RoH 20

Special Author’s Note: Announcing “Hope for Tomorrow” by Aranel Took, a tie-in for “The Resilience of Hope”

This is a really, really special, never-done-before project, and I’m incredibly happy and excited about it all: There is now a tie-in for this story!

“Hope for Tomorrow” is a unique and original companion story for “The Resilience of Hope”. Written from the perspective of Lieutenant Elena Amell, “Hope for Tomorrow” relates the events from the crash of the Vengeance on San Francisco to the launch of the five-year mission. There’s adventure and romance, lots of interesting stuff that ties in directly with “Resilience of Hope”, cameos of recurring characters, and much more!

If you have the time, please take a look at the tie-in, and leave some kudos & comments love: “Hope for Tomorrow” by Aranel Took at “An Archive of Our Own”!

Without Distance Closeness Cannot Cure

Stardate 2260.318, 1645 hours, Deck 2, Ready Room

[Now]

—FEAR!

»Fear is the mind-killer, ashayam. You must not fear.« But Jim would not hear him, his psionic centers were closed. Jim would only feel the Bond, distant, dim, at the back of his mind. Spock must not distract Jim. Could not do anything—

Thirty-five minutes and twenty seconds left until the warp core of the Dionysus would blow up.

[Twenty-seven minutes and ten seconds ago]

A painful effort to keep his mind wide open. Sybok’s advice, and the need to share precious last seconds if this was the end. Concentration as an abstract concept. Neurons firing debris into his brain. Mental fatigue, the pounding pain in his temples, an effect of a Bond thrust open to its limits. Shaking hands a symptom of adrenaline rush, a physical manifestation of emotional transference.

“Sit down, you need to sit down – everyone else, leave the ready room.” Nyota’s voice, distant. “Thorby is afraid you’re breaking your mind. He told Jo; Jo told McCoy; McCoy can’t leave sickbay during Red Alert, so he sent me to— Just sit down. Can you do anything to help him?”

So fast, fast, fast. Small pieces barely visible. A pebble could kill. Would kill. Might not even register on the instruments before it was too late; and the alarms were switched off, too distracting to be helpful.

Forty-one minutes and ten seconds remained.

(He must shield Thorby.)

(Could he do both?)

[Thirty-nine minutes and twenty seconds ago]

Spock arrived at the logical conclusion of what Jim would have to do a fraction of a second before Jim did. In spite of the chaos of casualty lists, damage reports, and target updates, for a Vulcan heartbeat or two he experienced a brief, uncomfortably vague instant of stillness within himself, and in that point of no return, a moment of loss, when the turbolift hissed shut and Jim was gone without a word. The impression lingered as an ache in his mind, emphasized by Lieutenant Finney and Lieutenant Mitchell staring at him. Spock recalled that they had filed a petition for cohabitation thirty-nine days ago. The counselor to sign off on their report had been Dr. Lestrade.

A sense of painful regret whispered through his mind. Jim’s, not his, and not for himself, not for Spock, not for them together, but for—

“Shuttle Two ready for take-off.” Jim’s voice, filtered through the comm unit of center chair. “Drop the damn shields for three in ten.”

On the screen, the shuttle swerved in a tight trajectory with the narrowest of safety margins toward the Dionysus. The quickest course. Jim was the best shuttle pilot the Enterprise had left.

“Scott here.” Status report from Engineering. “Captain Kirk and Lieutenant Amell have left on Shuttle Two to reach the Dionysus and shut down the damaged warp core of the ship.” Chief Engineer Scott’s voice indicated that the man was emotionally compromised – he was barely able to maintain a clear pronunciation of Standard. “Phasers on portside fully functional again. Impulse power should be restored in three hours.”

Amell. She was the focus of Jim’s regret, too. Alien, yet familiar, Jim’s emotions and emotional processes, always fascinating to decipher. A fraction of a second of hypothetical grief, an emotion that would never be shared, should they not—

Spock concentrated on the data coming in from the freighter of the V’tosh ka’tur. Strangely, it was an older Starfleet model, a Normandy class vessel. The condition of the warp core was critical but the core failure was following the expected parameters. The time frame was narrow but sufficient to shut down the system and/or rescue any survivors, provided Shuttle Two made it to the Dionysus. Spock estimated that Jim had fifty-two minutes and twenty seconds for this task.

[Thirty minutes and forty-two seconds ago]

The constant dinging of the shuttle’s security system echoed in his ears, in his skull. Spock shook his head. Jim had reached the wreckage of Shuttle One.

Security systems were intended to aid a pilot; if that purpose could not be achieved, it was logical to shut them off. The debilitating tinnitus abated. The disorientation remained.

“Lieutenant Finney, you have the conn.”

Spock stumbled from the turbolift into the ready room.

Forty-seven minutes and two seconds left.

[Now]

—Fear!

“Is that how you could take my fear when I died, even through the glass?”

Ah.

Spock let terror take him, permitted panic to pass into him, allowed fear to fill him …

(Not up, not right, left merely a delay of the inevitable, staying on course impossible, DOWN. Up again.)

Nothing left, where fear had been.

Only Jim, in a hailstorm of debris and wreckage.

Down, down, down.

UP! LEFT!

