[fic] What You Love (ST:TOS)
Title: What You Love
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: K/S
Word count: 15,000
Notes: Combined episode tag and fallout scenario for Plato’s Stepchildren, one of the most disturbing (for me) TOS episodes ever. Consent issues aren't always about sex--not wholly, at any rate. Many, many thanks to Quakey for her patient, painstaking and thorough edits. Any remaining errors are my own fault and/or choice.


My communicator is open in my hand, Scotty and my ship alive and whole on the other end of the channel. With my free hand I reach up and pull what’s left of Parmen’s laurel off of my head. It’s tangled up with my hair but I yank, it comes loose and I throw it on the floor. Spock’s wreath is already there, just off to the right. I can see it in my peripheral vision. I’m looking at Parmen. I’m not going to take my eyes off of him until the transporter beam connects; I don’t trust him further than Alexander could throw him without kironide and he knows it. His gaze darts back and forth between Spock and me. There’s caution there, more than a touch of fear. Good.

“Energize,” I say into the communicator, and I wait out the inevitable lag time before the beam takes me, all of us, reassembling our atoms in a transporter room empty of everyone but Kyle.

“Sickbay now, all of you,” Bones says. Alexander is looking around the room, fascination in his eyes.

“Doctor, I—” Chapel begins, but I cut her off: “Just a second.” I’m at the transporter console, thumb on the comm link. “Kirk to bridge.”

“Scott here, Captain.”

“Take us out of here, warp factor one. Once we clear the system resume course for Starbase Twenty-six and nudge us up to warp three.”

Scotty’s relief gusts out at me from the mic. “Aye, sir. It’ll be that good to see the backside of this blasted planet.”

“That it will.” Relief is catching. I can hear it in my voice. “Carry on, Mr. Scott. Kirk out.” I turn slowly, scanning faces: Kyle’s curiosity, Bones’ narrow-eyed speculation. Uhura’s glance skitters away from mine and I am—so sorry, Lieutenant.

“Ms. Chapel, the doctor has spoken,” I say, but I’m looking at Spock. The inward fold of his lips, his hands empty at his sides. No tricorder, he’s clean of his scientific trappings. Only that ridiculous toga a testament to the last few hours, this is Spock stripped bare. We demand human behavior of non-humans; we know best, don’t we? And here it is, what I thought I wanted and it’s not at all…what I want.

In some ways we’re no better than those ancient spoiled brats dirtside. Not one of us.

“Jim, you coming?”

I say, “Soon, Bones,” which doesn’t make him happy. He’ll manage. With an ironic look in passing, but that’s a given. Uhura and Chapel trail after him, blank-faced sleepwalkers. Spock is already gone. I doubt Bones will see him at all unless he corners him in his quarters, and although Bones has enough brass for anything, I don’t think he’ll press the issue. Not after today.

I turn my back on the empty door and turn my attention to the only thing from Platonius worth salvaging. Alexander is standing beside Kyle, who’s doing a decent impression of a civilian cruiser caught in a freak ion storm. Alexander’s smile lights up the room, his questions fill it, and I feel my mouth twitch towards my first voluntary smile in too many hours. “It sounds like you know something about starship systems.”

He backs away from the transporter console and turns, transferring his grin from Kyle to me. “We all had to if we wanted to keep our ship working. Propulsion was my job. Well, one of them.”

“Scotty is going to love you,” I tell him, and he goes slightly pink around the ears.

“It’s—” His smile is embarrassed now, “It’s nice to meet people who care about new ideas. About getting somewhere.” He looks down at his hands, held open and slightly raised in front of him. “As soon as their powers began to develop, Parmen and the others stopped caring about anything but—playing, I guess.”

Well. I suppose I can count this abortion of a mission a success in two ways. One, we know not to come back here, and we can prevent others from falling into the same trap. Two, Alexander can start living his own life. Instead of everyone else’s. “Mr. Kyle,” I say, “Contact Mr. DeSalle and have him assign someone to show Alexander around. Whoever it is can bring him along to sickbay when he’s ready.”

“Yes sir.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Alexander waves me out, lord that smile, nothing to worry about there. Elsewhere is something I don’t want to think about right now.

