RoH 17

I Carry Your Heart

Stardate 2260.254, 0300 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Cabin

Jim couldn’t get that poem out of his mind. Star-met, he thought, as he gazed up into Spock’s mesmerizing black eyes. Joined. He gasped as he turned onto his stomach, craving Spock inside his body, inside his mind. Words had never got under his skin that way before. Blessed? Goddamn lucky at the very least. He wanted to launch himself at his lover, bury himself in his body, wanted to growl at Spock. “Need you, want you, let me fuck you.” But it was early days yet; the Bond was too new, the threat of pon farr often on their mind. So he stretched himself out, pliant and passive, and begged, “Please. Please. No thinking. Not now. Slick yourself up and get on with it.”

Thankfully, Spock chose that exact moment to find his ass with a slick, lubed finger. Found each other. Hell, yes. The Bond transferred just how sensitive a touch-telepath’s fingers were – and also told Spock how Jim experienced the careful pressure on his prostate.

“More,” Jim managed, a moan, not a word. Spock obliged, and Jim panted at the pressure, but he still wanted more. He wanted everything. He’d always enjoyed sex, but this? This was crazy. He was shuddering, out of control with need this morning, and he was tearing Spock along, right into the abyss. Oh, damn. Sybok had been right where the after-effects of Spice were concerned – how symptoms of addiction might linger and express themselves within the Bond. Not cool. “C’mon, please. Please.”

At first Spock’s dick in his ass was nearly too much – yet at the same time exactly what he needed. Almost pain, more than a burn, beyond fullness. To come undone, to be spread open. Between gasps, he begged, “Meld, meld, please. Please. Need you. Need—”

For a moment he sensed his lover’s hot fingertips on his face. Desire surged through him like lightning before the meld exploded into a delirious dream of shared ecstasy.

♦♦♦

Need had woken them in the middle of the night. Desire burned in their minds and their bodies. Spock wondered if pon farr would be like that. If this was how it would begin. Or worse, if this was how it began … Sybok had spoken of the possibility. But when Spock forced himself to monitor his body and his brain while Jim clutched at him and begged for intercourse, he discovered only what he should find – the requirements of their new Bond, not the hormonal imbalance of impending pon farr. Albeit, as Sybok had suspected, their cravings were much stronger than what Spock had been taught to expect. Spice had joined them much more completely than the differences in their genetic make-up should allow. In consequence, all effects of their Bonding were greatly intensified.

In spite of the painful throbbing of his body that demanded physical release, in spite of the ache in his mind that pulled him to his Bondmate, Spock hesitated over Jim’s body spread out helplessly before him. Six days ago he had been overwhelmed by their first meld, by the violent intimacy of their Bonding and the effects of the drug. Now he retained a measure of control but found that less than helpful. As the emotionally and physically inexperienced partner, his lust still felt strange, alien to his mind and body. To hold his penis in a state of arousal for the sixth time in his life left Spock struggling, torn between control and passion.

“Please. Please. No thinking. Not now,” Jim mumbled, “slick yourself up and get on with it.”

Spock picked up the relevant tube and obediently covered himself with the spicy lube. The ingredients as well as the touch stimulated him even more, to the point that he didn’t hesitate to lean over Jim’s body and to trail his hand down Jim’s back and between the cheeks of his ass. Cautiously, he slipped a slick finger into the tight ring of muscle. To engage in such an irrational, unhygienic act should be unappealing, but all he could feel was lust.

“More,” Jim demanded when Spock added another finger. Spock shuddered painfully as the hot, intimate tightness surrounding his hyper-sensitive fingers tore at his control, as the Bond transferred to him how perfectly the pressure and angle of his fingers stimulated Jim’s prostate. “C’mon, please. Please.”

Jim’s pleas helped Spock to overcome his hesitation, and he positioned himself against Jim. Their bodies fit together harmoniously. They were about the same size, with Spock an inch taller. Both of them were physically strong. Spock’s figure was thinner and more angular; due to his Vulcan heritage, his skeletal structure was heavier, his muscles denser. Jim’s human body was a little fuller, softer, and lighter. There was a subtle gentleness to his appearance that was pleasing to Spock’s eyes and hands. Indeed, the contrast between them at this intimate moment was compelling: Jim’s pale body was flushing in ruddy hues, while Spock’s erection was almost green with the increased blood flow of arousal. Slowly, he pushed himself into Jim’s body, his eyes intent on the sight of his penis embedded in the stretched orifice, lube glistening on their skin. The tight clench of Jim’s anal muscles, the echo of almost unbearable fullness in his mind challenged what vestiges of control he had left.

