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Chapter Text

***

“Bring us to 154 mark 5, azimuth 46.6, and set a course to the Kappa Leonis sector.” James Kirk pushed a button on the armrest of his seat, ensuring that the course change was logged as a command decision.

“Aye, sir,” the navigator responded. “Setting a course for Kappa I… now.”

“Mr. Sulu? Warp five.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Engage.” There was a shudder in the deck plating as the ship reoriented itself. Jim always enjoyed that sound, the sound of large machinery gearing up, the whirr of the engines momentarily in overdrive as the ship’s maneuvering thrusters altered its direction. It was reassuring, as though they were riding the back of a large cat rising and stretching before running lithely through long grasses. As though the ship itself were alive.

His vision flickered—

The colors were wrong, the command uniforms were a different shade, and Mr. Sulu looked nothing like himself. Behind him, it was business as usual. A yeoman handed him a large data pad and stylus which looked like something from a mid-twentieth century museum, and—

The setup of the bridge returned to normal with its clear aluminum panels and blue backlighting.

Fuck, he thought to himself. It had happened again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, waiting for the dizziness and disorientation to pass.

“Captain?” Spock asked from his place at the science station, concern tingeing his voice.

These… visions… had been happening more often lately. If Jim were honest, they’d been more frequent and of greater intensity since the beginning of the five-year mission three months ago. No, since before that; since he’d woken up alive after dying in the warp core of his ship. Before Khan, the visions had happened once, maybe twice, at key emotional moments, and he’d dismissed them as random fantasies.

But he couldn’t ignore the visions now. In the last two weeks they’d intensified, coming more frequently during the day, and invading his dreams through the night. He’d been dreaming—he was sure they were dreams rather than memories, because they were pretty confused—about laughing with Bones on the bridge, about cool hands touching him all over and making him shiver with need, about missions in which he thought he’d been protecting himself or had been protecting Spock with his own body. He’d dreamed of the heavy pounding of feet on the red sand of Vulcan, of the sound of bells in hot, searing, still air. He’d dreamed of being united in bliss with a lover on Risa, on Terra, on Vulcan, on innumerable beautiful alien worlds… He’d dreamed of loss, and of terrible suffering and sundering of soul, of ribbons of energy tearing the sky apart, and of reunion. And none of it made any sense.

Dreaming was one thing. Having full-on double vision on the bridge was another.

“Jim.” Spock touched his shoulder to get his attention. He looked up at the Vulcan as he withdrew his hand behind his back. “Are you well?”

As Jim stared up at his First Officer, it happened again—

Why was Spock’s face so craggy? He looked haggard. But it was the emotion, the overwhelming pull, the nascent joy beginning to blossom—

“Spock!” the Captain said, the welcome burning within him as he stood, reaching out to grasp him by his biceps and whirling him around.

And then the vision cleared, confusion replacing it as he realized what he’d done. Jim let go and stepped back. His head throbbed, hard. He raised a hand to his forehead where the pain pulsed.

“Sorry, Spock. I’m… You have the conn.” Jim did his best not to stumble or trip as he made his way to the turbolift. He’d never had this kind of a headache before in his life: the nausea, the double-vision, the vertigo, the feeling as though something was tugging on his brain…

He didn’t realize he was at his quarters until the door swished open before him. That was odd; he’d intended to go to sickbay, was sure he’d inputted that direction to the lift when he got in. Jim felt his eyes closing, and just managed to lumber over to the bed before passing out.

***

Spock watched as the Captain went towards the turbolift. Over the last eight weeks Spock had observed a 25.73% increase in his restlessness, and overall a 5% drop in his efficiency rating. This latest lapse—on the bridge, in the command chair, no less—was symptomatic of a trend Spock had been tracking. And he was… concerned for his Captain’s well-being.

This was not a purely professional concern. Spock regarded James Kirk as one of his few close friends. They spent at least one evening per week engaging in recreational activities together: sparring in the gym (Jim liked to try himself against Spock’s greater mass, strength, and agility), swimming in the ship’s pool, completing various games of strategy including chess and kal-toh, or watching forms of traditional Terran entertainment. Even when they were spending time together in these ways Spock had noticed dips in Jim’s attention, as though he had retreated into himself mentally. And always when he returned to himself he was distracted and clearly discomfited.

