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Spock remembered enough about Vulcans to know that he was a poor specimen. The pace of his reeducation was unsatisfactory. More than a month had passed, and he had yet to bring his knowledge levels back to the baseline established before his death. To make matters worse, he was frustrated by this—an emotional response.

His mother encouraged emotional responses, but this only made him confused. She was not pleased with Spock’s progress, either. He was too Vulcan for his human mother, but not Vulcan enough to overcome his illogical failings.

Spock sighed and got up from the floor, ending his attempt at meditation. He paced over to the window and gazed at the serene desert beyond. That was how a Vulcan’s mind ought to be. His was more of a tangled jungle, with a howling cacophony of information, sensations, and fragments of memory inside. In the privacy of solitude, Spock let his weary head slump forward, resting on the warm glass.

Then there was a knock at the door. Spock straightened at once.

“Ready to head out?”

Spock knew that voice. It belonged to his friend, the admiral, who had come for their evening walk.

Admiral Kirk did not treat Spock like a substandard Vulcan or a disappointing human. Spock was not sure how the admiral treated him, exactly. He had no frame of reference for it. All he knew was that, in the admiral’s presence, the overwhelming exhaustion that clouded his head lifted, and he felt alive.

Spock opened the door. “Yes. We may depart.” He was rewarded with a smile.

If Spock had ever seen anyone smile with more feeling than Admiral Kirk, that memory had not returned. Perhaps it didn’t exist. His face seemed to have been specially designed with smiling in mind—those round cheeks, those meltingly kind eyes. Therefore, it was only logical for Spock to find the admiral’s smiles most pleasant and to endeavor to observe them as often as possible. The admiral was quite obliging, providing Spock with countless opportunities to do so.

“Well, where should we go?” the admiral asked. For no reason Spock could determine, he sounded cheerful. “The rock garden again? Your mother’s greenhouse?”

“The destination is of no concern,” said Spock. “I will go where you choose.”

After spending hours in deep study, Spock found relief in light exercise. He was still contending with a certain degree of weakness as his katra reacquainted itself with his body, and he tired easily. However, Spock was curiously energized by his walks with the admiral. Perhaps his vigor and exuberance were contagious. In any case, Spock had come to regard these evening excursions with great anticipation.

The first time the admiral invited him out, it was to observe the sunset. They walked a little in silence, eventually settling on a large stone not far from the house. Spock sat slowly, not wanting the admiral to realize just how badly he needed rest. It occurred to Spock that perhaps he already had and that was why he decided to sit in the first place. He dismissed the thought immediately. It was presumptuous to assume that the admiral’s choices had anything to do with him.

Yet Spock watched, transfixed, as the red sun slowly slid behind the mountains. The sight should not have been new to him, but it was. The sky darkened, revealing countless constellations, and those were new to Spock, too. He turned to his companion to ask how this compared to sunsets on his home planet. The admiral’s face was so open , his eyes so bright and full of feeling, that staring at the sun itself would have been easier.

Spock looked away. For a moment, he felt inadequate. Then an unaccustomed warmth came over him. Yes, there was emotion on the admiral’s face, but he wasn’t demanding any in return. He was simply admiring Spock, as Spock had admired the sunset, asking for nothing.

Was this what friendship was?

“If you’re up for something new,” the admiral began, drawing Spock back into the present, “I’ve been wanting to explore the mountains a little, or at least the foothills.” He laughed. “Here on Vulcan, that would probably be challenge enough. I’d have to ask Bones for a tri-ox injection.”

“If we are to attempt such an expedition, I believe we should allocate considerably more time,” said Spock. Their walks typically lasted an hour or less. “Perhaps we could leave tomorrow morning and plan to return by nightfall?”

Admiral Kirk’s face lit up. “Great idea!” He sobered a little. “It won’t be too much for you?”

“Not if we stop to rest at necessary intervals.”

“As often as you need,” the admiral promised. “And it won’t interfere with your re-education schedule?”

“I must re-educate myself physically as well as mentally and spiritually,” Spock replied. “A challenge of this nature is necessary and long overdue.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said the admiral with a grin. “And for now…the greenhouse?”

Spock did not smile, but he suspected there was appreciable fondness in his eyes as he nodded at Admiral Kirk.

