(And I Wait) Without You 1/3
Title: (And I Wait) Without You 1/3
Beta: secret_chord25 whose brilliance knows no bounds; all remaining mistakes are mine
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual content, implied violence, language
Word count: ~18 000
Summary: Written for this prompt on my prompt meme. An obligatory amnesia story, but with a twist. Jim believes he has lost Spock, after seeing him die. Later he discovers that Spock is alive, but suffers from a memory loss. Jim wants Spock to remember everything, but he doesn't know what he's asking for.
Notes: I apologize to the prompter who probably had a very different thing in mind. I don't know what made me write it, either, except there seemed to be things in here that begged to be written. I'm grateful for the inspiration it brought me. Hopefully, enjoy.
He is going mad.
No; that wouldn’t be entirely accurate. He has been going mad, slowly, for a long, long time. Now he knows he has reached his destination.
He’s seeing the dead.
Jim closes his eyes, trying to come to grips with his new way of existence. Hi, I’m Jim Kirk, and I’m a schizophrenic. This is an anonymous meeting, right? It’s not like anyone is going to want to call Starfleet or something.
Oh, God, he really is losing it.
He wasn’t expecting this - who would? When the captain of the Antares sent him the field notes from his last mission solely for Jim’s amusement, Jim was expecting nothing more than a glimpse into yet another alien culture; anything to help him fill another couple of hours of his life with the illusion of doing something, to distract him from the emptiness that has long replaced his middle name.
Jim watches the peculiar customs of the planet called Rytsy on his vidscreen, taking notes to give his hands something to do. From where he stands, the Rytsy are a strange people. They know of space travel, but aren’t interested in it. They have no use for technology. They built a space port to trade with other species for goods, but they aren’t overly friendly or hostile. Indifferent types; live and let live.
Their planet is a great depository of minerals, and the Rytsy take a good measure of them every year. They refine precious stones and create some of the most beautiful jewelry Jim has ever seen. They sell them, but mostly they’re interested in the art of creation.
…Weird folks.
Jim’s attention begins to slip and he forces himself to stay focused. The fight for concentration is now his constant companion. He’s best at it when he’s on the bridge or down on an away mission, but the moment his shift is over, his attention starts to wander and it never takes him where he wants it go. This place, if one could call it that, doesn’t exist any longer.
Right?
As the tape progresses into showing the mining operation in progress, Jim chokes on his own breath suddenly.
Because one of the miners is Spock.
It can’t be. It is absolutely, absolutely, impossible. Spock is dead. He’s been dead for almost a year. He cannot possibly be mining emeralds on some godforsaken world.
Except that he is.
Jim freezes the tape; his voice breaks as he gives the computer the order. His eyes are focusing so hard they hurt, and still he tries to see more. But it is undeniably Spock - Jim would recognize that tall, slender silhouette anywhere. The strict, chiseled profile; the delicate curves of his ears; this look of total concentration on whatever it is Spock is doing.
It’s him, or Jim really is insane.
The buzzer startles him into jumping. Right, he called Bones to come see him.
“Come in,” he calls hoarsely.
The door slides open and Bones strides in, somber and grim. Bones is always somber and grim these days.
“What’s up, Jim?” he asks, resolute and weary. “I was trying to save my ruined relationship with my bed.”
Jim turns to take in his form; his eyes are dry, almost crusty.
“I need you to look at something, Bones. And then I need you to tell me if I’m crazy, and possibly relieve me of command after that.”
Bones looks at him warily but doesn’t say anything, and it’s a marker of their new realm. No way would Bones have let something like that slide in the before times. No way. So many times in their long association, Jim had wished Bones would hold his tongue. When he was bitching about Jim’s escapades at the Academy; when he was lecturing him on his recklessness on away missions; when he was bickering with Spock like there was no tomorrow. Now Bones is silent, and Jim wishes he would bring some of his snark back. He always seems to wish for what he can’t have.
He stands up, and Bones takes his place in front of the vidscreen. Jim has skimmed it back a few minutes to let Bones get into the feeling of things. He releases the pause and settles in to watch Bones’ face as Bones watches the tape.
He doesn’t know what it is they have together.