Spock had asked several times whether Jim was all right. He’d look up, smile disingenuously, and proclaim himself to be fine, no need for Spock to worry about his welfare. Spock had learned not to respond with the classic denial, “Vulcans do not worry,” not least because it was not true. He valued Jim’s friendship, and was not ashamed of the loyalty he felt drawing him to the man. They made a good command team, an experience Spock enjoyed.

Nyota met his gaze, her eyebrows raised speculatively. Spock nodded and she received the unspoken message: there was nothing for the communications officer to worry about. They would speak later, after shift. He hit the comm. button on the armrest.

“Spock to McCoy. Doctor McCoy come in.”

“McCoy here.”

“The Captain has left the bridge and appears not to be performing at optimum efficiency.” Spock had taken the liberty of mentioning his concern for Jim’s behavior to the doctor. McCoy had been dismissive in his typical, blustery way, but had agreed that should Spock observe further irregularities, he would look into Jim’s physical condition.

“All right, Spock. If he doesn’t come to sickbay, I’ll make a point of checking in with him before shift end.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Spock out.”

For a moment Spock speculated on possible ailments afflicting the Captain, and then stifled them; it was not logical to count fowl before their full gestation and hatching. Jim would be well cared for by McCoy, and, as there was nothing Spock could do at this time to assist, his energies, logically, would be best directed to commanding the ship.

***

He watched as the golden-haired man with honeyed eyes smiled at the woman beside him. Her lips twitched coyly, and the man trailed a finger up her pale, bare arm. She leaned in to whisper something to him, and he reciprocated, obviously breathing deeply of her perfume and the feminine scent of her hair.

Why did that make his blood boil? He had no right, no claim… Clutching both hands behind his back, he turned on his heel and stalked back towards the science labs.

*

Ah! Bodies intertwining, flesh sliding against flesh, the feeling of his beloved’s rough body hair… The surging of blood and passion, the sound of slick squelching obscenely as he thrust, thrust, thrust, and the human body beneath him moaned deliriously and grunted and sighed.

Fever-heat, all-consuming lust!

*

Her. Ice-cold, hatred gleaming from logical visage. And he was writhing against his competitor, matching hardnesses unexpectedly coming together in the moment before he succeeded in choking his opponent’s life from him—and then utter, utter devastation.

*

That smile, turned in his direction. His name, uttered as a prayer, the definition of gladness.

Pointed ears, good to nibble. Such inappropriate thoughts as he looked at the Vulcan, his dress uniform hugging his lean body in all the right places. He wanted to—

—Sliding a hand along the tender skin on the inside of a human thigh… It flinched from his touch, already bruised, hand marks etched into muscle… He wouldn’t mind if the marks went to the bone: the human was his!

***

After they had shared a romantic and refreshing swim in the ship’s pool on deck 10, Nyota had taken the time to shower and dress before joining Spock for dinner in his quarters. He appreciated the effort; the red chiffon gown was composed of two swathes of fabric joined behind her neck, crossed over her chest, and then belted at the waist before spreading around her body. She coupled this gown with knee-length red boots with stiletto heels, and she’d enhanced the ensemble with a perfume which reminded him of a Vulcan spice, but which he could not quite identify. All in all, the effect was calculated to ensnare his senses, and it had been successful. The woman breezed into his rooms, and he could tell from the cut of the dress that its design was not favorable to the wearing of underwear. He approved of this and looked forward to slowly removing the garment from Nyota’s lithe form later.

They ate dinner, a pleasant experience. Spock, in honor of Nyota, had lit only the candle on the desk between them, knowing she would consider this a “romantic setting”. She had insisted, when she walked in, on banning work as a topic of conversation. “Tonight is for us, Spock,” she’d said, as she’d swept over to sit gracefully. And he had complied. Until now.

“You’re distracted, ashayam,” she murmured, sitting with her legs crossed, sipping her champagne. The remains of the meal lay between them. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward a little, the dress offering a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts. “It’s the Captain, isn’t it? Is he alright? He didn’t look well this afternoon on the bridge.”

“He did not,” Spock agreed quietly.

