Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“You can give that back to Christine.” Kirk set the copy of To The Lighthouse on McCoy’s desk.

“Finished it already?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You could give it back to her yourself.”

“That would involve civility and small talk. I’m all out.”

“You did well, yesterday, in the staff meeting.”

“I certainly left them all agog.”

“But better off for no longer being in the dark. You seem a little more relaxed today. How was last night?”

“I got a little sleep.”

“Did you talk to Spock?”

“No. Not since the night before.”

“You haven’t mentioned that.”

“It didn’t go too well. I’m not fit for man or beast.”

“Would he agree?”

Kirk shrugged. “He tolerates the intolerable more than anyone else I know.”

McCoy frowned and crossed his arms. “Would you like to take a medical leave?”

Kirk’s stare was more a thousand parsecs than a thousand yards.

“I can contact Star Fleet Command for a re-route. There’s a superb medical facility on a planet we can reach in three days if we divert course soon.”

“And get behind on our crucial star-charting of this sector?”

“Ha ha. Just say the word. You know Command will allow you anything I prescribe.” 

“You want to shunt me off to a hospital all by myself?” He sounded like a frightened child.

“Spock could take some leave and accompany you. Or I could. Or both of us.”

Kirk groaned. “I can’t ask that of you. You’re all too indulgent.”

“You’d prefer some punishment? Wait—don’t answer that. Well, should I contact Command about a leave?”

Kirk’s head shake was vehement. “No. I’d better stay here. Perhaps against your better judgment if not mine. Only …. maybe the tiny part of the real me who’s down a deep dark well without a rope—he wants familiar surroundings. Familiar people.”

“All right. Will you tell me about your conversation with Spock?”

“No. But you can ask him yourself, and if he wants to tell you anything, I don’t object.”

“You said you slept some. How’s your appetite?”

Kirk shrugged.

“You can eat anything you want. Don’t worry about your weight right now.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Your attention span?”

“Well … I read Christine’s book. That was … a respite. Don’t ask me to tell you what it was about.”

“And I see you’re hitting the gym. That’s better than inertia.”

“My inertia is all in here,” Kirk tapped his temple.

“How about your libido?”

Kirk went blank. His mouth worked. He stammered. “My— Miramanee is dead, Bones.” He grunted. “I really can’t think about that now.”

Gently, McCoy said, “Where does that leave Spock?”

“Dangling. Waiting.”

“Will it be worth the wait?”

“You’re getting mighty personal.”

“He’s my patient too, I have to think of his mental well-being.”

“I hope—I want—to find my way back to him. We … shared a bed, for a few hours the night before last. Talked. He held me. It … felt good. That was all.”

“That’s fine,” McCoy beamed. 

Kirk gave him a dense bleak look, that killed his smile. “I appreciate your optimism, Bones. But I have to admit I feel none of it.”

“All of this is normal. It—”

“—takes time. I know, I know, I know.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Uhura accosted him at the entrance to the gym as he emerged from a workout and a long hot shower. Kirk suspected she’d been loitering there, awaiting him.

“Hello Captain.”

“Ms Uhura.”

“Do you have a minute? It’s about Mr Spock.”

Though her tone was light, he was instantly wary. The last thing he needed was for something to be wrong with Spock, who was carrying this whole business on his shoulders practically solo. Was Uhura going to alert him to some anomaly in his behavior? Some incipient breakdown? “What about Mr Spock?” 

She smiled. “It’s his birthday tomorrow.”

A wave of relief overtook him. And with it a yearning feeling he’d been a stranger to since before. “Is it?”

“In the old days—under Captain Pike—we used to make a point of doing birthdays. We’ve let that slip. But a bunch of us had the idea of giving him a little—not a party exactly, but acknowledging the occasion with gifts and cake, and just … you know … loving on him a little bit, for all he did to pull us all through while you were away, and just … for him.” Her look at him was significant, but immensely soft and affectionate. Empathy and delight, Spock had said, describing Uhura’s reaction to their relationship. “We’ll do it right after dinner in the officers’ mess tomorrow. I waited until almost the last minute to tell you because I wasn’t sure—you haven’t been coming to the mess—but we hope you’ll come eat with us and pass the cake.”

“That’s a lovely idea, Nyota.”

“Will you come?”

“I’m not sure I should be there.”

She waited expectantly for him to say more; didn’t offer the easy out he hoped for.

“You see, umm … he’ll be better able to relax and uh, enjoy the celebration without me.”

She was giving the full doe-face now. “Why?”

He hesitated. Lowering his voice a little, though the corridor was empty, he said, “Spock told me … that you know.”

“I’ve kept it to myself.”

Kirk waved this away. “Since I’ve been back … I haven’t felt able … it would be better if I skipped this gathering too.”

“Please come. Even just for a few minutes. You know, Spock will notice if you don’t.”

“This is very awkward. We shouldn’t be having this—”

“Sir, I might as well tell you that Spock’s sought my advice. He doesn’t really understand how we mourn, how volatile we are when we’re grieving, how counterintuitive our actions can seem. Forgive me if I’m out of line, but I feel you should hear it. He thinks he’s lost you altogether. He’s … heartbroken.”

Kirk winced, put a hand to his eyes.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“No, no. You’re a good friend to speak up for him.”

“We all missed you the other night. You should also know—since the staff meeting—I haven’t heard anyone say anything about it that wasn’t just wishing you well. Believe me, no one’s going to make it weird for you to be there. We all just want you to feel better. We all want you to be fully back with us.”

This was almost too much for him. Through his parted fingers, he saw her see that. She pressed her lips thin on any more words.

Kirk felt moved to say, “I do … miss you … all of you.” For the first time since coming onboard, there was a flicker of reality to that. Even if he immediately thrust it away.

“Just come eat with us. You don’t even have to talk, sir.”

"All right.”

“Thank you, Jim.”

He began to turn away, then stopped. “You said gifts? What gifts?”

“Just … little things. Tokens of esteem. I don’t know if Spock has ever carried an armful of presents away from a celebration of his birthday. He always used to evade us on his. I’d like him to have that.”

“He might evade again.”

“I don’t think so. With everything on his mind, he’ll be surprised to find out it’s his birthday.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Spock was surprised. First, that Kirk was already at the table when he entered the mess hall. 

Since they’d begun their affair, Kirk had learned a few of Spock’s almost invisible tells: surprise, or uncertainty, in their time alone together, blew his pupils, and somehow shaded, for a moment or two, the color of his eyes into a lighter, brighter brown. Similarly, praise, or certain caresses, not only brought a deep flush to the rims of his ears, but caused his nostrils to just slightly flare in a way he clearly was unaware of. Most intriguingly, Kirk had seen that a pitch of pre-orgasmic pleasure effected the temperature of Spock’s fingertips; they became dry and cool, as if all the heated essence of his body was centered in the groin. He especially liked their rousing chill on his nipples in those moments, though he hadn’t told Spock why he so often drew his hand there.

Kirk had enjoyed noticing these things and a few others that he was certain Spock was oblivious of, and kept them to himself. Spock could be exquisitely self-conscious as a lover, and while Kirk had found this entirely adorable from the first, he was careful not to add to it.

Approaching the table now, where he sat with Uhura and Scotty awaiting the others, Spock’s one eyebrow rose at sight of him. “Captain. You are here to dine?”

“I’m hungry, Mr Spock,” Kirk said. A wave of embarrassment came over him; he tried to smile, saw Spock receive it, and mistrust it. This came with a pang.  He’ll think you’re teasing him, in front of the others. He knows now I can be so cruel. Kirk thought. I shouldn’t be here.

“Very good, Captain.” 

He took a chair beside Mr Scott, so that they weren’t facing. Spock would have to lean forward to see more than Kirk’s three-quarter profile.

Scott had brought a bottle from his personal stash, and offered Spock a dram. He accepted solemnly. The others arrived then, all empty-handed; Uhura had gathered the gifts in advance and had concealed the bag behind her chair, against the wall.

When they all had their glasses, Scotty proposed a general toast: the Enterprise and all who sailed in her. Then it was time to go to the replicators for their meals.

“You stay put,” Uhura said to Kirk. “We’ll bring. Something you’ll really like. Mr Spock, you too. Keep the captain company for a minute.” 

Spock had half-risen from his chair; startled, he froze for a moment before sinking back.

Nyota was being clever; Kirk couldn’t not appreciate that.

With Scott’s seat empty between them, Kirk had Spock in full view.

“Taking good care of my—of our ship?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Kirk hadn’t paid much attention to the actuality of Spock since his return. Now he really looked at him. He was thinner, his cheekbones sharper, and the light make-up he wore didn’t conceal gray circles beneath the eyes. He’s looks harrowed. He’s still suffering. Because I’ve failed him. “Are you eating properly, Spock?”

“I am eating as much as I am able.” Spock flicked him a glance. “You have lost 12.3 pounds since your return.”

“You can tell by looking at me?”

“Yes. Though McCoy has noted the exact difference. Is our food no longer palatable to you?” He seemed to be dragging the words out in his effort to make conversation.

“I have no appetite. Have you lost yours, or are you working so much you forget to eat?”

Spock glanced towards the replicators. It was taking the others longer than usual to make their selections. “I believe that dining in company may be of benefit. You indicated that you are hungry.”

“I’m supposed to be.” Kirk felt suddenly tired. Everything now exhausted him. Spock most of all. The gap between what they’d been before, and the inner deadness that had swallowed Kirk whole, was an abyss. He’d been going over his memories of their time together, the expansion of their ease, deepening of their talks and silences, the sexual awakening that he’d wanted from Spock but was amazed at in himself, as it burgeoned in ways he’d never anticipated. But it was as if he was recalling a movie or a play about those two men finding one another. He was outside of it. At first he’d taken respite in retreating to a fantasy of ongoing life with Miramanee, but for the last few days those as well had taken on a stilted unreality, something seen through the wrong end of a telescope, that made them uninhabitable. He’d lost the scent of the air, the hushing sound of the wind in the trees. He’d lost her fragrance, no longer felt certain of the sound of her voice. 

This left him nowhere. 

Except that his body always felt so heavy now, so clumsy, he might have been floating in space. Without a helmet, without a handy airlock.

Suddenly, Spock’s hand came down on his shoulder, pulling Kirk’s chair back from the table and pushing his face towards his knees. “Jim! Take deep breaths—slowly, slowly—”

Then McCoy was on his other side, muttering. “You’re having a damn panic attack. Do what Spock says. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Measured breaths.”

Spock’s hand was no longer there; Kirk almost cried out at the deprivation. He could’ve twisted around and seized it back, but a moment later it returned. That large calm hand, firmly gripping his left shoulder, and a wave of reassurance passed into him from it, slowing his hammering heart.

“That’s right,” McCoy was saying. “That’s right.”

