Chapter Text
T’Pring calls upon her right to claim koon-ut-kal-if-fee, and in a moment of hazy weakness, Spock wishes—illogically—that he could muster surprise.
Even as the heat of the plak tow simmers beneath the surface of his skin, clawing at the periphery of his mind and demanding that he withdraw control to his subconscious, he can feel the delicacy of the tenuous betrothal bond from their Kan-Telan—their childhood koon-ut-la. It was weak then as children, and in adulthood it is now little more than a piece of floss stretched across the chasm of two incompatible minds. Spock did not anticipate T’Pring’s challenge upon his arrival to Vulcan, and a part of him—the deepest, most primal part of him—seethes with rage and injustice. The crimson sands of the desert reflect the rays of the evening sun, bathing the land in an oppressive, smothering heat. Dr. McCoy and Jim Kirk, his friends, loyal and human as they are, seek refuge from the brutal sunlight and cling to the rock outcrops that line the ceremonial arena. Even from his place on the dias facing the elder T’Pau, Spock can see the reflection of sweat that smatters his Captain’s brow. Spock burns for other reasons. The blood fever is almost upon him.
An arrow of heat strikes him through the abdomen, and Spock tenses and trembles against the pain. Arousal prickles like needles at the base of his skull, the tips of his ears, his hands, his chest. His control slips just enough for him to almost miss it—the moment T’Pring chooses his Captain as her champion.
Several things happen at once.
Spock hears Dr. McCoy, the drawl of his voice clear and outraged as he demands for T’Pau to refuse the Captain’s involvement. His Captain—Jim, his superior officer, his Captain, his friend, Jim—balks and physically steps back, away from T’Pring’s declaring finger. Stonn, who until that point had remained dutifully silent at T’Pring’s side, makes to protest, but T’Pring snaps for him to be quiet. And Spock, fighting every moment for mental control as the threat of pon farr continues to beat through his veins, stumbles forward, falling to his knees ungracefully at T’Pau’s feet.
“Please,” he begs, “he is human. If you allow him to accept championship, he will—” Spock breaks off suddenly as another wave of heat and pain and lust washes over his body. Spock grits his teeth and grips hard to the last vestiges of control over his own mind. Desperation gnaws at his throat, forcing the words out. “—He will surely die.”
T’Pau assesses him through dark, unsympathetic eyes. The lines of age at the corners of her mouth are severe, and they deepen only slightly when she frowns at Spock. She betrays nothing of her thoughts, her face remains a cool Vulcan mask of indifference. Spock calls out to her mind, projecting his overwhelming fear for Jim's safety. I will kill him, he thinks, as loud and as hard as he can. Please, forbid this. Don't allow me to hurt him. T'Pau's gaze never wavers. When she speaks, it is in accented Standard, and she addresses the small entourage.
“T’Pring is within her rights. Kirk—” his name sounds like kerhk on her Vulcan tongue, “will you accept?”
Jim jerks his head up at the sound of his name. Dr. McCoy whispers to him, his face a rather alarming shade of red, but Jim hushes him with a soft “Bones.” He gathers himself, drawing up to full height and lifting his chin in deliberation to the elder T’Pau. His face is blotchy, high point of pink on the apples of his cheeks, a bead of sweat running down the bridge of his nose. His mouth sets in a line that Spock knows well—one of determination, of grit—and his gaze is genuine and imploring when he answers.
“I do,” he says, and those hazel eyes flick down to where Spock’s hands are white-knuckling the hem of T’Pau’s robes. “I accept.”
Spock consciousness is ripped from him as his willpower buckles and he succumbs to plak tow, helpless against the fever in his blood.
His home planet seldom rained.
When Spock chose admittance into Starfleet, his mother accompanied him to Terra. She had insisted, claiming that she missed the blue planet, and that she wished to visit her friends and family that still lived there. Spock suspected that her willingness to travel was in part inspired by the epic row she currently had with her husband. Sarek had still not answered Spock’s attempts at conversation. Spock had still refused to accept admission to the Vulcan Science Academy and cancel his registration at Starfleet.
Spock also knew that, logically, his mother would in the end come to terms with Sarek’s disappointment in his son. She was the wife of a Vulcan, and they were a bonded pair. Harmony of minds was essential to the mental health of such couples. For now, however, his mother seemed content to lead him by the arm through the bustling San Francisco streets and sidewalks.
She took him to see the ocean.
At the risk of submitting to human romanticism, Spock found himself... fascinated. Never in his life had he been in the presence of such a vast body of water. The sand beneath his bare feet was too coarse to resemble the dunes of the Vulcan desert, and the baywind bit harshly at his skin, cold and salty. His mother stood at his elbow, her sandals dangling limply in the grip of her hand, smiling wanely at the sight before them. Without speaking, she started forwards, walking towards waves that swelled against the shoreline. The tide receded, beckoning her. She followed for several feet, before her legs up to the calf were swallowed by another surge of seafoam. Her laughter sounded as though it had been punched out of her, and it rang loud and true over the crash swish shh swish of the ocean current.
Spock followed mutely.
The water rose to greet him, coveting his legs in an embrace before once again rushing back to the sea. The water was frigid, but the ocean was magnetic. The crest of the whitecap was not gentle, and for a moment Spock marveled at the power of the deep, the waves, the foam. His mother turned to him, smile wide and eyes just shy of manic. He gazed forward, towards the calm horizon, contrasted by the tireless movement of the shoreline. He felt hypnotized.
He thought of Vulcan, of the desert, the water beneath the earth. He thought of emotions that ran like currents, rather than canyons. He thought of being submerged, he thought of baptism.
He was not at peace. The power of the water that thrummed around him was violent, and yet he was unhurt. He felt—not calm, not content, not happy—he felt only—awareness.
