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The Academic Council chamber looked like a morgue with a polished shine. Too orderly, too clean, too quiet so quiet that Jim’s mere presence already felt like an anomaly within all that perfection.
Kirk stood at the front, back straight, hands tense at his sides.
Swallowing nerves.
Trying to look invulnerable.
Spock stepped forward. Tall. Unmoving. Impeccable.
—Cadet Kirk —he began, voice firm. —Your conduct during the Kobayashi Maru exam was unacceptable.
Jim wanted to react with something sarcastic, but the air was already dense in his lungs, as if the room had decided to shrink the moment he walked in.
—You violated the integrity of the exam —Spock continued. —You altered the software, bypassed security measures, and treated a life-or-death protocol as a game. It demonstrates a lack of discipline, a lack of respect for the regulations, and a lack of understanding of the test’s purpose.
Jim clenched his jaw, annoyed… but also afraid of what was coming.
Spock took another step, and his tone became almost personal.
—This simulation is designed to confront the cadet with the inevitability of death.
He paused. And then he said the phrase.
The phrase.
—And you, of all people —Spock said, looking directly at him. —Should know what that means.
Jim felt the blood freeze in his veins.
The blow was physical. A dry impact to the chest.
Spock had no way of knowing what he was saying.
He couldn’t.
But the words had gone in anyway deep, precise, too accurate.
Jim immediately turned toward the back of the room.
He looked for Bones.
Almost like a child looking for a safe point in a room full of monsters.
Bones was there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, brow furrowed. But the moment Jim looked at him, McCoy felt something was wrong.
Jim’s eyes held fear.
Not anxiety.
Not irritation.
Fear.
The ancient kind. The kind that settles in your bones and doesn’t leave.
Bones straightened up, alarmed.
—Jim… —he murmured, unable to contain himself.
But before he could take a step, it happened.
A buzzing.
At first like an electric whisper.
Then louder.
Then deafening, as if someone had turned on a swarm of bees inside his skull.
Jim blinked.
Spock was still speaking, but the voice no longer existed.
Only the ringing.
Only the white noise.
Only the sound that cut through his memories like a knife.
And then Tarsus IV returned, uninvited.
The dry heat.
The cracked earth.
The starved bodies piled like empty sacks.
Children too weak to cry, conserving energy just to keep breathing.
Three days without food.
Five.
Seven.
The metallic taste of his own saliva to trick his stomach.
Skin stretched over sharp bones.
His vision clouded by dehydration.
He remembered the night he couldn’t sleep because sleeping meant lowering his guard.
Because choosing to fall asleep could mean waking up surrounded by screams.
Or not waking up at all.
He remembered the line.
The selection.
The pointing finger.
One to live.
One to die.
Ten thousand to be sacrificed.
He remembered the constant fear of hearing his name.
The certainty that any breath could be his last.
The buzzing grew louder, crushing the present.
Jim grabbed the table to keep from collapsing.
Spock was a blur.
The room an empty box.
The murmurs distant echoes.
And there, on the verge of falling, he looked back again.
Bones.
He needed to see Bones.
McCoy was already moving toward him.
His face carved with that protective fury only he knew how to wield.
But before he could reach him, an alarm thundered through the entire room.
"RED ALERT"
The door burst open and an officer shouted:
—Emergency on Vulcan! All ships are to depart immediately! I repeat: immediate mobilization!
The whole world flipped into chaos.
Cadets shouting.
Officers running.
Orders lost in the air.
Jim swayed.
Bones reached him in time to grab his elbow.
—Hey, Jim. Look at me —he whispered, his voice an anchor in the middle of a shipwreck. —Focus on me. Come on, Jim, you’re still here.
But Jim couldn’t. Not entirely.
The room blended with the dry earth of Tarsus.
The shouts with the hunger.
The alarms with the crying.
The rushed footsteps with the bodies dragged from the line.
The scent of hot metal with the scent of desperation.
McCoy held him by the shoulders, firm, almost shaking him.
—Jim. You’re not getting lost. You hear me? You’re not going anywhere.
Jim breathed (or tried to).
The air entered halfway, scraping like glass.
—You’re not there. You’re not in that hell. You’re with me. With me, understood?
Jim blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The buzzing began to fade.
The room came back into focus.
