Valkyrie A Star Trek XI AU Fanfiction By Carouselcycles

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Valkyrie

Part One Spock hated Earth. He hated the rich green of the trees and the deep blue of the skies, hated every sound and smell from the most insignificant buzz of the most insignificant insect to the thick, honeyed smell of flowers that was almost cloying in its sweetness. He hated the beaches, the parks, and the cities, hated the pestilence of humanity that had blackened their roots of sand, bark, and concrete. He hated the trains, the buses, and the cars, the way they honked so loudly and so frequently that his ears rang with each blaring of every horn, bell, or whistle. He hated everything right down to the way the moisture in the air stuck to his skin like a thin sheen of sweat, something that was so decidedly human in appearance that he could barely contain the shiver of revulsion that had traveled down his spine at the thought. Everything about the planet nauseated him, repulsed him to his very core in the way it went against all that was familiar to him. Earth was completely alien with its vibrant greenery and vast, frothy oceans, both stark contrasts to the rocky, unforgiving red of Vulcan’s sands, the same sands that had cradled Spock’s vision of the world since he was an infant. Here, the sun’s rays were only gentle caresses across his skin, golden kisses of warmth that fluttered over the curve of his cheeks and the slopes of his palms instead of harsh splinters of burning radiation that burst over his body like a series of firecrackers. Gone was the ever-present dryness of Vulcan, replaced by a humidity that languished over him, draping itself over his shoulders like a damp cloth and filling his mouth with moisture that was now so abundant it no longer seemed precious. Nothing was special on this planet that had everything, a supply of resources so ample that humanity squandered it readily for centuries, always turning a blind eye to perceived consequences that never quite came to be. It sent a rush of anger right up into Spock’s jaw, his teeth biting down hard on the red hot flare of emotion so forcefully that it quickly receded into the abyss it had come from. However, the subtle pinching of his lips and the hardness that had crept into the dark irises of his eyes continued to betray the dark emotions that swirled deep inside him as he stepped into the artificial chill of the spaceport’s main terminal. While the journey down through Earth’s atmosphere was short—though not exactly pleasant due to sudden bouts of unpredictable turbulence and the abrupt manner in which the pilot deemed to utilize the shuttlecraft’s brakes—Spock’s mood had already taken a most definite turn for the worse by the time he set his feet on solid ground for the first time in a little over a week. This rapid spiral of unpleasantness was only aggravated further by the manner in which the collar of his white dress shirt insisted on pinching at the skin of his throat, an uncomfortable feeling that was not lessened in the least by the alien sensation of having a dark tie secured tightly around the base of his neck. Like the tie and shirt, which were, albeit uncomfortable, immaculate in appearance, all of Spock’s clothes were new, purchased only a few days before his initial departure from Vulcan in what could have been called a “last-minute scramble” had he not been Vulcan. However, this new wardrobe, while aesthetically pleasing, lacked a definite sense of variety. Composed mainly of suits, the most exciting of which was a dark navy blue and nearly identical to the black one he currently wore, it was a wardrobe that was more suited for business than for leisure, although the idea 3

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that a Vulcan, especially one so young as Spock, would venture down to Earth for either activity was already quite laughable. In fact, Earth hadn’t seen a single Vulcan set foot on Terran soil within the past decade, making Spock’s appearance nothing short of surprising to the spaceport’s many other travelers—the majority of which were human. To say that Spock stood out would have been a gross understatement. In the sea of rounded ears, curved eyebrows, and skin that flushed pink, the lone Vulcan stood as a single dark pillar of severity with his neatly coiffed bowl of black hair, slanted eyebrows, and unnervingly blank expression. As he moved in the direction of baggage claim, each of his movements fluid and controlled, carefully calculated and intimidating in its grace, the sea of people parted to allow him passage, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, their eyes flashing dangerously with a deeply rooted sense of distrust that had been bred into their psyches over multiple generations. Spock, however, did not concern himself with this. He kept his own gaze fixed firmly ahead, not even bothering to read any of the terminal’s illuminated signs, the directions printed upon them in bright letters more or less redundant as he had already put to memory the spaceport’s extensive blueprints in their entirety. A hushed silence followed him as he walked, crowds of travelers stopping to gawk at what, to them, appeared to be a walking circus attraction, none of which perturbed the Vulcan in the least. It was only when he saw his face on a television screen in the terminal’s main atrium that he came to a halt, peering up at the large, floating, highdefinition display with the briefest hint of interest. He lingered only for a few seconds, watching the newsroom onscreen erupt into a most spectacular frenzy as two political analysts began to debate the impacts of his arrival with extreme fervor, before moving on. He had wasted enough time already. In the end, it took a little over thirty minutes for Spock to reach baggage claim after a particularly time-consuming trip through passport control that left the Vulcan in an even more irritable mood than before as evidenced by the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. Thankfully his baggage, a single black suitcase that appeared to be more suitable for a day trip than for a lengthy stay, was already on the belt by the time he had arrived, preventing Spock’s poor humor from deteriorating any further. He lifted the small bag effortlessly off the slow-turning carousel and strode briskly towards the exit. It was then with bag in hand and a slight scowl on his face that Spock, son of Sarek, took his first step into San Francisco. The harsh light of the early afternoon sun hit him like a smack to the face. He squinted blearily up into the white rays of sunlight, feeling them slowly warm the chill of the spaceport out of his cheeks and palms. It wasn’t long before the pleasant heat of San Francisco’s summer nursed some color back into his skin, replacing the ashen pallor that had drawn over him like a pall with his usual greenish complexion. By the time he reached the curb, Spock, like a wilted flower rising out of winter into spring, appeared to be much more comfortable, even if his shirt had not yet relented in its incessant pinching. As he moved along the sidewalk, Spock noticed that the area outside the spaceport was just as busy as inside, crammed full of people and cars, the majority of which appeared to be commandeered by the most impatient examples of human beings Earth was capable of offering. To him, it seemed almost as if the steady stream of 4

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singular honks had merged into one single deafening sound, causing him to cringe inwardly as the offensive noise crashed into the sensitive tissue of his eardrums. Not wanting to be subjected to this particular form of torture for longer than necessary, Spock quickly began to search his surroundings for any sign of the woman—Nyota Uhura was her name—that had been supposed to meet him upon his arrival. Like any impatient individual—though he would insist that it was more a dislike for wasted time than impatience—the Vulcan glanced down with obvious disapproval at his watch, noting immediately that it was precisely five minutes past the agreed upon time. His dislike for Earth quickly intensified. A few feet down from where he stood, face betraying not one hint of his annoyance, a sleek black automobile pulled into a free spot along the curb. Two police officers on levitating cycles immediately made the vehicle unapproachable by hovering authoritatively alongside it, their masked faces giving them a particularly menacing appearance as they scoured the crowds for any sign of danger. The right rearpassenger door suddenly opened, flung outwards in one fluid motion that did not leave any room for inefficiency, and a dark-skinned woman that Spock supposed would be considered beautiful by Earth-standards stepped out onto the sidewalk. The woman quickly glanced from side to side as if searching for someone, the stoic mask she attempted to wear quickly falling apart beneath the frantic emotions that bubbled up from inside her. She moved with definite purpose, her dark business suit fitting her lean, shapely form snugly in a manner that gave her a serious air while still upholding an image of femininity. While he himself did not feel any particular attraction to her, Spock was certain that many human males had attempted to win her affections through what he considered to be primitive displays of masculinity. However, when her eyes finally descended upon him, catching his own in an unfaltering stare, he felt a sudden spark of something lurch out from deep inside him. It managed to crawl up into his throat before he swallowed it back down, smothering it with years of extensive emotional repression. “Mr. Spock,” she said, raising one hand in the traditional Vulcan salute. It was clear that she had practiced the gesture, her fingers arranging themselves into the somewhat awkward position without the slightest tremor. “Please forgive my tardiness and allow me to welcome you to Earth on behalf of its people.” The fact that the words had been uttered in nearly flawless Vulcan surprised Spock, but he did not allow it to show. Instead, he simply returned the gesture, one that had become almost second nature in its execution despite the initial difficulties he had encountered as a young child, brought on by an unfortunate weakness in his genetic code he had not yet forgiven his father for. “Thank you,” he replied, acutely aware of the way she unconsciously flinched at the severe monotone of his voice. “You are Ms. Uhura, I presume.” It was a statement, not a question. The woman now known as Nyota Uhura recovered quickly, giving a slight nod of her head as she finally allowed her hand to fall back into a relaxed position at her side. “Yes. Now, if you would follow me,” she turned her body slightly towards the parked car, “we’ll take you to your apartment so that you can get settled in before you meet the President. He’s expecting you in a little over an hour.” “Very well,” Spock said neutrally and followed her to the car.

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Already adapting to the frigidity of his replies, Nyota’s timid smile faltered only slightly, the corners of her lips pinching down in a subtle display of apprehension for only a fraction of a second before they returned to their previous state. Her professional persona firmly in place, she took on the role of the perfect hostess flawlessly, exhibiting her competence so fully that not even Spock could deny it. In fact, he found her quite admirable in the way she was so consistently mindful of their cultural differences, something, Spock quickly discovered, was not the President of United Earth’s strong point. It had taken the much talked about James T. Kirk exactly three seconds to confirm every single negative opinion Spock had ever had about him. And it all started with a handshake.

They met for the first time in Jim’s office, a room that was vaguely reminiscent of the original Oval Office in its circular shape. Located at the western end of the modern concrete and glass building that served as the president’s home and workplace, the office itself was the epitome of modern architecture with its clean, almost minimalistic approach. The classic wooden finishes and rich, elegant draperies of offices past had been exchanged for sleek white walls and wide open, deep-set windows. Not even a single fireplace remained as a reminder of the luxury of the past. Like the room itself, its furnishings were also minimal. They consisted of a simple metal and glass desk, a matching bookcase, a few dark, rectangular couches whose cushions were deceiving in their soft appearance, and a plush, white rug that covered a portion of the cool marble floor. The only splash of color was the large, abstract tableau that hung on the left wall, its strokes of yellow and red paint standing out in a room that was otherwise subdued. No one knew the name of the artist who had painted it. Spock studied the eclectic piece for a moment and decided he hated it. In many ways, James Kirk was like the painting, brash and obtrusive, his youth and inexperience as marking as the paint’s bright pigments. Yet as he stood in the dying light of the late afternoon sun, his face painted with streaks of orange, pink, and yellow, he appeared to be nothing short of extraordinary, bearing the burden of this youth with such grace that Spock had nearly thrown all of his preconceived notions to the wind. However, when Kirk thrust his hand out towards the Vulcan, an easy-going, lopsided smile plastered to his face in what appeared to be a mockery of professional decorum, the brilliant image the fading sun had given him was immediately shattered, reduced to mere splinters in a fraction of a second, leaving only yet another incompetent human in its place. Spock eyed the extended hand with distaste, fully aware of the way Uhura had stiffened with a sharp intake of breath behind him. It seemed that the President’s particularly embarrassing blunder had not escaped her notice and her face quickly began to warm with shame. Another second ticked by, just long enough to instill feelings of awkwardness, before Spock carefully returned the handshake, his fingers curling loosely around the back of Kirk’s hand in an attempt to minimize physical contact. Uhura let out the breath she had been holding. While the handshake itself had been brief, lasting no longer than two seconds by Spock’s calculations, it still managed to send ripples of pleasure up through his fingertips, a sort of electricity that knotted his stomach and sent shivers down his 6

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spine. Even though they were no longer touching, Spock swore he could feel a buzz that was so distinctly Kirk in nature forming a web of feeling beneath his skin, always dimming, but never fading completely, a faint, persistent hum of something he quickly grew to hate. His agitation only intensified when it became clear that Jim did not share the same prickling sensation that plagued his palms and fingers without reprieve. A ball of undiluted fury quickly wormed its way into Spock’s throat, choking him until he swallowed it back down with a slight shudder, a bitter aftertaste lingering on his tongue. His mind reeled at the intensity of his hatred, his blood hammering like a steady drumbeat in his ears, pounding relentlessly into his temples until he thought he might be sick. Consumed by this onslaught of emotion, Spock paid little attention to what Kirk said. He was too focused on bottling up all these horrible human feelings and hiding them away in the furthest recesses of his being so that they might never see the light of day ever again. “So how do you like Earth so far, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked suddenly with the same infuriatingly casual smile on his lips, jolting the Vulcan out of his own fury long enough to make conversation. “It is very green,” Spock said after a short pause, his reply as rigid as his body, which had, at that point, begun to resemble a wooden plank. The terse, biting quality of Spock’s reply didn’t perturb Kirk in the least. In fact, he found the Vulcan’s observation to be quite humorous and responded with a bright, good-natured laugh that only managed to set the other’s blood into a full-on boil. Feeling his hands begin to tremble in anger, Spock inhaled sharply through his nose and squeezed his fingers into tight fists. He felt unbearably hot, his face warmed green from fury with splotches of emerald staining his cheeks and forehead until he’d taken on an almost sickly appearance. Nausea rolled over him in a wave, washing him with a thin sheen of sweat that glistened in the room’s half-light while Kirk prattled on about something Spock had long since tuned out. The room lurched, stealing the air from his lungs as the pounding in his head grew more forceful. He quickly calculated that there was a seventy-six-point-three percent likelihood of him vomiting all over the President of United Earth’s pristine white carpet within the next thirty seconds. And then it stopped, the nausea, the pain in his skull, everything. It all quietly receded back into him as if nothing had happened, as if he’d imagined everything. He was left there to simply tremble in confusion, his body damp with sweat and his mouth dry from thirst. Uhura had long since left the room, leaving Spock with Jim, who, thankfully, currently had his back turned, giving the distressed Vulcan a few moments to compose himself. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Spock slipped back into his usual self, the calm, logical Vulcan that did not allow petty emotions to destroy what years of practiced control had built. He reinforced the barriers that lined the contours of his mind as a precaution before turning his attention back to the other man, focusing in on every single word that dropped from Kirk’s lips so that he could turn a blind eye to his own troubling thoughts. While he was no longer visibly shaken, the trembling of his hands masked by the tension that had claimed his body, Spock’s appearance had taken on an almost haggard quality with his too-pale skin and matted hair. The semblance of immaculacy he’d arrived with had gone, leaving not even a single reminder of its presence. 7

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Even Kirk seemed to be aware of a change in Spock’s demeanor, his smile finally falling the moment he took in the other’s sickly appearance, all his previous cheer swallowed up by a sudden rush of concern. “Are you alright?” he asked and took a step towards Spock, frowning as the other recoiled away from him. “You look a little—” “Green is a natural part of our complexion,” Spock snapped, his earlier anger already seeping back into his blood, intensifying with each word Kirk said. “No, no. That wasn’t what I meant,” Kirk quickly tried to explain, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I just wanted to say that you looked a little pale. Paler than when you first got here.” “I have not noticed such a change,” the Vulcan replied obstinately, growing more rigid with each passing second until his body groaned from the strain. A look of something Spock couldn’t place flitted across Jim’s face as he chewed absentmindedly on his lower lip, his eyes burning with an intensity the Vulcan had never seen before. They stood together in silence, mere feet from one another, until Jim finally abandoned the idea of pressing the issue further and relaxed, his shoulders sagging slightly in resignation. “You’re sure you feel alright?” Kirk asked once again, the lines of his face softened by genuine worry, the juvenile need to bite back with sarcasm buried beneath a sense of professionalism. “Quite,” came the reply in Spock’s usual clipped tone. A small smile spread itself across Jim’s lips. “Why don’t you follow me then?” he said and made towards the door. “Very well.” They left the office together and walked down a brightly lit hallway, their movements matched step by step by a pair of men wearing identical suits and dark sunglasses. They were presumably the President’s security detail. Spock glanced discreetly at the man on his left and noticed the faint outline of a phaser pressing up against his jacket, its settings most likely set to kill. Not wanting the man to catch his stare, he quickly looked away. The hallway’s white walls merged seamlessly into the lobby’s granite trim, slabs of gray stone interspaced along stretches of pristine white paint. A large skylight that covered most, if not all, of the room’s high ceiling allowed the deep ochre rays of the sun to filter down, washing the walls and floor with a mixture of soft pastels. Kirk talked animatedly as they walked, heading towards the lobby’s back wall, a short stretch of glass that was broken only once in the center by a large set of transparent double doors. Beyond them Spock could only see green, a sea of flowers, shrubs, and trees, all vibrant and full of life. He could already hear the buzzing of the bees as they dipped in between the soft petals of the flowers, the gentle hum of the summer breeze, and the deafening chorus of chirping crickets that never seemed to stop their song. The smell of the garden wafted in through the crack in between the two doors, tickling his nostrils with the sweet scent of nectar and honey. Spock felt his throat tighten up against the sweetness that lingered in the air, his nose wrinkling in disgust. He could practically taste the flowers on his tongue, feel the slick, syrupy sugar roll across his teeth and down his throat, pooling like hot wax in his lungs. The burn in his chest only grew worse once they had stepped outside, the 8

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full perfume of the garden hitting him hard enough to force the breath he’d been holding out of him. Beside him, Kirk inhaled deeply, relishing in the sweet aroma. Spock thought he might be sick. “Tell me about Vulcan,” Kirk murmured, his voice soft and even almost slightly hesitant. The request was sudden and unexpected, light years away from anything the Vulcan considered to be remotely predictable. His blank stare of surprise was countered with Kirk’s own inquisitive gaze, blue eyes peering at Spock with a curiosity so genuine the Vulcan found himself taken aback by it. He swallowed thickly, prolonging the silence a few moments longer while the knot of surprise that had grown inside of him silently unraveled itself. “It is very different from Earth,” Spock finally said as he resisted the urge to fidget. Jim laughed. “Yeah, I know that much,” he replied, his lips stretching his smile into a broad grin. “Give me specifics.” Still unnerved by the other’s increasingly casual manner, Spock hesitantly began to list off precise statistics about Vulcan’s population, climate, and culture, a stream of numbers that meant nothing falling from his lips in an unstoppable torrent of useless information. When he finally stopped to breathe, Kirk let out another chuckle, his grin growing to the point where it seemed that it might split his face in half, the two rows of dazzling white teeth almost unbearably bright in the light. “No, no,” Jim said in between the soft aftershocks of his laughter. “While those statistics were definitely interesting, I’m more interested in what growing up there was like.” He paused, searching his brain for examples. “Like, what did you do for fun? Where did you grow up? Stuff like that.” Spock gave a slight nod of understanding, feeling anxiety creep into his veins and make his blood run cold. He did not relish in the idea of divulging such personal information, much of which was coated in thick layers of emotion he had not yet managed to repress, but he forced the words out of his mouth anyways. It did not take long for the jerky, broken sentences of his reply to melt into an endless, rapid stream of thought that poured out of his mouth. His mind swam with memories of his childhood, of his home. He spoke of the sun and of the desert, describing everything from the terrible sandstorms that ran amok deep within Vulcan’s Forge to the way the setting sun cast a deep orange glow over everything it touched. With each memory he recounted, remembering through words every detail of Shi’Kahr, the city of his birth, another wisp of emotion drifted up through him, slowly whittling away at his inhibitions. And suddenly the sun was gone, having long since dipped deep beneath the horizon. Seeing the darkness coiling around them, threading along the hydrangeas and hibiscus plants, Spock abruptly silenced himself, allowing the sounds of the night to reverberate around them. He was shocked at how readily he’d waded into that dangerous flood of feeling and allowed his thoughts to carry him back to the home he’d left behind more than a week ago. Curling his fingers into tight fists, the deep burn of annoyance settling into the pit of his stomach, Spock vowed to reinforce his shields during that night’s meditation. Beside him, Jim basked in the images of red rock and orange light the other’s words had instilled within his mind, marveling at how wondrous it all seemed to be. The 9

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corners of his lips twitched before pulling into a wry smile that was a borderline smirk as he allowed his gaze to drift back over to Spock’s face, a thin streak of white peeking out between the pink of his lips. He chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with an almost devilish sparkle. “Why, Mr. Spock. If I didn’t know better I’d say you sounded a little homesick.” Spock resisted the urge to punch him in the face.

It was nearly midnight by the time Spock returned to the quiet of the apartment, too exhausted to even begin contemplating the promise of tomorrow. After having spent the majority of the evening in Jim Kirk’s company, the idea of dedicating any more time to the other man held very little appeal. Spock sighed at the thought and tugged at the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to bring about a most welcome feeling of relief to the irritated skin of his neck. While dinner with the President and his Cabinet had been pleasant enough—the food, all of which had been vegetarian, leaving little room for complaint—Spock found that he did not particularly care for social functions, even those held in his honor. By human standards, he was poor conversationalist, and though this hadn’t deterred Jim in the least—his tenacity bordering on almost legendary—Spock still felt ill at ease speaking with the others. The fact that many of them felt similarly about conversing with him comforted him only slightly. He tossed his key onto the kitchen counter where it landed with a soft clatter and shrugged off his jacket before draping it over the back of a squat armchair. While the apartment was small with only three rooms—a bedroom, a bathroom, and a space that doubled as both a kitchen and a living room—it was incredibly luxurious. The floors were made of dark wood and the walls, which were painted a light gray, were spotless, completely free of all smudges in a way that suggested the apartment was rarely occupied. All of its furnishings were incredibly stylish, most likely selected by a skilled decorator, and every last piece of technology contained within those three rooms was state-of-the-art and up-to-date. In fact, the only fault Spock could find with the entire place was the three, tiny transceivers he’d found earlier. Each one was nestled in a different, but always inconspicuous location where it could record, without fail, every single sound he made, allowing whoever was on the other end to eavesdrop on everything. It didn’t surprise him in the least that he was being subjected to constant surveillance, of course, but it still managed to irritate him, though he supposed he should be thankful that whoever had installed those three transceivers had opted to forgo the use of cameras, giving him at least some semblance of privacy. He walked over to the couch, all too aware of the transceiver hidden underneath the end table that sat beside it, wedged deeply into one of the grooves in the wood. Glancing warily over at the table in question, Spock picked up the remote control for the flat screen television that was attached to the wall opposite him from the glass coffee table and sat down onto the sofa. The TV immediately flickered to life once he pressed down on the remote’s power button with his thumb, flooding the otherwise dark room with an eerie blue light and the sounds of the late night news. Turning up the volume a few notches, Spock listened half-heartedly as the newscaster onscreen droned on about a massive power outage along North America’s eastern coast that extended from Florida’s southernmost tip all the way up 10

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into Canada. Halfway through this particular case of “Breaking News”, as the headline rolling across the bottom of the screen declared, the newscaster suddenly paused and pressed his fingertips to the small earpiece he wore. He then calmly informed viewers afterwards that power had been restored in parts of New York as well as Georgia. He then estimated that the rest of the affected areas would have running electricity within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The stories that followed, detailing everything from a woman whose dog had unearthed an archeological marvel in her vegetable garden to the arrest of a man who had spent the past six months stealing lawn gnomes from peoples’ yards, were much less exciting and Spock quickly found himself tiring of the man’s dull voice. In fact, he was just about to turn the television off when his face flashed across the screen once again, piquing his interest more than enough to keep his eyes glued to the iridescent plasma display. The camera quickly cut to another newscaster, a young blonde woman who wore enough makeup for six, and she announced that it was time for that night’s top story. She sat at a round table with three other people, one of which Spock recognized as one of the political analysts from that afternoon. From what he remembered, that particular man had worked himself up into quite a frenzy over his arrival, denouncing it every time he opened his mouth. Other than that the man appeared to have had very little else to say. “So, as you all know,” the female newscaster began, turning to her three guests, all of whom she’d already introduced, “the Vulcan emissary, who appears to be Spock, the son of Sarek, Vulcan’s ambassador to Earth, arrived today in San Francisco. From what the President has said so far, it appears he’ll be working as an honorary member of his Cabinet, most likely in Foreign Policy with Ms. Nyota Uhura. Of course, the pressing question everyone wants to ask is, what could his involvement in Earth affairs hold for United Earth as a whole?” The man Spock recognized immediately seized the opportunity to speak, his stout body tensing in anticipation as beads of sweat collected in between the folds of his neck. From the text hovering beneath him on the screen, the Vulcan saw that his name was Harold Lumford. “I knew that when Jim Kirk was elected that we were all in for a rough four years, but I never imagined he’d willingly open our doors to this kind of a security risk!” Harold exclaimed, his face turning red from exertion. “Earth and Vulcan are beyond reconciliation. I think that nearly a century of arms races, skirmishes, and failed diplomatic relations would be evidence of this, but for some reason Kirk seems to think otherwise, even though he of all people should understand that whatever he’s trying to accomplish is only wishful thinking. By letting this Spock fellow have full run of United Earth’s governmental files and procedures we might as well be handing Vulcan the key to Earth’s destruction!” The brown-haired woman sitting beside Harold nodded in agreement. Her name was Rachel Woods. “I completely agree,” she murmured, still nodding her head. “What if we’ve just let a Vulcan spy into our borders? While I agree that something needs to be done about our relationship with the Vulcans, this was not the way to go about it. We’re just setting ourselves up for something truly catastrophic by allowing a Vulcan into the heart of our government.” The final of the three guests, a dark-skinned man by the name of Charles Dupont shook his head while repressing a snort of contempt. 11

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“We’re talking about a graduate of the Vulcan Science Academy,” he began, using his hands to show emphasis. “From his official diploma he appears to be a specialist in both astrophysics and biology, hardly the training of a spy. His father is also one of the most peaceful men I’ve ever had the pleasure of speaking to. In fact, I find it highly unlikely that Spock is here on a mission to bring about the end of humanity. All President Kirk has done is take a step all our other presidents have been too scared to take. By opening ourselves to Vulcan we’re showing them that we’re willing to let bygones be bygones and move on towards a brighter future that’ll hopefully bring about the beginnings of an Earth-Vulcan alliance. There’s been too much senseless killing on both sides and Kirk isn’t the only one who wants it to be stopped.” Harold was the first to leap into action, responding with fury towards Charles Dupont’s words as the blotches of red on his face rapidly expanded. Charles, however, kept calm, his unruffled demeanor infuriating the other man all the more. Rachel was the last to join the fray, having listened quietly to the two men debate for quite some time before deciding to voice her opinion on the matter. The whole scene was rather comical from where Spock sat. However, the hour was getting late and he could feel the beginnings of sleep creeping into his eyes, so he, who had never once set foot in the Vulcan Science Academy, turned off the television and got ready for bed.

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Part Two “G accused of killing close to four-thousand colonists on Tarsus IV,” the TV droned, “Governor Kodos, also known as Kodos the Executioner, spent over a decade in a cell in Canamar, a maximum security penal colony. However, following a recent investigation into Canamar that exposed the mistreatment of its prisoners as well as its sub-standard facilities, Kodos along with close to two-hundred other prisoners may once again walk as free men.” “Fuck!” Jim spat and flung the remote control at the wall. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Sir, are you alright?” Uhura asked as she quickly shut the door behind her. Kirk waved the question away and slouched in his chair, burying his face in his hands as the reporter’s words fully registered themselves in the haze of disbelief that had descended over his mind. A sour taste, acrid like stomach acid, had spread itself over his tongue and his stomach felt like nothing more than a small, hollow ball. Hunched over like a small child, he glanced over at the fallen remote and saw that it had snapped in two, but couldn’t bring himself to care. “Mr. President—” “They’re letting Kodos walk free,” he replied suddenly, cutting Uhura off mid-sentence. He spoke without the slightest hint of feeling, the numbness already settling in as he let his hands fall away from his face. The usual brightness of his eyes was gone, replaced by a dull fog that covered the blues of his irises like a damp cloth, diluting the color until it was only a ghost of its former self, a muddled mess of blotchy, unsaturated pigments. They held a brokenness within them, a reflection of something that had cracked long ago, but had never been repaired, forever languishing in a shattered state that appeared beyond mending. Uhura had seen it before, what lay beyond the cracks in the mask he wore to face the world. She’d seen the way he split himself open, leaking at the seams, losing drops of himself to the air as he tried to hide within an identity he’d long since outgrown. It was this mask that made her realize she could never trust him to be honest about himself because not even he knew the answers to her questions anymore. Jim stared blankly at the door while Uhura scooped up the broken remnants of the remote control. The hollowness in his stomach quietly gnawed away at his insides as he chewed on his lower lip, rapidly losing himself to the whirlwind of thought and emotion that raged inside him. His office fell away in pieces, eroded by a gangrenous distortion of reality his own troubled mind had allowed to fester. It grew around him like a shield, a snare of black ivy that thickened with each panicked beat of his heart, blocking out every last piece of light until all that remained was hunger. Only Uhura noticed the soft knocking at the door. With the final splinters of plastic cupped within her palm, she moved towards it and grasped the handle firmly, using her weight to keep the thick maple slab more or less shut against whoever stood on the other side. Even through the inches of wood that separated them, Uhura could feel the other person’s strength resonate through the silver handle and she found herself nudged backwards by it, her heels sliding across the smooth marble as if she weighed nothing. By the time she came to a stop, only a

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split second later, the door had opened just a crack and she found herself face-toface with Mr. Spock. “Is the President unavailable at this time?” he intoned, casually flicking his eyes towards the space above her head in an attempt to catch even a glimpse of the other man, but saw only the white of the walls. “He’sG” Uhura fumbled for the right words. “He’s a little busy right now.” She winced inwardly at how lame they sounded. “I arranged to drop off these translations at precisely five o’clock this afternoon.” Spock looked down pointedly at his watch. “It is now five o’clock exactly. Has the President somehow managed to change his mind between the hours of noon and now and neglected to inform me?” Even after spending close to two and a half weeks in close company with the other man, it seemed that Spock was no closer to neutrality on the subject of Jim Kirk than before. Trying not to wince at the thinly veiled animosity Spock exuded from every pore in his body, Uhura mustered up all of her self-control and forced her voice into a calm, collected tone. “The President unfortunately had to attend to a pressing matter that only just came up. I’m sure he’ll be done within the next half hour or so and would very much like to see those translations then,” she said and threw in an extra big smile just in case her sincerity alone wasn’t enough for the grumpy, overly-prompt Vulcan that stood before her. “I see,” Spock murmured, his voice rumbling with poorly-concealed irritation. “In that case, I believe I should leave these,” he held out the neat stack of papers he’d been holding, “with you. Please ensure that the President receives them once he has finished attending to thisG pressing matter.” “Thank you,” Uhura replied and graciously accepted the papers with her free hand. “I’ll make sure he gets them.” They stood together in silence, staring each other down through the slit in the doorway as Spock lingered for longer than he probably should have, his distrust nearly palpable in his manner. No words were exchanged in those few seconds that seemed to last an eternity and eventually Spock relented, finally turning away from the door he had seemed so intent on getting past. Relief flooded Uhura’s body immediately, easing her tense muscles back into a blissfully relaxed state. With both her hands full—her left with scraps of plastic and her right with the papers Spock had just given her—she decided to go ahead and dispose of the jagged remnants of the remote in the wastebasket by Jim’s desk before shutting the door. As she emptied the handful of plastic into the basket, she noticed that the President had not moved at all since she’d last looked at him. He sat slumped in his chair, his hands resting in his lap, looking more vacant and lost than she’d ever seen him. His eyes were unfocused and glazed over, the glassy film blocking out every last ray of reality as he drowned in memories that time had not yet managed to fade, their vividness seemingly everlasting as they cut open old wounds into fresh gashes. Everything about Jim was fragile and weak during these episodes, these moments where he lost himself to the flow of the past.

