Chapter Text
The Enterprise and her crew are slated to remain in Yorktown for another six days, fourteen hours and forty-three minutes. This is a fact for which Spock is not grateful, because gratitude is an emotion; rather, of this he is logically appreciative. While the new-formed Enterprise herself is still under construction, requiring some hefty addendums before she is prepared for deep space, her crew requires time to recuperate as well. Although Spock could never claim the shallow yet vast emotional range experienced by these remarkable humans with whom he has served for three years, his telepathic mind picks up on their distress with relative ease. In fact, upon some particularly tiring occasions, he feels their pain as his own.
With the captain, this peculiarity is magnified, a feat nigh-unheard-of. Both the captain and - for some reason almost beyond Spock’s comprehension - Doctor McCoy share this effect on his psyche: the fascinating ability to shred his mental shields during bouts of particularly strong feeling.
Logic dictates that, in the face of such a dangerous adversary to a relatively composed half-Vulcan mind, Spock should flee as far as possible from these two mentally armed humans who are not even aware of their power. Recently, he was afforded an opportunity: to assist New Vulcan in an effort to rebuild his race.
Yet his refusal of this posting was not logical.
So he finds himself toiling alongside the crew of the Enterprise, working in every area possible to ensure that the she becomes spaceworthy within the week. Fortunately, for most crew members, reconstruction efforts do not require much of their attention; after the near-disaster averted by Captain Kirk, their respite on the base has functioned more as a shore leave, as most of the work to renovate the Enterprise 1701-A falls to the crews of Yorktown’s Starfleet Command. However, for the command chain, the paperwork and requests and small tasks and sheer petty details are overwhelming.
Being partially Vulcan, Spock is naturally equipped with an attention span and mind for said minutiae far greater than any human’s. As such, it is only reasonable that he assume a large portion of the work necessary to ready the Enterprise for her crew. However much his captain insists he rest and the doctor threatens to hypo him (Spock is beginning to believe that Doctor McCoy’s penchant for stabbing anything that moves is actually an expression of concern, rather than the sheer irritability Spock previously assumed), Spock practically buries himself in various chores.
The first was the report to Starfleet Command. Given that the captain was injured - physically, emotionally and mentally - Spock took upon himself the responsibility of detailing a full account of the Enterprise’s journey through the nebula. His captain always bears the grief of each lost life as though they were his own family (and, in a way, they are - the crew of the Enterprise, romantic as the idea sounds, function as a family, headed by their own captain, with a heart too large for his own good; this unity has seen them through the previous three years, through disasters small and large, and what makes the crew of the Enterprise the best in the ‘Fleet). Therefore, it is purely logical - to alleviate the suffering of another being - to assume Captain Kirk’s duties, if only for this short period of time.
Then the task of selecting and sorting new recruits for the Science departments, to fill the considerable gaps left behind by Krall’s wrath, fell to him. The Medical division, technically, should to Doctor McCoy; but under the pretense of Doctor McCoy's incapacitation imbibing Scotty’s “secret” stash, Spock took over those assignments as well. (McCoy would never drink overmuch, for the Doctor is not an irresponsible man; yet the human accepted his gift when Spock wrested his PADD from his hands with surprising grace.) Though the Doctor does not feel as much for the crew one the whole as the captain does, he treats the entirety of the Medical staff as though they were his children, and would sooner tear off his own right arm than hear of their deaths. To force him to read about their replacements, when the tragedy of their passing is still so fresh, would be nothing short of cruelty, one which Spock could easily circumvent, at little sacrifice to himself.
Later, of devising a schedule of their rotations, sorting the ones with exceeding potential, fit to assume alpha and beta shifts, from the ones with less, whom he consigns to gamma. On top of this, he maintains contact with the colony on New Vulcan, sifting through pages and pages of ancient rules that the Ambassador had broken, simply by dying in the manner he chose. Not only did the Ambassador choose not to join his katra with the Katric Ark, a quasi-sacrilege in itself, his will intends to bestow some of his possessions to outworlders. Both of these acts are huge leaps from custom, and to further exacerbate matters, those outworlders are Jim, Bones, and Spock himself - three who will not soon be able to depart from Yorktown.
