Chapter Text
one.
It takes Spock a year to tell the whole story—a year spanning the length of San Francisco, from a stony bayside overlooking the destruction to a Russian teahouse in the heart of the city to a booth in the back of a bar where the bridge crew meets every two weeks to drink away the things they’ve seen. Jim never drinks, and looks haunted in the dim red lights, so Spock and Nyota come with him to the booths in the back when that happens and they talk and sometimes Jim just says, “Tell me a story,” so Spock tells—
***
The first time Spock melded with Christopher Pike, it had been at Chris’s request. It was an early mission. Spock had come to Pike five months before as the expert on the Kelvin disaster to discuss its implications on the test he’d been asked to design, the Kobayashi Maru. Pike had given him, in return to his queries, the most significant professional partnership Spock had experienced to date. When Pike’s Number One had been asked to step down, Pike had requested Spock be promoted and set as his first officer. Spock understood that such a request was considered highly unusual, especially considering his studies at Starfleet had to that point been largely academic. However, Pike had commented on several occasions on the easy rapport between them, so when the offer was made he accepted it without hesitation.
Pike had asked Spock, after a particularly unstimulating diplomatic mission, to join him in the Captain’s quarters for a drink. Spock had understood a slight undercurrent of resolve in the request, which was something of a mystery to him, or he would have declined the invitation.
That was when then-Captain Pike asked Spock to join their minds.
It had been brief. After, Pike had apologized. “I didn’t realize it would be so… intimate,” he said, tasting the last word like something sour.
“My apologies, Captain,” Spock said. “I should have ascertained that you understood the magnitude of your request. This was, however, a light meld. We maintained a separateness that is not common among Vulcan-initiated melds. The majority are far more intimate than the one you have just experienced. If you found it unpleasant, I suggest you avoid any psi-contact in the future, if possible. Most would be more invasive.”
“Well,” Pike said, “I wouldn’t say unpleasant.” After a moment, “May I ask a question about your experience?”
“Indeed.”
“Is it difficult for you to meld with humans? Surely our emotionality compounds the difficulty of maintaining control.”
“It is true that the meld can be difficult with species that lack our rigorous mental controls. I would like to recognize your own restraint, however. Your emotions, while unbridled, were not difficult to navigate and incorporate into my structure during the meld.”
“Mister Spock, I believe that was a compliment,” Pike said wryly.
“Indeed. Your control is commendable.”
A few minutes later, Pike had dismissed him, and they hadn’t spoken of it any more for the duration of that mission.
***
Jim likes stories about Pike. He’s told a few of his own, as repayment for Spock’s, although never the ones that Spock knew Nyota most wants to hear. (No one knows what Chris had said to Kirk, at a bar in Riverside, to convince him to join the ‘Fleet. No one knows what Chris had said to Kirk, at a bar just off Headquarters, the last time they’d sat down together.)
But what Nyota doesn’t know is how many stories Spock isn’t telling, either. It will be, one day, for Jim’s ears alone to hear what Chris had said to Spock the last time they’d spoken in private. For now, he still finds the topic painful. He meditates on it often. He does not refuse to admit the pain to himself, but neither does he speak of it out loud.
Nyota stays with the rest of the crew, one night, when Jim sets his half-full water glass on the bar with a loud clink and turns abruptly away. She lifts her head slightly to acknowledge Spock’s departure, indicating that she is making a conscious decision not to join them. Spock nods back at her and slides into the booth across from Jim.
“Captain,” he says quietly, “would you like to relocate?”
Jim looks at him for a moment with something near hostility in his eyes. Then he looks away and nods.
“Wouldn’t mind it,” he says. “It’s a nice night. Walk with me?”
But his step is meandering, and after a few blocks Spock is guiding them. They move toward the bay. The water has always been calming to Jim: Doctor McCoy had confirmed this theory, when asked. “Close to space as you get when you’re planetside,” he’d said, and Spock has found some merit in the observation.
They stand by the railings looking over the smooth water. Jim presses his hips against the railings, in fact, and doesn’t look back toward the city that reflects before him. “I’ve still never been fishing, you know,” he says, as if the continuation of a long conversation.
“Unfortunately, the botanists have reported that 92.6% of the marine life in the bay was contaminated by the events of four months ago,” Spock says. “However, there are unaffected streams further north that are fishable with proper licensure. I am certain you could arrange transport.”
“Have you been?” Jim asks, and then barks a laugh. “Dumb question. You grew up on a desert planet.”