As they made their way down the path to the greenhouse, the sky was red once more. They always met around this time, venturing out into the long-shadowed crimson twilight and returning with the stars. Tomorrow would be different—they would depart in the morning. Although it was not logical, Spock found himself wishing they could leave right at sunrise. It would be fascinating to observe the admiral at that hour. How would the light of dawn settle on his hair, in his eyes?

When they entered the greenhouse, the admiral heaved a sigh of relief. The air, stiflingly thick, damp, and cool by Vulcan standards, was optimized for growing Earth plants. That also made it preferable for humans, like the admiral and Spock’s mother. Perhaps that was why they were both so enamored with the place.

There were other logical reasons to appreciate it. Spock admired its orderliness. The planters were arrayed in three long rows, creating two somewhat narrow but perfectly identical aisles. The mathematical precision pleased him. Humans, he supposed, would enjoy the greenhouse for its beauty. Everywhere one turned, they were met with color and lush, sweet scents.

Spock’s mother likely adored the greenhouse for sentimental reasons as well. It had been a gift from her husband many years ago. A hazy childhood memory drifted into Spock’s mind: watching his mother water flowers.

Now, he had new memories, too—Admiral Kirk beaming at a blossoming rose, laughing as Spock objected to the misleading name of the Venus flytrap, stroking a camellia petal with his fingertips as if giving it a kiss.

Spock sat on a low, hard bench by the door. As he ran a hand idly over its smooth surface, he saw his parents sitting together, sharing a Vulcan kiss. But he could also feel warmth and softness under his own fingertips, and emotion welling up inside him, intense enough to leave him breathless. Who did that other hand belong to? The memory flickered out too quickly to tell. Shaken, feeling as though he had lost something precious, Spock folded his hands in his lap and forced himself to regain his composure.

Meanwhile, the admiral was wandering the aisles, pausing whenever a particularly vibrant blossom caught his eye. Spock found himself oddly soothed by his constant movement. This man was never meant to stay still, to be held back. He must always be allowed to explore.

Why was Spock so certain of that? Why was he teased with these flashes of familiarity when the memories that must have been associated with them remained beyond his grasp?

The admiral completed his circuit of the greenhouse and sat down beside Spock. He smiled, his face flushed and sweaty. Finding that in any way appealing would have been highly illogical, so Spock decided he did not. He averted his gaze and found himself watching condensation roll off a broad, curved leaf. Vibrant, gleaming, and alive, that plant reminded him of the admiral. It seemed everything did.

“Here,” said the admiral, holding out his hand. A blue pansy lay in his palm. Spock studied at it for a long time, the admiral watching him expectantly. Then he laughed. “Your mother’s fine with it, you know. I asked if she would mind if I picked some flowers now and then, and she said it was all right, as long as I didn’t take more than a couple from any one plant. This one just made me think of you. I wanted you to have it.”

Spock took it, careful to avoid touching the admiral’s hand. He held the flower up, gazing at it with his head tilted. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Well, why don’t we just—?” The admiral picked up the pansy, brushing Spock’s palm in the process, and tucked it behind his ear. Then he sat back with a smile. “Perfect!”

Spock did not trust himself to speak. He was using every measure of his Vulcan control to keep from blushing. That warm, gentle touch…something about it was so familiar…

He mulled over his memories well into the night, unable to sleep. Was it possible at some point that he and the admiral—surely not. Then why—? It wasn’t until the next morning, when Spock woke with the pansy half crushed against his cheek and staining his pillow, that he realized he’d fallen asleep with the flower still tucked behind his ear where the admiral had left it.

***

Spock was excused from his studies for the day, but there was one obligation he could not ignore. Before breakfast, he made his way down the hall, to the bedroom he had been told was his in childhood, and knocked. Before the door even opened, he heard Dr. McCoy grumbling on the other side.

The doctor appeared in a thin, white robe, his graying hair uncombed, a scowl entrenched on his face. There was no logical reason for that sight to please Spock. There was even less reason for Spock to feel a deep sense of well-being when the doctor complained about being the only sane person on a planet of early risers before snapping, “Well, let’s get this over with” and letting him in.