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Then Spock came along and Uhura suddenly wasn’t the only person who knew what Jim Kirk looked like at his worst, the times where he locked himself away from the world and quietly tore himself apart piece by piece until he was nothing but ribbons. Only then would he stitch himself back up, carefully crafting himself into the shape everyone else had grown so accustomed to seeing. He stood silently in the doorway, his dark eyes studying the scene before him with interest as well as bewilderment. Never had Spock expected to see something like this, a broken shell of a man he’d already resigned himself to hating sitting hunched over like a ragdoll in a chair that suddenly seemed much too big for him. He said nothing as he pushed open the door and stepped into the room, the soles of his shoes hitting the marble in regular intervals, their dull slaps echoing up into the high ceiling. Uhura whirled around at the sudden noise, nearly scattering the papers she’d just set down on the corner of the desk. Her eyes widened until they had become near perfect circles and she felt her heartbeat jump right up into her throat where it hammered at an almost breakneck pace. She was perfectly still, frozen in place, as Spock moved towards the desk, his gaze unreadable. Then his eyes flicked over to hers and in that moment, time seemed slow, languishing like molasses across the planes of space until he finally spoke. “Is the President unwell?” There was no worry or concern behind the question, only a callous objectivity he’d probably have also used when inquiring about the weather. The cold manner in which Spock had spoken shocked even Uhura, who could only stare dumbly at him, her lips parted in disbelief and even disgust at how completely inhuman he was, something that was so decidedly obvious she was surprised she’d even managed to forget. “He’ll be fine,” she replied after a few seconds of moving her lips wordlessly in an attempt to force an answer out of her throat. Anger swelled up inside her when she saw Spock eye the still unresponsive James Kirk critically, the pinched corners of his lips screaming out every last drop of disapproval he held within him in a way words could not. She wanted to yell at him, demand what gave him the right to judge the very man who had risked everything to bring him to Earth, all for the sake of a peace that now seemed more like a far off dream than an actual possibility. Her blood boiled in her veins, lips pursed around furious words she could only barely hold back. Any admiration she’d once held for Spock was now gone. No amount of diligence or intelligence could make up for the venom that burned so brightly in those all-too expressive eyes, eyes that never seemed to be Vulcan enough for the rest of his face. She wanted to spit her anger out into a flurry of words that would shatter his sense of absolute superiority, but all that came out when she finally opened her lips was a soft, “Come with me.” She led him out into the hallway, giving a small nod of acknowledgement to the two security guards that stood directly outside the door, their rigid postures and severe facial expressions not disguising their negative opinion of Spock in the least. Although the Vulcan would never know, the head of security, a man named Giotto whom many jokingly referred to as “Cupcake” whenever his back was turned, had doubled if not tripled the amount of security personnel on duty in each shift as a precaution to his arrival. As a result, the entire building was crawling with men and women in dark suits, the sides of their jackets embossed with the imposing outline of 15

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a phaser. If Spock felt intimidated at all by their constant presence, he didn’t show it for he never offered them more than a passing glance, his face never deviating from its usual neutral expression. They did not go far down the bright hallway that was now just as familiar as the winding passages of Spock’s own home on Vulcan. After passing by three doors, all made of frosted glass, Uhura came to a stop in front of a fourth door that was completely identical to the other three. She fished a small key ring out of her pocket and selected a small silver one, which she then slipped smoothly into the door’s lock, unlocking it without a hitch before ushering Spock into what appeared to be a small kitchenette. Shutting the door behind them, Uhura asked Spock to take a seat at the small table that only just managed to fit in the narrow space the room provided. Reluctantly, he did so, finding the feeling of being squashed in between two walls, one of which was a large window that offered a spectacular view of the garden, to be rather claustrophobic. He watched Uhura move about the small kitchen in silence and crossed his legs, frowning as his knee bumped loudly into the table’s underside, emphasizing the cramped nature of the room. “Do you like tea, Mr. Spock?” Uhura asked suddenly, filling the black electric kettle with water from the faucet and turning it on after rinsing it out thoroughly. “I find it to be most relaxing,” he replied with the usual vagueness he often used when speaking of his likes and dislikes, both of which he denied having for he, being a Vulcan, was always neutral. Neutrality was logical. And so was lying through one’s teeth it seemed. “We have,” she paused as she pulled down a few boxes of tea from the cabinet, “Earl Grey, chamomile, and some kind of weird smelling citrus-berry combination the President seems to like. I’m guessing that’s why there are at least three times as many boxes of it compared everything else on the shelf.” “Earl Grey will suffice. I once had the opportunity to sample some from a small box my father brought home from his final trip to Earth a little over a decade ago.” “It’s a classic,” Uhura said with a smile and pulled two cups with saucers down from another cabinet. Within minutes, Spock had a piping hot cup of Earl Grey tea sitting before him while Uhura had opted for the subtle chamomile flavor. For a moment, they sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the steam that rose from their respective cups, watching it dance in the air before curling into thin, wispy tendrils that could do no more but fade away. “Mr. Spock,” Uhura finally said, boldly meeting his eyes as she straightened in her seat. “Let me be frank. I know that Jim—the President often comes across as an incompetent idiot who doesn’t even deserve to clean the windows of that office much less sit in it, but the truth is that he’s not nearly as stupid as he’d like everyone to think, not even close. I’ve known him since his enrollment at Starfleet and I can say, with absolute certainty, that James T. Kirk is one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever met and I can’t think of anyone in this building that wouldn’t agree. You may not see it now, but I guarantee that you will by the time you get on that shuttle and head back to Vulcan.” If his blank stare was anything to go by, it was clear that Spock did not believe her in the slightest. 16

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“But just because he’s a great person doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his own share of skeletons lying around in a closet,” she continued, completely unfazed by the other’s lack of response. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Kodos, former Governor of the human colony Tarsus IV.” Spock nodded. “His actions cost the lives of nearly four-thousand colonists and it was only due to the testimony of several eye-witnesses that he was even convicted of his crimes. Such infamy is known even on Vulcan.” “Jim was one of those eye-witnesses.” She paused for a moment and allowed the magnitude of her words to set in, noting with satisfaction the subtle crinkle of surprise that had settled in along Spock’s eyebrows. “He was only thirteen at the time when he sat behind the witnesses’ stand in court and told the world about every last terrible thing that happened on that godforsaken planet,” she hissed, her eyes aflame. “And now they want to let that man go for reasons I can’t seem to wrap my head around. I know you pride yourself on your ability to control your emotions, but we can’t do that, Jim can’t do that. Look at me and then think about what this is doing to him. I can’t even begin to fathom what he must be feeling right now, but I know it’s not good. So before you judge him, keep in mind that even though he’s the President of United Earth, he’s still only human, just like the rest of us.” Leaning back in her seat, only then did Uhura finally allow herself a sip of her tea.

By the time they returned to Jim’s office, the President was talking in heated tones with someone over the phone, his voice resonating with such a substantial mixture of disappointment and irritation that it could even be heard a good yard down the hallway. Whatever he was hearing, Jim didn’t like one bit and it showed clearly in the lines that had casually etched themselves into his face over the course of the conversation, deepening with every word that drifted through the small comm. device he held to his ear. However, it did not stay there for much longer. Fed up to the point where he was certain he would surely spontaneously combust from anger, Jim hung up without even saying good-bye, most likely cutting off whoever was on the other end mid-sentence. “Idiot!” he spat and tossed the small device onto his desk where it slid across the glass until it ran into a stack of PADDs just as Uhura knocked on the door. “Come in.” “Sir,” Uhura said as she pushed open the door, nodding her head once in acknowledgement before striding across the room to his desk. “Mr. Spock brought by those translations you asked him to complete, printed out on paper just how you like.” Jim flashed her one of his crooked grins and said, “Oh, but you know how much I love being old-fashioned, Ms. Uhura.” “I thought it was because those PADDs put a strain on your eyes,” she intoned softly, quirking an eyebrow at him in a way that made his flirtatious attitude quickly shrink back into subdued meekness. He let out a nervous laugh and scratched the back of his neck, leaving little red marks where his nails drew across his skin.

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“Ah, yes. Right, that too. I’m going to take a wild guess and say that those papers I see on the end of my desk are the translations?” “Yes, Sir. All,” she quickly flicked through the stack, “seventy-nine pages.” “Eighty.” The word, a single number, had left Spock’s mouth against his better judgment before he could hold it back. He stood just outside the room, the shined tip of his right shoe toeing the line that divided the office from the hallway just barely. The angle of the door plunged his face into shadows that were bordered by small squares of halflight, their edges blurred along the grey darkness. Flecks of light scattered across his irises like a burst of fireworks within a wave of smoke. It was clear that he had not followed Uhura in, electing to stay just beyond the edge, brushing the border but never crossing, observing from afar, his ears pricked for even the softest whispers. All too aware that he had drawn attention to himself, Spock cleared his throat and clarified, “There are eighty pages. I noticed I had dropped one earlier in the corridor and therefore pursued the logical course of action of returning here to deliver it.” There was something about the way he said it, or maybe it was the subtle tilt of his shoulders, that made it difficult for Uhura to believe a word of what he just said. She eyed him suspiciously, the inkling that he’d retained that specific page on purpose butting furiously against the forefront of her mind, but kept quiet, knowing better than to make a fuss over something so trivial it wasn’t worth investigating in the first place. However, while she pressed her lips tightly against the accusations that bubbled in her throat, her eyes conveyed it all with a look so sharp it could cut like a dagger. Spock avoided her gaze as he finally stepped into the office, beckoned in by one of Jim’s hands. He did not comment on the slight tremors that coursed along the lengths of Kirk’s fingers. In fact, he was silent as he pulled a single white sheet of paper out from the inside of his jacket, the paper as crisp and clean as it had been when the printer first spat it out, and set it down on the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Spock,” Jim said and squeezed his hands into tight fists. “I’m sure these translations are flawless.” “If they do not meet your standards I will review them in their entirety until you are satisfied,” Spock replied, his tone nothing short of challenging. If Jim was, in fact, a brilliant man, then he would have to work damn hard to prove that to Spock as neither he, nor any other Vulcan, believed in the concept of making anything easy. “They’re fine, Spock. Relax. All your work has been exemplary so far. You haven’t given me any reason to doubt that this,” Kirk waved the stack of papers in the air, “would be of a lesser quality.” “I see.” There was no trace of his disappointment in his words. Why hadn’t Kirk taken the bait? Surely he was the type of man who would easily rise to the challenge should he be provoked in such a manner. None of Spock’s observations proved otherwise, leading him to believe that maybe, just maybe, Kirk wasn’t a man whose behavior he could always predict without fail. In fact, Kirk’s following words proved just that. “Mr. Spock, you and I will be taking a little trip,” he began while leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers in a thoughtful manner. “There’s someone I’d like to have a few words with in Stockholm.” 18

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He turned to look at Uhura with his trademark grin plastered right across his face, fueled almost exclusively by what Uhura thought would surely be another bad idea that, knowing Kirk, would just manage to work out in the end. “Have Mr. Sulu and Mr. Chekov ready the jet. I’ll be wanting to leave as soon as possible.” He then stood up, smoothed the front of his suit jacket, and paused for a moment, seemingly caught in thought before continuing, “I guess you should let Cupcake know about this too. Be sure to emphasize the fact that I’m going to be in a confined space with Mr. Spock here for at least four hours.” His grin seemed to grow exponentially as he said this. “I’m sure he’ll love that.” He allowed himself a brief snicker at poor Giotto’s expense as he straightened his tie, a thin strip of golden silk that Spock guessed to be his favorite as Jim wore it more often than any of the other ties that comprised what was sure to be a vast collection if the conversations Kirk had with Uhura about his wardrobe were anything to go by. For Spock, whose three ties were a modest number in comparison, the idea of possessing what he believed to be a gross excess of a garment so impractical bordered on ridiculous. No matter how he analyzed the situation, Spock could never find a good, logical reason as to why these silly little pieces of cloth were so important in Terran politics. However, while he was not completely—or even moderately—in agreement with this specific Earth custom, he wore the blasted things anyways, silently cursing the man who had invented them every time he tied one around his neck. “Mr. President,” he said softly, resisting the urge to casually adjust—and by that he meant loosen—his tie as well. “May I inquire as to why we are travelling to Stockholm?” “There are a few things I need to discuss with the new Director of the Central Bureau of Penology,” Kirk replied and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Pack light. I doubt that it’ll take more than a day or two to sort out this mess of theirs. We’ll probably leave in about an hour and half, depending on how quickly Sulu and Chekov can get everything up and running, but I’m sure Ms. Uhura here will give them just the right amount of motivation they need.” He finished with a sly grin that had Uhura rolling her eyes. However, it seemed that she was most certainly well versed in the art of persuasion as Jim and Spock boarded the small private jet an hour later on the dot and promptly took off in the direction of Stockholm. Chekov’s heavily accented voice—“Russian,” Jim explained to Spock—announced that their estimated flight time was around four hours over the plane’s intercom just after they’d finally pulled away from the ground, the wheels tucking themselves into the jet’s underbelly. While it certainly was no Airforce One with its narrow body and slightly less luxurious interior, the President’s private plane certainly had character. By what Spock could see it appeared to be a slightly older model, reminiscent of planes from the early twenty-first century, but someone, who appeared to have a clear disregard for current safety regulations, had implemented a few modifications to the small jet that didn’t quite follow protocol exactly. The phaser banks craftily hidden beneath the plane’s exterior paneling and the larger engines that were more suited for a small spaceship than a jet had not slipped beneath Spock’s notice. With nothing but the deafening hum of the turbines filling the cabin, Spock quickly found himself sitting awkwardly opposite an expectant Jim Kirk. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the other’s gaze, feeling as if those blue eyes could 19

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practically see right through him, a thought he quickly dismissed as illogical, reminding himself that humans had not yet evolved to support so-called “x-ray vision”. Seconds ticked by, but Jim never spoke and soon the silence was driving Spock close to mad. He had to say something, if just to break this unnerving stillness. “Mr. President, may I pose a query?” Jim seemed to jump at the sound of Spock’s voice, his eyes darting away from the piece of gray bulkhead he’d been staring at to the Vulcan’s face. “Um, yeah. Sure. Go ahead,” he replied as he sat up straighter in his seat, his back dragging against the beige leather. Although Spock felt rather foolish for assuming that the other man had been staring at him when in fact Jim had apparently been mesmerized by the plane’s interior, he did not let it show and forced his words into evenness as he spoke. “Are the recent rumors of Kodos’ release what prompted this sudden excursion?” Jim stared at him blankly for a moment before laughing. “Nothing gets by you does it, Mr. Spock?” he asked, a good-natured smile playing upon his lips. “I’m going to take a wild guess here and say that Uhura told you about that. Nothing gets by her either.” “Ms. Uhura did inform me of your connection to Kodos and subsequently Tarsus IV. However, I admit I am puzzled by your presence on that planet during that time. Your mother lives here on Earth does she not? I believe in Iowa.” “My mom wasn’t really around all that much when I was younger,” Jim murmured, his words tinged with wistfulness. “She worked for Starfleet so she was traveling through space a lot and didn’t exactly have time to raise two kids. I guess I kind of got the short end of the stick on that one since my older brother was shipped off to some ritzy boarding school in Maine while I got to live with my aunt and uncle on Tarsus IV.” He sighed and shook his head, the corners of his lips quirking into a sad smile. “And to think I was so excited to travel in space. Things definitely didn’t turn out the way I planned them to. That’s for sure.” “Was your father unable to care for you and your brother at that time as well?” Spock asked, completely unaware that he’d just stuck his foot in his mouth, undoubtedly a first for the Vulcan. Kirk sucked in sharp breath, his voice hitching in his throat. A look of what appeared to be disbelief mixed with the faintest hint of disgust tugged at his face, forcing his nose to wrinkle and the corners of his lips to pull down ever so slightly. He turned his head away from Spock and tried to wipe the obvious emotions from his face as he gripped the armrests of his chair tighter, the skin of his knuckles very nearly turning white from the strain. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, he forced out a reply, a single word that practically vibrated from the turmoil that rolled in his belly. “No.” The conversation ended.

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Part Three Stockholm was cooler than Spock had anticipated with the temperature hovering somewhere in the high fifties instead of in the mid eighties as it did in San Francisco. It was nearly midnight by the time they landed, close to thirty minutes ahead of schedule, at Stockholm-Arlanda airport and while the air was particularly nippy for the middle of August, none of the technicians that scuttled along the tarmac seemed to pay it any mind. Spock, on the other hand, was all too aware of the chill that pervaded the night and quickly began to shiver as he disembarked from the plane. Not even the thick cloth of his suit could keep him as warm as he would have liked. Unlike Spock, Jim seemed to have prepared himself for the cooler climate, immediately fishing a long yellow scarf out from his bag and draping it around his neck. The fabric was soft and wooly, just thick enough to keep Kirk warm without sending him into a sweat. It was no surprise that Spock envied him almost immediately, eyes boring into the man’s back as they descended the small set of stairs leading from the aircraft to the tarmac. “Are you cold, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked once they’d reached solid ground. “The current temperature is slightly below the optimal temperature for Vulcans, yes. However,” he stilled as another shudder ran through him, his teeth clacking together painfully, “it is bearable.” Kirk immediately began to dig around in his bag some more and pulled out a knitted blue cap before handing it to Spock. “The tips of your ears are turning green. This might help warm them up a little. I think I have a pair of gloves in here too.” Seeing the other’s questioning look, he shrugged. “I figured that you probably didn’t bring any winter clothes since San Francisco’s usually pretty nice this time of year, so I brought along some extra stuff for you. Just in case.” “Thank you,” Spock murmured and hesitantly took the hat from Kirk’s outstretched hand. Barely a second passed before it was sitting comfortably atop his head, his ears nestled inside the warmth it provided. Jim grinned, barely resisting the urge to laugh. Seeing the no-nonsense Vulcan wearing a cap that was so human in nature with its ridiculous earflaps and droopy tip was most certainly worthy of a few chuckles, but he found that, somehow, the hat and all its oddness suited Spock in a way. “It looks good on you. You want the gloves too? They match.” “That would be most agreeable. Thank you,” Spock replied, already feeling the sensitive skin of his fingers prickling from the chill. “No problem,” Jim replied as he fished around inside his bag for the gloves, which he then pulled out one at a time and tossed to Spock. As they had come in on a private plane, they chose to bypass the airport’s main terminal. While there certainly wouldn’t be that many travelers wandering the brightly lit halls of Stockholm’s largest airport, neither Jim nor Spock wanted to draw any unwanted attention. With four security guards—Giotto had only just been talked out of sending a small army along for the ride—flanking their sides, the two men briskly walked through the lower level of the nearest terminal, evading all public areas by 21

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moving through otherwise restricted zones as directed by the technician that accompanied them. Ten minutes later and they were sitting in the back of a dark SUV en route to their hotel, a particularly luxurious establishment Giotto had insisted they stay in as the layout allowed his men to better secure the perimeter. While the man had promised that he would only send along four of his men, Jim was sure there’d be quite a few more waiting for them at the hotel, poorly disguised as other guests. Giotto had always been a little paranoid, a small fault that was sometimes rather endearing. He was fiercely loyal to Jim and for that, Jim decided he could forgive a few extra security guards wandering around. They’d only be there for a few days in any case, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. The hotel was just as lavish as it appeared on its website with frosted marble floors and massive crystal chandeliers hanging from a golden-encrusted ceiling. Everything from the ornate engravings in the walls to the polished dark wood of the furniture was immaculate, elegant and luxurious beyond all expectation. Bright lamps lit up the golden lobby, casting a rich yellow glow over everything, including the chandelier whose individual crystals glittered like teardrops from the sun, their clear bodies tinged red like bloody diamonds. The sheer amount of extravagance the room exuded was close to overwhelming, and Spock, who had grown so accustomed to the simple, utilitarianism of Vulcan structures, felt suffocated beneath the sheets of sparkling gold and silver. Jim grimaced from where he stood beside Spock, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he took in the richness of his surroundings. It seemed that the hotel’s overly ostentatious nature had not escaped his notice either, filling him with a discomfort similar to what crept up along Spock’s spine. “A little much, don’t you think?” Kirk murmured just loud enough for Spock to hear, glancing over at the other out of the corner of his eye. “The décor is rather,” Spock took in a soft breath, “overwhelming, yes. The designer appears to have quite the penchant for gold.” “And pretty much anything else that sparkles,” Jim added. “I hate places like this. I should never have let Giotto talk me into staying here.” Spock remained silent for a moment as Jim heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back on his heels. “What were his reasons for his insistence on your staying at this particular establishment?” he asked. Kirk shrugged. “Said it was easier for his men to create a secure perimeter here. I think it’s bullshit, but I’d rather deal with this,” he waved a hand at the glitzy scenery, “than him comming me every five seconds to see if I’m still alive. He acts like the universe painted a permanent target on my back the day I was born and touches it up every few years just in case.” The Vulcan peered around at the other’s back and said, “I do not see anything matching your description on your back or anywhere else on your person.” Jim laughed. “It’s just a metaphor, Mr. Spock, but thanks for checking anyways.” 22

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“Your thanks are not necessary. I have not done anything noteworthy.” Smiling, Kirk gently patted Spock on the shoulder, the sudden weight of his hand startling the Vulcan ever so slightly. Warmth seeped into Spock’s skin and sent a light shudder through his body as it slowly dissipated, leaving behind only a gentle tingling sensation that was reminiscent of their first encounter. “You’re a great guy, you know,” Jim murmured as he withdrew his hand. “I just wish everyone else could see what I see, that there’s more to you than that cold, emotionless front you put up.” “I do not understand your meaning.” Jim smiled warmly, a smile that was different from all the others Spock had seen before with its shy closed-lip appearance and soft genuine nature. “I just think that humans and Vulcans aren’t as different as everyone makes them out to be,” he replied and took his key from the concierge that stood behind the check-in counter. For some odd reason these words that would have under any other circumstances incensed Spock beyond all rational thought left only mild apathy and perhaps even the smallest kernel of understanding in their wake instead of a wild storm of uncontrollable disgust. He was silent as Jim bade him goodnight and disappeared behind the elevator’s golden doors along with two of the four men that had escorted them inside. The other two security guards remained with Spock, waiting patiently for him to take his key and head upstairs as well. As it turned out, Jim and Spock’s rooms sat side by side on the top floor of the building, large suites that were just as ostentatious as the hotel’s lower floors. The white carpet was plush and clean, as spotless as a new pin, and the walls, which were covered in perfectly applied sheets of pale yellow wallpaper, were decorated with intricate crown and base moulds that appeared to have been done by hand. Like in the lobby, the furniture was lavish and old-fashioned, mimicking styles from olden times instead of adopting the new modern trends. However, while the furnishings were most certainly antiquated with intricately embroidered cloths and finely carved wooden frames the hotel had not skimped on technological amenities, offering immediate access to Earth’s data stream through either the personal terminal that sat on a desk in the corner or the vid-link installed in the wall by the door. In addition, to these two items, a large holographic display was attached to the wall above the fireplace, which Spock quickly found was only for decoration. He immediately turned up the heat once his security detail finally allowed him into the room after—grudgingly—scouring the entire suite for any sign of danger. Deftly swiping his index finger across the touch-sensitive climate control panel installed by the entrance to the bathroom, Spock set the ambient temperature to a toasty eightyfive degrees and simultaneously pulled the blue cap from his head. The gloves soon followed and he placed them along with the hat on a nearby dresser, thoughts of indulging in a hot shower crossing his mind as he did so. It wasn’t long before he was standing stark naked in the middle of his hotel room, his clothing in a messy pile around his feet. He would clean it all up later, but for now he allowed himself to pad into the bathroom, the white tiles unpleasantly cool against the soles of his feet. Thankfully, the large yellow rug that lay unfurled at the foot of the large porcelain bathtub offered his feet some shelter from the cold and his toes happily curled in the soft shag. Not wanting to move across the tiles again in order to 23

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get to the shower, Spock opted for a bath instead and turned on the water, setting the temperature to a hot that was just short of scalding. Steam unfurled around him as he lowered himself into the tub, sighing contentedly as the hot water spilled around his body, submerging him up to his collarbone. He closed his eyes and relaxed, allowing the warmth that surrounded him to ease the subtle aches out of his back and shoulders. For a few moments he could allow himself this luxury, to bathe in water, something unheard of on his home planet. With such limited resources, many Vulcans, including Spock and his father, relied on sonic showers to clean themselves. While it got the job done, Spock couldn’t deny that water somehow enhanced the experience. In the end, he wound up soaking for longer than he had intended, only finally pulling himself out of the tub once the water had begun to cool. Once out of the large porcelain bowl, he wrapped a soft towel around his body and set the bathtub to drain. With the now tepid water steadily disappearing into the pipes below the floor, Spock quickly dried himself off before slipping into an equally soft robe, which he fastened tightly around his waist, and stepping out of the bathroom. The dry heat produced by the climate control rushed up to meet him once he moved back into the main room, embracing him with subtle reminders of his home planet. Comforted by the slight sense of familiarity brought on by the heat, Spock allowed himself to sprawl out on the couch, cradled by a bed of soft cushions and the warm cocoon of his bathrobe. With sleep far from his mind, he decided to turn on the holographic display and quickly flicked through the channels until he found one—the only one, actually—in Earth Standard. Unsurprisingly enough, it was the news, though not the same station Spock had watched regularly since his first night in San Francisco. On screen, a dark-skinned woman who appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent was relaying information from outside Starfleet’s headquarters, the delta emblem emblazoned on the building behind her indicating as much. Spock listened intently as she explained in a slightly accented voice Starfleet command’s recent decision to commission a monument in honor of a man named George Kirk for his inspiring bravery in the face of danger. The reported quickly elaborated on the subject, detailing the manner in which he had sacrificed his own life during a violent encounter with a Vulcan ship in order to save the lives of eight-hundred people, including his wife and newborn son, a man now known as the President of United Earth. Spock stared at the television in shock. Jim’s father had been dead for over twentyfive years and not one single person had taken the time to relay this information to him before he left Vulcan. It had not been in any of the thirty-six briefs he’d read on James Kirk nor had it been mentioned in any of the sixty-one verbal meetings he’d had with his commanding officers prior to his departure. It infuriated Spock to know that this glaring omission of crucial information from his preparatory files had only succeeded in making him look like a complete and total ass in front of the man he had so often dismissed as inferior. Anger throbbed hot and hard in his veins as his cheeks flushed green from embarrassment. The sounds of the television had all simmered down into a single drone of white noise, masked by the steady thrum of his pulse beating against his eardrums. He inhaled deeply and curled his fingers into fists in his lap before exhaling. With his eyes shut against the aggravatingly bright yellow of the walls, Spock attempted to quell his displeasure. Words could not even begin to describe how furious he was with his commanders, the very men who had selected him for this 24

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mission and trained him for months before he was sent off to a planet whose leader he would eventually have to kill. Their words, the detailed instructions they had given him, were fresh in his mind, engraved in the forefront of his consciousness so that he would never forget his purpose, his mission, but now these words were faded and almost meaningless, rendered frail and weak by the absence of a single piece of information. He moved towards his bag, his footfalls heavy and laden with residual anger, and pulled out a small PADD from the front pocket. With his green blood pooling in shallow pockets in his cheeks, he turned on the small screen with a few abrupt flicks of his fingers, their tips sliding across the thin, luminous screen with definite purpose as he opened up a vid-link to Vulcan. He did not bother to check whether the hour was appropriate for communication. He did not care. For a minute the screen was black as the PADD attempted to access the secure network the Vulcan Military Academy—an institute all other planets only knew as the Vulcan Science Academy—had established months before he’d arrived on Earth. Once connected, the small device—the only one Spock had in his possession that he trusted to be untouched by Kirk’s aggravatingly intrusive security team—began dialing the number Spock had entered earlier. It vibrated twice before a particularly irritated Vulcan answered the call. His name was Commander Solok and it seemed that he had been sleeping prior to Spock’s sudden and unexpected call judging by his slightly haggard state. Solok squinted onscreen and pinched his lips into a tight frown of disapproval as he nonverbally berated Spock for choosing to call at such an ungodly hour. Spock simply responded with an equally harsh look, his dark eyes burning like smoldering, black coals. “Lieutenant Spock,” Solok murmured, his voice rumbling with lingering traces of sleep. “I assume that you did, in fact, take into account the time difference between Earth and Vulcan before you decided to place this highly unanticipated call.” “My apologies, Commander,” Spock replied, “but there is an urgent matter of great importance I find that I must discuss with you despite the early hour.” “Explain.” Tightening his hold on the PADD, Spock began to speak. “I recently discovered that there has been a grievous omission from the documents concerning James Kirk that I was provided with during the initial stages of the mission. Somehow I neglected to be informed either through verbal or electronic transmission of the status of his father, George Kirk, who happens to have been killed during an altercation with a Vulcan vessel. While the mission has not been compromised, this serious misstep on behalf of the Vulcan Military Academy has managed to complicate matters concerning my personal relations with the target.” “If the mission has not been compromised I see no reason for you to have brought this to my attention and certainly not at such an unwelcome hour.” “I simply wish to know why the Academy withheld information from one of its most important operatives,” Spock shot back, his words growing more and more biting with every passing second. “We have not withheld information of any sort, Lieutenant.” The word was emphasized as if to remind Spock of his place. 25

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“Then how was I not aware of James Kirk’s father?” Spock continued, not relenting in his close to rebellious speech pattern. “Why was this information not included in those briefs?” “The reason this information was not present in the documents you were given is because this information is false. An inexplicable sudden discharge of electrical current in the vicinity of the U.S.S. Kelvin barred any and all nearby Vulcan ships from accessing that particular section of the quadrant. Therefore, Earth’s claim that a Vulcan ship was responsible for the attack on and the subsequent destruction of the Kelvin has absolutely no merit.” “Even so, why was the death of Kirk’s father omitted from the reports?” “That particular human’s death leaves a great deal of doubt as to whether he is, in fact, deceased. As we were unable to obtain concrete evidence supporting this fact, we chose not to include it in the information you were given.” Anger spiked in Spock’s throat, reaching up like a hot flare into his mouth, scalding his gums and tongue until he could barely stand to keep a straight face. Digging his nails into the plastic back of the PADD, he stared hard at the screen, his expression becoming more and more pinched as he struggled to keep control of his emotions. “Were there any other details you deemed “unimportant”, Commander?” he finally ground out, his teeth scraping painfully against each other as he forced the words from his lips. “Control yourself, Lieutenant,” Solok hissed, the lines on his face deepening with subtle tinges of disgust. “Your seemingly innate need to rebel, while an unfortunate side-effect of your less than desirable genetics, is completely inappropriate and unbecoming of one of our top graduates. I trust that you will remedy this severe lapse of control on your part before our next discussion.” The commander lifted his hand up in the traditional salute, fingers splayed out effortlessly into the plunging v-shape, a gesture that Spock grudgingly returned with shame tickling at the skin of his face. “Peace and long life, Lieutenant Spock,” Solok intoned before abruptly cutting off the communication. With rage still lapping hotly as his insides, Spock threw the PADD roughly onto the dresser and shrugged off the robe he had been wearing onto the floor. He pulled out the set of pajamas he’d packed along with a clean set of underwear and dressed himself for bed. While it was not even close to his usual bedtime, Spock felt inexplicably drained. Body slouching beneath a heavy weight he couldn’t seem to shake, the weary Vulcan crawled into the warmth of the large king-sized bed and settled onto the feathery softness of the pillows before shutting off the light. In the comforting darkness of the hotel room, it didn’t take long before Spock had fallen into a dreamless slumber, snoring softly into the gentle contours of his pillow.

