh, god forbid you show weakness and wear headgear like the weak humans who, ironically, are actually warmer in this environment than you are in the first place."
Spock had not even thought about wearing a covering for his head. Still, Spock bristled against these unfounded negative accusations against his people, his culture, the fragments of his former life.
"This conversation is over. I have no further input on the matter," Spock said.
"I'm just getting started,” Jim said, voice low, intimate, confiding. “Really, you're just scared and you want to cower away from doing a damn thing about your situation. You won't even try to live, to feel alive, so you can maybe get out and get revenge. No, you're fine letting Nero roam free, fine letting him live and rule over us-the man who killed your parents. What the fuck would they say to that, Spock?”
“Back away from me Mr. Kirk,” Spock said, his voice a thinly-veiled warning. He felt rather like a caged animal being taunted as Kirk leaned closer, voice rising.
“Maybe Sarek would be proud, but what would your mother think of you? You don't even give a shit about what she thinks of you, because she's human, like me, an emotional being that feels things. You can’t; you never loved her!"
Spock did not know where the punch came from. All he knew was that his fist connected with Jim’s jaw, and then Jim was on the ground, his mouth bleeding profusely. Spock then launched himself onto Kirk, pulling his fist back to punch him again, but Spock stilled when he saw red blood flow down Jim's face and onto the hand Spock was using to grip Jim's shirt. Spock released Jim and fell back, a similar memory of red blood covering his hands assailing him. Spock shivered; Jim could not have known. Jim laughed, and Spock shifted his gaze back to him, perplexed.
"Score one for the human column." Jim dug in his pocket and produced a dirty rag. He tossed it at Spock. "Put some fucking ice in that and give it to me. Fuck, you can smack a bitch."
*
Jim, quite irrationally, forgave him almost immediately after their altercation and even seemed to be in good spirits afterwards. Yet Spock could not forgive himself so easily and had trouble finding the words to express the emotion of contrition, especially when it warred with the emotion of vindication; he was equally glad that he had punched Jim and sorry that he had done so. He avoided Jim for two days, overwhelmed by these new sensations. He had strove his entire life to be void of any emotion, and now he was not only letting just one emotion dictate his actions, but two.
If this was really how humans lived their lives, immersed in the duality of two separate, opposing emotions, both equally felt and equally believed in, then he respected the species more than he ever had.
His only logical conclusion was to ask a human what to do. He knew no other humans to ask, and as this was an entirely emotional situation, he could not hope to garner advice from an Elder. Eventually he arrived at a solution one day as he stood in an assembly line that made ship parts. This was one of the most distasteful jobs to Spock, being a quite redundant and simple one that required him to stand for hours on end with no variation. Vulcans comprised most of the assembly line for this very reason. That day Spock was behaving distinctly non-Vulcan, recalling events from his childhood in the undeviating, dull hours. Each memory, whether happy or sad, was painful to think about, and yet still he went through them like counting out bunches of roses and letting the thorns drag across his fingers until they poured blood. It was for this reason that emotions were to be controlled, and there was wisdom in that. But still Spock remembered, illogically wanting to feel the pain.
One of his earliest memories had been of Vulcan nursery school and being left alone by the other children. One day he had broken one of the many non-spoken rules of Vulcan by grabbing a little girl’s hand to play a game with him. He had been sent home with a stern warning. When his mother found him crying, he told her that he was sorry and he didn’t know how to make it better. His mother, knowing that showing regret was distasteful but also knowing that his human half was hurting, told him that the best way for a Vulcan to apologize is to compromise. When he went back to the nursery, he never grabbed hands with anyone again and he made sure to honestly praise the girl’s ability to swiftly answer her mathematics set.
Spock thought of compromise and what that meant when he was dealing with a human, not a Vulcan. After he was relieved for the night, Spock went by the laundry room and traded his bread ration for a knit cap.
The pleased expression on Jim’s face when they met again made Spock unaccountably nervous, but Jim chose not to remark on it and talked to Spock just like he always did.
*
"How am I to be sure that you will not simply kill all of us?" Spock asked.