Kirk touched Spock’s hand with his right one, pressing his fingers against that warm steady flesh. Spock’s hand seemed to flutter, though in fact it barely moved. Kirk slid his away, and sat upright, his breaths coming more slowly now. He saw the others still standing by the replicators, trays in hand, waiting for McCoy’s signal to come to the table.

“Thank you,” Kirk puffed. “Thanks, I—I don’t know what happened.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” McCoy sounded hearty. “Maybe it was that whiskey on an empty stomach. Here comes your meal.”

Then it was as if nothing had happened. Here he was, surrounded by his senior officers, with a big steaming bowl of suān là tāng, mushrooms, pork and tofu afloat in a peppery broth. Beside it was a glass of sparkling water. Had he asked for this? He didn’t recall having asked for anything specific. On either side of him, Mr Scott and Dr M’Benga were eating different things, but Kirk saw that Spock had been served the same large soup bowl, sans meat, and was stirring it about with the ceramic spoon, inhaling the aroma. They were taking their first mouthfuls, no one talking yet; around them was a quiet buzz from other tables, ambient airy music. He perceived then that the lights in here were lower than usual; that must have been the doctor’s doing, or Uhura’s. Or Spock’s? 

He relaxed a little. Dipped the spoon, brought the fiery soup to his lips. There had been nothing remotely like it on the planet. There he’d eaten various pottages of beans, squash, corn and herbs, roasted meat of deer and other smaller animals, berries, dried stone fruit, apples and pears, water fetched in clay jars from flowing streams. 

The honored leaders of the village had had a share of the best of everything; the food was simple and plentiful, and prepared for him always by the loving hands of his wife, who delighted in watching him eat. Kirk went over all this with a kind of desperation, even as the richness of the impressions seemed to fade as soon as recalled. Meanwhile the spicy subtlety of the soup made a kaleidoscope of flavors in his mouth, awakening the first real tendrils of famishment he’d felt back on board. He began to eat steadily.

Around him, the others talked about ship’s business, and then about news from Earth and from friends on other Star Fleet ships, touching on nothing controversial or unpleasant. After a while Kirk began to feel pulled down from his Nowhere space, moored to the oval table and the presence of these reliable people who were his comrades. Before he knew it, his bowl was empty.

Glancing up, he saw that Uhura was approaching the table with a cake, the slender candles on it flickering as she moved. Darting his eyes towards Spock, Kirk saw he was entirely un-expectant, assuming the cake was for someone else.

Only when Uhura came around behind him and, his bowl having been removed, set it down before him, and the others began to sing—not exuberantly, as they’d normally do, but in a kind of subdued sweetness, like a hymn, did Spock begin to grasp that the celebrant was he.

Indeed, his name was written out in white sugar piping on the cake, a sort of shortcake with Vulcan ameelah instead of strawberries, encircled by the words Live Long & Prosper. Uhura had set eight candles in the whipped cream around Spock’s name. This would be his thirty-seventh birthday—an age for a Vulcan that was physically just post-adolescent, as Kirk had recently learned, though Vulcans matured mentally so much earlier than Humans. Spock had gained more than one postgraduate degree before the age of eleven and had been in Star Fleet a few years longer than Kirk.

Spock was motionless, even after the singing concluded, and Uhura had to prompt him twice to blow out the candles. He didn’t, instead extinguishing each with a quick twist of finger and thumb. The others, startled by this departure from custom, hesitated a moment before clapping. Uhura, still leaning over Spock’s shoulder, said, “Dear Mr Spock, we all wish you a healthy, productive and satisfying birthday and year ahead.” Then she planted a kiss on his cheek. Spock craned around to look at her, and then looked, rather befuddled, at each of them in turn.

“This is unexpected.”

“But not undeserved,” Scotty said, raising his refilled glass. 

“I see.” Spock stared at the writing on the cake.

“Is this your first birthday cake, sir?” Chekhov asked.

“It is the first in some thirty years,” Spock said.

Uhura handed him the slicer. “You make the first cut. Then there’s presents.”

Spock had obviously still not caught up to what was happening. 

Before he quite realized he was doing so, Kirk got up and went to Uhura, touching her elbow lightly. “You sit, Nyota, I’ll do this.” He took up the stack of plates, leaned over Spock’s shoulder. “You heard her, mister. Cut your cake.”

Spock made no move except to look up into his face. When their eyes met—Spock’s were bright, but in an almost painful way and—sad?

Kirk moved a little closer. “Happy birthday, Mr Spock. And many happy returns of the day.”

“These are the traditional sentiments. But I cannot think of the traditional response.”

“You’re all right.”

With grave precision, Spock cut the cake into equal slices, plopping each down neatly on the plates Kirk held out, then passed. 

Then Kirk resumed his seat. 

Spock regarded his slice uncertainly.

“It’s your favorite, isn’t it?” Uhura said. “Ameelah and cream.”

Bewildered, Spock glanced up. “How did you deduce this?”

“A little bird told me, over sub-space.”

“A little—”

Uhura had a parcel in her hand, wrapped in bright paper, which she presented to Spock across the table. “A little bird by the name of the Lady Amanda, who asked me to give you this.”

Watching, Kirk wasn’t sure how much more of this Spock would be able to take before he turned altogether into a pillar of salt.

“Well, open it,” Uhura said. “Or—” all at once uncertain, “—you don’t have to. You can keep them to open later, by yourself, or—” She gave Kirk a fleeting glance.

“Them?”

The bag of gifts was on the table now, items of various sizes and shapes in festive looking boxes or wrapping, each marked To Mr Spock from Ms Uhura, Mr Sulu, Mr Scott, Dr McCoy, Mr Chekhov, Dr M’Benga, Ms Chapel.

He must’ve looked quite inscrutably blank to the others, but Kirk could see the misery, the helplessness, that gripped him. He went to the replicator and came back quickly with a pot of Vulcan tea, pouring out a cup beside Spock’s untouched dessert plate. “Buck up, Friend. We all have to have our birthdays celebrated sometimes.”

Spock looked at him again then, with such a wildness in the eyes, such a despair and incredulous hope, that Kirk felt himself flush all over.

Then Spock broke the look, gathered himself, sipped the tea. “Please, ladies and gentlemen—begin your cake.”

The moment was over; they ate, remarked on the delicacy of the cake, the texture of the ameelah. The replicators were so improved since they were last refit and upgraded, the others said, and began to compare notes on dishes that were enhanced or newly introduced.

Spock ate slowly, as if he was doing a chemical analysis of each small bite. Kirk wondered if he was thinking of his mother, of the last time he’d had this cake, which she’d perhaps used to bake herself for her little boy. Her beloved, baffling little boy, so strange an offspring, no less cherished for that.

He made no move to open the presents, and the others didn’t refer to them again. Dessert finished, they said good evening and went out, leaving Spock and Kirk where they were.

Spock looked into his teacup.

“You okay?” Kirk asked.

“I am well enough, Captain.”

“Do the Vulcans have a tradition of reading messages in tea leaves? Are you finished with that?”

Spock took a final swallow and set the cup down. Kirk took it up and looked inside. “Would you like to know what I see?”

“I do not believe you see anything.”

“But I do.”

Spock looked at him without expression.

Kirk turned the handle-less cup round and round. “I see something in these dregs about you.”

“Oh?”

“I see … a small change, in atmospheric pressure. On the horizon. Approaching. A rising barometer.”

“The barometer is an ancient Earth technology that is now considered obsolete.”

“Less … density in the air. Clouds parting in the distance.”

“That is an imaginary fancy. There are no weather systems on a starship.”

“But there are, Spock.”

“I shall bring these items to my quarters before I attend the lab.”

“Don’t go to the lab tonight,” Kirk murmured. “It’s your birthday.”

Spock stopped, half bent over in the act of gathering the items up into the bag. 

His surprise was matched by Kirk’s own. He hadn’t planned it. Five minutes earlier, he wouldn’t have made this request. The fanciful words about better weather ahead had been more of an invocation than a promise; a gesture of raw decency against Spock’s desolation. Or the tossing of a bone.

But having said them, Kirk felt something shift within himself. The palms of his hands tingled, an inner aperture that had been so tight an hour ago as to be undetectable, opened a crack. Behind it were intimations of a different hue. 

He didn’t want Spock to be alone. To be untouched.

Spock straightened up, the bag dangling from his arm. “As you wish, sir.”

He whispered again. “Not sir. Jim.”

Spock didn’t reply, but left the mess hall at Kirk’s side.

_________________________________________________________________________

Spock went into his own quarters and left the bag of gifts, before joining Kirk in his. He entered stiffly and stood at parade rest near the door.

Kirk, leaning on his desk, said, “I don’t have a birthday present for you. I tried to think of something, but couldn’t come up with anything overnight that seemed right.”

“It’s of no matter.”

“That’s not true. But will you give me a raincheck?”

Spock pretended he didn’t know what this meant, and only shrugged. 

“Would you like to open your presents? In here, or—by yourself?”

“That can wait.”

“Were you pleased? Being remembered like that?”

“These things are meaningful to Humans, but not to Vulcans.”

Kirk began to realize that the birthday dinner had lowered Spock’s spirits rather than raised them; this subdued cautious presence was far from the one that had, a few nights ago, held and soothed them both. Perhaps the overt affection of the others only highlighted the withdrawal of his own.

“It pleased our colleagues,” Spock allowed, “and that has its significance.”

“Uh-huh,” Kirk said. “By the way—thank you for having the sofa brought in.”

Spock shifted a little on his feet. Now his arms were crossed on his chest. His expression had tightened into its Don’t fuck with this Vulcan gaze. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Kirk gave himself time for thought, knowing Spock would wait. Spock always waited.

“I hate what I’m doing to you. I’m not in a good place, I don’t know how long this will last … I know I keep saying that over and over. But I want to stop hurting you. I need to stop hurting you. It’s hurting me too.”

“I see.”

“What can I do?” The question sounded lame, said out loud. To Spock, wouldn’t any gesture towards generosity, any offer of a gameness not yet felt, just seem like a lure backed by Kirk’s own selfishness? He couldn’t escape his own ego, which ached like a rotted tooth, impossible to ignore or maneuver around. He had the weird feeling of being an enormous floating head from which dangled a withered useless body. 

Anyway, asking Spock about what he needed was a prelude to coaxing against his reluctance to admit need. Before, this had been an enthralling romantic game Kirk always felt he won for them both. Now it was a force-field he knew himself unequal to.

And yet his hands ached to make contact. 

Kirk said, “You look tired.”

“Yes.” The curt response pointed out that he’d said this already.

“As tired as I am. I’m too tired to talk anymore. But … would you come to bed with me? To sleep. We could probably sleep some, like that.”

Spock looked at him, his eyes narrowed, then looked away.

Kirk waited a moment, then said, “I think it would be good for us. It was good, the other night, to lie down with you.” Kirk already dreaded hearing that rote response, As you wish. He added, “We don’t have to touch or anything. Just lie side by side.”