The following morning was slightly warmer than the previous night, undoubtedly due to the sun’s unhindered presence in the nearly cloudless blue sky. To say that Spock was grateful for this sudden increase in temperature would have been a gross understatement for nothing filled the Vulcan with so much joy as to avoid wearing the ridiculous hat and gloves Jim had lent him the night before. Seemingly confined to 26

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the top of Spock’s dresser, the unrepentantly ugly garments could do nothing but lie there in the disorganized state Spock had left them in while he and Jim went about their day. Contrary to everything his laid-back and almost carefree personality pointed to, Jim was an early riser and Spock, who had not even finished dressing himself at the time, found the President waiting outside his door at approximately a quarter past seven. While Spock himself had no problem with opening his door sans shirt, Jim was obviously surprised by it, figuring that no Vulcan under any circumstances would dare expose themselves to the outside world as anything less than perfectly groomed. “Uh, hey,” Jim said before coughing awkwardly into his fist as he tried to avoid staring at the other’s bare chest, a red flush staining his cheeks. “Good morning, Mr. Spock. I was wondering if you’d like to, uh, join me for breakfast?” There was a moment of silence as Spock considered his offer, a white undershirt clutched tightly in his left hand. “I am amenable to your suggestion,” he finally answered and pulled on the undershirt. “Please give me a few moments to dress. I will not be long.” He then shut the door and resumed dressing, slipping into a light blue button-down, which he then tucked into his pants, and his usual black suit jacket. Now that his fingers had gotten accustomed to the unpleasant task of tying a tie around his neck, Spock found it now only took around a minute for him to do so instead of the usual five he’d needed in the beginning. Glancing into the mirror that hung above the dresser, its golden border glistening in the early morning light that filtered in through the large windows, Spock made sure that his hair was neatly combed. Of course, he ended up having to pat down a particularly unruly lock of dark hair that refused to stay flat with some water from the sink, but the task was otherwise quite painless. When he was finally satisfied with his appearance, the Vulcan opened the door to his room once again and stepped out into the hall where Jim was still waiting for him. Looking as pristine as ever, Spock followed Jim back down into the lobby and noted that their usual entourage had expanded over the course of the night with the addition of two new—but equally intimidating—faces. His head ached from the hostility Jim’s security detail radiated, their harsh stares of suspicion leaving a series of mottled bruises along the edges of his consciousness, the pieces that hovered like an invisible veil just above his skin. He could feel their hatred and their anger, the swirl of dark human emotion that made his skin crawl and something inside him shrivel up in shame. Their suspicions pressed up against his head like two cinderblocks, compressing everything in between until the dull ache bloomed into a deep burn. Spock immediately pulled away once they arrived at the hotel’s main dining area, pushing past the protective ring of black and heading towards the center of the room. He felt sick, his stomach churning in time with the throbbing in his temples. The world lurched and he immediately reached out to steady himself on one of the tall, white columns that held up the dining room’s curved ceiling, his fingers pressing hard enough into the ivory stone to leave several deep impressions. A high-pitched whine like that of a mosquito buzzed loudly in his ears, drowning out the rest of the world with its drone. He could feel his mental shields begin to crumble from the onslaught of so many unshielded emotions and thoughts rattling against them, puncturing holes in the barriers he’d always maintained so carefully. 27

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Warm hands reached out to touch his arm and shoulder, their soft palms cradling the threads of his mind as if they were spun of silk. The world slowly came back into focus as the shields that had been so close to breaking into a thousand pieces quietly mended themselves, their cool surfaces unmarked by the assault of emotion they’d had to withstand. Spock inhaled deeply, feeling a shiver roll down his spine as he grounded himself again, pulling away forcefully from the mental plane he’d sought refuge in. He blinked twice and was surprised to see Jim staring at him with a look of concern, his hands holding onto Spock’s arm and shoulder with a careful gentleness. “Are you okay, Mr. Spock?” he asked as he helped the other straighten back up off the column he’d used as a crutch. “Do you need to see a doctor?” “I am fine,” Spock rasped out, ignoring the prickling feeling Jim’s hands were instilling in his skin. “I am simply unused to dealing with so many unshielded thoughts and emotions at one time.” “I don’t understand,” Jim replied. “Can you read people’s minds or something?” Spock shook his head. “No. Vulcans are not capable of that without taking additional measures. However, we are capable of picking up vague impressions of both emotion and thought through physical proximity with those who have not been trained to shield their minds as we have.” Seeing a look of horror cross Jim’s face, Spock quickly elaborated, “These impressions, like I previously stated, are incredibly vague. Specific thoughts do not transmit well in this manner and I am, therefore, unable to perceive them.” “So,” Jim began, drawing out the vowel as he mulled this over,” you’re essentially saying that you can pick up emotions, but that’s about it?” “Yes. Normally my shields would prevent such unwanted transfers, but it is difficult adjusting to a species that expresses their feelings so forcefully,” Spock admitted, “especially when in the company of many.” “But you’re alright now?” “Indeed,” he replied and folded his hands behind his back, gently shrugging Jim’s hands away as he did so. “I apologize for this unfortunate incident. It will not happen again, Mr. President.” “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Kirk said with a reassuring smile. “Things like this happen. No big deal. So, how about we sit down and get some food? I’m starving!” Before he could comment on the fact that Jim was most likely not experiencing the effects of starvation, Spock found himself whisked away to a small table in the corner of the room. The same glares from before burned into his back as he sat down opposite Jim and picked up the small, leather-bound menu. He tried his best to ignore the stares, comforted somewhat by the warmth Jim’s hands had left behind on his skin. His stomach did an odd little flip when he reflected on it, images of their physical proximity resurfacing in his consciousness just vividly enough to set his heart racing. It didn’t take long before he scolded himself for these seemingly illogical reactions, completely baffled as to what had prompted them. He took a deep breath and focused on the menu he was still holding in front of him. The words blurred with each thump of his heart, the pounding of his blood in his ears. They swam in front of him, dancing across the white pages like gnats until he could stand it no longer and shut the menu. Trying not to scowl, he set the thin leather book down on the table and leaned slightly back in his seat, fidgeting inconspicuously 28

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beneath the white table cloth as he attempted to weed out whatever was affecting him in such an adverse manner. “You ready to order, Mr. Spock?” Jim suddenly asked, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Yes, Mr. President,” Spock replied without missing a beat as he sat up straighter in his seat. “Great!” Jim said and gave the waiter his order, two scrambled eggs with a side of bacon and a cup of coffee. Spock’s request, on the other hand, was much simpler, a bowl of mixed fruit and a cup of Earl Grey tea. Surprised that he ordered so little, Jim asked if he was sure he didn’t want anything else. Spock assured him that he wasn’t all that hungry and that fruit would be more than sufficient. Although he still gave the other a wary look, Jim seemed placated for the time being and attempted to engage Spock in a little bit of light-hearted conversation. He was pleased to find that the Vulcan was now much more accepting of his efforts and gave him more than one-word replies. After a few minutes of small talk and more than one “Yes, Mr. President” from Spock, Jim said, “You can just call me Jim, Mr. Spock. Mr. President makes me feel so old.” “I do not think that would be appropriate.” Jim laughed at the blunt nature of the other’s reply. “It’s fine. Are you afraid Uhura’s going to come after you with a stick if you call me by my first name? I hate to break it to you, but she doesn’t have a monopoly on it. In fact,” he began to unfurl his napkin, “I can’t think of anyone in my Cabinet that doesn’t call me Jim from time to time.” “I see,” Spock murmured, unsure of how to proceed. “And don’t worry about these guys here,” Jim continued while jerking a thumb in the direction of his bodyguards, all of whom had formed a protective ring around their table. “They won’t shoot you if don’t call me by my title, which is really kind of outdated anyways.” He shrugged. “But tradition is tradition. We humans are real sticklers for it, so it stuck.” “Very well,” Spock hesitated for a moment before finishing, “Jim. You may call me Spock.” “Isn’t that your last name?” “Humans are unable to pronounce my last name,” Spock answered. “Try me,” Kirk challenged, his eyes glinting devilishly as his usual grin returned to his face. The Vulcan stared at him for a moment before uttering a single string of nigh unpronounceable syllables that left Jim’s jaw hanging open in disbelief. “What?” he said before shaking his head. “Forget it. I’m sure that would even give Uhura a run for her money, so I’m not going to give you the pleasure of watching me embarrass myself by trying to repeat whatever it is you said.” “Vulcan is quite different from Earth Standard, so it is no surprise that you would have difficulty with the sounds.” “Uh-huh,” Kirk replied, a teasing hint to his voice, “but learning Earth Standard is easy, right?” 29

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“Not as easy as one might hope.” The two of them were silent as their food arrived, served in polished porcelain dishes that were so clean they appeared to be new. Spock was the first to touch his food, pricking a piece of watermelon with the tip of his fork and bringing it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, relishing in the fruit’s watery sweetness as he watched Jim poke emphatically as the scrambled eggs set in front of him. “What did you find difficult about Earth Standard?” Jim asked, looking up from his meal after still having not taken a single bite. Spock swallowed the pineapple he’d been chewing and said, “I found it difficult to grasp the connotations of certain words. While their definitions essentially conveyed my ideas, their nuances made my meaning completely incomprehensible.” “Yeah, I guess a lot of words have some kind of feeling behind them that could drastically change the meaning of whatever it is you want to say,” Kirk murmured, nodding to himself. “The concept of placing emotional emphasis in language seemed completely illogical at the time.” “I’m sure,” Jim said with a laugh. “But you know, your Standard is really great, Spock. You sound like you’ve been speaking it for years.” “I was given four Earth weeks to become fluent in Earth Standard before coming to San Francisco.” Jim’s eyes grew so wide it seemed as if they were going to pop out of his skull. “Four weeks?!” he repeated in obvious disbelief. “Man! That’s torture! I’m terrible with languages, so if I were you I’d probably still be working on the colors by the time those four weeks were up.” “Vulcans are incredibly adept at absorbing new information,” Spock explained, his tone emphasizing that he was simply stating a fact, not bragging. “Yeah. You can say that again.” When Spock opened his mouth to do just that, Jim quickly explained with a smile, “No, no, Spock. It’s just a saying. An illogical human idiom. Don’t worry about it.” “I see. It is indeed highly illogical to ask another to repeat themselves without actually meaning for them to do just that.” “Yeah, it totally is, but like I said, we’re suckers for tradition. It feels like we’ve had all these sayings since the dawn of time itself.” He scooped up a piece of egg onto his fork. “We also like to exaggerate even if what we’re saying is impossible,” he said and brought the fork to his mouth, chewing on the egg thoughtfully. “Mm. This is good!” “I must admit that Earth fruit is quite delicious,” Spock murmured in a soft voice, slightly embarrassed that he was complimenting a planet he was supposed to hate. “It’s too bad I’m allergic to half the stuff we grow around here,” Kirk said with a laugh. “My doctor swears that my list of allergies doubles each year without fail.” “That appears to be quite problematic.” Kirk shrugged.

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“Nothing I can do about it, right? Bones—that’s my doctor—likes to blame everything on my being born out in space, but I think that’s just his “fear of dying in something that flies” talking. ‘Course he’s a pretty stubborn guy, so I don’t even bother arguing with him anymore. It’s easier just to let him say what he wants and do what he wants.” Spock paused for a moment before remarking that this “Bones” was a rather childish individual, indeed. Jim grinned broadly at this statement, his cheeks starting to cramp slightly from the persistent smiles his lips found themselves pulled into. “He’d get so mad if he could hear you say that,” he snickered before his smile faltered, curling in on itself in apprehension for what he was about to say. “Hey, Spock? Do you think you could maybe teach me a few Vulcan words?” Masking his nervousness with a joker-like grin, he added, “I’ll try not to be too terrible of a student.” Spock found himself caught off-guard by the other’s unexpected request. He stared blankly at Jim for a few seconds, a half-chewed piece of melon still caught between his teeth and pressing up against the inside of his cheek. Sweetness pooled on his tongue and he found himself at a loss for what to say. The last time Jim had shown interest in his culture Spock had walked away from the discussion feeling insulted and more than a little offended. With that incident still fresh in his mind, the Vulcan was unsure of how to reply, but as the other’s persistent stare bore down on him, plucking at strings in his chest he’d not known were there, Spock couldn’t give himself a good enough reason to deny Jim’s request, a fact that unsettled him ever so slightly. “I do not see the harm in doing so,” he finally answered after having swallowed the piece of melon, its sweetness lingering like a layer of fine sugar over his gums. “Great! So, what’s the Vulcan word for fruit?” Breakfast continued in easy conversation with Jim asking Spock for a variety of translations that the Vulcan readily offered in return in between bites of fruit. By the time the two of them had finally finished eating it was nearly a quarter till nine, their meal dragged out by the fact that Jim seemed to greatly prefer talking over eating. In fact, half the food on his plate was still untouched when he asked a passing waiter for the check, explaining that they were trying to make a meeting within the next fifteen minutes. Spock, who had cleaned his bowl of every last scrap of fruit thirty minutes after it had arrived, polished off the last of his tea as the waiter scurried off to procure their bill, allowed his eyes to flick questioningly between Kirk and his mostly full plate. Catching his gaze, Jim shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his own eyes immediately darting to the floor where they fixed upon one of the golden diamonds that had been patterned into the plush, green carpet. “I don’t really have much of an appetite when Tarsus is concerned,” Kirk admitted finally, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his dark slacks. “I’m trying not to think about it all the time, but it’s hard, especially now that the lunatic who caused that whole mess is up for some bullshit early release!” He bit down on his lip and glanced at Spock. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I guess you can say this whole thing has me pretty emotionally compromised. Too bad I’m the only one who can actually do something about it.” He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his lap. 31

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“Maybe I should start drinking some of that chamomile tea Uhura likes so much. She says it’s relaxing, though I can’t really stand the bitter taste.” He smiled meekly and jerked his head in the direction of his coffee, which was now a light brown, the dark liquid diluted with enough cream and sugar to mask the taste. “That’s why I dump so much milk and sugar in my coffee. Bones always tells me that I’ll give myself an early death with the way I eat, but I don’t think an extra few years is worth gagging on my coffee every morning.” “Perhaps you should select a sweeter beverage instead?” Spock suggested. “Nah. I need the caffeine. Without it I get pretty cranky. Right now, coffee’s the best option for me since the only tea I like is decaffeinated, which kind of sucks actually.” “If you would like I could prepare a particular type of Vulcan tea you may find more appealing due to its sweetness upon our return to San Francisco,” Spock suddenly blurted out, his lips and tongue moving the words out of his mouth faster than his brain could edit. “Um, sure. I mean, if you don’t mind,” Jim stammered as he scratched the side of his face. “You don’t have to go out of your way or anything to do that for me.” “It will be no trouble at all as I will be preparing some for myself in the near future,” Spock said in a quiet voice, catching only a glimpse of Jim’s warm smile before he looked away, still trying to convince himself of his own flawed logic. “Thanks, Spock.” The warm feelings Kirk had laced his words with still floated through the air as the check arrived, their invisible bodies twining around Spock’s arms like a series of satin ribbons. The Vulcan tensed in his seat as their heat flowed into his skin, twining up along his nerves until his entire body was alight with sensation. He didn’t understand why this one human’s emotions were affecting him so deeply with even the faintest touch setting off an unstoppable avalanche of feeling inside him. I require meditation, he thought somberly to himself as they rose from the table together, their breakfast already charged to Jim’s room. Much like the night before, they were ushered into the confines of the black van, squashed in the backseat between two of the guards. Spock forced himself to breathe evenly through his nose as distrust poured off of them in waves, splashing onto his arms and legs like ice water. A shiver ran down his spine and he tensed in anticipation of another one, hoping that the tightness of his muscles would deter it. Thankfully, there was no repeat performance and he eventually allowed himself to relax, finally unclenching his fists and noticing the dark green crescents his nails had etched into the skin of his palms. Beside him, Jim chatted animatedly with one of the security officers, not bothered in the least by the fact that the woman only appeared to be giving him a fraction of her attention. It was clear that everyone in his security team was completely and utterly dedicated to their jobs, ready to lay their lives on the line if that’s what it took to keep their president safe. While he didn’t harbor any particular fondness for any of these men and women, Spock found their loyalty admirable, a trait even the Earth-hating people of his planet deemed worthy of praise. He shifted in his seat, casually edging further away from the bodyguard on his right and closer to Jim until he was practically pressing himself into the other man’s side. When Kirk turned to look at him, eyebrows raised at the sudden lack of space 32

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between them, Spock expressly avoided the questioning look, fixing his own eyes intently on the rounded caps of his knees instead. A comforting blanket of calm had settled over his shoulders the moment the left side of his body touched Kirk’s right. It quieted the clamor of his mind and caused the drops of venomous feeling that had been cascading down over his skin like a waterfall to suddenly evaporate. In those moments of blissful silence the world seemed to clear like a vision coming out of a cloudy haze, every little shape and color focused so precisely and so perfectly it almost seemed unreal. His breaths came out in slow, even puffs, the rapid beating of his heart fluttering to a slow pulse that sent his blood crawling like molasses in his veins. Time slowed and then sped up. It was impossible to tell how the seconds were ticking by, their passing echoing like irregular beats in his head. He felt Jim move beside him, the brush of the other man’s hand against his own sending sparks of electricity up his arm that left him reeling. Jerking away as if having been burned, Spock stared at Jim in obvious shock as he cradled his hand, his fingers still twitching from aftershocks. His mind was buzzing in alarm. He had felt Jim, felt him in a way that transcended physical barriers, the gentle rap of another’s mind against his own. And in just one touch! It seemed so impossible that the mere idea simply boggled Spock’s mind. Curling in on himself until he was slightly hunched over, he contemplated the matter in hopes of finding some sort of explanation, but turned up empty handed. “You alright?” Jim asked, his voice striking clear through Spock’s thoughts like a bolt of lightning. “You look a little pale? Do you need to lie down?” Spock jerked his head up in surprise, the other’s voice ringing like a bell in his ears even long after the fact. “I amG fine,” he replied after a moment of hesitation, his eyes finally flicking up to meet Jim’s blue ones. “Please do not concern yourself unnecessarily over my wellbeing. If I am unwell I will inform you immediately.” “Alright. If you’re sureG” Jim trailed off at the end, his eyes pointedly inviting Spock to challenge this, to admit that something was not right. While he knew that it was ridiculous to expect the Vulcan to trust him after only just a few weeks, Jim couldn’t help but want the other to confide in him, to trust him, to give him hope that this diplomacy thing was entirely possible and wasn’t just a baseless fantasy he continued to entertain. “Jim, I am sure.” The use of his first name, made Kirk’s head snap up, his eyes round with surprise until their corners crinkled from happiness, the wide grin that then spread across his face pushing them upwards. It was so unexpected, so unlike the Spock he’d come to know that hearing it made Jim so absolutely elated he couldn’t have forced the smile off his face had he even tried. Whatever he had with Spock, this tentative friendship that he hoped would solidify over the coming months, helped quell the feelings of anxiety that had been stirring in his belly since they’d first arrived. He’d lain awake in bed for hours on end the night before, staring blankly at the ceiling as memories replayed themselves over and over in his head, never once leaving him any moment of reprieve. “I think we’ll be there in a second,” he said suddenly, pushing down on the same memories that threatened to resurface again, the marks of their torture freshly 33

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imprinted upon his mind. “The Central Bureau of Penology should be somewhere on this street.” Sure enough a few minutes later they came to a stop in front of a large glass building whose structure somewhat mimicked the curved seashell shape of the Guggenheim with its twisted cone shape and distinctive levels. The area outside the building’s tall, imposing structure of steel and tinted glass was neat and orderly, a combination of concrete sidewalk and trimmed hedges. A few trees dotted the area, their roots planted in small squares of dirt that were regularly interspaced along the large concrete slabs. While it was clear that the greenery had been added to bring some life into the premises, the Central Bureau of Penology continued to come across as one of the very prisons it managed, cold, sterile, and utterly impersonal. “Yeah, this is definitely the place,” Kirk murmured as he peered up at the spiral’s harsh twists through the van’s window. “It is a surprisingly large building,” Spock remarked calmly from his side. Jim laughed and undid his seatbelt. “Well then, shall we, Mr. Spock?” he asked before springing out the door one of the security guards had already opened and onto the sidewalk. Spock was silent as he stepped out behind him, the heels of his shoes slapping against the concrete with a dull smack. The air seemed much cooler than before and he couldn’t tell whether the temperature itself had actually gone down or if it was simply a result of sitting in the heated interior of the van for so long. With the last vestiges of warmth seeping out from his skin in invisible tendrils, he discreetly pulled his jacket tighter around his upper body as the beginnings of a shiver began to tickle the base of his spine. He thought back briefly on the hat and gloves he’d left behind in the hotel room, wondering if he should have brought them after all. Then he remembered how silly he’d looked in them and concluded that he’d made the right decision. However, it quickly became clear that he was not the only one who had noticed the sudden chill. The barest hint of a shiver wracked the bodies of their security guards, their shoulders shuddering nearly in sync. “Is it just me or did it get colder?” Jim asked as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He received a chorus of agreement in reply from the guards. “What do you think, Spock?” “It does appear to be slightly colder than before,” Spock murmured, glancing down at where Jim’s hands had buried themselves in his pockets before mirroring the action. “Let’s hurry up and get inside then.” They strode briskly across the paved square towards the building’s entrance, a revolving glass door that had the words “Central Bureau of Penology” emblazoned in gold letters on the space above it. A breath of warm air greeted them as they entered the lobby, banishing the cold from their bones in one swoop. While it was not quite as impressive as the one the President’s building housed, the lobby was large and dramatic with dark granite walls and floors that were so polished they appeared to be one giant mirror. A petite Asian woman greeted them almost immediately after they’d stepped inside. Her polite yet warm demeanor clashing with the severe bun she’d spun her dark hair into, her locks pulled back so tightly it bordered on painful. She led them to the 34

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elevator that sat in the center of the lobby behind the welcome desk. Its curved glass walls provided Jim and Spock with an excellent view of the ground floor as they traveled upward until it stopped at the top floor, a good seventy stories up. The doors then slid open to reveal another hallway, though this one was more subdued than the one downstairs. Clearly this floor was not seen by many and those that used it didn’t seem to have a taste for extreme luxury, having exchanged granite walls for white wallpaper and the spectacular reflective floors from below for a soft, but equally white carpet. Several cone-shaped lamps lined the walls of the corridor, casting soft fans of orange light that did little to illuminate the dim area. They walked in silence towards the single set of wooden double doors at the end of the hall, a cloud of seriousness hanging over their every movement until each step felt almost leaden beneath the pressure of the heavy atmosphere. Spock gave his shoulders a subtle roll as he walked in an attempt to shrug off the oppressive feelings that clung to him like a set of stubborn labels, leaving behind strips of themselves even as he threw them off. Glancing over at Kirk, he noticed that the other man had grown rather pale, all of the rosy color that normally filled his cheeks suddenly drained from his skin, leaving him looking ashen and sickly. “Sir,” Spock whispered, his voice only just loud enough for Jim to understand his words, “are you feeling unwell?” “I’m fine,” Jim rasped and wiped away the trickle of sweat that had collected on his brow with his sleeve. “Don’t worry about me, Spock.” Spock wanted to explain that he wasn’t concerned for the other’s wellbeing in the least, that his question had been prompted by some sort of logical reason, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. Biting back the irritation simmering quietly beneath his skin, the Vulcan tried to quell the troubled thoughts that swirled painfully in the pit of his stomach. Even if some portion of his mind—the one piece that was not entirely Vulcan in its makeup—held some sort of nauseating attachment to this human that walked alongside him, Spock knew that he, himself, did not. The logical environment he’d carefully constructed within him from childhood was repulsed by Kirk’s rampant emotions, the human aspects Spock had been raised to hate so completely that his hatred now appeared to be an almost intrinsic part of his personality. By the time they reached the end of the hallway, a vein was throbbing unpleasantly in Spock’s temple, its rapid pulse sending the dull beginnings of a terrible headache straight along his scalp. He did his best to mask the discomfort he felt as they entered the room behind the double doors, the white carpet from the hallway suddenly giving way to a polished mahogany floor. The room was much larger than Kirk’s office and took up most of the space the top floor provided with its semi-circular shape. In fact, much of the available area appeared to be somewhat superfluous as all the furniture was confined to the center of the space, arranged in one compact circle that only seemed to emphasize the emptiness of the room. Spock found this excess somewhat unsettling, if not distasteful, and shifted stiffly beside Kirk, bowing his head a few degrees so that he was looking more or less at the ground. “Mr. President,” came a cool, feminine voice from the far end of the room, “it is an honor to meet you in person. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” While the words themselves were cordial, they were spat out with such heavily concealed animosity it made the hair on the back of Spock’s neck stand on end. He 35

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quickly glanced up just in time to see the owner of the voice, a tall blonde woman with cool green eyes, stalk towards them from where she’d been standing by the window, the corners of her painted lips pulling up in an almost predatory smile and her eyes never once leaving Kirk’s face. She sent a chill down Spock’s spine, her overly controlled demeanor setting off alarm bells in his head. Each step she took was disciplined and guarded, the movements of someone with something to hide, a situation Spock knew all too well. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kirk’s smile stiffen into a thin, strained line and knew he was not the only person who distrusted this woman. “Sorry for the short notice, Mrs. Karidian,” Jim said in an overly polite tone, “but there’s something we need to discuss about a certain prisoner that just couldn’t wait.” The corners of Lenore Karidian’s lips twitched once, her eyes gleaming with understanding as well as pointed disapproval. The knot of apprehension building in Spock’s stomach only grew, twining the threads of intrigue tighter and tighter around each other until it was nothing but a complete mess of hunches and feelings. “Kodos, I presume?” she asked, though it was more of statement than a question. Jim nodded solemnly, his eyes fixed upon her in an unwavering stare. Judging by the soft sigh of exasperation that fell from her lips and the manner in which she rolled her shoulders, this wasn’t the first time the two of them had discussed this particular subject. The fact that Jim was here in her office, his usually bright face clouded by a mask of seriousness, seemed to suggest that their previous conversation had not gone well, in other words, he had not gotten his way. Of course, with Jim being Jim, always making up for whatever qualities he lacked with sheer tenacity, this dispute would never be settled until he got his way. “Mr. President, I must apologize. There was no need for you to travel all the way to Stockholm to discuss this matter for it has already been closed. In two weeks time, Kodos will be released from the hospital where he is currently being treated for severe injuries as well as several ailments, diseases that you and I would think to have been eradicated centuries ago.” Jim bristled silently as she spoke, his anger simmering in the redness of his cheeks until it expanded into his neck and ears, flushing the skin until it burned. “Excuse me if I’m speaking out of turn here, but you can’t just release a murderer like Kodos just because he was mistreated in prison!” he snapped, his voice escalating in volume with each successive word until he was nearly shouting. “I’m sorry, but this matter is out of your jurisdiction,” Lenore replied icily. “Sir.” Kirk’s anger spiked, flaring hotly into his chest like acid and forcing him to bite down on his tongue to keep from lashing out with words he would only regret later. Gritting his jaw and curling his hands into fists, he fixed her with the most intimidating stare he could muster, the flames of his rage licking at the blues of his irises. “No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Karidian, you misunderstand. I didn’t come here as the President of United Earth. I came here as a victim of the man you are about to free and you can be sure that I’ll be there at the hearing—yes, the one you tried to hide from me—with everyone else, kicking and screaming at this humanitarian bullshit you’ve been spouting because here on Earth? Yeah, we don’t consider freeing a convicted killer as an act of “compassion” when his victims are still suffering because of what he did!”

