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I will not allow you to lecture me about the merits of emotion.
So are you afraid or aren’t you?
After their latest mission reports are filed, in the middle of their weekly chess game, their fingers brush, and Spock sees another chess game. He sees a thin-faced, yellow-haired boy moving a black queen across the board, and then the chess pieces scattered across an ancient wood floor. A man is saying something. The yellow-haired boy ignores the man as he bends to pick up the chess pieces. The man lunges forward. He slams the boy into the table. There is a loud crack, splintered wood, blood, then a mad scramble backwards away from the man. The boy cowers against the wall. When he reaches up to wipe the blood from his face, his hand shakes.
They stare at each other, equally perturbed by the images. Kirk looks away first.
“This is not your memory,” Spock says. Given its third-person perspective, he reasons silently, it cannot be.
Kirk does not look at Spock. “It’s how I see it in my head,” he says with a shrug, and there is something in his voice, something unfolding under his words that Spock recognizes as truth. After the debacle that was their last mission, Kirk is too exhausted to lie. Spock understands this.
Spock considers the memory. As a scientist, he is curious. He wants to say: You were a child. Was there no one to protect you? Who would handle a child so violently? Did this happen often? Who was that man? He settles on the most intriguing and therefore perhaps most troubling aspect of the memory. “You were afraid,” he says. He does not say: You are never afraid. Not like this.
Kirk is silent, his face unreadable. After a moment, he gets up. He turns his back on Spock, takes three steps away from the table, lets his hand fall heavily on the antique books stacked beside his datapads on the nightstand. His movements are graceless and imprecise, and Spock does not understand his agitation. When Kirk finally speaks, Spock does not understand his words either.
“I was afraid,” he accedes. It may be a dismissal as much as an agreement.
Spock frowns. “I see.”
“No. No, you don’t. Can we talk about something else?”
Does that frustrate you?
After they have retrieved the captured away team, in the middle of gamma shift, Spock visits each team member to assure himself of their improvement and well-being. He speaks to each individual, articulating words he would never have thought to offer before, words of encouragement and reassurance and gratitude. Each will receive a commendation for bravery; Spock has already begun to document his notes for their permanent files.
Spock hesitates before entering the captain’s recovery room. He recognizes that his hesitation is illogical. He considers that he is discomfited by the possibility that there is something more than duty driving his actions, something other behind his decision to leave his captain for last. He dismisses the possibility as irrelevant and strides into the room, purposeful and silent, a credit to his father’s house.
In the captain’s room, he proceeds methodically, as befits a first officer. He reviews the biobed statistics (improving), examines the discarded hypospray capsules on the bedside table (strong sedatives), scrolls through the doctor’s notes summarized on the datapad hanging at the foot of the bed (almost incomprehensible). Only when he is satisfied that he has a sufficient understanding of the causes, remedies, and implications of the captain’s current medical status does he allow himself to study his unconscious captain.
There are lines of pain around Kirk’s mouth, blue-black circles under his eyes, sharp hollows under his cheekbones. He is too thin. His left wrist, resting on the white sheet, appears frail and brittle, like a dry twig after drought. Spock watches the shallow rise and fall of his captain’s chest and regrets the weeks it took to negotiate the team’s release.
The captain was subjected to harsher treatment than the rest of the away team, Spock knows. Lieutenant Hendorff reported that the captain goaded their captors in repeated attempts to concentrate attention on himself and away from the others. Spock observes the evidence, carefully enumerating the healing scars on Kirk’s arms and chest. He knows from the doctor’s report that there are other, more obscene sigils and runes carved into the captain’s skin currently hidden under the white sheet.
Mindful of his role as chief science officer, aware that his report to Starfleet Command will require additional details, Spock leans forward to acquire more data. He lets his hand ghost over the scar on Kirk’s forearm. It is an ugly furrow of lines and circles, gouged deep. Disturbed that any sentient being could commit such an act, he forgets his scientific detachment. He draws back too quickly and succeeds in almost unbalancing himself.
He steadies himself on the side of the bed, and his fingertips graze the back of Kirk’s too-slender wrist. Immediately he is flooded with Kirk’s emotions — anger and hatred and determination, overwhelmed by a constant, seething frustration (can’t think of a way to save the others / can’t help them escape / can’t find a way out / can’t do more / can’tcan’tcan’t). The barrage of human emotion causes Spock to take an involuntary step back from the bed.