Disorientation and involuntary muscle spasms made it impossible for Spock to measure the rest of Jim’s flight in minutes or seconds. Physically, he was aware that he was sitting at the table in the ready room. He registered the presence of Doctor McCoy – Leonard – and Nyota next to him. Mentally, he concentrated on his Bond with Jim to the exclusion of everything else. It was not a meld; a meld at such a distance was impossible; but it was more than normal connection, it was … a feedback loop that absorbed stress and provided energy and focus.

Almost. Almost.

There.

[Now]

“Twenty minutes until the warp core of the Dionysus blows. Shuttle Two closing in on the shuttle bay of the vessel.” Lieutenant Mitchell’s voice from the comm unit.

Spock’s vision blacked out in ragged holes. Panic. Numbers. Spock knew the code. But so did Jim!

Precisely twenty minutes left.

Spock shivered.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.318, 1645 hours, in space near Lytasia

“FUCK—”

A blinding flash of terror, of debilitating panic rushed through Jim. Then it was gone. From one second to the next. What remained in its wake was calm concentration, serenity—

Jim couldn’t go up – he’d collide with the twisted length of metal flying at them from the left. He couldn’t turn right – the remains of Shuttle One were thick as pea-soup there. He sure as hell couldn’t stay on course. (That piece of wreckage was big enough to make it a quick death at least, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up.)

So down he dipped, almost straight down – good thing he hadn’t eaten lunch. Next he jerked the shuttle back up, only to twist sharply to the left with a muffled curse. They were close enough to the leftovers of Shuttle One that it was more like stew now instead of soup. (Though even a pea-sized bit of debris was more than enough to make them breathe vacuum, given the velocity of the wreckage.) That set the rhythm. He lost awareness of time and space. The universe condensed into the shuttle controls. He had to fly by instinct or not at all – there was simply too much shit tumbling through space around them – every heartbeat turned into a twist, a turn, a jerk of the shuttle, an almost-death.

Finally they were closing in on the Dionysus. Of the precious forty or so minutes he figured they had initially just twenty remained now. Twenty minutes. The bay was right in front of them, but the shields were still up. However, the ship was an old model of the Starfleet Normandy class. With a bit of luck the emergency override hadn’t been changed. Somehow he managed to suppress the moment of panic when he started punching in the code – he knew the code – knew the code – knew— YES!

Smoothly, the shuttle settled in the narrow bay, door to door with the single, beat-up shuttle of the gypsies. While the engines switched off, Jim glanced at the read-out of the shuttle’s instruments. “We’ve got twenty minutes or so until the warp core gives out. I’m not getting enough data to say for sure if the hull damage was sealed off properly. No idea if the air’s still breathable in there. You need to get down one deck, there should be stairs—”

Amell was already on her feet and pulling out a set of emergency equipment from the storage cabinet in the back of the shuttle. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Normandy class. On my way.”

“I’ll try locating the survivors.” Jim joined her in the back and grabbed a tricorder from a second emergency kit. Next he moved to the weapons locker, punched in the security code and took out two phasers. He handed one of them to Amell. “In case some pirates got onboard. Set it to stun.”

Then he remembered the message on the hull. “Oh, and there’s a Barque cat on the ship. If you see it, grab it, but don’t waste time looking for it. I need my engineer more than some cat.”

“Yes, sir.” She slipped on her helmet and was gone.

He hit the comm button to update the Enterprise. “Shuttle Two here. We’ve reached the vessel of the V’tosh ka’tur without incident. Lieutenant Amell is proceeding to Engineering to shut off the warp core. I’m going to try and find the survivors. Kirk out.”

He cut the connection and put on his own helmet without waiting for a reply. (What was there to say?) He jumped out of the shuttle and took off to the access stairway. Different from Amell, he went up. The bridge was gone and that there was considerable damage to the hull, that much he knew for sure. His best guess was that any survivors had gathered in sickbay. On this particular type of ship, sickbay was inserted at the core of the vessel, on the same level as the shuttle bay, but behind the warp core and impulse engines. Jim had to go up and across the Engineering section first.

He was right on top of the warp core when something – phaser fire or debris, he couldn’t tell – hit the ship. It was a bad spot for getting tossed around; the panels surrounding the hallway had split apart. Burst pipes jutted from the walls, cables dangled from the ceiling, and razor-sharp, fractured metal frames stuck out all over the place, and right through the corpse of a middle-aged woman. When the ship stopped shaking, Jim picked himself up stiffly. His right arm stung like hell, and the alarm signal of his suit sounded to alert him that emergency sealant was applied to a leak. He glanced at the wrist controls. There was still breathable air in this section of the ship. Not exactly suitable for human breathing, but better than vacuum. He felt blood or sealant trickling down his skin inside the suit. For a moment he wondered how hurt he was. But there was no time to fudge with the tricorder now. If he could still move and think, it was probably not that bad. At least he still had the damn tricorder, because he couldn’t locate the phaser in the debris for the life of him. Brilliant.

A minute or so later he was at the next access stair and leapt down, three steps at a time. Then it was thankfully just another hallway, through a door, and— He’d been right. The tricorder pinged with several lifesigns straight ahead and also confirmed that in here, the air was still breathable. With a sigh of relief, Jim pulled off the helmet of his enviro suit so they could see his face clearly. Addressing them, he tried Vulcan first, before he switched to Standard, saying everything twice and speaking as calmly as possible: “I’m a friend. Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you. I’m James T. Kirk, USS Enterprise. We’re trying to shut down the warp core and evacuate this ship. I won’t harm you. I want to help you. I’m a friend.”

