RoH 2

An Aching Kind Of Growing

Stardate 2260.128, 1600 hours, Starfleet Medical rooftop café

“So you do …” Pike hesitated. He’d been about to say “feel”, but the point of this conversation was not to make the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth twitch. “… worry.”

Sarek offered him a look that was the barest hint less than diplomatically blank. “It is a father’s duty and privilege in both our cultures to exercise a suitable measure of concern regarding the welfare of his offspring.”

Pike translated that as “of course I worry, idiot”, and politely concentrated on the chess board on the table between them. They had claimed their by now traditional table in the rooftop garden café of Starfleet Medical in San Francisco. May sunshine warmed his back. The bright spring sunlight threw the many construction sites left from the wreck and ruin of the Vengeance a year ago into sharp relief. In two days the Enterprise was leaving on the first ever five-year mission of deep space exploration for the Federation. Just another day, and he’d finally be able to breathe. Pike would miss the kids, yes, and not just Jim, but young Spock, and that character of a CMO, too. But he couldn’t wait to see the Enterprise gone and out of Federation star space.

Jim had lost any chance at a “normal” childhood the moment he was born. Tarsus IV had marred his adolescence. The Nero incident … well, no one had walked away from that one unscathed. Nevertheless, Pike hadn’t been seriously concerned. “Normal”, in his opinion, was a less than helpful construct for assessing men in the center chair. Pike also firmly believed in the resilience of hope, in men like Jim and himself coping with disaster. But now … Pike shook his head. Staying on Earth now would turn Jim into a specimen. Into a thing instead of a person. Pike would have moved heaven and earth to get Jim out of here. Thankfully he’d only needed to push through the first five-year mission for deep space exploration of the Federation flagship with Command and the Federation Council.

Pike considered his next move, sighed and sacrificed a rook. His mind was not on the game today – not that it helped much when he was able to concentrate. He wasn’t a brilliantly intuitive player like Jim, and no one could out-logic a Vulcan at chess. However, if a casual exercise of Vulcan-human diplomatic relations in form of a strategical board game constituted the excuse Sarek needed in order to keep talking about the kids, Pike was all for it.

Sarek and Pike had started meeting here over a year ago. Jim had been more dead than alive at the time, in spite of the miraculous effects of Khan’s blood. Pike himself had still been a patient here, after the bomb ruse to draw out Marcus had almost ended in a catastrophe. But Pike was Starfleet’s official liaison with Vulcan, a job he took very seriously. So even in those days there had been conferences and debriefings and consultations, most of them involving the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth.

Then Ambassador Selek had been transferred to this hospital. Apparently, the old man had fallen ill around the time Jim got himself killed, and for some reason the Vulcan healers recommended he should recuperate on Earth. Pike had no idea why, or what condition he suffered from to start with. Not a topic you asked Vulcans about. Not before Nero, and certainly not now. Vulcan healers thought an elderly VIP patient should recover on Earth from whatever the guy was suffering from? He got the best room in Starfleet Medical yesterday, no questions asked, no comments made, no press statement released. In this case, Pike was one of the chosen few who knew a few salient details about why that particular patient was so important – to all of Vulcan, but especially to Sarek. However, not even a Centaurian slug could make Pike pry for more information unless it was vitally important. But what even what little knowledge he possessed had served to form a connection with Ambassador Sarek – perhaps precisely because he never asked any questions.

Those factors combined had led up to this afternoon, an hour now routinely set aside each week for a game of chess, Admiral against Ambassador. At first their “casual” meetings had been pure protocol, and there had been no chess involved. Artificial diplomatic functions, stiffly executed, without any recognizable political or personal profit for either party. Playing chess had paved the way to a more constructive relationship, which in turn had been instrumental in getting Jim the hell out of here and back on the Enterprise. And now, Pike entertained the notion that “playing chess” had become a metaphor for two old worrywarts doing some of their worrying together. Sarek’s reply rather confirmed that suspicion.

“They’ll be okay,” Pike offered and leaned back into his wheelchair. Sarek raised an eyebrow at that statement, an expression Pike had observed in both the elder and the younger Spock as well. Pike suppressed an inappropriate grin and explained, “An illogical human statement without any decisive data to back it up; often intended to provide emotional comfort to the speaker himself.”