“Meld, meld, please,” Jim gasped. “Please. Need you. Need—” Jim’s need pulsed around him and inside him. Spock flung himself forward, the new angle of penetration wrenching a groan of pleasure from his throat. He allowed his hand to cover Jim’s feverish face. His fingers latched on to the meld points. Untainted by drugs, the effect was instantaneous and even stronger than their previous meld. With a cry, Spock thrust into Jim’s body. He drew back and slid his hands to Jim’s neck without breaking their telepathic connection, to his shoulders, down his back, to his sides, until he held Jim in place with a bruising grip and surged forward again, until he pressed himself ever deeper into his lover’s body.

Jim for his part was merciless, pushing back against Spock with his body and his mind, dissolving Spock’s last controls until he lost himself in the depth of their union. Time turned into rhythm, into a pounding, physical pulse in their joined bodies. Spock slid his right hand under Jim’s stomach and grasped his lover’s erection, fingers moving up and down his length in time with his thrusts. Soon the sensations became too much for him to hold, the tension of impending orgasm excruciating. He knew Jim was on the brink, too. For a moment, Spock tried to hold them there, motionless, on the cusp between agony and orgasm. Until, from one frantic heartbeat to the next, the effort was too much. He shoved himself deeply into Jim, tightened his grip around him, and let their climax take them. Pressure exploded into release. He could feel his semen rush into his lover’s body in a helpless flow. At the same time, Jim shuddered, spilling his come into Spock’s hand.

Afterwards, although the post-orgasmic hypersensitivity of their bodies was exquisitely painful, Spock did not extricate himself from Jim’s body but instead clung to him for moments longer. Their physical and mental connection was too deep to relinquish just like that, as if it reached beyond time, beyond space. He could barely force himself to move at all. So he merely lowered his face to Jim’s back and inhaled the musky fever-scent of sweat and sex.

“We are the dream of the ages,” Spock quoted and whispered human kisses over his Bondmate’s spine. “We are the hope, the desire.” With a silent groan he finally dragged himself out of Jim’s anus, leaving thick trails of sperm and translucent smears of lube behind. Sinking down next to Jim, he raised his hand, still sticky with his lover’s seed to his lips. Unable to contain his curiosity, he had to smell, had to taste, before he traced tender fingertips along Jim’s crack. Gently mingling their ejaculate, he rubbed index and middle finger across the flushed, hot opening. “We are love.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.259, 1600 hours, Deck 7, Sickbay, CMO’s Office

Carolyn sat at Leonard’s computer in the CMO’s office, working slowly through the information Colonel Baslim had amassed in his ten years on New Sydney.

Sickbay’s computer system was the safest on the ship, thanks to the sensitive content of medical files. Additionally, the CMO had to sync the medical files of the crew with Starfleet Medical on a regular basis, so large transmissions from sickbay were not unusual. Hidden away in Spock’s extensive, Vulcan-encrypted medical files, even the massive amount of data Baslim had collected should remain undetected. Her involvement in Thorby’s and Jo’s care was no secret. No one would think it unusual if she spent some extra hours in McCoy’s office. In other words, she was hiding in plain sight – just in case. If Ambassador Gav’s insidious network penetrated Starfleet even more thoroughly than they feared.

Carolyn leaned back with a sigh and rotated tense shoulders. When strong hands settled left and right of her neck and started kneading, she nearly jumped out of her skin. The hands stilled and held her in place.

“Exhale,” Leonard ordered. “Let your body take care of inhaling. A friendly shoulder massage is no reason to start hyperventilating. Lord, you’re tense, Lieutenant Paul.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, “didn’t expect that, is all. Also …” She made a vague gesture at the screen. “This is getting to me.” With a wary glance, she made sure that the door to the CMO’s office was closed and no one was outside. “What we’ve got here,” she explained, “is …” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Leonard, I don’t know where to start.” All of a sudden she had tears in her eyes and blinked desperately. This was so huge, even though it was evidence for just one planet out of dozens. But it was real data, hard data that could be confirmed from the outside, with external sources.

“Breathe out,” he repeated. When she obeyed, he pressed down on her shoulders along with her exhalation, releasing the pressure only when she inhaled instinctively. “Are you even allowed to talk to me about that?”