The plak tow pounds through Spock's bloodstream like the riptides of the Terran ocean. He feels the same floating disassociation, the same detached awareness. He is defenseless against the sea of yearning, longing, heat lust hurt pain—yet he is feels unreached by its urgency. Spock drifts. His mind is coated in a thick, syrupy light, offering cold relief from the dangerous warmth simmering under his skin. There is a moment where the river of light solidifies, gives itself form. It feels like presence. It blankets him, affectionate. It feels like consolation, like comfort, like friendship. Jim, his friend. His Captain.
The first swing of the lirpa catches Kirk in the chest, shredding a horizontal line in his shirt and the scent of blood permeates the air. It is iron-based, not Vulcan copper, and smears bright red lines down the planes of Kirk's torso. Spock circles Kirk like a predator, the fever in his veins demanding that he kill, maim, injure, satisfy the lust for violence. It is a primitive instinct, that of the hunt. It thrills when Spock manages to disarm Kirk of his lirpa. Kirk eyes him warily, and when they spar he aims to incapacitate, to subdue rather than to hurt. His blows do little to slow the hunter in Spock. Spock lunges, flinging the ahn-woon expertly as it wraps around Kirk's calves, knocking him off his feet.
Kirk is on his back and Spock is on top of him immediately.
Spock's body writhes against Kirk's, pinning him down against the desert sand. Kirk's blunt nails scrape for purchase against Spock's forearm, which bars his neck and pushes down relentlessly, threatening to close off his airway. The sun beats down from above, and Spock burns. His entire being is on fire, lit from within and raining cinder from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Spock is blind with the heat of the plak tow, stripped down to the animal within, needy and feral and pained. He can feel the edges of Kirk's mind from the thoughts that bleed through his skin. Fear, desperation, warmth are broadcasted and shared between the telepathic connection of their minds, and Kirk's thoughts taste like honey, golden and heady. The connection between them swells, stretching and then snapping tight like a rubber band.
Kirk thrashes and chokes out, "Spock—"
There is a bond among his people, an ancient and primal connection between warriors that dates back to Pre-Reformation Vulcan. It is traditionally borne out of combat, a telepathic binding between soldiers. It is a sacred thing, revered among Vulcans as one of the only documented soulbonds occurring spontaneously.
It happens suddenly. Spock feels as though he has breached the surface of some great ocean. He is momentarily disoriented, finding himself in control of his body, which still thrums with the drumbeats of plak tow. The blood fever dissipates and Spock regains conscious command over himself at the exact moment that he is sure of two things. His arms shake with the phantom memory of his hands around Jim's throat. The ahn-woon in his grip is still wrapped around Jim's neck, whose body is limp and eyes are closed. Spock crouches over his Captain, unable to move.
One: He has harmed he has killed his Captain his friend Jim who is injured who is dead—
Two: An unmistakable link stretches between them. Spock's Captain—James T. Kirk—is his t'hy'la.
"Let him go, Spock." Dr. McCoy says, 4.4 meters to Spock's left.
Spock stares at the prone body of his t'hy'la—his mate—and eases him down gently, supporting the back of his head, burying his unworthy fingers in sweat-damp hair. Dr. McCoy creeps into Spock's peripheral vision, his body language tense and cautious, as though he expects Spock to lunge for him next. He crouches next to the Captain's body, already beginning a series of scans with his medical tricorder which trills and beeps and whistles. McCoy pauses. Turns off his tricorder. Looks up at Spock with pity in his blue eyes.
"He's dead." Dr. McCoy tells T'Pau, who lowers her eyes and bows her head in differential respect.
O Captain, my Captain! Spock's mind echoes with the cry of a wounded katra, the sky crumbling and splintering and pressing and choking the air from his lungs and the Vulcan sand is stained with blood his hands are stained with blood the Captain's—the dunes run red under the scorch of dusk and Spock's eyes burn—Spock can't breathe from the weight of the sky-
Grief courses through Spock, an ugly emotion compounded by the regret he feels for the fatal consequences of his bloodthirsty actions. Jim's shirt is a shredded mess, the gold fabric stained with streaks of blood and sand. His regulation Starfleet issued pants and boots are coated in dust, and there is a tear just above the hemline of his kick-flairs where the thick rope of the ahn-woon wrapped around his legs. His hair is wet; a few unruly strands curl delicately on his forehead. His eyes are closed.
When asked, T'Pring's logic is flawless. It is illogical to hate her for the success of her premeditated plan, as it was executed unimpaired and synthesized the desired result. Spock nods to himself when she has finished her explanation.
"I release you," he says simply, unable to feel animosity towards T'Pring as he watches her join Stonn's fingers in the ozh'esta. He turns away, dizzy and sick from the emotional pain of Jim's death—murder, at his own hands—but T'Pring catches his eye before he can take more than a few steps back towards Dr. McCoy.
"I grieve with thee." She says.
Spock can do nothing but nod.
McCoy stands, and Spock steps back, away from his Captain's corpse. An aching sadness fills him, and the newly formed t'hy'la bond in his mind withers. The bond hangs between them, sickly and rotten. It's contaminated, unable to withstand the strain that the death of one half the t'hy'la pair. Spock's head pounds, heavy with physical exhaustion and heartache. His katra, his heart, his mind yearns for his t'hy'la, urging him to fulfill the spontaneous birth of their fledgling bond. Spock finds himself illogically longing—wishing, a human tendency—to undo what is done, unable to cope with the immediate consequences of his actions during the plak tow. Logic must prevail because Vulcan emotion runs deep, cuts chasms into the heart and robs of rationality. He mourns the death of his Captain, his friend, his t'hy'la, because logic has no answer. He mindlessly approaches T'Pau, the elder watching him with ever-assessing black eyes. Outwardly, Spock allows very little emotion to show; he is Vulcan, after all.