“Ah.” Sarek made his move. It was downright mediocre and could only serve to increase the length of an already tedious match. “My late wife was particularly adept at providing emotive commentary beyond the emotional control traditionally practiced by Vulcans.”

Which meant that Amanda had been able to comfort Sarek when even ancient Vulcan practices had failed. And possibly something like “thank you, my friend” in Standard.

For a while the two men continued to play in silence. One uninspired maneuver followed the next, merely to be thwarted by yet another dismal strategy that only served to prolong the game. Yet both men were content to keep playing, if only to enjoy the mellow, quiet atmosphere of the rooftop garden. When Pike caught a minute change of expression on Sarek’s face – a hint of a shadow of a frown – he experienced more than a hint of smugness. His ability to interpret Vulcan facial expressions had improved considerably during the last year. “May I inquire as to how your other ah… family member is faring, Ambassador?”

With the slightest exhalation, Sarek looked up. They both knew that Pike didn’t mean Sybok. Not that Pike was officially even aware of Sybok’s existence. Or any details concerning the top-secret assignment for New Vulcan that formed a part of the five-year mission of the Enterprise. “His condition is satisfactory.” After a moment, Sarek added, “I will accompany Ambassador Selek back to New Vulcan when the Enterprise has left orbit. If the outcome of scheduled examinations on New Vulcan is – as expected – positive, I shall resume my duties here on Earth … shortly thereafter.”

Pike smiled at Sarek’s concession of using less than exact terms to lay out his answer. After another sip of iced tea, he sighed. This could be construed at will as a reaction to the refreshing beverage or an emotional utterance and was therefore acceptable within the boundaries of polite conversation with a Vulcan. In an apparent non-sequitur he commented, “I may have no kids of my own, but I’m beginning to realize they’ll never get so old that a parent can stop worrying about them. Check, by the way.”

Sarek stared at the chess board with such a stony expression that Pike feared he’d pushed too far. But then Sarek just looked up with a clearly visible, wry twitch of his lips. “That has indeed been my experience,” he said mildly, before ending the game with a solid checkmate.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.129, 1100 hours, Starfleet Temporary Quarters

At first Joanna had worried that her outburst at dinner had endangered her plans. But as it turned out, her fit of temper had helped, rather than hindered. When her father came to the door of her room in the temporary accommodations for Starfleet personnel in the morning, and she’d responded with a muffled “Go away”, he’d actually done just that after asking her to “understand” once more and promising regular subspace messages. Why that hurt so much even though it was what she wanted (she needed him gone; he mustn’t notice her careful preparations), she didn’t understand. But it did, it totally did. In the end she spent another precious twenty minutes crying, before she was calm enough to hack into her dad’s PADD. Theoretically, Personal Access Display Devices should be, well, personal. But Uncle Jim had taught her a trick or two about computers, much to the chagrin of both her parents.

Well, she thought later, catching sight of her swollen eyes and blotchy face in the bathroom mirror, that should help my cover story, at least. She’d been in the theater group at her old school in Georgia. She knew a bit about how costumes and make-up made a performance more effective.

When she checked her dad’s comm logs, she couldn’t suppress a whoop of triumph. He’d asked her chaperone – “chaperone”, even thinking that old-fashioned term made Jo wrinkle her nose … seriously, was that even still a word nowadays? – to leave her alone until dinner, expressing his hope that she’d have calmed down by that time. Leaving her be was his best helpless dad strategy. She’d counted on that when she’d formulated her strategy of escape. She took a deep breath. It made her plan more likely to succeed.

Jo wiped damp palms on her pants and picked up the phone to vid-call her best friend in San Francisco. She’d met Ari after her dad had forced her to go to school here, right after her mom’s death in the crash of the Vengeance. At first she’d hated it, being the country hick among the nerdy Starfleet kids. But then she’d met Ari at band practice. They were both playing the clarinet. Bass, too. And that was that. Best Friends Forever status achieved. You can’t both play bass clarinet and not be BFF. Law of the universe, or something.

“It’s a go,” Jo said, her heart pounding. “You’ve got the sound bites and vid footage ready?”