“Yes,” she said. “My father changed your clearance. I’m sorry. But that couldn’t be avoided thanks to Thorby’s issues.”

“So that will come back and bite me in the ass,” Leonard griped.

“That’s par for the course with such matters.” She shrugged uncomfortably but didn’t apologize again. “Okay, so … here …” She switched to a hierarchical view of folders on the screen and flicked through a preview of the contents. “What we’ve got. For one thing, we have the shadow ledger of the United Pergium Mining Consortiums. It’s like ‘Creative Accounting For Criminals 101’. That’s already pretty heavy because for trading licenses, for legit deals with Federation ships, they need to file their Federation business accounts with the Federation Tax Authorities. Those files will not match.”

Carolyn tapped the keyboard panel. “And then there’s this, the spaceport registry, and not the public version. It tells us where the ships that show up in the bookkeeping files came from and where they went next. Sadly, those bastards are not stupid enough to come here directly from wherever they are based. But New Sydney’s an important hub in the slave trade. There won’t be many stops between wherever they come from and the Sappora system. With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to trace them back. We need to find the connection, Leonard. Where do they keep the slaves between capturing them and selling them? I … I don’t know because I didn’t go the normal route, because I was a special case. They had to get rid of me quickly, so they took me straight to … well …” Involuntarily she hunched her shoulders again. Leonard tsked at her and dug in his thumbs again until she made an undignified nrgh sound and sat up straighter.

She inhaled tightly, even though she felt him shake his head behind her. “But the real kicker is this,” she said, opening another file. “That’s what Colonel Baslim died for, Leonard.” She swallowed hard, staring at the graphs, the tables, the numbers. “The transportation logs of New Sydney authorities. The scanner logs for everything, and even more important, for everyone, beamed from and to the surface of New Sydney in the last three years. What the captain did with Thorby? That’s standard procedure here. That’s how they transport slaves to and from New Sydney. That’s why those pergium containers are so big. Not because pergium is so special or because New Sydney miners live to impress, but because the live, organic matter that shows up in the log files needs that kind of space. And that’s how we’ll be able to prove which ships are involved in the slave trade. And not just with the files, but because direct exposure to pergium leaves very specific traces in humanoid organisms. Traces—”

“—that show up in scans for decades,” Leonard interrupted her. “No known decontamination procedures can get rid of pergium residue. It’s not life-threatening as such – unlike strontium-90 or cesium-137 – but pergium really sticks to your bones. If you inhaled it while stuck in a small container, I bet it would also leave very specific marks in your lungs.” He hummed under his breath. “You know, I should do a complete work-up on Thorby’s exposure to radiation. And I think Scotty still has those pergium containers stashed away somewhere …”

“God, yes.” She turned around and rose to her feet to face Leonard, her hands balled into fists. “We’ll get those bastards. We will get them.” She shivered. “And there’ll be a trial, and they’ll rot in hell. Or at least on an extremely unpleasant prison planet.”

Leonard raised his eyebrows. “And then everything will be all right?”

“Hardly.” Carolyn snorted bitterly. “I guess it’s my way of … of owning what happened to me. They wanted to get me out of the way, but I wasn’t even important enough to be killed. So they did their best to show me how helpless I am. And they succeeded, Leonard, don’t ever doubt that.” She inhaled a ragged breath. “But I’m here now, I’m alive, and I’m not helpless anymore. So, as long as I can, I’ll fight back. As hard as I can. And if we manage to make that a case, if we manage to win that case, the universe will be a better place. That’s more than enough for me.”

And then, to her utter shock and surprise, Leonard McCoy pulled her into his arms and simply held her, for a very long time.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.264, 1700 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Quarters

More than two weeks had passed since their Bonding. The aftereffects of their joint Spice trip of special magnificence and epic embarrassment were gradually decreasing in intensity and frequency as the Bond settled.

This afternoon, Spock had immersed himself in preliminary terraforming reports. With perfect posture and unwavering concentration, he was sitting at the desk in the captain’s quarters, while Jim sprawled on the sofa, eyes closed, enjoying the warm connection between their minds. Jim had already gone over what reports Sulu and Uhura had compiled for him over breakfast. The reports must have been vetted by Bones because they were painfully bland, mostly yet another iteration of “much to everyone’s surprise, the ship still hasn’t exploded or imploded yet”. In other news, the final confirmation from Starfleet Command for the treaties with the ATU (the Arrakis Trade Union) and the Fremen had caught up with the Enterprise the previous day. That meant full steam ahead for the science department of the Enterprise until they would leave orbit around Arrakis after stardate 2260.290 to make way to Khosla, in the vague hope of catching up with the elusive V’tosh ka’tur on the Ferengi outpost at long last.