Admittedly, Spock has not had time to repair his damaged mental shields, nor to sink into the healing trance that his injured side demands of him. However, he simply does not possess the time for meditation. There is too much to do, too much to be organized, too much to be overseen; and he cannot, in good conscience, allow this work to fall to either the captain or Doctor McCoy, given that their minds are both lesser at handling mental strain than his, and that they are both recuperating in that peculiar human way from grief. The attack on Yorktown occurred less than two days ago - far too little time for humans to recover.
But this evening, the captain has demanded that Spock “relax for once”. The line was drawn upon the traitorous Doctor McCoy’s report to his captain that Spock has not slept in over five days, an unfortunate fact that prompted his captain’s concern. As much as he is tempted to decline the request (order?) to take time to recover, his captain simply will not let him; his protests are met with threats of court-martial, as Spock recalls ruefully. And though he is fully aware that the captain speaks in jest, he cannot deny that even Vulcans are incapable of working forever.
Besides, if he is fully honest with himself - and to deny the presence of that which exists, however unfavorable, is illogical - he might enjoy the captain’s company.
As for that of Doctor McCoy...well, this remains to be seen.
Six days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes until the release of the Enterprise finds Spock outside the Captain’s chambers. Technically, this social gathering will not begin until 1930 hours, and it is only 1918 hours; but knowing his captain as he does, he does not believe that Captain Kirk will mind his early arrival.
Technically, his voice is part of the captain’s personalized audio-recognition database, and he could hypothetically open the door by speaking his name. But he acquiesces to the Terran custom of knocking. After all, it is polite.
As he waits, Spock notes that the corridors are unusually cold. Perhaps a flaw in Yorktown’s temperature control systems.
“Spock!” comes the captain’s overjoyed voice as he opens the door. The captain is one of the few humans who consistently greets his presence with cheer, or at least a friendly overture (barring their first disastrous mission). He has never experienced acceptance on quite the level at which James T. Kirk exudes it, and he doubts he ever will again; the gift that this man has given him is irreplaceable.
Truly, he thinks with a wry, invisible smile, he is tired to be waxing poetic about his captain, however private his mental musings are.
“Thinkin’ warm and fuzzy thoughts?”
And there, on time as always, is Doctor McCoy. Perhaps his shields are more frayed than he thought; apparently, some of that warmth wriggled its way onto his face in the form of a small smile.
“I am incapable of doing so, Doctor. As you well know, Vulcans do not feel such emotions,” he replies evenly, and politely ignores the twin snorts of fond exasperation.
Excellent. Human sarcasm in surround-sound.
Already, the captain has made the room his own. That is to say, destroyed anything and everything overly ostentatious - the zealously decorated tablecloths are piled neatly in a corner of the room; the ornate wall-hangings have been turned over, blank sides outward (a precaution against a Kirk tantrum, Doctor McCoy explained to him in an undertone); books thrown astray, scattered around the table, piled by chair legs and wedged between cracks in the sofa, pages filled with dog-ears and the crisp smell of old paper. As he enters, his captain is in the process of shoving the expensive human equipment required for cooking meals of satisfactory nutritional content into one corner while he swears up and down that yes, Bones, he’ll put it back before they leave the Starbase, promise. For some reason unknown to Spock, he crosses his heart as he does so, expressing wishes to die. Spock decides that, judging from the exasperation and not panic lighting the Doctor’s face, Jim does not mean this adage literally.
The captain and Doctor McCoy, Spock is pleased to note, look well enough. Doubtless they have spoken to each other through their emotional turmoil. Haphazard “cleaning” finished, the captain joins Doctor McCoy at his table. This table is situated precariously near the captain’s impromptu bar (Chekov helped him organize his supply, Spock would bet, were he part of a wagering race). Both officials nurse glasses of clear liquid in their hands.
“C’mon, Spock, join us,” his captain suggests, waving him over with an eager flap of his palm. He nudges the third cup toward Spock as he approaches the table.
Vulcan spice tea, Spock notes appreciatively, inhaling the scent. Already, the smell of such a rare and refined drink eases some of the pain burning in his side.
