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Spock’s mind whirled with calculations, each one presenting worse results than the previous. Medical would never reach them in time and the first aid Spock knew was worthless in the face of Admiral Pike’s injuries. That didn’t stop him from putting pressure against the wound, buying him precious seconds when Spock knew that each one was closer to being Pike’s last.
Never had Spock felt so helpless. With trembling fingers, Spock raised his hand towards Pike’s—no, there was no need for formality here, no decorum here to maintain—towards Chris’ face, fingers finding the meld points with the ease of long familiarity.
To meld at death, for Spock knew with certainty that Pike was dying, Vulcans were taught was not to be entered into lightly as it was considered to be one of the greatest intimacies, a point in time when the mind was completely open, where all barriers were removed.
Spocks’ control was long since shattered, but even so the connection was easy, too easy as even in the throes of passion, Chris had never been so open to him. Spock sank down into the embrace of Chris’ mind, the normally comforting presence doing nothing to soothe his fraying nerves. Even in this, Chris was still trying to protect him.
There was no failure on Chris’ part. It was Spock’s fault, again too slow to protect someone he loved. He couldn’t save him, but he could block the pain. Spock felt Chris’ sorrow, his regret, Spock’s own echoing it, mirroring it. There was none of the condemnation that he expected.
None of that.
It was a command that Spock couldn’t ignore. Spock knew he was being illogical, that his natural barriers were crumbling beneath the weight of his sorrow at what was about to come.
Spock saw more than he’d ever seen, more than he should have seen, Pike’s life as he lived years in a fraction of a second. In the end, it was all about Spock, and he couldn’t help but watch in fascination: the intrigue that Chris had felt the first time he’d seen Spock’s file; the amusement and pity he’d felt as he’d watched Spock try to find his place at the Academy; the growing admiration and protectiveness in the face of the Spock’s struggles; the lust that he’d felt, but knew he could never act on; the growing friendship; teacher; mentor; protector; lover.
Breaking a dozen rules because it was worth it, this feeling.
Love.
So much and so profound that Spock wished he could gather it up and wrap himself in it forever. Chris had said the words that Spock could never return, had never returned, and now there was no time. So he opened himself more than he had ever allowed himself, the last of his own walls crumbling, letting Chris see and feel what he had been too much of a coward to admit out loud, and now it was too late.
Chris shed the tears that Spock couldn’t because he’d known all along. He hadn’t needed the words, had read it in Spock’s every action, his tells so much more obvious than Spock had ever realized, Spock’s trust as he followed Chris’ orders without hesitation (“Close your eyes.” “Don’t move.” “I expect you to be on your knees, plug in your ass at 1800 sharp.”). Spock didn’t want to think about that now, couldn’t face it now, but he couldn’t hide from it; it was there at the forefront of Chris’ mind. It wasn’t always like that, but there were days that they’d both needed it, the give and take, the power to push and push and push, the release.
Beautiful.
Spock saw himself as Chris saw him; never not Vulcan enough, never not Human enough, nor an oddity to be studied. No, he was simply Spock and Chris loved him for that, not despite that.
Instincts that Spock had long been taught to suppress to guard against lest they overwhelm him, rose up from the depths of his soul and Spock did not fight against them. He knew now why this was such a revered act, why only those closest were permitted. It wasn’t simply a baring of the soul, but the preservation of it, the katra, one’s essential essence. But he couldn’t, they hadn’t taken that step yet, hadn’t bonded, and he wouldn’t do that, not without permission.
Do it.
Spock hesitated.
Now.
There was no denying that tone, Spock’s response too ingrained to ignore. The connection flowed into place eagerly, tying them together so tightly that it betrayed how much Spock had wanted this, how very compatible they were, how well they fit, and just how much he had denied himself. However, there wasn’t time to marvel at it. Chris wasn’t Vulcan, didn’t have the means to initiate the transfer himself, but Spock could see the strings, where to cut and pull and twine, wrapping them both together, engulfing Chris’s essence with his own.
Between one breath and the next Spock felt the life leave Chris’ body, and for one terrifying moment Spock believed that he had failed.
A sudden warmth had Spock pausing, examining his shields which had snapped back into place as soon as the connection had shattered. The connection was still there, glowing brightly silver, thick and strong. Brushing it brought another wave of warmth, and Spock followed it, finding a previously unknown part of his mind or maybe a new part. With trembling fingers, Spock brushed against the delicate mass, seeming to be less formed than a newborn Vulcan.
The annoyance that washed over him was so Chris that Spock couldn’t help but jerk back as he remembered similar reactions when he’d tried to wake Chris before he was ready, the man despite his decades in Starfleet having never become a morning person as Chris had so often said with distain.
Spock’s next touch was a caress that went both ways, a balm on his battered soul. Chris would awake when he was good and ready, just like he always did, and Spock would be waiting.
In this, Spock knew why so few Vulcans remarried after accepting their mate’s katra. They were never alone.