Jim allowed himself to drift in the ebb and flow of the Bond, or whatever transferred from Spock’s mind while he was reading those reports. Jim liked Spock’s mind. Spock zoned out in science was almost as good as Spock meditating. And Spock meditating was pure zen. Weird how much Jim liked sharing that experience. He’d never expected that, even though he’d been giving that meditation thing a stab with Spock’s help for a while now. Sometimes he worried over using Spock’s meditations as a short-cut for himself. Not that he was above cheating for a good cause – he just knew damn well that sometimes things weren’t supposed to be easy …

Whatever, Jim couldn’t deny that it was good for him. The whole thing – Spock, and the Bond. He hadn’t had any nightmares since the Bonding and not a single claustrophobic episode. He couldn’t stomach meat anymore, but he didn’t miss that much because for the first time since Tarsus he was able to relax around food, even enjoy it (well, as much as that was possible with replicated stuff). His improved sleeping and eating habits translated directly into medical results such as blood pressure, stress hormones and stuff like that. It was almost scary: Bones was starting to smile at him during their daily check-ups. Nothing like good blood test results to win a doctor over.

Obviously, Bones hadn’t been the biggest fan of their Spice-y Bonding (small wonder, because the initial effects of it – awkward; and Carolyn Paul deserved a commendation for thinking of the security camera in the transporter room, because, again, awkward). And yeah, not talking it over with Bones beforehand hadn’t been Jim’s smartest move ever. But especially in retrospect, with all the sexual awkwardness involved, he’d do it again. Because no matter how pissed-off Bones had been, Jim wanted, needed Bones in this primarily as his friend, not as his doctor. Even though Bones was inevitably involved as CMO now, too, Jim thought that Bones-his-friend had gotten the message. And Jim was determined to enjoy that for as long as it lasted; which would be precisely until Bones found out how the Bond was not just about living together but about dying together.

Jim cracked an eye open and glanced at Spock. Yup. Still deep into his PADD. Jim hoped his mental and emotional state was not too distracting. By now he knew that he could have that effect on Spock. But there was nothing to be done about that, since Sybok had strictly forbidden them to experiment with shielding or Jim’s revamped psionic centers for a month. For an emo hippie Vulcan mind healer, Sybok was awfully strict concerning his instructions for what Jim and Spock were allowed to do and what they mustn’t do. Somewhat to his own surprise, Jim was pretty good at following those rules.

Of course it helped just how much Jim enjoyed the new intimacy he shared with Spock. Finally sex. Damn awesome sex, too. (In spite of staying mostly passive to make pon farr safer at some point in the future.) But the Bond was … he couldn’t come up with any word or phrase to do it justice, so he settled for “better”. Even better. The unmatured Bond was a constant, vague presence at the back of his mind, physically a pressure just above his neck, at the base of his skull. He’d attempted to describe it to Bones in a socially and psychologically acceptable way. A kind of inner warmth, of constant connection. How much he needed that feeling of “not-alone-never-alone-always-with-you” was probably best kept out of his psych evals. Co-dependency in a command team was kind of frowned upon.

Jim kept his eyes closed and tried not to tug at the Bond, tried not to want Spock that much. He really didn’t want to bother Spock with a constant deluge of feelings and demands. Even if Spock would never admit that in as many words, Jim was aware how taxing emotional and sexual intimacy could be for the half-Vulcan at times. Spock was always so perfect and patient about satisfying Jim’s needs. He deserved nothing less in return. But “Jim Kirk”, “perfect” and “patient” couldn’t possibly be combined in one and the same sentence. And it was stupid to want perfect anyway, and … and all of that wanting and needing and thinking made Jim … irritable … itchy.

“Shhhh,” Spock whispered and drew Jim against his body. Jim blinked open his eyes. He hadn’t noticed when Spock had abandoned his PADD and come over to the couch. “I am sorry. I should have detected that you need me,” Spock murmured. “You must know that you, your feelings, your needs will never ‘bother’ me. It is impossible. In fact, the echo of the ebb and flow of your emotions is already proving to be beneficial for both my balance and my control. My mind is growing more … flexible.”