The sounds organized themselves.
The floor stopped moving.
Bones held him a second longer, making sure he wouldn’t collapse.
—That’s it —he murmured. —Breathe.
Jim did.
It hurt, but he did.
And when he finally managed to speak, his voice was just a thread.
—I’m not… there.
—Exactly —Bones said. —You’re here. And we need to go or they’re going to leave us behind.
Jim swallowed. The trembling wouldn’t go. The past wouldn’t either.
But he could walk.
He could move.
He could keep breathing.
—Let’s go —he whispered. —Vulcan…
Bones nodded.
—Yes, kid. Vulcan.
And together they ran out, surrounded by the chaos of the emergency, while the echo of Spock’s phrase remained lodged at the base of Jim’s skull.
—He, of all people, should know…
And yes.
Kirk knew.
More than he’d ever admit.
[...]
The mission to Vulcan had ended, but Jim’s body and mind were still in a state of war.
After the return, the Academy regained its routine with an almost insulting cruelty.
Reports. Statements. Medical evaluations. People speaking in low voices when he walked by.
The whisper of "Cadet Kirk… the one who nearly died… the one who was there…"
For everyone else, the mission was over.
For him, it wasn’t.
The days were tolerable.
The hours filled with tasks, exams, simulations, noise.
Noise helped.
It kept him away from the memories.
But the nights…
The nights were different.
The nights were Tarsus.
Again and again and again.
The first day after Vulcan, Jim tried to sleep. He lay down, breathed deep, closed his eyes… and the buzzing returned with no mercy.
A deep ringing.
A pulse in his skull.
A pressure announcing something horrible was coming.
The second day, he tried to exhaust himself physically. Gym, running, combat training. He fell into bed dripping with sweat.
But every time sleep brushed against him, his body jolted as if someone had shouted his name in the middle of the night.
The third day he left the lights on.
He didn’t sleep a minute.
The fourth day he lost track.
By the seventh, his reflection in the mirror showed deep bags under his eyes, a permanent frown, and a tension in his shoulders that not even McCoy could loosen.
Bones noticed, of course.
He followed him, dragged him to Sickbay multiple times, forced him to sit while he examined him like he expected to find smoke coming out of somewhere.
—Jim, you’re going to pass out in class —he growled one night after finding him awake for the third time at four in the morning.
—I’m fine —Jim lied.
—Your nerves are raw. And your cortisol levels are through the roof. You can’t keep this up.
—I’ll sleep later —he lied again, looking down.
But "later" never came.
And one early morning, he simply couldn’t take it anymore.
With his body fatigued and his mind on the brink of collapse, he put on a jacket and went out to walk around campus. The cold night air scraped his face, and the silent darkness was unsettling but strangely necessary.
He walked aimlessly, following paths lit only by automatic lamps.
It was late (early), and the campus was deserted.
Until it wasn’t.
Turning around a building, he saw a figure sitting on a stone bench, perfectly still, looking up at the vast black sky.
Spock.
The silhouette was unmistakable: straight back, hands resting on his knees, face tilted upward as if searching for answers written among the stars.
Jim stopped.
He hadn’t expected to see him there.
Nor did he want to be seen.
But Spock turned his head slightly.
He had heard him.
—Cadet Kirk —he greeted, without surprise, as if he had anticipated his presence. —I did not expect to find you awake at this hour.
Jim swallowed, uncomfortable, tired, unguarded.
—I couldn’t sleep —he admitted hoarsely.
Spock nodded slightly, returning his gaze to the sky.
—Understandable —he said calmly. —After a traumatic event, sleep often becomes elusive.
Jim tensed.
Spock wasn’t looking at him, but his words were precise.
Too precise.
Jim hesitated. He could leave. Pretend he was just out for a walk. Pretend nothing was wrong.
But he was too tired to hold up masks.
So, slowly, he approached.
—And you? —he asked. —What are you doing out here?
Spock took a few seconds to answer.
—The stars help organize thought —he said finally. —And tonight, silence is more logical than meditation.
Jim let out a dry laugh.
—Are you also avoiding sleep?
Spock tilted his head a minimal gesture.
—I would not call it avoiding. I simply have not succeeded.
Jim sat down beside him without asking.
Their shoulders brushed lightly, accidental, but the contact made him straighten up.