T'Pau regards him silently for a moment, then lifts her hand in the ta'al.
"Dif-tor heh smusma, Spockh." T'Pau inclines her head. Live long and prosper.
Spock's hands remain stiffly by his side, and a painful lurch from his side inspires his words. In a moment of weakness and emotionalism, he responds.
"I shall do neither, T'Pau. I have killed my Captain," Spock says, "and my friend."
Spock admired Kirk for many reasons. As a Captain, he was a strategic genius. His unique human ability to retain his wits in the face of certain failure had on more than one occasion saved the lives of the Enterprise crew. Romulan battleships, enemy adversaries, even Klingon warbirds had all fallen victim to Kirk's ingenuity. His refusal to accept defeat had at first frustrated Spock as stubbornness, but it soon became clear that Kirk's attitude allowed him to seek out life-saving, albeit unconventional, alternatives.
As a friend, Spock considered Jim unfailingly loyal. From the beginning of his assignment aboard the Enterprise, he had made diligent effort to befriend Spock, despite the cultural mores of his Vulcan heritage. He valued Spock as an officer for his experience, and often made a point to encourage Spock's conference on important mission-specific decisions. Over an invited chess match in the rec area of Starbase Epsilon-1, Jim had checkmated Spock in 49 moves. At first impression, Spock had underestimated his Captain, a mistake that from that point forward he did not repeat.
As First Officer and the Enterprise's second in command, Spock could confirm that at the least her Captain was calculated, courageous to the point of foolhardiness, and more than qualified to hold command position. At most, Spock thought of Jim as saccharine friendly, extremely intelligent, and attractive in a soft way that never failed to cause affection to bloom in Spock's chest.
Beaming back onboard the Enterprise, Spock heads straight for the Sick Bay.
When he gets there, he finds McCoy bent slightly at the waist over his desk, speaking in hushed tones with Nurse Chapel, who holds a slim data PADD in her hands. She sees him before McCoy does, falling silent and pursing her lips. Spock has no want of her sympathy. Her pity. Dr. McCoy sights him and straightens, bouncing on the heels of his feet and crossing his forearms over the chest of his science-blue medical uniform.
"And just what do you think you're doing here?" McCoy growls, narrowing his steel blue eyes.
"I have transferred command of the Enterprise to Commander Scott," Spock replies coolly, "we are on course for the nearest Starbase."
He has betrayed his Captain, a court-martial offense. He has harmed his t'hy'la, and unforgivable crime in Vulcan culture. He has murdered his friend, an equally deplorable act in Human. Guilt is not of the question.
"For the time being, I will retire to the brig."
Dr. McCoy's eyes widen and the corner of his mouth tugs down in a deep scowl. "The brig?" he demands, "Spock, you—" he exhales in a sharp huff, but his frown lessens. "Spock, the Captain isn't—"
"My actions on Vulcan necessitate that I be detained until I may be properly punished. Upon arrival to Starbase 9, I will deliver myself to the authorities to be subject to trial for my crime."
Dr. McCoy's gaze settles on something just beyond Spock's right shoulder, and his lips quirk, he looks like he wants to say something but then—
"Don't you think you'd better ask me first?"
Spock whirls, eyes widening and almost losing balance because there—standing, smirking, alive, gloriously alive—Jim's hands are on cocked hips and he grins and walks right past Spock's shoulder.
"Captain!" Spock exclaims, surprise and shock and happiness erupting from deep within his chest and he turns to follow his Captain, who still has that infuriatingly smug look on his face. "Jim!" In a moment of giddiness, Spock grabs Jim's upper arms and tugs him around. He can feel the smile on his lips but he doesn't care, Spock could weep with relief and not care because his t'hy'la is safe. Jim laughs softly at Spock, his eyes dazed. Their bond, previously shriveled and dark, awakens and erupts in a tidal wave of joy, Spock's mind instinctively reacting to the proximity of his Captain. His entire being thrums with the rhythm of mate t'hy'la friend Jim alive mate alive alive and Spock dizzies from the emotional whiplash. It is because his mental shields are in tatters that he allows his mind to seek Jim's, and there is a precious moment where Spock can feel his t'hy'la on the other end of their mental connection before a wall springs between them, as thick and final as solid concrete.
The floor feels as though it has lurched beneath him, and Spock's felicity quickly gives way to confusion. The smile falls from his face, and he lets his hands slide from their grip on Jim's shoulders. Then Jim steps back and away, and Spock's mind urges wrong! closer!, and Spock feels inexplicably as though he is missing something. He looks Nurse Chapel, then to McCoy, who appears to be just short of vibrating with smugness.
Spock schools his expression. "How—?"
"That was no tri-ox compound I gave him! It was a neural tranquilizer! Knocked him right out. Simulated death." McCoy's face splits into a wide grin as he turns to Jim, bouncing on his heels three times. Spock looks over at the Captain, whose gaze is stubbornly set on the toe of his left boot. McCoy's expression relaxes, and he claps Jim on the shoulder.
"It's good to have you back, Jim." He says, and Jim smiles softly in return.
The block remains firmly wedged at the precipice of Spock's mind. Confusion becomes disbelief. Dread.
"Mr. Spock," Jim says, and Spock meets his hazel eyes and draws up to his full height, folding his hands behind his back in a practiced parade rest. "You have the rest of the day off to recover from your-" his gaze slides to Nurse Chapel, then back to Spock, "-illness. Get some rest. I expect you back on the bridge for Alpha shift tomorrow. Are we clear?"
