RoH 4

And Dreams Were Time Limitless

Stardate 2260.130, 0300 hours, Deck 5, First Officer’s Cabin

When Jim finally slept peacefully, Spock let the light trance of his meditation fade away. He still didn’t move but allowed his gaze to drift to the sleeping form of his captain and rest there.

Relief.

And oh so many other emotions, twisting, twirling, twining around questions and answers, around problems and solutions.

So overpowering that Spock found it impossible to employ the methods of mental control that should be as natural for an adult Vulcan as breathing. But of course he was not, in fact, an adult Vulcan. He was a Half-Vulcan who had not yet achieved the biological maturity of his father’s race. It was illogical to assume that his hybrid psyche would respond like a full Vulcan’s in times of crisis. If he had to resort to a child’s techniques in order to restore equilibrium to his mind, there was no shame in that. It was only logical to use the most effective approach at his disposal.

A Vulcan child focused on a single emotion at a time, studying it as a young Human might examine a specimen under a microscope, both intrigued and repulsed by the wriggling, misshapen form of a dragonfly larva. To dissect the processes of their psyche, Vulcan children were taught various mental techniques from the moment of birth, tools as efficient as any surgeon’s laser-scalpel. Once a Vulcan child was satisfied with the analysis, the emotion would be stored in its proper place, a piece of less important data in in the vast array of information kept accessible in a Vulcan mind. That accomplished, the Vulcan child would close the connection. The emotion had been recognized, analyzed, categorized, controlled. Once and for all – Venlinahr.

In consequence, an adult Vulcan normally had no need to endure emotions. They were already there: accepted, examined, labeled, internalized, sublimated. Even the most intense onslaught of emotions would neatly and instantly slide into place within a well-ordered mind. Present, yes, and powerful, too, but never disturbing the peaceful serenity of logic.

Spock’s mind, however, did not work that way. He suspected that he experienced emotions much like a Human: to him feelings were always new, always unsettling … always shamefully fascinating.

This influence of his human genes had forced Spock to become nearly as proficient in Vulcan mental techniques as a Kohlinar master. At the same time he remained neurologically unable to purge his emotions like an adept. Especially in times of stress, Spock found it impossible to process and dispatch emotions instantaneously and simultaneously as a full-blooded Vulcan would be able to. Instead he had to revert to an infant’s way of managing his emotions, over and over again.

Without looking away from Jim, Spock concentrated on the emotion that pulled most strongly at his heart. Relief. For a fraction of a second he gave himself over to the experience. The sensation proved to be not entirely unpleasant. A deep breath; tension bleeding away into the pause between two heartbeats.

Memories of days blending into weeks dissolving into months when in spite of Khan’s blood, Jim’s life had … “hung by a thread”. Spock could not suppress a visceral reaction at the Human idiom he’d heard far too often – he shuddered.

Spock remembered a night in the room of Starfleet temporary housing assigned to him. He’d sat at an empty desk in that sterile, anonymous room. He’d stared at the calendar on his PADD and for the first time in his life, he had been unable to recall what day it was.

Eventually Jim’s condition had stabilized. Time, as defined by Starfleet standard clocks and calendars, had resumed its due course. The worst was over, at least in medical terms.

And now they were back on the Enterprise, back in space, where they belonged.

Oh, yes. Relief.

Spock closed his eyes and let the emotion fade away.

Next: Impatience. Frustration. Tension.

It was illogical, yes, inappropriate, to consider private, personal concerns a defining aspect of another being’s ordeal. Yet Spock had to acknowledge that in terms of Jim’s recuperation he remained unable to achieve the mental distance befitting a Vulcan. The unresolved intensity of the final moments before Jim’s death and the first moments after his return to life weighed on Spock’s mind, pressed into his psyche with the full impact of Vulcan emotions, ever present, never fading. The tension hummed in his mind, in his blood.

Every breath, every heartbeat echoed with the shared revelation just how their friendship could define them both – if Jim had lived – if Jim lived – and now: if they were ever granted sufficient reprieve and privacy to come to terms with what could be, what could be between them … and to decide what they wanted there to be.