The ceremony that had restored Spock to his body was just the first of many melds needed to completely remove his presence from McCoy’s mind. Early sessions had been mediated by a healer, but lately, Spock and the doctor had been encouraged to meld on their own. It was good practice for Spock, and evidently it was less overwhelming for McCoy. Their minds were attuned to each other’s now, almost as though they were bonded.

Spock’s memories of the doctor implied that their relationship had been adversarial, but little of his present conduct aligned with this. He could be impatient and sharp-tongued—particularly first thing in the morning—but his eyes had a way of softening when they rested on Spock’s face. Sometimes, he was downright protective.

He was outraged by the pace Spock was expected to keep during his re-education process and called it “draconian.” He got annoyed with the admiral for “keeping Spock out so late” when he needed all the rest he could get. When their morning melds left Spock drained and vulnerable, the doctor would set his own exhaustion aside and tend to him.

That morning, as Spock lay flat on his back, the doctor poured him a glass of water from a pitcher at his bedside. His hand trembled slightly. That tended to happen to humans as they aged—a sign of infirmity. Yet the sight of the doctor’s long fingers wrapped around the glass gave Spock inestimable comfort.

Perhaps it was only logical to be calmed by the doctor’s presence. He had carried Spock’s katra, after all. Great trust must have existed between them, if not affection. Now, the doctor knew Spock better than the Vulcan knew himself.

Spock, for his part, had yet to ascertain the doctor’s first name. He had recently come to the unsettling conclusion that his name was not, in fact, Bones McCoy. But the admiral called him Bones, and everyone else addressed him by title, and the doctor did not think of himself in the third person, so melds revealed nothing. From what Spock knew of human culture, he suspected revealing his ignorance on this matter would result in great offense. So he didn’t. He would find out eventually.

Spock sat up, accepted the glass from the doctor, and took a sip. The doctor watched with uncanny tenderness.

“You finish that, then tell me if your headache’s any better,” he said. “I hear you and Jim plan to go out hiking today.”

Spock nodded.

“Well, don’t let him tire you out too much. You’re still recovering, getting used to having a body again. No amount of Vulcan strength can change that.”

For all his grousing and overprotectiveness, the doctor never made Spock feel weak. Furthermore, it was clear the doctor thought of him as a Vulcan . This was mostly expressed in the form of targeted insults, but Spock found remarks about his “damned Vulcan logic” or “pointed Vulcan ears” affirming, even flattering. Spock might not have been Vulcan enough to please his father, but he was Vulcan enough to vex McCoy. That was a small victory.

The doctor and the admiral. Both of them accepted Spock without reservation. Both had made great sacrifices to save him. Both, at one point, had been his friends. Logically, their presence ought to have an identical effect on Spock, but this was not so. 

Spending time with the doctor was like finding a desert oasis after fraught travels. There was water and shade, and silence in which to sleep. Spending time with the admiral was like visiting a new world entirely—somewhere vibrant and thrilling, bursting with possibility.

Spock expected to find his outing with the admiral pleasant, but he doubted he would have the strength for it without the doctor’s care. He slowly drained his glass of water, and McCoy looked on with satisfaction.

***

There were mountains in every direction, so there was no need to chart a particular course. At least, that was what the admiral said. He did not even bother to bring a map, though he wore a large backpack and asserted that he was prepared for every eventuality.

“I’ve got food, water, an emergency tri-ox shot, extra sunblock, a dermal regenerator—Bones’ll kill me if I lose that one—a communicator, a phaser, a blanket, a book—”

Spock failed to see the utility of a blanket. In the unlikely event that he and the admiral were stranded in the mountains at night, a single blanket would not provide sufficient warmth. However, he had greater objections.

“A book?”

“You’re going to need to rest pretty often, aren’t you? I thought it’d be nice to have something to do while we wait.”

Spock regretted asking. He imagined trying to catch his breath while the admiral sat beside him, bored and restless, wishing he had gone by himself. That would obviously be the most logical option.

“I’d like to read to you,” the admiral continued. “You love reading. It’s one of the things we bonded over early on.” The words were rushed, as if a great force lay behind them, only just restrained. “You actually gave me a book for my last birthday, an antique. That moment…” He shook his head. “It almost feels like it happened in another life. It wasn’t long before—” His face darkened.

Before Spock died, and the admiral lost his son, his ship, and, in all likelihood, his career in the process of saving him. He had sacrificed so much. What could Spock even begin to offer in return?