Spock didn’t move.
The air was cold.
The sky dark.
The distant city lights looked like faint stars on the ground.
—I can’t… —Jim began, but the sentence fell apart.
Spock waited, silently.
Jim inhaled deeply, feeling the tremor in his chest.
—Every time I close my eyes, —he confessed. —I see… things.
The words came out fractured, as if he had to force them.
—Tarsus.
A whisper.
A weight.
An open wound.
Spock didn’t interrupt.
—The hunger —Jim continued, barely breathing. —The sleepless nights. The fear.
He paused, voice dropping even more.
—The sound. That… buzzing. Like the world’s about to break.
Spock lowered his gaze to the ground, just slightly, but enough for Jim to notice that it affected him.
—When you mentioned death —Jim murmured, not looking at him. —When you said "he, of all people"… something broke in my head. And now I can’t… turn it off.
A long silence fell between them tense, but intimate.
Finally, Spock spoke.
—I was not aware of your experience on Tarsus IV —he said slowly, as if the words were more delicate than usual. —And it was not my intention to cause harm.
Jim closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
—I know.
Spock studied him for a moment longer, then inclined his head very slightly.
—If your mind is experiencing sensory intrusions, I can assist you.
Jim opened his eyes, surprised.
—Assist me how?
Spock hesitated. Long enough for Jim to understand he didn’t say things like that often.
—Vulcan discipline allows for the stabilization of certain mental patterns through calm presence —he explained. —Not a link, not a fusion. Only conscious accompaniment.
Jim looked at him, exhausted down to the soul.
—Are you saying that… I can stay here? —he asked.
Spock moved his hand slightly, a gesture inviting him to remain.
—You may stay —he said. —You should not face these nights alone.
Jim swallowed, feeling something loosen inside him something that had been tight for far too long.
He leaned back against the bench, breathed, and for the first time since the mission, closed his eyes without sinking into terror.
Because Spock was there.
And for some reason Jim didn’t yet understand, that was enough for the buzzing not to pull him under so violently.
The night continued in silence.
A different silence this time.
One that didn’t weigh on him, but held him.
And Jim allowed himself, just for a few minutes, to rest.
[...]
The following nights became a quiet repetition:
Kirk woke up startled, heart pounding as if he’d been running between bodies on Tarsus IV. He breathed deeply, but the air was never enough. So he left his room.
And always almost eerily, but never intrusivel Spock was there.
Sometimes on the same bench.
Sometimes standing, hands behind his back, watching the dark sky as if trying to rebuild stars that no longer existed.
They didn’t talk much. But something in Spock’s presence his stillness, his absolute stability made the images of Tarsus less sharp.
One night, Kirk arrived with trembling hands. He’d had an especially brutal dream: himself, twelve years old, starving to the point of dizziness, counting breaths so he wouldn’t break; children crying; the daily suspicion that maybe today, today he’d die like the others. His chest burned from remembering.
Without needing to hear anything, Spock shifted slightly on the bench, leaving him space.
Jim sat with a long sigh, almost a release.
—Again? —Spock asked in his low, nonjudgmental voice.
Kirk braced his elbows on his knees.
—Yeah. Worse than before. I don’t know why it came back so strong.
—The recent events on Vulcan —Spock explained almost in a controlled murmur. —May have reactivated neurologically similar memories. Massive loss. Imminent danger. The perception of helplessness. It is coherent from a neuropsychological perspective.
Jim glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
He silently appreciated that Spock never said "I understand how you feel."
He never did.
He never imposed empty sympathy.
Only facts.
Facts that somehow made Jim feel less broken.
Two weeks passed like that.
Nights when Spock stayed with him, silent or offering scientific explanations that, surprisingly, soothed him.
Nights when Kirk could breathe a little deeper.
Nights when there were no nightmares or when there were, they weren’t so violent.
Until one early morning, Spock spoke without preamble, as if he had been processing it for some time.
—Cadet Kirk, I have analyzed a pattern.
Kirk, his head resting back against the bench, opened one eye.
—What pattern?
—Your sleep cycle improves in my presence. Nocturnal crises are reduced by sixty-four percent when we share the same immediate environment.
—You’ve been measuring my sleep? —Kirk blinked.
—It would be imprecise not to do so if I intend to assist you adequately.