I pause outside the transporter room. Sickbay? Or should I follow Spock’s example and make myself scarce? The turbolift is tempting but—no. Better to get this over with now than have Bones on the warpath later. Much better for my command autonomy. Bones isn’t above a little enforced medical leave when pushed, but thankfully his present ire is for a horse of a different color, not to mention blood-type.

Sickbay is, as always, cold against more of my skin than I’d like and antiseptic harsh in my lungs. Spock is conspicuous by his absence and Bones’ irritation. I listen dutifully, uh-huh-ing in the right places as Bones gives me a twice over, a clean bill of health and a warning: misuse the kironide while it’s still in your bloodstream and your next three physicals will make hell look like a vacation.

I’d say, what’s new? But then I’d be strapped down in iso so fast my head would still be spinning after twenty parsecs. Old officers’ charm school lessons come in handy at the damnedest times, even when it’s only lesson number one: know when not to say when—or anything else.

Keeping quiet does the trick. I’m sprung on my own recognizance, barring any kironide incidents, with a temporary ban from the bridge. “Leave the immediate decisions to someone who isn’t likely to start flipping switches with his brain,” Bones says. “If the effects haven’t faded after twenty-four hours we’ll see about flushing you out.”

Something else to look forward to.

I leave him grumbling over my test results and leave the room before he can change his mind. Uhura says, “Captain?” as I go by her. She’s sitting on a diagnostic bed, palms braced on the foam top. Her legs swing; she’s kicking her heels gently against the side like a kid. She smiles at me, gloriously accepting, it’s all right, sir, it wasn’t your fault, and redemption is mine. I don’t have to say a word.

I hold my hands out to her and she takes them as she did down on Platonius, this time of her own accord. Squeezes warm and tight then lets me go easy with that gorgeous smile lighting her up from the inside out.

“Well miss, let’s have a look at you,” Bones says, and Uhura rolls her eyes and smiles at me again, ruefully this time. I grin my understanding. Sickbay is Bones’ territory; Uhura and I aren’t senior comm officer and captain here, we’re equals in captivity. I’ve got my walking papers, though, and she doesn’t. I mouth I win at her and she crosses her eyes at me and hops down from the bed. Still grinning, I turn away before I start laughing, then veer immediately hard to starboard; Chapel is incoming on my outgoing.

We’re stalemated in the doorway, each of us trying to get out of the other’s way. Not doing a very good job of it. Finally I say, “I think we’re at cross-purposes. You stay there and I’ll go around.”

“Yes, Captain,” Chapel says. Her head is down, she’s not looking at me and—damn. I know where she’s been. That kicked puppy look doesn’t lie. I touch my hand to her upper arm and she half turns, tries to smile. She still won’t meet my eyes.

“Ms. Chapel—Christine?” Finally, a straight look. I smile at her, give her arm a little shake. “None of us is at our best right now. What happened down there, it…shook us up. All of us.”

I’ve been infatuated, in lust more times than I can count; even in love once or twice. And I sincerely hope I’ve never been as painfully obvious about any of the above as Chris Chapel is right now. It’s embarrassing for both of us; the best I can do is hold on to her arm and my smile while she stammers, “I-I’m sorry, sir. I don’t kn-know what’s come over me.”

She knows; I know; the whole ship knows. Probably the entire quadrant knows, Romulans and Klingons included. I’m not about to throw it in her face.

“Captain.” She swallows. Her throat muscles jerk and her hand rises, fingers hovering over the exotic paint around her eyes. “Do you think he—?”

“I think that two shifts from now none of this is going to matter. I think you’re over-thinking things,” I say firmly, and I catch her shoulders in my hands. “It’s going to be all right, Christine,” I tell her and I tighten my grip, holding her in place. I will her to understanding, maybe just agreement, and she gives me what I want. Doesn’t everyone? You’re the captain. She’s nodding as she pulls away from me.

“Your turn, nurse,” says Bones from the inner doorway. I look at him over Chapel’s shoulder and he frowns back. He shakes his head at me, his mouth twisted around words he’s not going to say in front of Chapel. “Get out of here, Jim. You’re scaring the natives.”