“So you’ve noticed it too,” her eyes widened a little. “You’ve seen how sometimes he disappears inside himself, and then seems disoriented when his awareness returns.”

“Affirmative.”

“That’s not normal, not even for Jim. That worries me too, Spock.”                     

He nodded, not really knowing how to respond to his paramour. He was grateful that Nyota had been able to put behind her both the manner in which she’d first made Jim’s acquaintance, as well as her early animosity and resentment towards him. Jim, for his part, had matured, owning and apologizing for his earlier unprofessional behavior towards Nyota. In fact, he had been pleased to observe a relationship of mutual respect developing between the Captain and communications officer; Nyota, he suspected, would likely call Jim a friend, and certainly she had had opportunities to display loyalty to her Captain, many times over. She had also been supportive of Spock drawing closer to the man in friendship, asserting many times the importance of Captain and first officer being able to “get along well”. They’d never talked about it explicitly as such, but Spock suspected Nyota had drawn her own conclusions about the depth of feeling between himself and James Kirk after observing the manner of the latter’s death. And Spock admitted to himself that he respected and loved Nyota for her generosity. It took Jim’s death, after all, his sacrifice for his ship, for Spock to understand the nature of friendship. And in some ways, Nyota had benefited from those revelations too, in that Spock had been better able to connect emotionally with her since that time.

“I am confident that Doctor McCoy will ensure Jim’s continuing good health,” he suggested.

She rose, putting down her champagne flute, and came around to Spock’s side of the table. Taking one of his hands in her own, she urged him to turn around slightly, and straddled his lap. As Nyota sat down, Spock caught the intimate smell of her, and his nostrils flared. She wove her fingers into his hair, holding his gaze until she gently leaned in to kiss him. Spock moved his fingers from the small of her back where he’d been supporting her, down to cup lush globes.

“Then don’t worry tonight. I’m sure Len will let us know if there’s anything wrong. Either that, or we can find out in the morning.”

And in that moment, with his senses consumed by Nyota: her scent, the curtain of her hair, her dark mystery wrapped around him, Spock had no time or capacity to be worried about anything beyond the woman in his lap.

***

Denial. Blood pounding, the heat not hot enough and too hot. He was too old, and not old enough. No one to soothe the burning flames, no one to quench the unquenchable, biological fire within.

He huddled in on himself within his cell-like room, the door barred from inside, and prepared to die, reaching for the disciplines which had shaped him, and for the fragile, desiccated link—

***

The comm. chimed. Spock was deeply asleep, and at first didn’t register the sound. He somewhat blearily reached around Nyota and hit the button.

“Damnit, man! I’ve been trying to call you for five minutes.”

Nyota blinked her eyes open, disoriented, at the sound of the irate doctor’s voice.

“Doctor—”

“What if it’d been a red alert?”

Spock took a deep breath, gathering his scattered wits as he brushed his hair into some semblance of order with one hand. Nyota shuffled off the bed, wrapping a sheet around her body as she did so.

“Oh, sorry Nyota. I didn’t realize—” McCoy stammered.

“I recommend you be succinct, Doctor McCoy,” Spock demanded. McCoy’s filibustering was worrisome to him.

“Well, Spock… uh. It’s Jim. I need to you to come down here.”

“I take it the matter is urgent?” he asked gravely.

McCoy’s features solidified in a look Spock had difficulty identifying. It appeared to be a mix of determined, hopeless, and at a loss. It wasn’t an emotional expression common to McCoy. He immediately rose from the bed.

“I shall be there as soon as possible. Spock out.” He terminated the call.

Nyota reentered the sleeping area. “What’s wrong?”

“I do not know. Doctor McCoy has asked me to report to sickbay, and the matter concerns the Captain.” Spock slid into a pair of pants, efficiently and rapidly dressing.

“I hope he’ll be okay,” she murmured, clutching the sheet around her—more for emotional reasons, Spock thought, than for modesty.

He pulled on his second boot. “That remains to be seen.”

“Tell him I wish him well, Spock.” Nyota leaned into him for a kiss as he passed her, and he nodded, brushing her fingers with his own.