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By the time he had finished speaking, Jim was red and trembling, rapidly blinking away the tears of frustration that beaded in the corners of his eyes until they were nothing more than a thin, wet sheen. He knew that he’d lost control, let himself become emotionally compromised by the situation at hand, something Uhura would undoubtedly yell at him about later, but he just couldn’t help himself! The anger that bubbled like boiling water in his throat was impossible to ignore, clawing madly at his tongue and lips until he couldn’t help but spit out those spiteful words that tasted so sour on his teeth. Lenore stared at him with wide eyes, her red lips pinched into a small, wrinkled bud as she tried to formulate some kind of reply, but found herself at a complete loss of what to say. However, she was not the only surprised person in the room. The woman that had escorted Jim and Spock into the room along with their bodyguards stood with her fingers wrapped around the door handle and her face drawn into an identical expression of surprise. Spock too was surprised, but he did not let it show, forcing his eyebrows back down into neutrality. While he was shocked by Kirk’s harsh tone, the Vulcan couldn’t really say he disapproved of the content of the man’s speech. In fact, he found it to be a breath of fresh air in the stiff conversation that had preceded it. “Let’s go, Spock,” Jim suddenly said from beside the Vulcan and turned on his heel, not even deigning to give the withered Mrs. Karidian a proper goodbye. They strode purposefully into the elevator and rode down into the lobby where they exited the building without another word. They were done here. Jim sat in a controlled silence back in the van, his hands folded tightly across his lap and his face drawn into an expression of complete seriousness. He did not speak to anyone and no one spoke to him. Occasionally Spock glanced over at him, but his gaze did not stay for long. The conflicted emotions that raged across Kirk’s face were too troubling for that. Even when they came to a stop in front of the hotel, the Vulcan didn’t dare look over at the other for fear of Kirk catching his wandering eyes and mistake what Spock considered to be simple curiosity with concern. No one spoke as they exited the van, the air bitter and unpleasant as it swirled around them, tangling their hair and chilling the tips of their ears and noses. However, Jim was in no rush to reach the warmth of the hotel’s golden lobby. He stood still on the sidewalk in front of the building, his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes turned towards the sky, his breath coming out in soft, gray puffs of warm air. For a moment he did nothing but simply stand there, peering up at the dark gray of the clouds as he breathed in the cool air, feeling it rush down into his lungs with a blissfully harsh chill. Then he turned to look at Spock, his blue eyes reflecting the hollowness the anger had left behind, the ashes of an extinguished fire. “Would you like to take a walk with me, Spock?” he asked softly, a hesitant look crossing his face. “I am not opposed to doing so,” Spock replied even though he was close to shivering from the cold, his body losing more heat than his jacket could trap. “However, perhaps a brief walk would be more appropriate given the current ambient temperature,” he quickly added. A small smile played upon Jim’s lips. “Sure, Spock. That’s fine.” 37

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The moments that followed were nothing but a blur, a muddled swipe of color across Spock’s memory that was punctuated by a single shot, a bang that rang straight through his chest. There was no time to think, no time to weigh the consequences. He flung his body out in front of Kirk’s in an instant, shielding him from the flash of bright light that burst in front of his eyes like a flare, consuming him in a blanket of white before it all went dark. For the first time in his life, Spock leapt off the cliff and didn’t look down.

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Part Four It all happened so fast, a flurry of dark suits and moving limbs. Phasers were drawn, streaks of gunmetal gray across the white canvas of the afternoon. The air was thick with panic. There were shouts and yells, words barked out in harsh Standard that became so muddled in the blurred fog of Spock’s mind that they were indistinguishable from the thumps of feet scrambling across the pavement that surrounded him. The ground was cold and damp, wetness pooling out in a perfect circle over the hard concrete. Spock blinked dumbly at the sticky puddle of green that surrounded him like a warm halo. He moved his hand to touch it, fingers skimming across the slippery surface that was thick like blood. His blood. Like a rush of air after near asphyxiation, the world suddenly came into focus, penetrating the clouded haze of his mind as sharply as the stabbing pain in his chest. He coughed, a pitiful wheezing sound that sounded choked with water. Warm fluid dribbled down over the edge of his lower lip and onto the ground beside his face, a smear of dark green over the pink flesh. That was all he saw: green, a dark emerald that nauseated him with its richness, pigments choked with another’s pain. His pain. It exploded like bits of shrapnel across his body, running across newly formed scrapes and bruises so quickly that the delicate fibers of his nerves couldn’t distinguish between each separate one. His body had become a single, massive wound, every part of him vibrating with intense agony that burned like a thousand pins and needles. He let out another weak cough and attempted to calm himself by taking in a deep, steady breath, but found his lungs choked with his own blood, slowly drowning in identical pools of viscous green fluid. It was in that moment that Spock thought he was going to die. Then he saw Kirk’s face, golden and warm above him with blue eyes that cried without tears, and the pain, the hopelessness that had settled into the pit of his stomach like a piece of lead suddenly melted away into a focused calm. He felt Jim’s fingers on his cheeks and neck, their tips, slick with his blood, sliding over his pale skin with unprecedented gentleness. Caught in this moment of sudden clarity, a kaleidoscope of reality spinning round in his thoughts, Spock couldn’t help but relax into this oddly familiar touch, his mind reaching out towards it as his eyes slipped shut, lips parting round a watery sigh. He could hear Kirk’s voice shouting at him, begging him to stay alive, but Spock couldn’t find the strength to even nod. Life was quickly slipping from his grasp, it seemed, the warm silvery trail of his katra leaving his clenched fists even as he scrambled to hold on. He quietly cursed himself for his stupidity, his lips moving soundlessly around each syllable. Why had he jumped in front of Kirk, a man he was supposed to kill? Taken a blow that may well be fatal? It made no sense in his pain-addled brain, but soon he found that he didn’t care to know the answer. Living or dying? What did it matter now? He was vaguely aware of the fact that the rest of Vulcan would consider him a failure because of this—sacrificing his own life for a human—but the thought was only passing, lost to the blackness as he resigned himself to the chill that crept up his arms and legs. It was over. 39

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An explosion of light unlike anything he’d ever seen burst against the inside of his skull with a startling amount of force, rattling him right down to his core. His mind shuddered and caved, the psi points along his temples humming with activity as each layer parted around the beam of golden light the explosion left in its wake until it had crawled down into the center of his thoughts, the one part of him he’d always tried to shield so carefully. It horrified him to see this piece of himself embrace this alien entity, this thing that didn’t belong, and pull it down inside him, holding it there as his mind wrapped it in feather-light silver bonds. He reached down to undo the shimmering knots of thread that glowed with permanence, but found that he could not, his searching fingers batted away by a force so powerful it left him stunned. Electricity crackled along the bonds he sought to destroy, the light static prickling the edges of his synapses until his entire mind buzzed with the foreign presence that was quickly becoming a part of himself. A shudder wracked his body as he became more aware of the hands that were touching him, the disconnect between his mental and physical being slowly bridging itself. Spock felt himself being pulled away from the strange ball of light that had embedded itself completely into the core of his being, its golden body pulsating with a healthy glow of happiness that rapidly seeped into the rest of him. He was all too aware of its presence as he came back to reality, the stubborn brightness constantly suspended in his thoughts like a persistent lump in his throat. Disgust curled in his belly as he watched his mind caress the bright contours of the sphere, cradling it as if it were a small child, fragile and precious. He wanted to smack it away, rip it out of the nest his subconscious had created and throw it to the floor just to watch it shatter into a million pieces, but he was too far away, dragged up towards a blackness that seemed to swallow him up. Silent screams of anger tore from his throat as he fell into the upper reaches of his consciousness, helpless against the pull of his own inner self. He struggled against the darkness that surrounded him, kicked and clawed at nothing in hopes of finding even the smallest tear towards reality. It felt as if he were drowning, suspended beneath a layer of ice that he couldn’t break, caught between the world that lay outside and his own mind. Spock stumbled along blindly, feeling vestiges of the pain he’d felt earlier creeping back into the forefront of his mind. He could feel the cool air against his face, feel the pressure of someone’s hands on his abdomen and chest. He could even hear the soft beeping of a machine churning in the background, all beyond the layer of pitch black glass that kept him under. It bore down on him like a weight, crushing and painful. He pressed up against it blindly until his bones ached from the strain, but he never once stopped, pushing past the pain that rolled over him like a wave of nausea and finally through the barrier itself. Sterile, white light washed over him as he broke through the surface of his thoughts, gasping wildly for breath. He blinked rapidly against the harsh light that surrounded him and attempted to sit up, but found himself held down by more than one pair of hands. They were warm and soft, humming with only the faintest traces of emotions. They were human hands. Spock swallowed thickly and forced himself to relax, listening quietly to the soft murmurs of comfort one of the humans that held him down offered while his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Slowly the white plane he’d woken up in faded away, revealing four human faces and what appeared to be the ceiling of a hospital room. 40

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He gingerly turned his head to look around, but ended up wincing as the vertebrae in his neck crackled and began to throb in a dull ache. One of the humans—most likely a nurse given their uniform, a pair of ill-fitting light blue scrubs—gently moved his head back into a more comfortable position and instructed him to stay still. On his other side, the only doctor in the room, a gruff looking man with what appeared to be a permanent scowl, hastily scrawled something down on a piece of paper and handed it off to one of the other nurses before leaning down over Spock. “You’re at the Karolinska University Hospital,” he informed the Vulcan with none of the gentleness Spock expected of an Earth doctor. “About four hours ago you received a shot to the chest from a phaser. Thankfully it missed most of your vital organs, but it still managed to pierce your left lung and do all other kinds of damage. It’s a miracle you’re still alive when you consider the shape you came here in, halfdead with barely enough blood left to fill a fish bowl.” The man gave a small snort as he straightened back up. “Well, lucky for you I patched you up and you should be good to go in about three days. Name’s Doctor Leonard McCoy, by the way.” Spock was silent for a moment, simply watching the doctor scribble a few more notes down on a PADD in a messy scrawl that mimicked the idle doodles of a five year old more than actual letters before speaking. “I am in perfect health. It is therefore unnecessary to keep me here any longer,” he murmured in a soft voice that sounded weaker than he expected, dry and scratchy around each word. Leonard McCoy gave the other a long hard stare, his pen hovering an inch above the screen of his PADD, before he snorted again. “Don’t even try to pull that crap with me, Mr. Spock. Three days and you’re not getting out one second before that. Doctor’s orders.” “I find that I must protest—” “It’s non-negotiable,” McCoy said firmly, cutting the Vulcan off mid-sentence. “So while you’re here you might as well be comfortable. I sent one of the nurses to get some pain medication that’ll tide you over for a few hours, so at least you have that to look forward to.” He gave a small chuckle. “Anyways, Jim’s outside waiting to see you. He’s been pacing like a caged animal this whole time, driving everyone in the waiting room mad, I tell ya. I try to get away from his crazy shenanigans after Starfleet blew up in our faces and he still manages to find me and drag a bleeding, half-dead Vulcan into my hospital. Never a dull moment with James T. Kirk. That’s for sure.” “He isG concerned for my well-being?” Spock asked and McCoy stared at him as if he’d grown another head. “Good god, man. Are you really that unfeeling? Of course he was worried about you! You nearly sacrificed your life to save him!” “I see.” The doctor gave an exasperated sigh and tiredly shook his head, muttering unintelligibly under his breath as his shoulders sagged. He was not paid enough for this job. “Perhaps it would be best to assure him of my well-being in a timely manner then,” Spock suggested. McCoy gave the Vulcan a stern look and replied, “Alright. I’ll let him in, but I don’t want any kind of funny business. Jim gets all kinds of wild ideas in times like these. 41

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I’m hoping that you, being the logical Vulcan, will do your best to set him straight and tell him that all his ideas, whether you actually listen to them or not, are bad ones.” Without actually waiting for an answer, the doctor strode over to the door and slipped out of the room only to come back a few minutes later with a particularly haggard looking Jim Kirk. Clearly McCoy had not exaggerated when it came to the man’s emotional state. In fact, if Spock had to describe it, he’d say that the other looked exceptionally distressed with his wrinkled, blood-splattered clothes and mussed up hair, the creases of his worrying firmly etched into the pliant skin of his face. “Spock!” Jim exclaimed when he saw the Vulcan and rushed up to the other’s bedside, his eyes alight with relief. “I’m so glad you’re okay! Bones here said you might not make it, but I had this feeling that you’re stubborn to let yourself get killed like that.” The wide smile that had spread across his lips quickly faltered, the euphoria Jim had experienced upon seeing Spock alive and well melting into thick wells of guilt. “Spock,” he murmured, leaning down closer to the supine Vulcan. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean for all this to happen, for you to get hurt because of me. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. It’s all my fault. You nearly died!” “The fact remains that I did not,” Spock replied as he tilted his head ever so slightly to look at the other, resisting the urge to squirm beneath the other’s gaze. His heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest. “There is nothing to apologize for as I purposefully put myself in a position where I would most likely become injured.” “Yeah,” Jim murmured, his eyes falling away from Spock’s face. “Thanks for that. If you hadn’t pushed me out of the way I’d probably be zipped up in a body bag right now.” He offered the other a small smile. “It looks like Lenore Karidian will be joining Kodos in prison now, though. Turns out she’s his daughter and has been working on a plan to free him ever since his was first sent off to Canamar. When I decided to get in the way she snapped, decided that she had to get rid of me because it was my fault her dad was locked up for most of her life.” “Revenge,” Spock whispered. “Yeah,” Kirk replied with a nod. “A sick, twisted form of revenge that would’ve killed me if you hadn’t been there. I owe you, Spock. I owe you more than you could possibly imagine.” He then reached down and gave Spock’s hand a brief squeeze, a simple action that sent the Vulcan’s heart racing, a sudden rush of euphoria blooming like a storm cloud in his chest. Spock stared at Jim with wide eyes, his breaths coming in short, hitched pants, emotions he’d never felt before bubbling up into his stomach, a terrible mixture of good and bad, happiness and anxiety. He had never been so confused before in his life. “Alright, Jim,” McCoy said suddenly, the blonde nurse he’d sent away earlier with the slip of paper back at his side. “Let’s let Spock here get some rest. We’ve got enough pain-killer here to knock out a wooly mammoth with Vulcan physiology being as crazy as it is, so I’m sure he’ll be asleep in no time once we give him a dose of this.” Before the doctor could fully approach Spock and administer the pain-killer the nurse had loaded into the hypo he now carried, the Vulcan raised a hand, an action that not only sent a rush of pain running down Spock’s arm, but forced the other man to stop short. 42

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“I require a smaller dose than that of a typical Vulcan male,” Spock said in a quiet voice as he slowly propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the terrible ache in his chest. “Don’t move!” McCoy snapped. “That wound’s still healing! A dermal regenerator can only do so much!” He then went about easing Spock back down into his former position so that he was lying flat on his back on the biobed. “Now what’s this about you needing a smaller dose?” Spock hesitated momentarily before finally admitting, in an extremely vague manner, that his physiology was not entirely Vulcan and leaving it at that, creating an answer that only served to aggravate the doctor further. “Enough of this vague bullshit!” McCoy snapped, brandishing his loaded hypo with fervor. “I want a straight answer and I want it now. Digging through that mess of your medical records was bad enough and I don’t want any more of that.” “My mother was human.” The words were blurted out before Spock could reign them back in. He stared straight up at the ceiling, the ensuing silence almost deafening in his ears. As he lay there he could practically feel the stares of Kirk and McCoy boring holes into his skin, their shock more than palpable in the air. “I guess a smaller dose would be more appropriate then, yeah,” McCoy finally said before pressing a button on the intercom and speaking into it. “Nurse, Chapel? Yeah, why don’t you bring up half of the previous dose? Seems our patient neglected to mention a few important details.” “I apologize,” Spock murmured from his position on the bed. “My human heritage is not an aspect of myself that I particularly enjoy remembering given the animosity between Earth and Vulcan.” “Yeah, I can see that,” Jim said quietly from where he stood off to the side, uttering the last words anyone said until after Spock had fallen into a dreamless sleep, carried off into unconsciousness by the second, more sensible dose of pain-killers. With the Vulcan sleeping soundly on the biobed, McCoy turned to look at Jim, his forehead creasing with concern. “Jim, you should get some rest.” “I’ll be fine,” Kirk replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll head back to the hotel in a little while. Is it alright if I stay here a little longer? I won’t touch or break anything. Promise.” Leonard McCoy sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back onto his heels. He knew all too well that he couldn’t deny the other man anything and gave a small nod. “You can stay for another half hour, but then I want you out of here and resting somewhere. All this stress will be the death of you someday, Jim.” Kirk gave a small mirthless laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right, Bones.” The doctor gave Jim’s shoulder a gentle squeeze of reassurance before exiting the room, leaving the blond man and the sleeping Vulcan alone. 43

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Leaning down over the side of the bed, arms propped up on top of the metal railing that lined the biobed’s sides, Kirk peered down at Spock’s sleeping form, his expression an unreadable mixture of emotions. He then reached down with his left hand and brushed his fingers against the side of the other’s temple much like he’d done when Spock had first been shot, his movements thankfully less frantic this time. “If you hate humans so much, Spock,” he whispered to the air, “why did you save me?” The steady beeping of the heart monitor was his only reply.

Three months later and Jim still didn’t have an answer, the gap that existed between him and Spock as prominent as it had been the day Spock arrived. No matter what he did in an effort to bridge this distance, the other would always quickly rebuff his advances, shirking away from even the barest forms of contact. Jim knew that Spock hadn’t exactly been his biggest fan since day one thanks to a brief moment of stupidity, but he thought that maybe after three months the Vulcan would start to warm up to Jim’s increasingly bold overtures of friendship. If anything, Spock had become even more skittish and prying a conversation from him was like pulling teeth. It was a disheartening state of affairs to be sure, his frustration welling up like acid in the back of his throat, scalding and distracting beyond all measure. At night Jim would lie awake in his bed, his hands folded over his stomach, and wonder if he was doing anything right. The thought of Spock left an odd feeling behind in his chest, fluttery like the wings of a moth beating against his skin, soft and barely there, but still sending shivers down his spine. In this way, sleep had become an absolute privilege, the few hours where his mind quieted long enough for the weightless trance of slumber to claim him bringing him a most blissful relief from the confusion that sloshed around inside him. However, these hours were becoming fewer and farer in between, leaving an exhausted Jim Kirk to stare at the ceiling of his bedroom till dawn peeked in through the gap in his curtains. After only a few weeks, the sleepless nights began to show. They painted dark, gray streaks of sooty pigment underneath his eyes and drew the color out of his face like a siphon. His entire body crumbled beneath the strain, the exhaustion delving deep into his bones until every step felt like a challenge. When his haggard appearance persisted, Uhura chose to voice her concerns, but found her efforts batted away by an increasingly snappish Jim, the lack of sleep bringing out the worst in him. Of course, Uhura was not the only one to express her worries. In the subsequent days that followed, no less that ninety percent of the other employees inquired as to Kirk’s well-being. Apparently having gotten wind of Jim’s deteriorating health, McCoy even called from Stockholm in order to give the withering President a stern lecture about the importance of sleep before disintegrating into yet another rant about how much he hated the cold and the ex-wife that had driven him up into the “Arctic Circle”. He then gave Jim a prescription for some sleep aides, but warned him not to rely on them too heavily. The sleeping pills were a godsend. For the first time in many weeks, Jim finally got a full night’s sleep, the buzzing of his mind dulled by the medicated fog brought on by the pills, his entire body lulled into unconsciousness by a chemical lullaby that left him feeling rested and refreshed when he awoke the following morning. Only then, in those brief waking hours, did he 44

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have to deal with the strange pangs that went off in his chest like a series of gunshots whenever Spock came near. They ricocheted off his ribs with sharp cracks, knocking the air from his lungs and filling him with that feeling of breathlessness he couldn’t quite seem to shake. It made concentrating on his work nearly impossible, his consciousness plagued with images of a man he was sure hated him, vision blotted out by brief flashes of color that hadn’t originated from his own thoughts, their pigments too vivid and focused for that. Somehow it felt like the epicenter of his mind was bleeding into the periphery, mish mashing words and feelings until they became one mass, liquid and unstoppable, constantly pounding at the boundaries instilled by the contours of his skull before spilling out onto a plane of existence that wasn’t completely solid. There was no feeling more terrifying than this, losing one’s thoughts to this strange place, this bridge between him and something else. He wondered if it was a simple side effect of the pills, these odd hallucinations that affected only the ebb and flow of his thoughts, leaving his perception of reality untouched. Of course, it wasn’t long before these thoughts of side effects degraded into suspicions of insanity. It was the middle of December, exactly a week before Christmas, and James T. Kirk thought he was going crazy. His feelings—or whatever the hell they were—for Spock were driving him within an inch of madness and Jim wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it. Even as he sat at the long table in the main meeting room, exactly six chairs away from Spock, Jim could feel his heart go into overdrive, a flurry of palpitations against his ribcage that were bordering on painful. Sweat was beading on his palms and temples, small droplets of moisture that left his skin unpleasantly slick and sticky with salt. It was like being a teenager again, nervous and afraid of rejection, but unable to quash the feelings that had suddenly taken root inside his chest. He tried his best to ignore Spock’s presence and calm the rapid pitter-patter of his heart—a sound so loud Kirk swore everyone in the room could hear it—but found it close to impossible. Somehow his eyes would always drift back over to where the Vulcan sat, his back ramrod straight and his expression conveying nothing but serious interest, and something would lurch out from deep within Jim’s belly, stretching towards the other man in yearning. It sent a hot flash of embarrassment straight to Kirk’s face, these unprofessional emotions that had coiled in his belly, growing slowly but surely until they could no longer be brushed aside. Yet, his shame did nothing to dissuade his feelings in the least. If anything, they grew stronger as he tried to peel his gaze away from the Vulcan, the man whom his eyes had been fixed upon for the better part of ten minutes in rapt interest while Uhura spoke from opposite Spock, her words drowned out by the pounding of blood in Jim’s ears. He knew that he shouldn’t stare, but it was impossible to look away, to tear his eyes away from the one person that sent his emotions into a frenzy. The Earth shook beneath his feet every time he and Spock so much as crossed paths in the hallway and it was really becoming something so all-consuming it was making Kirk somewhat sick. He had never been one for deep, committed relationships—not that this was one of those—and the magnitude of his feelings struck a chord inside him, his fear resonating like the echoes of a gong all throughout his body. So as he sat there, in that bright room with its bare walls and wooden furnishings, his eyes never leaving the sharp curves of Spock’s face, Jim wondered what had happened to the man he’d 45

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once been, the man who’d have run away as the first lick of affection crawled up his throat. It seemed as if he’d shrugged off this persona, stripped himself of it piece by piece, all for this one man, a Vulcan that would probably never return what Kirk felt for him. Jim wanted to slap himself. Why had he torn down all his shields, all the barriers that protected him if only to get hurt in the end? His cheeks flamed in anger, anger at himself for being so blindly stupid, for falling headfirst into something that could only end badly. Pushing all thoughts of Spock from his mind, he turned his attention to Uhura, angling his body so that the Vulcan sat just outside of his peripheral vision. He clung to every word she spoke, using each perfectly enunciated syllable to ground himself in this Spock-less plane of reality he’d constructed for himself. The words were his anchors, their meanings forcing his brain to concentrate on something other than the man that sat only a few feet from him. He felt a wave of calm roll through him, soothing and simple, a cool touch that massaged the hot aches of troubled affection out of his temples and chest. For a moment he thought he might get through the rest of the day. “Mr. President, if I might have a word?” The words came mere seconds after the end of the meeting, cool and emotionless, a stark contrast to the amiable chatter that drifted amongst the rest of Jim’s Cabinet as they rose from their seats, casually stretching out the stiffness that had settled into their lower extremities over the past hour and a half as they did so. “Sure, Spock, but please, call me Jim,” Kirk replied, jovial as always, even as he ignored the sharp pangs in his chest the other’s words had left behind. “I do not understand your insistence on my use of your first name instead of your given title in these sorts of situations,” Spock said quietly. “However, as it appears to be of great importance to you, I will acquiesce to your request, albeit highly illogical.” Jim grinned. “Thanks. I like to think that it gives me emotional security,” he added with a wink and watched as the other’s cheeks turned a light olive color, feeling his own cheeks flush pink at the same time. “Indeed,” Spock murmured, the green in his cheeks darkening a few shades. There was a moment of silence until Jim spoke again. “So, uh,” he said, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, “what was it that you wanted to ask me?” Spock’s face lit up in recollection immediately and he quickly fumbled for words, embarrassed at having his thoughts derailed so easily. “Ms. Uhura and I have finished drafting the new proposal for diplomatic dealings with the Klingons,” he began. “However, I wished for you to look it over before it is formally submitted. Is this acceptable?” Sensing an opportunity in this, Jim responded with an enthusiastic, “Yes! Of course. I’m just a little busy this afternoon, so how about we meet for dinner and go over it then? I know this really good Italian place a little ways from here.” “I am amenable to your suggestion,” Spock replied with a slight nod of his head. “I have not yet had the opportunity to sample what humans refer to as “pasta”.” 46

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“You won’t be disappointed. Trust me. Though, I have to admit, I do prefer their pizza, especially when it’s covered in olives and a whole bunch of other vegetables. I think you’d like it too.” “Perhaps so.” The rest of the day went by in a blur, the hands of the clock seemingly sped up by the bubble of anticipation and anxiety that had quickly built itself up in the upper reaches of Kirk’s chest, its rapidly expanding edges pressing hard into his ribs and lungs. He was positively giddy from excitement. To think that Spock had actually agreed to spend time with him outside of the workplace! It seemed so impossible that Kirk had even pinched himself once in the arm on his way back to his office just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. When Uhura asked what had him in such a good mood he simply shrugged and supplied her with a wry smile that told her everything and nothing. By the time Jim met Spock in the lobby at a quarter past seven, his palms a sweaty mess and his insides nothing more than a tightly wound ball of nerves, she had long since gone, but the promise of a full interrogation the following morning remained, ever-presently nagging at him from the back of his mind. He tried his best to shake it as Spock walked towards him, appearance as immaculate as ever, his pressed, wrinkle-free suit a stark contrast to Kirk’s rumpled one, the fabric creased over the day from the man’s constant fidgeting. “Hey, Spock,” he said in greeting as he unconsciously smoothed out the front of his jacket, his fingers running over the deep creases and wrinkles that refused to flatten. “Hello, Jim,” Spock replied, his use of the other’s first name sending a jolt of pleasure running straight to Jim’s heart. “Well, shall we?” Jim asked, oblivious to the way the Vulcan glanced nervously at the two security guards that were to accompany them, the outline of their phasers against their coats more prominent than usual. Spock nodded and the two of them stepped out into the cool December air while the Vulcan, still not entirely used to the sudden chill of winter, pulled on a pair of gloves and fastened the top button of his thick, wool coat. Jim, on the other hand, allowed his coat to remain open, relishing in the nippy evening breeze that whipped through his hair and over his face, nursing a rosy pink color into his cheeks and the tip of his nose. They walked down the driveway side by side, past the dead and dying remnants of plants that had flowered so beautifully in the summer, their once green leaves now reduced to shriveled brown husks, and onto the sidewalk that lay beyond the wrought iron fence that surrounded the President’s house. “You alright?” Jim asked the other man when he saw an almost imperceptible shiver wrack Spock’s body. “I am fine,” the Vulcan replied stiffly, too proud to admit that the cold air was bothering him to such an extent. “I simply have not yet adjusted to the cooler climate of Terran winters.” “The cold still surprises you?” “I am Vulcan. We do not feel surprise. However, the temperature is, at times, unexpectedly low.”