“On my way.” But Chapel makes a noise—stifled, strangled almost. Her fingers clutch at my wrist and her eyes are wide and urgent. I know what she wants from me. I say, “I will, don’t worry,” and I see the tense line of her shoulders begin to droop.

Gently, I pull my wrist from her limp fingers. “I’ll see you, Bones,” I say and I get out of there before either of them can ask me for anything else. Blood work, more tests…pound of flesh?

No, that’s not fair. Bones never takes more than he has to in the name of health and science. Chapel’s request is no more than I’d planned on; I’m already headed in that direction. I have a feeling this conversation is going to be bad, but putting it off can only make the situation worse. I belong to the school of one-quick-rip, as my mother used to say. Now is almost always better than later.

Or it will be as soon I get I rid of this toga.

::

Fifteen minutes for a shower and a fresh uniform becomes half an hour. Almost, I don’t go at all. Inside the sani-fac, standing under the rare wet heat of a water shower I change my mind three times. Change it back each time. “Water off,” I say, then, “Radiation sixty percent,” and close my eyes while the burst of heat and air strips the wet from my skin.

The sealed sanitation cube opens when both it and I are dry. I open my eyes. My reflection looks back at me from the bulkhead mirror. My skin is flushed, supersaturated. I stayed in the cube longer than I should have, yet another ‘why’ I don’t want to think about.

I have to think about it. Even if I don’t now, Bones will make sure that I do, and soon. As he should. Who, I wonder, will he talk to? Physician, heal thyself.

Maudlin and melodramatic, Kirk. Why don’t you throw in some self pity and make it three for three?

My reflection rolls its eyes. I step over the discarded toga and walk naked into my cabin. I’ll throw the toga in the waste disposal slot later. Right now I don’t want to touch the thing. The light on the comm console flashes at me, monotonous red; I have transmissions I need to deal with but…Scotty has the conn. I’m officially off duty for twenty-four hours. I have a mountain of reports and transfers I should start on, and I feel like I need to sleep at least half of my allotted off-time. And there’s Spock.

God, Spock.

I sit down on the edge of the bunk and reach for the comm link. My finger hovers just shy of it. One hour. I can give myself that. The starbase is a little over ninety-eight hours away at warp three. I can spare one hour. Spock…can wait that long.

I touch the chronometer control pad. “Alarm sequence three for 1930, one minute sustained.” I let myself topple over onto my pillow. Starships are designed more for utility than luxury, but right now I wouldn’t trade my hour on this bunk for two Terran standard months in the most decadent suite on Argelius. I close my eyes and fall headfirst into nothing.

::

I don’t remember falling asleep but when the comm’s signal drags me back to consciousness exhaustion is still a black hole centered at the base of my skull. I feel myself getting sucked back down into it and I resist, sitting up and pressing receive as I scrub interrupted sleep from my face.

“Kirk here,” I mumble, and Bones says, “Where the hell have you been, I’ve been trying to raise you for an hour.”

“Asleep.” I glance at the chronometer. 2105. Overshot my target by over two hours and slept right through the wake-up call. “What’s up?”

On-screen, Bones’ mouth tightens. “Not you and not Spock. You two are going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel. What’s on your mind, Dr. McCoy?”

“I think that’s my question.”

I scowl at the screen and he scowls right back. The Klingons and their mind sifters have nothing on Bones’ brand of psychological warfare. “If you want a straight answer…”

He sighs and there’s a breath of silence. Then, “The kinesis still with you?”

I concentrate for a moment. The top memory flat in a stack of them begins to rise, I try to hold it in place but my mind keeps…slipping. The disk drops, teeters on the edge of the stack then clatters to the deck.

“Jim?”

“Still there, but it’s fading,” I say.

“Same here. I’d like to run some tests on that demon elf of yours but apparently he’s not accepting any calls right now. Took himself off duty for a three-shift rotation.”

Southern sarcasm thick enough that you could stand a fork up in it, that’s Bones. Spock is going to be paying for this for a month, minimum. Bones knows how to hold a grudge; he says it keeps him warmer at night than any woman ever could. “Did you try the deck three labs?” I ask.