“Yep. Everything’s set up. Parents are out of town for the weekend. Some conference in New Orleans. And it’s their wedding anniversary. Mom’s been going on about a restaurant there, Sisko’s Creole Kitchen or something. They’ll be there for dinner this evening, making gooey eyes at each other – definitely not checking on us tonight. Brother dear has been appropriately blackmailed.” Ari did her best to sound confident and cool, but Jo saw that she was worried, what with how she tugged at her ponytail. “You’re sure you’re …”

“Yes, I am,” Jo said firmly. “Maybe not if I could stay here, with you … but there’s no way I’ll be dumped on some planet in the backyard of boondocks central.”

“Awww. I’ll miss you, too.” Ari took a deep breath. “Right, so when should I expect the first call from the dragon?”

“Around dinner time.” Jo explained, “Dad told her to leave me alone until then so I’ll have a chance to calm down and behave.” She stuck out her tongue. “So I’m going to leave her a note with your name, but nothing else. So she’ll spend at least some time looking you up. Thank goodness there are seven Delmar in the San Fran contacts details database. With a bit of luck you won’t be the first she calls.”

Ari nodded. “With what we’ve recorded for playback, we should be good for another day … at least until my parents return. Right.” Another deep breath. “And then I’ll tell them that you wanted to go back home. So they’ll be searching for you there.”

And not on the ship, Jo thought. After her dad had shot down her idea of joining the civilian contingent of the Enterprise right from the start, in that icy, harsh tone that told her there was no arguing with him, she’d been careful never to mention that idea to anyone but Ari. The counselor at school was convinced she desperately wanted to go back home to Georgia.

Jo remembered how Len had asked her about that, way back when they first started planning her escape. They’d been out on the paddock with Ari’s pony.

“How do you even think of stuff like that?” Ari had asked.

“Well,” Jo replied, concentrating on the pony. Misty was adorable. A Welsh white with black mane and tail. “I learned from the best.” She didn’t like the tone of her voice, but she went on regardless. “See, it was like this, my dad made that mistake with mom. He’d show her how important it was to him to see me whenever he could. And then mom would go and make it as difficult for him as possible. If he’d pretended that he’d just do what he had to because the court said so …”

The only thing comfortable about the ensuing silence was the swish of the pony’s tail. “You didn’t like your mom much, did you?”

Jo’s face felt unbearably hot. She couldn’t breathe. Somehow she still managed to reply: “No. Not really.” After a pause she rallied and added: “Also, Uncle Jim – the captain? He was, like, the best at survival strategies and tactical analysis and stuff. He told me you gotta give the enemy something they want to believe. And you must never ever let them realize what you really want. So there.”

And that, Jo thought, is why my plan is going to work.

On the vid screen, Ari shook her head. “I hope this works,” she told Jo. “The way I know my parents, I’ll be grounded for the next five years. So it better be worth it.”

“It will work,” Jo said emphatically. “And you better believe that I’ll be grounded, too, once they catch me. Put in the brig, most likely, on water and protein nibs.”

“At least you’ll be on a starship.” Ari sighed, wistful.

“I’ll message if they let me. And I’ll bring back some souvenirs for you. Like, weird alien artifacts or something. Roomies at the academy, I promise.” Jo ended the call.

With a fierce grin, she turned to her bed and pulled out her kit from underneath it. The most important part was her costume. She had to look like she belonged. In such a casual way that no one would look at her twice. That meant standard Enterprise ship’s clothing for civilians. In her case, a blue jumpsuit, gray wraparound tunic, and an old blue med jacket from her dad. A messenger bag with the Enterprise logo, the kind many girls her age lugged around. Not a big bag, but enough to hold her PADD, underwear, socks, an extra top, and toiletries. She broke her comm unit and dumped it into the recycling unit because she knew she could be tracked with that. Damn. All those pics and IM exchanges with Ari that she’d saved. But no matter. Her plan was more important.

Then she sat down at the desk and wrote her note: “Staying with my best friend Anrela Delamar for two days to say goodbye. Will be back in time for take-off. Bye, Joanna.”