"Unlike the Federation, I am not a liar. This is almost poetic, choosing between mother and father, Human and Vulcan. The Vulcans always thought they were so much better than us with their cold logic and unbiased reasoning. The Humans thought that their emotions and pursuit of peace made them stronger than us as well. So which is stronger, Spock? A mother's love or a father's legacy? I'll give you a couple of minutes to let you decide."
Nero adjourned to his chair. Spock looked at both his mother and father and shook his head.
"I am unable to decide between them. Their worth is equal to me."
"Then they'll be equally dead," Nero responded. "Maybe you should ask yourself which one's life is more important in the grand scheme of things, then."
Spock once again looked to his parents. His father, a Vulcan elder who had yet to impart his katra to the katric ark and preserve their culture, an ambassador who could be a voice for what remained of their people, a father who had not spoken to his son since his son left to join Starfleet four years ago. His mother, who was only a librarian, who was looked down on by the rest of Vulcan society, who told him that she would be proud no matter what path he chose, who had helped Spock move into his dormitory at the academy.
But the needs of society were more than just his own personal rationalizations. It was likely that the remaining population would be enslaved, leading to a harsh life. His father would live longer and survive more adequately. Yet Spock needed his mother, could send neither of them to their deaths.
"Tell me which course to take," he asked his parents.
*
In the following months, the weather took a turn for the worse. Many fell ill and died. There were no medical facilities set up to provide adequate treatment for the prisoners. The Vulcans were more fortunate than the humans in that they could go into healing trances and Vulcan healers could handle a good number of illnesses without tools or medicine. The humans, however, were left with those who were medically trained, but who could only diagnose and provide the most primitive of care. In the middle of the winter season, Jim became sick with a cold. He was, of course, unable to rest and forced to work instead, making his weakened condition fester and worsen. The cold swiftly developed into the flu. They stopped taking their meals with the other prisoners. Instead, they received their meals and went back to their barracks. When Jim became too weak to stand in line and procure his meal, Spock gave his own meal to Jim since he, as a Vulcan, could go longer without food. Just knowing that Jim received proper sustenance and bed rest each night helped Spock ignore his own gnawing hunger. Spock also ceased returning to his own barracks altogether and instead stayed with Jim, offering his warmth, sharing Jim’s bed, securely fastened with each other. The other humans mocked them, made insidious jokes of a sexual nature about the two of them, but Spock never listened to them, for it was not in ignorance that they made the jokes, but because of an abundance of malice. Anyone who took one look at Jim’s fevered, pale, shaking form would know why they did this.
When Jim started to have difficulty breathing, Spock listened carefully over the next two days, fearing the inevitable. It happened in the middle of the night, Jim coughing for hours on end, Spock resting his ear against Jim‘s chest to listen to his struggling lungs.
“Well, we had a good run, Spock.”
“Do not speak,” Spock said, running a hand flat over Jim’s side, counting his ribs.
“I’m dead. You and I both know that. I can’t work, and they’ll come in here tomorrow while you’re working, shoot me, and throw me out like yesterday’s garbage.”
“I will not let that happen," Spock said, an emotion he identified as ferocity in his voice. Jim gingerly lifted a pale, shaking hand to touch Spock’s cheek lightly.
“You never give up, do you?” Jim said, his weakened voice filled with pride.
“Only when the benefits of conceding are worth the loss.”
Jim nodded and dropped his hand like he could no longer hold it up himself. When he finally drifted into a troubled sleep, Spock covered him with their coats and headed out in search of a miracle.
It was illogical to petition the humans for help. He had attempted to receive help from them a week into Jim’s illness but was told in no uncertain terms that either Jim would recover from his sickness or die, and that there was nothing that they could do. But there was a part of Spock that could not accept this answer, even if he agreed wholeheartedly with it.
Somehow Jim Kirk had become Spock’s only logic, and therefore anything that impeded with the life of Jim Kirk was illogical in turn.