On Earth no such opportunity had presented itself. That was logical; circumstances were unfavorable. Taking into account Jim’s fragile state it was also more prudent to wait. However, that conclusion had not alleviated need or frustration. This, too, was logical within the context of emotional compromise. Spock was young yet, not even a mature adult according to Vulcan tradition and biology – a fact he was painfully aware of. Considering the circumstances and his Half-Human heritage, it was not entirely unexpected that reactions often displayed by human males of his age group should manifest in his hybrid mind as well. Up to a point, at least.

Breathing from deep within the k’rawhl, Spock could dissolve these dissonances, too. Now, here, in the comfortable familiarity of the Enterprise, he allowed himself to hope that an understanding could be reached soon …

Although he was exhausted by this point, he forced his attention onward to dwell on the next emotion that assailed him.

Concern.

For thirteen months, two weeks, five days and seven hours, concern had been his constant companion. Jim’s physical and mental recovery had been agonizingly slow by the standards of 23^rd century medicine.

No doubt the constant examinations and endless tests administered by Starfleet medics, psychologists and scientists had a negative impact on the process. As the first viable Vulcan-Human hybrid, Spock was used to such intimate scientific scrutiny from birth. Seldom had he been afforded the precious privilege of privacy, of body or mind. Jim had no similar experience to accustom him to his status as an object of research. He had not reacted well to be “poked and prodded at every turn”.

“He’s not a lab rat, damn you,” Doctor McCoy had ranted one memorable occasion, threatening to throw tribble zero at a neurologist’s head. “He’s a human being! And he’s saved the lives of every damn creature on this planet. If you want to conduct experiments, use the bloody tribbles. That much, at least, you owe him.” Spock himself had seen the scientist to the door. The man had not returned.

Spock had come to appreciate the grating bluntness and fierce protectiveness of Doctor McCoy, even if some of his precautions seemed to border on paranoia. For instance, from the moment Jim first regained consciousness to the day he finally beamed back aboard the Enterprise, the CMO had seen to it that Jim was never alone. There was always someone there, someone from the Enterprise, either in Jim’s room or in front of the door. One or two crew members, or a nurse or a medic.

Spock first noticed these guards fifty-one hours after Jim had returned to the living. A clear lapse of attention on his part, due to sheer physical and mental exhaustion. The subsequent conversation with the doctor, however, he remembered very clearly.

“Surely you don’t believe that someone will abduct the captain from Starfleet Medical?” Spock asked. “Certainly you cannot seriously consider the possibility that the man who defeated Nero would be—”

“Would be what? Get disappeared? Locked away? Frozen and stuck in a torpedo? Because that never happened before, right?” McCoy snarled.

The doctor blamed Khan for the risks Jim had taken when the captain had collaborated with the Augment to expose and capture Marcus. Nevertheless, McCoy’s very human rage had been impressive to behold when the whole story was revealed – from the cruel rewards the “Robin Hood” of Augments had reaped for the brave rebellion he had led during the Eugenics Wars to Marcus’ ruthless exploitation of their position.

“I would argue that the political situation on Earth has changed since the Terran Eugenics Wars, since Khan and his men were denied a life in peace,” Spock countered. “Humanity has changed since then.”

McCoy just gave him a long look.

Spock was still disturbed by the doctor’s assessment of his own race. But even more troubling than McCoy’s paranoid tendencies had been Jim’s reaction. The captain must have known exactly what McCoy was doing and why, given his background in tactics and survival skills. Yet to his last day at Starfleet Medical he pretended to be completely oblivious. Without fail, Jim expressed artificially naïve surprise and enjoyment whenever a visitor from the Enterprise “happened to be passing by” his hospital room … at any of the twenty-four hours contained in a Terran day.

Yes, it was most beneficial to be back on the Enterprise. It was even better to be back in space.

Yet while some reasons for Spock’s concern had thus been ameliorated, others persisted. Such as Jim’s increasing claustrophobia or the nightmares that still tortured him.