Spock walked into sickbay with the stride of one who was… not concerned. It simply made sense to be as swift as possible to answer the middle-of-gamma-shift summons.

“Doctor?” he demanded, with the same tone as he requested a status update during a crisis on the bridge.

McCoy was removing a pair of surgical gloves. He looked up at Spock and shook his head. “It’s not good, but I don’t know what it is, exactly. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the problem.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“No. But you’re a Vulcan, and a telepath.” McCoy led Spock over to a device designed to assist in viewing x-rays, and flicked a switch. The screens showed scans of a human’s brain. “This is Jim’s brain. Now, tell me what you make of it.”

Spock examined the scans, using his fingers on the screen to move through the images of Jim’s brain. He had to look twice at what he was seeing.

“Are you sure these scans are those of the Captain?”

“Yes! And that’s not all.” McCoy thrust a PADD into Spock’s hands, displaying blood work and the results of hormonal and adrenal tests.

“This is impossible,” the First Officer declared.

For the first time, Spock became aware of a low and desperate moaning coming from a screened-off biobed.

“He’s over there,” McCoy pointed. “He had to be restrained, and he’s currently sedated.”

Spock felt a numbness beginning in his toes and gradually working its way up through his body. How was this possible?

“The sedation is unlikely to last for long.”

McCoy rounded on him, hands on hips, eyes narrowing. “I’m not an expert in the biology of telepaths. But those brain scans apparently show a crazy amount of neurons firing around in an area associated in Vulcans with telepathic bonds. It shouldn’t appear in a psi-null human—unless they happen to share a bond with a Vulcan. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Spock?”

Spock drew himself to his full height and put both hands behind his back. “Doctor, the Captain and I do share a mental link. However, the link we share is not of the quality of the one Jim’s brainwave activity indicates. Nor is the preliminary link I share with Lieutenant Uhura. And in any case, were I to have such a link with the Captain, you would find that I too would share his current… distress.”

“Come on, Spock. It’s not just ‘distress’.”

“We do not speak of it to outworlders.”Spock felt almost suffocated, bands of steel millennia in the making surrounding him. The heart and soul of Vulcan-that-was, and that of her lost children, was still at the base of it, untamable animal instinct. It was worse than mortifying or embarrassing for non-Vulcans to know this.

“Pah,” McCoy spat. “Not since your home planet was destroyed. Starfleet Medical has made a point of CMOs and other specialists being given access to any and all Vulcan medical records. I may not have a name for it, but I know this happens to Vulcans from time to time, and somehow it’s manifesting in Jim, too. What Jim’s got is a severe case of hormonal and chemical imbalance. His system is flooded with adrenaline. I’ve seen Vulcan scans like this, but never in humans.”

“How long?”

“You mean, how long does he have?”

“How long has he been manifesting these symptoms?” Spock asked, dread a heavy, sour thing in the pit of his stomach. He suppressed it, pushing it to the farthest corner of his mind for processing later.

“From what I can tell, ten, maybe twelve days at least. Possibly longer, depending on whether his symptoms followed the standard pattern in Vulcans. And if it keeps going…”

“Then he will die.”

“Yes.”

“Your best estimate, Doctor, on how long the Captain has?” Spock demanded severely.

McCoy shrugged. “Seven days. Certainly not more than nine.”

Spock nodded.

“But the question is, if you don’t share a bond with him, then who does?”

Spock was silent for a moment, debating with himself about his course of action. “I shall meld with him. It should be possible to—”

“The hell you will! In his condition, his whole brain chemistry, to say nothing of his psyche and sense of self, is out of whack, dangerously fluid. You could do damage to his mind—or your own.”

“I have sufficient discipline to maintain the boundaries between Jim’s identity and my own.”

“You can’t, Spock!”

“The pattern is Vulcan.” Spock was unconscious of the clenched fists at his sides, tight enough to make his joints pop slightly.

“There aren’t any other Vulcans on the ship.”

“Doctor, among my people, it is the most serious of crimes to bond with a person without their knowledge.”

“But Spock,” McCoy began to remonstrate. “He doesn’t know any other Vulcans. So how could a bond have formed with one—without Jim’s knowledge?”