Spock said nothing, only began calmly to undress. In his black briefs and tee-shirt, he sat on ‘his’side of Kirk’s bed, waiting for him to go to the bathroom and come out similarly stripped to skivvies. 

Kirk lowered the lights until Spock was just a dark shape, and laid down, drawing the coverlet up to his chest. He took in the coppery aroma of Spock’s uncovered flesh, the mass of him so close, and the inner aperture opened another millimeter, to emit a fresh tendril of sad yearning.

A few moments passed before Spock moved up on the bed to stretch out beside him. 

Nervous, Kirk spoke again, even though he’d said they weren’t going to. “Did you like that soup?”

“I did.”

“Me too. Mine had pork in it. Whose idea was that soup, do you think?”

“It was a dish we used to eat with Captain Pike. He liked to prepare food to share with us. After a difficult mission, he would often start a big pot of suān là tāng. He believed it had lulling properties.”

“Huh. Did it?”

“It seemed so, to those of us who partook of it together.”

A few minutes passed in silence. Kirk felt hot, and cold, drew his arms out from under the cover, tried not to fidget. 

Spock said, “I would touch you.”

“Yes?”

“Please put your arm across me.”

Spock had shown him early on that this was how he liked them to settle, on the nights they spent together. Kirk wriggled closer on his side, facing him, and obliged, curving his arm around Spock’s ribs, that rose and fell as he breathed. Spock’s bent forearm then made a band of warmth against Kirk’s chest. He was aware of the long hand, curled in on itself beneath the Vulcan’s chin, nearby but removed from contact. 

It was the last thing he was aware of, before he woke from a clotted frantic dream that he was relieved to feel dissolve at once into nothing but a lurching sensation. 

The lighted chron he could see over Spock’s shoulder showed almost three hours had passed. Spock was sunk in sleep. Kirk dared himself to move a little closer. Spock sighed but didn’t stir.

Please, please, God, deities, powers, prophets, whatever is out there or in here with me—help me through this. I don’t know who I am anymore but I can’t be this clumsy stumbling cripple for too much longer. I can’t lose this man. I know he’s meant to be—meant to be my life, and I his. Make that real again, the way it was before.

The urge to prayer only seemed to come when one was at one’s worst; Kirk had never trusted it. But it was an intention, his first real intention since the rescue (rescue! he’d stubbed his mind’s toe on that word every time he’d heard or said it). 

Some polarity of self was trying to reverse direction. 

_________________________________________________________________________

When Spock roused, as always at the time he’d intended, two hours before his duty shift, Kirk was beside him, smelling of sweat and the hot spices in the soup, his arm still crooked around Spock’s middle, a knee pressing against Spock’s bent ones. Spock could sense the rapid movement of his lidded eyes, and he twitched a little in some dream. 

Though he needed to shower, meditate, and check some set-ups in the lab before going to the bridge, he allowed himself to linger, to breathe Kirk in. 

Having experienced an instant rapport with him the first time they’d met, he’d always exempted Kirk from his general distaste for the aromas of Humans. Everyone of whatever species had, in joining Star Fleet, to make some peace with the alien smells of other peoples. That exemption had morphed into a positive pleasure in the couple of years since they’d served together. Kirk’s essential organic self was as attractive for Spock as everything else about him, another of the myriad causes of bittersweet pain he endured from this futile love.

He especially liked the bready aroma Kirk gave off when he was asleep. Spock let himself enjoy the weight of Kirk’s moist arm, of his relaxed mass. He reviewed his mental inventory of everything Kirk had said to him since he’d returned to the ship, every expression and gesture. Was it logical to accept that Jim’s demeanor, which had been alternately closed off and hostile, was shifting? It must be, for them to be here together in bed. Even if Kirk was pushing himself to be more present than he felt himself able, wasn’t this the resurgence of Kirk’s nature, which was to be open, approachable, giving? Kirk had admitted that he’d been hurting him, admitted that had to stop. Here they were, however tentatively, embraced. 

Spock’s thoughts turned to what he knew of Kirk’s time on the planet. What he’d witnessed himself, and what he’d learned in the meld. How quickly Kirk had adapted to his new circumstances. It was no surprise really to find he’d become, not a tolerated outsider, but a member of the community, albeit a source of deadly controversy. How much justice was there in Kirk’s flogging himself over his actions? He’d felt, in the meld, that Kirok had become Miramanee’s not by his pursuit but by the young woman’s positive claim on him. He’d returned love that was offered to him first.

Spock still didn’t understand why, after the challenge at Shi’Kahr, Kirk’s feelings for him had become romantic. A bolt from the blue was one of Amanda’s expressions, which came to him every time he tried to reason it out. Though he’d never seen or heard of Kirk involving himself with any but women, he’d quite suddenly wanted Spock, and without hesitation. Nor had he been especially awkward at the situation’s various novelties. When aroused Kirk was always confident, playful, imaginative. He’d put Spock’s initial misgivings about his own desirability quickly to rest. Clearly no compromise was made in Kirk’s decision, not a question of tolerating libidinal disappointments for the cause of a more cerebral love. 

It was a union of bodies as well as minds—he’d quickly learned how to satisfy Spock, and went on to figure out ways Spock had never thought of. Reviewing this, contrasting it with what he’d seen of Kirok, Spock wondered if there was more similarities than he’d realized. Kirk had awakened to Spock’s hidden love; something about their violent encounter had unlocked his perception, and once grasped, he’d acted.

Five minutes had passed; he couldn’t tarry if he was to reach the bridge in time for alpha shift. Slowly, he moved out from beneath the heavy arm, left the bed. Kirk didn’t wake. Spock drew the cover up over his shoulder, and went into his own room to prepare for the day.

The sight of the brightly wrapped gifts on his desk was a check. He’d almost forgotten what had preceded his rapprochement with Kirk. Had he been churlish last night before his crewmates? He’d felt ambushed, it was true, unable to disconnect their gesture from his turmoil with the captain—as if Uhura had meant it as some sort of consolation for Kirk’s cold withdrawal.

That was a misunderstanding.

It came to him that since the departure of Captain Pike and Number One, his own ascension to first officer, the others related to him so much more formally than when he’d been a part of the little pack of bridge officers who socialized and attended Pike’s famous dinners.

He must open these, and make a point of thanking everyone. After showering and dressing, he skipped meditation in favor of the presents. 

He took up Uhura’s first, removing the pretty paper without tearing it. There was a slim folio of music—pieces for two Vulcan lyres by the composer T’Varren. Her note suggested they play these together.

From Mr Scott, one of the clever and decorative little toys he liked to fashion out of leftover or spent bits of engineering equipment. It resembled one of the latest Vulcan Mashar Cruiser science vessels, but would, upon manipulation, turn into something entirely else, usually a flower or a chemical compound. There was no time to solve it now. 

Sulu’s small box opened on a tiny wooden netsuke figure of a crouched squirrel with a round tail bigger than its body. Spock knew that Sulu collected these, and occasionally brought them to show others at certain social evenings when the crew gathered to share personal interests and talents. The figurine was half the size of Spock’s palm, and fitted in it with a peculiar friendliness, as if it would have liked to be carried around by him always.

M’Benga has chosen the latest work by T’Perel, a Vulcan philosopher he and Spock had sometimes discussed together.

Nurse Chapel’s offering was a book from her large stash, a novel by the Vulcan writer Sovron, who wrote in Standard about peripatetic and eccentric members of his species who came up in different ways against the strictures of their native society. But this was a rarity—a copy of his first book, written in Vuhlkansu, which, failing to find an audience on his home world, had led to him switching languages. She’d included no inscription or note, just a tag on the wrapping saying 'From Christine’.

From Chekhov came two small tea glasses in filigreed holders—probably replicated rather than authentic, but curled up in one of them was a handwritten note thanking Spock for his mentorship and aid in making him a better officer. Spock knew he’d done very little to this end; if Chekhov had a mentor other than the captain, it was Mr Sulu. But this was touching from a junior officer who had always seemed rather frightened of him, sometimes with good reason.

The parcel from his mother had been sent through a replicator—scanned on Vulcan and reproduced on board. A square box opened on a smaller, pyramidal box. He knew that unique shape—only one thing came in a box of that shape. When he’d seen a similar one last, it had contained the engagement token he’d accepted from T’Pring, a golden pendent on a chain. The token he’d subsequently returned to her when they were estranged, years before he met Kirk. He hadn’t thought of it since.

Without removing the little pyramid from its wrapping, he read his mother’s note. 

Spock dear, your Lt Uhura reached out to me about your birthday. I know you don’t like any notice to be taken, and I’ve respected that, but as your crew mates are planning a celebration, I send this gift. It’s a little bit out of the order of things, but I hope you won’t mind. You can tell by the distinct shape of container what’s inside. This piece has been in your family for some generations; it was last worn by a great-great-uncle who died without children. Sarek joins me in passing it on to you, for you to pass on to someone else who will present it to you in the proper manner of your ancestors. If that someone else isn’t Vulcan, you can explain the significance of it. Whomever that may be, whenever that may be. I like to think of this valuable and well-wrought object serving its purpose as a symbol of affection, esteem, and commitment. I imagine as I write this that you scoff as you read it, but I know that good things, meaningful things, are in store for you, my only, my darling son. Keep this somewhere safe until the time comes. Sarek sends his greetings. I send you all my love, and wishes for many happy returns of the day. -Mother

The note quivered in Spock’s hand.

Cheer up, honey, Uhura said in his head.

_________________________________________________________________________

When Kirk entered, McCoy was reclining with his ankles crossed on his desk, hands behind his head, and a big smile. “Well well well! Did you enjoy Mr Spock’s birthday party?”

“You know, I did.”

“And will you tell me what happened after you left?”

“I’ll tell you I slept well, and he slept well.”

“Apart?”

“Together.”

“Very good. Very very good.” McCoy chuckled. “I’ve got to hand it to Lt Uhura—she missed a calling by choosing comms instead of psychology.”

“Comms does involve a great deal of psychology,” Kirk pointed out.

“True, true. Well, so you slept well. And what else?”

“That soup last night was stellar. I woke up with an appetite. Ate three eggs this morning. And … come to think of it, my headache’s gone.”

“This dreadnought just might be starting to turn around. However. lest you think I’m treating any of this as too lightly—let’s go a little deeper. Did you dream?”

“I did. The dreams vanished as soon as I woke, but I know they were kind of ugly—the kind where things are urgent and perilous but you can barely move or think. She’s beginning to fade too. I can’t understand it. I have very vivid memories of people I spent less time with, longer ago, but I’m already losing my grip on the sound of her voice, and—” Kirk shook his head. “It hurts, but ... Maybe that’s a blessing, as my grandmother would say.”

“Maybe.”

“I have nothing to remember her by.”

“You have the clothes. Didn’t Miramanee make them for you?”