The human medics took shifts during the night, as they had to work just as hard as anyone else during the day. This late at night, there was usually only one or two available for help. When Spock entered the medics' section of the outer barracks, there was indeed only one person awake. She was a middle-aged woman who was currently smoking a cigarette, a habit that many had picked up, including Jim.
“I wish to request medical assistance for my…friend,” Spock said, hesitating because he had never considered anyone a friend before, but it was obviously true now.
“Wouldn’t it be smarter to ask a Vulcan for help?” she asked, voice low and gravelly.
“As he is human, it is not.”
“Well thank god my shift’s over.” To Spock’s surprise, she got up and walked three feet over to where a man was nestled in a bundle of blankets, and kicked him in the side. “Wake up, McCoy, you take this one.”
“Goddamnit! Is it so hard to just yell at me to wake up?”
"You'd still sleep through it. Got a Vulcan who needs your help."
She walked through the door to presumably return to her own barracks. The man named McCoy let out a quite impressive stream of curses as he got to his feet, lit a lamp that had burned out, and slid into the seat the woman had occupied previously. Spock waited impatiently as the man then took out a flask for a drink. He looked to be several years older than Spock, but almost all prisoners looked older than their accumulated years. His face was unshaven and covered in a battery of scars.
"What the hell do you want?" McCoy finally asked.
"I am seeking medical attention for a human friend," Spock said, wasting no time with preliminaries as he continued. "He has been sick for two weeks, first with a simple cold and then the flu. Now he is having difficulty breathing and is coughing continuously. I believe that he may have pneumonia."
"Why are you here?" McCoy asked abruptly, folding his arms and scrutinizing Spock. Spock narrowed his eyes.
"I have already informed you of my reason..."
"You know as well as I do that there's nothing I can do if it's pneumonia. If you already know this-and I'm sure you're smart enough to figure out the right diagnosis-then you must have another reason."
"I do not understand to what you are referring. Perhaps I have not made my intentions clear. My friend is ill, and I am attempting to seek medical treatment for him. If you are unwilling to treat the patient, then perhaps you can direct me to someone who will try."
"Wait a second." McCoy leaned forward and set his flask on the table before him. "You came here, knowing it was pointless?"
Spock fervently wished there was a different answer, but McCoy was not wrong. From what he had gathered in his time studying human behavior through Jim, Spock knew that logic was not always the most prized way to convince someone of truth. So he instead cast his eyes to the floor and simply said what he felt.
"If I did not try, the cost would be unbearable."
McCoy gaped at Spock, his surly demeanor stripped away. Then almost instantaneously it was back in place, and McCoy got up from his chair and walked toward the back of the building, effectively ending the conversation. Fighting a surge of disappointment and slight humiliation for laying himself open for McCoy to witness, Spock took his leave.
He walked twenty yards from the door before he heard a shouted "Wait!"
It was McCoy, buried in a large coat and carrying a black, old-fashioned medical bag, jogging after Spock. "A Vulcan actually giving a damn about something is definitely worth seeing."
Spock led him back to where Jim was, still buried under a blanket and their coats. When Spock pulled down the makeshift covers, McCoy gasped.
"Your friend is Jim fucking Kirk? Why didn't you just say that in first damn place?"
"It did not seem relevant at the time."
McCoy ignored him and opened his bag, producing an actual medical tricorder. It was obviously a smuggled item. He ran it over the length of Jim's body, muttering, "Temperature 104.2, pulmonary infection...it's pneumonia, all right."
He glanced around before going into his bag and pulling out a bottle. He shook out three pills, giving two to Spock and shaking Jim's shoulder to waken him.
"Hey kid, wake up and take this," McCoy said.
Jim's eyes fluttered open, and then he went through his customary coughing fit. The sound set Spock's teeth on edge, even more so because he wanted to hold Jim through it as he always did. Finally the coughs subsided, and Jim opened his cracked lips far enough for the pill to be inserted and for McCoy to help Jim take a drink from his flask. Jim wakened a little more after that and smiled crookedly at McCoy.
"Hey, Bones. Long time, no see."