They start off as uneasy coworkers, which remains bizarre, at best, for quite a while. Jim doesn’t know what made Spock come back and request to be appointed first officer; he has never asked. Deep down, he knows that it’s probably because he’s afraid that if he did ask, the magic charm would dissipate and Spock would see the mistake he’d made.
They make a surprisingly good command team right from the start. Jim doesn’t know if it’s because of some strange fluke of destiny they’d been warned about or simply because they understand each other so well when it comes to taking action. They save each other’s lives more times than Jim is consciously aware of, but he suspects the score would still be in Spock’s favor - Jim’s either more reckless or less fortunate than Spock is.
Somewhere in the middle of it, they evolve from brothers-in-arms to friends. Jim marks the change by the conversation about their childhoods that Spock initiates. Jim doesn’t usually relish the topic, but he finds himself eager to speak because Spock asks and Spock is interested.
And then… it happens. They are halfway into the second year of their five-year mission. There is nothing remarkable about this particular evening; there’s been a birthday celebration and Jim is pleasantly relaxed when he and Spock enter his quarters to share one more drink, and a talk.
They’ve been doing that a lot lately - talking. Spock is usually sparse with words, especially as they relate to anything personal, but Jim seems to have touched some invisible base with him. He now knows that Spock likes Walter Scott and Edgar Allan Poe; is fascinated by ice sculpture; is allergic to orange juice; and dislikes the color lemon-yellow with a passion.
Spock knows things about Jim, too, now - things that nobody else, not even Bones, knows. Spock knows that when Jim was five, he wanted to be a confectioner; that he used to be scared of the neighbor’s dog; that he tried ecstasy when he was fifteen but never actually went for black powder; that he always sleeps with some kind of light on when he’s alone (and Spock knows why).
Jim doesn’t know what brings it on just then. Maybe he’s had a little too much to drink or maybe it’s the aura of warmth that Spock projects that make him do it, because he doesn’t even think of what he’s doing. It’s just that Spock is right there and the surge of affection for him suddenly overwhelms Jim. He reaches out instinctively, and Spock takes his hand. It’s better, but not enough, so Jim kisses him.
Jim kisses him, and Spock doesn’t choke him. Jim slides his hands under Spock’s tunic, and Spock lifts his hands to help him take it off. And then Spock pushes him down on the bed, and Jim has seen all and then some where sex is concerned, but he never knew it could be like this, and his last coherent thought that night is that maybe there is something to all that talk about trust after all.
He wakes up the next morning and immediately has a panic attack because he’s alone. He sits up on the bed, perspiring and suddenly nauseous, but then Spock walks out of his bathroom, hair slightly damp and wearing only his pants.
Jim wants to say something but is struck speechless as Spock walks over to his - Jim’s - drawer and pulls out a spare regulation t-shirt. They aren’t exactly of the same build, and the fabric hangs a little more loosely on Spock’s frame than it usually hugs around Jim. Most people wouldn’t notice. Most people aren’t Jim.
“I assume you do not mind?” Spock asks. As if Jim could.
Jim shakes his head slowly. He is still unable to utter a word. Spock glances at him and lifts an eyebrow, then walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge gingerly.
“Jim.” He takes Jim’s hands in his own, as if talking to a frightened child. “You are engaging, I believe, in the human custom of ‘freaking out.’ It is entirely unnecessary.”
“But…” Jim manages, “last night-”
“-was extremely enjoyable,” Spock interrupts him gently. He presses his thumb to Jim’s lower lip and rubs it tenderly before getting up to his feet. “I will see you on the bridge, Captain.”
Despite Spock’s words, Jim does freak out for the whole day, which seems to amuse the Enterprise’s first officer to no end. His panic gets old by the end of the day, though, and the next morning as he runs into Spock in the turbolift, Jim can’t help a grin. They repeat the whatever-it-was two nights after that, then do it again the night after that. It becomes something to be expected, and suddenly there’s a whole new set of things Jim knows about Spock.
His eyelashes are soft, and his navel is sensitive; he has a small birthmark where his left thigh meets his body, and he’s almost self-conscious about it; he gives the most wonderful, complex, sophisticated massages, but turns into a melted heap of a Vulcan when Jim does something as simple as running his fingers through Spock’s hair. When Jim does that - just that - Spock would allow him to do anything with him, because his enjoyment of this simple action is not even erotic so much as it is pure bliss that goes deeper than desire and totally escapes words.