No one moved. The Vulcans stayed huddled behind a biobed as if paralyzed. He counted. One, two, three, four, two toddlers, seven, eight, a little girl, ten, eleven – and most of them were injured. The girl looked more dead than alive. A healing trance, he thought, let it be Vulcan voodoo and not a child dying right in front of me. And there must have been more people on board than that. Where were the rest? A ship this size, should be at least fifty people, he guessed. Perhaps sixty. What had happened to all of them? The bridge was taken out, sure, but there wouldn’t have been more than a dozen people up there, if that. The hull damage was limited and sealed off, impossible that twenty to thirty lives had been lost to that.

“We’ll shut down the core and secure the ship, but you need to get out of here ASAP no matter what,” he told them. There might still be pirates in the vicinity. “Is everyone here or do I need to go looking for people? How many injured?”

A blond man was the first to react, taking a cautious step toward him. “Yes – no – everyone’s here. When the bridge was hit, the shields went down – they – the slavers, they took—”

Oh hell. The bitch of it. If they were lucky, the Enterprise had managed to take out all pirates … which meant that all captured V’tosh ka’tur were dead, too. Jim inhaled deeply. His vision was fraying at the edges. Was he really losing that much blood? He didn’t have time for that shit.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay …” When he tried to activate the comm integrated in the enviro suit, the fingers of his right hand wouldn’t move. Damn. With a clumsy flail he managed to hit the right key with his palm. “Lieutenant Amell? I found some passengers. What’s your status?”

“I’m almost ready to shut down the core, Captain,” Amell replied promptly. “Auxiliary power is also offline, so we’re going to lose all power, including life support. Looks like there’s about an hour of air left with that leak, but it’s going to get really cold soon, so we need to beam them out of here within twenty.”

“Great.” He struck at his wrist again. The shutdown would take around ten minutes or so, time enough for their passengers to grab the bare essentials and prepare for transport. Not enough to start looking for the Barque cat, though. The beast could be anywhere on the damaged ship, and he had zero experience with Barques. Damn again. Maybe he could send someone back for it? Cats were tough. The animal might make it. “Kirk to Enterprise. We’re about to shut down the warp core and the shields. Twelve to beam up from sickbay, one from Engineering upon confirmation.”

Unfortunately, all he got was static. Fuck, and fuck.

“You—” Jim pointed at the fair-haired Vulcan.

“Stephen,” the man replied. “I’m the juggler.”

“Can you still try and get me a signal over here?” Jim asked and thumped the console. “I guess it’s just the shields messing with the comm unit in my suit, but I’d prefer to inform the Enterprise sooner rather than later.” Hopefully it was not an external disruptor. And hopefully it was only interfering with communications, not with beaming. Because there was no way they could fly back now. They’d have to wait until the wreckage had dispersed. And that would take considerably longer than twenty minutes. In that case he could only hope whatever enviro suits the gypsies had lying around would be enough to keep them alive until they were able to fly back safely …

Together they bent over the communications console. Stephen punched in an override code, Jim fiddled with the knobs he recognized. Nothing. He would have to ask Uhura to give him a refresher on emergency comm tech. Jim took a look at the watch in the panel of his suit. “Okay, lights should go out any second now. Nobody panic, alright? Just stay where you are, you’ll all get beamed out of here as soon as—”

Everything went black. After a moment filled with darkness and tight breathing, the emergency lights activated with a faint, flickering glow. Jim’s suit comm buzzed, and Amell’s voice echoed in the eerie silence of the dead ship. “Warp core shut down successful, Captain. Do you have the passengers?”

He barely managed to lift his arm. “Well done, Lieutenant. And yeah, everyone’s right here in sickbay with me. Get ready for beaming.”

Somehow he succeeded in punching the button that should get him a direct connection to the bridge of the Enterprise. “Kirk to Enterprise. The warp core is safe, but there’s no auxiliary power. We’ve got enough air for an hour, but temps are going down way faster than that. Twelve to beam over from sickbay, one from Engineering. Some of the survivors are in pretty bad shape”

For a moment he heard only hissing and a faint whining. Pleasepleaseplease, Jim thought. No disruptor or shit like that.

He glanced at the comm console of the V’tosh ka’tur sickbay. But apparently the emergency power that kept the lights on in here didn’t extend to the comm unit. Damn. He tried again, listening intently to the scattered static for several minutes. Shit.

Abruptly, clear as day, Spock’s voice: “Captain, we have located you. The transporters are ready. The surviving V’tosh ka’tur will be beamed to transporter room one and two. Medical teams are standing by. Mr. Scott and I are expecting you and Lieutenant Amell in transporter room three. Spock out.”

He almost gasped, light-headed with relief, pain, and blood loss. Bones would be so mad. And Spock … Somehow Jim managed to switch comm channels once more. “We’re beaming out, Amell. You ready?”

“Ready, sir,” she answered at once, voice firm.

Well, at least he understood much better now why Scotty had come to rely on Lieutenant Amell so much. He hadn’t doubted Scotty’s effusive praise for her talents, but it was still nice to know how reliable someone was in a crisis.

The dizzying sensation of displacement swept over him and nearly turned his stomach. Swaying on his feet, he opened his eyes. As promised, he was in transporter room three on the Enterprise. Lieutenant Amell was in front of him, pulling off the helmet of her enviro suit with a sigh of relief.