Spock considered the most appropriate and effective means at his disposal to address these issues. A conversation with Doctor McCoy would be expedient; a continuation of Jim’s instructions in Vulcan meditation techniques would be beneficial; a suggestion to experiment with physical proximity only logical.

Tired as Spock was by now, formulating this mental list of strategies proved to be an effective, albeit unorthodox method of controlling this last triad of emotions he had chosen to observe.

Satisfied, he concluded that he had now faced the truth of his situation, in its full factual and emotional scope. Emotions and thoughts faded away, dissolving into the serene balance of C’thia.

All that remained was his focus: Jim, peacefully asleep in the dim light of his cabin.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.130, 1210 hours, Deck 5, Conference Room Two

“Lieutenant Sulu, a moment please.”

The clock read 1210 hours, the day after the Enterprise had left orbit. Regular as well as informal operational reviews were par for the course during the first weeks in space, so Hikaru wasn’t surprised at Spock’s summons. The first officer herded him into one of the smaller conference rooms beyond the officers’ ready room. Inside, Lieutenant Leslie was waiting for them. The lieutenant ranked next to Sulu among the Command division personnel on the Enterprise. Normally he had the conn on Gamma shift. Consequently it was the middle of the night for Leslie right now. That’s how he looked, too. His curly hair disheveled, he kept blinking rapidly – as if the poor man was wondering what was dream and what reality.

“Lieutenant Sulu, Lieutenant Leslie. In case the current command team is incapacitated, you will be required to take the conn as secondary command team,” Spock announced. “Taking into account the inherent dangers of a five-year mission that will take the Enterprise far from Federation space, the captain requires officers who can adequately take command in those circumstances. Indefinitely, should that be necessary.”

A human superior officer might have invited the lieutenants to sit down. Perhaps he even would have indicated the beverages arranged in the middle of the small conference table to ease the atmosphere of the conversation. Normally, Spock was very careful about observing such Human mannerisms. Now, however, Spock simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders tense.

“Both of you have cross-trained in Command track at the Academy besides your primary qualifications in Sciences and Engineering,” Spock stated. “Qualifications that made you first choice for a five-year mission, where additional skills are a prerequisite for any officer. However, you still lack certain formal requirements as well as practical experience in order to qualify for the promotions that would enable you to earn a command of your own.”

Thanks to Nero, Sulu had never finished Command track at the Academy. No big deal, he’d figured. Eventually he’d get around to taking the additional training he needed to be eligible for the relevant promotions. Plus, he was content with his position as helmsman and head of astrosciences department. Leslie, who had the center chair on Gamma shift, was a similar case. Sulu rather thought, though, that he’d abandoned further ambitions in favor of Engineering. Much like Mr. Scott, Leslie was too much in love with the nacelles of the Enterprise to pursue a career in Command division.

“Starfleet Command agree that advanced Command training for the secondary command team is essential on a five-year mission,” Spock went on. “The course material for your remaining Command track classes will be made available to you on your PADDs and in the library. Examinations will be supervised by myself or Commander Paul and sent via subspace to the Academy for evaluation in due course. Next week we shall start with additional practical training. I have drafted a schedule for you that also indicates appropriate opportunities for further independent study.”

“But I have no desire to—” Leslie stuttered.

“At this point in time, I do not believe I am ready to—” Sulu added tentatively.

Spock nodded. “I am aware of that, Lieutenants. Your objections are noted but irrelevant. The needs of the many outweigh the desires of the few; in an emergency the availability of an alternate fully trained and experienced command team will be most advantageous. I believe a human idiom exists that is applicable to the state of affairs: ‘better safe than sorry’.” He raised his left eyebrow. “I presume you are familiar with that notion?”

“Yes … sir.” Sulu, still dumbfounded, did his best to muster a professional reaction.

Leslie just stared at Spock. “Of course, Mr. Spock.”

“It is also the primary command team’s responsibility to oversee the career development of crew members and to provide suitable support for their progress,” Spock informed them, as if they had questioned his orders again. “As the probability of the secondary command team taking over temporarily during a five-year mission is 100%, it is only logical to ensure that you gain the qualifications and practical experience to perform perfectly in such cases.”