Spock nods jerkily. In his mind, he cautiously probes at the wall between them. He feels how it resembles a stone, a dam sprung up in the middle of the river between him and his t'hy'la. It is solid. Intentional. Spock gathers himself mentally—noting how frail his psychic presence is and resolving to meditate as soon as possible—and presses against the concrete divider, gently but firmly.
Jim immediately stiffens, his softly affectionate expression morphing quickly into one of vulnerability and anger. His shoulders snap back and his vertebrae align vertically as though someone has drawn a zipper up his spine.
"Mr. Spock!" Jim snarls, "You are dismissed!"
With that, he turns on his heel and leaves Sick Bay, leaving nothing but the tell-tale swish of the automatic doors behind him. Spock ignores Nurse Chapel's shocked gasp, and the way McCoy gapes at the absent Captain, evidently surprised by his aggressive outburst. The muscles of Spock's jaw jump as he wordlessly motions his leave, following after the Captain out of Sick Bay and into the Enterprise deck halls.
The rejection feels like a physical blow to the stomach. There is no question that the deliberate and ruthless shielding of Jim's mind is anything but a dismissal of their bond. Spock numbly heads in the direction of his personal quarters, fighting to keep his expression neutral when he passes personnel. He tries to sympathize with Jim's logic—relationships between Command officers are risky, uncommon, ill-advised, let alone a soulbond to the magnitude of a t'hy'la pairing. Spock's affection for Jim had weakened his emotional control—he had hoped that Jim's tendency to disregard unnecessary regulation would extend to allow their joining, but—
No, Spock chastises himself firmly. Regardless of their roles aboard the starship Enterprise, there is little probability that Jim would consider Spock a viable romantic partner in an alternate setting. He has little to offer the Captain what he cannot find elsewhere. Loyalty. Commitment. Devotion. All of which are in high supply to a Starfleet Captain.
In actuality, Jim's rejection is, Spock decides as he reaches his quarters and restores the thermo-regulation to his optimal temperature range, entirely logical. Spock is at least grateful that Jim did not choose to scorn him in front of Dr. McCoy and Nurse Chapel. The Captain is ever-gracious, but psi-null species rarely find spontaneous mental connection to be a welcome invasion. If Spock believed in serendipity, he would consider himself lucky that he has not received transfer notification or a demerit. He certainly deserves one after nearly permanently maiming his commanding officer.
Meditation does not come easily.
The t'hy'la bond wanes from undernourishment, threatening to destabilize what little control Spock has been able to regain over his telepathic shields. Instinct demands that Spock seek out his t'hy'la, a violent impulse that shouts for him to claim, protect, mate. Beneath that is the urge to obey Jim's demands of distance, to give his mate anything to keep him happy and safe.
Exhausted, disoriented, and with a brain more disorganized than it has ever been, Spock near collapses into bed after 2.37 hours of fitful meditation.
I am a fool, Spock thinks, moments before sleep finally claims him.
Spock awakens after a night of restless sleep at 0445 the following morning. He shivers, pulling his rumpled meditation robes tighter around his shoulders. Despite the temperature control unit on the wall of his quarters reading his usual 113° F, the tips of his extremities radiate cold. This is no doubt due to the bond, which—upon closer mental inspection—seems to have shrunken further into a state of decay. The solid wall separating Jim's consciousness from his own remains, as final and divisive as a physical barrier.
Spock attempts to meditate, finding only a little more success than the night previous. By the time he is due for Alpha shift, Spock has regained a tenuous control over his telepathic faculties. The bond remains lifeless, a bitter and lingering reminder of his t'hy'la's rejection. Spock's mind is... lonely.
As if summoned, the overhead intercom whistles. "Captain to Commander Spock."
Spock pauses in pulling on his regulation uniform. He starts to walk over to the communications panel by his quarters' door, but stumbles slightly when his boot catches on the edge of his desk. Losing balance, Spock is forced to grip the back of his office chair in order to steady himself from the sudden onslaught of dizziness. Spots float at the edge of his vision, blurring his line of sight and making his brain feel as though it is full of lead. He drops his head to chest, breathing deeply and fighting the spell. The sudden decrease in his performance and mental health is worrying. He resolves that he must speak with the Captain regarding the fledgling bonding. Pain fills his being at the thought of dissolving or breaking their connection, but the Vulcan side of him rises quickly to squander the physiological response.
Pain is of the mind, Spock repeats the mantra to himself, centering and gritting his teeth against the tremors of the episode. This bond must be broken. It is unrequited. Kaiidth.
The intercom whines again. "Captain to Commander Spock. Come in, Commander Spock."
Spock fights through the lingering lightheadedness and jams his thumb at the receiver button on the communications panel.
"Spock here."
"Spock, I'd like to discuss with you a matter of professional and personal importance." Jim's voice has a disturbingly soothing effect on Spock, who feels something in his side loosen and un-tense at his Captain's words. "I'd like you to meet me in my quarters after your dinner. Is 1900 hours sufficient?"
"Acknowledged and agreed, Captain."
Spock is almost finished dusting the high arches of his upward-turned eyebrows when the intercom signals again, this time with the chirp of the private channel. Spock acknowledges the notification and opens a voice chat.
"Spock here." He greets, methodically returning his cosmetics to their packaging and storage.
"McCoy. Spock, I'd like you to come by Sick Bay before dinner tonight."
Spock's eyebrow bounces upward towards his hairline. "Might I inquire why, Doctor?"
McCoy's voice sounds disgruntled over the communications. "Damn it, Spock," McCoy grumbles, "You were having a-an episode. You were out of your mind down on Vulcan, and you can't expect me to ignore it. As your physician, isn't it logical that I'm concerned about your health?"
"Concern is an emotion with which Vulcans have no logical use." Spock replies smoothly, breezing through McCoy's exclamation of disgust, "But, I suppose it does make sense."