Spock and Scotty were standing next to the console. Scotty’s expression was an absurd grimace of relief and worry. Spock’s face was perfectly blank, but he was white as a sheet. Jim took a tentative step toward the edge of the platform, even as Scotty rushed to Lieutenant Amell only to freeze in his tracks. Jim turned to Amell to compliment her and gaped. Between her departure from the shuttle and their return to the Enterprise, her appearance had changed markedly. Mostly around the middle. He raised both eyebrows.

“Is there something you and Scotty need to tell me about?” he quipped, well aware that without the interference of aliens that couldn’t possibly be the case. Not that fast, at least.

Amell lowered her gaze to the uneven bulge of the enviro suit around the general area of her stomach. “It’s the Barque cats, sir,” she blurted, blushing furiously. “I needed to keep them warm.”

So she had found the beast! Suddenly he was warm all over, almost tingly with relief. “Good work, Lieutenant Amell,” he said, grinning at her discomfiture.

She glanced up briefly, before she ducked her head again. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled. “I need to get the cats to sickbay.” With that, she was gone, sprinting down the corridor.

Jim snorted. “And not a word for the proud daddy. I think she’s still pissed at you, my friend.”

Scotty opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but Jim shook his head. “Look, I get it, Scotty. I really do.” Cautiously, he chanced a look at Spock, who was still standing silent and devoid of expression next to the console. “It was one hell of a ride, and touch and go on board there for a bit. But she did fine, she stayed calm, and she got the job done. She’s a good officer to have at your side in a crisis. So pull yourself together. Because when push comes to shove, I need both of you at my side. Okay? And now go after her.”

He rolled his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t done that because for some reason that made the nausea worse. Thankfully, Scotty didn’t seem to notice. “Aye, sir,” he said, as if to show that he appreciated the difference between Jim speaking to him as captain and as friend. Then Scotty hesitated again. “Thank you. It’s just – she’s my lass—”

“Go after her.” Jim pushed him toward the hallway. And thank God, Scotty finally started moving, because Jim wasn’t entirely sure for how much longer he’d be able to stay on his feet. He stumbled from the transporter platform, and yeah, into Spock’s arms.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his vision fading. “Got hurt. But I guess you know that already.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.318, 2300 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Quarters

Jim had trouble waking. Exhaustion weighed him down like a bridge had collapsed on him. The clock on the wall screen at his feet told him that he’d been out of it for five hours or so. But he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all, as if he’d spent the whole time playing tetris with debris. His right arm was on fire with the aftereffects of regeneration therapy. And the mother of all migraines owned his brain. Ow. He gasped for breath with a ragged sound and blinked heavy lids open with a valiant effort. “Hey.”

They were in their quarters. The lights were dimmed to ten or twenty. Spock was sitting on the edge of their bed, clad in his long thermal PJs. No, he wasn’t even sitting there, he perched. Before, Jim would have interpreted his stiff posture and the silent treatment as disapproval. He’d have backed off and left Spock to his own devices. But thanks to the Bond, Jim sensed Spock’s state of mind as clearly as his own. He was disoriented and shaken, and he also had a monstrous headache.

“C’mere,” Jim ordered hoarsely. “Get in.”

Without a word, Spock obeyed. He moved stiffly, almost disjointed with tension in the aftermath of the rescue mission and Jim’s injury.

“Damn,” Jim muttered under his breath, before he added, gentler, “Love, I’m fine.”

But Spock was incapable of moving beyond his side of the bed, utterly unable to break free from the prison of his mind. Jim was aware of how hard he was trying to get his emotions under control. Like a hamster stuck in a wheel that was running way too fast. Jim pushed himself upright with his left arm and awkwardly crawled over to Spock. “Fuck.” He cursed soundly when he jostled his arm in the process, hissing at the sensation. So that’s what a red-hot poker shoved through your flesh felt like. Not cool. In that moment he also realized there was no way he could hold onto Spock without hurting even more on his side of the bed. Logistics of comfort shouldn’t be so damn complicated. Somehow he managed to climb over Spock. By the time he had accomplished that maneuver, he was shaking with the effort. “Budge up now,” he said and prodded Spock. Nothing. Oh well. A foot of space on the mattress was enough to get started.

“You are not,” Spock said abruptly. “Fine.”

Jim stretched out next to his lover and carefully laid his aching arm across his middle. Spock’s heart was thudding frantically under his forearm, even faster than the staccato that normally passed for his pulse. “Am, too,” he insisted. “Arm’s all fixed.” He nestled his face against the skin of Spock’s neck. “You’re not fine, though.” Spock’s skin was near human-cold in terms of temperature. “Jeez, you’re an icicle.” He pressed closer against his Bondmate’s body. “Gonna get you warm.” He pushed himself up on his left elbow and moved his right leg over Spock’s thigh. The movement jarred his arm, and he panted with pain.

“Jim, stop, you need another hypo—”

“Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder how angry Bones is with me,” Jim murmured. “But not right now. I’m kinda busy here.”

He bent over Spock’s face, gazing at his dark eyes, pupils blown so wide he couldn’t make out the iris anymore in the dim light of the room. Spock was pale, the hue of his skin almost ghostlike. Jim started at the forehead, barely a kiss. Left temple, right temple. “I’m fine.” He rubbed against Spock’s right cheek, then moved to the left. Cheek to cheek. “Everything’s fine.” Using no hands was kind of interesting, caressing Spock with his tongue and lips and nose. He planted a kiss right on the tip of Spock’s nose. That got him finally a real reaction – a muffled, indignant noise.