And it’s only fair that Spock learns something new about him, too. Like - that Jim can’t relinquish control voluntarily, but loves, needs, to have it torn from him; that he likes to stay connected for as long as possible; that he can never stay put in his sleep; that he babbles and never remembers what he says as his orgasm is mounting, and that he likes to kiss for hours after that; that he’s not a screamer, but can beg pretty much shamelessly - and this is a discovery to them both, because Jim has never known anyone who could reduce him to begging before.
They are a little wild, Jim thinks. It’s the desperation of adolescence and adult need. It’s never having enough time and always remaining hungry. It’s wariness of each other’s injuries and adrenaline-induced frenzy. It’s glances speaking volumes when they’re in public, something that neither of them can help. It’s remaining the most efficient command team ever and hiding their new layer zealously, without any kind of agreement, simply because neither of them has anything else that is entirely theirs and they are not ready to share this, not by a long shot.
Jim is afraid to give it a name, this something they have between them. Spock asks him once and only once, almost timidly. For all his ‘no freaking out’ bravado, Spock is just as scared - he only hides it better. When Jim hesitates, Spock kisses him and never asks again. Jim promises then, to himself, that he will find that answer, that name or something, for both of them, because he needs it, wants it, craves it, too. Because it will cement them and chase away their fears.
Because Spock is worth it.
He spends a year working on that one, and is almost ready to accept the incredible, improbable, unfathomable truth and share it with Spock. He’s almost ready when Starfleet sends them to Pollax.
Jim doesn’t know, at first, that Spock is gone. Later he will ask himself how it is possible that Spock has been taken, has been hurt so badly, tortured, violated, and finally killed, and Jim doesn’t know about it. But he doesn’t just then; he really doesn’t.
He concludes negotiations with the Pollaxians, promising them that the Federation won’t stand for piracy and that they will deal with the Nausicans, who have been hindering trade. He calls Spock, who took the opportunity to explore the planet and has been taking tricorder readings of the settlement and its surroundings.
Spock doesn’t answer.
It’s unusual, but Jim isn’t worried, not at first. The Pollaxians are peaceful as sheep and, besides, it wouldn’t be the first time for Spock to become so fascinated by something he’s studying that he would get slightly distracted. Jim beams up alone and asks Scotty to give Spock another thirty minutes to indulge his passion for exploration and then beam him up. Scotty grins at him. Spock’s quirks are well known to the crew by now.
Thirty minutes slip by and go unnoticed. Jim assumes Spock is long aboard, but decides to check before giving the order to leave orbit.
And that’s when he gets concerned and then downright alarmed, because Scotty sounds anxious over the intercom, and suddenly they can’t find Spock anywhere.
Reality transforms into the longest seventy-two hours Jim has ever lived through, but neither the search parties nor the natives discover what’s become of the Enterprise’s first officer. That’s when they receive the transmission, and it’s so graphic and sharp that half the junior staff on the bridge is vomiting while the senior set watches, steady and stone-faced.
They find him - what’s left of him - right where the message says, at one of the outer moons; an L-class world, too cold to live on. Jim doesn’t beam down, sending McCoy and his people instead, because he’s the captain and the Nausicans can’t be too far away. He paces the bridge restlessly until the transporter room signals that the away team is onboard. Jim clenches his fists and orders them out of orbit.
He has known Leonard McCoy for almost six years by then; they’d been through thick and thin together. Jim had never heard Bones’ voice shake until that day.
‘Don’t go in there, Jim.’ The hand on Jim’s shoulder is trembling.
But of course Jim goes. ‘I need to see him.’
‘It’s not him... I mean, you won’t be able to-’
It’s not Spock. This shapeless, repulsive mass of distorted tissue is not - could not ever have been - a living person.
‘Transporter scramble.’ McCoy speaks breathlessly behind him. ‘Without the DNA analysis, we’d never know it was Spock.’
‘We do know that they tortured him before they did this,’ Jim says, voice flat and matter-of-fact. Steady; foreign. Not his.
‘I don’t get this!’ McCoy snaps angrily, smashing his fist into some unfortunate medical apparatus. ‘Don’t they know we’ll hunt them down for this? The fuckers are dead - deader than dead, for fuck’s sake! He was Starfleet - he was Vulcan! Don’t they get-‘
‘Bones,’ Jim says, very quietly. ‘Shut up.’