McCoy guiltily screwed the lid back onto his flask, not looking at Jim directly. "Been busy."
"Bullshit," Jim said, warm affection somehow in his voice despite its brittle, ragged quality. "I get it, but let's not do it again."
"Jim, how are you and Doctor McCoy acquainted?"
Instead of answering, Jim cut his eyes over to McCoy, whose eyes hardened in response, and Spock recognized it as one of the many haunted looks he had seen in others' eyes from a remembered trauma. McCoy and Jim shared a meaningful look, communicating something.
"You can tell him later," McCoy told Jim. "Go back to sleep, you'll need your strength."
Jim nodded and was so fatigued that he instantly fell back into a fitful slumber.
"Give him another pill when he wakes up," McCoy told Spock, closing his bag and standing up, still looking down at Jim. "He'll be a little better by then. I can pull a favor and have Chekov change the work roster around, give Jim some light work. When he gets back at the end of the day, give him the last pill, and he should be fine after that."
"Thank you," Spock said. McCoy nodded in acknowledgment before narrowing his eyes and running the tricorder over Spock.
"I don't know a hell of a lot about Vulcan anatomy, but it's not hard to tell when someone is starving themselves. I'll give you a nutrient hypo; it should work on Vulcans to some extent. Just start eating again."
Spock nodded. McCoy injected the hypospray into his neck.
"If I may ask a parting question, Doctor."
"You can ask, but I don't have to answer."
"How were you able to procure your medication and equipment?"
"Well, it's not state-of-the-art stuff, and there's not a lot to begin with, so we work on a triage basis. To tell the truth, I shouldn't have even cured Jim. Everyone's telling me I'm a big softie, which I should listen to," McCoy said, almost angry. "But I can't just sit around and let people die when I can help them. There's this guy I knew who worked on ships, and he would skim supplies for us. He was killed last week, so we don't have a lot left. We had a good system going, him getting us supplies, Chekov on the inside changing the duty rosters so that people with things like broken legs could be switched to work that let them sit down. It doesn't save a lot of lives, but it does save some."
"It may have very well saved Jim's life. I am in your debt."
"No, you're not," McCoy said, scowling. "I owed Jim; we're just even, that's all. Tell him I'll see him around."
With that parting statement, McCoy left.
Just as McCoy predicted, Jim swiftly regained his strength. Three days later, when he was completely well, Spock asked Jim how he knew McCoy. Jim lit a cigarette that Spock had only just allowed him to start smoking occasionally again and told him.
"When we were evacuated from Earth, I was in the same transport ship as Bones. He'd taken a hypo of something, tried to kill himself. I resuscitated him, even though he tried to stop me, but the dumb ass was too weak to put up a fight. Later, he told me that three Romulans raped and killed his wife, right in front of him and his daughter, and then they killed his daughter last. Poor fucking bastard had to listen to his baby cry out for him as her throat was cut. It'd make anyone want to die."
"How did you convince him to live?" Spock asked, physically trembling as his own memories of Nero slaughtering his mother and father came to the forefront of his mind. Jim clasped his hand, and Spock felt Jim's emotions, an overpowering wave of rage, pity, and concern.
"I told him that dying now means they've won, and we deserve revenge. You never said it, Spock, but I know what kept you going. You hated Nero, and even if you didn't believe it would ever happen, you wanted revenge. One day, we'll have it. It turned out that Bones was more of a fighter than he thought. Most people are."
*
"Choose me, Spock," his mother said quietly, eyes fixated on his.
"No, save your mother," Sarek said. "You will need her guidance if you are to continue."
"You have not saved your katra, Father," Spock said, his gaze never leaving his mother.
"There is little hope that our culture can be preserved when we have been conquered so thoroughly. My life is no more equal to any other."
"It is more," Mother insisted. "You can survive, you can meld with Spock, keep my memory alive in him. Spock," she said, attempting to crawl to him, but was shoved roughly back by a guard. "Whatever you choose will not be your fault. You love both of us and being forced to choose is tearing you apart."
"Whoever lives," Spock said, gravely, "Will resent me for the rest of their days. I must make the logical choice in light of this."