“Sorry that there was no time to let you open up my mind,” Jim said, pausing to meet Spock’s eyes. “But it was probably better that way. I’m not used to all-out telepathic contact yet. It would have been too distracting. Flying through that mess was …” He inhaled. “Just now? I was still dodging debris in my dreams. That kind of intense.”

Spock closed his eyes. “I could feel it. Then, and now. Every turn. Each reaction. Every decision.”

Jim shuddered with the memory. “I guess I could sense you, too. Like a weight in my mind. An anchor. Calm in a storm. Kept me going when I thought …” He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he drew back to look at Spock, concerned. “Could you still function on the bridge?”

“Negative,” Spock said. “I ceded the conn to Lieutenant Finney and focused on an attempt to absorb as much of your mental stress via the Bond as possible.”

“Hmm.” Jim mulled that explanation over. “I think it worked,” he said at last. “Okay. That explains why you’re in such a state. We’ll need to brief the officers likely to get saddled with conn in critical situations. I think the Bond can be an immense tactical advantage, but everyone needs to be ready for how things affect both of us. We can’t afford a messy command situation in a crisis.”

But that was a worry for another day. Now he wanted Spock back in a sane frame of mind, maybe a bit of cuddling, definitely a hypo for the pain, and last but not least, a good night’s sleep. To achieve his goals, Jim decided on simple distraction tactics.

First he only brushed his lips over Spock’s mouth. Then he pressed soft kisses to the corners of his mouth. He sighed against his lover’s lips and teased him with his tongue. At that point Spock finally relaxed enough to let Jim melt against him, allowed him inside his mouth, and submitted to long, languid swipes of Jim’s tongue. When Jim drew back to gasp for breath, his heart was pounding and his cock was half-hard in spite of his exhaustion, but Spock’s color was better, and he was definitely warmer than before. Not warm enough though, and no matter how much he wanted more, Jim wasn’t up to sex that night. “Computer, raise temperature ten degrees,” he ordered. “Seriously, I can’t sleep when you’re that cold, Spock. You make my head ache when you’re freezing. It’s enough that my arm still hurts like a bitch from regen. Also, I lost enough blood that I can really use some extra warmth.”

For once Spock didn’t argue. He had regained enough control to shift toward the wall until Jim had enough space to sprawl comfortably. Not that he was in the mood for that. After he submitted to another hypo for the pain, he struggled back into the semi-comfortable position of snuggling against Spock’s side, limpet-mode.

“Meld,” he mumbled, already drifting off. “C’mon. Meld us. Now. Need you.”

Warm fingers caressed his face, warmth spread from their touch, and soon they floated, wrapped safely into each other’s minds. Exhaustion and Vulcan control combined kept any dreams at bay that might have haunted them.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.319, 0650 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Quarters

When Jim woke, his arm barely hurt anymore. It ached, yes, and it was damn stiff because apparently he’d spent the whole night draped in an awkward position over Spock, but … he lifted his arm experimentally, flexing muscles, bending at the elbow, rotating slowly. Alright. Maybe not quite as new, but good enough.

“Sunlight therapy lamps at fifty percent, please.” He blinked at the sudden brightness flooding the room. Then he propped himself up on his left elbow and turned to look at Spock. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Negative.”

“Did you at least manage to meditate some?” Jim thought Spock must have. He felt much better, and Spock looked mostly normal. Possibly still a bit pale.

“Negative,” Spock replied.

“Sheesh.” Jim flexed the fingers of his right hand. “So what did you do all night? Count my heartbeats and my every breath?”

Spock’s mind focused on their connection, on the rhythm of life as an exemplification of the idea of harmony in everything, of hours of peaceful almost-but-not-quite meditation. After a night’s meld their connection was closer than normally.

“Really?” Jim laughed. “Well, whatever works.” He paused. Reached up. Touched Spock’s meld points, taking in his Bondmate’s unresolved tension, physically and mentally. “Only it didn’t. You need more.”

Spock did not reply, so he glanced at the clock in the wall screen and hummed to himself, calculating the time and … “Bones coming over at eight hundred to check on me?”

“Affirmative.”

“That means we have seventy minutes left.” Spock didn’t move, just lay there next to him, expectant, calm. Jim sighed his regret, wishing they had more time. “You know, before the Bonding and even during that god-awful conversation in sickbay afterwards, I thought I couldn’t wait until it was safe for me to be a bit more hmm…” Aggressive sounded wrong, as did dominant. “Assertive? Be able to take the initiative? And now …” He chuckled, torn between laughter and frustration. “Either the mood’s not right, or shit is happening, or we don’t have enough time. Damn, the romance is gone.”

He waited a beat, before he added, wryly, “That was a joke, you know.”

“I am aware of that.” Faint amusement colored Spock’s voice. “And I concur with your assessment of the situation.”

The four, five weeks after their Spice-enhanced Bonding had been intense in every way, but most of all sexually. To the point that they hadn’t minded when the extreme urgency of their desire for each other had waned. Jim slid his hand under Spock’s top. The Vulcan’s skin was smooth, his muscles harder than a Human’s. His heartbeat was thrumming its usual funny hummingbird rhythm this morning.