“My thanks, Captain.”
“Jim,” he corrects. More of an automatic reflex at this point, Spock believes, than a genuine request; all three of them well know that Spock uses first names in times of crises. Apparently, for humans, these types of special delegations hold sentimental significance.
“Of course, Captain,” Spock replies dryly, suppressing a small wince as he forces himself into the chair.
That earns him a dirty look before the captain proceeds. “Anyway, Bones ‘n I were talking about what we’re gonna do when we get back in space. What do you think?”
“It is reasonable to believe that we will be tasked with carrying out Federation missions.”
That earns him a dual exasperated eye-roll. “Of course, you menace,” Bones mutters at him, rubbing an idle finger around the lip of his drink. Water, from the smell. “But what’re we gonna see? What new, deadly space viruses and homicidal, egomaniacal villains are we gonna encounter when we get back out there, is what he means.”
“Such a pessimist.”
“More than warranted!” the doctor yelps, waving a hand behind himself. From Jim’s room, the construction of the Enterprise 1701-A is visible through a large window uncannily resembling an Observation Deck. “Look what happened the last time we went out in space.”
“Doctor, the days in which the Enterprise encounters no trouble far outnumber those in which we find ourselves facing deadly situations,” Spock points out.
“He's got a point. It's quite logical, Bones,” the captain nods his approval, clearly hiding a smile.
Bones mutters something unflattering and anatomically impossible before taking a swig of his drink. His irritation is not real, Spock knows, then blinks. Interesting. With mental shield in such tatters as they currently are, it appears that his ability to glean the emotional state of his crewmates has increased.
Spock is not sure whether he would like for this phenomenon to merit further investigation.
“So what do you think? Good or bad luck we’re gonna have out there?” his captain asks again as Spock picks up his cup with two hands, grateful for the warmth that seeps through his palms. Perhaps this temperature difference will aid the unusual coolness in his body. The abrupt change causes a small, uncontrollable spasm to run through his leg, forcing it to jump forward and brush sharply against a stack of thick, hardcover books near. Quite the intimidating stack, he notes with amusement. Clearly, the captain has been quite busy with his Tzu and Seuss.
“About the interesting or the dull missions we are bound to encounter, Captain?”
“Jim. And the interesting, Spock.”
Spock pretends to mull over the captain’s query. “Given the Enterprise’s unusually high rate of disasters, I can only assume that we will continue to meet more of the same ilk - that is, disastrously bad fortune.”
Doctor McCoy makes a patently human, see-what-did-I-tell-you gesture that brings an exaggerated frown to the captain’s face. “Awww, why you gotta be that way, Spock?” Jim pouts, sticking his lower lip out egregiously far.
“Because he’s right, Jim,” Bones snaps, shaking his finger in the captain’s general direction with much more ire than the situation merits. “Somethin’ goes wrong every month on this ship, an’ you know it!”
“Oh, c’mon, Bones. It’s not that bad.”
Spock suppresses a tiny shiver. For some reason beyond his ability to ascertain, his physical state is rapidly deteriorating. The throbbing in his chest increases sporadically, growing gradually more intense with each breath Spock takes. This is cause for alarm, he thinks vaguely; but nothing that requires attention at this immediate moment. There is no reason to unduly alarm either of the humans with whom he is currently sharing his time. He shall retire to Sickbay after this - maybe he is due for a checkup, and when better to turn himself over to the wrath of McCoy’s proteges when their beloved mentor is preoccupied keeping the company of his captain?
Perhaps he should not have delayed so long. But regret is an emotion, so Spock does not feel it; rather, he acknowledges that delaying two days before seeking medical assistance may have been an unwise decision, and...well, he does not decide to, as the humans put it, “do better next time,” for his intentions were to alleviate the burden of the two remarkable humans sitting across from him. Surely such sacrifice is understandable.
Truly, he thinks blearily, his mental state must be deteriorating as well, for him to be thinking such - dare he say it - sentimental thoughts.
Then, the captain’s face mere inches from his own makes him abruptly aware that he has been trying to summon Spock’s attention, likely for quite some time. “My apologies, Captain,” Spock says, illogically proud of the unruffled tone with which he delivers his response. “I was distracted.”