The doctor's sigh crackles through the intercom speaker.
"I will report to Sick Bay following Alpha Shift. Spock out."
Spock spares his appearance a final cursory glance before he turns sharply on his heel and exits his personal quarters. The Enterprise hallway is already busy with foot-traffic. Off duty and non-essential personnel traverse the deck, rushing in and out of quarters and turbolifts. Spock heads in the direction of the main lift. It takes him a moment longer than necessary, but almost immediately Spock realizes that the staff seem to be giving him a wider berth than routine. He even catches a young ensign eyeing him from where she is running diagnostics from a ship computer panel. When she sees that she's been spotted, her posture over-corrects and she looks away, hastily attempting to appear very busy with her diagnostic scan.
Spock thinks little of it, pausing slightly in his gait to allow the turbolift doors to swish open. When they closes behind him, he grabs the handle of the lift and twists it.
"Bridge," Spock announces, just as his right knee buckles.
This time when the dizziness comes, Spock has to beat back unconsciousness as it threatens to overpower him. His vision almost whites out entirely, his mind throbbing slightly, not in a way that hurts but enough to feel uncomfortable. T'hy'la! Spock's mind urges, Jim!
Enough! Spock thinks, clenching his teeth and closing his eyes. He falls into his mind slightly, taking stock of his telepathic plain and finding it almost in shambles. He allows himself to slip into a slight trance, quickly gathering the frayed edges of the bond and conjuring a mental compartmentalization, forcing the pulsating river of light—which has grown dim overnight—into a mental stasis. It requires a great deal of energy, but when he is through he can hardly sense the bond from behind the partition which he has isolated it. The only conscious reminder of its existence is Jim's shields, which have yet to change condition. In a haze, Spock thinks to congratulate the Captain on his ability to protect his mind. The level of skill he demonstrates in his continued projection of boundaries takes a great deal of practice to achieve.
When Spock emerges from the trance, it is in just enough time to straighten into parade rest before the turbolift doors open to the Bridge.
Jim is rubbing one hand over his temple when Spock comes to stand next to the command chair.
"Are you quite all right, Captain?" Spock addresses Jim with a slight incline of his head. He is aware of the bond reacting to the proximity of his t'hy'la, flaring madly behind the barrier in Spock's mind, but no pain afflicts him. Spock notes—with satisfaction—that he feels no irregular responses, other than a small but persistent urge to touch.
Jim waves him off with a tight smile. "Just fine, Mr. Spock. You may report to your station."
Spock acquiesces at the dismissal and walks the 4.09 meters over to the science officer station, meeting Lieutenant Uhura's sharp brown eyes and questioning gaze. She is no doubt speculative—along with the rest of the senior crew—about Spock's condition, after being so abruptly relieved of duty due to the unfortunate appearance of his Time. There are moments aboard the Enterprise when Spock grows soft and affectionate; after all, it is quite unrealistic to expect complete avoidance of the crew's all-too-frequent displays of mushy emotionalism and to remain unaffected by them. It is quite predictable that he, as a member of a majority human crew, form an... attachment to the Enterprise and her passengers. His own tumultuous feelings surrounding his Captain aside, Spock can easily claim respect, admiration, and even an amount of sentimentality towards his coworkers. Perhaps even those with which he has complicated, confusing relationships, like Dr. McCoy.
There are other moments, like this one, where Spock misses the company of Vulcans.
His Vulcan peers would have not even a polite interest in his personal affairs. It would be offensive to even consider prying into a colleague's private life, a violation of the unspoken respect of privacy. To Vulcans, small talk is a waste of words. Undignified.
His fellow crewmembers are not Vulcan, and therefore have no qualms with—and Spock suspects, find enjoyment in—conspiracy, hypothecation, and one fears even investigation, into Spock's business. Spock is thankful when his Captain calls for him.
"Report, Mr. Spock."
"We are approaching Altair IV, Captain." Spock recites, straightening in his seat at the sensor console. His eyes scan the mission dossier, and he reads the information aloud. "As Ms. Uhura will confirm, Federation vessel U.S.S. Musashi is already in orbit of the Class "M" planet. The Musashi is a Galaxy Class starship, under direction of Captain Floyd, Admiral Komack commanding."
"Standard orbit, Mr. Sulu," Jim instructs, his hand absentmindedly thumbing the corner of his mouth. "Mr. Spock, what can you tell us about the planet? Its people?"
"The inhabitants of Altair IV are humanoid, sir. Their society values the concepts of heritage and tradition, hence the inauguration that we have been instructed to observe. Altairians are relatively harmonious, seeming to have very little need of a centralized global government. The election we have been summoned to witness is purely ceremonial and celebratory in nature." Jim processes the information as Spock lists it, bobbing his head to encourage Spock to continue. "Altair IV is an Earth-like planet, with liquid oceans and five distinct continents. The ritual will be hosted on the second largest of the landmasses, which is in its autumnal cycle. Temperatures fluctuate between 76 and 89 degrees and daylight hours equal 14.7 Earth hours on average, Captain."
"Excellent," Jim stands and claps his hands together, rubbing his palms in a 'let's get to it' display. "Our presence here is strictly diplomatic. Lieutenant Uhura—" the Captain whirls to face her when she removes her communications piece from her ear, "—compile a summary of social customs and expectations, then have it distributed to the senior staff and relevant personnel. You have your orders."
The Lieutenant nods purposefully, immediately turning into her seat and beginning to type input into her console.
"Everyone else," the Captain announces, "maintain present course. Standard procedure. Stand by for further instruction."
"Aye aye, sir." Lieutenant Sulu responds from the helm. When his eyes slide over to Spock and he sees that Spock is already watching him, he doesn't look away.