A glance at the clock told her it was time to get going. She’d picked one of the last six shuttlecrafts scheduled to take civilians up to the Enterprise from San Francisco spaceport. There might be some kind of pomp and circumstance put on for the final shuttle. She couldn’t risk that. Until the Enterprise was too far away from Earth and any reasonable route to Centaurus to make her leave, she must not draw attention to herself.

Her plan was very simple. Another trick Uncle Jim had shared. Keep it simple. The more complex a strategy is, the more can go wrong.

Jo took the maintenance stairs at the back of the temporary quarters and quickly made her way over to the port facilities. Once there, the first thing she did was get her hair cut and died. Maybe that was overkill, but she’d rather be safe than sorry. There were people on board of the Enterprise who knew her. Although it was a big ship, she was bound to run into one of them at some point. If that happened before they were at a safe distance from Earth, she wanted to have the best chance to slip away unrecognized. She looked a lot like her dad, except for her eye color. Her mother had hated that about her. Anyway, extremely long black hair and bright blue eyes stood out a little too much. Short medium brown hair and dark brown contacts? Not so much.

Pleased with her new, much more nondescript appearance, Jo wandered through the crowded halls of the spaceport to the shuttle gates. It was always busy at the port, but Jo thought it was even worse today, with beings rushing around every which way. Or perhaps she was just nervous. She was glad that she’d done more than research where the Enterprise shuttles took off. Four times she’d managed to persuade her dad to take her up to the Enterprise. Therefore she knew where she was going, when she had to present her ID as dependant of a Starfleet officer, and things like that. Even where best to hide on the Enterprise – Mister Scott had told her that. He’d been delighted with her many questions. She also knew that an ensign would fly the shuttle, and that there’d be a list of passengers and that her name wouldn’t be on it. Her worst fear was that crew members would be among the passengers of the shuttle. Crew members who were well enough acquainted with her dad to recognize her and to know that she wasn’t supposed to be on the Enterprise.

But when she cautiously approached the crowd waiting at the gate to board the shuttlecraft, there was no one she recognized and no one paid any attention to her. She was just one of a dozen or so kids milling around or poring over a PADD or playing with their comm units while they were waiting. At last a man appeared at the gate, an ensign in engineering red with the badges of a navigator. He was pretty young, Jo guessed, around twenty or so. And he was seriously cute, with light brown curls and gray eyes. He introduced himself as “Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, in charge of your transport today, ladies and gentlemen.” As expected, he produced a PADD and started reeling off the names of the passengers to enter the shuttle. He had a strong Russian accent, but Jo thought he sounded rather endearing that way.

Ten minutes later all other passengers had disappeared inside the shuttle. Jo stood in front of Chekov and did her best to look sad and sheepish at the same time. “Is there still room for me?” she asked.

“You’re not on the list,” Chekov said with a confused look at his PADD.

“Yeah, I know.” Jo ducked her head and held out her ID. “I’m Joanna McCoy. Jo.”

“Oh, you are the doctor’s daughter! I did not know that he has children. How wery nice to meet you. A pleasure, really, a pleasure.” Chekov beamed at her. “So vhy are you not on the list?”

Jo shifted uncomfortably on her feet, glancing around nervously. “Errr… thing is, I’m not supposed to be on Earth right now.” For the first time in her life she was grateful that she flushed so easily. Her cheeks were burning right now. “But I had to say goodbye to Matt! He—” She broke off and dashed at her eyes, hoping that she still looked like a lovesick teen complete with crying jags. “He’s my boyfriend,” she whispered, “the first boyfriend I ever had, and Dad hates him. I swear Dad’s forcing me to be on the Enterprise just to get me away from Matt!” She balled her hands into fists to illustrate her fury at her father’s cruelty – and to keep them from shaking with nerves. Biting down on her lower lip, she raised her head and gazed at Chekov as entreatingly as she could. “Dad will kill me if he finds out. He’ll ground me for the whole five years. You must know how he is …”

Chekov nodded. “Your father is a wery fierce man,” he said, awe in his voice.

Jo exhaled a shaky sigh. “So do you … do you think you could maybe take me with you even though I’m not on the list? And uh… maybe not mention it to my Dad when you see him?”