Spock turned away. “If you would prefer to hike alone, I am willing to remain behind. You will be able to explore far more efficiently if you do not have to contend with my limitations.”

“Spock.” Admiral Kirk’s voice was so gentle. Had anyone ever said Spock’s name with such tenderness? “I don’t want to explore efficiently. I want to explore with you. ” Spock turned, and the admiral beamed. “I can’t do that if you stay behind, can I?”

“That would be illogical,” Spock conceded.

The admiral laughed, and any concerns Spock had about the lack of maps evaporated. He would follow this man anywhere.

By noon, they had ventured through the nearby foothills and settled at the base of Mount Seleya. Spock was not as tired as he expected. Every half hour or so, they would come to a halt. Spock would sit, sipping from his canteen, while the admiral read aloud. The book he had borrowed was a biography of Surak. Spock suspected he had read it before, possibly many times. The words felt familiar. Then again, every word felt familiar coming from the admiral’s lips.

However, the admiral wasn’t reading this time. He stood back with his hands on his hips, gazing at the peak. “One day, I’m coming back here, and I’m going to reach the top,” he declared.

Spock suppressed a smile. “I do not doubt it.”

“Bones does,” the admiral replied, shucking off his backpack and sitting down across from Spock. “Or he doubts I’d come back in one piece, anyway.” He rifled through his pack. “He thinks I’d suffocate or fall or something.”

“Do climbers not use equipment to mitigate the likelihood of such an occurrence?”

The admiral grinned. “I’ve always preferred free-climbing.”

“An irrational human proclivity.”

“Irrational if your purpose is to be safe, very rational if you’re looking for excitement.” Before Spock could point out that seeking excitement was an irrational pursuit in and of itself, the admiral exclaimed, “There we go!” He pulled out two covered containers and handed one to Spock. “I helped your mother in the kitchen last night and made sure there was plenty of extra bean salad so we’d have something to take with us for lunch. There’s fruit, too, if you want it. I ate most of the berries on the way here, but there’s still a good handful, and a couple of pears—”

Spock listened fondly as the admiral rattled on. Evidently, he had also replicated trail mix—not as salty as it tended to be back on Earth, but a decent snack anyway—as well as some protein bars. Just when Spock was convinced the admiral had exhausted his catalogue, he was presented with yet another container, this one smaller than the two holding their lunch.

“Open it,” said the admiral, leaning forward to catch Spock’s reaction.

Spock complied. Inside were several brown disks, flat at the edges but slightly convex in the center. A moment later, a tantalizingly sweet smell reached his nose. “Cookies,” he said, pleased to have remembered the Earth term despite it never having come up in his studies.

“Not just any cookies,” the admiral replied with a smile. “Your mother says these were your favorite. She used to make them for you all the time.”

Spock focused inward. After a moment’s intense effort, a memory coalesced. Spock was standing at his mother’s side, one hand clutching the trailing sleeve of her cool blue robe. He could not have been older than four—he remembered, very suddenly, that I-Chaya had gotten ahold of that robe and chewed the sleeves to ribbons the day before Spock’s fifth birthday. So he was four years old, and his mother seemed very tall. She smiled down at Spock, who hid his face in her sleeve, and told him to come out, she had something special for him.

“She told me their Vulcan name, but I can’t remember it,” said the admiral a bit sheepishly.

“Nor can I.”

“But I can tell you some of the history behind them,” the admiral added, perking up. “The recipe for the dough—that’s all Vulcan, old as the hills, but the filling is made with figs.”

“They became a highly popular import after first contact,” said Spock, referring back to his studies. “As fig trees thrive in dry climates, it was relatively easy to genetically engineer strains suitable for cultivation on Vulcan.”

“That’s right!” The admiral’s face glowed with pride. “That’s exactly what your mother told me. Figs were so easy to grow here, they wound up being added to all kinds of recipes, like this one.” He nodded at the cookies. “Do you remember what they taste like?”

Spock shook his head.

“Well, try one!”

Spock took a bite, chewing slowly. He was overwhelmed, not by the sweet, mild flavor, but by memories. His mother really had made them often—to comfort him when he came home crying, as a reward for some exceptional achievement, for no reason at all, other than his enjoyment of them. Each bite brought his childhood into more vivid relief. A bittersweet gift, but Spock was grateful for it nonetheless. And the admiral had given it to him.