“Yes, sir” was the only possible reply.

Spock inclined his head. Then he turned smartly and exited the room without another word.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.130, 1300 hours, Deck 5, Officers’ Mess

Afterwards, Sulu met Uhura for lunch. He put his tray on the table next to hers and sat down, without really noticing the food in front of him.

“So what did Spock want with you?” she asked, chasing a Portobello mushroom across her plate of “Insalata Mista”.

“I …” Sulu started, still perplexed. He pulled himself together. “Spock’s after Leslie and me finishing up our Command track qualifications. You know how I never got around to taking the exams at the Academy.”

Nyota nodded. “I told you to keep it up, slacker. You’re not going to get your own ship if you don’t.”

Sulu stared at his plate. Unagi donburi? Where had that come from? Especially since he didn’t have much of an appetite after the conversation with Spock to start with. The phase “indefinitely, should that be necessary” haunted him.

“I’m not sure I want that. I’m not ready for the center chair. Nyota, you, me, heck, all bridge officers are trained to take the conn if necessary,” he said, “and yes, Leslie and I are next in chain of command should … should something happen to Captain Kirk and Spock. So it obviously makes sense to ensure we’re adequately prepared to take over in an emergency. But things would have to get really, really bad for us to lose both the captain and the first officer. It’s a worst case scenario.” He poked the fish on his plate. That didn’t make the glazed eel any more appetizing.

Nyota regarded him thoughtfully. “But that’s exactly what Spock’s planning for.”

Hikaru paled. When he said that he didn’t feel prepared for that kind of responsibility, he wasn’t prevaricating. Of course he had the basic qualifications and the appropriate psych evals for Command. But first and foremost his interests lay with the astrosciences department, and he liked his job as helmsman. Why me? he thought. Finney and Mitchell, the lieutenants ranked right below himself and Leslie in chain of command were notoriously ambitious. They would have leaped at the chance …

“Is there anything about this mission we haven’t been informed about yet?” Hikaru wondered.

Nyota shrugged. “Probably,” she said. “And I mean a probability so close to 100% that even Spock wouldn’t spend time arguing decimal points. But I don’t think that’s what’s driving him …” She frowned again.

“You know him better than any of us,” Hikaru suggested, curious and apprehensive at the same time. “Any idea what’s going on?”

Nyota shook her head, a strange expression in her eyes. Hikaru wasn’t sure if she was reacting to his statement that she knew Spock better than any other crew member on a personal level or to his question. He waited for her to expand on the gesture. After a long moment of silence, she shook her head again. “Well, he has no reason to be mad at you. So maybe he’s taking you under his wing. I mean, you are the only one of your year who attempted what Spock accomplished – cross-training in Sciences and Command.”

“No idea,” Sulu said, giving up on food. He shoved the plate away. Eel via replicator simply didn’t work. “Doesn’t come across that way, is all,” he muttered, and added, mostly because the whole situation still irritated him, “Why didn’t you go for Command, by the way? I bet you’d love to be queen.”

“Actually, based on my entrance exams, I could have gone into Command track, if I’d wanted to,” Nyota said, killing another mushroom. “Starfleet would have let me, too. They still don’t get as many girls as they’d like with the right psych evals.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Nyota grinned, pointing at him with her fork. “Cause without my skilled tongue and sharp ear, you’d be toast, my friend.” She speared another mushroom. “Seriously, though, Command is great for generalists, like Jim. The last bastion of the Renaissance man. But languages, absolute pitch … The way the human brain develops, acquiring complex linguistic skills gets considerably harder the older you get. And if I have any crazy superhero powers at all, they are all linguistics and music. I wouldn’t give that up for anything.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.130, 0630 hours, Deck 6, Portside Dining Facilities

To leave her hiding place was hard on Jo’s nerves, but she couldn’t stay holed up in her Jefferies tube indefinitely. Sure, she hadn’t been picked up as an intruder by scans yet. Luckily, her dad had never revoked her basic clearance for the Enterprise after their first visit on the ship. But she wasn’t on the crew roster or the passenger list. If she stayed in a place where no one had a good reason to be for too long, eventually that would be noticed and then they’d look her up in the database. Which would mean … game over.