“I’ve tried everywhere. You’re my last resort.”

I laugh out loud at that. “Good to know where I stand.”

“Jim…” There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Go ahead, Bones, you know you want to. I grin at him and, mission accomplished, he’s grinning back, albeit reluctantly. “Oh, go back to sleep.”

“Actually, I thought I’d give Spock’s thermal imaging program a trial run. When I find him, I’ll send him your way,” I say, and get an eyebrow for my trouble.

“Where’ve I heard that before?”

“And you’ll hear it again. Kirk out.”

I cut the link to the sound of his exasperation then crawl out of my bunk and into a fresh uniform. As I step into the head I catch splintered movement in the mirror. I don’t turn. I don’t want to look myself in the eye. I relieve my bladder, splash water on my face, and push my hair back off my forehead with wet fingers. Unsteady fingers. I drop my hands, curl them into loose fists. I turn away from the basin before I give in and look; I leave before I decide to take Bones’ advice and go back to bed. The easy way out: that’s not the road Jim Kirk ever takes, is it? One of these days, maybe I should. For variety’s sake.

Outside my cabin the corridors aren’t empty, but they’re not as full as they are during alpha or beta shifts. I pass only two crewmen on my way to Spock’s quarters, located down around the curve of the corridor from mine, five doors past the turbolift. His security lets me in without trouble; we’ve programmed our personal security for mutual access, which I’ve had cause to be thankful for more than once. The door slides open and I step into dry heat and lights that come up automatically, dull and ruddy: Vulcan normal. His bunk is made and unwrinkled. His workspace is characteristically clutter-free. I slide into his seat and power up his terminal. “Computer, begin data re—”

“Identification required.”

Spock. You’d leave your door open to the world, but your computer? “Authorization requested for Kirk, James T, access code zero one tango sierra five. Verify voice print.”

Aside from the hum of its internal mechanisms the computer is silent. Then, “Voice imprint verified. Kirk, James T. Rank: captain. Priority one access granted.”

“Kind of you.”

“Statement is irrelevant. Specify task.”

It’s like talking to Spock at his rigid best. I’m feeling better already. “Data retrieval. Time and date of Commander Spock’s last log entry.”

“Working…last entry in ship’s log made by Spock, Commander, stardate 5781.8, one day, three point two four hours ago. Last entry in personal log made by Spock, Commander, one point six seven hours ago.”

Have I mentioned that I’m not a nice guy? I’m not. And I’m not above cheating if it’ll give me an edge. “Play back personal log entry.”

“Unable to comply. Entry has been deleted.”

Of course it has.

I lean back in Spock’s chair. Vulcan ergonomics—there’s not much give to them. I rest my arm on his work station and my fingers brush the only non-compartmentalized item there, a stylus. It’s been snapped in two.

“Computer. Calibrate internal sensors for thermal pattern recognition. Confirm Commander Spock’s present location.”

“Working…calibration complete. Location for Spock, Commander: deck twenty, forward recreational facility.”

Spock’s in… “The pool?”

“Affirmative.”

Well, that was easy. I wish we could’ve done that with Ben Finney. Next crewman I have go insane or missing… “Computer, remove all record of this session from all memory files, private and public.” I wait for confirmation then I terminate the connection, power down the terminal and rise to my feet.

Ten seconds. That’s all the time it takes before I’m standing outside Spock’s quarters. The door hisses shut behind me and I know.

I left easy behind in Spock’s cabin.

::

There’s no defined day in interstellar space, no night, no noon. Shipboard time consists of eight hour shifts, Federation standard time, which begin and end within a larger timeframe that has no set end or beginning beyond the boundaries we impose on it. Spacers subsist on artificially induced biorhythms. We of Starfleet live staggered lives, three circadian blocks sifted through stratified layers of rank. When I left, the chronometer in Spock’s quarters read 2133. That’s my night, my downtime. To the fresh-faced lieutenant exiting her quarters one door down from Spock’s it’s a bright good-morning.

“Lieutenant.” I nod to her and she replies, “Sir”—polite, correct, bland—and goes past me without breaking stride. I note the loose-fitting man’s uniform shirt and regulation black trousers. Short, purple hair.