Even the doctor is eyeing him with something alarmingly close to worry. “You doin’ all right, Spock?”
“I assure you, I am functional,” Spock replies evenly, mind filled with horrifying thoughts of McCoy pursuing him around the Starbase, armed with three hypos and one concerned James Kirk.
Jim - the captain - squints at him critically. “That’s not what he asked.”
“Captain, I am quite well,” Spock replies. Not a lie, he soothes his ruffled conscience. Merely a necessary prevarication; and besides, his injuries are quite containable with a healing trance. Maybe he has no real need for Sickbay after all, only the comfort of his own quarters.
Seeing the unease still evident on the humans’ faces, Spock rolls his eyes toward the sky. Perhaps so human an expression will alleviate their concerns. Familiarity breeds comfort, does it not?
“All right,” the captain says, subsiding reluctantly. Even so, Spock can feel their worry as his own - an alarming increase in his emotional receptivity. Perhaps this outing was an ill-conceived plan. “We were wondering what our first mission would be.”
“Assuredly something safe, Captain,” Spock replies automatically. “The chances of disaster on our first mission is small, however much bad luck the Enterprise seems prone to attract in the long run.”
Even as he speaks, he trods through the remnants of his mental shields, detachedly horrified at the mess. Without time to meditate, he had not realized fully the havoc wreaked by the countless souls of Yorktown screaming in horror, coupled with the terror of the crew under Krall’s influence, and the illogical indecision over his own opportunity to serve his own species. By his estimation, it will require two days, possibly more, to restore his shields to half of their normal effectiveness. The only time he has been quite so unguarded was during the destruction of Vulcan; and even then, he was not so attuned to the variable emotions of humans. Now that he has spent a considerable amount of time in their presence - especially that of these two unfathomable specimen - their minds more easily brush against his, willingly or not. “Perhaps a goodwill mission to another species, or a diplomatic trade?” he suggests.
“Speakin’ of which, we gotta work on your diplomacy, Jim,” Doctor McCoy growls, brandishing his half-empty cup at the captain like a bludgeon. “Make sure you don’t get jumped next time you gotta negotiate a peace treaty.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault they gave me an actual weapon to negotiate with!” the captain protests, holding his hands in the air in the universal gesture of peace. “There’s not many ways we could’ve salvaged that one anyway.”
With a mental sigh, Spock consigns the captain and Doctor McCoy to their childish antics and staggers through his own mindscape. The situation has, apparently, only deteriorated since their arrival at Yorktown two days ago; the passage of time spent in the company of so many humans and pushing his own physical limitations has rather spent his mental abilities. Half-inside of his own mind, half-tracking the conversation, Spock runs a gentle finger over the Vulcan soil that forms the base of his mental haven. Enormous webbed cracks split straight through the sand, and Spock avoids these cracks meticulously, sensing already the deep-rooted pain writhing beneath the surface. That is one healing mission upon which he has meant to embark for quite some time - five years, in fact - but has never encountered an opportune moment.
“If you’d kept a cool head and explained the situation, maybe.” The doctor’s eyes flash with mock-anger.
“Bones, that was half of the most powerful weapon in the universe.”
“Wasn’t like they knew that. They just knew it was a weapon and took offense.”
“Either way, Bones, giving someone a weapon is sketchy deal -”
“Not if you explain it’s meant peacefully. C’mon, Jim, what’d you do, go in there and start makin’ excuses?”
“No!” the captain protests in the exact tone of voice that means that make excuses is precisely what he did. “Well, maybe. But it was a lost battle from the start.”
“Like I said. Cool head. Y’know, talking, conversing. Explaining. Not flirting.”
“I wasn’t flirting -”
“You sure weren’t doin’ the other three! Maybe you should start takin’ lessons from Spock.”
At this precise moment, Spock feels very strongly that he has a cool head. Cold, even. In fact, the shivers running through his body are starting to cause him grave concern. He pulls himself from his damaged mindscape and the discordant conglomerate of scratches that have taken over the his normally-cohesive mindscape. Spock wishes ruefully for the previous order inside of his mind, memories tucked away over the soils of Vulcan, inside a mental recreation of the Vulcan Science Academy and his own home. Now, nothing is left but dilapidated remains, and with a weary mental sigh, Spock resigns himself to several days’ worth of rebuilding this recreation of his homeworld, grain-by-grain.