He walks out, without looking back. He knows their orders, having just talked to Starfleet. Hunting down the Nausicans isn’t a suitable task for a flagship; they’re needed at the Klingon border. Some other vessel, a smaller vessel, will deal with the obligations to the Pollaxians. As for Spock, Starfleet is sorry, but their resources are limited and they have to prioritize.
The worst of it is that Jim actually understands.
He goes to his quarters and waits. Spock always comes to him two, sometimes three hours after their shifts end. They eat a light meal and talk some, and then... It’s not always sex, though. Sometimes Jim just needs to hold Spock, or needs to be held. Sometimes he needs Spock to guard him through the night, and only Spock would do that without asking for an explanation. Jim waits.
Spock doesn’t come.
It’s all right, though, because sometimes Spock needs to stay up late, working in the labs when some of his experiments are in their vital stages. On those nights, Jim would doze off on the bed without taking his clothes off until Spock comes and helps him, sleepy and warm, out of them. Jim trusts Spock’s hands with whatever they’re handling: a tricorder, a phaser, or - him. He doesn’t trust anyone else’s hands quite the way he trust Spock’s.
Spock doesn’t come.
It’s weird, because when Jim thinks about it - actually thinks about it - he knows that Spock won’t. He’d filed the appropriate forms himself, after all; he had sent a message to Sarek. He’s pretty sure he’d delivered a eulogy. So he knows this, he really does - knows intellectually that Spock is dead, that it’s senseless to expect him to just turn up in Jim’s quarters again like nothing happened.
He waits nonetheless.
It’s not a conscious decision or anything, but this sense of tugging anticipation seems to be engraved into his muscle memory. Two months later, he still has to remind himself not to set up a second plate when he prepares a meal. Six months later, he still falls asleep in his clothes with the lights on. He still waits every evening without fail, still wonders what keeps Spock from arriving every morning - inevitably, it’s Jim’s first conscious thought of the day.
The crew is angry at first, with the Nausicans and with Starfleet, but they try not to express themselves too violently out of respect for Jim. He discovers suddenly that he and Spock had been the lousiest conspirators ever, because as it turns out, everyone knew.
Everyone knew.
Jim had never let it slip even with Bones, and Spock had never uttered so much as a word to Uhura, and they had never, never, engaged in anything more than friendly in public, had never been caught in flagrante, had never even stolen a chaste Vulcan kiss under the table or planetside - and still, from the bridge crew to the chef’s cat, every single person onboard was in the know. Maybe even earlier than Jim and Spock themselves, Jim thinks bitterly. Pike calls him, for crying out loud, and his condolences are anything but professional. He promises to keep an eye on the Nausicans and never rest until justice is served.
Jim doesn’t much care about justice; it’s a Pyrrhic victory if he can’t have Spock back. And he can’t, because from where Spock had gone, anyone has yet to return.
The crew walks on eggshells around him, though they try not to show it. Jim does his level best to meet them halfway. He eats enough not to upset Bones’ radar; he agrees to take some of Bones’ sedatives to help him sleep. It’s strange, really, since he’s never been much of a sleeper, because - well, there’s life to live in the waking world, and sleep’s drastically overrated. Now he sleeps like it’s the best activity he’s ever been introduced to, and it probably is. It doesn’t hurt so much when he’s sleeping. His days become a struggle to get to the moment when he can go to bed again.
Bones catches him pretty fast, though, and cuts off his allowance. Jim doesn’t complain, even though he misses the drugs, sometimes to an extent that makes him climb the walls. He starts dreaming of the pretty little pills more often than he dreams about Spock, which is weird but probably for the best. Dreaming of Spock always entails waking up in tears. Jim hates it; he’s never been that person.
He hates what he has become.
His libido turns itself off like a light, as if Jim was born without it. It’s beyond ‘out there’ weird, because when Jim was with Spock, he wanted anytime. Since they never discussed it, they’d never actually arrived to any kind of pact regarding others; there seemed to be no need. Jim would still look, even though he’d never touch anymore. Occasionally someone would catch his eye, and he would entertain certain thoughts, and then he would look at Spock - lean, graceful, too-hot-for-hell Spock - and Spock would meet his gaze and smile with his eyes, and the mix of trust-certainty-possession in them would leave Jim gasping for air and wishing he could jump his partner right that instant.