Spock stares down at his captain, uncomprehending. Kirk was starved and tortured, and even his indomitable will to survive was consumed by frustration. It is as alien a sentiment as Spock has ever encountered. As he leaves the captain’s recovery room, Spock concedes that he does not understand what he has observed in Kirk’s mind. He resolves to consult the doctor at the earliest opportunity; clearly Kirk’s comatose mind is not yet free of his prison, and the Enterprise needs her captain.
Does it make you angry?
After the women and children have been delivered safely to the care of Dr McCoy and his medical team, after the rescue team has been stabilized, the captain stalks on to the bridge, tense fury in every line of his body.
He exchanges a dark look with Lieutenant Uhura, who nods in response to his unspoken request. Spock does not understand the rest of their silent conversation, but he observes that Nyota’s eyes are nearly black with emotion as she opens a communications link to Starfleet Command. When the link is established, she turns to the captain. “I have them, sir.”
Kirk offers her a brief smile in thanks, then moves to stand in front of the command chair. Spock observes that the captain’s posture is stiff and formal, his eyes burning with anger. “On screen.”
Admiral Pike’s face fills the viewscreen. Kirk does not allow him to speak.
“Admiral. I don’t know what Starfleet Intelligence thought they knew about what was happening on that planet, but it isn’t a small diplomatic disagreement—” he spits out each word, his voice vicious “—it’s a fucking civil war. My people beamed down into the middle of that mess, and we barely got them out. We’ve had heavy casualties. You can read about them in the report—” Spock watches Lieutenant Sulu wince at the bitter words “—This isn’t a courtesy call about SI’s fuck-up on the planet. It’s a heads-up. On my command, we intervened beyond the authority of our orders and removed civilians from the planet’s surface. They’re currently being treated in our sickbay.”
“Captain,” Pike begins.
“Admiral,” Kirk replies, his voice cold and hard.
Pike passes one hand tiredly over his face. “How are we supposed to fix this, Kirk?”
“There’s nothing to fix. We don’t want treaties with these assholes.” Kirk pauses. “Sir.”
“Don’t make it worse, Kirk.”
Spock cannot predict the captain’s precise response, but he can predict with 97.667% certainty that any words Kirk chooses to speak will not improve the situation from the Admiral’s point of view. Spock notes Kirk’s clenched fists and revises his probability estimate upwards to 99.786%. Before he has a chance to rethink his motivation, Spock sets probabilities aside, rises from the science console, and takes four steps across the bridge to stand beside his captain. He comes to rest one step behind Kirk’s right shoulder. The Admiral raises an eyebrow but does not otherwise acknowledge Spock’s silent declaration of support.
“You didn’t see what we saw,” Kirk says, his voice quiet, vibrating with suppressed violence. “You didn’t see what we rescued those women and children from. They were being used as sentient shields by the so-called government protectorate.” Spock notices the captain’s fingers splay out in frustration then re-curl into fists at his sides, out of the Admiral’s view. The Admiral makes an impatient noise, and Kirk’s spine becomes even more rigid. “Tell me how getting them out of there makes things worse.”
Pike glares at his insubordinate captain, then gestures to someone behind him. “We’ll get back to you, Kirk,” he mutters, and the viewscreen goes black.
Kirk drops into his chair. He pounds his fist on the armrest. He is radiating anger. Spock remains at his captain’s right hand and waits. He does not need touch telepathy to feel the rageresentmentfury emanating from the captain, but he can only partially understand the emotion. To Spock, the situation on the planet was unfortunate and regrettable, but Kirk’s anger seems illogical, almost childish, intemperate and unequal to the events.
Even as he does not understand, Spock waits at his captain’s side. He watches Kirk scrub his hands through his hair, watches with something approaching admiration as the anger is similarly scrubbed from Kirk’s face, leaving his features as calm and controlled as any Vulcan.
Spock waits patiently until finally the captain stands and turns to face him. There is still rage glittering in his eyes, but his voice is irreproachably cool. “Mr Spock, you have the conn,” he says. He nods once then leaves the bridge, all emotion hidden beneath the straight-backed, professional demeanor of a Starfleet captain.