“I do not know. Doctor McCoy, there is no other way to determine to whom this bond tethers Jim’s mind. If we are able to discern who this vre-kasht is, we may have hope of resolving the situation.”

“What do you mean, ‘resolve the situation’?”

Spock turned on McCoy, pushing him into his office and closing the partition between it and the rest of sickbay.       

“I share this information with you, McCoy, only because it is necessary in order to save the Captain’s life.” He let go of the medic and stepped back, facing away from him, head downcast, his voice quiet. “It is called the pon farr, the time of mating. Every seven years Vulcans experience the drive to… return to their people. And take a mate… or die.”

McCoy was silent, clearly taking in this bitter information. “So what you’re saying is that this Vulcan Jim’s psychically tethered to has gone into the mating drive.”

Spock nodded slowly, painfully.

“And if we don’t find them, they will die, and Jim will die with them.”

“Affirmative.”

The doctor considered this. “All right. But I’ll be monitoring you every second. And if I see signs of—”

“As the meld shall be only a surface exploration, there is not a great need for concern.”

They headed back out into the body of sickbay. McCoy harrumphed and folded his arms across his chest. “Go on, then.” He waved an arm towards the curtained biobed.

Spock stepped resolutely towards the curtain, hesitating a moment before opening the drapery. He had never witnessed a Vulcan in the throes of the pon farr—at least, not one lacking guards and mind healers to corral them. As a child he had been sheltered from awareness of the condition; he had no memory of his parents enduring it. But then, they would most likely have been exceedingly careful in concealing it from him, and, owing to his father’s diplomatic commitments, it was not unusual for Spock to be sent to his grandmother’s house when his parents travelled off world. How a human would be affected during pon farr Spock did not know. All he had to go on were the horrific and terrifying stories swapped between his peers as to the kind of physical damage inflicted by one mate on another at that Time.

He stepped within the curtain, going to stand by the head of the bed, McCoy following closely behind him. For a moment Spock steepled his fingers, breathing deeply and drawing on deep knowledge before reaching both hands towards the pale and sweating face on the biobed.

His progress was stopped when the Captain’s eyes snapped open, and a hand, somehow free of the restraints, grasped Spock’s wrist. Spock froze, taking in the crazed glassiness of his friend’s eyes, the lace of blood vessels crisscrossing the whites, and the energy which buzzed like sparks where their flesh connected. For a moment there was confusion and disappointment in the man’s face, and he dropped back to the bed, letting go of Spock as though burned, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

“Jim, I am going to meld with you. I shall maintain only a surface-level connection, purely for the purpose of diagnosis. Forgive me for being unable to obtain your permission; this is a medical necessity.”

Spock gently aligned his fingers at the psi-points on Jim’s face, struck unexpectedly by the intimacy of the act, and by the feel of his friend’s skin. He could not deny that he felt a pull towards this man, and always had. Enough! he cautioned himself. Focus. Breathe.

“My mind to your mind; my thoughts to your thoughts.”

—And he slipped into mindspace.

***

Doctor McCoy watched in a state of heightened anxiety as Spock’s hands settled in place on his friend’s face. He didn’t like this mumbo-jumbo, not at all. He didn’t like that it was necessary. He didn’t trust Vulcan telepathy; it just seemed so wrong that members of one species could go digging around in other people’s heads. So how the hell did Jim end up with some kind of tether, a proper bond, of all things, with a Vulcan?

He was expecting the meld to go on for some minutes. In reality, Spock pulled back slowly after only three (not that McCoy was counting).

“What is it, Spock?” he asked, his arms crossed over his chest. Spock was as pale as a ghost. “Here, man. Sit down before you fall.”

Spock sat, which in itself spoke to his state.

“The Captain shares a half-formed bond with my elder counterpart.”

“What?! How?!I didn’t know he knew him!” McCoy had met the old Vulcan once, in the course of doing mandatory health checks on the survivors of The Day. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jim would have had any cause to cross paths with the Vulcan.

“Similarly, I was not privy to this information until now. It appears that Jim has been having symptoms for several months, which have intensified in the last ten days. Doctor, there is urgent need to get him to New Vulcan. At risk are two lives. We must bring the Captain to his mate.”