He doesn’t want anyone. Bones asks him carefully once, during his physical, and it’s the first time Jim actually thinks about it in almost nine months. He realizes then that he no longer looks. He doesn’t look, doesn’t fantasize, doesn’t jerk off in the shower, doesn’t have wet dreams, doesn’t - he just doesn’t. And he’s not bothered by it, which is probably the weirdest part. He should be freaked out, maybe even panicked - but he can only shrug vaguely. He really doesn’t care beyond some faint sense of surprise.
Bones sighs, shakes his head, and says nothing.
Three months after that, Jim is hit with a frightening realization. He sits in the main rec room, watching it being decorated for the New Year’s party, and it strikes him like a lightning bolt out of the clear blue sky.
He loves Spock. That’s the name of what was between them, the answer to Spock’s question. And it’s every bit as real and there now as it has been all along.
Dear gods in heaven.
He’s in love with a dead man.
‘You have to move on, Jim,’ Bones tells him quietly at some point. ‘Spock wouldn’t have wanted for you to-’
Jim has to stop him. He can’t go there, can’t listen to what Spock would or wouldn’t have wanted. It’s too early for that, and Jim just can’t, he can’t; he’s only just realized that other thing - that incredible, unfathomable, wondrous thing - and he’s not ready to listen to any of this. It’s too early, way too early, for this.
Besides, in any case, it’s too late.
“Oh my God.”
Jim takes in the way Bones’ eyes turn almost round with astonishment and lets out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Guess I’m not crazy, then.”
McCoy looks up at him wildly, looking totally thrown. “Crazy? Jim - this is - Spock.” He utters the name in disbelieving whisper. “Spock... But how can this… How is it possible?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Bones meets his eyes, and there’s fear there: the wide-eyed, bone-chilling fear of a healer who’s scared he has done harm.
“Jim, I swear...” Bones’ voice is low and raspy, like his mouth is drier than the Sahara. He rises to his feet, facing Jim with an almost imploring expression. “I triple-checked the data when we beamed... him up. It was Spock; DNA analysis doesn’t lie. It was him - you can cut my arms off if it wasn’t.”
Jim shakes his head. “I have a feeling you’re going to need your arms right where they are really soon.”
“I don’t understand it,” McCoy manages incredulously. “I don’t understand. Did he have a twin brother we didn’t know about?”
“I don’t know,” Jim says grimly. “But I’m going to find out.” He switches the intercom on. “Kirk to bridge.”
“Sulu here, Captain.”
“Mr. Sulu, alter our course to Rytsy and go to maximum warp.”
“Rytsy, sir? But that’s-”
“I know where it is, Mr. Sulu. Change the course.”
Pause. “Aye, sir.”
“Kirk out.”
“He looks malnourished,” McCoy notes, staring at the tape again. “From what I can see, anyway. And the way he moves - it’s like something’s restraining his movements. That all you got of him?”
Jim closes his eyes. “All there is on the tapes.”
“Jim.” McCoy speaks very carefully.
“Please, Bones; don’t.”
He knows what his friend is about to say: that Jim shouldn’t have his hopes high; that this may all turn out to be some incredible coincidence. A mistake; a phantom; an equipment failure. Anything.
They are silent for a long time.
“You know I’m here if you need me,” Bones says finally.
Jim finds it in him to look up at his friend and smile. “I know. Bones, I…” He exhales hard, as if trying to blow the weight in his chest away. “I know that last year wasn’t exactly fun for you; for any of you. I know I was far from my best.”
“Jim-”
“No; I just want to say - thank you.” He holds McCoy’s eyes. “For sticking to me.”
McCoy nods, serious. “We’ll get through this, Jim. I promise.”
Jim smiles at him weakly and doesn’t reply.
They beam down, following the steps the Antares’ landing party had taken. Jim walks slightly ahead, feeling Bones hovering at his shoulder. Two security guards hold their distance behind them, respectful and alert. The Rytsy observe them carefully, without any real curiosity. Jim approaches the tall, slouchy alien who seems to be in charge.
“Buying or selling?” the Rytsy asks Jim blandly.
“We’re not here for trade,” Jim says curtly. “I’m Captain Kirk of the Enterprise. We’re looking for someone; an off-worlder who works at the mines?”