I smile at her attractive, retreating backside. The attire and hair cut are very Spock-like. In fact, the lieutenant probably is one of Spock’s, given the science blue shirt. And when I say Spock’s, I mean one of his unasked-for protégées. As science officer he oversees all of the science departments, but there are a few lab personnel who accord him respect above and beyond what’s owed to a superior officer. From what I can tell it’s something like those humans who’ve rejected Terran emotionalism to live the Vulcan way; only this isn’t Vulcanism. It’s not Vulcan they revere, it’s Spock himself. His…brain.

After Sigma Draconis VI, I can’t help but find that reverence both amusing and disturbing, although at the moment I’m leaning towards tolerance. If the crewmember who just saw me coming out of Spock’s quarters at what amounts to the wee hours of morning for both of us was anyone but one of Spock’s people, the rumors surrounding this ship’s command team would undoubtedly take an embarrassing turn. Embarrassing for Spock, that is, even if he wouldn’t show or admit it. Me? As long as rumor hasn’t paired me up with a Denebian slime devil, I figure I’m doing all right.

There is no sign of the lieutenant or anyone else when I reach the turbolift, and I can only be grateful for it. At the moment I’m not up for small talk, sympathetic or not. The lift doors open, I step through and Bones’ voice drawls in my head, so how are you doing, Mister Starship Captain? I’m not positive enough of my answer to pick one and make it stick. Sometimes I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, never mind whether I’m doing it right, but I always cut that line of thinking off fast; it reminds me too much of a time when I couldn’t make a decision to save my life or the lives of four of my men, slowly freezing to death in below freezing temperatures. I can’t afford to ask myself that kind of question. Not if I want to keep my crew and ship intact, not to mention my sanity. A few hours ago I came closer to losing all three than I’ve been since the Defiant.

I didn’t lose, and there will be yet another commendation to add to the already impressive record of Jim Kirk, youngest captain in the Fleet. We made it back to the ship, plus one. We’re safely away. Why do I feel like I’m still standing in that travesty of a theatre with a whip in my hand and Uhura looking at me with complete trust in her eyes?

I wrap my empty hand around a stability grip. “Deck twenty,” I tell the lift, and it hums into motion.

I am the captain. To keep my command I must be the captain. If I go to Spock with my uncertainty plain on my face there will be no peace for either of us. Once, I decided Spock’s life was worth not just my career but my own life as well. The exchange of my peace of mind for his is nothing at all.

“Twenty.” My lady. Beautiful through to the sound of her voice. I brush my hand along the clean grey of her bulkhead as I pass through the lift doors, and I imagine for a second only that the almost subliminal thrum of her warp drive deepens to a purr. If I told Bones what I hear when I listen to her he’d laugh, shake his head and offer me a drink. Spock would ask what purpose indulging my irrational fantasy served, and if none then did I require that the good doctor shake his beads and rattles in my direction?

Scotty…would understand. She sings to both of us, though I suspect the song each of us hears is not the same. Like any true lady, mine is a lovely tease.

“Captain? Is everything all right, sir?” For the most part deck twenty is deserted during late beta and gamma shifts. But there are a few diehards who come here to spend their energy on the mats or the courts, like the crewman standing next to me, his hand not quite touching my shoulder. He’s dressed in a regulation bodysuit, sweat stains all down the front of the cloth. A wrestler, I think. Like recognizes like. Another time, I’d offer to take him down. Now, I dredge up a smile for him.

“No trouble, Mister—” I know his name, he’s engineering, starts with a, “Phelps. Thank you.” A grin breaks up his solemn look and I say, “I believe Mr. Spock is around?”

He pulls himself to attention at the mention of Spock’s name. “Yes sir, the commander has the pool area reserved until 2230 hours.”

“Very well, mister, carry on. I won’t keep you from your…shower?” I suggest, and his grin returns.

He says, “Aye sir. I can take a hint,” and continues on towards the cleansing I interrupted. I wait until I can’t hear the fall of his footsteps anymore before I follow.