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Jim let out a soft laugh and allowed himself the luxury of walking just a little closer, so close that their arms were practically touching, the fabric of their coats barely brushing against one another. “Don’t worry, Spock. You’ll get used to it soon enough. Besides, the restaurant isn’t too much farther. See?” He pointed towards a small building nestled in between two much larger ones in the distance, its white exterior peppered with curling twines of ivy. “It’s right there. Not too bad of a walk, right?” “So it appears. I assume the exterior is what humans consider to be “charming”?” “Yeah, Spock,” Jim replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s a small place, but I like it because it’s cozy and the food’s good. Also, it’s quiet.” “I see. I do find the building’s exterior to be rather aesthetically pleasing even if the design is slightly archaic.” “Classic architecture from the twenty-second century,” Kirk explained as they drew nearer to the small restaurant, its name, “Trattoria Da Vega” written across the front in elaborate cursive. “The city wanted to tear it down a few years ago because it was pretty close to completely falling apart, but then the owner of this restaurant bought the place and fixed it up before turning it into what it is now. Funny thing is, the guy who owns it? Montgomery Scott? He’s not even Italian. Not even close.” “Yet he chooses to open an establishment that serves Italian dishes.” “Apparently there’s not a huge demand for haggis it seems,” Jim replied with a wide grin. “Haggis?” Spock asked, speaking out the word slowly in confusion. The other man simply laughed and shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. I don’t want to ruin your appetite before we even sit down.” They walked the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, warmth filling the small gap that existed between their bodies. Jim even found himself tempted to take the other’s hand in his own, to twine their fingers together and bask in the physical contact that would then exist between them, but the fear of absolute rejection continued to deter him. For now he would content himself with standing as close to Spock as he could without touching. It was enough. The inside of Trattoria Da Vega was as small as the outside suggested it would be, offering just enough room for four absolutely tiny tables, the chairs that went with them, and the patrons that would eventually sit there. Picture frames covered the walls almost entirely, some filled with old photographs that had miraculously withstood the sands of time while others hung there emptily as if whoever had decorated the place had simply run out of things to frame. Flickering wall lamps, the only light in the entire establishment, cast a soft, orange glow over the restaurant’s cramped interior, giving the already antiquated building an even more rustic feel. Kirk immediately shrugged off his jacket and tugged open the collar of his shirt upon entering the building, his body reeling from the excessive heat that pervaded the dining area. He offered Spock a sympathetic look, almost as if to apologize for the excessive warmth the restaurant’s owner insisted on pumping into his business, but received no response. Spock was too engrossed in the crumbling brick interior to even notice the looks Kirk was sending him, barely able to mask his own horror at the dilapidated state of the restaurant. He reflexively tightened his fists, but forced himself to stop when the distinct crinkle of the documents he’d brought along with the 48

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intention of showing them to Kirk reached his ears. Other than that and the crackle of the fire in the stone fireplace that sat towards the rear of the restaurant, the room was completely silent with absolutely no one in sight. “Scotty!” Kirk called out, receiving only a loud thunk and a sharp crack, both of which appeared to have originated in the kitchen, in reply. For a moment nothing moved. Everyone was paralyzed by the thick, impenetrable silence that had washed over the restaurant, submerging it in an eerie quiet punctured only by the soft pops and hisses of the wood crackling in the fireplace. All eyes were fixed expectantly on the swinging double doors that led, presumably, to the kitchen, gazes a mixture of curiosity and mild trepidation. Another clatter rang out from behind the closed doors, most likely a pot or pan falling to the floor in a most spectacular tumble, splintering the already cracked tile that covered the floor even more. This rather loud noise was then followed by the soft shuffle of feet across the kitchen floor and from what Spock could hear—his ears pricked to pick up even the lightest beat of a fly’s wings—there appeared to be two sets of footsteps, though one set was considerably heavier than the other. He listened closely and very nearly gave himself a start when the kitchen doors swung open with an incredible amount of force, their fronts slamming into the wall with a loud bang that made at least one of the security guards jump. “Jim!” exclaimed the cheerful man that appeared to be the cause of the doors’ sudden opening, his lips parted in a bright grin that stretched all the way across his face. “Why dinnae you say you were coming here tonight? Keenser and I—” the man suddenly glanced to his right, his eyebrows knitting together in obvious irritation, “— Git down from there! How many times do I have to tell you not to sit on the ionic compressor!” Mumbling a few choice words under his breath, he gave a small shake of his head, the messy flop of reddish hair that sat atop it giving a small bounce before lying flat once more. “I tell him every day not to be fiddling around with the machinery, but does he listen? No! I turn my back for one second and he decides to use the stove as a stool. The stove of all things! I cannae deal with this sort of thing anymore.” A few muffled sounds came from the kitchen and the man simply waved his hand dismissively at them. “Quit your whinging, Keenser. We already keep it bloody hot in here for you.” He then yanked off the apron he wore in one swift movement, flung the stained white fabric over his shoulder, and walked over to where Kirk, Spock, and the rest of their entourage stood. “Trouble in paradise, Scotty?” Jim joked, his own lips quirked in his usual lopsided smirk. “You don’t even know the half of it,” the man replied and rolled up the arms of his red sweater. “Christ. It’s bloody hot in here innit? Sometimes I wonder whether I’d prefer sitting back on Delta Vega in that shoddy little outpost to steadily roasting myself alive in this shack.” He gave a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair, his palms coming away damp from sweat. “So what cannae do you for this fine evening, Mr. President?” “Just dinner for me and Spock here.” Jim then turned and glanced at the men behind him. “And I guess these guys too since they insisted on coming along.” 49

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“Alright,” Scotty replied and pulled four menus out from behind the small desk that sat right at the entrance. He then glanced over at Spock, took in the pointed ears and the slanted eyebrows as if he were studying some kind of specimen housed in a museum, and offered the scowling Vulcan a small, good-natured smile. “I take it you’re the Vulcan everyone was so up in arms about back in August?” “So it would seem,” Spock replied, careful to keep his voice neutral as he began to formulate his opinion on this odd man that stood before him. “Well, thank you for visiting my humble establishment, though I’d have thought that Jim here would take someone like you somewhere a little moreG upscale?” Kirk let out a small chuckle. “C’mon, Scotty, you know that not even a celebrated, five-star chef can make a ham sandwich like you do. Besides, Keenser makes the best ravioli I’ve ever tasted. That stuff’s addictive. Sometimes I have to wonder if he puts crack in it or something.” Seeing Spock’s look of horror, Kirk quickly backpedaled, “I meant that figuratively, of course! Keenser would never put any kind of illicit drug in his dishes!” “IndeedG” Spock murmured as he looked off towards the side, not seeming at all convinced. Kirk mentally smacked himself. “Well!” Scotty said in the same cheery fashion he’d opened with, clutching the stack of laminated menus tightly to his chest. “Shall I show you all to your tables?” “Please,” Jim replied quietly, his eyes fixed critically on the scuffed toe of his left shoe. He glanced over at Spock’s shoes and saw that they were as pristine as always, looking like they had just been taken out of the box with the black lacquer gleaming brightly even in the dim light. Blood rushed into his cheeks and soon his entire face was warm, his skin even going so far as to radiate that warmth into the already too hot environment. Compared to Spock he looked like a total slob with his scuffed shoes and wrinkled shirt, the creases that consistently pervaded the fabric of his clothing nowhere to be found on Spock’s. In that moment, Jim suddenly felt himself become awash with self-consciousness and his body hunched over on itself ever so slightly to reflect this sudden change in his usually assured demeanor. “Jim, are you unwell?” Spock asked as they sat down at their table. “Your face is excessively flushed.” Kirk tried to brush off the question with an easy laugh, but the chuckles came out stilted and forced. The red that had spilled across his face darkened a few shades. “I’m fine, Spock,” he replied and scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It’s just hot in here. That’s all.” “I see. Perhaps you would be more comfortable if you were to roll up your sleeves as Mr. Scott has done?” Jim very nearly choked on his own saliva at the other’s suggestion. “And make myself look like an even bigger slob? Forget it! I already have my tie half undone anyways.” Spock ruminated on this for a moment, idly picking at the silverware laid out on the white tablecloth. During this time Scotty brought them some water, filling their cups 50

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from a large glass pitcher that had thankfully been refrigerated. Jim gulped down the contents of his glass hungrily, draining it completely in a matter of seconds. “Do you feel as if you have something to prove to me, Jim?” the Vulcan asked suddenly and Jim was immediately thankful that he hadn’t been drinking anything at the time for he would have surely spat it out in surprise. “What? Where’s this coming from?” the flustered blonde demanded, resisting the urge to jiggle his foot underneath the table. “You seem overly concerned with your appearance and are even willing to sacrifice your own comfort to adhere to some sort of stringent expectations you believe I have set for you,” Spock continued. “Am I wrong?” Jim picked up his napkin and set it across his lap, using the time that action provided to think up a clever response, but only managing to come up short in the end. “Maybe?” Even he had to wince at the lameness of it. “Vulcans base their personal judgments on more than just another’s physical appearance, Jim.” Spock was silent for a moment before he quietly added, “And yours is currently not entirely displeasing.” Kirk raised an eyebrow at this while allowing a small flicker of happiness to uncoil within his belly as the other’s face took on a greenish hue that was darker than usual. “Is that how Vulcans tell someone they think they’re hot?” he asked, allowing the good-natured teasing to ease him back onto more comfortable ground. Spock’s cheeks burned emerald. “Is it?” Jim persisted when the other remained mum on the subject. “We are direct with our opinions of others,” Spock replied rigidly, signaling that the matter of his opinion on Jim’s appearance was officially closed and never to be reopened. Kirk let out a soft chuckle. “Alright, Spock. Whatever you say, but while we’re on the subject of aesthetics, any cute Vulcan girls waiting for you back home?” He’d said it as a joke and knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised when it fell flat, his words causing the lines of the other’s jaw to harden and clench, each and every contour of Spock’s face pinching into the stiff mask that kept even Jim out. “Due to my genetic makeup, bonding with me would be illogical. Therefore, the answer to your question is no,” the Vulcan replied, his fists clenching into tight balls on his side of the table. “Hey,” Jim said and reached out to touch the other’s wrist, his fingers brushing along the soft skin there in a gesture of comfort. “It’s their loss, okay? Not your fault they’re too preoccupied with your DNA too see that you’re a great catch.” The unreadable look the other gave him as these words left his mouth sent the blush that had nearly receded completely from his face raging back in full force, blooming a deep burgundy over the tanned skin of his cheeks. “I mean,” Kirk quickly added as he pulled his hand away from Spock’s, trying his best to mask the subtle quiver of embarrassment that had crept into his voice, “you’re 51

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incredibly smart, always on-task and responsible, and I know I can always depend on you.” His blush deepened even further. “And like you said, you’re not exactly displeasing to the eye either.” Spock was quiet for a moment before uttering a soft, “Thank you,” his eyes staring down at the spot where Kirk’s fingers had touched his skin and left behind a most pleasant hum of affection. He tentatively ran his own fingers over that same spot, rubbing at his skin while his brow furrowed in contemplation. Scotty then chose to reappear at their table with a flourish, brandishing a small pad of paper and a pen with such enthusiasm it quickly distracted both Kirk and Spock from the awkward silence that had settled over their table. The Scotsman cheerfully took their orders—a vegetarian pizza for Spock and ravioli for Kirk—along with their menus before moving over to the other table and striking up a conversation with the two security guards that had elected to tag along. “So you went for the pizza after all?” Jim asked, hoping to ease back into a conversation that wouldn’t have him blushing like a teenager every few seconds. “It was a logical choice,” Spock replied, his gaze lingering on the white tablecloth. “Yeah, I guess it was since you wanted to try pizza while you’re here on Earth. Hopefully you won’t be disappointed,” he said with a small smile. “I assure you, I have not set my expectations very high.” “Oh really now? You wound me, Mr. Spock, acting like I’ve taken you to McDonald’s instead of this fine establishment.” “I have yet to frequent a McDonald’s, therefore, I could not possibly do such a thing.” “Right, right, but you know what I mean,” Jim continued, waving his hand for emphasis. “Perhaps,” Spock replied and took a small sip of his water. Jim stared at the other in silence for a moment before bursting out into laughter, the sound drawing the Vulcan’s eyes immediately back up to Jim’s face. With his cheeks hurting from the smile that tugged incessantly at the corners of his lips, the blond met the other’s gaze with a brightness that tugged right at Spock’s heartstrings. “Everyone says that Vulcans don’t have a sense of humor, but they’re all full of shit. You’re the funniest guy I know,” Kirk said as he leaned across the table towards Spock. “I did not believe I would be considered “humorous” by you or any other human,” the Vulcan replied, his voice soft and barely above a whisper, cheeks still flushed green. “You’re witty, Spock. It’s high-quality humor any educated human would enjoy. As hard as it may be to believe, we don’t only laugh at dirty jokes.” “I see. Then I thank you for the compliment.” “No problem. Everyone deserves some praise every once in a while, y’know?” Thinly veiled sadness glittered in Spock’s eyes as he gave a slight nod of his head before murmuring, “Unfortunately, such praise is difficult to come by on Vulcan, especially for an individual such as myself.” “You mean because you’re half human?” Jim asked hesitantly, not wanting to offend the other in any way, especially since this subject was a particularly sensitive one. 52

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The Vulcan nodded again, clenching his fists once before allowing his fingers to flex into a relaxed position in his lap. “My birth was not well received by the rest of Vulcan,” he began. “If anything, my existence only further branded my father as a traitor for he had allowed his lineage to be tarnished by a hybrid child like myself. Because of my human half I was ostracized for much of my childhood, subject to the jeers of my peers and consistently ridiculed for a part of myself I had had no control in creating. Because of this torment I grew to hate Earth and the human woman that I would have called “Mother” if she had lived long enough to see me grow from an infant into an adult.” Spock suddenly went quiet, his gaze lingering on the corner of the table, the point where the tablecloth formed a sudden sharp crease over the flat, wooden edge. Jim fumbled for words, his mouth moving wordlessly around nothing but air as he struggled to formulate a proper response. However, just as he had strung the right words together in a coherent sentence, the other man stopped him short with words that dripped with bitterness and the acrid taste of hate. “I hated my father most of all, even despised him, all because of the fact that he’d chosen to bring me into such a difficult existence. By the time I was two years old even I, his youngest son, had begun to think of him as a traitor. However, my emotions shamed me and while I readily conformed to the social dogmas instilled within me by the rest of Vulcan, I was never truly accepted because of how I poured such definite feeling into those beliefs. It was a lonely time, but it only served to drive me harder, forced me to push myself until I had surpassed everyone and then not even the cruelest of my tormentors could deny that I had some purpose, some worth. I suppose I have attained this for here I sit in a restaurant on Earth, seated just across from one of the most powerful men in the galaxy.” “SpockG” Jim whispered, resisting the urge to reach out and pull the Vulcan into a tight embrace. “Spock, thisG this isn’t a definition of your worth. Being here isn’t all you’re meant for or all you’ll ever amount to. You’re an amazingly talented person and it’s a real shame that the rest of your planet can’t see what we all see in you here on Earth.” It was now Spock’s turn to be at a loss for words. “I—thank you, Jim,” he finally said, blushing so furiously that even the tips of his ears had turned green. “Don’t thank me for that, Spock. You shouldn’t have to thank people for the truth.” The words came out biting and hard, laced with an anger that bubbled deep in the pit of Jim’s stomach. He felt rage burn deep in his chest, aching and finding no relief in anything, simply festering and growing, gnawing into his intestines until the burn became close to unbearable. With courage building up like lactic acid in his limbs, pinching at his muscles and urging them into action, Jim took a chance and reached out, fingers twining around Spock’s in a way he knew Uhura would yell at his about later. “I’m telling you the truth. That’s all. I know what it’s like to not live up to everyone’s expectations, to have the weight of who your parents are constantly bearing down on you every waking moment of your life from the time you wake up in the morning to when you go to sleep at night. No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to step out of my father’s shadow. I’m the weak one, the ungrateful son who dropped out of Starfleet 53

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before he could make Captain and finally do his dad’s memory justice only to go into politics and attempt to reconcile with the very people his dad fought against.” A bitter laugh escaped his lips, sounding harsh and cold against the crackling heat that engulfed the room. “As far as anyone’s concerned I’m worse than any failure. Sometimes I wonder how I even got elected with how many people seem to hate me these days, but you know what, Spock? I really don’t give a damn what they think. I’m just doing what I think is best for Earth and I’m sure that sometime in the future, maybe a century from now, everyone’ll look back on these four years and think “Yeah, Jim Kirk was a pretty decent guy”.” He shrugged nonchalantly and finally drew his hand away, purposefully dragging his index finger along the back of Spock’s as he did so. “At least, I’m hoping they will because that’s all I want to be remembered as, a decent human being. If I manage to pull some amazing things out of my ass along the way? Great, but being famous and brilliant isn’t the most important thing out there. I don’t want all of Earth to love me. All I want is to be able to love myself and what I do, to be happy enough with my decisions that at the end of the day I can sit back and say “Yeah, Jim, you did good”. That’s all that matters, Spock, and let me tell you, you’re doing better than I could ever hope to do.” “I—Jim,” Spock said, the words coming out jerky and stilted, the intense buzz that had built up in the back of his mind close to overwhelming, feelings of pleasure coursing with the intensity of electricity down each and every last nerve ending in his body. “Don’t live for other people, Spock. Live for yourself. It took me over twenty years to figure that one out, but better late than never right?” he finished with a lopsided grin. “Yes, I suppose so. Jim? If I may pose a query?” “Hmm? Sure. Go ahead. What did you want to ask me?” The Vulcan fidgeted for a moment, rubbing at the line Kirk’s finger had drawn along his own, the crackle of the other’s emotions still burning along it. “Why do you persist in attempting to reconcile Earth with Vulcan? It appears to be a rather fruitless endeavor from the perspectives of many,” he said, finally looking up at the blond man for the first time in nearly ten minutes. “Just a feeling I have, Spock, like it’s meant to be, destiny if you will.” Jim gave a sharp snort. “I hate that shit though. Destiny? It’s what you make it.” He then sat back, unrolled his napkin onto his lap, and waited patiently for Scotty to set his food down in front of him so that he could eat. Throughout the remainder of their meal, Spock twisted the fabric of his napkin with his fingers in between bites, his eyes never leaving Jim’s face. They ate in silence, surrounded only by the click-clack of utensils scraping against the bottom of their plates and the distant hum of the lamp the hung on the wall beside them. Desire curled in Spock’s belly, his mind begging to touch Kirk’s own, to hold the one thing that had all-but consumed his every waking thought and even his dreams. The thought of dreams sent a rush of blood straight to Spock’s face, the emotions these finely crafted picture shows his mind spat out while he slept twining knots in his insides, clutching them and pulling them round until the Vulcan could barely stand it 54

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anymore. Even as they sat there, these feelings raged a war inside him, yanking at his tendons and ligaments, pushing his muscles into actions, making him want James T. Kirk more than he could possibly stand until finally the end of the one thing Spock had looked forward to brought him nothing but relief. It was still cool when they finally left the restaurant, Jim having paid for anything even though Spock had insisted that he be the one to pick up the tab, and Spock immediately found himself shivering, the excessive heat of the restaurant seeming nothing short of paradise. He moved closer to Jim and soon the backs of their hands were touching, a light brush that sent a shudder straight through his body. The urge to kiss the other man was strong and Spock could barely keep himself from dragging his fingertips along Kirk’s. He wanted to hold onto Jim, pull him close and bask in the warm emotion that poured off the other’s skin in invisible waves, tangible only to a touch telepath like himself. These desires confused Spock, their intensity very nearly sending his mind reeling into a backspin. Why did he feel so strongly for this man? This human? It only complicated things even more. Suddenly Kirk’s hand closed around his own, offering a reassuring squeeze while his lips pulled back into a sunny smile that made something inside Spock melt. “Come on, Spock. Let’s get you home before you freeze.” As they walked hand in hand, the Vulcan reached a rare moment of courage and possible recklessness. Using the darkness to his advantage, he quietly allowed the pad of his thumb to trace along the insides of Kirk’s palm all the way up until his wrist, the soft juncture of skin and bone. His heart did an odd little flutter in his abdomen and Spock was sure that he could feel the other’s pulse quicken beneath his touch. In that moment, nothing could go wrong. Then disaster struck.

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Part Five It came in the form of a destroyed outpost near the center of the quadrant. In the twenty-four seconds it took for the outpost’s metal casing to rupture and then burst apart in a ball of flame, more than two thousand lives were lost, extinguished in the vacuum of space. Exactly two minutes after the destruction of Outpost X1B the call came. There were no survivors. Kirk sat back heavily in his chair, the weight of the situation bearing down on his shoulders like a ton of lead. He could hear all of his personnel scrambling for information, anything that would offer Earth’s citizens some comfort, reassure them of their safety, that they, unlike those living on Outpost X1B, would not be harmed. Phones rang and computer keys clacked, printers whirred and people talked in hushed whispers, but no one knew who or what had destroyed that small unassuming outpost in the time it took to blink. Even Starfleet was mute on the subject, their ships scouring the wreckage for any clues. Twenty-four hours later and they were still coming up empty-handed, having found nothing in the floating cloud of debris. However, twenty-four hours was more than enough time for the rumors to start, baseless chatter that crawled its way across the internet like a virus, fueled by prejudice and bigotry until it had swelled to the point that even the most respectable of news stations could not ignore it. It filled television screens and radio airwaves, repeated so often that people actually started to believe it, their fear preyed upon by the malicious ideas the media broadcasted daily without reprieve. Even as Kirk tried to quell the swell of anger and violence the masses threatened to spew out, the lie remained as a truth: the Vulcans had destroyed Outpost X1B. No matter what Jim said or did this lie continued to fester and grow like a fungus, always expanding, never stopping. All of the words that left his mouth fell on deaf ears, the soft words of peace drowned out by the roar of aggression that reverberated like an echo across the continents. The people called for vengeance, for violence and blood-shed, the destruction of a planet that had terrorized them simply by existing. They called for Spock’s death. This was how he ended up here, confined to the safety of this government-issued apartment, a small army of security guards, all hand-picked by Kirk himself, surrounding the perimeter. Spock shifted uncomfortably on the couch as the thought of the other man crossed his mind. Even now he was just as confused as he had been five months ago when a part of him, a part that continued to shame him beyond all measurable levels, had reached out towards Jim’s mind, touched it, and then refused to let go. He could feel the soft thrum of the other’s mind pulsating against his own, offering brief glimpses of Kirk’s thoughts and feelings. It sent flutters into Spock’s heart as well as chills down his spine, this sudden closeness, these feelings of want and affection that throbbed in time with his pulse until he could barely stand it. The constant churning of emotions in his belly, the way they cracked into him with the force of a tidal wave when Jim was near, was close to driving him mad. So, he’d kept his distance. But somehow Kirk seemed to sense Spock’s reluctance to step away, to turn his back against the one thing that just seemed so disgustingly right in his life, and 56

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pursued the Vulcan anyways, pushing past all of Spock’s barriers until he couldn’t do anything but let Kirk in. The temptation, the beckoning of Jim’s mind, was too much, and Spock just couldn’t take it anymore. The change had happened slowly, probably too slow for Kirk to notice that he was making progress. It began with a few extra words here and there, harmless pleasantries that sounded stilted coming off Spock’s rigid tongue, yet Jim encouraged them, always responding in earnest, bright and happy while he unknowingly sent rushes of deep, burning affection up into the Vulcan’s face. Then Spock became bolder, brushing his fingers against the warm backs of Kirk’s hands whenever he handed the other something, be it a stack of papers or a PADD. Yet, it was those brief instances of physical contact, the moments of intimacy he replayed over and over in his head at night when he should have been meditating that affected him more profoundly than anything else. Then they’d gone to dinner and everything was suddenly more direct, more obvious, and yet neither he nor Jim could put words to what they felt. The gentle sounds that rumbled unintelligibly in Spock’s belly, cradled in a bed of affection that grew with each second that went by, continued to elude him, too distant and unfamiliar for the rational part of his brain, the one piece of himself he trusted completely, to decipher. Everything was twisting inside him, his duty clashing with his desires, the lines of the mission he’d been given, the ones that had been so clear only a few months ago, blurred beyond all recognition, the bold ink bleeding out into a smoky mess. He tentatively pressed against the bond that lay curled around his thoughts, twining imaginary fingers through the silver thread and watching the golden light of Kirk’s emotions pulse steadily along the shimmering lines. His heart suddenly clenched in his chest, pulling in on itself like an elastic band snapping back into place, tight and forceful. Thoughts of Jim swam before his eyes and he had to grip the edge of the couch to keep himself steady. It felt as if all the air had drained from the room, leaving him to pant desperately in the darkness that surrounded him. “Spock? Why are you sitting in the dark?” Jim’s voice came as a welcome relief, the sudden breath of fresh air he had so desperately needed. Spock immediately turned to face him and found the blondhaired man standing in the doorway, propping the front door open with his foot and allowing the yellow light from the hallway to spill into the room, the bright rectangle stopping just short of Spock’s feet. In his hands Jim held a small plastic bag from which the smell of warm food wafted up from, sending a ripple of hunger straight through Spock’s belly, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since morning, too preoccupied with his thoughts to even make himself a quick sandwich. “Lights to one-hundred percent,” Jim ordered and the room quickly brightened, the sudden increase in light causing Spock to squint blearily up at the other man. “Are you alright?” “I am fine,” Spock lied, tensing up involuntarily as Kirk moved closer, still clutching the bag of food that was presumably Spock’s dinner. “There is no need for concern, Jim. I have simply beenG resting. These past days have been rather taxing.” Jim heaved a heavy sigh and set the bag down on the coffee table. “Yeah, they have, haven’t they? Everyone’s going crazy over at the office. Even Starfleet is running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Of course, the fact that the Vulcan High Council is being so damn vague about the whole thing isn’t helping 57

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at all. I’ve been trying to get a straight answer out of them for days now, but all they’ve done is avoid the subject, which they’re actually really good at doing by the way. Christ.” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperation leaving his lips in the form of another sigh. “It’s just a real pain in the ass, you know? If they would just come out and be all, “We didn’t bomb the shit out of your outpost last Friday,” I could actually start doing some legitimate damage control before things get totally out of hand.” “You seem convinced that Vulcan was not behind this attack.” “It just doesn’t seem like them. Plus, Outpost X1B is pretty out of the way when you think about it. If Vulcan was going to destroy a human outpost you’d think they’d pick one that didn’t have them wasting a whole bunch of fuel so that they could travel halfway across the quadrant to the middle of fucking nowhere. It just doesn’t seem logical to me. Besides, there’s been some freaky shit going down around that outpost for a while now. Starfleet just sent a report to my office an hour ago about it.” He pulled a small manila folder out from the inside of his jacket and sat down in the armchair adjacent to Spock. “Take a look,” he said, flipping the folder open before holding it out to the Vulcan. Spock hesitantly took the papers from Kirk, the stark white of the paper brighter than usual with the lights at maximum output. He flicked through the pages, quickly absorbing the key points as he skimmed over the neatly printed black type. “A lightning storm in space?” he intoned suddenly, his eyebrows knitted together. “That is impossible.” “Yeah,” Kirk replied with a nod of his head. “That’s what I said, but apparently it happened. Multiple eye-witness accounts and everything.” “Even so, this isG” Spock trailed off, his attention piqued by what was written on the file Jim had handed him. “‘Similar to the “storm” reported by those aboard the U.S.S. Kelvin...’” He glanced up at the other man. “Jim, what is this?” “It seems like whatever attacked the U.S.S. Kelvin twenty-five years ago went after this outpost. Or, at least, the events are related somehow. I don’t know just yet, but I’ll figure it out. If whatever killed my dad is still out there, terrorizing the people I’m supposed to protect? You can make damn sure that I’m going to find it and make it stop. I owe everyone that much.” Jim suddenly stood up, his hands clenched into tight fists at his side and his jaw locked tighter than Spock had ever seen it. Something blazed in his eyes, something terrifying that warped those gentle blue irises into something dark and twisted. “Spock, I need to know. Is the Vulcan High Council plotting something that could jeopardize the safety of all these people? I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt for now, but if you know anything then I need you to tell me. Riots are starting to break out across the globe. I just got reports of one in Paris and then another one in London. It’s only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose and even I will be powerless to stop it.” A lump rose into the Vulcan’s throat, tight and hot like a piece of burning coal. His mission sat heavily on his shoulders, a ton of bricks that threatened to break his back, snap his spine clean in two and leave him as little more than a broken mess, too cracked and split apart to be put back together. Guilt welled up in his chest, clawing at his throat, scrabbling for a hold on his tongue. It felt as if the ground had been swept out from beneath his feet, leaving him suspended in a void that only filled him 58

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with panic, white-hot and unbearably thick with roots that ran so deep not even he could see the end. He forced himself to meet Jim’s gaze, feeling absolutely tiny beneath the scorching glare the other was sending him. “No,” he whispered finally, his voice cracking on the single syllable. “No, Jim. I do not know of anything of that sort. However, I can say with absolute certainty that Vulcan was not involved in your father’s death.” Kirk let out a breath, but whether it was of relief or something else Spock did not know. “Alright. I believe you,” he said. “It’s only been—what is it?—five months now since we first met?” Spock nodded. “Yeah, somehow I can’t seem to shake this feeling that I’ve known you for longer, like I could trust you with anything. You’reG important to me, Spock. You know what I mean?” The Vulcan felt his mouth go dry. “Y-yes,” Spock answered shakily, feeling as if his blood had suddenly been replaced with ice water. “ItG It pleases me to know that you find me so trustworthy.” “You saved my life, Spock. What else do you have to do to earn someone’s trust?” Kirk sighed and shook his head. “I can never pay you back enough for that, for what you did for me. ItG It means a lot to me, knowing that you’d risk that much for a dumb human like me.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring in the pity party. I justG with everything that’s been going on? I keep feeling like taking this office was a mistake, that I wasn’t ready just like they all said. Telling myself that they were all full of shit was all fine and dandy back then, but nowG I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’m not fit to lead an entire species.” Spock silently rose from his seat, moved towards Jim, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling the other man into a tight embrace. “There is no logic in second-guessing oneself, Jim, especially when one is a man as selflessly devoted and intelligent as yourself,” he murmured as he rubbed a gentle pattern into the other’s back. “I have deduced after careful observation that this is a gesture of comfort. I hope that my execution of it was not flawed.” A real laugh finally escaped Jim’s lips, a loud bark that sounded more like a particularly loud snort than a chuckle. “You’re doing fine, Spock,” he replied and returned the hug, his head dipping down so that his cheek could rest against the sloped curve of Spock’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine.” Small sparks of pleasurable feeling ignited along the points where their bodies touched and it was nearly enough to make the Vulcan feel rather faint. His mind swirled in a mist of emotions that weren’t his, siphoned in from the other man through touch alone. The bond that sat in the back of his skull pulsed happily at Jim’s proximity, its glow amplified ten-fold simply by the other’s presence. It filled Spock with a joy so light and airy it nearly drowned out the black swath of guilt that had spread itself out over his insides, poisoning everything it touched. His stomach cramped suddenly and he thought he might be sick. What was he doing? What was 59

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he thinking? He couldn’t deceive Kirk like this. He couldn’t do this. His heart sank. He was a failure. “Spock?” It was as if Jim had sensed this sudden change within him, the dropping of the stone that easily punctured the veil of happiness Spock had tried to envelop himself in. The blond looked at him quizzically, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. He could feel that something was not right. It was a nagging feeling that pulled at him from the very back of his mind, originating right at his brain stem and creeping its way up until he couldn’t bear to ignore it any longer. “Is something wrong?” he asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling with concern. When Spock didn’t reply immediately, he persisted, “Spock, what’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything, right?” “It is nothing, Jim. I was simplyG lost in thought. I apologize.” Jim eyed him warily, his lips pursed in an expression of disbelief as he held the Vulcan away at arm’s length, scanning Spock’s face for any sign of deception. Seeing none, he relaxed and allowed his hands to rest on the other man’s shoulders, his thumbs tracing circles in the white fabric that covered them there. “Alright. If you say so,” Kirk murmured as he watched his thumbs move over the soft creases of Spock’s button down. He suddenly stopped and gave the other a firm pat before moving away. “Well, we should probably eat the food I brought before it gets cold. It’s Chinese.” “Your suggestion is most logical. I do not find the idea of cold take-out very appetizing.” Jim grinned at him. “Depends on the take-out. Like, Chinese? You don’t want to eat that after it’s gotten cold. I know from experience, but pizza? Now that tastes great after you’ve let it sit in the fridge for a while.” Seeing a look of revulsion cross Spock’s face, Kirk continued indignantly, “Don’t judge before you’ve tried it!” “I apologize, but that may be one experience I will have to decline indulging,” Spock murmured, the idea of eating cold pizza sending a roll of nausea across his abdomen. “I prefer to eat warm food.” “Is that so?” Jim asked with another laugh. “Well, I hope you like spicy food too because these noodles can be more than a little spicy most of the time. I like it myself, but I guess my tastes don’t really apply to everyone.” “Vulcan cuisine is well known for its liberal use of spices as our taste buds are slightly less developed than those of other species, especially humans. It is likely that what I consider to be “spicy” you would find unpalatable.” “Huh, really? Remind me not to let you cook for me then,” Kirk said and picked up the plastic bag before heading towards the kitchen. He set the bag down on the counter and swiftly unpacked its contents, a series of small white, paper containers that were emblazoned with a variety of red symbols Spock found to be undecipherable. While Jim searched the cabinets for plates and utensils, a soft beeping noise, its high pitch insistent and demanding immediate attention, reached Spock’s ears. He turned his head in the direction of the sound and 60

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quickly deduced that it was most likely coming from his personal PADD, the one he’d hidden in the gap that existed between the wardrobe and the wall. “Please excuse me,” he said quickly. “I will only be gone a moment.” “Sure,” Jim replied, still digging through the kitchen’s many drawers. “I’ll go ahead and set the table.” However, Spock was gone before the other man could even finish his sentence and by the time Jim had finally found the forks and knives the Vulcan had already retrieved his PADD from its hiding place and opened the incoming vid-link connection. “Lieutenant Spock,” Commander Solok said in his usual inexpressive tone as his face filled the nine and half inch screen. “Commander,” Spock replied and swallowed down the panic that bubbled up into his throat, the riskiness of the situation hammering at the forefront of his mind without reprieve. “Is there something I can assist you with at this time?” “The Council wishes to know why you haven’t yet completed the mission. Careful evaluation of your logs and reports have shown that you are indeed in an ideal position to carry out the assassination of President Kirk, yet you have chosen not to. Explain your logic.” Spock felt his heart stop in his chest, the wheels of his mind spinning into a blur as he tried to formulate some sort of credible response, one that didn’t sound as pathetic, as utterly human as the truth. “An opportunity has simply not presented itself as of yet, Commander,” he replied, the lie slick and sour on his tongue, thick like oil and heavier than lead. “It would be foolish of me to complete the mission when the conditions are not optimal for success. While I have indeed earned the President’s trust, choosing to kill him at this point in time would only serve to endanger our planet even further. Ji—James,” he quickly corrected himself, catching the slip up only just in time, “Kirk is not the only capable human on this planet; one of the few, yes, but not a singular example.” “The Council grows weary of waiting,” Solok said tonelessly, his gaze unreadable as he stared at Spock through the paper-thin screen. “Ensure that the mission is completed within the week. We cannot afford any mistakes, Lieutenant. You are the Vulcan Military Academy’s most exemplary graduate despite your disadvantages—” “Pardon me, Commander, but to what disadvantages are you referring to?” Spock cut in abruptly, his eyes burning with barely concealed anger. Solok sent him a scathing look, one of obvious disapproval that nearly made the other Vulcan recoil with shame, a response he had been all too familiar with during his early years. “Do not make us regret choosing you for this mission, Spock,” the Commander bit out, his tone speaking volumes more than any of his words, before cutting the connection and plunging the bedroom, which had been illuminated by the screen’s blue glow back into darkness. For a moment, Spock simply stood there, PADD clutched tightly in his trembling hands, rage hemorrhaging from every single one of his pores until it had consumed him completely. He flung the PADD at the wall where it landed against the hard surface with a spectacular crack, splintering the screen in two and sending it clattering to the floor. Breaths coming in sharp pants, he stared at the dent he’d left 61