The Rytsy wriggles his eyebrows, probably frowning. “There are several off-worlders working with the Rytsy people,” he says. “Rysty people are not many in numbers. We welcome everyone. Why are you looking for him?”
“He used to be part of my crew,” Jim explains, voice still tenser than he’d like. “We were told he was dead, but a Federation starship stopped here a week ago and they spotted him here. They had it on tape.”
“The Antares?” The Rytsy nods, showing a complete lack of interest. “They only visited one mining facility; I can provide you with a map. You may look for your alien there. If he is one of your crew, you may take him. We do not keep anyone here against their will.”
“Thank you,” Jim says, feeling Bones breathing down his neck. “If you help us find him, I’ll make sure your troubles are compensated adequately.”
For the first time during the conversation, the Rytsy shows a sign of interest.
“My name is Hatsy-n, Captain Kirk. I shall escort you to the mines.”
Jim shares a glance with Bones; his friend looks as troubled as Jim feels.
They follow the Rytsy silently as the alien walks in a surprisingly fast gait toward what looks like an entrance to an underground tunnel.
“Great,” Bones mutters. “Now we’ll have to use some kind of mine car and risk the whole thing falling on our heads.”
“Hey, Earth used subways for centuries.” Jim tries to cheer him up, though his heart isn’t quite in it. “They’re still open somewhere for tourists.”
“An accident waiting to happen,” McCoy grumbles. Jim gets the distinct impression he’s doing it mechanically rather than out of any real concern. He shrugs to himself. Everyone has their own way of dealing with stress.
The car ride through the caves isn’t as fascinating as Jim imagined; mostly it’s just traveling through really dark corridors. He does have the sense, however, that they’ve covered a vast amount of land when they emerge on the surface again.
“Here is the mine your people visited,” Hatsy-n tells them, pointing at the ill-proportioned construction.
It looks shabby and unsafe; Jim’s heart dwindles unpleasantly at the thought that Spock might have been working here.
“Spread out,” Jim orders to his people. “We all know who we’re looking for.”
It takes them hours to search the facility. Hatsy-n keeps close to Jim, guarding his potential reward, but Jim doesn’t care. The Rytsy miners don’t pay them any heed, concentrated on their work. No one even stops to tell them that the area is off-limits. Jim thinks absently that the only reason the planet hasn’t been conquered by one galactic power or another is its incredibly low strategic value. Otherwise, it might have been the easiest conquest in history.
“There.” Hatsy-n points his finger suddenly. “Is that him?”
Jim turns immediately and freezes. His mouth goes dry, and his surroundings fade. The sounds are tuned out until the only one remaining is the desperate flutter of his own heart.
“Spock,” Jim whispers.
It is him, unmistakably. He’s thinner than Jim has ever seen him - the ugly, baggy clothes hung on him lifelessly. His hair is cut haphazardly and has nothing at all in common with Spock’s usual impeccable neatness. He’s performing his task - cutting through the layer of rock - methodically and impassively, like a drone.
Jim can’t take the sight one second longer. He steps forward with a sharp, “Spock!”
Spock flinches and looks up, alerted not so much by the sound of his name as the loud voice aimed in his direction. Jim’s breath catches in his throat as their eyes meet. He wants to move, to run toward Spock, to wrap his arms around him, but he can’t move.
Just as he’s about to take a step forward, Spock looks up at him. His expression slowly changes to the one of terror.
And then Spock drops his drill, turns on his heel, and runs.
Jim can’t follow - in fact, he can’t even stand. His knees buckle and he hits the ground with no warning while the rest of him - all of him that isn’t the physical - rushes after Spock. For a horrible moment, Jim feels as if he’s being literally torn in two, and it hurts so much that he sees white.
“Jim! What the hell…?”
A strong hand closes around his arm and Bones yanks him upright hard. He must be asking something and Jim must not be answering, because Bones shakes him like a rag doll. That’s when Jim comes to his senses enough to order search parties.
Ten hours, forty-two minutes. That’s the exact amount of time they spend searching meticulously through shafts and tunnels, with tricorders because the ship’s sensors won’t penetrate the upper layer of rock. Ten hours and forty-two minutes before Jim gets an exuberant comm message. “Captain, we have him cornered!”