“That thing with Thorby was a real mood killer, too,” Jim admitted. “Not that I mind. The good definitely outweighs the bad there. Which reminds me. How … how did that thing yesterday affect him?”

“Dr. Elbrun and Joanna were able to shield him for the most part,” Spock replied. “There was little bleed-through either way. I was able to contain any mental stress beyond that.”

“Oh, good.” Jim sighed with relief. Familial Bonds, especially in such a makeshift, artificial telepathic family unit, were nowhere near as close as the mating Bond Jim and Spock shared. Nevertheless, shielding was a serious issue, since Jim’s fitness for command was at stake and no one wanted to expose Thorby to more stress. “I certainly didn’t notice anything. Admittedly, I was kinda preoccupied.”

Sybok had formed the Bonds between Thorby, Spock, and Jim three days after he had discovered the accidental Bond between Thorby and Jo. As expected, the effect had been profound.

For the most part, it was good stuff. The positive influence of a new telepathic family connection on Thorby was immense. He didn’t flinch as often as before, he had less nightmares, and he became much more talkative. The best description Jim could come up with was that Thorby had turned a little human. And sometimes he worried about how that might a) be a bad thing, and b) his fault, even though Spock and Sybok and Elbrun assured him that was not the case. Thorby – close telepathic proximity to another Vulcan mind – was good for Spock, too. Instead of being overwhelmed with Thorby’s needs and problems, Spock felt more grounded. Jim for his part experienced the whole thing mostly through Spock, in a kind of connectivity, an instinctive sense of belonging.

The bad stuff was mostly Thorby’s nightmares bleeding through. Jo did one hell of a job shielding Spock and Jim, but some things an eleven-year-old girl could not – and should not – contain. Those things were awful for everyone concerned, and triggery as hell for Jim. Nothing he wanted to contemplate now.

Jim turned his attention back to Spock and tickled his fingertips upwards from his stomach, tenderly counting each rib. Thanks to the Bond Spock could allow himself to be aroused now and in fact considered that reaction to his Bondmate’s impulses perfectly logical and beneficial. However, the fact remained that without pon farr, Spock was not sexually mature in Vulcan terms. And yeah, that bothered Jim, no matter how often he told himself that human standards were not applicable to the situation and that Spock was an adult who knew perfectly well what he wanted. It was rather more complex than he’d anticipated. What did Spock need now?

“Love you,” Jim said, voice firm. It was important to him to say that out loud. To hear himself say the words. “I’m so sorry for yesterday.”

He pulled his hand out from under Spock’s shirt and raised it to his head, to trail his fingertips over Spock’s meld points. Taking in how his lover’s eyes widened, how his lips parted, Jim swallowed hard. “Would you like to have sex?” he asked, straightforward. (That had been a learning process, too, to figure out that Spock needed clear, clinical questions. Not because he didn’t understand slang or idioms, but because those terms and phrases made him uncomfortable, emotionally loaded as they were.) “It might help.”

“Affirmative,” Spock replied softly.

“Okay,” Jim said with a sigh. “Good. Because I really want you now. And I think we just wasted ten minutes with talking and thinking instead of making out.”

He started over. First, a kiss, slow, deliberate. Lips only. The difference in temperature was striking. And they were so soft. He licked into the corners, delving deeper, tangling with Spock’s rough tongue. When he came up for air, his outlook on the universe had already improved around one hundred percent.

“Hmm…” He buried his face against Spock’s shoulder and inhaled deeply. “How about undressing? Just a suggestion, you know. If you’re not too cold.”

Spock grabbed the hem of his top and quickly drew it up over his head, throwing it aside. In the process, his hair ended up slightly mussed.

“You can’t do that,” Jim protested. “You know what it does to me.” It was such a little thing, really. But he knew it was something no one else got to see about Spock normally, and it completely disarmed him.

“Since I agree that undressing is a suitable means to prepare for satisfactory sexual relations, it is, in fact, essential that I do just that,” Spock replied with perfect Vulcan logic.

Jim thought it was a saving grace that even Vulcans needed to wriggle to get out of PJ bottoms. But then he was faced with his lover lying next to him naked and willing, and a mere sixty minutes left until the CMO would come knocking on their door. In other words, his life sucked. On that note he summarily extricated himself from his own pajama. As soon as he was undressed, Spock turned to him. For a long, breathless moment they pressed against each other, soaking in the touch of naked skin to naked skin. Enveloped in Spock’s heat, Jim was caught in the strangest feeling of déjà vu. A sense of delicious forever mixed with the bone-deep ache of never, never again. As if this, this moment was something he’d longed for his whole life, longer even, and worse, as if this could never be real, could never last.

“As if I’ve been waiting for you forever, that’s how you feel,” Jim whispered. “Every time.” He shivered, even as his cock twitched and ached, impossibly aroused. He didn’t want to finish the thought that threatened to choke him. As if it’s the last time …

But he couldn’t think of that now. He knelt next to his lover’s supine body and bent over to trail his tongue around Spock’s sheath. His lover’s reaction was immediate – his erection so damn beautiful that Jim would never get used to it. “Gorgeous,” he murmured. That he could provoke such a response in Spock was a heady thing. “Not the right time for penetration, I believe. But I do so want to feel you. Just rub each other off? And your fingers in my mouth? Or wherever you want them?” Spock’s fingers were incredibly sensitive. Sometimes too sensitive. Jim didn’t want to use that Vulcan characteristic as a shortcut to Spock’s orgasm.