::

The corridor outside the lift connects with the walkway dividing the men’s and women’s locker rooms and showers, which in turn leads directly to the pool. I hear rhythmic splashing long before I leave the darkened hall and enter the pool room. Attempt to enter the pool room, I should say; the doors are sealed. Not that that means anything to a command grade officer, especially not the captain of the ship. My override easily trumps Spock’s stasis command.

The doors open for me and sweat breaks out on my forehead as soon as I’m through them. Spock must have played with the environmental settings; it’s not usually this hot in here. The pool water itself is kept a moderate twenty-six degrees and the air is mild rather than warm, a nod to the various races that use these facilities. Not all of Enterprise’s crew has the same blood composition or cellular structure. There’s a lot of compromise involved when you crowd so many different species into what amounts to a warp-propelled village, as the uncharacteristic lack of humidity in the air reminds me. What’s comfortable for Spock wouldn’t be for, say, a Lassatian. They don’t require arctic conditions, though their planet is mostly wind, ice floes and snow-covered wastes, but when Lt. Mrrgrth, our resident Lassat, wants a dip in the water she will occasionally reserve an hour of time and lower the pool and air temperatures to something no human—and certainly no Vulcan—can endure for long.

Luckily, what’s comfortable in terms of physical conditions for Vulcans is bearable for humans, if not optimal. I’ll sweat a little more—okay a lot more than normal, but I’m not going to keel over any time soon. I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, reset Spock’s temporary lock, and then I walk over to the edge of the pool and watch him swim.

In the time it would take me to make a full lap he completes two. He skims the surface of the water near to me and the powerful stroke of his arms and legs throws up a fine spray which mists my skin and mingles with the sweat beading my hairline and pooling around my collar. I don’t think he notices me—I don’t see how he could—but he completes his lap and then he upends himself underwater and swims straight for me, surfacing less than a foot away from the pool’s side. He grips the lip of the pool with both hands and I step back as he propels himself from the water in a rush of air and sprayed drops to stand in front of me.

Water drips from his nose and eyelashes, streams down his body. “If you will excuse me briefly, Captain,” he says, and without waiting for my answer he walks past me towards the towels stacked on the built-in bench that runs the perimeter of the room.

I follow more slowly, giving him time to dry off and, maybe, regain his equilibrium. I stop a short distance away from him; I’m waiting for him to acknowledge me, and I find myself really looking at him, his physical self, something I’m not in the habit of doing. Spock is—Spock. He’s there, and that’s what I see when I look at him on the bridge or in the mess, or dirtside on a mission. I see what he represents to me—my science officer, first officer, greatest advantage—not how he looks. But now I do see, and I’m not sure what to think. His back is to me; his muscles shift beneath his skin with the movements of his hands and arms as he efficiently strips the water from his body. He is so thin. Too thin, almost. He is made of hollows and angles and edges. Has he always been this way and I’m only just now noticing?

“If I recall correctly,” I hear myself say, “procedural protocol dictates that any officer or crewmember who feels him or herself incapable of active duty must first inform his or her commanding officer then report to medical for a full examination before removing him or herself from the duty roster.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible for him to get any more rigid, but the lines of muscle in his back look as immovable as rock. In three concise, deliberate motions he folds his towel into a neat bundle. He leans forward and pushes it through the recycler slot, and then he turns just as deliberately to face me. He’s wearing basic black exercise shorts and nothing else; he stands at attention, his hands locked together behind his back, his gaze directed off into the distance. I have seen admirals in full dress uniform who exhibited less dignity.

“Your recall is unimpaired,” he says. “I offer my apologies for what must appear to be illogical and inappropriate conduct on my part. I am prepared to accept the disciplinary measures appropriate to my offense.”

When he looks through me like that, talks to me like—like one of the computers Bones accuses him of being, sometimes I…almost hate him. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but right now I feel like Sir Edmund Hilary must have felt when he first confronted Everest. Spock is less than a meter away from me, and it doesn’t matter. I can’t touch him, not with my hands or my words. He’s too far removed from me and he’ll stay that way unless I do something to keep him from completely closing up, hiding himself behind Surak’s disciplines. That, and I need him to stop looming over me like some kind of stone monolith.

“Spock. Sit down.” He hesitates and I say, “Please.”