Spock laid a gentle hand upon Jim’s face, initiating a light meld. Jim sighed his relief at Spock’s physical and mental proximity. For a while they leaned against each other in comfortable silence. “I guess I do see now why they put us on sick leave for a whole month,” Jim muttered. “It’s one thing to freak out here, alone with you, for no particular reason. Quite another to do so on the bridge.”

“It’s still stupid to be jealous of a PADD,” Jim grumbled. “Or to get obsessed with perfection for no good reason all of a sudden.”

“Perfection,” Spock retorted somewhat prissily, “is a worthy goal to strive for according to both human and Vulcan tradition. Though I must admit that I find your perception of perfection rather irrational. I can assure you that the Vulcan scientific community has never considered me an example of perfection.”

“They’re an ignorant bunch of jerks. I know what I know.” Jim captured Spock’s left hand and proceeded to caress his palm. “But I notice you’re not even trying to tell me it’s illogical to regard reports as rivals for your affections.”

“I—” Spock gasped, when Jim took his little finger between thumb and index finger and gently stroked him palm to fingertip. “Ahhh.”

“Love your hands,” Jim whispered. “Love them so much.”

He brought Spock’s fingers to his mouth, holding Spock’s wrist and palm in place with both hands. One kiss for each tip of the touch-telepath’s hyper-sensitive fingers. Love was so strange. He’d assumed with Spock in his mind, there’d be no reason to get unnecessarily sentimental. Spock would know. That would be enough. Manliness and Vulcaness satisfied all around. But it didn’t work like that. Jim found he wanted to say the words, wanted to hear himself say those words. And to feel Spock’s reaction to hearing them.

“Love you so much,” Jim said and—

Shock – the ground dropping away from under his feet – shame –a hot shockwave of shame – humiliation at an emotional response to such simple stimuli – agony at being unable to reciprocate in kind – to communicate the depth, the intensity of what he did feel in return—

Jim gasped. A supernova had nothing on Spock’s emotions, once unleashed.

Thirty minutes later they knew that Jim could make Spock climax by sucking on his fingers, and that Vulcan tongues were longer, warmer, more versatile, but unfortunately also much rougher than human tongues. After an undignified yelp from Jim that turned into helpless laughter at Spock’s flustered embarrassment, they ended up in bed after all, because even Spock had to admit that was the logical thing to do at that point. Because yeah, clearly they still needed practice to get it perfect, and Spock was in no position to deny that he’d endorsed striving for perfection a mere thirty-seven minutes and twenty seconds ago.

Afterwards, Jim seriously considered if captaining the Enterprise from the confines of their new big bed was a viable option. Spock’s amusement transferred clear as chuckles, and Jim grinned unrepentantly. “What can I say? You really are perfect. To me, anyway.”

Nevertheless, he rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. They expected Sybok and his family for dinner – another test for their Bond. Let’s see if we are fit for social life again …

Relaxing in the blast of a sonic shower, Jim considered Spock’s emotions. Oh yeah, Spock did have feelings. The whole gamut from “A for amusement” to … whatever. Not that Jim had ever doubted that. After all, their very first meeting at the Academy had clued him in that Spock was at least capable of being extremely pissed-off. But now … Sharing Spock’s hesitant explorations of his emotional range was really special. To be allowed to feel with him like that. His shocked passion. His gentle amusement.

Honest, Vulcans. The blah-blah front about not feeling anything was as much bullshit as that trashy chick-lit slogan of how Vulcan passions ran deeper than mere human feelings. Jim still felt like three times an idiot because he had never realized that Vulcan emotional make-up and Vulcan emotional processes were inherently different from the human equivalent. Alien. He had honestly no clue why there was no nice, shiny, big yellow box at the top of every page of the textbook for “Vulcan Culture 101” saying so. Perhaps because even though it was all kinds of obvious if you took just a moment to think things through, it was the kind of obvious that wasn’t easy to actually understand. Like a blind spot. And shit, if people kept getting wrong the absolute basics about one of the founding members of the Federation, Jim didn’t want to contemplate how oblivious they were concerning the weirder life-forms out there.