Chekov fiddled with the PADD, considering her request. A moment later he nodded decisively and beamed at her. “Of course I can. I know how it is, being young and in love. Is hard to say goodbye for five years, yes? But if he is a good boy, he vill vait for you.” He put the PADD away. “You will have to join me in the front, though. Back’s full. Hope you don’t mind.”

Somehow Jo managed not to squee and spoil it all. Five minutes later she was strapped in on the co-pilot’s seat. Twenty minutes later they were on the Enterprise. And ten minutes later, she stood outside the shuttle bay, saying goodbye to Chekov.

“Don’t be too angry with your father,” Chekov said. “I am sure he means vell. Fathers must protect their daughters.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Jo admitted grudgingly. “And at least I got to say goodbye to Matt. Thanks for helping me out, Mr. Chekov.”

“A pleasure,” Chekov said and bowed to her. “I hope I vill see you again soon.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She grinned. “If I’m not in the brig for one reason or another …”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.129, 1230 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Office

On the day of their departure, the captain summoned Spock to his office for what he called “working lunch” before the Enterprise left orbit that evening. Spock tried to explain that he did not require sustenance at this point of the day. But Jim Kirk was nothing if not insistent: “Nonsense, Spock, a bit of salad won’t hurt you.” Now Jim was turning away from the replicator, precariously balancing various bowls on hands and arms, like a waiter in a Terran restaurant or the kind of circus acrobat called a “juggler”.

Something stirred inside Spock. A … sensation … a sentiment …

He hesitated for a reaction time of 75.4 milliseconds, a rather mediocre value for a Vulcan male his age. Another testament to the “disadvantage” of his birth.

Illogically, he allowed the emotion to expand. One second. Warmth suffused him. His heart rate accelerated to 246 beats per minute. Two seconds. Relaxation akin to the harmony of meditation spread throughout his body and grounded him in the moment. Three seconds. His mind opened up, reached out, in … relief … appreciation …

… gratitude.

Spock stopped the process precisely when Jim – it had been impossible for Spock to think of him as “captain” or even “Kirk” for twelve months and eighty-eight days now – reached the table and deposited his load with a sigh. Watching Jim opening and arranging bowls, Spock noted that his emotional experiment had lasted exactly 3.6 seconds, had elevated his subjective sense of well-being by 7.2 percent, and that he was now able to balance his hormone levels with an ease normally present only after a successful meditation cycle. Interesting.

Suddenly Jim froze mid-movement and stared at Spock, salad bowl in hand, hazel eyes wide and bright with curiosity. “I know that look! I know that look. You’re … you’re feeling something.” The expression of awe on the captain’s face was disconcerting. Spock increased his control over his facial muscles to an appropriate level. Jim’s face fell. “And now … now it’s gone.” He frowned. “What are you doing? Are you on a diet or something? One feeling per day? Or what?”

“Vulcans do not ‘diet’,” Spock said and hastily busied himself with laying out plates, glasses, and cutlery. He noticed that Jim had chosen only vegetarian fare for this so-called business luncheon, in a pleasing selection of Vulcan and Terran dishes according to a harmonious scale of increasing spiciness. “We are in complete control of our endocrine systems.”

Jim grinned, adding the last bowl to the arrangement on the table. “Well, in that case you’ve got nothing to worry about. Dig in.”

To his surprise, Jim didn’t follow up on his uncomfortable conclusion about Spock’s latest experiment in managing his emotions. Instead he proceeded to pile his plate with a mountain of salad, disregarding origin and taste, pulled a couple of PADDs next to him, and promptly proceeded to smear salad sauce over the glossy surface of the PADD closest to his plate.

Spock considered the possibility that this action might be intended to distract him further from their initial exchange and was somewhat surprised at the comparatively high probability of 72.8%. That result did not sync with what Spock had come to consider as “normal” behavioral patterns for Jim Kirk. But it did fit a series of untypical interactions between them since Jim’s release from the hospital three months prior. He’d finally been “set free”, as he put it, in order to start preparing the Enterprise for their five-year mission. Since then, several instances of untypical behavior had demonstrated Jim’s capability of consideration concerning the attitudes and customs of another culture – namely, of Vulcan culture.