“Thank you,” said Spock in a low voice.

“Of course. Anything for you, Spock. Anything.”

Spock dropped his gaze to his half-eaten cookie, flustered. There was an odd fluttering in his stomach. Was it possible he had developed an allergy to figs? Perhaps it was something he had picked up from Dr. McCoy? However, the fluttering was not painful. After a moment, Spock took another nibble. Then he met the admiral’s eyes again.

“When did you have time to prepare these?” he asked.

“I made time. I woke up early.”

“I hope your rest period was adequate,” said Spock, his brow furrowing. “I have studied human biology—the disadvantageous effects of a lack of sleep become apparent in your species far quicker than in mine. It is detrimental to your health.”

The admiral laughed. “Not as detrimental as letting you go hungry.”

Spock glanced around at the rest of their provisions. “I am in no danger of that.”

In fact, by the time Spock had finished his bean salad, a piece of fruit, and, at the admiral’s insistence, another cookie, he was quite full. Drowsy, too. He recalled that, much earlier in their evolutionary journey, Vulcans had been a nocturnal species, sheltering in caves during the day to spare themselves from the worst of the heat. Even now, the tradition of an afternoon nap endured.

Spock shared this with the admiral, then said, “This is not applicable when Vulcans venture offworld. My father traveled so often, he was not in the habit. My mother insisted upon it when I was younger, but I understand that is a common practice with human children as well.”

“‘Mother’ is a species in and of itself, with shared cultural practices that transcend worlds,” said the admiral, eyes twinkling. His playful expression softened. “Are you tired now? We can rest a little longer before tackling the mountain.”

For reasons unknown, Spock looked at the admiral’s lap. He quickly turned away, suppressing a traitorous flush. As he did, he remembered—or thought he remembered—the admiral patting his lap in invitation. Then Spock laid his head down…

There was no context for that memory. When did it take place? Where were they? He remembered a yellow sun. Earth? Shore leave? The details wouldn’t come, except one: the sensation of the admiral’s warm, strong fingers carding through Spock’s hair.

Jim, Spock heard his past self murmur, and he shunted the memory to the back of his mind, embarrassed.

Admiral Kirk may have been a friend, but he was also Spock’s superior officer. As soon as he was apprised of that, Spock was retroactively mortified. Had he really called him Jim in front of everyone following the fal-tor-pan? What claim did he have to such intimacy? What was wrong with him?

Spock was determined never to make that mistake again. He stood, brushing sand off his robe. “That will not be necessary, Admiral. We may proceed.”

***

“We’ll only go a little higher,” the admiral kept saying. Spock got the impression he was doing it more to limit himself than to offer reassurance. “We still have to go back, after all.” 

But more than an hour had passed, and the admiral’s attention kept being drawn upward. There was an interesting bird call, or a tangled snarl of bristling plant life—“ Are those berries edible? ”—or, most recently, the entrance to a cave.

 
“We have to explore it,” said the admiral. “If we don’t, I’ll be up all night wondering what we could’ve seen inside. We’ll just take a quick look around and head down—I promise, this time.”

The cave was far larger than Spock had anticipated. Darkness yawned beyond the sun’s reach. Every breath and footstep echoed, then petered into silence. It was impossible to say how far back the passage went. It reminded Spock of his own mind—emptiness and echoes, hidden depths and obscuring shadows. A cold, forbidding place in which one could be hopelessly lost.

Fortunately, the admiral had brought a portable light source. Less fortunately, Spock had not thought to do the same. He had no choice but to stay close to the admiral’s side as they advanced. Spock kept his hands laced tightly behind his back so there was no chance of brushing against him. Chagrined by his lack of foresight, he apologized.

“I should have prepared for this eventuality, and others.”

Surely the admiral expected more from him. Spock had been his first officer, after all. What value could he possibly possess now? Not only was his memory compromised, but he was guilty of inexcusable errors in judgment.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You didn’t know we were going spelunking today,” said the admiral, fanning his light from side to side. There was still no sign of the back wall. “Besides,” he went on in a softer voice, “you’re still getting your memories back. I don’t expect you to remember everything. It’s fine.”