They do. Jim rushes to the site, hyperventilating and almost collapsing again, and what he sees nearly breaks his heart all over again. Spock is cornered, his back flat against the wall, his stance defensive - but it’s so inapt, nothing at all like Spock’s usual dangerously efficient battle pose. His eyes are the eyes of a wild animal, feral and fatalistic; as if he knows he’s about to die, fears it, and knows he can’t escape.
“Spock.” Jim steps forward, bypassing the ring of the security guards. He lifts his hands in the air to demonstrate his peaceful intentions. Spock eyes him closely, but there’s no sign of recognition - or relent. “Spock, it’s all right. Don’t be afraid.” Part of him is really freaked out that he even has to tell Spock something like that, but his focus is completely elsewhere. “We’re here to help you.”
He takes another step toward the trapped Vulcan, and that’s when Spock jumps. In a violent fight that ensues, Jim is too busy shouting for everyone to get the hell off of Spock to care for his own well-being. But the struggle is short-lived - Spock is still stronger than a human, but he’s malnourished and weak and can’t possibly last long.
And Jim’s heart does break when he’s got Spock pinned to the crude floor of the cave, because Spock suddenly slumps and speaks for the first time, his voice a beaten, broken whisper.
“Please; do not hurt me.”
Jim swallows and has to stifle his trembling hands. His voice shakes badly when he speaks.
“I would never hurt you, Spock. Never.”
He would have stayed right there, too, but there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Jim,” Bones says. “Let’s take him home.”
Slowly, Jim nods, and feels something sharp stabbing him precisely through the heart at the look of defeat and absolute misery in Spock’s eyes.
Bones finds him eventually, sitting in the empty officers’ mess and slicing an apple methodically. He has yet to put a single piece in his mouth.
Bones sighs as he sits across from Jim. “It’s him.” Bones nods, looking tired and empty. “There’s no mistake.”
“That’s what you said the last time.”
Jim’s voice is flat, but Bones winces.
“I know, but I can explain.”
Jim looks at him; squints. “So what was that... that thing we found?”
“A mimetic simbiot. There are these - creatures, I guess. Lyssarrian desert larva. Banned from the Federation worlds, but we don’t rule the galaxy. When injected with somebody’s DNA, they become this person - exactly the same, perfect to the last twist of a chromosome.”
“How do you know that it’s that thing that died and not Spock?”
Bones looks at him sadly. “They only live for fifteen days, Jim. They bred that with one purpose only - to kill as it reached Spock’s exact age.”
Jim shivers, closing his eyes for a moment. “That’s just-”
“I know. There’s a reason why they’re banned from all civilized space powers.”
Jim swallows down an upsurge of nausea. The idea of a Spock living, feeling, having been created only to die, makes him sick to his gut.
“What I don’t get,” Bones continues, “is why the Nausicans would do that. Why kill a - a clone - and keep Spock alive?”
Jim shakes his head, returning to his apple slicing. “It doesn’t take a genius for that one. A dead Spock is a played card. Keeping him alive is like dangling him over my head whenever they’d want something.”
Bones’s expression shifts to one of disgust. “An insurance?”
“Something like that,” Jim confirms hollowly. “Carrying him around must have been dangerous or inconvenient, so they stuck him where he wouldn’t ever be found, unless they started talking. They were probably waiting for a good moment to ambush me with it.”
“Well, then.” McCoy sighs. “The good news is we have him back. There’s the bad, though.”
Jim looks up at him, suddenly very quiet. “Go ahead.”
Solemnity supplants tiredness in Bones’s face. “There was a device implanted in his brain. It was providing him with false imagery and memories. For instance, that we’re the ones who tortured him.”
Jim closes his eyes briefly. “That’s why he ran from us.”
“Yeah,” McCoy drawls unhappily. “This thing was affecting several key areas, so I removed it. But, Jim…” Bones looks him squarely in the eye. “It has been operating in his skull for a year. There’s no way to tell how his brain was affected until he wakes up.”
Jim swallows. “When will you know?”
“In five hours, maybe six.”
“I want to be there.”
McCoy sighs again and shakes his head, but in sorrow, not denial. “I’ll comm you as soon as he starts to come round.”
Jim nods and turns back to the messy pieces of apple on his plate, eyes empty as his stomach.
Part 2/3