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behind in the wall and at the broken PADD that lay there on the ground, its screen fizzling into static. “Is everything okay in here?” Jim asked as he poked his head into the room, worry creasing deep lines into his features that were only highlighted by the stark contrast between the darkness of the bedroom and the bright light of the living room. Spock kept his back turned towards the other man, his own face a pinched mess of emotion that he struggled to keep under control. He could feel his body temperature rising rapidly, his heart pounding forcefully against the inside of his ribcage, leaving behind an profound, burning ache that made him gasp for breath. Images of what he knew would be an eventuality swam before his eyes, gruesome pictures of Jim dead on the ground, lying in a pool of deep burgundy, his blue eyes staring up into nothingness, their vibrancy completely extinguished. It was a reflection of how Spock had once been all those months ago, the pavement hard beneath his shoulders and hips, skin slick with blood, and a vague recollection of being shot swimming in out along with his consciousness. He shuddered at the memory, the sweat on his palms mirroring the feel of blood blotting his flesh, streaks of green across an ashen canvas. “Spock? Spock, are you alright?” Jim asked again and took a step into the bedroom, his stomach pulling tightly around the knot of concern that had built itself up inside him. His words fell on deaf ears, the roar of blood as it pounded through Spock’s ears drowning out every last syllable. Shivers wracked the Vulcan’s body and for a moment he appeared incredibly frail, small like a child with his trembling hands and hunched back. Reality had fallen away in one sweeping crash beneath his feet, his inner turmoil diffusing into every last part of him, bringing him to the point where not even the most rigorous of techniques could withstand the wall of anger and despair that had slammed into him with enough force to make his head spin. Everything hurt, ached, burned. There was no reprieve for his senses, scalded by white-hot fury and then doused into numbness by grief. Nothing existed but that horrible certainty, the sureness of Jim’s death and the fact that in the end it would all be his fault. A hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder, jerking him up from his thoughts in one fluid motion. It was like breaking the surface of a lake or ocean, a sweet relief that left him feeling shaken and disoriented. He whirled around immediately, his eyes wide with panic and his body curled in like that of a trapped animal. Adrenaline thrummed through his veins, steady like his pulse and unrelenting in its charge. The urge to bolt was strong, his muscles tensed up in anticipation of it, but as Jim’s face came into view, its contours muddled by the blackness of the room, Spock allowed himself to relax, his heart sinking like stone into the soles of his feet and then down into the floor as his panic morphed into an even greater anguish. “Jim,” he whispered, his voice breaking around the dry sob that heaved itself into his throat. “Hey,” Jim murmured back, his voice gentle and soft, hands coming up to cup Spock’s face, “what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Spock swallowed thickly. “I cannotG” he began, his voice petering off into nothing as a series of sobs wracked his body, jerking him forward into the other’s touch. “Shhh. It’s okay, Spock. Whatever it is it’ll all turn out okay. Everything’s gonna be just fine. Don’t worry.” 62

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Jim then allowed his thumbs to caress the apples of Spock’s cheeks, sliding over the curved bone in a gentle angle that, along with the soothing words that fell from his lips, sent a wave of calm through the Vulcan. Spock silently crumbled in response. He fell to the ground in invisible pieces, his shields a mess of unsalvageable rubble around his feet. Reaching up with hands that shook, his emotions clear as day upon his face, Spock took Kirk’s hands in his own, curling his gently around them and feeling their warmth seep into his palms. He let out a soft, shuddering breath as he pressed kisses against the backs of the other’s hands, the tips of his fingers only just grazing the tanned skin there. His thumbs pressed up into Kirk’s palms, running along each crease and callous as if he were putting it all to memory. There was a hint of despair in his movements, the way he held the other so intimately without any hesitation, as if hesitation itself had become a luxury. “Spock?” Jim said, the sound of his voice causing the other’s eyes to flutter open. They stared at each other for a moment, their faces impossibly close, noses almost touching. Spock could even feel the moist warmth of the other’s breath against his lips and cheeks, the tickle of each inhale and exhale. He was sure that if he listened carefully he could have even heard the soft beating of Jim’s heart, perfectly unsynchronized with his own. Then the distance between them was broken, swallowed up by the kiss Jim pressed to Spock’s lips, closed-mouthed and chaste, containing the last vestiges of a hesitance slowly whittled away by time and desire. Spock froze beneath the gentle press of the other’s mouth against his own, unsure of how to respond. When Jim finally pulled away, his tongue swiping a wet streak over his lower lip that glistened in the dim lightning, Spock felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment at his inexperience. “Just relax,” Jim murmured encouragingly before leaning back in for another kiss, but this time he chose to coax the other’s mouth open with his own, lips fitting against each other in a manner Spock had never even considered. When Spock finally responded, jolted out of his startled daze by the feel of Kirk’s tongue running over the edge of his lip, his movements were clumsy, rough and lacking finesse. Yet this didn’t deter Kirk in the least. If anything, it encouraged the blond man even more, prompting him to slowly guide Spock through the kiss until the Vulcan was lost to the heady swirl of affection that spun itself round in the haze that had descended over his mind. For a little over a minute, Spock didn’t think, couldn’t think. It was if nothing existed but the feeling of Kirk’s mouth against his. There was no ground beneath their feet, no walls surrounding them, and no worries to plague his brain until he broke apart beneath it all. Then the minute passed and it all came rushing back: the mission, the sadness, the guilt. It all slammed painfully into his stomach without a single shred of gentleness. He pulled away with a hoarse gasp, hands reflexively pushing the other man away in a rough shove that sent Jim stumbling backwards. “What the hell!?” he demanded and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “You must leave,” the Vulcan rasped out, his ears ringing from the alarms that blared incessantly in his head. This situation was dangerous, very much so, and he was already in too deep. If he waded in any further he would surely be lost. “What? Why?” Jim asked, his voice rising progressively further in volume. “What’s wrong, Spock?” 63

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“This has been a mistake, a grave error on my part for which I apologize,” Spock said quietly, terrified by how easily he’d allowed himself to fall into the other’s arms like that, how easily he’d let the other disrupt the carefully ordered logic of his mind, the one constant in his life. “I cannot return those feelings.” After hearing these words, Jim’s face contorted in a mixture of anger and hurt, an expression that drove a knife straight into Spock’s heart, deepening the burn that persisted there. Jim took a step back, seemingly caught between a sob and a torrent of hurtful words that threatened to burst from his lips. It felt as if his heart had been torn into tiny pieces, split apart the moment it finally seemed to be whole again. Jim wanted to smack Spock, his rage creeping steadily into his fingers, but he restrained himself, choosing to simply glare for the moment, his eyes hardened with a coldness that seemed unnatural when Jim was concerned. “Go fuck yourself,” he finally spat before turning on his heel and storming out of the apartment, the boxes of food sitting forgotten on the kitchen table along with two plates and two sets of utensils. They had already gone cold. Spock sat down on his bed, his entire body feeling weak and sick. Pain blossomed in his chest with each beat of his heart, the strong muscle fueling the ache that existed there. Part of him wanted to run after Kirk, apologize, and kiss all his wrongs away, but it was quickly buried beneath the sense of duty that had carried Spock through most of his life. He had a mission to accomplish. There was no point in letting silly human feelings get in the way. This was a fact, or, at least, that’s what he tried to convince himself. Ignoring the pain that lingered in his chest, Spock rose from the bed, repeating his mission like a mantra in his head, and moved into the bathroom. He needed a shower to clear his head. Later that night, exactly two hours after Jim had left Spock’s apartment, shaken and hurt, Outpost Z21 went up in flames.

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Part Six When he awoke the following morning everything hurt. The pain hit him like an avalanche, slamming hard enough into the side of his face to send his eyeballs rolling back in their sockets where an unbearable throbbing greeted them with as much sadistic enthusiasm as it could muster. Spock groaned and reached up to massage his temples, fingers gently pressing against his psi points in hopes of abating the headache that tore through his skull like a bullet. Tongue heavy on his teeth, he gingerly propped himself up in bed, squinting into the early morning sunlight that filtered in through the cracks in his blinds. A quick, cursory glance at the digital clock that sat on his bedside table told him that it was just past seven o’clock, a full hour past when he usually woke up. Feeling groggy and unusually irritable, the Vulcan swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself upright, feeling his back crack with a satisfying pop. His head felt incredibly heavy, as if it had been filled with lead while he slept, and he found himself tipping forward before he was even aware of it. A dull thump rang out through the apartment as he fell forward, knees slamming painfully against the hardwood floor before his palms followed suit, sending a deep ache into his bones. Completely disorientated, he glanced up just in time to see the room spin and feel his stomach do a series of flips in his belly. A soft groan escaped his lips as he shut his eyes against it all, plunging everything into a blissful black. However, this did nothing to deter the persistent throbbing in the back of his skull, uniform like the ticking of a clock and as painful as a hammer hitting bone. It was as if something in mind was sick, dying even, slowly withering away into a decayed stump that only served to drive the infection deeper into his brain. He carefully picked through the layers, pushing past the rolling waves of pain that attempted to drive him back. By the time he finally reached the source of what ailed him, his head felt as if it were ready to splinter apart into two separate pieces, jagged and irreparable. The silvery thread that linked his mind to Jim’s had lost all its sheen, its withering ends blackened by negative emotion. No longer did it pulse with the other’s golden light and as Spock coiled the light thread around his fingers he noticed that it had gone cold, all traces of the warmth he’d previously enjoyed vanished without a trace. Like a dying tree, the bond bowed in on itself, limp and lifeless like a plant without its roots. A strange sort of emptiness blossomed in his chest, filling a void with nothing but hollowness. Sitting back on his heels, he clutched at the front of his nightshirt, pulling the fabric tightly with his fingers as if he were trying to grab at his heart. It pulsed weakly in his chest, painful and constricted. He swallowed down the lump that rose into his throat. “Jim,” he whispered, feeling wetness prick at the corners of his eyes. He quickly blinked it back and took in a shuddering breath. The throbbing in his head only intensified as memories of the night before came rushing back. They pounded against his skull, brief explosions of sound and color that rattled against the bone prison that contained them. In those moments of muddled shapes and garbled voices, Jim’s face remained a constant, forever suspended in the blackness of his mind’s eye, blue eyes staring accusingly at him, unblinking and unwavering. It sent a chill down Spock’s spine. 65

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Pushing himself back up to his feet, the Vulcan reached out towards his dresser, using its wooden edge to steady himself. His legs trembled beneath the weight of his body and without his makeshift crutch he would have surely fallen over once more. Gripping the edge of the dresser hard enough to turn his knuckles white, Spock attempted to clear his mind, shake those visions of Jim out of his immediate consciousness and down to the wayside where they belonged. He’d already taken care of this problem, halted its growth before it could ensnare him completely. It— Jim—was no longer an issue. And yet his heart continued to beat as if it were, throbbing sharply enough with his steady pulse to make him dread each subsequent beat against his ribcage. The feeling only grew worse when he was allowed back into the office close to two days later after the unrest that had claimed much of the globe slowly simmered down, soothed by Jim’s eloquent words of reassurance and comfort. It was impossible to deny that Kirk certainly had a way with words, his televised address striking into the hearts of the people more than the media could ever hope to do. However, while there were no more overt threats to Spock’s life, it was clear that the general public remained suspicious of him, their wariness only fueled further by the media’s tendency to speculate without any sort of concrete proof. Even his fellow coworkers, people he’d worked alongside for close to half a year, eyed him nervously when he walked past, their whispers, an endless cacophony, filling his ears with their barely concealed distrust. It sent a green flush of irritation straight to his face each time and soon he grew weary of the baseless rumors, slinking back to his desk where he sat in solitude for hours on end, carefully tucked behind stack upon endless stack of paperwork just in case Jim happened to walk by. Even from afar, the other man struck a chord within Spock, one that forced every last molecule of air out of his lungs with even the briefest of glances. It was quickly becoming unbearable, these painful physical reactions Jim continued to instill within him, and Spock was unsure of how to function under their constant discretion. Even a single careless thought, a memory triggered through any one of his senses, could send him into a tizzy, shoving him into a steady downward spiral that only brought him further and further away from the carefully ordered logic he sought as his refuge. With Commander Solok’s parting words ringing in his ears, a never-ending echo of disappointment and disapproval, Spock realized that couldn’t allow rampant, unchecked emotion to claim his thoughts. To feel so freely was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford with so much at stake. Spock rolled the small vial he had hidden inside his coat pocket between in thumb and forefinger. Inside the tiny glass container sat barely a thimble-full of soluble white powder, a toxin created by Vulcan’s brightest scientists. Its perfection lay in the fact that it was virtually undetectable, killing swiftly and silently without a trace. This was the murder weapon, the tool he’d use to end the life of a man he’d somehow come to cherish for reasons that still remained a mystery. No, he thought to himself firmly, I do not feel anything for James Kirk. He means nothing to me. Earning his trust was only a means to an end. Nothing more. My human half is simply unable to comprehend this fact. That is all. He repeated this like a prayer over and over in his mind throughout the remainder of the day, the vial of poison sitting like a ton of bricks in his pocket, heavy and omnipresent. By the end of the week, that same vial would be empty and a planet would be mourning the loss of its youngest president, but the question was: would Spock do the same? 66

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The question continued to sit unanswered in the back of his mind, forever clawing at the doors to Spock’s immediate thoughts in hopes of receiving an answer, one that Spock didn’t have. His emotions still pulled at his limbs, dragging him down into the perilous pool of indecision he’d been trying to escape, forcing him to wade through and confront every feeling he’d never wanted to acknowledge. It sapped at his concentration until the words printed on the paper that sat in front of him blurred into muddled, undecipherable smears of ink. In the end, he left the majority of his work untouched, his pen hovering like a stopped pendulum above each sheet, its nib never once touching the crisp, white surface. With the sky dark and the sun having long since set, Spock ran out of the office as fast as his legs could carry him, the still full vial of poison in his pocket jostled by his every step. He had not spoken to Jim once the entire day. Yet, at night he dreamt of kissing him, trailing his fingers along the curves of Kirk’s palms and tracing each groove and contour as their lips pressed against each other. When they finally broke apart, Spock told Kirk he loved him and woke up in a cold sweat, only three hours after he’d gone to bed. He did not sleep for the rest of the night, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling as his stomach turned into knots. Jim’s absence from his mind haunted him as he lay awake in his bed and even as he stood up the following morning, groggily rising from an all too restless night. It was clear that the other man troubled him greatly, especially the odd feelings Kirk seemed to stir up within him. Like a match lighting the fuse of a bomb, Kirk was a dangerous thing, living beyond the structured, geometrical world Spock had encased himself in during his youth. He set something off inside him, something that couldn’t be controlled by pure logic. It was an animalistic thing, wild and possessive, its very existence demanding every ounce of the Vulcan’s attention just to be managed. Spock could barely hold onto the feeble thread of purpose that had brought him to Earth in the first place as his heart attempted to pull him in the opposite direction. Days passed and his struggle continued, the mere sight of Jim causing his heart to stop and his body to seize up in a mixture of feelings he couldn’t quite distinguish. They barely spoke to one another during this time, Kirk addressing Spock in nothing more than clipped, brusque tones that barely masked the hurt still simmering quietly beneath his skin and Spock being too caught up in his own emotions to force more than a few stilted syllables from his throat. The tension that existed between them was so thick it had become suffocating and everyone was aware of it, especially Uhura. “Alright, spit it out already. What’s going on between you and Spock?” she finally asked on the fourth day since Spock’s return to the office, barely a full twenty-four hours away from the deadline Commander Solok had imposed on the Vulcan’s mission. “Nothing happened. What makes you ask?” Jim replied quickly, not even looking up from his computer monitor as his fingers glided deftly across the keys without skipping a beat. “Oh, nothing,” Uhura began, “just the fact that you two can barely stand to be in the same building, let alone the same room, all of a sudden.” “It’s nothing, Nyota,” he repeated as he finally peeled his gaze away from whatever he was working on and looked her directly in the eye. “Don’t worry about it.”

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There was something in his eyes that made her falter, a sort of pleading look that she’d only seen a handful of times. Whatever had happened between him and Spock, Jim certainly didn’t want to divulge any of the details and that worried her. She gave him a hard look, searching every last inch of his face for some kind of clue, a hint as to what had upset him so much, but found nothing. “Did he hurt you?” she finally asked in a low voice, leaning towards him across the desk so that he could hear her. A flicker of recollection crossed Jim’s face as she said this, the tell-tale vapor of an unpleasant memory painting an invisible streak over his cheeks even as his lips stayed shut. “Jim, please tell me. Did Spock do anything to hurt you?” She was pressing and she knew that, but if Spock had done anything—anything at all—to hurt her friend, Uhura was damn well going to know about it. Someone had to protect Jim, after all. “It’s no big deal,” he finally said with his eyes cast downwards towards the floor. “It was just a big misunderstanding, a big, fat, stupid misunderstanding.” “You’re hurting,” she murmured in a soothing voice as she placed her hand over the back of Kirk’s. “Of course, it’s a big deal.” Jim shrugged, his fingers twitching beneath her palm. “I invested too much of myself in a lost cause and now I’m paying the price for it.” He let out a mirthless laugh. “I don’t even know how Spock’s mom managed to put up with this kind of crap.” There was a pregnant pause before Uhura spoke again. “You’re in love with him.” It was said in such a matter of fact manner that it sent a rush of embarrassment straight to Jim’s face, his cheeks turning an unsightly shade of brick red. “Maybe,” he replied, “but what do I know? I could be mistaking whatever this is for something else. I mean, I’ve never actually been in love before.” He glanced up at Uhura. “Yeah, I know. Pretty pathetic, right?” She shook her head in response. “No. It’s not pathetic at all.” He merely shrugged once more. “I don’t know what exactly I’m feeling. I mean, I like him! That’s not something I’m going to deny. A week ago I would’ve given up almost anything just to be close to him, but I don’t know if that’s just loneliness talking and maybe the fact that he’s a pretty good looking guy.” He sighed and shook his head. “This is all way too complicated, all this “love” business. What good is it for anyways if it can hurt this much?” “Nothing good was ever obtained without any sacrifice.” “Yeah, I know. We always have to suffer to get what we want, right?” “Unfortunately,” Uhura murmured with a sad smile. “If you want something precious you have to fight for it. Nothing comes easy in this world, Jim. You of all people should know that by now.” 68

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A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “You really can’t go a day without having to kick my ass back into gear can you?” he said, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips. “If I didn’t you’d spend more time feeling sorry for yourself than actually being productive. “Kicking your ass”, as you put it, is what friends are for, what I’m here for.” “You’re right. I can’t just sit here feeling shitty because Spock is an insensitive asshole. It’s his loss, right?” Uhura couldn’t help but smile at this. “Of course,” she replied, giving Kirk’s hand a soft pat before drawing her own away. “I justG” he trailed off with a heavy sigh. “I just wish he hadn’t made me hope like that. He said he cared about me and I believed him! Besides,” he added with a huff, “he didn’t seem all that offended when I kissed him that first time.” Uhura could practically feel her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline as he said this. “You kissed him?” “Yeah, like a real kiss and everything. Not that weird hand-thing they do.” She sighed. “Don’t be so culturally insensitive. He probably thinks the same thing about the way humans kiss.” “WellG” He tried to think of a witty reply, but found himself quickly coming up short. “Whatever. It’s weird for me, okay?” “Uh-huh.” “You have no idea what it’s like! It tingles and stuff! Like having live eels wrapped around your fingers!” He suddenly paused. “Well, maybe not that bad, but it feels really, really weird.” “Like I said, he probably thought the same thing about the kiss you gave him.” Kirk shot her a withering look. “You’re supposed to take my side,” he grumbled. “I didn’t know there were sides in this particular issue, Kirk,” she replied smoothly, her words causing him to stop and think for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right,” he conceded finally, “but he’s still a jerk for leading me on like he did!” He let out an indignant huff and crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “I wish I would just get over this whole thing already. It’s bothering me way too much to be healthy. Bones would have a fit if he saw that I was letting myself get stressed out like this.” “He only worries about you because he cares, Jim. We all care.” He nodded thoughtfully at this, his hand coming up to touch his chin as he gazed absently out the window, plunging the room into silence. “I hate how I feel like this is all my fault,” he said finally, blue eyes glancing back over at Uhura. “That I’m only in this situation because of my own stupidity.”

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“This isn’t your fault,” Uhura assured him, her heart clenching painfully in her chest as she saw the sadness Kirk tried so hard to conceal crawl across his expression, pulling his lips down and his eyebrows together. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “Probably, but it’s not keeping me from feeling any less dumb.” He then rose abruptly from where he sat, sending his chair rolling back over the hard floor until it came to a stop some amount of feet away. Restlessness plucked at every inch of his body, driving him to stand and move about, to pace about the room like a caged animal. He flexed his fingers as he strode over to the window he’d been staring out earlier, turning his back to Uhura as he took in the frigid blue hues of the winter landscape that lay just beyond a few inches of reinforced glass. The garden that had been so vibrant during the summer was now barren and empty. Even the grass had died, each green stalk having withered into a shriveled brown blade of dead organic matter. “I hate the winter,” he grumbled. “The grass reminds me too much of Iowa.” There was a pause as he leaned towards the glass, allowing his hands to come and rest upon its cool, transparent surface. “I hate Iowa too.” The room was quiet as Uhura moved to stand beside him. She took in the desolate garden laid out before them, her eyes moving from the empty branches of the trees to the frosted stones that lay clustered around their roots, nestled in beds made of dead grass. It instilled a mild feeling of sadness within her, a mourning for the warmth of the months that had already passed. Turning to look at Jim, she said, “The grass will turn green again, as will the trees and the flowers just like how winter always comes each year. It’s inevitable that while we live we’ll be hurt, but we’ll move on from it eventually. Time heals everything.” “I don’t have time to wait!” he snapped, anger bringing a red flush to his face and neck. “I have to see his face every day and each time all I can think about is how much of an idiot I am! He won’t even look at me, Nyota! He hides behind his papers every time I try to talk to him and get some fucking closure! It pisses me off!” “Don’t let it get to you, Jim,” she murmured as she put her hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze of reassurance and comfort. “If he wants to act like a child about this then that’s his business. It’s not something for you to worry about.” Jim let out a soft breath, the air hissing out between his clenched teeth. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m over it. I’m not going to let him dictate how I live my life.” “That’s the spirit,” Uhura said with a smile, giving the man one last pat on the shoulder before allowing her hand to fall back to her side. “Now go get those reports done. We don’t need Starfleet breaking down our doors because they’re too paranoid to have any patience. Everyone’s jumpy right now, Jim, not just Starfleet, though they are a particularly impatient bunch.” “You and I both know that from experience, don’t we? Those years at the Academy gave me more than enough experience with Starfleet to last me multiple lifetimes.” “The feeling’s mutual, but to be honest, the idea of being a part of an organization that is so blatantly militaristic never really appealed to me. I don’t know why I even enrolled myself in the first place,” she finished with a shrug. 70

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“Yeah, I’m still wondering about that myself. Maybe we both let ourselves get a little too wrapped up in that “peaceful exploration” propaganda they insist on spewing out each year.” Uhura gave a snort. “They haven’t done a single ounce of “peaceful exploration” since Starfleet was first started. I don’t even know why either of us thought they might start now.” “And I still have to deal with all their bureaucratic bullshit,” Jim said with a sigh. “Getting through one of their reports is like trying to keep yourself awake during one of those cheesy romantic-comedies from the twenty-first century. I really wish I could pass this crap off to Spock. He does such a good job picking out the essential points from boring sludge like this.” He waved a hand towards his desk. “They might just be the death of me. Well, either them or that damn Vulcan Council.” “Are they still giving you trouble?” “Oh yeah. See, they have this thing for speaking in sentences that are so convoluted you can’t get any kind of meaning out of them. Although, I pretty sure they denied having anything to do with destroying two of our outposts, but I can’t really be one hundred percent sure about that. On one hand, it’s great if they didn’t—could you imagine the kind of flack I’d get from people like Harold Lumford? The guy’s been beating me up on global television practically every night since Spock got here—but now we’re stuck at square one with no idea where to look next. Starfleet, of course, isn’t helping any.” “What a surprise,” Uhura replied in a droll tone of voice. “I’ve got Chekov and Sulu scrambling for information inside Starfleet, but so far we’ve got nothing besides a few printouts listing the details of that anomaly that keeps appearing. You know, the electric storm in space? The gravitational readings are off the charts in these reports and if I didn’t know any better I’d say that they were caused by some kind of wormhole. Of course, you and I both—along with the rest of the universe—know that wormholes don’t just appear out of nowhere and vanish two seconds later.” He stared hard at the window for a moment before exclaiming, “Ah, fuck it. Go get Spock. I don’t care if it’s awkward as hell. He probably knows more about this than me and I need to get this shit sorted out before it balloons into something worse.”

Spock was glancing nervously at the clock’s digital readout when Uhura walked in, his fingers toying absentmindedly with the vial of poison he’d kept concealed on his person for the better part of four days. Too engrossed in his own troubling thoughts, he didn’t notice her approach until she was standing directly in front of him with her hands on her hips and her eyes fixed on him in a judgmental stare. When he looked up from the small bottle and saw her standing there, Spock very nearly shouted in surprise. Yet, somehow he managed to keep his cool, nonchalantly closing his hand into a tight fist around the vial before slipping it back into his pocket. “Is there something with which I can assist you, Ms. Uhura?” he asked in an even voice, completely masking all hints of his surprise.

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“The President needs your help with some of the printouts Starfleet sent him,” she replied coolly, the frigidity of her voice sending a shiver of apprehension down Spock’s spine as her eyes bore holes straight into his soul. He felt his heart jump straight up into his throat, catching his breath just beneath his Adam’s Apple while the world spun around him. The sudden dizziness jumbled his thoughts until they were nothing more than an unintelligible mess, their meanings erased by the rush of panic that surged through him as he sat beneath Uhura’s icy scrutiny. Seconds ticked by as a deep paralysis set in, rooting him to the spot more powerfully than even cement. He could not move, could not speak, his throat uttering nothing more than a few barely audible gurgles. The thought of seeing Jim again was already more than he could bear. “Mr. Spock?” Uhura said, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Is something wrong?” “Everything is fine,” he replied quickly and pushed himself out of his seat with more force than was probably necessary. “I will go assist the President immediately.” A tense silence descended over the room as Uhura eyed him critically, her distrust plain on her pretty face. The tension that crackled in the air was almost palpable in its intensity, thick enough to squeeze every last molecule of air out of his lungs even as they screamed for more. Suddenly, Spock felt incredibly small, his hands trembling uncontrollably at his sides. He hoped Uhura would not notice. She didn’t. After what seemed to be an eternity, Uhura finally relented, giving Spock a curt nod of acknowledgment before going on her way. He was then left to stand there dumbly in her wake, his heart beating so rapidly he thought it might burst clean out of his chest. Each palpitation was rough and crunching against his ribs, painful and somewhat nauseating. He could feel the blood rush up through his veins and arteries, the way the green liquid pooled in them before being spurred on further by each panicked squeeze of his heart. Spock hoped his body would calm itself by the time he reached Jim’s office. It did not. The trip to the President’s office didn’t take nearly as long as Spock hoped it would. It was if the hallways had shrunk, their long curves of marble and white paint compressed into short, stumpy passageways that took only a few steps to cross. In a matter of minutes, Spock was once again standing before the all too familiar set of double doors that led to Kirk’s office, his belly clenching around the butterflies of anxiety that fluttered inside him. Even from where he stood, he could hear the quiet rustle of papers, the soft thumps of Jim’s footsteps as he paced around the room. It sent a rush of jittery feeling straight into his fingers and toes before spreading out along the length of each nerve, allowing the butterflies that had been concentrated in his stomach to migrate. Nearly a full minute went by before he mustered up the nerve to knock on the thick wood, his hand trembling as his knuckles rapped twice against the hard surface. The noises that had filtered in from the other side immediately stopped and a tense silence descended over the area, thick and unwavering until Jim’s voice finally shattered it into pieces.

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“Come in,” he called out, a slight quiver clinging to his voice as he spoke. Spock wasn’t the only one who was nervous. “Good afternoon, Mr. President,” Spock said as he opened the door, grateful that his voice didn’t tremble as Kirk’s had. “Ms. Uhura informed me that you were in need of my assistance.” “Um, yeah,” Jim replied, his voice still shaky. Although he’d steeled himself for Spock’s inevitable appearance, it seemed that even that hadn’t been enough for the mere sight of the other’s face sent a surge of unpleasant emotion straight into his throat, each feeling leaving a sour taste behind on his tongue. “I needed your help in looking over these documents Starfleet just sent me. I can’t make heads or tails of these readings, so I was hoping maybe you’d be able to.” Spock gave a slight nod of his head and stiffly walked over to where Jim stood with the stacks of papers, his hands clasped firmly behind his back so as to avoid any accidental physical contact. The rigidity of his movements, of course, did not go unnoticed and Kirk frowned at how Spock explicitly chose to stand as far away from him as he possibly could. “Here,” he muttered, holding out half the stack towards Spock. When the Vulcan made a move to grab the papers, Jim, in a moment of childishness, purposefully brushed their hands together as a mean-spirited smirk played upon his lips. The gasp the sudden contact between their fingers elicited from Spock only made this small act of revenge that much sweeter. “Sorry,” Jim said, the apology as fake as the smile he wore with it. If Spock harbored any ill will towards Kirk in that moment—which he most certainly did—he didn’t allow it to show, his face a mask of steel as he quickly looked over the papers he’d been handed. He did not even deign give the other’s backhanded apology a second thought, his anger quietly simmering in his veins as he focused all of his attention on the readings printed out on the sheets he now clutched in his hands. The paper was crisp and firm in his grasp, the white mesh of recycled products still smelling vaguely of the ink that had been used to print out the words that now rested upon its white surface. He read over each sheet quickly and with purpose, his brain analyzing each data set with rapid-fire accuracy, processing more information in one second than the human brain could have done in ten. However, there were certain readings, certain numbers that nearly made his brain stumble in the middle of its thought process. “Sir,” he said suddenly, finally looking up from the printouts after close to five minutes. “These readings cannot be accurate. A gravitational pull of this magnitude would—” “Only be found in a black hole?” Kirk supplied, leaving Spock to only nod mutely in response. “Yeah, I know, but those numbers are one-hundred percent accurate. I even had Starfleet check over them twice.” “But the probability of a black hole spontaneously appearing in an area where no abnormal activity has been previously recorded only to disappear sixty-five-pointthree seconds later is so infinitesimal it cannot be considered a valid theory.” “If you’ve got any other theories, Spock, I’m all ears.”