Little by little, the passage narrowed. Spock and the admiral were pushed shoulder-to-shoulder. He could feel the admiral’s body heat through his clothes, and it awakened something in him.

Spock felt a horrible burning just under his skin, a throbbing ache building all over his body. It took him a moment to realize the sensation wasn’t real—just a memory.

A memory of what?

“Get your hands off him, Spock!”

Jim. Jim’s lifeless face. His body slack on the sand. Spock’s searing skin and the ahn-woon bitingly cold in his hands…

Spock froze in his tracks. “I killed you.”

A hush, just long enough for a single breath to be held. Then the admiral turned as much as he could, trying to meet Spock’s eyes. “You’re remembering that first pon farr, aren’t you?”

Pon farr. Spock hated those words, hated every shard of recollection that pierced him at the sound of them. He couldn’t suppress a shudder.

The admiral set his free hand on Spock’s shoulder. “You didn’t kill me. We just had to make you think you did to end the fight. Do you remember that now?”

Spock couldn’t at first, but then—

He saw his captain, alive and well, and all else vanished. The shame that usually colored every feeling Spock failed to suppress couldn’t compete with the sheer joy and relief that came over him. Joy, relief…and love.

Spock was in love with him.

Spock was newly aware of the admiral’s hand on his shoulder. He was ashamed. How long had he harbored this untenable emotion toward his commanding officer? Was the admiral aware? Surely not. Spock had to keep it that way. It was the logical path to avoid embarrassment, as well as the loss of an otherwise promising friendship and any potential for Spock to resume his career in Starfleet when his recovery was over.

A high whistling noise filled the cave, followed by a harsher, dryer rattle.

The admiral brandished his flashlight. “Snakes?” he asked in a tense whisper. How quickly, how instinctively he lent Spock his trust. But the admiral answered his own question. “No, that’s coming from the front of the cave. If there were snakes nesting there, we would’ve seen it—one or two wouldn’t be anywhere near this loud.”

Slowly, they turned around, heading back for the mouth of the cave. Spock scraped along the side of the passage, wanting to keep as far from the admiral as possible.

Halfway to the entrance, the beam of the admiral’s flashlight caught countless swirling particles—grains of sand. Great amber clouds rolled over the cave’s opening, reducing the clear afternoon sunlight to a livid haze as the wind shrieked and howled.

“A sandstorm, Admiral.” Spock decided to approach this scenario as though it was nothing more than another mission. He was not in love with James T. Kirk, was not missing a significant portion of his memories—including what, exactly, that T stood for—was not suffocating with shame. “The average length for such an occurrence in this region at this altitude is one-point-one-eight hours.”

The admiral flashed him a quick, appreciative glance. “And the longest recorded sandstorm?”

“Seven months, nine days, twelve hours, and fifteen-point-two minutes.”

The admiral exhaled long and hard. “At least your studies are going well.”

***

One-point-one-eight hours passed, meaning this was not, in fact, an average sandstorm.

The admiral had managed to reach the broken-down Klingon ship on his communicator. Mr. Scott was inside, making repairs. He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes widening as the admiral explained his and Spock’s situation.

“D’ye need me to send a rescue party, Admiral?”

“No, no need for any heroic measures just yet, Scotty,” the admiral replied. “I just want to make sure someone out there knows where we are in case this storm lasts.”

Help was certain to be on the way, if and when the admiral deemed it necessary. They were in no real danger. But Spock’s heart still raced when the admiral shut his communicator and flashed him a reassuring smile.

After contacting Mr. Scott, the admiral heated up some rocks with his phaser, for the cave was much cooler than its exterior surroundings.

“There,” said the admiral, admiring his handiwork. “We’ve got a nice little hearth to gather around.” He looked up and saw Spock pressed flush against the wall. “You don’t want to get any closer? I did it for you. This is still plenty warm, where I’m from.”

Spock hesitated. He was unsure if it would be worse to sit beside the admiral—so close to his warm, generous body—or across from him, an easy target for those hazel eyes, glittering and impish in the dim light.

The admiral scooted to the side, patting the stone, and Spock gingerly sat beside him. After a moment, the admiral reached behind him—Spock tensed—and draped a blanket over his shoulders.