McCoy stared at the Commander. “I don’t understand. Can’t you meld with him again and find out more? How long ago did this… this bond thing happen? Is there nothing you can do to stave off the fever or its symptoms?”

“I cannot meld more deeply with the Captain at this time, lest I be recognized and rejected. Psychic rejection is… undesirable.”

“Right,” McCoy nodded. Resolve filled him. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t try his hardest to save Jim’s life. “What do you need me to do?”

***

Between the medical order and several hours of heated calls between Command, Starfleet Medical, the Vulcan Embassy on Earth, and the government of New Vulcan, Spock had secured the course change which took the Enterprise to New Vulcan. It was just as well the Kappa Leonis sector was within a seven-day journey to the Vulcan colony; the Chief Engineer had managed to persuade his engines to work at peak efficiency long enough to bring the Enterprise there in only five days. Throughout that time, Spock had been driven by an urgency for which he had no name, spending most of the journey on the bridge, leaving only to take care of biological functions. He had frequently found himself unconsciously gripping the armrests of the central command chair, rationalizing it as his determination to take care of his Captain’s ship.

Finally, when Vulcan Space Central gave the ship beaming permission, Spock leapt up from the seat and strode smartly to the turbolift. Nyota followed him. The moment the doors closed, Spock hit the intercom.

“Doctor McCoy and medical team report to transporter room one immediately. We have arrived at New Vulcan.”

“Acknowledged,” came the Doctor’s voice. “McCoy out.”

Nyota reached out the moment he terminated the call and stopped the lift.

“Spock,” Nyota began. Spock confessed he was agitated. Vulcans were capable of foregoing sleep for periods of time. That did not mean that there wasn’t a cost involved in doing so.

“Spock,” the woman said again softly, drawing closer and taking Spock’s face in her hands. He felt the tingling of his psi-points with her familiar energy, and his own hands closed around her wrists. He allowed their foreheads to touch, and closed his eyes, drawing strength from her.

“I want to be there. I want to come with you.”

“You cannot,” Spock responded with reluctance. He would very much have preferred Nyota to be there; her presence grounded him.

Nyota opened her mouth to remonstrate, but he cut in. “T’Pau has been most insistent that only a small party be present. The Elder has barricaded himself in his dwelling. She has two guards ready who are trained in how to restrain a Vulcan in the plak tow. We have been asked to bring only essential personnel: medical staff and a member of the command team.”

“But why?”

“A Vulcan in the throes of the blood fever is highly susceptible to the mental emanations of others. That is partially why bondmates enter seclusion until the completion of the Time. A Vulcan so affected will see others as a threat, and can potentially be violent.”

“I can never see you becoming violent, ashayam,” Nyota crooned.

“We have spoken of this. We do not know how pon farr will affect me. All that we are able to conclude in light of this incident is that the likelihood I shall experience the condition has increased significantly.”

“I’ve already told you, Spock. You don’t scare me. And I’m not afraid of being hot and bothered with you for several days.” Nyota’s eyes darkened with lust, but now was not the time.

They were not supposed to be discussing Spock’s ongoing well-being, but Jim’s. Spock felt a surge of irritation for Nyota turning the conversation back to their own situation.“You can have no conception of what you speak.”

Nyota fell back a little, obviously hurt. “I love you, Spock, and I’ll do whatever it takes…”

“Do you not understand? Jim, the Captain, is at terrible risk. Between Vulcans the Time is violent. With a more fragile human involved—”

“Your mother survived. I can’t speak for males. But if your mother survived, then surely I would?”

“Nyota, now is not the time to discuss this. For the moment, know that I am reluctant to hurt you. I would never willingly subject you to violence. It is… unacceptable to me that you should be injured because of the ancient drive of my people.”

“Do I have no say in this? I’ve already told you: I will bond with you, marry you, burn with you, do whatever it takes. If it gets a little rough, I can do that.”

“Nyota…”

“Spock…”

He sighed. “My focus at this time must be on seeing the Captain to his destination, and on seeing him safely returned to us. May we continue this conversation at a later date?”

Nyota sighed and separated from him completely, pressing the button to release the turbolift. “Of course, Spock. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought it up right now. It’s been going around in my head for days.”