“She did. I haven’t seen them since—”

“You may not recall, you put them on again after we first took them off you.”

“I did?”

“You put them on and Spock found you feeding fuel to his firepot. Does that sound familiar? You retreated back into your own quarters.”

“I don’t. I must’ve been out of my mind. I don’t remember doing that.”

“I asked your yeoman to fold them into a storage bag when she next went in to do up your quarters. They’re on the top shelf of your clothes closet.”

“She didn’t put them in the cleaner?” Kirk asked, alarmed.

“No, no. They’re just as she found them, on the floor.”

“I made Miramanee a lamp, so she wouldn’t strain her eyes over her quill work. She was—assiduous—with that.” He smiled. "Bird quills, in fact. The Progenitors moved those peoples to the planet before the Europeans could get to them with their glass beads and smallpox.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Kirk shrugged. “It was in the mission file. The people there have no horses, no metal, nothing from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. They were transported there around the time Columbus sailed. The Progenitors somehow foresaw what would befall the native people of the continent.”

“What I don’t get is if they were so wise about that, why didn’t they take them all? Why leave part of the population to centuries of suffering?

“Maybe they didn’t have the power. Maybe the Progenitors did as much as they could. At least the people there now are safe and have no idea what befell their relations on Earth.” Kirk frowned. “Only now, who knows what they’ll make of my appearance and disappearance.”

“You’ve been cleared on any offense of the Prime Directive. I told you that already. Go back to what you were saying before. That she seems to be fading from memory.”

“That’s … that’s all. The whole place, everyone I knew—just seem less distinct every day.”

“What else happened last night? Before you slept?”

“Spock and I talked. He was dejected. I’m not sure, but I think the party made him feel worse. I realized while we were in the mess that …”

“Yes?” McCoy prompted.

“I had this physical feeling—after the panic attack, after the food—that he needed me, And that I need him. I felt it,” he held up his hands, “here. Sort of … impulses in the skin. Like the opposite of the not wanting to be touched or seen or talked to, how I’ve been since you brought me back. We went back to my quarters and I asked him to sleep with me. He agreed, and initiated physical contact. Just holding. We held each other and slept. I was still asleep when he left. I was out longer than I’ve been yet.”

“I saw him at breakfast and I’d say ‘dejected’ wouldn’t describe him. He was thanking everyone for the presents, and he seemed more himself.”

Kirk peered into his lap. “Bones. I can’t do this without him. That didn’t use to be true, but since—since—”

“I see.”

“I’m not sure you do. It’s almost uncanny.”

“Not a dependency but an enhancement.”

Kirk’s head jerked up. “Where’d you get that from?”

“My own poor imagination.”

“Until he went into my mind down there—we hadn’t done that before.”

Kirk took in McCoy’s surprise.

“You assumed we had? In fact, I’d brought it up with him. I believe it’s an important part of Vulcan coupling. But he refused. The whole idea of it appalled him. He warned me off it as if it was a narcotic—that it might destroy us both.”

“I had no idea.”

“He hasn’t said anything to you? About the after-effects?”

“It didn’t occur to me to ask. What after-effects?”

“He’s vague on that point. Until last night, we weren’t communicating very well.”

“I should have a talk with him.”

“He’s not going to want to talk to you, you know that. Look, a while ago, I asked M’Benga for details about Vulcan, uh, mating practices. He pulled a file together for me. It gave me the strong impression that whatever Spock is so wary of wouldn’t really be a thing. It made me start to wonder how much he really knows about Vulcans in general, as opposed to the clan of high-falutin’ aristos he comes from.”

“Huh. Can I ask M’Benga to share that file with me?”

“I didn’t tell him that I wanted it because we were in a relationship. I just said that the visit to Vulcan had raised some questions. I’ll forward the file to you.”

“I see. Well, I’m bound to take a look. Now our hour’s almost up—anything else from the last 24 you want to tell me?”

“That about covers it. I hope I’ll see Spock tonight. I mean—I will see him, even if I have to go to the lab and drag him out.”

“Do that.”

“How much longer before I can get back on the duty roster?”

“Hold your horses. This is progress, but there could be a setback. Star-charting is a good opportunity for you to take a backseat. Keep doing what you’ve been doing. You’re less anhedonic than you were.”

_________________________________________________________________________

That evening after the beta shift sick call rush, McCoy settled down to read the report.

He didn’t know that Spock was reading it too. Kirk had, mistakenly, on purpose? cc’ed him.

Spock was in his quarters intending to settle to the meditation he’d skipped that morning before getting dinner, when the message from Kirk chimed on his PADD.

Forward: Requested report on Vulcan customs and practices around mating and relationships.

The report, addressed only to Kirk, was dated from some weeks before the asteroid-deflecting mission.

Dr M’Benga’s notes were crisp and concise; Spock read through it quickly, with rising alarm, then stood motionless for ten minutes, absorbing the implications. M’Benga had laid out what Kirk had already gathered about the mating mores and manners of Spock’s venerable clan and social position—the childhood betrothal with its preliminary bond formation which enabled the couple to get used to one another, to comprehend one another, well prior to the onset of the first pon farr. There was more laid out about it than Spock had ever seen or been told, including aspects he was still ignorant of.

The worst part was the concluding page, in which M’Benga introduced his name. 

Data gathered by Vulcans for the last four centuries indicates that, in all populations living on Vulcan or elsewhere, a percentage of preliminary bonds formed in childhood are broken off rather than consummated, with each individual in most cases selecting an alternate partner and achieving a normal mating bond. About half of these ‘break-ups’ are facilitated by a healer but many instances of spontaneous dissolution, or dissolution effected by the two parties themselves, are recorded in the literature. 

In clans and settings where childhood betrothal is less often practiced, mates may be selected at any time during the adolescence of the Vulcan male, based on the familiar reasons that most humanoid species share, within a framework of strict logic (a framework which the Vulcans, over millennia, have crafted to suit the needs of most individuals). Once bonded however, the data show there is a significantly lower rate of separations or divorce than amongst Humans and some other humanoid species. While we could not describe all Vulcan marriages as ‘happy’ per se, most provide compatibility which lasts until death. There is little information about Vulcans who couple outside the species, but what there is shows that the formation of the bond is successful and usual.

The options to divorce, to live singly, or to change partners are common, though at a lower rate than among Humans. Some couples live separate lives and come together only for the 7-year cycle, in some cases pursuing other relationships simultaneously but content to maintain their lifelong bond. Most Vulcan children are born into bonded relationships, but by no means all. The bond does not affect fertility or sexual performance one way or the other. Vulcan libidos, similar to those of the other humanoid species, can vary based on time of life, health, personal inclination, social situation, and so on. The idea that Vulcans don’t experience desire or have sex between the pon farr cycles is a misnomer. (Vulcan lesbians, for instance, are entirely detached from the effects of pon farr in the male. Homosexuality is slightly more prevalent than in other known humanoid species.)

Finally, there is nothing in Commander Spock’s medical history to indicate significant deviation from the norm in measurable parameters. Nothing may be inferred from the disconnection from T’Pring about Spock's health or future ability to find a new partner, beyond the personal preferences of the lady and himself.

Kirk had denied telling M’Benga about them, but M’Benga was no fool. Perhaps the doctor believed Kirk was merely concerned for his executive officer’s full recovery following the broken betrothal. Or perhaps he’d guessed all. An internal clutch of anxiety tightened his belly.

Why had Kirk forwarded the file to him and McCoy now? Simple. Because Kirk had brought it up again the other day. Indicating that, despite the barriers to intimacy he’d thrown up since his return, he still wanted it.

He still wanted it. And he knew Spock was still—maybe even more—skeptical.

Since the first time Kirk had brought up the mind-meld, Spock had meditated about it daily, looking to dispel the deep misgiving that defied his logic. He ought to be able to communicate in this way with his partner. With T’Pring, the meld, with or without sexual expression, had never felt right. Sometimes he’d imagined it as an unruly rug that would never lie flat, would develop a new bulge for each one he attempted to smooth. Even at her most willing and accommodating, T’Pring’s mind had somehow never received his with any real ease. 

Whereas when he imagined touching Jim’s mind, it was as if his own would become an unstoppable force, rioting through every last fold, causing an ecstasy so frenzied as to plunge them both into insanity. He’d tried, over and over, to create a fantasy of it going some other way—going the way Kirk assumed it would, the way he wanted it to. A glad joining, pleasure and understanding shared.

He felt he couldn’t do it, any more than he could breathe the vacuum of space. The intensity of being with Jim in merely the Human way came with sensations, emotions, he could barely assimilate.

Was that a fantasy too? A fantasy to what purpose?

Now that some time had passed since the emergency meld on the planet, Spock could review it with more dispassion. The mind he’d entered was a mind under amnesia and extreme distress, both circumstances that were unique to the occasion. Nothing about the experience gave a clue about how it would be to attempt it again, in solitude, in mutual acknowledgment, mutual desire.

And—the idea came to him with uncertainty—perhaps Kirk thought that the best, the only way?—for them to find one another again, was through that ultimate meeting of minds.

Settling down on the floor in meditative pose, Spock found it easier than he had since this whole thing began, to clear his thoughts and sink into himself.

A knock at the bathroom door roused Spock from his contemplation. He opened it to find Kirk standing there. “May I come in?”

“You may.” Spock stepped back.

“I thought you might be in the lab again, but the computer said you weren’t.”

“I did not meditate this morning. I was doing so now.”

“Oh. I’ll come back later.”

“I was going to the evening meal shortly.”

“Would you—” Kirk paused, and glanced around nervously. “Would you like to have it with me? In here, or in mine?”

Spock met his eyes, in which he saw anxiety, and doubt.

“Do you believe I’m angry with you? I am not.”

“I—no—I mean, you’d have a right to be. I’ve squandered your trust.” Kirk straightened up, squared his shoulders. “Where do we stand?”

“That’s as you will. I respect your grieving process and would not impose on you.”

“Forget what I will. Mine’s a mess. What do you will?”

“You think me passive.”

“Cautious,” Kirk said. “Though you know, the first time we did it—”

“You expected inexperience to present as passivity.”

“I was wrong. That was eye-opening. And …” Color came up in Kirk’s cheeks. “Mind-blowing.”

Was that, Spock wondered a kind of Freudian slip? Mind-blowing. He looked at Kirk more closely, analyzing and evaluating. This approach had more resemblance to Kirk’s pre-amnesia behavior than anything he’d yet done. Still, it seemed more imposed than natural. What Humans called going through the motions. 

However, Kirk taking steps to mend their broken bridge, whether or not he felt keen, was significant. Was he wanting to be taken charge of? 

In the beginning of their love affair, they’d encountered tense moments of power differentials, conflicting assumptions. Spock had had to re-evaluate his suppositions about the man—the confidant leader concealed a private appetite for yielding that only grew when Spock allowed himself to be assertive. They’d each learned things about themselves in those early encounters, as urges came up that were new to them.