There was no other way. She took a deep breath and slipped out of the tube, only to lean against the wall of the corridor casually before looking around. If anyone was nearby, she could excuse her behavior with curiosity. After all, she was a kid, and it was the first day in space. She was supposed to snoop around.

Thankfully, the corridor was empty, though. She would have liked to go to the officers’ mess. She knew the food was best there, and maybe she’d get to see Chekov? He’d been real nice, and so cute. But that was too risky. Much safer to go to one of the large dining areas on one of the decks with mixed quarters, where families and ordinary crewmen would eat. No one there would recognize her. Plus, this time of day – it was 0700 – it should be busy with civilians and people off-shift eating breakfast. There were many new people on board. It should be easy to blend in. Hopefully. She was thirsty, too.

Therefore Jo walked down the corridor to the main turbolifts and went up to deck six and over to the portside eating facilities in the middle of family quarters. The dining area was big and noisy and busy, just as she’d hoped. Most of the crew members wore the orange uniforms of Maintenance, but there were a few red ones from Engineering, too. No Sciences or Medical blue in sight. And quite a lot of civilians, kids included. Jo grabbed a tray and queued for breakfast. Cereal, fruit salad, toast and jam. A big glass of water. Her throat was scratchy; a reaction to the ship’s artificial climate, she guessed. The air was drier than she was used to. An extra water bottle for later and … peppermint tea. She sat down at one of the long tables in the middle of the mess, so she’d be surrounded by people. Blend in, she thought. Don’t look like a lonely kid. Smile. Exciting first day and all.

Surreptitiously, Jo looked around. Two seats across from her two boys and their mother were sitting. The older boy nearly opposite might be one or two years older than she was. The little one didn’t seem old enough for kindergarten yet. The mother was thankfully occupied with talking to another woman next to her.

To her left, two women were seated, eating breakfast and chatting. A plump Human in civilian clothes with shoulder-length, straight brown hair and a generous smile, and a petite person with white hair and a bowl of liquid that looked a lot like soap suds in front of her. At first glance she appeared to be human, too. At second glance, not so much. More like someone’s idea of a Human. Her skin and her long hair were perfectly white. She had a pointy, pretty face with huge eyes. And her fingers looked weird – an extra joint, perhaps? So, probably humanoid, but definitely alien. Noticing Jo’s interest, she gracefully inclined her head. “Gwaloth Canningham is my name, gentle being,” she said. “Textiles and fabrics replications. May your day be beautiful and bright.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jo replied. Somehow her head felt fuzzy when the other being focused on her. Telepath, perhaps? That could be really, really bad. “I’m Jo. And errr… have a good day, too.”

To her relief Ms. Canningham didn’t start shouting for security, alerting them to the presence of a stowaway on board. Instead, the alien nodded politely and turned her attention back to her bowl. Whew.

But then Ms. Canningham’s neighbor leaned forward. “And I’m Carolyn Paul, one of the teachers on board. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” When Jo nearly jumped out of her skin with shock at that introduction, the woman just laughed, friendly and easy-going. “No worries, I’m not going to bug you with school stuff the first day in space. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.” She actually winked at Jo. “School will start soon enough.” Then Ms. Paul turned her attention back to her breakfast and her conversation with her alien friend.

Jo took a deep breath and a fortifying gulp of tea and cast a glance to her right. Three seats down the table a group of three men in Maintenance colors were digging into a hearty breakfast (eggs, bacon, the works, and really black coffee – her dad would have lectured them on cholesterol and on caffeine addiction).

“So, you an M-kid, too?” the boy across from her asked suddenly. “I’m Gus. The brat’s Felix.” He frowned and added, “Mom’s Lyra, and Dad’s Eric. He’s on shift right now, though, hydroponics maintenance.”