"Not everything is about logic, my son," Sarek said. Spock looked to him in surprise at those words. Sarek was not making the decision easier by choosing now to say such things to him.
"It can be about logic as well, Spock," Mother said, eyes pleading. "It is who you are as much as anything else."
Spock went silent. "I have made my decision."
*
When Spock had been transported here from Nero's ship, the guards had at first verbally and sometimes physically abused him, singling him out from the masses for special treatment. After the first several weeks of Nero-inspired taunts about the loss of all that he knew, among other less-demeaning insults and physical blows, Spock had hardened and drawn even more into his Vulcan ways, shielding himself from the violent emotions that threatened to consume him. Eventually he disappeared into anonymity along with the thousands of others who were here, the guards and Nero alike convinced that there was nothing more they could do, short of torture (and even that would likely provoke no response from Spock), to mangle his spirit further.
Until the curious gossip of how odd it was to see a Vulcan and a Human cling to each other through cold nights, only parting when duty forced them apart, began to spread and reach the notice of their captors.
Ever since Jim recovered from his terrible illness, Spock had begun spending less time in his own barracks, choosing instead to spend hours with Jim, leaving well after Jim went to sleep because Spock would shamefully sit for an hour or more just watching Jim sleep, observing his vitals, a habit he would perhaps never break. Sometimes, if he was experiencing some great well of feeling, he would put a hand on Jim’s chest so he could watch the rise and fall of it as he breathed, feel Jim’s heartbeat through the touch and that would bring temporary peace to Spock.
Spock knew an attack would come eventually from this weakness, and thus tried several times to turn away from Jim Kirk, to slow what was growing inexorably between them, yet even his Vulcan half remembered the weeks in the camp before meeting Jim. He had been a ghost, a pale gossamer waif, aimlessly existing in a barren graveyard among tombs and their ghosts-ghosts that had once been full of life and purpose. Meeting Jim was akin to finding a bright soul in that graveyard, alive and illuminating the ground it stood on, holding a flaming candle in the gloom, a hand reaching out for him, ready to bestow life in him as well.
He could no more turn away from Jim Kirk than he could stop his heart from beating. Both were vital, and both would lead to his demise.
The guard was the same one who had given Kirk his disfiguring scar. Spock and Jim's habits were by now well known to everyone. After they ate their meal together, they had to walk through several long, dark alleys before they could return to their bed. As they were walking together that particular night, that same guard struck, pulling Jim deep into an alley and placing a phaser to his temple so that Spock would stay back. Spock stood a few feet from them, muscles bunched tight, all of his nerves alight and burning in anger. Jim, always bold, began to taunt the man.
"You know, if you're trying to rob us, you're doing a piss poor job as we don't really have anything you'd want. I mean, maybe Spock has some leftover bread, but other than that, you're pretty fucked."
"Interesting choice of words, human." Spock tensed as the man began to stroke Jim's face with the phaser. Jim, disgusted, sneered and struggled some more. "There is, actually, something you have that I want."
The guard used the phaser to nudge Jim's chin up. He addressed Spock. "This human was quite brave, saving all those elevator passengers. It also seems that he means something to you, Spock."
"He means nothing to me," Spock immediately responded, hoping that the blatant lie would not be discovered.
"Then you won't mind at all if I have a little fun with him," the Romulan said easily, his spare hand moving across Jim's side and over his hip, possessive. Spock willed himself not to move, to not betray how hot his blood was coursing through his veins, ready to give him the strength needed to kill this man. But doing so would only guarantee Jim's death, so instead he stayed silent and tried to remain impassive as the guard’s hand moved around to the front of Jim, undoing the strip of cloth that served as a belt. Jim, his brave Jim, did not even flinch as his pants fell. The guard moved the phaser to the back of Jim's neck and he moved them over to a large crate, bending Jim over it. Instead of closing his eyes, Jim looked straight at Spock, no emotion on his face at all. Spock found this highly ironic, as he could feel his lips form into a snarl. He even took a step closer when he saw the Romulan pig undo his own belt. The phaser was pressed tighter to Jim's head and Spock forced himself to stop.