“I spent several seasons on Earth during my childhood,” Spock offers. “My maternal grandfather expressed a wish to introduce me to the sport during those visits. But you are correct. I have not been fishing.”
Jim leans forward and presses his elbows against the railings, then looks over his shoulder at Spock. “Are your grandparents still alive?”
“Negative, Captain.”
“Jim,” Jim murmurs, and looks back at the water. “Mine either.” He’s silent a moment. “I haven’t talked to my family. About any of this. I don’t even know if my mom has found out about Pike. I told you they knew each other when I was a kid, right? I guess I should have sent her a stream if for no other reason than to make sure she heard it from me, but I haven’t had the heart.” He stands up straight.
“My elder counterpart was dismayed to hear of Admiral Pike’s passing,” Spock says softly. He modulates his pitch on these subjects for Jim’s sake. Uhura and his mother had both, at various times, explained to him how such subtleties of vocal delivery could affect humans’ emotional reception.
Jim smiles a little. “You talk to him often?”
“No. But we did speak extensively while you were indisposed. He was very insistent that I keep him updated on your situation.”
“He would be,” Jim laughs softly, and looks back at Spock again, consideringly. “Want to come to my place? I don’t know if you’re tired, but I’m sure as hell not sleeping tonight.”
“That seems ill-advised, Captain. The human body requires—”
“My human brain and my human body haven’t agreed with each other often recently,” Jim interrupts, a little sharp again, and Spock reminds himself, again, that his own inability to accept his captain’s pain is as much a source of suffering as the pain itself.
“Surely the doctor could provide you with—”
“We’ve been over this. You were there. I’m not letting them dope me up. Anyway, I check in with Bones every couple days. He says I’m healthy, and my vitals aren’t outside standard deviation on days after I don’t sleep. Come with me; I’ll make you some tea.” He does not object any further. With this new information comes a sense of unrest, and the likelihood that Spock will find sleep tonight is less than four percent. If Jim finds a vid to watch, he resolves, he will attempt to meditate.
The auto-settings in the captain’s apartment have been changed: when Jim drawls, “Lights,” they rise only to 15%, dim enough to cause eyestrain. Jim corrects them quickly to the standard 60% and shifts his weight side to side briefly, a sign of discomfort, before bustling into the kitchenette, drawing an old-fashioned kettle full of water and setting it on the heating element. He looks around at Spock with a crooked smile and gestures to his seating area, a low settee with plush seats and mismatched throw pillows. Spock sits and watches while Jim withdraws ceramic coffee mugs, sets a tray with a jar of honey, a small pitcher of milk, the empty mugs, a bag of spiced rooibos and another of the special blend he’d made for Spock—Spock can smell the blueberry-rose blend from his seat—and, when it’s ready, a pot filled with the steaming water from the kettle. He sets the tea tray on the table before the couch and then settles back into the cushions with a loud sigh.
“I surmise that you had a trying day,” Spock says, leaning forward to set their tea pouches in the mugs and pour over water to begin the steeping.
Jim closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t mean to be so obvious about it,” he says after a moment. “I get more than my fair share of pity as it is.”
“You are not alone in your transparency,” Spock says. “I am often able to pick up on body-language cues to determine when humanoids are displeased. Also, you seem tired, despite your words to the contrary when we left the bay. I have not often seen you tired, lately.”
“No, that’s true, I’ve been bounding with energy,” Jim nods. “It was… we had another meeting. Archer and I. He’s pretty sure they’re going to bring Nogura up on charges, and at that point he’s no longer the de facto head but a permanent appointment. He’s furious. He thinks he should have seen signs sooner, that Section 31 was getting out of control. He was just raging about them, about all this stuff he’s found out they were doing, this intel they abused, and then he stopped and said he wished Pike was here. And I just lost it, Spock. In front of the fucking Admiral. I… I blamed myself, and I couldn’t stop shaking, and he told me…”
Spock has frozen. He is looking at the teapot, at the curls of rising steam, at the deep brown of the tea in Jim’s cup, and he cannot meet Jim’s eyes.
“He told me I wasn’t going to pass the psych evals,” Jim says quietly. “That I needed to get my shit together or he wouldn’t give me my ship back.”