It had started with Jim using cutlery for every food he consumed in Spock’s presence, even for items traditionally eaten with hands by Humans. Next Spock had noticed that Jim had started to order only vegetarian dishes when they ate together. Last but not least, Jim – who was a very physical person, always reaching out to those he regarded as friends in many instinctive and, for his race and culture, socially appropriate ways – had become extremely circumspect about touching Spock.

Diplomacy and applied politics belonged to the core curriculum of Command track. Intimately familiar with the captain’s personal file, Spock was well aware that Jim had excelled in those subjects no less than in any others. Why Jim so often chose not to employ these skills in a productive manner, Spock couldn’t fathom. Since harmonious cooperation among the command crew – and between friends – were a universally desirable goal, Jim’s change of behavior should have pleased Spock. However, irrationally, it did not.

“Hmm, chickpeas,” Jim mumbled around a mouthful of salad. “Good stuff. And garlic. Hope it’s not too much for your taste. Anyway, here,” he thumped the PADD, “last minute dispatches from Starfleet HR. Updated fraternization rules. Seems they’ve realized that if they send a crew with so many young people out there for five years, celibacy isn’t going to work.”

Jim attacked a cabbage leaf with bizarre relish. Spock noted with mild concern that the circulation in Jim’s ears had increased to the point that their coloration had noticeably changed due to additional blood flow. “Right, I know such stuff is no issue for Vulcans, but it is for Humans, and many other humanoids. So. Relationships between crew members must never adversely affect morale, discipline, unit cohesion, respect for authority, professional conduct, or mission accomplishment etc. The perception of favoritism or misuse of position must be avoided at all times, natch. A meeting with one of the ship’s counselors is recommended to ensure that. For relationships within the same chain of command such a counseling session is required. If there are concerns, the counselor and the relevant superior officer will find a solution together with the relevant couple.” Jim had spoken faster and faster. Now he was running out of air, had to pause and inhale. “Also, which I am sure you know, but which I’m mentioning just in case you don’t, you get carte blanche for personal relationships, basically. Because of your unique status. And I’m sorry I have to talk to you about all of that. But I thought you’d maybe prefer me talking to you to Bones talking to you. Even though of course you’ll have to talk to him, too. At least when our next physicals are due, and he has threatened he wants to do them ASAP because he doesn’t trust Starfleet Medical. And that brings me to the next point on my list …”

His next victim was a cherry tomato, and Spock successfully suppressed a wince at the way the juices splattered over the PADD and the sleeve of Jim’s uniform. He had not anticipated that a light meal of salads could turn into such a display of violence against vegetables. “Those counselors,” Jim explained. “They are sending four of them with us, two Humans, an El-Aurian, and a Betazoid. New regs say that in addition to our quarterly physicals we must endure a bloody therapy session.”

“Therapy session?” Spock frowned. Of course he was familiar with the basics of psychology and psychotherapy, not just pertaining to the Human and the Vulcan race, but also regarding the other members of the Federation and even more exotic races. Xenopsychology was essential for establishing a successful First Contact, after all. Additionally, psych evaluations were standard procedure for Starfleet officers. But regular meetings with therapists?

“Yeah,” Jim said, annoyed. “They want you to talk about your feelings four times a year.”

♦

Spock looked scandalized.

Oh boy, how Jim could empathize. Therapists were not his favorite kind of people. He hated digging around in hurt and horror. It was so much better simply to get on with things. With life. Time heals, damn it. Maybe not all wounds, but the point of surviving was to move on, right?

But he did see the point of regular psych check-ups, especially on a five-year mission. There were some really awful cases of people running amok in the early days of spaceflight, including the Starbase 13 disaster. To this day, no starbase with that number had been recommissioned. Also, he wasn’t stupid. He knew that his personal preference for dealing with trauma was unhealthy. As captain, he could no longer afford the luxury of being an idiot because of personal hang-ups. And though he was loath to admit it, his weekly physicals with Bones and his chats with Guinan were a good thing right now.

“Think of it as another take on those standard debriefing psych evals,” Jim suggested weakly. “Or if talking really doesn’t work for you, I expect that the Betazoid, uh… Dr. Eli Elbrun could do a telepathic assess—”

“No!” Spock’s voice was harsh, bordering on emotional; he visibly shuddered at the very idea.