Meanwhile, the Captain meanders over to the First Officer's station, his legs swinging in front of him in idleness. His movements pull Spock's attention away from the helmsman. Spock notes signs of fatigue in the faint darkness below Jim's eyes, his dull expression, the tension at the corners of his mouth. Spock feels concern itch at his sternum, soothes it with Surakian principles. Illogical, he chides. Jim yawns, his hands reaching above and behind his head in a languid stretch and leaning his hip against the bridge handrails.
"Spock," he murmurs, "did you know your left ear twitches when you're annoyed? Like a cat."
"Captain," Spock blinks, "I cannot determine a logical motivation for your actions."
"'My actions'?"
"Lying, sir."
Jim laughs softly, an overall delightful sound itself. His amusement rings like a melody to Spock's bond-ridden mind, soothing and warming and melting Spock's heart. For a moment, Spock forgets that he feels frigid in the bridge's air conditioning, instead feeling a healthy flush rush to his cheekbones. The connection between them strains valiantly against the wall it is encased in, thrumming with t'hy'la love Jim happy mate content. Then, Jim leans over the handrail and claps Spock on the forearm.
There is a jolt like a static shock, then the bond lurches violently against the wall in Spock's mind. Jim pulls his hand back like he's been burned, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Spock feels as though he has been doused in ice water, and he suppresses a shudder against the sudden wave of coldness.
"Mr. Spock," Jim says, pausing to rub the heel of his palm against his eyes with a grimace, "please report to the Transporter Room. Admiral Komack will be beaming aboard shortly for a mission briefing. I'd like you there to oversee his arrival."
Spock averts his eyes from his t'hy'la and wordlessly rises from his station to follow orders. He pauses momentarily, faltering at the head-rush, but plows forward when he sees Jim's eyebrows furrow in concern. He leaves the bridge in a slight daze. Spock is not a sad man, nor tends to be regretful. He handles himself quite well, and even though he is of mixed heritage, he was raised Vulcan. He lives by the teachings of Surak. But the past week has left Spock an emotional wreck. He is exhausted as the result of his pon farr. He is distraught both from his perceived loss of his Captain's life and the experienced rejection of his t'hy'la. His telepathic faculties are in shambles and as the bond becomes weaker in his mind, its influence becomes more acute. There is a constant ache in his side now, where his heart has been taken from him, and dizzy spells come fast and frequent. Spock is undesirable as a bondmate; he has been renounced by his beloved. By Vulcan standards, Spock is a burnout.
An over emotional and desperately pining half-human hybrid officer of Starfleet, no less.
Frustration threatens to choke him, and this time Spock does not have enough energy to suppress it. Spock is drowning; The ocean inside of him swells and beckons him further into the deep. Lak'tra alem-masu. Grief is water, Surak teaches. It sources and flows through all things. It has a flood, and an ebb. Find peace and logic in the scorch of the Vulcan desert, the sun, the heat. Bolik kal-tor pseth du. You must let it dry, you must move on.
All warmth has been leeched from Spock, the greedy and suffering bond absorbing all energy from his body in a valiant attempt to stay alive. Soon, it will burn itself up from the inside, like an overloaded phaser bank with no release. All that is left will be Spock, a cold and empty derelict of the once respectable scientist. Spock can't breathe.
This time when the turbolift doors swish open, Spock has to take several moments to compose himself from where he has leaned against the cold metal hull of the Enterprise for support. He takes a deep gulp of air through his nose, then straightens and tugs his uniform down sharply. For now, his mental shields hold against the vortex the bond is creating in his mind.
For now, he thinks. For now.
The Admiral's arrival on the Enterprise occurs with very little difficulty. The Admiral is a rather unattractive man, stout and bulky. His hair is graying in places and white in others, and the lines of his face are severe and unfriendly. His gold uniform is decorated with his Starfleet insignia of rank. The Captain stands at attention to greet him, and clasps one of Admiral Komack's hands in both of his with a tight but altogether polite smile.
"Welcome aboard, Admiral Komack." Jim says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He is the picture of hospitality and diplomacy. "Many apologies for our delay, but the Vulcan Elder T'Pau cannot be ignored, you see."
Admiral Komack presses his lips together in an unimpressed frown.
"I do indeed see, Captain Kirk."
Spock is able to invest all his mental faculties in restraining the splintering bond afflicting his brain, and working on autopilot the Admiral boards the Enterprise without transporter incident. By the time Spock has been relieved from Alpha shift, his t'hy'la—the Captain is busy carting around the Starfleet command officer on a no doubt grandiose and long-winded tour of the ship and Spock is on the verge of physical collapse. Tremors wrack his body in small increments, and cold bites at his fingers and the tips of his ears.
The chronometer reads 1720 when Spock reports to Sick Bay.
"You look like shit, Spock." Dr. McCoy says as a manner of greeting, patting his observation table with one hand. Spock complies with the wordless request and seats himself ungracefully on the bench. The doctor immediately begins his diagnostics pattern, tying in Spock's readings with the display above the bulkhead. For a moment, Spock—unable to find energy for banter—and McCoy—busy frowning at his medical tricorder—stand in relatively comfortable silence, save for the beeps and whistles of the medical instruments as they whir away at analysis.
It is broken when McCoy shuts off his tricorder with a snap, frowning as he gives Spock a visual once-over.
"I'm not sure if this is significant," he begins, "I'm not trained in Vulcan healing, and your hybrid status gives you a unique physiology to any of both Vulcan and Human records."
"That being said," McCoy goes on, leaning his weight on his hands that rest on the observation table, "your readings are as close to Vulcan-normal as I've ever seen them."
"Meaning what exactly, doctor?" Spock cocks his head at McCoy, his voice pitched low and raspy from tiredness.