What is it like not to feel heartbreak?
After the shuttle’s difficult atmospheric entry and even more difficult landing, they emerge into the intense glare of early afternoon. The planet’s twin suns are still high in the sky, just beginning their descent. The terrain beyond the marked landing zone is windswept and raw, rocky outcroppings giving way to red sand giving way to distant mountains; Spock cannot help but remember Vulcan. He deliberately sets this memory aside, checks his tricorder, and follows the captain and doctor off the shuttle.
The doctor’s grumbling complaints fade as they leave the shuttle behind them. Spock assumes the doctor has fallen silent as much because of their surroundings as his relief to be “out of that damn tin can Jim calls a shuttle.” The planet’s topography is strangely beautiful; the sparse vegetation is aesthetically pleasing in shape; the air is fresh and clean. Ahead of them is a small white building that functions as the colony’s shuttleport, appealingly silhouetted against the purple-streaked sky.
Spock is bemused by the doctor’s admiration of the landscape, even if he does not share the feeling. He is focused instead on acquiring baseline environmental readings. He is so focused on his work that he startles when the captain stops abruptly and almost stumbles before resuming his smooth stride. Spock looks up from his tricorder to determine the cause of the captain’s hesitation and sees a woman waiting for them in front of the building’s entrance. She is tall and thin, with strained brown eyes and brown hair scraped back from her face. As soon as she recognizes them, she steps forward. When she is close, she pulls Kirk into a tight embrace and murmurs something into his ear.
Kirk does not introduce her. For several minutes, he and the woman do not speak at all. He holds both of her hands in his, leans in so that he can scrutinize her features, then asks softly, “Sam?”
She bites her lip and looks away. “He’s with him.” She takes a shuddering breath. “I know you just got here, Jim, but I don’t think he can wait. Can you come now?”
“Yeah—” Kirk glances back at McCoy, who nods— “of course.”
“We’ll be here,” the doctor says gruffly. Spock recognizes reassurance in his voice and warm understanding in his eyes as he lifts his chin to indicate that the captain should follow the woman. Spock recognizes both emotions but he does not understand. Not for the first time, he considers the unsettling possibility that he will never understand his human crewmates and their intuitive, emotional reactions to stimuli.
“Thanks, Bones,” the captain murmurs. The two humans share a smile shadowed by sadness, then Kirk disappears after the woman, and Spock and McCoy are left to their own devices.
They settle into lodgings close to the shuttleport while waiting to hear from the captain. Late in the evening, they receive a brief message advising them of a location and a time. From this, they understand that the tests have been completed and the procedure that brought them to this planet has been approved.
The procedure is dangerous and untested. It takes place on a Thursday. The doctor decides that its being on a Thursday is good luck. Spock points out that luck has no bearing on the procedure’s success or failure, and furthermore “Thursday” is a meaningless, Terra-centric concept. The doctor grumbles and ignores him for the rest of the evening, a desirable outcome that Spock counts as a success.
After the procedure, the captain is weak and tired, unable to process information with his usual grasp or intelligence. Dr McCoy crosses his arms over his chest and protests that Spock should “at least let me check his damn vital signs” and “for god’s sake, man, let him have a day to recover” before they update him on what has happened. It is not until two days after the procedure, when McCoy has left the captain’s hospital room to retrieve overdue lab results, that Spock is able to inform the captain that the procedure has failed and his nephew has died.
Kirk is quiet and still, staring down at the white sheet covering his legs, as he listens carefully to Spock’s description of the events that have transpired. Spock does not understand his reaction. It is not what he expects. (He allows that Jim Kirk is often not what, or who, he expects.) Spock acknowledges that he has not understood before now that the captain is close to his brother and his brother’s wife and his nephew, even if he does not speak of them.
During the funeral service, the captain sits between Spock and Dr McCoy. Midway through the service, the captain leans forward to catch McCoy’s eye, and his shoulder touches Spock’s for a fraction of a moment. It is long enough for Spock to be inundated with emotion, waves of nausea and loss and uncertainty, so much pain that he almost gasps out loud. Spock cannot comprehend this depth of emotion. He cannot fathom its source or direction. He does not understand it at all. He closes his eyes to retain his control, as befits a Vulcan and a Starfleet officer.