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The Vulcan lapsed into a sudden silence, his eyebrows creasing together in deep concentration as his brain cycled through various theories only to ultimately disregard each one. Repressing the urge to sigh, he looked the other man square in the eye and said, “If we eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth. I can find no other circumstances that would result in readings such as these.” “Yeah,” Kirk replied. “That’s what I was thinking right before you got here, but a black hole? It seems a little far-fetched don’t you think? What would even cause one to just randomly appear like that?” “I do not know,” Spock admitted. “Even for Vulcans, black holes still remain, very much, a mystery.” Jim heaved a heavy sigh, his disheartenment clear in the way his shoulders slumped. “I was really hoping you weren’t going to say that,” he muttered before setting the stack of documents he held back down on his desk. “We’ve got black holes appearing out of nowhere and somehow managing to destroy our outposts before vanishing into thin air and we don’t even know the first thing about how to stop it!” “Perhaps it is not the black hole itself that destroyed those outposts, but something else entirely?” Jim gave Spock a quizzical look. “What do you mean?” “There have been theories suggesting the possibility of using black holes as a manner to travel through space and, in consequence, time.” “You can’t seriously be suggesting that someone out there,” Kirk waved his hand towards the window, gesturing violently towards the cloudy sky, “has somehow managed to find a way to not only travel across space using black holes, but create and destroy them at will?” “Neither Vulcan nor Earth can claim to be aware of every sentient species that currently inhabits the universe, therefore the possibility remains.” “Jesus,” Jim breathed, barely able to wrap his head around what Spock was saying. If there really was a species out there with that kind of technologyG That was the absolute last thing he wanted to think about. The comm. unit on his desk chirped loudly and a woman’s voice came through the speakers, informing both Jim and Spock that a Captain Pike wished to speak to Jim as soon as possible. Apparently whatever he had to say was urgent. Pressing the sole button on the device as he settled into his desk chair once more, Jim said, “Go ahead and patch him through, Ms. Rand.” There was an acknowledgment in the affirmative from Ms. Rand’s end before the unit clicked off and Pike was patched through to Kirk’s personal terminal, his weathered face filling the screen in its entirety with a mass of wrinkles and gray hair that seemed to have formed recently. Jim wasn’t the only one under a lot of stress. “What can I do for you today, Captain?” Jim asked, his overly cheerful tone causing the elder man to frown disapprovingly. “Do you answer all your calls from Starfleet like that, Jim?” he asked as he quirked one graying eyebrow. 74

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“Of course, Captain. Why would I be anything less than pleasant whenever Starfleet gives me a call? After all, they’re all so competent. They never call me when they don’t have anything useful to say. I really don’t know why Admiral Archer called me last week to tell me that they still hadn’t found anything in the remains of Outpost X1B. It must have been a prank call.” “You’re lucky I’ll put up with that cheeky attitude of yours long enough to get out whatever it is I need to say,” Pike said, the corners of his lips twitching into an almost smile at Jim’s sarcastic speech. “Yeah, Chris. I know, but don’t worry. I save all of it for you.” “Somehow I’m not flattered.” Jim couldn’t help but laugh at this. “So what have you got for me?” he asked. “Hopefully something useful this time?” “Actually, we picked up—” The captain suddenly stopped short. “Is there someone else in the room with you?” “Huh? Oh yeah. Spock’s here.” He motioned the Vulcan over and Spock, reluctantly, acquiesced to his non-verbal request, coming over to stand behind him. “He’s been helping me go over those printouts you guys sent earlier today. You won’t believe the crazy theory he and I came up with.” Pike stared at Spock for a moment before offering a polite, “Hello, Mr. Spock.” “Good afternoon, Captain,” the Vulcan replied, as always, taking care not to get too close to Jim as the brief touch from earlier still reverberated through his entire being. “Hey, Spock,” Jim said suddenly, turning his head upwards and to the side to look at the Vulcan, “do you mind getting me something to drink while I finish up here with Captain Pike?” Sensing that the other man was only asking him this to get him out of the room for what most likely was to be a confidential conversation between the captain and himself, Spock gave a hesitant nod before asking, “Will tea suffice?” “Huh? Oh yeah. Sure. You know the kind I like, right?” “Yes, the oddly sweet blend that seems to populate most of the shelves,” the Vulcan replied, earning a genuine smile from the other man. “Yeah. That’s right,” Kirk murmured, a soft pink flush rising into his cheeks. He knew that it was stupid to feel so happy about something so small, but the fact that Spock chose to remember a detail that was so utterly insignificant sent a rush of undiluted joy straight to his heart. Kirk wanted to smack himself for feeling the way he did—after all, whatever he thought had existed between them clearly didn’t anymore—but he couldn’t help it. Just being around Spock sent his heart into overdrive, the rapid palpitations close to dizzying, and even now, with the other so close he could practically touch him, Kirk felt his self control quickly draining. “I shall return momentarily,” Spock said and quietly excused himself from the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The kitchen was empty when he arrived, the small room looking as if no one had set foot in it for several days. Unfortunately, this meant that the heat hadn’t been in use for quite some time and the unpleasant winter chill had managed to worm its way into the spotless, almost clinically clean space, turning each white floor tile into a frozen 75

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square that radiated coldness. Spock could even feel their icy touch through the thick soles of his shoes. Suddenly the prospect of tea became a lot more enticing. Within seconds the water heater was filled with fresh water from the tap and quietly warming it to a boil while Spock perused the contents of the cabinets. He found Kirk’s selection easily enough, the bright packaging coupled with its sheer abundance making it none too difficult to spot, but when tasked with selecting a tea for himself the Vulcan found himself faltering. With only an empty box of Earl Grey left along with the seemingly endless supply of Kirk’s tea of choice, which, unfortunately, did not exactly appeal to Spock, his choices suddenly became extremely limited. He flung open each cabinet, searching almost desperately for another blend, anything but that oddly sweet mixture of citrus and berry, but only came up empty handed. A grimace pulled at his lips as he pulled a tea packet out of the vile purple box Kirk coveted so unjustly, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger at arm’s length before bringing it closer so that he could give the innocent little bag a cautious sniff. While its wasn’t the most appealing smell, Spock had encountered worse, so he silently resigned himself to what seemed to be an inevitability. Five minutes later and the Vulcan had prepared—albeit grudgingly in the case of the second cup—two servings of Kirk’s favorite tea. Steam poured off of the amber liquid in droves, curling in the air for a moment before vanishing into invisible water vapor, leaving behind only a vague smell of fruit. Spock was just about to pick up the two cups and return to Kirk’s office when something made him stop, the vial in his pocket suddenly feeling ten times heavier than before. He glanced down at the tea contained within the two cups and watched the tiny ripples expand across the surface of the dark liquid. As if fitting two pieces of a puzzle together, his mind began to string along a series of thoughts, carefully stitching them into a plan that could only be represented by a tapestry so dark and horrible even Spock could barely stand to look at it, each thread dipped black in betrayal. His fingers slid down hesitantly into his pocket, retrieving the small bottle from what seemed to have become its permanent resting place. They shook as he studied the fragile glass surface, quietly observing the way the light refracted across its smooth faces and the way the powder held within molded itself to gravity’s will. All it would take was one single pour, simply slip the cap off and turn the vial upside down, allow the toxin to fall into the tea where it would camouflage itself, an invisible killer waiting to strike. It was easy, so incredibly easy, not even requiring more than a second of his time. Just one second and he’d be a hero, the very man he’d aspired to be since childhood. All he needed to do was empty that small bottle into that small cup of tea and forget he’d ever done it. After that, no one would dare say he was “disadvantaged”. And yet, the very thought of doing the very thing he’d come to Earth to do made him ill, so sick to his stomach that he could barely keep himself from flinging the vial away from him, throwing it against the wall and watching it shatter into pieces, casting that wretched powder to the wind where it could do no harm. The bottle was light against his palm. He could crush it in an instant, grind the glass to nothing but dust, and yet he couldn’t do it. His mind warred with his heart, logic pitted against emotion. It was almost funny how something so small could be the end of him.

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He was so engrossed in his own thoughts, in the inner battle that waged across the planes of his soul, that he didn’t notice the telltale click of the door swinging open. He didn’t even hear the heavy footsteps that came towards him at a brisk pace. It was only when firm hands grabbed his wrists, wrenching the bottle of poison from his grasp, that Spock realized that he was no longer alone. The vial fell to the floor with a loud crack, the powder spilling out around it like a white halo. It was over. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” spat a very irate Giotto, his face flushed red with rage. “I knew you were bad news the moment you got here, Vulcan.” The word was said like a curse, dripping with the same anger that boiled within his touch. “Good thing I’m smart enough to see through that bullshit “We-come-in-peace” act you’ve been putting on all these months.” At this point at least five other members of the security team had filed in, each one armed with phasers set to kill. “So allow me, Mr. Spock,” Giotto continued, his lips curled back in an animalistic sneer, “to give you a tour of our cells. I’m sure that you’ll get well acquainted with them real fast.” Spock then found himself yanked unceremoniously out of the kitchen by at least four of the other security guards while Giotto bent down to examine the shattered remnants of the vial as well as the powder scattered around them. Even in the hallway, Spock could hear the man tell the fifth guard to collect a sample of the powder for further testing even though he claimed to be already one-hundred percent sure of its “vile” nature. With Giotto’s voice fading fast and the sharp turn of the hallway rapidly approaching, Spock resigned himself to what would likely be a most unpleasant fate. Then with his mind throwing a handful of curses at him and his stomach sinking like a stone, he caught sight of Jim’s face, saw the look of shock and horror melt into one of betrayal before being swallowed up by the white walls of the corridor.

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Part Seven The trip down to the building’s cell block was not a pleasant one. The guards handled him roughly and without one shred of gentleness, pulling him along at an uncomfortably brisk pace while pressing the tips of their phasers into his ribs. By the time they reached the empty cell that was to become his for the time being, Spock was relieved that he would soon be without his “escorts”. Of course, his entry to the cell was none too pleasant either, a sharp shove to his back sending him sprawling across the hard concrete floor with a loud thump. Behind him, the cell door slammed shut with a clang and he was alone. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. Within his cell the world had seemingly slowed down to a crawl, each second ticking by at an agonizingly slow pace as if time itself had become coated in thick molasses, inching forward so languidly Spock thought he might go mad. With little else to do, he sat down on the small cot that had been shoved haphazardly in the back right corner of the cell, its thin polyester sheets smelling vaguely of sour milk. Evidently, they had not been washed in quite some time and their fibers still retained the stale scent of those that had come before him. However, Spock paid the smell no mind, too wrapped up in a series of thoughts so perturbing to remain aware of the bleak reality that gripped him like a vice. The bond in the back of his mind was dying, cracking and peeling away into mere scraps that held nothing of its former glory and he was powerless to stop it. There was nothing he could do to save the last thing that connected him to Jim, this accidental bond he’d once rejected that now proved to be the most precious thing he’d ever known. Even as he coddled it, pouring every last ounce of affection he had into its roots, he could feel it withering, graying and then blackening into nothing more than a malignant tumor festering in the very core of his thoughts. The last golden vestiges of Jim his mind had clung to so desperately had faded, leaving him more alone than he’d ever felt. He glanced somberly at the small space his cell provided him, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips as disappointment welled up in the pit of his stomach. It was not a disappointment in those around him or in the world itself. Instead, it was a disappointment in himself, a sudden frustration fueled by the loss of the one person he’d unwittingly come to cherish, something that had made him hate himself so completely he’d all but cast them aside at the first signs. The intense affection he’d felt—and still felt—for the other man had terrified his Vulcan half into cowardice, an action he was quickly coming to regret, and now he was left with nothing but fortyeight square feet and a broken heart. It was all his fault, of course, and somehow that made it all the worse, knowing that he, blinded by his logic, had destroyed everything worth having including his freedom. Spock let out a loud breath and buried his face in his hands, the base of his palms digging hard into his cheekbones. His heart was heavy in his chest, painfully so in fact, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on his cot and drift away from reality if only for a few moments. Then, just as he was about to lay his head down on the musty pillow and let the world fade to black, an alarm began to blare, high-pitched and incredibly loud. So loud, in fact, that it jolted the Vulcan back up into a sitting position almost immediately after it had begun. He blinked in confusion as a red light overhead suddenly switched on, 78

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casting a blood-red glow over the entire cellblock that made him tense in anxious anticipation. From where he sat, his veins now full of fresh adrenaline, Spock could just barely make out the distant scrabble of feet across the concrete and the shouts of panicked security guards as they struggled to find their bearings beneath the alarm’s oppressive screams. Twisting his body towards the cell door, he waited patiently for a sign, anything that would give an indication of what had instilled such fear in the Giotto’s men, but nothing came, leaving him to sit dumbly on his bed with the itchy, polyester sheets curled into a ball beneath his legs. It was then that time began to really drag. With the alarm constantly going off, an unrepentant, ceaseless wail of a siren that began to drive Spock close to the brink of insanity after only a few minutes, the Vulcan was left with little else to do but count the cracks in the wall. Of course, seeing as the walls were all more or less perfect with relatively few cracks to speak of, this didn’t keep Spock occupied for long, so he began to pace, walking back and forth across the cell until it seemed as if he might burn a hole right through the reinforced concrete floor. A few times he ventured in the direction of the steel bars that kept him prisoner, but always turned around before he got too close. This is ridiculous, he thought to himself as he eyed the bars once more, running a series of quick calculations through his head. Five months ago I would not have even allowed myself to be imprisoned in such a manner and now I cannot even bring myself to devise an escape plan. Considering this is of human design it cannot be too difficult. He then approached the bars once more, the seed of an escape plan already germinating inside his mind. Grasping the bars firmly in his hands, the Vulcan gave them a firm, yet slightly hesitant tug. They groaned briefly, but did not budge. Frowning, the Vulcan pulled harder, exerting his full strength upon the steel cage only to be met with the same results. His frown quickly deepened. Escaping this cell would take more consideration than he’d first thought. Spock quickly began to examine the cell bars, searching for any imperfection in the cold steel that he could then exploit and use to his advantage. Even with the alarm screaming without reprieve in his ears, the Vulcan worked diligently, exhibiting the very focus Jim had admired so much. His fingers carefully ran up and down each metal rod, their tips applying pressure to the hard surface at regular intervals, waiting patiently for something to snap and give way. However, nothing did and Spock was then forced to turn his attention to the lock itself, an archaic mechanism that operated without so much as a single electrical wire, completely dependent on a tangible key that, unfortunately, remained in the possession of the security team, which was nowhere to be found. It was then that he began to wonder if he’d really been left all alone. Rising back up from the crouching position he’d assumed in order to perform his thorough examination of the bars, Spock listened carefully for any sounds hidden beneath the thick wail of the siren, his ears straining against the alarm’s onslaught until he could bear it no longer. Clamping his hands down on either side of his head, Spock let out a growl of frustration when he found that his palms were worthless as shields, doing little more than simply muffling the highly irritating noise. With annoyance building up in his chest along with a great deal of aggravation, he could only just barely keep himself from tearing uselessly at the bars in a fit of rage. It 79

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was quickly becoming more and more difficult to keep calm, the cool attitude he’d prided himself on for years rapidly warming beneath the stress of the situation. The fact that he was being held captive in an antiquated cell of human design only served to infuriate him even more. He had been trained to escape from even the most complex and impossible of situations and here he was being stumped by a simple lock-and-key mechanism! A headache was steadily forming behind his temples, the pounding reaching down to just behind his eyeballs. He wanted to lie down and rest, turn his thoughts off and lie in complete darkness and silence. He wanted to forget about Kirk and the dying bond that pulsed weakly in the back of his mind, wanted to erase every memory of this planet and go back to the one place where everything was simple, where he understood everything, but above all, he wanted to bury these emotions that stirred within him and never look back. Everything was just too complicated now. “Hey! Vulcan!” The voice, only just loud enough to be heard over the alarm, caused Spock’s head to snap up immediately, his dark eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. It came from a young member of Giotto’s team. Spock had seen him before with his freckled face and curly orange hair, always hesitant and afraid whenever the matter concerned Spock, his inexperience a dark blemish on his skin, obvious and hindering, the complete opposite of Kirk’s. Somehow, it made sense this was the man—though he was more like a boy, really—who would be left behind and yet, at the same time, it was incredibly foolish. “Yes?” Spock said and moved forward until he was flush up against the cell bars once more, his eyes never once leaving the other man’s face. The fact that he was behind bars only seemed to comfort the security guard marginally as the poor thing had nearly jumped out of his skin at Spock’s sudden approach. “Um,” the man mumbled, clutching the keys he held in his hand even tighter. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you until everyone else gets back—” “I cannot hear you over the alarm,” Spock said, cutting him off mid-sentence. “It is illogical for an alarm to continue for so long. Surely everyone has taken notice by now.” Eyes wide, the guard seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted before walking over to a console that was just out of Spock’s vision and keying in a few commands. The alarm shut off almost immediately. “What purpose does that alarm serve?” Spock was relieved that he no longer had to raise his voice. “It’s a red-alert,” the man replied. “Means that there’s something bad going on that affects Earth as a whole, though you should know all about that considering it’s your planet that’s threatening to blow us all to bits!” “I have no knowledge of this.” The man let out a condescending snort, his lips pulled down into a scowl tinged with disgust. 80

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“Says the guy who tried to poison our President this morning,” he snapped. “A little convenient, isn’t it? You trying to kill Kirk only a few hours before the fucking mothership arrives with some crazy ass Vulcans telling us they’re going to destroy our planet and everything on it, including—you guessed it!—the entire human race. Christ, man. I know that you Vulcan think we’ve got rocks for brains, but we’re not that stupid.” “A Vulcan ship has attacked Earth?” Spock said it with such obvious surprise that he wanted to smack himself for it. “Yeah. Fucking bastards hit the goddamned Eiffel Tower as a way to get our attention. Three-hundred-and-fifty-six people dead. Is that how Vulcans operate? Kill a bunch of people first, talk later?” “I was not informed of any decision by the Vulcan Council to declare war on Earth.” It was an honest statement. Not that it mattered. “Well, now you know. Fuckers specifically asked for Kirk too. Guess they wanted to see if you’d actually managed to finish the job,” the guard said with a sneer. “Gave him half an hour to get his ass up into space or else they’d blow something else up.” He snorted once more. “What is your species’ preoccupation with him anyway? Are you guys targeting every decent person in the universe or something?” “Jim has boarded a starship?” The thought alone sent fear coiling within him, tight as a wound up spring. “Yeah. He nearly was a captain of one once, but he turned it down so he could try to make peace with you lot. Some kind of good that did him, huh?” “He is in danger!” Panic crept into his voice and creased lines into his forehead, spurning on the distressing thoughts that swirled inside his mind like a toxic nebula. “Tell me something I don’t know,” the man spat. “I hope he burns your planet to the fucking ground after this.” If escaping wasn’t his number one priority before, it sure was now. Spock immediately began to number-crunch through a series of different plans, his heart thrumming hard and fast in his chest as adrenaline spiked in his veins. If there really was a Vulcan ship sitting just beyond Earth’s atmosphere, patiently waiting for the right moment to strike, Kirk was in more danger than he could possibly imagine and that thought alone was more terrifying than anything else. To think that a human would somehow become more important than his own planet; it was a rather miserable state to say the least. Please do not do anything foolish, Jim, Spock thought to himself, knowing full well that the chances of the other man doing something incredibly stupid within the next few hours was terrifyingly high. Please, T’hyla. The word slipped from his mind before he could stop it, ancient Vulcan syllables weighing heavily upon his thoughts. Somehow they fit, aligning perfectly against the contours of their bond, the one that had grown from the simplest of touches, an unwanted handshake that had only been returned out of contempt. Spock wondered how he could have been so blind. How could he have denied the existence of the very thing that had drawn Jim to him? It was so infuriatingly stupid that he wanted to punch himself in the face for it, but he managed to restrain himself, only just.

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Jim. T’hyla, he called out through the bond even though he knew that it was most likely in vain. I am sorry. I am so sorry. There was no response, but Spock swore that he could hear the faint hum of life return to the bond’s dulled threads, pulsing once with soft ochre light before fading. It was more than enough to give him hope. “Ah damn,” the guard grumbled from where he stood, his body propped up against the wall opposite Spock’s cell. “I guess I should bring you your food now like they told me too. Can’t have you starving on us before a “proper trial”, apparently,” he finished with a roll of his eyes. Spock held his tongue, protests of a Vulcan’s ability to survive for substantial periods of time without food and water bit back only just in time, and watched silently as the guard pulled himself up off the wall and left the cellblock, the heavy metal door swinging shut with bang behind him. Fifteen minutes later and the guard was back, a tray of barely palatable food held in his hands. He started when he saw that the Vulcan was still pressed up against the bars, rooted to the same spot he’d left him in. “I need you to go stand along that back wall over there,” the guard said hesitantly, the barest of quivers springing into his voice as he spoke. For a moment Spock did nothing but simply stand there, his eyes fixed on the other man in a borderline predatory stare. Then, as if time had suddenly been thrown back into motion, he did as the guard had asked, moving to the back wall with slow, deliberate steps that only served to set the man even more on edge. The guard swallowed thickly as he moved towards the cell door, his Adam’s Apple bobbing delicately along the length of his throat. Spock saw the way the man’s hands shook, rattling the plastic utensils on the tray along with the keys he clutched in his left hand, the metal ring pressing up hard into the tray’s side. A plan was rapidly coming together in his mind, arranging itself piece by piece as the world slowed down, the door to his cell clanging open inch by inch in slow motion. The guard never saw it coming. Spock’s movements were lightning quick, fingers lashing out like a viper uncoiling into a strike to deliver his trademark Vulcan nerve-pinch to the side of the other man’s neck, rendering him unconscious within an instant. The tray of food clattered to the floor, spraying soup and soggy vegetables across the concrete, the gray stoned stained dark from the broth. However, Spock paid it no mind and simply stepped over the lake of dark liquid pooling by his feet, snatching a keycard that was much less archaic than the key ring from the guard’s pocket before exiting the cell. He was free. It didn’t take long before he broke out into a full out run, swiping the pilfered keycard through a variety of different locks in order to gain access to the main lobby, which, much to his dismay, wasn’t as deserted as he thought it’d be. Startled gasps echoed around him as he burst out of the stairwell with a flourish, his expression pinched tight around the knot of anxiety that lay suspended in his chest. He darted across the lobby, knowing full well that he only had seconds left before the black suits that peppered his vision descended upon him like a pack of starving hounds on a fox’s tail. Sure enough, loud shouting readily joined the clamor he’d left in his wake just as he burst out of the building, slamming into the front doors with enough force to knock them wide open with a startling bang. 82

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Scrambling down the stairs that led up to the front door, Spock cast a brief glance over his shoulder and saw nothing but a swarm of black and gunmetal gray, the red lights of phasers set to kill streaking across the otherwise subdued swath of color. With his heat racing and sweat beading his forehead, the Vulcan made a beeline for the street, artfully dodging the shots that were fired at him and knowing all the while that he was lucky to only have the reserve team to deal with. He ducked behind trees and bushes, ignoring the way they caught and tore at his clothing, ripping long lines into the expensive fabrics. All that mattered was not getting shot. He let out a sharp hiss of pain as a streak of red light grazed his upper arm, burning right through his jacket and shirt, the singed cloth smelling sharply of smoke and fire before the coppery scent of his blood tinged it with metal and salt. Green fluid seeped languidly from the shallow cut the phaser shot had bit into his arm and Spock reflexively placed his hand over it to stop the bleeding, smearing the emerald blood into mottled streaks on his skin. Behind him the security team was closing in, their footsteps echoing loudly in his ears even as he scrambled to get away, his own feet sliding across the soggy ground. There were a few times where Spock felt himself slip, his heels digging deep into the muddy earth as he struggled to retain his balance, somehow managing to keep himself from falling while splattering mud all over his clothes. The feel of solid concrete beneath his feet, therefore, came as a most welcome relief. Firm and inorganic against his steps, the sidewalk took him away from the cold concrete of the cell and the harsh, unforgiving nature of the guards, their trigger fingers itching to cut ribbons into his skin. Even though he could still hear them behind him, could practically feel their footsteps reverberating through the pavement, it seemed as if they were miles away, forever confined to the marble lobby and its swirls of glass and granite. With another shot missing his ear by only a fraction of an inch, the Vulcan ducked into the nearest subway entrance, dashing down the stairs into the city’s underbelly faster than his pursuers could follow. He weaved through the crowd with a startling amount of agility, pressing past body upon body until he slipped into the anonymity the throng of people offered. Sparing only the briefest of glances behind him, Spock vaulted effortlessly over the turnstiles, a move that earned him a chorus of startled noises that quickly evolved into screams when his appearance came into full view, his pointed ears and slanted eyebrows singling him out more than his tattered clothes or bleeding arm. The shroud of anonymity now torn to pieces, Spock moved quickly towards the platform, swiping a cap from a nearby stand as he moved past. He paid no mind to the shouts of the enraged shopkeeper as he slipped the cap on, a knitted mass of red wool that clashed horribly with the rest of his outfit, and slid into the nearest compartment on the train that had just pulled in. He took a seat in the corner and watched the doors slide shut. The train made a screeching noise before finally lurching into motion only seconds before the mass of security guards reached the edge of the platform. Seeing their faces twist in frustration, Spock allowed himself a small smile. He was untouchable.