"I don't know!" McCoy huffs in exclamation, throwing his hands above his head. "Your heart rate, blood pressure, and core temperature are at their lowest on record. That may be a result of the pon farr—" McCoy horribly butchers the pronunciation, the words sounding like "pawn far" in his Southern drawl, "—or maybe not."
The doctor leans in suddenly, squinting at Spock in scrutiny, who leans away instinctively to McCoy's invasion of his space.
"You feeling alright?" McCoy interrogates, "Having trouble concentrating? Any dizziness, nausea, insomnia? Are you... cold, Spock?"
Spock considers him for a second, and raises his eyebrows in an expression of thought. He blinks, considering how much information he is willing to share with the doctor before he has a chance to speak to Jim.
"I admit," Spock says softly, "I have found the thermal atmosphere growing increasingly uncomfortable." At the aggressive jump of McCoy's brow, Spock continues. "I have found difficultly achieving a meditative state since my return to the Enterprise yesterday. And... I have. Had approximately, a half dozen or so, spells of vertigo. In which I find myself unable to speak nor walk great distances without pain to my mind."
McCoy curses a blue streak.
"Approximately?! A half dozen or so, Spock?" The doctor has now resorted to pacing around Sick Bay as he raves, his face becoming a rather impressive shade of red.
"I will speak to the Captain this evening at 1900 hours in order to arrange meeting with a Vulcan Hakausu. The Intrepid is scheduled to dock at nearby Starbase 9 in four solar days. As an entirely Vulcan crew, it is a logical assumption that a qualified Hakausu will be among their staff."
"Dammit, Spock," McCoy curses again, but without as much venom as before, "I'll sign off on whatever orders Jim can issue, and I can give you something to help the cold, but only if you promise to report immediately to M'Benga if this gets any worse, you hear me?"
"Loud and clear, doctor."
McCoy sighs and it sounds almost exactly like the hypospray hisses when the doctor administers the medication.
"C'mon now," McCoy says gruffly, "I'll join you on your way to the mess. I'm heading that way myself."
Spock has spent enough time on and off duty with McCoy to see a gesture of friendship when it is offered. He accepts.
The dining hall of the Enterprise is bustling with activity when Spock and McCoy arrive just shy of 1800 hours. There is a cafeteria line of about 20 personnel at each of the three replicators, and the buzz of noise forces Spock to lean in close to hear the doctor when he speaks. Spock, as an exceptionally strong telepath, able to project his mind and consciousness across physical distance unlike other touch telepaths of his species, reinforces his mental shields. In his mind, he builds shelter against the deafening chatter of a hundred untrained Human minds projecting their thoughts and emotions, using the bond-barrier that Jim keeps enforced as a crutch. Mentally, he props himself against the wall, feeling how it leaches heat from him further, and seals off his shields, muting the telepathic background noise to a tolerable level.
The practice is one that Spock performs regularly, yet at this time it leaves him exhausted. He sways dangerously next to McCoy, woozy and disoriented momentarily. His eyes slip closed, his stance widening to correct the loss of balance.
"Whoa, there! Spock!" McCoy quickly grabs a strong hold on his upper arms, dragging Spock to the closest unoccupied table and seating him roughly. His hands fly over Spock, taking care to avoid his bare skin. He checks Spock's ears, his shoulders, his neck, and is about to start testing the mobility range of Spock's elbow when Spock's arms finally start obeying him and one hand reaches out—lightening fast—and clamps down on McCoy's wrist.
"Cease this, doctor." Spock grits out between clenched teeth. McCoy splutters indignantly and snatches his wrist back, cradling it against his chest.
"Excuse me, you hobgoblin," McCoy hisses, "but you turned white as a sheet! Would you rather me to just let you pass out on the floor?" McCoy's face contorts. "Don't answer that," He snaps.
"If you are quite done," Spock says, one hand coming up to settle over his eyes as he wills away the lingering static at the edges of his vision, "I ask that you either escort me to my quarters where I might attempt meditation—" McCoy huffs again, ready to interject, "—or that you acquire barkaya marak from the synthesizers and let me eat in peace."
McCoy's blue eyes flash like steel but he jumps up, flapping his hands angrily as he moves to the end of the dinner line.
When he returns 13.7 minutes later, McCoy is carrying a tray containing a bowl of chili and Terran cornbread and a tray which he plops down in front of Spock. On it is a bowl of vegetable soup and Vulcan kap. For a moment, Spock considers feeling touched by McCoy's apparent knowledge of Vulcan cuisine, but then the doctor begins speaking and Spock dismisses the notion.
"Bone-ah-petite, Princess." McCoy grumbles. Spock raises an unimpressed eyebrow that the doctor pointedly ignores as he tucks into his food with gusto.
It isn't until after when McCoy hands Spock another set of internal thermoregulation hyposprays and leaves Spock to himself with a clap on the shoulder and a reminder to 'let me know what Jim recommends' that Spock allows himself a brief moment of panic. The chronometer reads 1852. Steeling himself, Spock rises and deposits his tray in the matter receptacle.
The Captain is not in his quarters when Spock arrives outside the door. For a moment Spock stands there, puzzled, before he hears his name be called from down the corridor. The bond—which had been dormant all evening—sparks to new life. It is agitated by the presence of its other half.
"Mr. Spock!" Spock turns on his heel, slipping his hands behind his back as the Captain rounds the corner. Jim waves and puts on a light jog until he comes shoulder to shoulder with Spock. "Hey," Jim says, breathing deeply, "sorry about that. The Admiral's mission briefing was...extremely in-depth, I left as soon as I was able."