Towards the end of the funeral service, the captain gets up to deliver a eulogy. He stands in front of the mourners and begins: “Every child brings with it the unknown, brings possibilities and chances rooted in the distant past, possibilities stretching away into the future—”
Spock listens to his captain’s quick and level voice and struggles to understand his words. He struggles to push away the persistent memory of Vulcan and the devastating pain of losing his mother along with his whole world. He struggles to forget the desolation in his father’s eyes when he admitted his love and grief. He listens to his captain and remembers those waves of nausea and loss and uncertainty and pain, and he tells himself that he is struggling because he does not understand.
After the burial, the captain’s brother and sister-in-law wait with them at the shuttleport while their shuttle is prepared for departure. Dr Kirk stands several feet away from them, his arm around his trembling wife. Spock observes that Dr Kirk’s shoulders are bent, his face old with grief. He can appreciate Dr Kirk’s anguish at the loss of his child, but Spock does not pretend to understand it.
When the shuttle is ready, Dr Kirk speaks. “Aurelan and I wanted to say,” he begins. He falters, clutches his wife closer to his side, and stares at his brother. “We wanted to say… It means a lot that you came, Jim. That you tried. Thank you for that.”
The captain makes a small choked noise. “I wish—” he says helplessly.
Aurelan Kirk steps forward and squeezes his arm. “Don’t,” she whispers as she reaches up to kiss his cheek. She turns and walks away quickly, but not before Spock has observed new tears tracking down her face.
Sam Kirk gazes after his wife, his eyes filled with pain and longing, then looks back to his brother. He ruffles the captain’s hair, as if he were a child. “Keep in touch, little brother.”
The captain nods tightly. Dr Kirk nods back before turning to follow his wife.
When they are alone, Dr McCoy lays his hand on the captain’s shoulder. The captain smiles in response, but it is a less a smile than a flattening of lips into a thin unhappy line, aching with pain and loss. The doctor squeezes his shoulder in sympathy. Spock wishes he could do the same.
“Thanks for being here, both of you,” Kirk says quietly as he leads the way on to the shuttle. “I know it wasn’t much of a shoreleave.”
“We’re your friends, kid,” McCoy grumbles. “Why would we be anywhere else?”
Kirk nods as he straps into the pilot’s seat. He begins space launch procedures without looking back once.
And you’re not even upset?
After the surgery is over and Dr M’Benga is sure that Dr McCoy will survive, the captain disappears. Spock finds him in the transporter room, staring at the doctor’s blood on the platform. Spock does not think, as he would have done in the past, that the pads should have already been cleaned by now. He does not think about the reports that need to be filed after this mission. He does not think about anything at all apart from the needs of this moment.
Spock thinks he understands what this moment needs, but he hesitates. He remembers standing there, where the captain is now, on the steps of the transporter pads, with his father standing behind him. He remembers his father’s reassurance that his mother would tell him not to hide his emotions — do not try to — and his father’s admission — I married her because I loved her. After all this time, Spock thinks he understands.
He steps fully into the room and stands beside his captain and friend. He reaches out tentatively, as he has seen the doctor do countless times. He lays his hand on the captain’s — his friend’s — shoulder, and accepts the rush of emotion that accompanies the touch. He feels terrorgriefpain. He understands Jim’s upset, understands fundamentally that “upset” has variable definitions, none of which are remotely adequate to describe what Jim is feeling at the possible loss of his best friend.
They stand together silently, Spock offering comfort and support and Jim accepting both.
Eventually Jim turns to go. He brushes his hand against Spock’s, a feather-light touch that conveys gratitude more than any other emotion. Spock still senses his uncertainty and fear, but the emotions are muted, more settled than they were.
Before he turns into the corridor, Jim smiles, and there is a question on his face, as clear and precise as if he had spoken the words out loud:
Do you understand now?
Spock thinks of his father’s declaration of love, the emotions he has been privileged to witness in the course of the past year on the Enterprise, the emotions he only now truly understands, and the answer pounds through his veins, which are as much Human as they are Vulcan.
Yes. Yes, I do.
END