“Hey,” she mumbled around a spoon of cereal. “I’m Jo. Ma’s sickbay tech. Father’s wherever. Back on Earth.” She made a vague gesture. She didn’t know enough about other departments to make up a parent working there. But she figured it was safer to pretend she was on ship with her mom. And there were not enough medics to go around. A tech should be safe enough, though.

“Sucks,” Gus said. He seemed kind of nice.

“Yeah, well.” Jo shrugged. She wondered what to say next. Something about school? That was always a good topic. “So, two days until school or what?” She cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of Ms. Paul, only to discover that she and Ms. Canningham had left. Jo couldn’t quite suppress a sigh of relief.

“Lasts days of freedom.” Gus sounded so gloomy that Jo had to laugh. He stuck his tongue out at her. “A few of us are meeting up for some zero-grav ball after breakfast. Wanna come? If you don’t play, we can always use pretty cheerleaders.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll have you know that I was on the team in my old school. And we won, too.”

“Brill.”

And yes, that was kind of how Jo felt right now. The cereal wasn’t half bad, the peppermint tea was hot, and she had something to do after breakfast.

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.130, 2000 hours, Deck 10, Conference Lounge One

Another night, another briefing with the bridge staff spread out around the oval table of conference room one. Most of them, Jim included, clutching a mug of coffee. Four hours of sleep were not enough, especially since Jim hadn’t really slept a lot the last two weeks before leaving orbit. Tonight he should probably do the responsible thing and get some pills or have Bones hypo him. He’d at least consider that. Luckily, tonight’s meeting didn’t require a long speech on his part. Instead it was pretty boring details about ship’s routines and stuff. Plus Spock’s new pet project and finally his own proposal.

Spock was finishing up his talk about the alternate command team he was set on establishing. A good idea, Jim thought, what with such a long mission. At the same time it made him a bit queasy, because what Spock had in mind went way beyond training for temporary command. Spock wanted Leslie and Sulu ready to take over at a moment’s notice, and for good – when he and Spock wouldn’t be coming back. Not exactly a vote of confidence that his first officer fully expected that Jim would manage to get both of them killed next time. Still a good idea, though, Jim told himself. Especially with civilians and kids on board. We should be prepared for the worst. Sulu will be a kick-ass captain at some point anyway, so why not get him qualified now? Morosely he considered his coffee. Real coffee, strong and fragrant. Rand was a saint to keep him supplied. Coffee. Its color, a rich, warm black, reminded him of Spock’s eyes.

“Captain? Your proposal concerning away missions …?”

Spock’s mild inquiry made Jim jump and spill coffee over his hand. “Damn!” he cursed, before adding, “Sorry about that. Not enough caffeine or enough sleep. Right. Away missions. So, it’s standard policy that a captain is normally never on away missions except for important diplomatic functions, and that the first officer is never on an away mission with the captain.” Everyone knew that. See chapter: Basics of Command.

“There are very good reasons for that, of course,” Jim went on. Uhura raised her eyebrows. He ignored her. “However, in our case there’s a problem with that. Under normal circumstances most of us would be stuck in junior positions for years. We’d be doing lots of routine jobs working with senior officers. With half the fleet gone thanks to Nero, we’ve been dumped into the deep end. We’re the youngest crew in Starfleet history, myself included. So yeah, it’s kind of awesome to be the youngest captain ever. But that also means I’m the most inexperienced captain ever.”

Blunt words. Uhura stared at him, as if he’d grown pointy ears. He smiled wryly. “Yeah, I actually do know that. And sure, there was Nero and the Gorn incident on New Vulcan and that Marcus thing. So I’m good in a major crisis, and yes, I’m aware of the fact that’s a quality you want in a captain. But fact is, apart from that I’ve got one major mission in a year of milk-runs under my belt. And that mission went pear-shaped in such a way that my first officer felt compelled to get me demoted.” Chekov looked ready to protest, so Jim raised a hand to ensure he wouldn’t be interrupted. “Now, I still think I did the right thing. Lives are more important than rules. But the point is, this mission shouldn’t have played out like that to start with.” And we could do a workshop or something to review the Nibiru incident, he thought. Maybe as a team thing in a week or two? To keep boredom at bay?