But, Spock. He was not entirely Vulcan, and to Jim’s surprise Spock had no idea how human he was. Spock could (probably) write down his complete hybrid genome. He was aware of most practical aspects of his Vulcan make-up, though mostly in terms of his shortcomings (fucking Vulcan bullies). He was utterly clueless how his human heritage affected him (beyond its “disadvantages” – fucking Vulcan Science Academy freaks). Jim didn’t need a degree in xenobiology to know that this was just the kind of thing that would come back to bite you in the ass when you least expected it.

Need to bug M’Benga for some background reading, he thought. And bring up the topic with Sybok as well. And yeah, obviously talk to Spock. Which will go over so well …

“Jim? You have been in the shower for ten minutes and fifty seconds. You have exceeded the period recommended for a maximum effect of sonics by three minutes and fifty seconds now. To stay in the shower longer than that is an inefficient and irresponsible use of the ship’s energy,” Spock complained. “Also, I still need to use the facilities myself. Need I remind you that Sybok and his wife and daughter will arrive in twenty-five minutes?”

Jim switched off the shower. “What? Sybok doesn’t rate seconds?”

“My brother is rarely on time.”

Jim laughed. When he passed Spock on his way to his cabin, he took the time to lean in for a moment. Not quite an embrace, just a moment of closeness, skin on skin. Spock inhaled sharply, and Jim hummed under his breath, familiar now with his Bondmate’s reaction when Spock inadvertently picked up thoughts through touching. Spock was big on mental privacy. Well, as much as that was possible within their Bond and especially with a needy human Bondmate like Jim.

“It’s okay,” Jim murmured. “Don’t worry. I like thinking about you.”

Spock regarded him seriously. “Jim. You are allowed to need me. Furthermore, you are correct. Our Bonding has proved that. I do not know myself the way I should. What happened—”

“Not going there now,” Jim ordered, more familiar by now with his lover’s well-hidden fears and self-doubts. “And not because Sybok’s on his way. Your brother can wait five minutes if we need them.” He linked his hands with Spock’s so his emotions and thoughts would transfer more clearly. “What happened, no matter how awkward, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Most important, I wouldn’t have you any other way than just the way you are. You’re a challenge. You know how I am with challenges.” He projected a vision of himself hacking his way through enticing layers of Spockness, body and mind and all. That bizarre image got him at least a minute twitch of Spock’s lips. They separated. “Hey,” Jim added, a gentle joke and a reassurance, “I’m willing to rebuild my caffeine tolerance from scratch for you. I’ve given up eating meat for you. Does that tell you something, or what?”

Spock stared at him, and Jim could feel him struggling – at a loss for words, for adequate phrases to give form and reason to emotions that still threatened to overwhelm him. Jim also sensed Spock’s need to move beyond the cruel conditioning of his childhood. He held on to Spock’s hands and waited, as patiently as he could.

“Indeed,” Spock said at last, each word soft and carefully enunciated. “Although it is nothing I have not perceived long before, nothing I do not already carry within my mind, within my soul.”

… your heart …

With that, Spock disappeared into the shower. Jim stared at the closed bathroom door, breathless, light-headed, surprised by the unexpected romance of a moment between shower and family dinner.

And I yours, he thought. Your heart in my mind. In my soul.

Jim shook his head, amused at himself and his unabashed sentimentality. Then he turned to his wardrobe and eyed the contents with a frown. Like it or not, he still had a family dinner to dress up for. I really need to get some more civvies. Bones had made noises about clearing them to roam the ship tomorrow. While confined to quarters, he’d stayed in PJs all day more often than not. But that was hardly appropriate outside (though a shipwide PJ day was a good idea, come to think of it), and he wouldn’t wear a uniform while on sick leave. Finally, he pulled out a pair of faded jeans and a black flannel shirt.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.264, 1900 hours, Deck 5, Captain’s Quarters

First order of business was, of course, a quick exam of their Bond via mind meld in Spock’s cabin, while T’Saralonde and T’Maire waited for them in Jim’s quarters.

Jim hated that kind of meld. The first times, he’d been unconscious, so it hadn’t been a big deal. Now that he was awake, he compared the experience to a particularly nasty dental exam, just inside his skull. Although intellectually he knew it was all in his mind, he had trouble not lashing out physically. It took an effort not to shove Sybok away.

Jim gasped for breath when it was over, his head throbbing with pain. Spock laid his palm over his neck. Although the touch was Vulcan-hot, his mind was flooded with a sensation of cool, liquid tranquility. He exhaled his relief. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“It is an instinctive reaction,” Sybok said, “to defend your mind and your Bond against any intruder. You are very strong-minded, too.”