“You were shivering,” said the admiral gently. “Is that better?”

Spock was chilled, but he hardly noticed. He had been trembling from the sheer effort of controlling himself. Every instinct in his body was telling him to nestle closer and closer to the admiral, to cuddle him, in the human parlance. Desire was warping his sense of reality. Emotion was eating away at his logic, but he wouldn’t let it win.

“Yes,” said Spock as steadily as he could. “Thank you, Admiral.”

“You can call me Jim, you know.”

No, Spock couldn’t, because if he crossed that line, there was no telling what he’d do next.

The admiral sighed and leaned back—away from the heat, away from Spock. “Well, Mr. Spock, it seems we’ve got some time on our hands. I’m afraid if I try reading without my glasses in this light, Bones will suddenly beam in here and start yelling at me, but if you want to see how Surak: A Life ends, you’re welcome to it. It’s in the largest pocket of the backpack.”

“I would prefer to talk,” said Spock, surprising himself.

The admiral snapped back up, hands on his knees. “Of course. What about?”

“I possess very few memories of our time together,” Spock began slowly, “and the memories I have regained lack context. This is gradually becoming less of an issue with Dr. McCoy as a result of our frequent mind melds—”

“I can meld with you!”

Spock flushed. The eagerness in the admiral’s voice, the brazenness of the offer—but he was human, of course. He could not possibly understand the true intimacy of a meld, nor its significance in Vulcan culture.

“You cannot.” The words sounded far colder than Spock intended. He met the admiral’s eyes as a form of apology. “That is to say, Admiral, I believe attempting a meld at present would be…inadvisable. It is one of Vulcan’s most advanced forms of telepathy, and I am still recovering my former knowledge on the subject. Melding with Dr. McCoy requires little effort or skill because he held my katra , but attempting to do so with anyone else—”

The admiral cut him off. “No, that’s all right, I understand.” Something like jealousy flashed in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant. It must have been nothing more than a trick of the strange half-light. “It was a foolish suggestion. Forget I mentioned it. You were saying?”

Spock clasped his hands. “I wanted to ask if there were any shared memories between us that you would like to bring to my attention.”

The admiral smiled softly, dreamily. Then his expression sobered. “Trying to push them onto you could do more harm than good. It’s better to let things play out naturally, let your mind move at its own pace. You see that, don’t you?” He laid a hand on Spock’s arm. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Logical,” said Spock, though the admiral’s touch made him feel anything but.

“We’ve countless shared memories. Years and years of beautiful friendship. There’s pain there, too, and confusion, and loss, but we’ve always come out of it together. That’s what matters. If you never remember anything else between us, hold onto that.” The admiral held Spock’s gaze. “I will always be here for you, Spock.” His lips parted slightly—

Jim’s lips, soft and warm against Spock’s—his steadying hands, one on Spock’s waist, the other cradling his face—his mind open, alive—

—and filled with love.

Spock raised a hand to his mouth, staring at the admiral through the haze of the cave. The kiss was nothing more than a memory, but for Spock to have remembered it at all…

Spock took a deep breath. One memory was not enough to establish a pattern of behavior. It was possible that kiss stood alone. Even if it didn’t, if he and J—Admiral Kirk had been in some form of established romantic partnership, it was illogical to assume that partnership remained in effect. Their circumstances had changed. Spock had changed. It was probable the admiral’s feelings had as well, especially in the light of all he sacrificed to restore Spock’s life.

But the memory itself was precious, as was his present friendship with the admiral. Spock would ask for nothing more.

Weary from the emotion and physical exertions of the day, Spock bundled his blanket into a makeshift pillow and laid his head down. He imagined his distant Vulcan ancestors curling up in the same cave, giving into their instincts and slumbering. What must it feel like to belong so completely?

Then he heard the admiral’s voice. “You don’t have to lay on the ground.” Spock sat up, and the admiral patted his lap—the same inviting gesture he thought he remembered earlier. “Here. I’ll take care of you.”

Hesitant, almost blushing, Spock crawled over and laid his head on the admiral’s lap. As the wind picked up outside, wailing louder than ever before, Spock closed his eyes. The admiral stroked his hair. Warmth and contentment washed over Spock. Just as his ancestors belonged in this cave, Spock belonged here, with Jim.