“Anyway. Experience, I don’t have it. Or not enough of it, definitely where routine missions are concerned. And that’s not going to change if I play by the rules and stay on the ship.” And he hadn’t signed up with Starfleet for the benefits and the – admittedly awesome – healthcare. If he didn’t want to end up an armchair admiral like “Coma” Komack, he had to get out there, and yes, plunge headlong into danger. When he glanced at Spock, he was surprised to see a hint of warmth in the Vulcan’s eyes. Approval? Huh.

“To cut a long story short, I’ve got to go on more away missions than what would be normally considered reasonable. And since Mr. Spock is the most experienced officer on the bridge, he’ll have to go with me more often than not. So with that in mind, I want Commander Paul to come up with a revision of the away team guidelines. Not just to accommodate me. We’ve got far too many young and inexperienced crew members on board to stick with conservative methods of putting together away teams.” Jim glanced at Commander Paul, then smiled at Chekov who promptly beamed as if he’d been awarded a commendation. “And that,” Jim was kind of proud that he’d managed to connect his proposal to Spock’s project with Leslie and Sulu, “is another reason why we really need a fully qualified alternate command team. I realize it’s a lot of extra work for you guys, but I think it’s the best solution.”

Across the table, Commander Paul nodded. “I’d like to borrow Yeoman Rand for that job, Captain. There’s no one on the ship she doesn’t know. I also want to involve Dr. Lestrade. He’s got a background in operational resilience.” He consulted his PADD. “We should have something ready to discuss at the weekly briefing. Is that acceptable, Captain?”

“Perfect, Commander.”

♦♦♦

Stardate 2260.132, 0100 hours

Oh yeah, another night, and again, no sleep.

Jim had been a responsible little starship captain the second night in space and had gone to get a couple of Zzz pills from Bones. But he couldn’t bring himself to drag his weary carcass down to sickbay again tonight. So he sat on his bed and stared at the bathroom door (still closed) and wondered what the fuck he’d been thinking when he’d accepted command again so soon in the first place.

Tonight, at least, he wasn’t shaking so hard. He was only tired. Exhausted, really. Didn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than four hours in one go. His eyes, he could almost feel them touching his skull, eyeballs all hot and tender. Gross. And he couldn’t stand the sight of closed doors.

Tired. And restless.

He got up. He simply couldn’t stay put, lying on his bed and staring at the bathroom door. He didn’t circle – there was no problem to solve, after all; he just couldn’t sleep. So he just crossed and recrossed the room, wall to wall, back and forth.

Abruptly, he stopped, drew back, and hit the wall with his fist. Not as hard has he could; he wasn’t crazy like that. He’d never hear the end of it from Bones if he broke his hand in a fit of anger over his fucking insomnia. He was simply … tired. And frustrated. And angry. Also, sick of closed doors. So he hit the wall. A dull thud with a hint of crunching knuckles. The impact reverberated through his bones right up to his shoulder.

“Damn,” he growled. Inspecting his hand, he figured he was mostly okay; the knuckles would bruise black and blue, but he wasn’t bleeding and nothing seemed broken. And he did feel better, kind of.

He spun around, stomped to the bathroom and yanked open the door. In front of the other bathroom door he hesitated. Long enough to draw a deep breath. Long enough to frown. Then he opened that door, too.

And found himself nose to chin with Spock.

“I would see your hand,” Spock said in his typically mild tone. But his eyes were hard. This was an order, not a polite request.

Jim couldn’t help it, he laughed. God, how ridiculous. He held up his right hand and flexed his fingers to demonstrate that nothing was broken.

Spock captured Jim’s hand, holding it in his left. A heated, iron clasp. With the fingertips of his right hand he ghosted over Jim’s bruised knuckles, barely touching. The effect? A fucking ion storm overloading Jim’s nerves. Talk about ludicrous. He actually gasped for breath. Spock let go of his hand. But apart from that, he didn’t move.