It was time, Spock saw, to lay aside compunction. 

“Meet me in the rec room on Deck 3 in forty-five minutes. We will have it to ourselves.”

Kirk’s eyes widened. “Oh … okay. Just as I am?”

“Just as you are.” Spock stepped back, and Kirk, after a moment’s hesitation, retreated to his quarters.

_________________________________________________________________________

This “haunted” rec room had become a refuge for Spock when he felt cramped by the size of his own quarters. He didn’t know the lore, didn’t care to ask, but was satisfied that the place was deserted at all hours. Though on the small side, it had a replicator, a viewscreen, an observation window and a scattering of easy chairs and sofas. 

When Kirk came in, three minutes early, Spock set the Do Not Disturb on the door and led him to the replicator.

Kirk balked. “I thought we were going to talk.”

“We must eat.”

Kirk looked at him askance; there was some suspicion, but also a pliancy, in his glance.

“What are we having?”

“Something light yet nourishing.”

“Vulcan food?”

“You will like it.”

Kirk cracked a smile. “Yes sir.”

Spock carried the tray to the table by the window, and took the cover off a double serving of balk'ra, a stew of vegetables and thuhk, a soft protein-rich cheese. The dish most resembled the paneer of Earth, but the spice profile was not unlike that of the Chinese soup they’d eaten the other day. With it came a puffy bread, and a garnish of small pungent pickles that looked like radishes.

Kirk watched Spock tear the bread and use a piece to scoop some stew to his mouth, and imitated him. Chewing, he closed his eyes and sat back. “Oh, that’s savory.” He took a long drink of water, and then just sat still for a moment, his hands on either side of his plate, eyes shut, and took a deep breath.

“To not be hungry … for food to have no flavor … that might be the ultimate sign of the sickness unto death for a Human.”

“The ‘sin of despair’ Kierkegaard wrote of,” Spock rejoined.

“When you’re in it, you can’t see a way out. No end, no exit.” Kirk opened his eyes, looked at Spock. “What’s more—you don’t want an exit. You’re inanimate. Inanimate things have no wants.”

“You are in this state.”

“Was. Yes. Until I came to your birthday dinner. During that, some minuscule crack opened in me. Which sounds like a good thing, but I’d have turned away from it, burrowed deeper, if I could. The thing about the abyss is that when you’re enfolded in its depths, you can’t imagine being anywhere else. You can’t imagine trying.”

“I believe what you say. However, I also observed that you ate with appetite and were attuned to your companions and surroundings. If this was by sheer force of will, that attests to your nature, which has not, through this ordeal, altered.”

“My nature,” Kirk mused.

“You described it to me recently as that of an egoist, a selfish man. But that was over-inflated self-reproach. What might be egoism in another person in you is a quality of initiative of self and others towards curiosity, enrichment of experience and knowledge, and … love.”

Kirk said nothing.

“Also, stubbornness. Something we have in common.”

Kirk resumed eating. 

“Is it hard to hear this accurate assessment?”

“You mean praise? Yes. Don’t praise me. I’m too bruised to take it.”

Spock said nothing else until Kirk had finished the last red pickle, and used the last of the bread to mop his plate. Then he poured black coffee from a carafe, and put the cup into Kirk’s hand.

“I’ve considered our situation. And your request, for the meld. Which startled me, after … after our first experience.”

Kirk was attentive.

“I’ve concluded that I must override my misgivings and make the attempt. Otherwise, we’ll never know … we’ll never …” A surge of confusion came over Spock. He’d meant to say something like, we’ll never know if it’s operationally safe or we’ll never know how anomalous our trial was, but that wasn’t at all what he meant. Staring into his empty plate, he went on, “Otherwise, as you understood while I was still in the dark, our connection cannot progress to its most meaningful state.” 

He forced himself to look at Kirk, who was similarly staring down until he raised his eyes, which were suddenly watery. 

“Are we still ashayam, Jim Kirk?”

The tears welled up; Kirk’s mouth quivered, and he could only nod.

“Come here.”

Spock led him to an easy chair, and knelt beside him. “Do you consent?”

“Do you? I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I’ve already decided. I’m ready.”

“Then please. Go ahead.”

Spock placed his fingers on the points of Kirk’s face. Kirk had broken a light sweat, whether from the hot coffee or from apprehension Spock would, very shortly, know for sure.

“My mind to your mind …”

At first there was nothing. A gray fog, limitless, dimensionless. Spock, ready to trust, entered it, was enveloped. He waited. Gradually, the grayness took on a resonance, a sort of buzz without direction or variation, which, after further waiting, somehow coalesced into a sensation of being surrounded, as if by immersion. It was almost an effervescence, busy, but benign, an evaluation? It might have been bearing him up, floating him. Little by little, the grayness took on shade and shape, the buzz dissolving into a background hum. A shape became a hand, Kirk’s hand, reaching. Spock caught it, instinctively intertwining the fingers with his; Kirk’s held tight. A breeze of relief, of encouragement, wafted from Kirk, embodying them both. The mind-Kirk he next perceived was younger than any Spock had met, a raw boy of 17 or 18, thin and uncertain. 

Is this how you are? So slight, so young?

Yes. Well ... now you’re here ... maybe not so much ....

I’m here.

Kirk tugged on his arm, drew him in as the fog continued to resolve into a place, something still undifferentiable, without features or comforts.

Where is here?

The thought might have originated from them both, a combined mind.

Its where I am. Stuck. Like that poem. Do you know that poem?

Somehow, Spock did. The Auden. Nothing to eat, nowhere to sit down.

Kirk seemed to catch this like a lucky ball; the atmosphere lightened. He continued to tug, their hands clasped so tight that it was one hand of ten fingers. 

I don’t know my way here.

It’s not necessary to know everything.

Kirk’s laughter curling around him like a ribbon in the wind, surprised him. 

Hear yourself!

Something, slightly, became easier.

Kirk tugged on. There began to be trees. White-trunked, rippling to their height: birches. Look, Spock. Can you see?   There was a birch-copse on a rise at the edge of Miramanee’s village. From it they gazed down into the circle of hogans, each emitting a plume of wood-smoke from a hole in the roof. People moved about the clearing at their tasks. He could hear scattered singing, and the sounds of making: beating, scraping, knocking. Spock knew all the people by name, by the work they did, by the hogans they moved in and out of. It was all familiar. He looked for her.

She’s inside. Kirk pointed to the central hogan. Go look.

We will go together.

N-no. I can’t.

When Spock again followed Kirk’s clasped hand, his extended arm, to his face, he was no longer the boy. He was Kirok, his face crumpled in horror, streaked with dirt amid rising bruises.

To see her dead? But they’re all there, the villagers. Going about their business. Spock looked down into the village again, but now it was almost deserted; he saw only a few elder adults who’d just herded all of the children into the longhouse. 

They’ll still be in the woods, near the obelisk. Watching to see what else might happen. Wondering where I am. And where you strangers went, who appeared out of the air.

Then come with me.

I don’t belong there.

Neither do I.

I want you to see her.

Jim—I did. I was there, as McCoy tried to save her, as you exchanged your last words.

You … were there?

Of course—I beamed down with McCoy, who then sent for Chapel. Were you not aware?  Even if Kirk had somehow not registered his presence in the moment, he’d certainly read the action reports once he was back on the ship. But no, this Kirk, this inner one, had not. This Kirk had none of that in his frame of reference.

What do you want me to do?

Spock asked.

… see … see her.

I did. Spock tried to bring forward his own memories, which were, compared to the atmosphere here in Kirk’s mind, with its soft vague edges that seemed to cringe away from the specific, so crisp and precise as to be almost painfully uncanny. 

Kirk’s face was averted.

Come with me. I’ve got you.

I can’t.

Try. Descend this slope with me. He was intensely aware of how their hands gripped and merged. Then they were at the entrance of the hogan, still clasped, but as Spock moved to enter, Kirk didn’t follow. Spock tried to draw him further; their arms stretched, and almost, but did not, break. Spock turned to look in at the opening, saw the low fire, and then the young woman, lying on her pallette, pale and gone. Alone.

They’d left her alone. How long was it before her corpse was discovered by the others, who’d melted into the woods and hadn’t seen them carry her in here, trying to revive her?

From where he stood, held back by Kirk behind him, he saw the top of her head, her foreshortened body, resting as they’d left it, the hands clasped on the chest where Kirok had held them until the last.

I see her.

Behind him, Kirk wept. Spock tightened his hold on Kirk’s enmeshed fingers, and began to back away. 

When he turned, the village was replaced by the noplace they’d been before. He saw and felt Kirk’s hand, his forearm, but the rest of him was enveloped in a mist.

Where are we now, Jim?

I don’t know.

Are you ready to leave this, to come with me, as I have come with you?

No immediate answer came, but Spock tucked his arm beneath his own, drawing Kirk towards his own inner self.

It’s so cold. Spock, What is this?

What do you see?

Nothing.

Look up, Jim.

Spock did so, and saw the twin moons of Vulcan as they had been on the night when he’d undergone his first meditation outdoors at the sacred place. Saw the stars of the Vulcan firmament, the shimmery play of aurora borealis where the desert below met the horizon, and the white reflections of the snow atop the mountains opposite. He’d been brought here by his father and grandfather when he was just old enough to toddle the distance from Shi’Kahr, to understand what was required of him, of them all, in this place, where he would make his first attempt to join his rudimentary meditation skill to those of his ancestors in The Mind Place of Clan S’chn T’gai. 

When he lowered his eyes, he saw Kirk beside him, gazing up, slack-jawed, shivering. 

The Vulcan desert is cold at night, Kirk said.

This is the place where I center myself. A place I can always return to. You will always be safe here.

Kirk glanced around, at the glittering city, the desert under moon glow, the mountains that crowded up behind. He noticed the pair of buttes, jutting up between where they were and the city. Spock felt his recognition. The place of assignation, where they’d fought to the death. 

Then Kirk was looking at him. Would you have done it, if McCoy hadn’t intervened? Would you have killed me? Kirk’s gaze now was penetrating, wide open with hope.

Spock wished he could say what he thought Kirk wanted, needed, to hear. No, of course I couldn’t kill you whom I love. But he knew that wasn’t true. Knew that in that burning state, he’d lost all reason and will.

Kirk was now the one who was holding his hand, who was somehow drawing him closer until their two foreheads touched, and their other hands found and curled around each other. 

I’m safe now, Kirk showed him. We’re safe now. Together. Here. Everywhere. Is that so?

Spock could feel but no longer see him. He felt the kick of Kirk’s pulse against his own, the wrapped fingers, palms pressed close, the cadence of their breaths that seemed to be as one. When he threw back his head, the sky was still there, but it was different. It glittered with the infinite stars of deep space.

