Chapter Text
Spock would rest when they retrieved the captain, he reminded himself.
However, when they located the captain, he had been rendered amnesiac; he was not himself. The preserver obelisk had buried Jim so deeply within his own mind that he would never be able to free himself from the confines of his Kirok persona, at least not without outside intervention. Spock would rest when Jim was himself again. This was reasonable. Of those present, only Spock could use the Vulcan mind meld to rescue the captain’s sleeping consciousness from the obelisk's conditioning.
Then, of course, there was the asteroid: hurtling on a crash course toward the planet on which they stood. Spock would rest when the asteroid had been neutralized. He would rest when they returned to the ship with Jim safely on board.
Spock had already gone this far, and the idea of needing to be carried off the planet’s surface like a child was thoroughly unappealing. He held out after they’d beamed aboard the ship and they were greeted by a relieved chorus of ‘Welcome back, Captain!’ Even Scotty forgot to be cross with Spock for what he’d done to his “wee bairns” when he saw that the mission had ended with Jim’s safe return.
Jim smiled at his crew, but the smile was wan. He was grieving for his wife and child.
Spock stumbled while stepping down from the raised platform of the transporter device. That was how it started. Jim didn’t notice, but Spock could see McCoy’s eagle-eyed attention out of his peripheral vision. Jim was wreathed in sadness, and his usual powers of observation were dulled. Unfortunately for Spock, the same was not true for the doctor. He saw everything. Before Spock could take another step, McCoy’s hand clapped down solidly on his shoulder, pinning him in place. McCoy leaned in close to Spock’s ear and whispered, under his breath so Jim wouldn’t hear—
“You look like you’re a hair’s breadth from keeling over. Go lie down, Spock. Sleep if you can. Consider that a medical order.”
Spock opened his mouth to protest. McCoy’s glare sharpened, then softened.
“You did good, Spock. You got Jim back, safe and sound. Now, don’t make me send security to escort you to your quarters and MAKE you go to sleep.”
Spock raised an eyebrow, weary but unimpressed. “What purpose would it serve to involve security, Doctor? Do you propose to have them confine me to my quarters?”
McCoy scoffed, equally unimpressed. “I PROPOSE to have them hold you down while I give you a hypo that will knock you out for the remainder of our five-year mission, that’s what.”
Jim noticed the absence of his two usual escorts at his side and turned back to them. “Everything alright?” Jim asked.
Spock and McCoy both exchanged glances, then nodded.
“Everything’s fine, Jim. I’m just reminding Spock here that even Vulcans need rest every now and again.”
“So they do,” Jim responded, the ghost of a smile creeping onto his face. “See that you get it, Mr. Spock.”
“Yes, Captain,” Spock agreed.
Spock returned to his quarters. He sat down at the desk to write the post-mission report. He had not been relieved of duty. Jim had not relieved him, and he had not relieved himself. Jim would—
The door chimed.
Spock pushed himself from the desk. He had not written the report. Rather, he had been staring blankly at the screen for the past…however much time had passed. Disconcertingly, he wasn’t certain. He swayed and stumbled when he stood.
The door chimed again.
Spock nearly growled in frustration. His body no longer heeded his commands. It was worse than it had been before he sat down, as if the gelatinous liquid of his muscles had settled and congealed into solid form. His legs were as heavy and unwieldy as stone. He tripped over them as they dragged on the ground part-way through his gait cycle, but he caught himself against the wall before he fell. Ultimately, he made it to the door, his quivering body protesting every movement the short trek had required.
Spock cleared his throat. “Enter,” Spock said.
It was Jim, of course. It wouldn’t have been anyone else.
“May I come in, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked. He sounded horribly uncertain of himself and his place in the universe, much to Spock’s dismay.
“Of course, Captain,” Spock responded, reassuringly.
Jim passed the threshold and stood in front of Spock—gloriously alive and gloriously himself. The door closed behind him, blocking out the world outside of the two of them.
“Spock, I think we need to talk. I—”
Spock’s knees buckled before he could prevent it, pitching him forward in a chaotic tangle of ungainly limbs.
“Spock!” Jim squawked in surprise, hands flying out to catch him.
Thankfully, Spock did not hit the ground, and he was able to remain standing with Jim’s support. He caught his breath and waited for his vision to clear. By the time it had, Jim had wrapped his arm around Spock’s waist and was attempting to steer him over to the chair. Jim was a solid presence even as everything else around Spock melted out of its proper form, like an Escher painting.
“Here, why don’t you sit down before you fall down, Spock. You look like—”
“Perhaps, Captain…the bed would be preferable,” Spock admitted.
It was not shameful, he reminded himself. It was logical to be realistic. He had become dangerously light-headed and could no longer perceive any sensation in his arms or legs. His extremities were cold and completely numb, he noticed…as if he were a third-party observing his body from a distance. A scientist of himself.