"You will stay over there and watch, Spock. Otherwise I'll kill him and then shoot you in the gut so you can live long enough to watch me fuck his corpse." Spock stopped, knowing it was useless. He couldn't even use his mild telepathic abilities to try to implant the desire to leave Jim alone in the guard‘s head, as Romulans were immune to them. Jim seemed to be glaring at Spock as if he knew his thoughts, and it was absurd that he could be more upset with Spock's behavior than the guard’s current ministrations.
The only positive thing about what happened next was that it was quick. The Romulan spit into his hand, most likely only doing so for his own comfort. Spock had to watch him enter Jim, had to watch Jim grimace and grunt as he was taken roughly, face flushed red from the pressure. Spock didn't even spare the Romulan a single glance. Instead his eyes were locked on Jim's, and he wished intensely that they both knew some form of code using blinks. As it was, all he knew was that Kirk was both angry and concerned, but not for himself, never for himself. Instead he seemed to be reassuring Spock with his stare. Spock didn't know what his own stare was communicating, but it made Jim's lip twitch up in wry amusement. Spock heard a barely audible gasp behind him, but did not turn as he could see two humans in his peripheral vision backing away from the mouth of the alley and finding another place to be. When the guard finished, he put the phaser on the back of Jim’s head and fired. Spock shouted and ran toward the man, heedless of the phaser now pointed at himself, not caring about anything at all. He shot Spock as well.
Spock woke some minutes later, disoriented. He was still in that accursed alleyway, and the first thought that went through his mind was Jim. He crawled over to where Jim lay, and was immediately relieved when he saw his chest moving up and down, unconscious but alive. He surmised that they had both been stunned. It would be perhaps another half hour until Jim woke, so Spock pulled up Jim's pants, righting his disarrayed clothing, trying not to vomit from the nausea he felt from the memory. Instead, he gathered Jim in his arms and walked back to their bed through the frigid and uncaring night.
*
Spock did not seek revenge until a full week had passed. After he had woken the morning after the attack, Jim had not mentioned the incident at all. In fact, he stubbornly refused to discuss what had transpired that night at all. Spock did not push him, because it was an intensely personal thing, and he knew that he too would have kept silent on the matter. Spock had tried to sleep in his own bunk the next night, sure that Jim would appreciate the space, but Jim had crawled in with him, and Spock did not protest, even if he should have. In the week after, the Romulan guard did not speak a word to them, but would sometimes throw smug looks in their direction. Jim took no notice of the looks, but Spock made sure that the Romulan knew that Spock saw each and every one. He studied the man's habits, and would have acted sooner, but Spock needed a name. Not for any logical reason, but for a more personal reason; if he were to end this man's life, he wanted to know what life he was taking. When he heard another guard refer to him as Nnerhin, it was time.
He waited behind a trash receptacle in an alley, utterly calm and collected as he held a sharp piece of rock that was no more than six inches long. When Nnerhin appeared, Spock launched himself at him, using the rock to tear into his windpipe, just deeply enough to maim but not kill. Yet. Nnerhin fell to his knees, grasping his neck, trying to stem the flow of green blood that poured over his hands. Spock got down on one knee before him, taking the phaser from Nnerhin's holster with a cloth, tossing it several feet away. He stared into the man's fearful eyes, disgusted that they shared a common ancestry.
"You don't deserve the death I am going to give you," Spock said. He brought the rock down hard, ruthlessly carving a twin scar on Nnerhin's face to match the one he had given Jim long ago. Nnerhin face contorted in pain, silently screaming as Spock did not bother sparing Nnerhin's eye. He sliced a couple of more cuts on the other side of Nnerhin's face, making sure that no one would see just the one cut and link it to Jim. Finally, he plunged the rock into his victim's neck, directly into an artery. Nnerhin fell to his back, blood darkening the alley floor, dead within a few seconds.
Spock surveyed his work, and though the feeling of disgust and horror remained, his anger was abated.