They were in the rec room on deck 3. Spock’s knees ached a little, from the long kneeling. His hand fell away from Kirk’s face, only to be gathered, with the other, into Kirk’s. Kirk was looking at him, leaning in, very close.

“Are you all right?” Kirk asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“I feel— raised up, somehow. From where I was before.”

“Raised up?”

“The abyss—is still there, but I’m not way down in it.” Kirk sighed, flopped back in the chair. “Are you really okay? You did this for me—did it hurt?”

“It did not. I knew not what to expect … it was … it was fascinating.”

“ I’m wiped out. I could sleep for a night and a day.”

Spock felt Kirk’s fatigue, which was enticing, enveloping, which was also his own.

As one, they got to their feet, wobbling and steadying each other. Spock led the way, to the lift, back to deck 5. Kirk followed, holding his hand. It was the middle of ship’s night; they met no one. Spock walked him past the doors to both their quarters, to the end of the corridor, and into the guest suite on the left. Kirk followed, almost sleep-walking, through the reception room, the sitting room, into the bed chamber beyond. 

As if going under some gentle obscuring drug, they undressed themselves and crawled into bed. 

_________________________________________________________________________

Kirk awoke with a start in an unfamiliar bed, alone. The room spun, before he remembered he was in a guest suite. Sitting up, something fluttered past his head; a piece of notepaper.  Jim, I regret having to leave you for a short time. I will return by 17 hundred hours. Sulu has the conn, and I have briefed McCoy. I will be off duty for 48 hours. Please stay here. —S 

He read the note over a few times, enjoying the unfamiliar site of Spock’s handwriting, before folding it and slipping it under the pillow.

A glance at the clock showed it was 3:35 in the afternoon. He had slept well into the next day, and could recall no dreams. If not for pressing urgencies, he’d have dropped back into a doze. Dragging himself up, he pissed and drank down two tall tumblers of water before facing his reflection in the mirror. This bathroom was twice the size of his, furnished with amenities provided by Star Fleet stores. He showered with the fruity cleansing gel, wrapped himself in a plush robe, and wandered towards the replicator. His stomach was roaring, but he wasn’t sure for what. Everything was fuzzy at the edges, as if he was swathed in cashmere. After some hesitation, trying to remember what he liked to eat for breakfast, he asked for oatmeal, toast, grapefruit juice. 

Sitting down with it, he assessed his status. For the first time since coming back to the Enterprise, nothing overtly ached or smarted or throbbed. The band of pain that had encircled his head as though soldered in place was gone; muscles were easy and lax. He was neither chilly nor too warm. His mind was blurry but pleasantly so, as if it still drowsed and would catch up to the freshly washed body in motion. 

It came to him that only now did he feel as though he was really here, on his ship. Trauma tripped up his sense of time; it felt like months that he’d been sunk in depression, angry at himself and the universe, firmly lodged in despair. The absence of this, as the absence of pain, was a palpable thing; he let himself feel its release. Perhaps nothing was finished—was anything really finished, while life went on?—but he knew himself to be repositioned, the slough behind him, whatever else was ahead.

It was hard to think of the meld. It was already dissolving like a dream, the more as he tried to relive its stages. What was strong was the nearness of Spock, the goodness of that. It was always good to be close to Spock. It made him better, in so many unnamable ways; it did the same for Spock, he knew. Whatever Spock had been afraid of about coming into his mind hadn’t happened. There was a naturalness to it that Kirk was sure of even as the details became more and more elusive. He wondered if he’d experience the next one in the same way, or if this had been special, a revisiting that was meant to do its work and fade.

He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful. It came to him then, the important thing hanging over him. He’d talked with Spock, a few times, slept with him, but had he really taken in a single true thing about Spock’s experience while they were separated? He’d challenged and insulted him, essentially teased between abrupt withdrawals. Had he really heard anything Spock said, except to reject it? He yearned to now, with all the immediacy of his thirsty awakening. How long until 1700 hours?

It was only 4:30. Kirk put the dishes in the recycler, hung the damp robe and got back into bed. 

Almost as soon as he was settled, the door opened and Spock came in, with a stack of boxes in his arms.

“Mr Sulu relieved me early. He is intent on amassing his conn hours towards promotion.”

“I thank him. What’ve you got there?”

“Some needful items. Your dressing gown. Clothes. Razors and so on.”

“We’re going to hide out in here for the weekend?”

“We are going to settle here. The remainder of our belongings will be moved over Monday morning when we are elsewhere.”

Kirk sat up excitedly. “But— What are the crew going to think?”

“I have told McCoy and Uhura that we are no longer secret. They will let it be generally known that our connection was established some time ago. I did not believe you would object.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t we have told them ourselves? But … well, all right. I guess we’ll get asked about it once we reappear.”

Spock was unpacking the parcel. He’d brought a few of Kirk’s books, his little firepot, other familiar items. No PADDS, though of course there were terminals in each room. 

He moved about efficiently, putting things where they would be wanted.

One box remained unopened.

“What’s in there?”

“The birthday gifts I received from our colleagues. I would like to show them to you later.” Spock was methodically undressing, folding every piece as he removed it. 

It had taken a little while when they’d first become lovers for Kirk to somewhat understand Spock’s relationship to nudity. He’d had occasion to explain more than once prior to that time, that the Vulcan sense of modesty was unlike that of some Humans, being based not on religious strictures of shame, however anciently outmoded, but on logic. Despite this, Kirk had considered him shy about his body; he never exposed even his torso willingly, rebuffed any reference to his own attractiveness, and was seemingly without vanity, even as he made up his eyes as routinely as he put on his clothes. 

So Kirk had been almost abashed by how matter-of-factly Spock had stripped off their first time together. He had no apparent self-consciousness, either positive or negative. He spoke of Kirk’s beauty but not his own; when Kirk spoke of Spock’s points, Spock listened with patient dispassion. Kirk had left off questioning him, not wanting to seem unduly interested in the topic, but uncertainties remained. He lumped these with others about Vulcan logic, which he’d come to find increasingly arbitrary, in that Vulcans seemed able to call on logic to justify, to their own satisfaction, things that contradicted each other. No reason or logic, Kirk decided, was infallible or at least not open to interpretation. Do I contradict myself?/Very well then I contradict myself,/(I am large, I contain multitudes.) Kirk was certain Spock would know that poem.

At the moment, Spock’s undressing suggested nothing beyond a wish to be in the same state as Kirk; he got into bed beside him at once, pulling the coverlet over his lap, propping himself up on his elbows.

“When did you wake? Have you eaten?”

Kirk burst out abruptly over Spock’s questions. “Will you tell me what’s it’s been like for you? That’s what I need to hear. I think you need to tell it, too.”

Spock drew his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and regarded him. 

Hastily, Kirk said, “Yes, I ate, I ate about the best dish of oatmeal in the galaxy, and I’ve been awake a little while. I didn’t hear you go out.”

“I left you at the beginning of alpha shift. I did not want to but I had things to attend to.”

“Yes, of course. Only tell me—”

“You feel no aftereffects from the meld?”

“Do you?”

"I am possessed of a renewed calm,” Spock admitted. 

“I slept the entire time since we got here. I was out. When I woke up I felt brand new. I think I’ve turned a corner. Thank you for bringing me there.”

Spock took this with a nod.

“Don’t you have things to tell me? You said—you said a few things about our time apart. I wasn’t really equipped to take anything in properly. Now I want it all.”

“Do you think you owe me something?”

This was unexpected. “Yes! Don’t you?”

“I do not, as you say, ‘keep score’.”

“Nonsense. You think you don’t. I dragged your heart over three miles of bad road.” Kirk smiled. 

“Is that a literary reference?”

“C’mere, Spock.”

Kirk moved closer, prodding Spock to lie prone and face him.

“I like it when our bodies are close together,” Kirk said, tracing Spock’s shoulder with a fingertip. “I like it when you confide in me. Please tell me what went on for you all that time I was gone. I hate that I was oblivious to you. I want to console you. And! Don’t pretend you don’t need to be consoled.”

“Jim.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all. Just Jim. I like this too.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? I don’t know what I’d do without you. I mean it. I’m a desperate man. We can’t let anything like that happen again.”

“I’ll endeavor to prevent it. However—”

“Ad astra per aspera.”

“Quite.”

Kirk wrapped his hands around Spock’s. “Is this OK?”

“It is agreeable.”

“How about this?” He thrust a knee forward, to touch Spock’s. 

“Same.”

“I love you. I haven’t stopped. It must’ve looked like I did … but it was beyond my reach. Everything was beyond my reach.”

“Jim, I know.”

“Do you?”

Spock’s eyes shut, and he breathed out. “Yes. Ashayam.”

“Then tell me everything. The worst. How I hurt you, when I came back. All of it.”

“What did you think of Lily Briscoe?”

“What—who?”

“Lily Briscoe. The artist.”

“The artist … the artist in the book Christine lent me? To The Lighthouse.”

“I read it too.”

“My God, did you? Just now?”

“So that we might share. What did you think of her?”

“I don’t know … I read it in a blur—what did you think? Was she your favorite?”

“She was familiar to me in her determination and persistence. In her needful solitude. In her bouts of self-doubt. In her observations of all the others.”

“Yes. She was up against it, wasn’t she? Yet good natured and undeterred.”

“Yes. I also thought a great deal about Mr Ramsay. His great fear that he would never reach beyond Q, that R would defeat and undo him entirely.”*

Kirk’s mouth had dropped open a little, in awe and interest. “Do you remember the entire book? When you read anything, Spock—does all of it stay with you? Like what we call photographic memory?”

“That’s merely how the Vulcan mind works.”

“Damn. That I envy. I used to memorize poems. I still know them, but I haven’t learned any new ones in quite a while.” Kirk squeezed his hands. “What else struck you in that book? What about Mrs Ramsey?”

“She didn’t escape your notice.”

“With her little boy James. I thought of my own mother. And then, suddenly, from one sentence to the next—she’s gone.”

“Woolf achieved a most potent effect on that page.”

“And I guess … I was like little James, who wanted to go to the lighthouse and wouldn’t let it alone despite all discouragement. Not that my dad was much like the exhausting Mr Ramsay.”

“And so you have gone.”

“Yes. But in the book—when he finally goes—it’s not the same at all, as how he wanted it. All that displacement and death, war, irretrievable years, intervene before they set out. He’s different, and so is the destination.”

“That’s the way of things,” Spock mused.

“Yes. It never stops being profound, does it? Christine was right to give me that book. I see now that while I read it sort of robotically, it sank in more than I knew. These examples of other lives really are so much. So necessary. Beautiful and necessary.”

“When, as a child, I began to refuse imagined stories in favor of the empirical, my mother tried to persuade me that it was a false dichotomy. I was too young to grasp the values she described. Only when I went to the Academy, where I was set as much study of literature as of science, did I begin to know how wrong I was. Even so, I have neglected my reading. You must show me your favorite books.”