“Thanks. Though it’s not as if I’m doing anything on purpose here.”

“When you are ready, Spock will instruct you,” Sybok said and turned to his brother. “Spock, you need to accept that your control is atrocious at the moment. It is of no concern. Cease your attempts. The time will come when control is impossible. Get used to the idea. Balance is more important now. Allow Jim to help you as is his right. Meld even more than you have so far. If you are able to maintain a meld while Jim is asleep, it would be beneficial.”

Jim sensed how Spock cringed internally at his brother’s words. He leaned against Spock, taking his left hand and holding it tightly with both hands. He didn’t say anything, merely held his conviction that they could deal with Spock losing control in the center of his mind, his love for Spock in the depth of his heart. When Spock exhaled in a barely audible way – his Vulcan version of a relieved sigh, Jim said quietly, “I like the idea of staying melded all night.” With a deep breath, he turned his attention back to Sybok. “So, can we go have dinner now?”

They headed over to Jim’s cabin. The table was already set for five, and the replicator was programmed for a vegetarian Terran-Vulcan fusion menu. Jim and Spock had spent hours composing the menu and tweaking the replicator. There had been moments of despair when Jim wanted to tell Spock to forget about it and just order in from that restaurant in Arrakeen that Gurney had recommended to them. But apparently it was a matter of Vulcan pride to feed guests with honest-to-goodness Enterprise food, and that meant replicator pap. (Why? Why would anyone want to serve replicated food if there was a perfectly wonderful planet within beaming distance? Why? Jim had always suspected that Vulcans were not half as logical as they claimed to be, and his growing intimate knowledge of their species and culture only confirmed that notion.)

T’Maire was out of the armchair and launching herself into Jim’s arms the moment they entered the cabin. As if she hadn’t seen him for years and years instead of approximately ten minutes. “Uncle Jim!”

“Hey, kan-bu.” Jim planted a noisy smack on her hot, chubby cheek. T’Maire didn’t protest being called “baby girl” in Vulcan. Instead she squealed and snuggled closer. Tugging at her dark curls, he put her down on the floor again. “Go and say hi to Uncle Spock again, or he’ll be sad.”

She promptly turned to Spock and raised her hand in a very proper ta’al. Her little face solemn, she greeted him in a formal Vulcan greeting, “T’nar pak sorat y’rani, toz’ot.”

“T’nar jaral, ko-fu t’sa-kai,” Spock replied, equally polite as he returned the formal greeting. Then he glanced at Jim. A kind of helpless, panicked look. The science officer could cope with the creepiest alien critters without batting an eyelash. But he was hopelessly out of his depth with kids. Jim suppressed a sigh. Small wonder, with the childhood Spock had endured. Jim at least wasn’t an only child. And well, Tarsus? The kids he’d taken care of, that had been the one bright spot in that particular nightmare. Almost like having a family. He still missed them sometimes, and he wasn’t sure if that wasn’t kind of sick, to miss that kind of hell in any way. However, he was still heaps better with kids than Spock. Okay, maybe not “better”, because Spock wasn’t bad with kids. Just kind of … scared of them, perhaps?

“How about helping Spock with the replicator, pumpkin?” Jim suggested helpfully. If they had something to do, if Spock could go into lecture mode, that might make things easier for him.

Thankfully, T’Maire loved the Enterprise and her shiny miracles, from tricorders to transporters. Giving Spock her best chocolate-brown puppy dog eyes, she asked eagerly, “Can I help with dinner?”

Jim watched, amused, as T’Maire led Spock to the replicator to get the first course delivered. She was so cute, how she switched from almost human exuberance to very proper Vulcan control from one second to the next. And so different from Thorby, who seemed to have only three modes of behavior: intensely in control, intensely out of control, and the way he was like with Jo. Jim managed not to sigh, but his heart was heavy because he knew he had to discuss Thorby with Spock and Sybok soon – though not tonight, because that certainly was no topic for a family dinner.

♦♦♦

Stardate …

… what did that even matter? There was only before – before Khan, before Spock’s death – and after. And oh, how he wished he’d been spared this long, long after. Admiral James T. Kirk sat on a wooden bench outside his log cabin in Idaho and stared at the landscape spread out before him. It could have been paradise, a perfect mountain idyll. The ideal place to enjoy his retirement. But it wasn’t. Nothing would ever be perfect again, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how hard Antonia tried. Somehow that made it even worse. That she was so damn understanding, so patient, so giving when he had nothing left to give.