"Apologies are unnecessary, Captain." Spock acquiesces as he follows Jim into the Captain's quarters, the door clicking shut behind him as the privacy screen engages automatically. "Captain, there is something I must speak to you about—"
"You know what I'm going to say, don't you, Commander?" Jim grins at Spock from where he has punched codes into his personal replicator. His face softens considerably, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an exceptionally endearing manner. His expression looks tired, just this side of weary. There is a thin sheen of perspiration on his Captain's face, and his skin flushes an almost-unhealthy blush. A pitcher of iced saya materializes in the tray of the food synthesizer.
"Yes, Jim," Spock murmurs, "I can hypothesize."
When his t'hy'la smiles at him, Spock is knocked momentarily speechless. Jim's golden aura seems to halo his figure, clearing the air like sunshine after a thunderstorm. Deep within Spock, emotion splinters through his psyche and shakes him to his core, effectively destabilizing the stasis that he had coerced the bond into earlier that day. With great feeling, the bond breaks free of the binding, yearning and pulling and seeking Jim's mind. At this time, the river of light grows and swells into an ocean, washing over and beneath the surface of Spock's mind and beating against the wall separating him from Jim, like the crash of waves against a shoreline. The sea in Spock's mind is glacial and frigid and it crashes forward into the bond-barrier with such force that Spock staggers physically.
Jim's face contorts suddenly into a grimace of pain, his hand shooting up to grip his temples. Spock mirrors his actions, and both of them are shaken by the bond that links their two minds. It demands that they meet, join, unify—
"God, what—" Jim pants, squeezing his eyes shut as a bead of sweat runs down the bridge of his nose. He fans himself uselessly.
"That, Jim," Spock tries not to let his teeth chatter. He is freezing, "is the matter about which I wish to discuss with you."
Immediately, Jim goes very, very still. His face blanks, the pinched expression sliding off his face. He looks at Spock like he is seeing him for the first time clearly. Spock can see it—or sense it, what does it matter—the hostility. The unease. Wariness. The feeling cuts through to Spock and it hurts, the waves of distrust coming from his t'hy'la. The instinctive urge beats sluggishly through his veins saying wrong fix this unhappy t'hy'la wrong.
"Spock," Jim says quietly, "do you know something about this? This... presence, in the back of my head?"
As if to illustrate his words, Spock can feel Jim for the first time on the other side of the division between their minds. His thoughts, feelings, emotions are all muted, like they're underwater. Despite the wall separating them, Spock can feel quite acutely when Jim seizes a hold of the bond and shakes it. Pain ricochets through Spock's mind where the unhealed and untethered bond whips against his telepathic shielding.
"Jim, please," Spock gasps, falling to his knees before his Captain and t'hy'la, "what you are feeling is the result of a spontaneous bonding between us, which originated down on the surface of Vulcan during the heat of my blood fever."
Jim kneels next to Spock, reaching out his hand tentatively, instinctively, and it grips Spock's bicep, squeezing gently. He searches Spock's face, eyes imploring.
"Bonding, Spock?" He urges helplessly, "I don't understand."
"There is a bond among my people," Spock recites, dropping his head down to his chest, "a warrior bond, born of combat. The warrior bond formed between us, during the blood fever of my pon farr. When I... believed you to be dead. We are telsu, Jim." Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched.
"We're connected?" Jim's voice sounds far away, "this thing—this bond—in the back of my head. It's a... link between us?"
"In essence, yes." Spock confirms, daring to look up and read the expression on his Captain's face. Jim appears lost in thought, his eyes unseeing and he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. His cheeks are mottled and red. A slight furrow appears between his brow, and Spock is distantly aware of the Captain's thumb rubbing mindlessly at his upper arm. Jim's eyes suddenly snap to Spock's form.
"You're hurt," Jim says as if he just noticed for the first time. "is it because of the bond?"
Spock hesitates. Understanding dawns on Jim, and his face hardens.
"It is, isn't it?" He demands.
"Yes." When Jim curses, Spock continues. "The bond, it can be... broken. By a trained Hakausu. If one desires."
Anguish fills Spock at the thought of breaking telsu to his t'hy'la, but Spock fights it, squanders it. He will give the Captain the freedom to choose his commitment, even if it tears Spock apart in the process. He has already harmed his mate before, nearly killed him in the haze of plak tow. He will not do it again.
"Broken," Jim echoes.
"The Intrepid is scheduled to dock at Starbase 9 in four days. Among their staff are Vulcan healers who are adept in telepathic medicine."
"Yes," Jim says, then quieter, "I will inform Ensign Chekov of our change in course, following the Altarian coronation."
Jim's hand slips from Spock's shoulder and he stands, pulling Spock up from his elbows. For a moment he looks as though he is about to speak, but then he shakes his head subtly and steps back, out of Spock's personal space. The bond twines between them, quiet for the first time since its conception. There is a moment of tension, and once again Spock is struck by the incredibly vague feeling that he missed something.
Intuition, his mother calls it.
Superstition, his father retorts.
"Mr. Spock, at your discretion," Jim says, subdued, "you may return to your quarters."
"Yes, Captain."
That night, after 42.3 minutes of failed meditation, lying on his back beneath the downy comforter, thermal blanket, and his fleece sleeping robe, the thermoregulation controls raised to 126° F, Spock—shivering violently and desperately willing sleep to take him—feels the muted impression of his t'hy'la stirring behind the bond-barrier. For a minute, Spock is soothed by Jim's activity, and then there is the distinct image of a door being slammed, and the wall-barrier stretches, grows, reinforces itself deliberately to sever the bond between them. Spock's side of the bond wanes so severely that Spock verbally cries out against the emptiness, shuddering at the longing within his abdomen when it doubles, triples in strength. T'hy'la, Spock thinks in a half-crazed state of hysteria, Jim, my Captain, my mate. The bond dims and withers and yearning clutches at Spock's heart painfully before unconsciousness finally claims him.