He obeys me, of course, sitting stiffly on the bench, slightly bent forward. He rests his forearms on his legs and clasps his hands again, this time in front of him. He doesn’t meet my eyes; he’s looking at his hands. I’m looking at him, at one of my two closest friends. He’s dearer to me than any of my family ever was. And there is nothing I can do for him. He’s fighting for control but there’s none left to him. He’s ripped wide open, hunched over into himself, his pain. Yes, Spock, your pain. You can deny it all you want but you’re hurting; it’s in the way you sit there, refusing to acknowledge me as Jim, not the captain. A reflection of my own hurt, I look and I see and I face the reality of violation. Today, down on that planet, we were violated. Spock, Uhura, Chapel, Bones…

Me.

And Alexander. Centuries of slavery, his mind and body forced to behaviors and inclinations not his own.

I don’t think I can do this.

I’m staring at the top of Spock’s bent head; his hair is plastered shiny-wet to the shape of his skull. I’m wondering if I left my guts down on Platonius along with my balls, and that’s when it hits me: Spock’s been here before. He’s faced this kind of situation, will face it again. And how much more intimate, more total than any outside invasion is the domination of self and self-will by biological imperative?

Sere heat, gritty red pain in my eyes, my chest, my muscles sluggish and slow to respond. Debilitating uncertainty like nothing I’ve felt before or since. I didn’t understand, not then. I couldn’t. I saw, experienced the results but I did not understand. Now I—think I might. Just a little.

Violation of the mind by the body: is there a more total rape? Can there be any violation more devastating to a Vulcan? Maybe. If by betraying the mind the body isn’t responding to inherent hormonal urges but following the demand of another sentient being’s will, isn’t that the ultimate betrayal?

Where there is no control there can be no sanity. When sanity is gone, what’s left? That’s Spock’s logic, Vulcan’s logic. Mine? I don’t know.

In seven years, more or less, Spock's pon farr will cycle back around. What happened today could happen again. Truth. I can lie to myself. Not to him. I won’t add one more betrayal to the pile.

“Captain.” Hoarse, like he’s been crying, even though I know he hasn’t. “Again, I must apologize. I find I am having some difficulty assimilating our interactions with the Platonians.”

Name him, Spock. He’s a man not a demon; it won’t summon him. “With Parmen, you mean.”

His knuckles are white, as though bone is about to burst through skin. “I wished harm to him,” he says, so quietly I have trouble separating the words. “Jim.” His eyes come up to meet mine. “If you had not stopped Alexander…neither would I have.”

“Spock.” It’s all I can say. I can’t tell him what he would have done because I don’t know. I don’t think he would have let Alexander kill Parmen. But I’m not certain. Because there was—one moment, one second when I would have let it happen, and Spock can see that in my eyes. He must see it because he drops his gaze to his clasped hands and doesn’t look at me anymore.

I drop my hand to my side; I had—foolishly—started to reach out to him. “I haven’t logged my report yet,” I tell his bowed head. “Certain incidentals…won’t be included. But there will be enough intel to ensure my recommendation that Platonius and its system be placed under strict quarantine is followed.”

“That is my recommendation as well.” A tremor runs through him. He stills it immediately, his hands gripping each other even tighter. “I have submitted my mission report,” he says to the deck. “The file has been transferred to your terminal. I left nothing out, Captain. Please do not omit any action of mine from your own documentation. It is unnecessary.”

I can’t stand this. I have to step forward, into the careful circle of empty space that surrounds him, no matter where he is. I have to reach, have to touch; I can’t bear what he’s doing to himself right now and I don’t know any other way to help. Don’t know what to offer except—myself.

I touch people. Maybe that’s a bad habit for a commander to have, but I’ve found that subordinates respond favorably to a congratulatory slap on the back, light touch on the shoulder, your hand on their arm and a smile on your face. As long as it’s not intrusive or overly intimate, touch is a welcome thing for most humans, many other species as well. It grounds us, gives us a sense of unity. Makes us feel that maybe we’re not so alone out here in this endless vacuum intermittently filled with stars and planets and the eternal unknown.