Jim frowned at the uncharacteristic admission of weakness but assisted Spock in remaining upright as he walked on unsteady legs over to the bed. Spock all but collapsed onto it, eyes closing in relief as his head hit the pillow. Jim moved his legs onto the bed and elevated them to improve blood flow to his brain. The captain must think he's in shock, Spock realized. Perhaps the captain was right...perhaps his system WAS in a state of shock. It would explain the strange, dazed quality of his thinking and the growing distance between himself and his own body. He had begun shivering uncontrollably. Nothing in Spock’s body was within his control any longer.
Jim’s eyes scanned him, taking in all of it. He frowned. “Spock, what’s going on?” Jim demanded. He perched on the edge of the bed and wrapped a blanket tightly around Spock’s body. He rubbed his hands vigorously over Spock’s blanket-covered arms to warm him, to encourage blood flow, but Spock did not feel it, and the shivering continued despite his efforts. “Do I need to call Dr. McCoy?”
“Dr. McCoy will only order me to rest. He has done so already,” Spock mumbled.
“This looks like more than just fatigue, Spock. Either you tell me what’s going on, or I’ll call Dr. McCoy in here and have him tell me instead. Your choice,” Jim concluded.
The steel in his voice was a relief. It was Jim, and Jim was here. His fierce, unshakable confidence had returned. Spock wasn’t in command anymore. He was freed of the responsibility of making decisions. What happened next was no longer up to him. Spock could rest.
“Spock?” Jim asked.
His face was closer to Spock’s than it had been before. Spock’s eyes had closed without him noticing. That was strange.
“There is no need for alarm, Captain. During times of stress, Vulcans are able to take control of our metabolism and circadian rhythm. This allows us to defer...biological functions such as eating and sleeping…temporarily, until after the danger has passed.”
Jim continued to look alarmed, despite Spock’s words. “And you did this…while I was gone? The entire time?”
“It was necessary, Captain.”
“Necessary! Spock, I was gone for more than two months! Are you telling me you didn’t eat or sleep at all during that time?”
“My biological functions were at a stand-still. Food and sleep were thus rendered redundant. This allowed me to focus on the matter at hand, which was, of course, ensuring your safe return.”
Jim looked ill. “Did Bones know about this? Actually, never mind. I’m getting him in here.”
Spock’s eyes closed again. He could hear Jim paging McCoy in sickbay—could hear the back and forth as they debated the necessity of bringing a stretcher. When he opened his eyes, Jim was watching him, warily.
“Spock, are you still doing it? Suppressing your metabolism?”
Spock murmured to the affirmative. “However, I am reaching the limits of my ability to do so, Captain. I will need to…rest…in the very near future.”
Spock was beginning to slur his words, and he had no doubt Jim had noticed. Now that his control was beginning to slip, the resulting chain of events was unfolding faster than he would have assumed. Spock had not anticipated that his condition would degrade this rapidly.
“Well, good to hear you at least acknowledge that you HAVE limits,” Jim said. “What happens when you stop controlling it?”
“Biological rhythms will…resume as normal,” Spock slurred, closing his eyes again.
“Ok…hold off on that. I want to wait until Bones—”
“I will most likely lose consciousness immediately upon releasing control, but there is no need for concern. I will—”
The door chime again. “Enter,” Jim immediately granted, admitting the overwhelming whirlwind that was Dr. McCoy.
“Damn it, Spock,” McCoy growled, predictably irate as he stood over Spock with his scanner. “What’s this Jim is telling me about you turning your biological functions OFF?”
“Not off, Doctor. They are merely—” Spock’s words were slurring more noticeably now. His eyes closed and he could not get them to open again.
“I don’t care about the particulars,” McCoy snapped. This was an illogical perspective for a man of medicine, surely. “You should’ve TOLD me. I don’t like the idea of you messing around with your biology like this without me being able to monitor it. That was reckless, Spock. Something could’ve happened and I wouldn’t have even known.”
“You didn’t know about this, Bones?” Jim’s voice.
“Hell no, I didn’t know about it! I mean, I knew he was skipping meals and burning the candle on both ends, but I didn’t know the extent of it. If I did, I would’ve been keeping an eye on him at least.”
“No supervision was required, doctor,” Spock interjected. His words ran together, language becoming as effortful as it had been in his infancy, when it was new to him. “It is a natural…biological process—”
“Natural?! Nothing about this is goddamn natural!” McCoy frothed. “Maybe I SHOULD’VE hypo’d you into oblivion, you—”
McCoy was still speaking, but it was no longer audible. A deafening rush of internal sensation swept through Spock, drowning out his awareness of the world outside his own body. He could no longer focus. He could no longer control—
“Spock?” Jim was asking.
“The stretcher should…if they…like I told them to…Jim, why don’t…” McCoy was saying, somewhere beyond the thunderous torrent.
Inside of Spock, a dam had finally burst, and the furious current he’d been holding at bay broke free with a vengeance. He was swept away, pulled as if by a powerful whirlpool beneath the surface of consciousness. There was nothing to hold onto and no air to breath. It dragged him down into the dark depths, and it occurred to him that he would drown, here inside of himself where no one could hear him. There was a shameful wave of fear at the thought. He could not control that either.
Spock considered the cruel irony of the situation. Jim had been found, but now Spock was the one who was lost.