“Yes! I’ll reread them with you. But you’ll be so much faster than me.”

“I will match my pace to yours.”

Kirk touched his forehead to Spock’s. “I’m sorry my absence made you lose control of your emotions. I know that’s the worst thing that can to happen to you. But also—I’m not sorry, because it means you love me. I need that so much.”

“I don’t regret my squalls of tears. I wouldn’t give up my love for you if I could.”

“I’m sorry I forgot you.”

“You didn’t. Nor should you be sorry for the love you found and gave to Miramanee and her people. I wouldn’t wish it.”

“Not jealous? I’d be jealous if the tables were turned.”

“Noted.”

“The other thing I can’t stop thinking about. Nobody’s mentioned it, because its radioactive. What if—what if she hadn’t died?”

“Well?”

“What’s worse, what happened—so conveniently for us—or—that I abandon her and our baby? Of course I wish she’d lived. But I’d have had to leave her.”

“You do not need to parse this. It is moot. You only torment yourself.”

“Neither of these is any kind of a relief! My mind keeps running back and forth between them, like some ugly relay race that doesn’t end.”

“This is neither the first, nor the last time, that your illusion of control will be exploded. There will be always be sorrows and things we regret. Time will fade this too.”

“That’s right. I need reminding.”

They lay quietly, listening to one another breathe.

“Spock?”

“Yes, Jim?”

“We’re going to—I mean—you want, don’t you—for us to be—”

“Can you still doubt it?”

“I can, yes. I don’t feel exonerated. I hope I never do, not entirely.”

“I blame you not at all. I know you did the best you could. It’s for you to forgive yourself.”

“I’m never taking you for granted. Please God I’m never that arrogant. I want to be your husband, Spock.”

“That is also what I want.”

“I want to be your bondmate. As much as I can be, as a non-Vulcan.”

“That is my desire. It can be done.” He wondered at his mother, sending the engagement necklace like that. Out of the blue.

Kirk slid closer, so Spock became aware of his erection, wet-tipped, against his belly. “You always make me so damn hard.”

“Yes,” Spock said, with his usual equanimity.

“I want you. Are you feeling it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to do?”

Spock took Kirk in his arms, threw a leg over his hip. “Hold you.”

“Hold me, yes. Hold me tight.” Kirk sighed with pleasure, breathing Spock in, noticing the subtle changes of burgeoning arousal. “There’s no rush, is there?” There was preciousness in lying together, reacquainting themselves with themselves as they were when like this, entwined, peaceful, and only at the outermost edge of an excitement whose postponement was its own pleasure. 

Cherishing, Kirk thought.

Spock whispered, “Cherishing.”

“You hear my thoughts.”

“The very surface. Because I know myself welcome to.”

“You’re not worried anymore, about touching my mind?”

“I was mistaken. It is a gift, and will be a refuge. I’m glad you asked for it, glad you still wanted it. Nothing could have meant more to me, than you still wanting it, after all this.”

Kirk exhaled a low ecstatic moan. “Sweet sweet man.”

After a time, Spock said, “Had I failed.”

“What?”

“Had I failed to rescue you.”

“Don’t dwell on that. You did.”

“I’ve already dwelt on it.”

“Then say how.”

“I’d have returned to Vulcan and entered Kolinahr.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. What is it?”

“It is the renunciation, purgation, of all emotion. An entry into the purest logic. I would have left Star Fleet and gone to P’Jem to study with the masters. It takes some years to become an adept. In your absence I would devote my life to it.”

Kirk stiffened, and raised his head a little. “I don’t like that at all.”

“There could be nothing else for me.”

“Maybe I’m supposed to find the idea of you responding to my death by becoming some sort of shriven monk  romantic, but it isn’t. I hate it. Spock—if I die first—I probably will die first—I don’t want you to do that. I want you to stay in love. With the world, with friends, with … with any children we might have … with some new partner. You’d honor me most by loving again. Don’t hide yourself away, don’t renounce. That feels like shame. Promise me.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I do understand. I hadn’t heard of this before, but if I’d had to guess—I’d have guessed you’d say some crazy thing like that. That’s how you used to be, before we found each other. Too ready to sacrifice, to do without. Please don’t slip back into that isolation. Haven’t we taught one another love?”

Spock was quiet for a time; Kirk believed he could feel him considering. 

At length, he said, “Your suggestions have merit.”

“Will you promise me?”

“I promise you to think further on the subject.”

“If I lose you, it’s what I’ll do. Try to do. Apply my love anew. though my heart will be in a billion pieces for a long long time. Oh Spock, how can something be too much and not enough at the same time? That’s how I feel when I’m with you. How I feel right now.”

“Yes. I never knew this was possible. Possible for me. It doesn’t seem transferable.”

“Don’t worry,” Kirk said. “Don’t worry don’t worry don’t worry.”

They subsided again into holding and being held. But it didn’t last. Energies were present. They began to kiss, and as Kirk liked to joke, that always led to good trouble.

“What are we doing?” 

“Anything.” Spock was breathing harder. Their cozy warmth was suddenly slickening heat. They pushed the coverlet down.

“Something. You call it. How do you want me?”

“Open.”

As soon as he heard it, Kirk knew that was what he wanted too, though he’d have agreed to anything Spock asked for. “How?”

“Underneath.” Spock was already repositioning him, crawling over him, planting kisses down his neck and chest, rubbing himself against Kirk’s erection even as his own sheath was swelling, soon to reveal the crown of his cock. He pinned Kirk’s hands on either side. “I re-possess you,” he growled. “I burn for thee.”

This pronouncement ratcheted things up more than a few notches; Kirk couldn’t lie still, wriggled against Spock’s token restraint, flexed up to meet Spock’s body.

“Give yourself to me.”

“Yes—always—always—”

Spock let go of one wrist to grab the lube he’d placed on the bedside table; his drenched fingers skimmed over Kirk’s taut balls to probe his rim. 

“I’m ready—I’m more than ready—”

“Patience,” Spock said, but it didn’t mean anything. He scooped one of Kirk’s legs high up around his own body, entering in one rapid thrust that made Kirk cry out. He continued to gasp as Spock opened him, pushing his thighs apart.

Kirk was just able to think that he’d forgotten how big Spock was, when coherent thought became impossible. All he could do was not hyperventilate, not pass out or cry or die. Spock had a way of maneuvering him, covering him, that seemed to involve more than just his four limbs; the fra’als helped, winding and twisting wetly around his quivering hips and legs, licking around underneath where he was wide-stretched and frantic around Spock’s fucking.

Spock could do this and still kiss with a delicacy that undid him.

“Is this good?” They spoke in unison, and Kirk was afraid he’d laugh and somehow destroy this incredible rhythm, but it didn’t happen. Spock was a machine of demand, of possession. A machine that kissed his mouth like a blossom upon a blossom—how was it possible? And he knew Spock would keep this up until Kirk erupted, until he could take absolutely no more. He would control them both until the right moment, when Kirk’s release could no longer be staved, before he’d permit himself his own.

This wasn’t the only way Spock had, but it was one of the best. He had an apparent instinct for what they both needed on a given occasion. This occasion was more crucial than almost any that had come before it. Kirk submission was total, ecstatic. 

They crashed together with a long groan that resonated in the room like the final chord of a symphony.

_________________________________________________________________________

“So,” Kirk said, pointing at the box, “what did you get for your birthday? Thirty-seven, right?”

“That is correct.

They’d come out of the shower and were at the table eating sandwiches with towels around their waists. 

Spock laid out each item between them, saying who had given each. Kirk read Chekhov’s handwritten note with a nod, “Good for him, he’s coming along nicely,” looked uncomprehendingly but appreciatively at the Vulcan language books and sheet music folio, smiled at Scott’s little sculptural puzzle as he turned it about in his hands, and laughed with delight at the netsuke squirrel. “Will you share him with me?” Spock’s eyes crinkled in amusement as he agreed.

“Well, this is quite the collection. Quite the tribute.”

“It is affecting. They are most kind and thoughtful.”

“Nyota sure looks out for you.”

“She has been, as you’d say, there for me.”

“Glad to hear it. I didn’t get you anything.”

“There was no need.”

“I will though. Soon. I’m going to give you lots of presents, Spock, all our life together. For occasions and for no occasion.”

“This pleases you.”

“Yes.”

“You have given yourself back to me, that is what I wanted most.”

“But that won’t be all. I’m going to surprise you.” Kirk put a hand out and Spock laid his on it, as they continued to munch one-handed. Their palms together brought on a sense of security that was unlike any other.

“Wait a minute—I recall one more gift that I don’t see here. That first square box Uhura passed to you.”

“From my mother.”

“Is it a secret?”

“For now.”

“You won’t show me it? Tell me what it is?”

“I will not. But you will see it, in due time.”

Kirk questioned him with his eyes, with his fingertips skittering suggestively on Spock’s palm, but Spock held mum.

“What are our prospects for a shore leave? We need one. The crew sure needs one.”

“There are possibilities within a three-week journey. I will contact Star Fleet Command for authorization.”

“Good. Great! Also, I think I’m ready for regular duty again, come Monday alpha shift.”

“I agree. We will consult McCoy.”

“We still have tonight and all day and night tomorrow. What do you wanna do?”

“Fuck. There is much I have missed.”

Spock’s frankness along these lines was always unexpected and titillating. 

“Agreed.”

“I will clean my teeth.” Spock left the room.

_________________________________________________________________________

Kirk finished his sandwich, gazing abstractedly at the gifts, and then at the suite’s pictures and ornaments, which he was already planning to replace with ones from his and Spock’s rooms, and ones they’d go on to choose together. Picking up the netsuke squirrel, he hefted it in his palm; it seemed to hunker down there agreeably. It reminded him strangely of Spock himself; a thing perfect of its kind. Rising, he dropped the towel, draped it over the back of the chair, and set the squirrel down on Spock’s nightstand.

Spock emerged also without his towel, coming up behind Kirk to embrace him. 

“We need to take pictures together.”

Kirk turned in his arms. “What a thing for you to think of.”

“I found some solace in looking at pictures of you while you were gone. But we have taken none of us together. None that were just for ourselves.”

“Maybe because you wanted to be so discreet. You never know what’ll happen with photos even if they’re marked eyes-only,” Kirk said. “But it’s true, I seldom think of it. Most of the candids I have were taken by Nyota, or other friends, or family.” Kirk approached the full length mirror beside the closet doors, Spock following with his arms still looped around his shoulders. 

They hadn’t done this before either, looked at themselves together. Must’ve had to do with Spock’s absence of vanity. Or purported absence; what if that was one of his affectations, akin to his assertion that he was always in control of his emotions? Kirk met his eyes in the glass. “Please tell you’re not immune to your own beauty. I’m starting to think that’s a sham.”

“It is not a preoccupation. I do not share that trait with you.”

“Hey!”

“That wasn’t a criticism. It’s natural to you. Human.”