But Spock, he’s only half human, and he ignores and distrusts that half of himself. As well, I think he’s just naturally reserved. Even if he was fully human, he’d still be made uncomfortable by the kind of casual touch that many races accept as the norm. Only a few people are allowed into Spock’s personal space. I remember, about half a year into this mission, how surprised I was to realize that I was one of those people. It was…immensely gratifying. So gratifying that for a long time his acceptance of me was enough.

When did it change? When did I start to push further in past his boundaries, even those almost imperceptible ones he imposes between himself and me? When did I decide, however subconscious that decision may have been, that touch was my right? My shoulder pressed against his. My hand at the small of his back. The first time I did that, the look he gave me…

He was right to make his discomfort known. I shouldn’t expect him to make exceptions for me; I am his friend and I owe him understanding, not conditional acceptance. But I can’t help but think. Is this how it’s always going to be? Me reaching, Spock retreating. For the rest of this five year mission? The next? How long before my patience gives? Or his tolerance.

But I’m forgetting. My human ideas of friendship aren’t Spock’s. He told me once that he was ashamed to think of me in terms of friendship. That those emotions held little or no relevance for him as a Vulcan. He said that more than three years ago, and I think, I’m almost sure…

But that’s the problem. Almost isn’t good enough, not when it comes to Spock. He still hasn’t taken my hand.

I must look ridiculous, standing here in front of him with friendship open in my palm and hope in my eyes. Well, I’ve got my pride, even if it is the inferior human kind. I’ve been told on occasion that I have too much for my own good. But if Spock can’t meet me halfway then he can’t, and I won’t embarrass either of us further. I step back away from him, my arm falls to my side, and that moment when I’ve already withdrawn my invitation is when he reaches.

Spock, you stubborn…Vulcan. How do you always manage to do this to me? You make me second guess myself and I don’t know if I can forgive you for that.

And then he fits his hand against mine and I know I will forgive him anything.

I tug at him and he comes to my call as he’s done so many other times in every imaginable place or scenario, plus a number of each I couldn’t have imagined in my most surreal nightmares. I pull him to his feet; I feel his hand start to loosen around mine and I tighten my grip. He stops moving, his hand lies still in mine and I examine the clasp of our hands. Thumbs hooked in opposition, palms pressed flat together. I have wide palms and short fingers. His hands are as narrow and bony as the rest of him, and as long. We are our hands; they are microcosms of us.

One finger at a time, I let him loose, and his hand drops from mine to dangle parallel to his hip. “Let’s swim,” I say. I skin my uniform shirt and undershirt over my head and drop them on the deck.

Modesty is considered a virtue but it’s never been one of mine. Spock has never been bothered by my lack before, and he doesn’t seem to be now. He stands quiet beside me while I strip down to my briefs, then just as silently follows me back to the rim of the pool.

We position ourselves—not close, but not that far apart. I say, “Mark!” and I’m in freefall, out of dry hot air into wet suspension. I feel the surge and pull of the water around me as Spock goes past. He’s coming up out of the dive, clean thrust of arm and leg, and I follow him and we break the surface together. Here, as everywhere else, we’re in tandem, falling together into the stroke-slide of distance swimming. He can lap me any time he wants but instead he matches me. And maybe I push myself a little harder than I normally would, and maybe he slows his stroke by a few seconds more. Slows himself for me.

Five laps become ten, become twenty. The muscles in my shoulders and back strain and my arms burn with every forward stroke. Burn turns to ache and near pain, and then I’m over the threshold; I’m on the other side of pain in that place where muscle fatigue and straining lungs don’t matter, and I feel like I could do this for hours, days, forever. My focus narrows until there’s only the crawl of my body through the water and Spock beside me, as lost as I am to anything that’s outside us, this.

I think I could die like this and not realize it until I’d already drowned; it takes the sound of the door signal to break the bubble, bring us back to our exhausted bodies and the pool room. “Still locked,” I gasp, my head barely above water. My lungs are protesting their abuse. “I forgot.”

Spock treads water beside me. “Shall I let them in, Captain?”

“Yes. I’ll go under for good if I don’t stop soon,” I say, and, still in sync, we strike out for the nearest side.

Part 2