Jim winced. He should have known, he really should have. A thousand Vulcan taboos plus the intensely intimate nature of telepathy, and Spock being a very private person even for a Vulcan … He got up and walked around the table to slump in the chair next to Spock. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have suggested that. But you must know they sent him along with you in mind. In case you need telepathic intervention. He’s a buddy of M’Benga, trained on Vulcan.”

“No,” Spock repeated, calmer. “I am aware of the circumstances of Elbrun’s presence on the Enterprise, and it is … appreciated. A logical and beneficial assignment. But unless telepathic intervention is an absolute necessity for the safety of the ship or … my mental health, it is not … not an option I will choose.”

“Okay,” Jim said, “okay.” He could feel Spock’s body heat, sitting so close to him, and suddenly he found himself wanting to touch Spock very much. Touch-telepath, he reminded himself firmly. And: This is – he is – too important to fuck up.

“Then talk to Guinan,” he suggested, searching Spock’s tense face. “She’s real easy to talk to, what with being El-Aurian. And she’s nice. Not intrusive at all. It’s just another standard Starfleet thing, really. I … well, I tried playing the Vulcan card for you, but they wouldn’t budge. Seems you’re not special enough for that.” Jim frowned, wondering when Spock had become his definition of “special”.

“It … is only logical,” Spock admitted reluctantly. “The emotional stability of the crew is important for a successful mission, and for all I am Vulcan I am merely one of many members of this crew.” He paused. To Jim’s surprise, he didn’t turn his chair away but toward Jim. “You … you find it beneficial, talking to Guinan,” he said. “Why?”

Jim rubbed his hands over his face. “I didn’t used to do this therapy thing. Hated it, in fact. I mean, it wouldn’t change a thing, right? And I … I was who I was. Not about to change or apologize for that. I mean, that was all I had left. After …” He made a vague gesture. “… you know my file.”

Spock’s gaze was intent on him, intense, and damn, he had beautiful eyes. Not just handsome or attractive. Beautiful. “What has changed?”

Jim resisted the urge of rubbing his face a second time and hiding behind his hands. He thought that talking about his feelings wasn’t much easier for him than for Spock. But his resolve remained firm.

“I have,” he said simply.

“Ah. The way you were … cured?”

Jim nodded. “Yes, that.” And that was the easy part. “The – the reboot, you know what it did to me. I’m stronger than a normal human being now, my life expectancy is supposed to be about the same as yours. Before, I was about as telepathic as an old boot. Now my psionic potential is off the charts. Which is also why they are sending Elbrun and Guinan along. Khan is pretty stable for an Augment. But I was never meant to be superhuman. I could go crazy.”

“Never, Jim.” Not an expression of hope, or the reassurance of a loyal friend: a statement of an irrefutable truth.

“I think you’re right,” Jim said. “I sure as hell hope you are. But there are too many lives on the line to take any chances. However …”

He took a deep breath. Spock was waiting for him to continue, ever patient. “That’s not it, not really.” Another deep breath. A helpless gesture, indicating Spock, then himself. “This … us …” he said softly, “It’s not just about me anymore. And you … you deserve the best of me.”

For a moment he hesitated. More emotional honesty: He wanted to touch Spock. Had wanted to touch him again for over a year. Spock holding his hand had been the best part about waking in Starfleet hospital. Better even than not being, well, dead. But back on Earth, in the hospital, it had never seemed right. And the last three months had been so bloody busy.

Jim held out a shaking hand, fingers spread in the traditional ta’al.

And Spock … without blinking, without hesitation, raised his hand as well. Gently he aligned his fingers with Jim’s and pressed back against his hand, a hot, unwavering touch. Somehow Jim knew that he was shielding carefully to protect Jim’s newly telepathic and thus extremely vulnerable mind. But in spite of the effort that must cost, Spock only withdrew his hand when Jim finally stopped trembling.

“Very well,” Spock said at last. “I shall endeavor to … talk about my feelings to Guinan.”

♦♦♦♦♦♦

“When a child first catches adults out – when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just – his world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child’s world is never quite whole again. It is an aching kind of growing.”
– John Steinbeck, East of Eden