“An acceptable compromise,” Spock responded.

♦♦♦

His voice sounded too soft to his own ears. But Jim had heard him nevertheless. With careful consideration Spock let go of certain controls. At the same time he tightened the shields of the shallow familial Bonds that connected them to Thorby. (Emotional transference from Jim to Thorby was negligible, thankfully. Monitoring that aspect of the familial Bonds during that particular type of situation had been extremely unpleasant for Jim, but necessary for both his and McCoy’s peace of mind.)

Again Jim bent over him. The warm, wet contact of his lover’s tongue with sensitive skin made him arch his hips in spite of his fatigue. Lassitude assailed his limbs, a symptom of an overextended Bond. His mind, his body ached with need, need for his Bondmate. Lust was not such a simple emotion after all. He allowed his body to react to Jim’s touches, permitted his emotions to flow freely. Motionless he lay under Jim’s kisses, Jim’s caresses.

“It’s okay, Spock,” Jim whispered, “it’s okay.” And added, in his mind: »I was scared, too.« So close after their night’s meld, Jim’s thoughts transferred almost like active speech.

Spock started shivering slightly again. This was more than simple sexual desire, he realized. More than his abnormal need for touching and being touched. More even than the taxed Bond’s demands. It was also a very simple, very human shock, delayed by Vulcan control. That was why he hadn’t been able to meditate, why he couldn’t sleep, why he was so cold, so cold.

And Jim knew. He moved away from Spock’s erection, lay down alongside him, and started over with a kiss, just lips, no tongue. First he drew Spock’s hands up to his face, then he rested his palms on either side of Spock’s head. The connection drew their minds together and stabilized the Bond. The next kiss was less chaste. Jim’s tongue dipped into his mouth, to emulate the movements associated with coitus. The rhythm heightened Spock’s arousal until he was fully erect. Predictably Jim chose that moment to slide his fingers from his face and to draw his head away from Spock’s hands. He propped himself up on his left elbow and his left knee, next to Spock’s arm, next to Spock’s thigh. In an open, wet kiss he slid his mouth over Spock’s chest before he rolled himself on top of Spock. Skin to skin, touch to touch, body to body. He bore down, hard, using his whole weight to anchor Spock inside his body. Thus, Jim held Spock safely in the flood of sensations and emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. For the first time, Spock craved penetration. But he realized that, mentally, he may not be ready yet – to consciously give up control over his body and mind in that particular way.

“We’ll get there,” Jim promised. He curled his right hand around Spock’s shoulder, holding him tenderly. “Don’t fret now. Just feel. I’m here. You’re here. That’s enough.”

He began to move, pressing in. The slight slickness from the sheath that coated Spock’s penis was sufficient to ensure that the resulting friction was pleasurable. Jim kept his movements easy, controlled. Within minutes, the slow stimulation of his body began to affect Spock’s mind. The mental strain of the previous day was converted into sexual tension, until his mind and his body were desperately striving for release.

In languid movements, Jim stretched out all over his body, just enough, almost too little contact. Then Jim kissed him again, picking up the rhythm of his body with his tongue again. Each stroke, each push made Spock feel more – more present, more alive, more needful. Eventually Jim came up for air, a deep, ragged breath followed by a swift caress of lips.

“There, that’s it,” Jim murmured, “let’s get you back in your body, put you back together again.”

With a start Spock realized how fitting that phrase was. Telepathic overexertion and psychological shock had led to mild dissociation, and sex was a surprisingly effective method of overcoming that defense mechanism of his mind.

“Overthinking again, Spock, stop it.” Jim silenced any protest with even deeper kisses. He slid his tongue over Spock’s, back and forth, pushing in and out relentlessly. At the same time, he ground harder against him, and Spock let himself be, just be, here, now, with Jim.

“That’s better,” Jim praised him, lips fluttering to his meld points, down his neck, to the hollow at his throat.

Soon the rhythmic pressure and slide of erection against erection did not provide enough satisfaction anymore. Spock was beginning to ache for more, from deep within his testicles to the sensitive barbs brushing against the silky skin of Jim’s penis. But before he could demand more, now, now, Jim was already stroking his right hand across his body, flicking a nipple, teasing his way to the navel and lower, until he wrapped his hand firmly around both of them. He pumped once, twice, drawing them efficiently to the precipice of orgasm. Then he stopped. Spock felt him trembling with the effort of control. Jim’s sweat was cool and delicious on his skin. With a sigh Jim reached out and grasped Spock’s left hand, tangling their fingers. Spock’s control fractured, and he couldn’t stay silent anymore; he felt more than heard the sound he couldn’t suppress. Closer to a sob than a moan.

“Yeah, like that.” Jim smiled at him, flushed with exertion, eyes brilliant with lust. “Now.” He drew their linked hands to his lips. Adjusting his grip, he slipped Spock’s index and middle finger into his mouth before he relinquished his hold and moved his hand back between their bodies. He closed his fingers around them in a firm grip. Again he stilled, waiting. Held so tightly, in the warm wetness of Jim’s mouth, in the rough pressure of Jim’s hand, weighed down by Jim’s body, Spock was safe, yet helpless. He started trembling, mind and body out of control, completely at Jim’s mercy. As if on cue, Jim started moving again, thrusting against his body, taking his fingers deep. Again, again. Again. Until Spock couldn’t hold back anymore, until he arched up in a harsh climax, until he couldn’t do anything but shudder against Jim, into Jim, again, and again, until Jim followed suit, spattering his release over his hand and Spock’s stomach.