The atmosphere on the U.S.S. Enterprise was tense at best. With a fully armed 83

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Vulcan ship waiting for them only a few hundred kilometers away, its phasers poised to strike straight through the hull of any ship in its path, the Enterprise’s entire crew was all too aware of their increasingly fragile mortality. It weighed heavily on their shoulders, punctuating their every thought and action until it seemed as if they might simply crack beneath its pressure, but they held strong, faces steeled in a brave front as their hearts shriveled in fear. Even Kirk, who had always prided himself on keeping cool in tense situations such as this, could feel his confidence buckling, keening like a tree in a storm as its roots were ripped up from the Earth. He stood stiffly beside the Captain’s Chair on the bridge, the anger that simmered quietly within him forcing his body into a rigidity it was unused to, his back straighter than anyone had ever seen it. Beside him Captain Pike inched forward in his seat until he was sitting right on the edge, his feet planted firmly on the floor as he peered out into the black expanse that filled the bridge’s view screen. Judging by the way the aging captain gripped the chair’s armrest, fingers digging hard into the plastic console, it seemed that Jim wasn’t the only one on edge. “Lieutenant Sulu,” he said suddenly, his voice ringing loud and clear across the entire bridge, “increase view screen magnification to two-hundred percent. I want those Vulcan bastards where I can see them.” He then swiveled his chair round to look at the communications station. “Any response yet?” “Negative, Captain,” replied a pretty olive-skinned woman whose thick hair had been cropped into a short, low-maintenance pixie cut. “All channels remain silent.” “Ensign Chekov, they are out there aren’t they?” “Yes, Keptin,” replied a young man whose head was nothing more than a mass of chestnut curls. “Our sensors indicate that the Wulcan ship is within range. Ninehundred kilometers and closing.” “Understood,” Captain Pike replied. “Try hailing them again, Lieutenant Okoye. All channels.” “Yes, Captain,” the woman said before returning to her console, fingers flying across the keys as she listened carefully for any response. “Christ,” Pike muttered as he leaned back in his seat. “Fuckers draw us all the way out here and they just sit there and act like we don’t exist!” He sighed and massaged his temples. “I’m way too old for this kind of crap. If we make it out of here alive I’m applying for early retirement.” Kirk let out a laugh at this. “C’mon, Chris. It’s not so bad, right? At least you weren’t on the wrong end of an assassination attempt earlier today,” he said with a wry smile that carried within it the subtle hues of sadness. “Yeah,” the captain murmured, nodding his head slowly in agreement. “But you know a lot of people will say that you were asking for it by inviting the guy in the first place.” Kirk shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he replied. Before Pike could reply to this, Lieutenant Okoye made a strangled noise of surprise from behind her console, her eyes going wide as she pressed her fingers against her earpiece. 84

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“Captain! We have a response!” she said, her voice having risen an octave in shock. “The Vulcan ship is hailing us.” “Put them on screen.” The view screen flickered, devolving into a burst of static before switching over to the incoming video feed. Anger bristled through the entire bridge crew as a Vulcanoid face appeared on screen, his lips curled back in a mocking sneer. Even Kirk felt a flare of rage rocket through him at this, his nostrils flaring once before he reigned himself back under control. “Captain Kirk,” the man all but purred as he leaned forward, fixing Kirk with a predatory stare. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. After all, it’s been so long.” “You know this guy?” Pike hissed from his seat, his confusion only increasing when Jim mouthed back a silent, “I have no fucking clue”. “So tell me, Captain,” he continued, spitting out the title as if it had left a foul taste in his mouth, “where is your first officer, hmm? Commander Spock?” “Look, whoever you are,” Kirk began, finding himself strangely unnerved by the man’s words, “I’m not the captain of this ship and Spock is most definitely not my first officer. I left Starfleet years ago and SpockG Well, Spock would much rather kill me I think than be under my command.” The man regarded him silently for a moment. There was a piercing quality to his eyes, the way the steely black irises bore right through Kirk as if to pierce through his very soul. It was unnerving to say the least, but not as unnerving as when the man burst into laughter, his chuckles sending a collective shiver through everyone within earshot. “Funny,” he said at last, a serene smile crossing his lips as he leaned back in his chair, a feline lilt to his every movement. “The two of you once destroyed everything I had and now I’m going to do the same to you, but this time you won’t be able to stop me like before. Are you ready to watch your planet burn, James Kirk?” Unable to keep his cool any longer, Jim snapped, “Who the hell are you?” “Oh. I’m Nero,” he replied, his lips parting around a predatory grin as his eyes flicked over to where Pike sat. “Hello, Christopher. I didn’t see you there.” Pike went still in his seat, looking as if his eyes might pop right out of his skull. “What the hell is this about, Nero?” Jim continued, his voice rising in volume with each successive word. “What the hell did we do to you?” “Romulus is gone because of you!” Nero snarled. “You allowed my planet to be destroyed along with my wife and unborn child when all I could do was watch it burn to ash!” “You’re a Romulan,” Kirk breathed, realization finally dawning on him. “But wait. Romulus isn’t gone. It’s still there!” “In this time, yes, but a century from now it will be gone and the Federation will do nothing but stand by idly while my people perish.” “Are you trying to convince us that you’re from the future?” Pike suddenly cut in, his eyebrows pinched together in a mixture of irritation and distrust. “My crew and I stand apart from the Romulan Empire. We have been drifting through time for many years due to our excessive exposure to red matter, unable to control 85

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where and when we would go,” Nero explained, his tone suggesting that he was quickly tiring of their questions and that the time for talk was rapidly coming to an end. “Until now.” “So what exactly are you planning on doing?” Pike pressed, his eyes narrowing in apprehension as his body tensed up even more, nails digging into the chair’s armrests. Nero was silent for a moment, a contemplative look crossing his face, before his lips curled into a feral sneer, all teeth and no lip. “I will take your planet from you like mine was taken from me,” he replied, each word as sharp as a dagger. “I’ll burn your cities and your people to the ground and then do the same to Vulcan, destroy what I couldn’t all those years ago.” “I can’t let you do that,” Kirk said sharply as he took a step towards the screen. Nero’s grin only grew, the corners of his lips turning up into two nefarious points. “I succeeded in destroying Vulcan once before,” he purred, basking in the pleasure the memory gave him. “What makes you think I can’t do the same to Earth?” “I’ll stop you.” This drew out another bout of laughter from the Romulan captain. “And where were you when I burned half of Vulcan to ash and left Earth to take the blame?” Nero asked, his words causing Jim to stop short, his face crinkling in confusion. “Ah, yes. I suppose that was quite some time ago for you wasn’t it? Your father wasn’t even alive then.” “You attacked Vulcan all those years ago?” Kirk breathed, unable to believe what he was hearing. “And I would have destroyed it had my ship not been pulled back into the temporal distortion that brought us here.” The gears in Kirk’s brain were starting to turn, connections that had remained hidden for so long suddenly revealed in a flourish. “The Kelvin,” he murmured hoarsely, his throat having suddenly gone dry. “Very perceptive of you, Captain Kirk,” Nero said, still seemingly unable to wrap his mind around the fact that the Kirk that appeared on his view screen was not the same Kirk he’d encountered once before. “I must say, your father’s death was rather boring. So,” he paused as if searching for the right word, “predictable.” Jim bit down hard on his tongue, his teeth the only thing keeping the insults that gurgled in the back of his throat from spewing forward in a furious torrent of acerbic words and undiluted venom. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides and his entire body trembled dangerously as if he were about to make a lunge at the view screen in hopes of curling his fingers around the Romulan’s throat and squeezing until that nauseating smirk of his was wiped clean off his face. Anger burned hot and thick in his blood, swirling like a hurricane inside of him, destructive and unstoppable as it billowed across his face like a storm cloud. “Then it seems we have nothing more to discuss,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “You have thirty seconds to voluntarily surrender yourself along with your crew and your ship before we make you.” 86

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Jim and the rest of the crew saw one last tight-lipped smirk spread itself lazily across Nero’s face before the connection was cut and the Romulan vessel, large and intimidating with its long tentacles and razor sharp spires, opened fire on the U.S.S. Enterprise. The first photon torpedo slammed into the Enterprise’s hull with enough force to send the entire ship teetering on its side, causing Kirk to stumble forward and fall to the ground as Pike was flung from his seat along with a few other members of the bridge crew. Red lights began to flash overhead as a siren began to wail, everyone scrambling to get to their stations, fingers flying at lightning fast speeds across holographic panels, compiling calculations and evaluating the extent of the damage. “Captain, shields at sixty percent!” Sulu called from his station as he rapidly executed a series of evasive maneuvers, skillfully avoiding the barrage of phaser fire the Romulan ship launched their way in quick succession. “Captain?” he repeated after receiving no response. Kirk winced at the painful throbbing that had settled into his left shoulder as he lifted himself up off the ground, but his own discomfort was quickly forgotten when he saw Captain Pike lying in a crumpled heap on the far side of the bridge, a good five feet away from his chair. “Chris!” he exclaimed, rushing over to the other man’s side. “Sulu, evasive maneuvers! Chekov, I want us battle-ready within the next five seconds. Arm photon torpedoes and fire back as soon as possible.” Seeing that the aging Captain was still unresponsive he added, “Alert medical bay that Captain Pike has been injured and needs immediate attention.” “Already done, Mr. President,” the young ensign replied, his eyes never once leaving the screen hovering in front of his fingers. “Where’s Pike’s First Officer?” Kirk demanded. “Commander Skiles was injured during the initial strike and is currently receiving medical attention in sickbay,” Lieutenant Okoye said, her words earning a string of particularly harsh curses from Kirk’s lips. Another blast rocked the Enterprise, this time cutting across the top of the hull and sending a flurry of debris into space. Sparks flew from various consoles and several crew members had to jump away from their stations to avoid serious injury. “Mr. President! There are reports of system failures in decks three through six.” “Shields at thirty percent, Sir. We can’t afford to get hit with another blast like that. Their weapons are more powerful than we anticipated.” “Fuck,” Kirk hissed under his breath, only feeling a mild sense of relief run through him as a medical team showed up to carry Pike’s unconscious form down to sickbay. Exhaling forcefully, the youngest President of United Earth steeled himself against the panic that gripped him and sat down in the Captain’s chair. Starfleet had trained him for situations like this, he, who had once upon a time nearly become Earth’s youngest Captain. He could do this. “Sulu, don’t let them get another hit like that. Chekov, how big would you say that ship is?” “It appears to be at least ten times the size of the Enterprise, Kepti—Sir,” the young man replied, hastily correcting his error. 87

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“Plot a path through the asteroid belt. Get us as far away from Earth as possible. Warp Four. Let’s see them get past those asteroids with that hulking ship of theirs.” Almost immediately after the Enterprise went into warp, the stars streaking past in singular white lines, the Romulan ship followed suit, barreling after them with a startling amount of speed. “They’ve locked onto our position!” someone called from Kirk’s right. “Following at Warp Five and quickly closing.” “Warp Six, Mr. Sulu. How far are we from the belt?” “Estimated time of arrival is in five seconds, Sir.” “Alright. Keep her steady. Charge phasers and prepare to fire on my mark.” “Understood, Mr. President.” Phaser fire streaked like a series of iridescent comets past the ship, Sulu’s skillful piloting the only thing keeping the Enterprise’s hull safe from any further damage. Up ahead the rocky outline of the asteroid belt was rapidly closing in, looming like an angry storm cloud with its blunt edges and dark color. With Chekov’s carefully calculated flight plan guiding its path and Sulu at the helm, the Enterprise glided between the floating asteroids, sometimes narrowly avoiding some that were nearly twice its size, while the Romulan vessel, still in hot pursuit, barreled right through the rocky thicket, its hull connecting hard with each asteroid that slammed into it. “The Romulan ship has sustained significant damage, Sir. Phaser banks along its left side have been rendered inoperative.” “Excellent. Drop out of warp and return fire. Everything we’ve got.” Photon torpedoes spun out into space, dancing across the blackness as phaser shots tore past before slamming into the other ship’s exterior paneling, splintering sections of it apart in an explosion of flame. The force of the impact sent it careening towards a thick clump of asteroids it only barely managed to avoid. With his eyes fixed on the view screen, Kirk allowed himself a small smirk as he sat back in his chair, the muscles in his back finally unknotting themselves. However, this brief moment of self-satisfaction was short-lived, cut short by another powerful blast rocking the Enterprise in its entirety, flinging more than half of the bridge crew to the ground. By some miracle, Jim managed to hang on along with Sulu, his eyes widening as the reality of the situation settled in, ferried by the emergency light that flashed ominously on every console. “We’ve lost our shields!” “They’re locking onto us!” “Phasers along the ship’s anterior side are now inoperable. Engineering is also reporting extensive damage done to our Warp Drive.” “Enemy fire coming in at two-hundred clicks and closing!” “Emergency evasive maneuvers!” Kirk shouted, his voice piercing through the cacophony of panicked words as he ignored the feeling of breathlessness the gravity of the damage instilled within him. The Enterprise shuddered as the Romulan ship’s attack grazed its side, digging a shallow cut in the hard sheeting. Red emergency lights flashed without reprieve and for a moment Kirk wondered if this was the beginning of the end. With the rest of the 88

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fleet out in the Laurentian system, too far away to be of any use as back up, it seemed as if they were fighting a losing battle, a thought that was punctuated by another hit to the Enterprise’s hull. “Mr. President! We’re losing power in sections of the ship. That last blast must have severed part of the electrical grid.” “Shit,” Jim muttered under his breath, his mind scrambling for some sort of plan. “Alright. I’m ordering a ship-wide evacuation. I’ll try and hold them off long enough for you guys to make your escape.” “Mr. President, you’re coming with us, right?” Lieutenant Sulu asked, turning round in his seat to look at Jim. “I don’t think so, Mr. Sulu,” Kirk replied with a sad smile, knowing full well that if he went through with his plan he wouldn’t make it off the ship alive, a small price to pay for the safety of the Enterprise’s crew and, hopefully, Earth’s citizens. “But, Sir!” Chekov immediately protested. “I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Chekov. You and Mr. Sulu are to report to the shuttle bay along with everyone else. That’s an order.” He then pressed a button on his armrest, opening up the ship’s PA system. “Hello, everyone, this is your—uh—Acting Captain speaking. I’m ordering a ship-wide evacuation. All crew members are to report to the shuttle bay immediately. That is all.” The announcement was curt and to the point, not nearly long enough to allow the dangerous simmer of emotion swirling deep in the pit of his stomach to spew forth, coat each and every one of his words in a feeling he couldn’t afford to feel. He breathed in deeply through his nose, his eyes closing as he allowed himself a brief moment to steel himself for the inevitable end, a burst of flame followed by the swift crunch of metal caving in on itself. His chest tightened up at the very thought. “Sir! Sensors are picking up a second ship!” someone from the science department called out as they briefly glanced up from their instruments. “Wha—” Jim began, but found himself stopping short as a small ship, not even half the size of the Enterprise zipped across the view screen, unleashing a barrage of phaser fire upon the Romulan ship as it went. “Registration indicates that it’s one of ours, Mr. President.” The ensign peered closer at his screen, his round face crinkling in concentration. “I’m unfamiliar with the make, but judging by its weaponry I’d say it’s a fighter class.” “Hail them.” “Understood, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence as Communications hastily attempted to establish a connection with the unfamiliar vessel. The fact that it was registered to Earth provided only a mild sense of comfort and with tensions running as high as they were Kirk was just about ready to blow it out of the sky simply as a precaution. Unlike their communiqué with Nero, whoever was at the helm of this small ship answered readily enough and within seconds a connection was established. “Spock?!” Jim spluttered when he saw the Vulcan appear onscreen, his usual black suit swapped for a red Starfleet-grade cadet’s uniform. “Hello, Sir,” Spock replied impassively as he skillfully dodged a photon torpedo, pulling his ship into a graceful loop. “It would seem as if you are in need of some 89

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assistance. My sensors indicate that your shields are malfunctioning and that the Enterprise is suffering from multiple system failures.” “What—but—you—” It took a few seconds before Kirk had collected himself enough to string together a coherent sentence. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?” “I am protecting my T’hyla,” he replied softly, his voice quivering over the last word as a green flush sprung into his cheeks. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Kirk spat, anger painting his face and neck pink. “Is that your way of saying you’re here to make sure someone else doesn’t get the pleasure of killing me?” For a second Jim nearly wanted to take the words back, the pained look that crossed the other’s face hitting him like a punch to the stomach, but then the residual anger that smoldered just beneath his skin roared back with full force, reminding him that the man he saw before him was not meant to be trusted. “I have much to apologize for,” Spock murmured. “However, now is neither the time nor place.” He paused to unleash a few more shots upon the Romulan ship, who was now more preoccupied with the small, heavily armed craft Spock commandeered than the Enterprise, who, by all appearances, was on its last legs. When Jim opened his mouth to speak again, Spock quickly silenced him by saying, “Excuse me, Sir, but I believe I am being hailed.” It didn’t take long before Nero’s booming voice obliterated all other sounds. “Spooooooock!” he shouted, his voice gravely from concentrated rage. Spock blinked once, appearing, by all counts, extremely confused by the fact that Nero knew his name. “I’m sorry, but I do not believe we are acquainted,” he said, the absolute calm of his tone nearly sending Kirk into hysterics. Nero’s reply consisted of firing five photon torpedoes in Spock’s direction. The Vulcan quickly went about dodging them, but found himself caught off guard when each torpedo split apart into several smaller ones, all hurtling towards the same target: him. “Intercept those torpedoes!” Jim ordered before he realized what he was doing. It was as if protecting Spock was suddenly a compulsion. “Targets locked in, Mr. President,” Chekov replied. “Firing now.” The Enterprise let loose its own barrage of phaser power, striking down the torpedoes Spock couldn’t manage to evade before they did any real damage. Everyone on the bridge knew that one single shot was all it would take to send Spock out in a blaze of fire. While his ship was extremely agile and outfitted with some of the most powerful weapons Starfleet had at its disposal, it was not meant to withstand that kind of firepower. However, now that he no longer had to worry about a torpedo blowing right through the hull of his ship, Spock was able to focus all his attention on the offensive, firing what seemed to be everything he had in his arsenal at the Romulan ship. Kirk could only watch in awe as Spock single-handedly began to tear apart the other ship’s hull much to Nero’s displeasure if the angry shouts coming over through the communications link were anything to go by. 90

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“Phaser banks are charged and ready to fire on your orders, Sir,” Sulu said, jolting Kirk out of his momentary stupor. “Fire everything we’ve got, Mr. Sulu,” he replied, a glimmer of hope flickering to life inside him. “Music to my ears, Sir,” the helmsman replied with a grin before unleashing a flurry of phaser fire upon Nero’s ship, something that seemed to only enrage the Romulan further. Punching a few quick commands into his console, Kirk opened up the PA system once more and informed the rest of the crew that, for now, evacuation would no longer be necessary. It quickly became clear that Nero’s ship was falling apart, old wounds that were never properly patched up quickly reopening, spilling a mess of electrical cables and support beams out into the weightless vacuum of space. Every successive blow to the ship’s hull only made these scars more pronounced, splitting them apart at the seams, destroying any attempts the Romulans aboard had made at repairing them. Seeing Nero’s ship split apart piece by piece instilled within Jim an odd sense of satisfaction and he wondered if Spock felt the same way. Time seemed to slow as a series of explosions punctured the ship’s exterior, sending bursts of static through the video transmission Spock was receiving of Nero. The Romulan was finished. “Sir, the Romulan ship’s weapons system in now offline,” Chekov said as he looked up from his readouts. “Great work, everyone. Open up a communications channel with them, Lieutenant Okoye.” If anyone on the bridge gave him an odd look, which many of them did, Kirk didn’t notice or care. No one commented on this odd change in tactics as Lieutenant Okoye worked to establish a viable connection with the heavily damaged Romulan ship. When she had finished, the lieutenant simply uttered a soft, “The channel has been established, Mr. President”. “Hello, Nero,” Kirk said with a smirk as the disgruntled Romulan graced their viewscreen once more. “So nice to see you again.” Nero responded to his false pleasantries with a string of particularly colorful Romulan words. “Alright, then,” Jim continued with a slow roll of his shoulders as if he were shrugging off the insults the other man had flung at him. “We are prepared to offer you assistance, save you from your burning ship, treat your injuries, yada-yada-yada, on the condition that you surrender yourself along with your ship, not that it’s going to last much longer, and your crew to United Earth.” The Romulan let out a harsh bark of laughter, bitterness lacing that single syllable. “I would rather suffer the end of Romulus a thousand times,” he spat, words dripping with vitriol, “than accept help from you.” “Suit yourself,” Jim said. “We’re done here, Lieutenant. Terminate the connection.” “Consider it done, Sir.” With Nero’s face gone from sight, he let out a small breath of relief before glancing up to see Spock regarding him curiously through the view screen. 91

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“Compassion towards a being such as him is not logical,” the Vulcan said quietly, rage stewing beneath his words. “Maybe not to a race of people who don’t think twice about killing,” Jim snarled, silently wishing that he’d had the Lieutenant cut this connection as well, “but here on Earth we do things differently.” “Illogicality and praise-worthiness are not mutually exclusive traits.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Like I need praise from you.” “Sir—Jim, I—” He was cut off by a sharp crack that reverberated throughout the entirety of his small ship, causing it to shudder so violently that he was nearly thrown from his seat. Red emergency lights began to flash as a computerized voice droned emphatically that shields were at twenty percent and falling rapidly. Another crack and suddenly the shields were gone. “Spock, what’s going on?” Jim demanded, ignoring the way his heart jumped in his chest, the quickening of his pulse, and sudden flush of sweat that beaded his palms. “It appears that we may have made a,” Spock winced as a thick trail of green blood trickled down from his temple, “grave miscalculation.” He grunted as his ship gave another lurch. Squinting blearily through the throbbing that had bloomed from the inside of his skull, he quickly tapped away at the controls laid out in front of him, pulling the ship into a sharp arc that caused it to rattle and shake as if it were ready to break apart at any moment. “While the Romulan ship no longer has operational weapons, it is far from harmless,” he muttered, lips pulled into a tight grimace as salt and copper slid over his tongue. It wasn’t long before Kirk and the rest of the Enterprise crew experienced first-hand what the Vulcan was talking about, their own ship shuddering helplessly as one of the Romulan ship’s metal tentacles, perhaps even the same one that had crashed into the side of Spock’s ship, smashed into the hull. Without shields to cushion the impact, the Enterprise’s metal sheeting splintered beneath the force, steel scraping against steel like nails across a chalkboard. Onboard, the emergency siren wailed anew. “The hull has been breached in sections A, B, and C of decks two and three! Initiating immediate lockdown of affected areas!” “Fuck,” Jim swore under his breath. “Sulu, avoid those tentacles at all cost.” “Understood, Sir.” “Mr. President,” Chekov said suddenly from his station, whirling around to face the blond man with wide eyes. “Weapons bay reports that half of the equipment is currently unresponsive.” “Christ. Just what we need,” he grumbled. “Is it a power issue?” There was a quick pause before Chekov replied that the cause was “unclear”. “Do any of our weapons still work?” “An estimated thirty to forty percent is still operational.” “Fire everything that works.” “Yes, Sir.” 92

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Kirk was silent as more shots were shot at Nero and his ship, his fingers gripping the side of his chair until his knuckles turned white. He watched as Spock weaved in and out between the other ship’s long, sharp spires, his breath hitching more than a few times when the Vulcan’s ship got too close for comfort. “Have whoever’s in charge of the transporter room lock onto Spock’s signal,” he said suddenly, the words surprising even himself. “Sir?” Chekov intoned, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Kirk chewed on his lower lip for a moment, wondering whether he should retract his latest order. He could feel more than just a few sets of eyes upon him, their stares making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Setting up a means of saving a criminal, it seemed a little ridiculous even by his standards, but, then again, this was a criminal who had, by all means, risked everything for them just now. The knot of conflict in his chest only grew tighter. “Lock onto Mr. Spock’s signal,” he repeated, his tongue feeling heavy and clumsy against his lips and teeth. “Be prepared to beam him over should things go south.” The young ensign nodded and put in the request. Jim wondered if he’d done the right thing. Unfortunately, he had very little time to do so. While Lieutenant Sulu was an excellent pilot, one of the best Starfleet had ever seen, in fact, he couldn’t predict every single one of the Romulan’s ship’s erratic movements and, eventually, he was bound to make a miscalculation. Too bad it came all too soon. Spock could only watch in horror as the longest tendril, its metal shell covered in a series of deadly spikes, swung out towards the Enterprise in a sharp arc, pointed tip heading directly towards the ship’s front where it would draw a wide gash across the hull, splitting United Earth’s finest starship into nothing but debris and bodies. If that strike hit everyone onboard would die. It was not a likelihood. It was a certainty. Spock felt his mind go blank at the thought. For the next fifteen and a half seconds, it felt as if his body were on autopilot, limbs moving without active thought, fingers simply knowing instinctively which keys to hit, and before he knew it he was rushing towards the stretch of spiked steel, firing shots in rapid succession. Explosions lit up along the deadly metal tentacle, tearing through the thick, carefully construction sheeting that served as its foundation. Spock watched as it crumbled in on itself, pieces of metal splitting apart into harmless debris that bounced easily off the Enterprise’s already damaged hull. Relief soared up through him, more powerfully than even the intense, vitriolic burn of anger his heart had spewed forth when he’d first met Jim, a time that seemed so distant in this moment. He relaxed in his seat and let out a soft exhale of breath, the alarms and sirens now a distant drone of meaningless noise. Jim was safe for the moment and that was all that mattered. However, Spock knew that whatever protection he currently offered was only fleeting, fragile and paper-thin. For as long as Nero remained in command of his ship, Jim would be in a constant state of danger, a target waiting to be struck down into oblivion. Clenching the controls tightly between his fingers, Spock sprung back into the fray, bombarding the Romulan ship with a torrent of firepower while his mind filled with images of fire and destruction. The taste of hate was thick on his tongue, black like ink and tasting vaguely of sour milk. It was almost as unpleasant as the coil of flame 93

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burning within the pit of his stomach. The anger he felt towards the Romulan captain grew exponentially with each passing second, pressing into the side of his belly like a hot poker where it scorched and scarred. Not even the most refined forms of emotional control could repress it. He followed the Enterprise’s every move, mirroring each shot, each swerve, each dive until the Romulan ship was nothing more than a smoldering hunk of scrap metal that was only barely holding itself together. All it would take was a few more shots and Nero would find himself burning along with what remained of his ship. Spock moved his thumb over the trigger, the muscle in his hand tensing in anticipation. In a fraction of a second, he would press down on it and everything would be over. “Spock!” Jim’s voice burst through the cloudy haze of static that had swept over their communication. When Spock looked up he saw that the other man’s eyes were wide, the blues of their irises tinged with sudden fear. The screen crackled for a moment and the picture became distorted, lines of gray static cutting across the planes of Jim’s face. “Spock! Get out of there!” He could see the vague outline of the Romulan ship through the translucent pixels that placed the other man’s face on his view screen, dark and imposing yet glowing with a faint glimmer of something. The light suddenly grew stronger, expanding into a blindingly white wash of brightness that forced Spock’s eyes into thin slits. It pulsed rhythmically, flashes of orange and red streaking bright splotches of color across it. The world was silent to Spock’s ears, Jim’s lips moving soundlessly around words of caution, the frantic wail of the ship’s sensors nonexistent, nothing but absolute quiet, thick and impenetrable. It was only when he was much too close, mere kilometers between Nero and himself, that he realized what was wrong and at that point it was much too late. He saw Jim shout something to someone off-screen and make a series of erratic gestures, panic dripping off him like the sweat beading on his brow. The light was becoming brighter and Spock could feel his limbs go slack in resignation, the blood that leaked from the wound on his temple crusting on his cheek. With sound slowly rushing back into his ears, roaring like the crash of water against a stone, Spock kept his eyes trained on Jim’s face, memorizing each and every detail even though he knew that these memories would burn along with his body. He offered the other man a soft smile and then an even softer apology as his arms and legs prickled with what he thought might be fear, the reality of death almost crushing in its weight. Jim screamed his name and then communication went dead, a rush of flames washing over Spock’s ship. It would be recorded that Nero’s ship, named the Narada, was destroyed at exactly eighteen hundred hours that day. There were no survivors. As far as everyone was concerned, Earth was saved.

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Part Eight “That’s the second time you saved my life at your own expense,” Jim said as Spock opened his eyes. They were in what appeared to be the U.S.S. Enterprise’s medical bay, the soft white of a privacy curtain the only thing that separated them from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the ward. When Spock tried to sit up he found himself cuffed to the bed, the pliable leather strap that wound itself snugly around his right wrist binding him to the bed’s metal handrail with a chain. Around him medical instruments beeped and gave out the occasional pneumatic hiss, the white lighting of the room leaving nothing to shadow. “Why’d you do it?” Jim continued, his expression pinched in a mixture of confusion and anger. Looking up at the other man, Spock saw that his hands were trembling where they grip the rail. “Why’d you bother saving someone you’re trying to kill? Was it to keep someone else from doing the honor?” “No, Jim,” Spock murmured with a shake of his head. “I came here because,” he took in a shaky breath, eyes darting away from the other’s face as blood rushes up into his face, “because I feel affection for you. The mere thought of your deathG It is unbearable.” He looked up just in time to see Jim’s lips thin out into a hard line. “Fuck off,” Jim hissed and abruptly stood up, the chair he was sitting in clattering to the ground. “You expect me to believe you’re in fucking love with me? How stupid do you think I am?” Spock felt helpless as the other man made a turn to leave, panic bubbling into his throat and choking off the words waiting to fall from his lips. He only managed a weak, “Please wait,” before reaching out with his free hand to catch the edge of Jim’s sleeve, fingers curling in the black fabric. “What?” Jim snapped, whirling around sharply enough to knock Spock’s hand away. “Please allow me to explain,” the Vulcan said quietly, almost meekly as he gingerly propped himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the ache in his side and the awkward twist of his wrist inside the leather manacle. The other man stared at him for a few moments, each second ticking by with an excruciating slowness, before spitting out a harsh, “Fine,” and righting up the fallen chair. “You have ten minutes,” he growled and sat down, his arms crossing over his chest. “I came to Earth with the intention of killing you,” Spock began as he forced himself to maintain eye contact with the other man. “That was my mission, to integrate myself into your life, earn your trust, and then assassinate you when the time came.” Jim exhaled loudly, his nostrils flaring around the sudden rush of air as his entire body went rigid. It took all his control to remain seated and not run away. To hear that he’d been manipulated for months, well, it left a sour taste in his mouth and a hollow feeling in his belly. “At first I thought that this would be an easy task,” the Vulcan continued. “Everything about you infuriated me and the fact that you, a simple human, could instill such 95

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anger within me only drove my initial dislike further. I thought that killing you would not be a problem.” “Then why didn’t you just let Kodos’ daughter finish me off when she had the chance?” Kirk spat angrily. “I do not know,” Spock admitted, his gaze falling to his lap. “Even now I cannot offer an explanation as to why I felt compelled to protect you at the time. However, I surmise that it was because of the bond that had inadvertently formed between us.” “Bond?” Spock gave a slow nod. “Yes. A mental link that exists between spouses. Typically they are formed intentionally. However, it is not unheard of for a bond to arise between two mentally compatible individuals without any further encouragement.” “Are you telling me we’re married?” “In accordance with Vulcan tradition, you would be considered to be my husband.” Jim was silent for a moment, his expression completely unreadable, not even the faintest flicker of feeling dancing across his face. “Fuck that,” he snarled and stood up. “On my planet we actually ask someone before we marry them.” “Please believe me when I say that I wanted this bond no more than you do when I first discovered it,” Spock said quickly, the other’s movements causing that same panic from before to blossom like a burn in his chest. “But now the thought of being separated from you pains me.” “You tried to kill me, Spock! How the hell can I believe anything you’re saying after that?” “I was conflicted. Please, Jim, you must understand that I wish you no harm. To harm my t’hyla,” he trailed off with a shake of his head. “It would be unthinkable.” “What the hell’s a “t’hyla”?” Kirk snapped, his anger only faltering when Spock’s eyes met his in an unwavering stare. “A soulmate,” the Vulcan whispered and reached out to grasp Kirk’s hand, carefully twining their fingers together when he found it. A lump quickly found its way into Kirk’s throat and no matter how hard he swallowed it would not go back down. He felt choked, completely at the mercy of the emotions that rattled around inside him like a storm. His eyes stung and his stomach twisted in knots. Something pulled at him from the back of his mind, beckoning his attention, his affection. It nearly made him sick to his stomach, this conflict of feeling and thought. Part of him wanted to embrace Spock, trail kisses across his face and never leave, but then other part wanted to shove the Vulcan away and never look back, to forget the way his heart would flutter and his breath would stutter. For a moment he wished that he’d never met Spock. “Soulmate,” he repeated shakily, his voice soft and breathy. “That’s bullshit.” “It is the most accurate translation I can give,” Spock replied and gently pressed their forefingers together.

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They stayed like that for a moment, fingers connected and breathing in time. All the anger Jim had felt earlier was melting away into a serene calm, the feeling of Spock’s mind pressing flush up against his own. He could almost imagine a point of light connecting them, a braid of silver and gold that inexplicably linked them together, bringing them closer than seemed possible. Jim hated himself for thinking that it was pretty. “You’re kissing me again aren’t you?” he said suddenly and dragged his fingers down Spock’s. “Yes,” the Vulcan murmured, his voice breathier than he’d intended it to be. “You tried to kill me.” “I considered the option. I do not believe I ever intended to go through with it. To harm one’s t’hyla is an unforgivable offense.” “I see,” Kirk said softly and before he could stop himself he was leaning forward and pressing his lips against Spock’s, his free hand coming up to gentle cradle the side of the Vulcan’s face. The feel of Spock’s lips against his own made something sigh with happiness inside him and soon he found himself deepening the kiss, his tongue running along the edge of Spock’s lower lip before delving further. The chains that bound the Vulcan to the bed rattled as he tried to bring his hand up to touch Kirk’s shoulder, causing him to grunt with displeasure. Hearing this, Jim immediately let his hand drop away from Spock’s face to gently rub the skin that surrounded the cuff. It was then that he finally pulled back, taking in a shaky breath as he stared at Spock’s lips. “Wow,” he whispered. “I have no idea why I just did that.” “It was not unwelcome,” Spock murmured and pressed a soft kiss to Jim’s temple. “I should be mad at you. I was mad at you.” He gave a soft snort and allowed his lips to quirk up. “Do Vulcan bonds make everyone this loopy or is it just me?” “I do not know.” At this Jim let out a soft laugh. “So it’s just me then.” He let out a soft breath and shook his head. “This is so stupid of me, falling for the guy who, for most of the time I’ve known him, has been secretly plotting to kill me at the first opportunity.” “Jim.” “Just—just give me time. I need time. To think and stuff.” Spock nodded in understanding and gave Jim’s hand a gentle squeeze, sending a wave of comfort through the simple gesture. In his mind he could feel their bond slowly reviving and that alone was enough to give him hope.

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