“Unacceptable.” There is a tight fist of ice in Spock’s stomach, a painful tension in his throat. Without conscious movement he has come to face Jim. He cannot think what facial expression he must be wearing, what tone he must have used, to inspire the surprise on his captain’s face. “Such a statement is unproductive and unprofessional. The admiral does not serve Starfleet in a medical capacity; it is not within his purview to say—”
Jim’s face goes thunderous and he interrupts again. “Don’t give me that shit, Spock. I didn’t have an awful day because Archer yelled at me. I had an awful day because he was right and he’s the first person to have the nerve to tell me so. I cannot be a captain unless I get better, and I haven’t been—I haven’t even been trying. I’ve been wallowing, you and Uhura and Bones are the only people I’ll even talk to, and you all love me too much to push me but I think—” The breath and fury leave him as quickly as they had come. “I think I need to be pushed,” he says quietly.
“Do you intend to seek psychiatric help?” Spock asks when the void of silence becomes uncomfortable. He is not certain his contribution has eased that discomfort.
“I don’t know,” Jim answers. “I know I should. But a shrink is going to want me to talk, to come to terms with this stuff, and I feel like I’m not ready for that. I need to organize everything in my head, because it’s all a jumble now.” His lips twist, his eyes flinty. He reaches forward so quickly Spock is almost startled; removes the pouches from the mugs and tosses them onto the tray with a plop. Methodically, he stirs milk and honey into his own cup, then adds a quarter-teaspoon of honey to Spock’s without needing to ask.
“I am certain a professional could assist with the process of organizing your thoughts, as well,” Spock says, lifting his cup to his lips and inhaling the aromas. He is aware they are delicate, desirable, a weave of scents and flavors that he himself finds pleasant, but he takes no pleasure from them now.
“Yeah,” Jim says. He sounds dejected, his shoulders slumping with a defeat he is only partially attempting to mask, his frown completely unhidden. “I just hadn’t even really let myself think of it until he was saying it. What do I do if I don’t pass, Spock? If they end up giving the ship to someone else and you all warp off without me?”
Spock’s instinct is to answer strongly: to say that this will not happen, to say that he will not allow it, that the crew would not allow it, but he cannot speak to that instinct without further thought. In truth, if Admiral Archer asked Spock to take the captaincy, he would not accept, but if the spot was given to another captain, he cannot say that he would resign his commission rather than abandon his friend. New worlds and new civilizations capture his attention like nothing else he has discovered, and he has a duty to Starfleet.
“I cannot imagine seeking the stars without you at my side, Jim,” he says softly, because that is true. “Captaining a starship is your first, best destiny. If you desire, I will dedicate my efforts to assisting in your psychological rehabilitation. I will do whatever I can to prevent that which the admiral threatened today. If the admiralty will allow it, I would do so in lieu of accepting a professorship next semester.” Jim bites his lip, and although he does not look up again, he reaches out a hand blindly and sets it on Spock’s shoulder. It is warm and heavy and comforting, and Spock thinks he is not the one who should need comfort right now, but he cannot deny it serves that purpose.
“Thank you,” Jim says. His fingers tighten, then release. “I appreciate that. I don’t want to believe it will be necessary, but… I know it’s stupid, Spock, but sometimes I feel like I can do anything if I know you’re on my side.”
“I am,” Spock says, “on your side.”
“I won’t forget.”
“I will not allow you to forget.”
“Fuck,” Jim says, and takes in a deep breath. “That’s a lot, Spock. This is… It’s going to my head a little bit. You’re not usually this open.”
“I am compromised,” he admits, barely thinking the words before he speaks them, but he knows it to be true. “The idea that you might be separated from us again is deeply upsetting to me.”
“I don’t want to keep making you feel these emotions,” Jim says, looking up again, his eyes wide. “It seems like I keep pulling you back there, to these things you swore not to feel.”
Fear. Anger. Confusion. Loneliness. It is not untrue, but it seems irrelevant now. Spock is aware that this is a sign of the depth of his compromise, but knowing does not change it.
He cannot say so. He has said too much already, spoken many words of honesty with little hesitation, and he remembers Nyota’s accusation: that he could choose to stop feeling for her, but that he could not choose to stop feeling for Jim. He hadn’t denied it then, had cataloged the stirring of emotions that came with those words so that he could meditate on them, but each time they had arisen his meditation had come to a premature halt. Now he can say so: he cannot believe that even kolinahr could purge him of the things he feels now, and that is troubling indeed.
“My emotions are my own responsibility, Jim,” he says. “You need not trouble yourself with them.” But now within him there is a deep thrum, like a plucked chord that begins a song, and even the dread that accompanies it cannot wash out the sense of relief.