With a little slurping sound, Jim let go of Spock’s fingers and gently released his softening penis. But he did not roll away, just slid to his side, until he lay with his head pillowed on Spock’s shoulder, his right leg splayed over Spock’s thighs. He was still intent on anchoring them, drawing them together, away from the aftermath of the previous day. Successfully, too. Spock was exhausted, yes, and slightly uncomfortable – covered in semen and sweat – but also balanced once more in mind, body, and soul.

“Nemaiyo, ashayam,” he whispered.

“Nrgh,” Jim groaned. “You’re welcome. You think that counts as physical therapy for my arm? ‘cause it totally should. Ow.”

But when he tilted back his head to meet Spock’s gaze, his eyes were blazing, almost green with happiness.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.319, 0800 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Quarters

Somehow they managed to be showered, dressed, and in Jim’s quarters at eight hundred sharp. Spock looked and, through the connection of the Bond, was heaps better. Although Jim’s body was one massive ache – his arm throbbed, and his legs felt like rubber – he was seriously happy, basking in the afterglow of sex, of being alive, and yeah, in love. He was man enough to admit that, plus it was such a nice feeling. He’d spent such a long time wanting more with Spock, in ways he could not name or define, that this new, solid reality of their relationship still was the most awesome surprise ever some days. Smiling, he watched Spock set the table for three, retrieving assorted dishes with healthy breakfast foods from the replicator.

When Bones didn’t come in but pressed the chime of the door panel, a good deal of those nice feelings went poof then and there. So it was a check-up from the CMO, not his friend. Jim suppressed a sigh and a first stirring of anger.

“Morning,” Bones growled and entered the room with a scowl fixed on his face.

“And a very good morning to you,” Jim said, concentrating on a bright smile. “Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

He already knew the answer before Bones shook his head and muttered, “My sickbay is full of injured Vulcan gypsies. No time for that today.”

“Tomorrow then, perhaps,” Spock suggested politely but kept his distance.

Bones didn’t even look up, just pulled out his tricorder and ran it across Jim’s arm. “I spent a full hour fixing your damn arm last night. You were supposed to give it a rest for a single night,” Bones muttered. “And now you’ve somehow managed to strain barely healed tendons in your sleep? How’s that even possible?” Before Jim could reply, Bones shook his head, shooting Spock a look of disgust. “No, don’t answer. I already know. You didn’t do anything. It just happened.”

So that’s how it was supposed to be between them now? Jim didn’t want to believe it. What had happened to “nobody’s to blame”? His voice was way too calm when he retorted, “My arm’s just fine, Leonard. A hypo and a bit of that sports rub, and I’ll be good as new. However, what I’d like to know is why you didn’t insist on Spock seeing M’Benga last night after you were done with me. You damn well know he’s a worse idiot about taking care of himself than I am. But you simply sent him off with me, never mind that he was close to collapsing himself!”

Bones stared at Jim, stricken. The silence lasted too long. Jim wanted to take back his words, to reassure his friend that he knew Bones would never purposely ignore anyone in need of help.

“Well,” Bones said, his voice dangerously soft, “looks like you fucked him right back into shape this morning, haven’t you? Never mind that your arm was still recovering from being turned into shish-kebab yesterday.”

Spock caught Jim’s eyes. His expression was perfectly blank, his presence at the back of Jim’s mind almost imperceptible. He didn’t even have to think the words: No, Jim. Don’t.

Jim forced himself to take a deep breath. He walked to the table and sat down slowly. Only then he looked at the man who’d been his best friend for years now. That moment made all the difference. For the fraction of a second he caught a glimpse of how Bones was really feeling. His face was drawn, his eyes dark. Not with anger, but with agony, with turmoil.

It’s not that we had sex when it wasn’t medically advisable. And it’s not that he doesn’t care, Jim thought, it’s that he cares too much. And intimacy – especially the Vulcan version, body, mind, and soul – scares the shit out of him.

Jim made a mental note to check if Bones was actually seeing a counselor as he’d been told to. He sensed Spock step behind him, the slightest touch of fingertips on his shoulder, warmth and comfort flooding his mind through their Bond. Suddenly Jim realized how their friendship with Bones might still be fixed. He sensed Spock’s approval, but also instinctive wariness. Jim agreed. Only a deep meld, only to experience that “damn Vulcan voodoo” for himself might enable Bones to overcome his issues with such mental intimacy. But that was nothing they could offer to him; he would have to ask for it when he was ready.

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t sigh; he just felt tired all over again. What a waste of perfectly good morning sex. “Thank you, Doctor McCoy. That will be all. Please send in Yeoman Rand. And don’t forget our appointment with Guinan tonight.”

♦♦♦

“Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.”
– Henri J.M. Nouwen

♦♦♦♦♦♦

---

Author’s Notes

• “Fear is the mindkiller” is quote from the famous litany against fear in Frank Herbert’s “Dune”

• The Dionysus and Stephen are from Vonda N. McIntyre’s tie-in novel “Enterprise: The First Adventure”.

• Barque cats belong to Anne McCaffrey and now to Anne McCaffrey/Elizabeth Ann Scarborough.