*
“You killed him,” Jim said as soon as Spock returned to their quarters late that night.
Jim was sitting against an iron bed post, the only lights in the large room emanating from a lantern 4.2 meters behind him and the end of Jim’s burning cigarette in the dark. He could see Jim take a drag, his cheeks hollowed. Spock said nothing in response, as it was not a question.
“You mind telling me why?” Jim stubbed his cigarette out on a post and stood up, his movements short and angry, but not disruptive or obvious to the other occupants of the barracks.
“He violated you, beyond what his position allows. A being with that much malice and cruelty cannot be allowed to live.”
“I don’t give a fuck; it’s just sex, Spock. What would happen to you if they connect his death to you?”
“I would die a slow and painful death. It was a price I was willing to pay.”
“And you think that’s what I want? I’d rather that guy try to make me his bitch until eternity than have that happen to you. I’d have let him do over and above that.”
“Why?”
Jim looked at Spock like he was a complete idiot before shaking his head, almost amused. “Because it’s illogical, that I should place my life and well-being below yours.”
“That is illogical,” Spock said, not looking directly at Jim, breathing harshly through his nose. “But I would be remiss if I did not inform you that I too have behaved illogically, for it is not logical that I should have known you were necessary to my continued existence from the moment we met. No one is allowed to harm you. I will make sure of that.”
Jim stepped closer, looking at Spock fiercely, forcing their eyes to meet. "I can protect myself."
"Naturally. But there are times when one of us will simply be unable to do so. If the situation were reversed, what would you have done?"
Jim didn't answer. Instead, he pulled Spock flush against him, and kissed him. Spock immediately opened his mouth to Jim, let him take whatever it was he wanted, and Spock took whatever was offered in turn. It was the best kiss he had ever had. It was also the only kiss he had ever had. Jim tasted like stale cigarettes and something grimier, months with only basic hygiene at their disposal. But this was Jim, and that one word echoed in his mind as his mouth opened time and time again, a shock of unbearable heat crawling through his spine, spreading through his nerve endings to other parts of his body, burning him throughout. Jim stopped the kiss long enough to pull Spock to the bottom bunk, and there was no hope of pulling away.
Now they were locked together, hips aligning, and when he felt Jim's erection brush against his own, he choked out a strangled breath. He tried to look at Jim's face, but it was mostly dark; even with his heightened vision, he could only barely make out the expression on Jim's face. It was the look of a starving man invited to feast. Spock slowed, reaching up to touch Jim's face. Jim grabbed his hand, running his fingers lightly over Spock's.
"I want you to fuck me," Jim said gruffly, as if there was nothing at all tender happening, his words and voice at contrasts to what his face and body were communicating. That human ability to have two conflicting emotions exist simultaneously.
"Jim," he protested, trying to move his hand away, to back away. Jim gripped his hand, taking it and running it over his chest, finally stopping to lay it on the front of Jim's pants. "Jim, after what happened-"
"Spock. I know what the fuck happened, I was there." Jim used the hand that was not occupied with grinding Spock's hand into his crotch to twist the lapel of Spock's shirt and yank him forward until their lips barely touched. "Make me forget him."
Doubt still raged in Spock’s mind. He should stop this now because he knew enough about human psychology to recognize that this was a woefully inadequate way to handle a post-rape victim. Yet still he brushed his lips against Jim’s, breathing out; worshipful, giving in. Jim let Spock linger, but writhed beneath him maddeningly, all that energy and emotion and life failing to contain itself in this one fragile human body.
“Can’t get much worse, can it?” Jim asked, rhetorically. These simple words seared through Spock’s mind, answering a thousand other questions he had asked himself for weeks, letting him arrive at a natural conclusion. It was pointless to hold back, to try to adhere to either his Vulcan or human half exclusively, because what did it all matter when death was always over his shoulder, when there was no one left to expect anything from him anymore? All that mattered was Jim, who inexplicably wanted Spock, who maybe even loved Spock, despite knowing all of his flaws, despite his inability to choose one side or the other. Jim wanted both halves, wanted all of him. Spock could choose to be whatever he himself wanted, and he wanted Jim.