“I don’t believe Vulcans aren’t preoccupied with their own looks. Most of them are gorgeous—and even if they’re not, they all keep themselves in such tip-top shape, take so much pains with clothes and adornments. No one else is the galaxy outdoes the Vulcans for elegance, for attention to detail in clothes and all that.”

“I don’t dispute it.”

“And physically—look at yourself.”

Spock looked. “We suit one another,” he allowed.

Kirk turned again in his arms, pulled him closer, and went up on his toes to kiss Spock’s mouth. 

_________________________________________________________________________

A couple of days later, after Kirk had once more presided as captain on his bridge, to the relief and reassurance of the entire crew, and that crew been informed that a two-week leave on a planet known for its variety of vacation options was less than a month off, Uhura brought her Vulcan lyre to Kirk and Spock’s quarters after dinner. 

Spock was there alone, warming up on his own instrument. Kirk was at the gym. They sat together on a sofa, the gifted folio of music open on the low table, deciding which piece to try first.

“I’ve been practicing more often, to get ready for this,” she said. “You’re so much better of a player than me.”

“I play my best when I play with you,” Spock said.

“Why, aren’t you sweet.” She smiled.

When Kirk walked in, an hour later, they were immersed in a duet of climbing harmonies. He dropped into a chair to listen.

Spock was intent, expressionless to any but Kirk who could read him now better than anyone except Amanda, his hands moving with confident precision on the instrument. Uhura, grinning with effort, her head bobbing, matched him.

Any real enjoyment of Vulkhansu music, which resembled mathematics more than the other kinds of music Kirk preferred, was still elusive, though he was determined to try. The joy of watching Spock make music with their friend carried all before it. 

Kirk was glad Spock had been able to turn to Uhura out of his usual self-imposed isolation. He wanted his relationship with Spock to bring about other connections; Spock had many acquaintances, fellow scientists and researchers throughout the Federation, but he still lacked pals. Kirk hoped he was opening himself to these possibilities. Loving Spock, he wanted everything for him, every benefit, every pleasure, every reciprocal relation life had to offer.

The music wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad at all, when you were tired out from a session on the stair climber, your ship and its complement were running well, you knew yourself to be understood and cherished by the man you loved, and a small glass of brandy beckoned as a nice way to cap off the day.

As the duet came to an end, he clapped softly. ”That sounded well, to my unschooled ears.”

“All the mistakes were mine,” Nyota said.

“There were but two, and your recovery from each was admirable,” Spock said.

Uhura laughed, and glanced from one to the other. With a sudden decisiveness, she said, “Well, look at the time! Lieutenants should be going to bed. Spock, this was fun.”

“A pleasure we will repeat soon.”

“I’ll keep up my practicing.” She’d packed up her lyre, said goodnight to Kirk, and was gone in an instant.

Taking out the brandy and two glasses, Kirk went to sit in her place beside Spock. Handing him his drink, Spock laid his hand over Kirk’s, and delicately plucked up the glass with his other hand as he enmeshed their fingers.

“The most welcome guest knows when to make an exit.”

They clinked their glasses, and drank.

_________________________________________________________________________

“How do we feel about this mattress?” Kirk asked, as they brought their drinks to bed.

“Its size is superior, and firmness adequate.”

“Good.” Kirk watched Spock undress, wondering how he’d take it if he asked him to do it some other, more demonstrative, manner. Though Spock undressing was exciting enough in the usual way. Kirk had begun to emulate his neatness, and stopped letting his garments drop to the floor as he shook them off.

Spock said, “This guest suite is in the same location as Captain Pike’s former quarters. When the Enterprise was refit, before you took it over, the decision to increase the crew size required fully renovating the habitation decks, significantly cutting the size of senior officers’ quarters, conference rooms, and recreational spaces. As I’ve told you, Pike had a full kitchen—with space for guests to dine. The general crew lounge was quite elaborately configured. The size of my own quarters was reduced by two-thirds, even as I was promoted to lieutenant commander.”

“That must have taken some getting used to. I never served on anything even as spacious as this.”

“The next wave of Constitution-class starships under development will be considerably larger.”

“Do you think our taking over this suite will be resented by the crew?”

“There is always someone who will resent anything. As you know, arrangements are available for committed couples. In the near future, ships like ours will contain families.”

“Kids growing up on a starship? Huh. I hadn’t given that much thought.” Kirk’s expression changed; Spock realized too late that he’d inadvertently touched a tender spot. Spock didn’t know how large a part the unborn child played in Kirk’s regrets; his focus was on the wife he’d adored.

Should he say something? Kirk’s mood had taken on a shade, he was just staring at the ceiling.

“Jim. For the child you awaited—I grieve with thee.”

“Oh God.”

“You have said almost nothing about it.”

“What is there to say? She was only in the first trimester. ”He put a hand over his eyes. “But she talked about him every day. He was so real to her. She was sure he was a boy. She was so proud.”

“It is a loss, no matter when it occurs.”

Kirk turned to look at him, putting his hand now on Spock’s forehead, smoothing his hair. “The life I really want is this life. The one I chose and made. The partner I want is you. If there’s a kid or kids, eventually, they’ll be ours. I have no regrets about that.”

Kirk’s hand caressed Spock’s face, stroking slowly across his brow and cheeks, down his nose, along his lips. “Oh my. You weren’t sure, were you, until you heard what I said just now? I swear I just saw a shadow pass off of you I didn’t know was there.”

Spock didn’t realize until that moment that he’d still been uncertain about how life with Kirk could play out beyond the end of this five year mission or the next. Without that structure that kept them in proximity, could Kirk’s life goals really align with his own? That doubt had vanished. 

“Do you know you’re smiling?” Kirk murmured. “Sweet beautiful man.” He rose up on one arm over Spock, gazing at him with the soft eyes that were among the first thing Spock had noticed about James Kirk when they met. The other hand was stroking allusively down Spock’s chest and flanks, making him writhe. Kirk’s mouth followed, on a slow processive Grand Tour, visiting each spot with kisses, licks, little bites that brought him out in groans.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Kirk whispered, “I haven’t forgotten what you like," and Spock could feel how he was smiling now, grinning with delight and affection and anticipation. He teased lower, avoiding the dark hair surrounding the sheath, which was already pulsating. Laid kisses on the thighs, outer and inner, looking at Spock up the length his body, showing him that praiseful smile. Then he pushed Spock’s hips up, disappearing behind his thighs where a moment later Spock felt a tongue trace his rim, flicking between kisses. Kirk’s fingers combed the hair of his groin, pressing against the pulsing sheath, stroking wetly at the gap as it opened little by little. Rising up again to meet Spock’s eyes. “Your package, which really is a package, opens in the most charming way. It never doesn’t put on a show.”

“It—is—how—I—am—made—”

“And thank all the deities for that.”

Kirk was coaxing the cock tip with his mouth, drawing it out to its full length as the fra’als emerged and whipped themselves around his hand and cheeks. 

There was—still—always—an incredibility to the sight of Kirk taking him in his mouth. He was so enthusiastic about it, took such time about it. At the beginning of their affair, he’d asked so many questions about how Spock liked to be touched, taken, tried different ways to learn his subtleties. Spock had done the same, but it was what he would do; Kirk’s care as a lover he hadn’t expected. This underestimation made him feel obscurely guilty in a pleasant way, a contradiction he shied from.

Coherent thought was increasingly impossible under Jim’s ministrations. Spock heard himself moaning around gulps of air. There was often some brief struggle within himself ahead of the physical surrender, some remnant of shame for who he was and what he needed, for the inherent frivolousness of sex, that added to the whole effect. Bucking into Kirk’s receptive mouth, he began to spend; arms shielding his face from a sight he could suddenly no longer bear. Kirk was without mercy; he commanded every last gasp and throb, before he laid his warm cheek on Spock’s panting belly.

“How was that?” Kirk murmured into his skin. “Was that convincing?”

“Most convincing. I would almost believe that—that—”

“That I love you, yes, you maddening Vulcan. I love you.”

_________________________________________________________________________

After a few minutes of inertia, Spock, exhibiting his famous (to Kirk) quick powers of re-arousal, moved to straddle his lap.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Kirk agreed.

Kirk had assumed that there would be some discussion, negotiation, before the next meld, and that it wouldn’t be part of lovemaking. He suspected Spock would have some procedure for working up to it, that there were aspects he’d have to learn about in advance. Also he didn’t want to seem over-eager, so waited for Spock to bring it up again

So he was unprepared for Spock, sinking slowly onto Kirk’s erection, to ‘appear’ at the same time in his mind.  How politely he made his presence known, as if tapping on a door left ajar. 

And there was nothing to learn or work up to; Kirk answered the tapping and found Spock as much entwined with his sensorium and consciousness as were their bodies. He was equally alive to Spock’s sensations of being held and penetrated and adored as Kirk was of his own. This was uncanny and intoxicating. Bottle this and you could rule the universe!

Spock’s response to this humor came in a warm rush of well-being, an exquisite chemical bath of laughter.

This is even better than my fantasies. I’m the luckiest man alive.

I too did not know it could be like this.

For long minutes they were so enraptured by the psychic joining as to forget to move; Spock dropped his forehead onto Kirk’s shoulder, breathing hard, ecstatic in his arms.

Kirk thought, Oh, I knew I wanted you here. I can feel your thoughts—beautiful—

Explore me.

Kirk wasn’t sure how, but found this required no lessons; only curiosity. The innerscape of his beloved opened into a panorama of all the senses, of time and no-time, here and everywhere. Too much to really take in, yet somehow thrillingly safe and welcoming. This shouldn’t be possible, he thought, feeling so fortunate, in this new world that yet was not strange, because it was Spock, already loved, already known. 

They rode it slowly; Kirk thought of some magnificent carousel, and Spock took this up, no reticence to his expression, or to the deep thrusts of his body as he fucked himself on Kirk’s lap. They almost couldn’t hear their own ragged breathing, their moans, over the wild music of their minds’ swirling dance.

When the pleasure reached its crescendo, when it had slowly subsided into sweet exhaustion, Kirk felt Spock’s slow withdrawal, as polite as the entrance. They were still wrapped around each other, hands stickily clasped.

“Inept, you said. Incapable, you said. No can do, you said.”

“I am glad to be mistaken.”

“As you so seldom are.”

Kirk opened his eyes to Spock’s smug smile beside him on the pillow.

“As I so seldom am. For your sake, my Captain.”

“But when you are—”

“It is also for you. About you. But I know you better now, Jim.”

“And you brought me home.”

“Home, yes. Ashayam, we are home.”

—END—

Footnote

*The Q referenced here is not the John DeLancie character. In Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, Mr Ramsay, an academic philosopher, frets that at his time of life he’s mastered the intellectual alphabet, so to say, as far as Q, but R and beyond will forever elude him—ie, he feels he’s peaked, intellectually, and this unnerves him.