“You’re suggesting I ask Spock for help? Who’re you and what did you do with my CMO?”
“Oh, shut it, Jim, it’s only the logical explanation.”
“Gentlemen,” Spock intervenes neutrally, struggling to maintain an even tone of voice through the waves of nausea building in his throat and, quite irritatingly, making proper diction a challenge. Even more alarming, his wound has begun to throb excruciatingly in his chest; and without his shields, there is little he can do but bite back the pain and hope for relief when he enters a meditative trance. "I believe I must retire for the night,” he manages through slightly-pursed lips.
“You just got here,” Captain Kirk complains, turning to look at him. “Surely you can - Spock?”
It is almost laughable, Spock thinks, feeling strangely disconnected, that his captain is able to turn from feeling amusement to worry quite so quickly. As a half-Vulcan, taking on his captain’s emotions as his own is...different. He suspects that, were the captain not nearly so concerned, it might even approximate pleasantness, connected as such to Jim Kirk.
“Good God,” the doctor swears, setting down his drink with an unusually loud clank. “Spock, you look like somethin’ a Horta’s gone and thrown up.”
Spock quite literally turns green, an unusual physical declaration of his own disgust. “Thank you for that apt metaphor, Doctor. Now, if you will excuse me -”
He tries to stand, and finds that his knees do not wish to cooperate; instead, stubborn bones that they are, they lock on him and send him careening toward the ground.
Spock has time for a half-aborted mental curse in Ancient Vulcan, a swear word he had learned from Lieutenant Uhura, before his own stubborn body sends him careening toward the ground. Uselessly, he attempts to stop his descent with his arms, but his shoulders, too, refuse to comply.
His chest slams against something hard and forsakenly pointy on the way down before he topples to the ground. In the background of his auditory senses, he hears both the captain and Doctor McCoy release a string of what the doctor terms “colorful metaphors” before their faces crowd his vision.
For a moment, there is blissful nothing - not the physical pain of earlier, nor the mental discomfort from his shattered mindscape. He cannot, in that moment, even feel the numbing coldness spreading over his body.
And then, the spell is broken, and the physical pain is nearly unbearable.
Somehow, quite illogically, everything hurts - his chest, arms, knees, even fingers, throbbing in time with his Vulcan heartbeat. Also, he cannot breathe. He catalogues this information quite calmly, a fact which would be commendable even to a full Vulcan, before choking on something liquid rising in his throat and obstructing his airway.
Perhaps he should have retired earlier, Spock thinks, this time with genuine regret. If for nothing else, he would not die at the hands of a stack of old Terran tomes - truly, an ignoble method of downfall.
He curls in upon himself, quite instinctively, commanding what little he still can of his limbs to scratch at his throat and remove whatever is in the way of his airpipe. His success is limited-to-none.
Above him, the two humans are saying something. For once, Spock wishes that they would take it upon themselves to speak louder, quite the unusual wish - typically, his Vulcan hearing amplifies even whispers to over-audible hearing range. Now, though, he can hear nothing but a strange ringing.
Abandoning his pointed ears for now, Spock turns instead to reading their lips. Jim is saying “Spock,” probably several times in a row, looking concerned. Panicked, even. In a passing moment of delirium (so Spock tells himself), he wishes greatly to wipe such a wounded look of his captain’s face. He attempts to reach up, but finds that his arms do not respond.
At Jim’s side, Doctor McCoy whisks a tricorder over his rapidly-fading body. The man looks worried as well, Spock is surprised to note. Horrified, less so, but concerned - a tad more so, he thinks, than is fully justified for the average patient.
Interesting.
It is possible that he could have remained conscious, if not for the Doctor’s fingers patting (gently, of course, wonderfully gently) on his chest, and the sheer terrified confusion from both of them. However, the physical pain that crops up around his fingers, compounded with the emotional, sends Spock plummeting into the dark.