Spock used a surge of strength to grab Jim and roll them until Jim was on top. Spock then held onto Jim's hips and ground their pelvises together.
“God damn,” Jim cursed, panting loudly.
They barely got enough clothing pushed aside to make their rutting easier. Spock's head felt heavy and fevered as he reached down, took both of them in one hand. Jim surged upwards at the contact, mouth latching onto Spock's neck, muffling his sobs as Spock sped up, barely managing to control the small moans that escaped his own mouth. Spock's entire body burned with arousal. The hand Jim was using to hang onto Spock's hip moved higher, sliding under Spock's shirt, resting over Spock's heart. Spock moaned loudly and came moments later, his grip loosening as he shuddered, Jim's mouth next to his ear, whispering, "Yeah baby, so fucking sweet."
Before Spock could focus his attention on Jim again, Jim rolled them over until he was on top, straddling Spock. Spock watched as Jim's mouth fell open and his eyelashes lowered. Jim then ran his hand down his chest, lingering at his stomach where Spock's ejaculate was, covering his hand with it, and finally he took his erection one hand and stroked himself, body rocking on Spock's lap. When Spock moved a hand to help, Jim batted it away.
"Just watch."
Spock obeyed, but he didn't understand Jim's desire to 'just watch' until Jim locked eyes with Spock. Even in the dim lighting of their small bunk, Spock could still see the intensity of that gaze, like watching a flame, the blue burning the hottest.
"I'm going to make you hard again, and then you're going to fuck me," Jim said, steadily grinding himself against Spock.
Spock was already feeling his arousal returning, and knew it would only be a few minutes more until he was ready again, if even that. Jim stopped pleasuring himself and instead put his hands on Spock's chest.
"You're going to fuck me because I'm not broken, and you're not broken, but they don't know that. It starts here, with us."
Spock did not ask what exactly started that night, for he was fully aroused again and they didn't speak coherently until they woke the next day, and by then Spock had figured it out.
Revenge.
*
"And your decision is?" Nero asked.
Spock kept his eyes on his mother's face, not daring to look away.
"I want you to spare my father."
"Very well," Nero said. The guard next to Mother slid a knife from the top of his boot and with a nod to Nero, picked her up and plunged the knife into her abdomen. Spock cried out as if the knife had gone into him instead. The guard stabbed her again; it might have been an act of mercy, as she would have died slowly otherwise. She looked at Spock one last time, and smiled. He didn't look over at his father, knowing the shame and devastation that would be there.
"Mother," Spock whispered, as if he could call her back, undo what he had done. He felt a strange sensation around his eyes, and realized that this was crying.
"Kill him too," he heard Nero say.
"No!" Spock shouted, but was too late as the guard by his father lifted him by his chin and cut his throat. Green blood poured down his front, and he died swiftly, efficiently, stoically. Spock sobbed, lowering his head. There was nothing more to lose, no hope left. All that he loved was dead, billions of lives, but more importantly, these two that were precious to him, who he was in part responsible for murdering. Nero left his chair and surveyed his parents' lifeless forms. A hatred Spock had never known burned within him. If he could, he would have torn Nero apart with his bare hands. Pulled apart his skin, relished his screams of pain, slowly cut and peeled him until he was unrecognizable.
"You said you would spare one," Spock growled, low, primal.
"No, I said I would let you choose one. I never said I'd let them live. Now you know what it feels like to lose everything."
"I surmise that you wish to kill me now," Spock said.
"I want nothing more than to have you live, Spock, so that you can spend the rest of your life knowing that you were responsible for all this. Because you lied, relying on the precious logic that destroyed my people, the same logic that you chose over your own mother. Tomorrow you will join the other prisoners."
Nero left. One of the guards released Spock's shackles. Spock surged forward to gather his mother in his arms. He reached down to touch her stomach, and his hand came away bloody. The smell of iron and copper permeated the air, and there was nothing or no one left in the universe for him.
End