Once again he had fled from the farm, from the town, from his therapist, and from her. Had sought refuge in his log cabin, far away from his life. Not that anything was better here. The sky was too blue, the air too clear, the mountains too magnificent … everything just too beautiful to be true. It didn’t even seem real. Nothing in his life felt real. Not the farm, not this cabin, not Butler – the faithful Great Dane at his feet – not even Antonia. Jim knew that was just a symptom: derealization, or in a more fancy medical jargon “an occipital–temporal dysfunction caused by a traumatic event”. His therapist, Guinan, had explained it to him more than once. Derealization constituted merely one of many symptoms of his broken Bond, of the open wound that festered in his mind. A wound which would never heal. A failure he would never overcome. Spock was dead, and he was alive. As Spock’s Bondmate he should have died, too, should have been able to die, damn it. Had wanted to die, more than anything. But he was too human, too weak. Twice over, because he was also too weak to get over losing Spock, no matter how hard he tried. Of course it didn’t help that he did not want to recover.

Thus Jim remained imprisoned in a reality that felt fake. Only in sleep this existence was endurable, because in his dreams he could die. When he slept and dreamed, derealization was not a symptom of a mental disorder but an alien phenomenon. In his dreams, his life was a prison he could escape from – to make a difference one more time before he joined his Bondmate in death, buried in the rubble of a collapsed bridge on an alien planet. Sometimes he dreamed that he was young again. Though he never found the joy a man his age should take in an imaginary second youth. Of course for him that phantasm had to turn into torment, too, instead of blissful illusion. A giant, tentacled starship obscured a familiar, red planet in this nightly vision. Agony and rage contorted Spock’s face as he choked Jim on the bridge of an Enterprise he did not recognize. Instead of the long, slow friendship of peaceful explorations, they shared the terrible intimacy of war. The saving grace of this particular nightmare was that Jim could die in it, too. An even sweeter death, this untimely end, because in this dream Spock lived. If they could not live together, if they could not die together, Jim much preferred Spock to live.

Tonight’s dreamscape was different, though. No bridge collapsed under his feet, no glass door separated him from his Bondmate. Instead, Jim floated in space, drifting away from an energy ribbon that glowed in a starless darkness. In front of him, a seed of light blossomed into a vision of the worldship that he and Spock had discovered during their first mission. A silver strand spun out from its center and whispered words heard long ago: “I will be gone, you will be gone … memories and dreams shall comfort you not, when the flow of your sweetness is gone and forgot … time is too short, the universe is too large …” Onward he traveled, sliding along that gossamer thread, until he beheld a cocoon of brilliant blue light at its center. Inside, he saw himself and Spock, naked, much younger than he remembered, joined in flesh, Bonded in spirit. Gently, their younger selves moved together, flowed into each other with exquisite sweetness. Their completion left a bitter taste in his mouth as his heart turned into acrid dregs of ashes on his tongue. He turned away, ready to reawaken in his prison. But the thread which led him through the strange maze of his dreams tonight beckoned him onward. For a long time, Jim tried to follow it, ached to reach whatever awaited him at its end. But space was indeed too big and he was, as always, too weak. When he realized he could not go on, he stubbornly clung to the trail of silver, staring ahead, his heart filled with nameless longing.

When Jim woke to another perfect mountain morning, a remnant of his dream stayed with him. Spock’s warm eyes … Spock’s beloved face … serene and gentle and sad in an old age his Bondmate would never see … The crisp, clean air choked Jim. Oh, how he hated this cruel paradise, this sick half-life he inhabited ever since Spock had died.

♦♦♦

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
– E.E. Cummings

♦♦♦♦♦♦

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Author’s Notes

• The poem quoted back and forth between Jim and Spock is the one they used to let friends and family know about their Bonding in the previous chapter. In reality it’s a poem by Leonard Nimoy from “A Lifetime of Love”.

• “I will be gone, you will be gone” and “Time is too short, the universe is too large “ are quotes from “Enterprise, The First Adventure” by Vonda McIntyre. “Memories and dreams shall comfort you not, when the flow of your sweetness is gone and forgot” is from the lyrics of “Maiden Wine” by Leonard Nimoy, from TOS “Plato’s Stepchildren”.