Kirk huffed, somewhere between amused and resigned.
—Yeah, sure. Logical.
Spock nodded, interpreting that as a literal affirmation. Then continued, completely serious.
—Therefore, I have reached a preliminary conclusion: it would be beneficial to sleep in the same space. Sharing a room would provide more stable conditions and reduce traumatic reactivation.
Kirk lifted his head slowly to stare at him.
—Spock… are you suggesting that…?
—We will sleep together —Spock confirmed. —In a strictly functional manner.
Kirk stared incredulously, then covered his face with one hand.
—You know anyone else would say that in a way that sounds way less compromising, right?
—Anyone else has no reason to intervene in your psychophysiological health —Spock replied without blinking.
Jim lowered his hand.
He was tired. Exhausted.
And deep down, he knew Spock was right.
—Fine —he said at last, giving in. —Let’s try. Five nights. As an experiment.
Spock nodded, satisfied with the acceptance.
—Excellent. I will adjust my schedule accordingly.
Kirk looked at him, and for the first time since Tarsus, felt something like relief.
Not total relief.
Not a magical cure.
But a certainty:
he wouldn’t face the nights alone anymore.
[...]
The first night was… uncomfortable.
Not because of Spock, but because of Jim’s treacherous mind.
Spock lay down with surgical precision: flat on his back, hands aligned over his abdomen, posture as straight as if even in bed he obeyed some ancestral Vulcan regulation.
Jim, by contrast, moved every ten minutes.
He couldn’t help glancing at Spock, even just to confirm he was still there that he wasn’t some illusion created by lack of sleep or emotional exhaustion.
The second night was different.
He still tensed up when lying down (he was sleeping next to a Vulcan who had seen him break more than once), but Spock spoke in a low voice, almost like a rational murmur.
—Your breathing accelerates when you attempt to control tension. Your body will need several days to associate this environment with safety. It is normal.
And although Jim refused to admit it, the explanation calmed him.
But the third night…
The third night changed something Jim couldn’t name.
They lay down as always, each on their side: Jim facing the wall; Spock rigid as always behind him. Jim took a while to fall asleep, but he succeeded.
Hours later, he woke up.
But not startled.
Not with his heart racing.
Not gasping.
Not drenched in sweat.
He simply opened his eyes, confused by a strange sensation: warmth.
An arm around his waist.
Not tight holding.
Slow.
Precise.
Protective.
Jim blinked several times, trying to understand where he was and why his back was pressed against Spock’s firm, warm chest.
Spock’s breath brushed softly against the skin of his neck. It wasn’t loud. It was a warm, steady exhale, perfectly measured, like everything about him.
Jim’s heart jumped so hard he feared it would wake Spock.
But the Vulcan slept on, unmoving.
His hold was delicate, almost careful, as if he feared hurting him. His fingers rested just under Jim’s ribs, in a spot that strangely calmed him even more.
Jim slowly lifted his hand, touching Spock’s fingers, surprised by the temperature: warm.
Not cold, as he had assumed.
Warm, reassuring, almost human.
He stayed very still.
He didn’t want to break the moment.
He didn’t want Spock to pull his arm away because he thought too much about it.
Spock’s warm breath brushed his neck again, slow, almost synchronized with his own.
For the first time in weeks, Jim noticed something unbelievable: his body wasn’t trembling.
There was no phantom hunger.
No screams, no explosions, no buzzing in his memory.
Only silence.
And Spock.
Jim swallowed, barely audible.
He allowed himself a thought he hadn’t allowed in a very, very long time:
"I’m safe."
He didn’t say it out loud.
He didn’t even fully admit it.
But he felt it. In his bones. In his breath. In the way his muscles finally were no longer tense even in sleep.
He closed his eyes slowly.
Spock didn’t let go.
He didn’t move.
His presence was a warm, firm anchor in the darkness.
Jim leaned back just a little more, barely noticeable.
A small reflex, but sincere.
Spock’s arm responded.
Not tightening.
But adjusting just enough to give him a more secure hold.
That was enough.
Jim exhaled, long and shaky though not from fear.
And he fell back asleep, for the first time in a long time, without fighting the night.
Without remembering dry earth, or hunger, or screams.
Only warmth.
Only the slow rhythm of Spock’s breath against his neck.