“You cannot sleep,” he stated. “And the doors, they trouble you.”

Jim groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, well. Sentence one? That’s bloody obvious. Sentence two? It’s damn inconvenient how observant you are. Because, embarrassing. Three, do we really have to discuss that here?” He knocked his thumbs left and right against the door frame.

Spock moved backwards. “I believe the relevant Terran saying is ‘my home is your home’… Jim.”

Jim shook his head, but he did step into Spock’s quarters. The higher ambient temperature preferred by the Vulcan wrapped around him in a warm embrace. Spock went to sit on his bed, as straight-backed as he’d perch on the stool in front of the Science console on the bridge. Jim slouched against the wall next to the bathroom door. Irritated, he crossed his arms in front of him. “So.”

“I know Dr. McCoy has explained to you that all of your symptoms fall within normal range of aftereffects in a case such as yours,” Spock said gently. “I also know that he ordered you to seek out his aid to alleviate these symptoms with appropriate medical intervention.”

“So?”

“You’re being most … obstinate.”

Jim huffed a laugh. “And that’s new how?”

“Jim …” Spock raised his head. From one second to the next, his expression appeared no longer inscrutable. The invisible barrier that normally set him apart was gone. There was a rawness to his gaze, a vulnerability, that left Jim winded as if Giotto had hit him in the stomach with the full weight of his two-hundred-something pounds thrown into the punch. “If you refuse to seek the medical help you obviously require, I can only suggest that you allow me to aid you with achieving the rest you desperately need. Physical proximity would be a prerequisite, but I am positive that I will be able to stimulate your brain telepathically in such a way as to ensure a healthful slumber.”

“Stim—” Jim croaked. He shook his head, blinked and took a step towards Spock. “Stimulate my brain so I can sleep?!” Another step. Until he stood touching Spock’s knees. “Spock, when we get into bed together, I can promise you one thing: Sleep will be the absolutely last thing on my mind.”

Spock surged to his feet, and suddenly they weren’t standing in front of each other anymore, but clinging to each other like crazy. As if the other was the only fixture left in a universe spinning faster and faster out of control.

And finally, finally, Jim got his lips on Spock’s mouth. For a fraction of a second the choice between bruises and tenderness flashed through his mind. But he wasn’t the only frustrated man in the room. He’d had no idea that you could kiss like that when there weren’t even tongues involved yet. Painful, crushing – the heat of Vulcan skin burned like fire on his chapped lips.

Only when oxygen became a serious issue, Jim jerked back, gasping for breath from deep within his body.

“Ahh…” That wasn’t even a proper sigh, more a barely audible exhalation. Jim had never heard a sound that sexy in his entire life, and he’d heard a lot of sex sounds over the years.

As if Spock had discovered Jim’s off-switch, Jim slumped down on the bed, flopping down on his back. Drained. Worn-out. Carefully, Spock lowered himself onto the mattress next to him. Close, very close. Touching, but not … really touching.

“Come here,” Jim asked hoarsely, reaching, begging, with his left hand.

Spock hesitated. His eyes burned. Black coals, that’s what they reminded Jim of now, the way he stared at Jim’s hand. But a moment later Spock accepted his touch, interlacing their fingers. With a slow, deliberate movement, Spock turned and lay down next to Jim.

Jim wanted to kiss him again, for real this time, tongue and teeth and all, and he wanted to fuck him so much he thought he’d explode if he didn’t have Spock under him real, real soon. But just holding Spock’s hand did really crazy things to him, things he vaguely realized shouldn’t even be possible for a Human. Somehow he managed to roll onto his side, too. Somehow he grabbed Spock’s other hand.

Then Jim was lost, drifting in a haze of desire and dreams. In his dreams, time was limitless, and space was without measure, and none of that mattered, because he was with Spock, and Spock was with him.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

“When you were a wandering desire in the mist, I too was there, a wandering desire. Then we sought one another, and out of our eagerness dreams were born. And dreams were time limitless, and dreams were space without measure.”
― Kahlil Gibran