The turbolift dinged and the doors opened onto the corridor nearest the transporter room. Spock held out his fingers and Nyota met them with her own briefly before the doors closed, separating them. Spock turned, straightened his tunic, and turned his mind to the task at hand.

***

McCoy and two medical technicians were already on the transporter pad, a fourth position occupied by the Captain, lying restrained on a stretcher. Something twinged in Spock’s abdomen at the sight. His gaze met the understanding eyes of the Doctor.

“He’s barely conscious, but we didn’t want to risk it,” McCoy murmured by way of explanation.

Spock nodded. It was logical, and yet something within Spock rebelled at Jim’s state. It did not seem right. However, now was not the time for second-guessing.

Spock took his place on the pad. “Energize,” he ordered, and felt the familiar tingle.

They rematerialized at the coordinates given: the courtyard of one of the standard prefabricated dwellings common on New Vulcan, although this house had had an enclosed entryway added, and was in a cul-de-sac at the end of a road, ensuring privacy. It was just as well.

Gathered there ahead of them was T’Pau, the Leader of Vulcan and Spock’s grandmother, and the two guards as she had forewarned. Spock exchanged a brief salute with her.

“Thee have brought he who is thy Captain?”

“Affirmative, T’Pau.”

“Then let us proceed.” T’Pau nodded, and the two guards slid open the door. It was unlocked.

The company continued into the house. Spock’s counterpart had expanded the humble pre-fab by adding a suite of rooms, including a balcony with a view down the valley. The guards quickly searched the dwelling, finding all rooms clear. There being no one in the house proper, the company crossed the balcony and went along a terrace to a structure at the far end, abutting a spur of the hill behind the house. It was a reinforced door of the variety impervious to all but phaser fire. Spock raised an eyebrow. What had motivated his counterpart to erect this structure, and to place such a door in it?

T’Pau signaled the guards, who tested the door; it was locked from the inside.

The man on the stretcher moaned and shifted, sitting up so suddenly he almost tumbled off the stretcher. Spock went over to him.

“Jim?”

“Spock!” Desperate, fevered cerulean eyes bore into his. The appeal moved Spock, and without thinking consciously, he bent down to remove the human’s restraints. The guards were phasering the lock of the door, and it wouldn’t be long now before the Captain was united with his mate.

A sensation of indignant wrongness filled Spock at the thought. He resented the peculiarity of this match, its irregularity, and especially the fact that it appeared Jim had had no opportunity to consent.

He helped Jim to stand, encouraging the delirious man to lean his weight on him.

There was a resounding clang as the door fell inwards, and then silence. Spock had to hold Jim back as he moaned, and involuntarily started forward.

“Keep him back,” T’Pau warned. “Do not allow him to go to his mate until I have examined the old one.”

The guards stood back, allowing T’Pau, Spock and Jim, and McCoy to step down into the structure. The interior was circular in shape, and it had the appearance of a study—or would have done, prior to the destruction wrought upon it. A figure crouched off to their right, slumped against a broken table-top, naked and covered in self-inflicted wounds.

Spock held Jim steady, keeping him from running over to the old Vulcan as T’Pau slowly approached him. It was just as well the plak tow was so advanced, and both Jim and the old one were weakened. Or else it would have been unlikely that they could have come so close without being challenged. Spock wondered whether the elderly Vulcan had intended that this be his last resting place.

T’Pau connected her hand briefly to the side of the craggy face, closing her eyes before withdrawing it.

“Bring both parties here so that I can seal the bond. And then we shall allow them privacy to consummate their bond.”

“It’s not too late?” McCoy asked brashly. “I want to examine him, if you don’t mind.”

“No, it is not. A few more hours…” T’Pau turned to the guards. “Come. Keep the human downwind of the Vulcan. Should he catch his scent…” She gestured to McCoy, who stepped forward and ran his tricorder over the still form.

The device dinged and whistled. McCoy looked up, his eyes connecting with Spock’s. He shook his head, but didn’t say anything before he stood and came back to where Spock supported the delirious Captain.

The guards half-carried, half-dragged the old Vulcan and placed him carefully on his knees before the Leader of Vulcan. She gestured for Spock to bring Jim, and make him kneel.

The Elder’s nostrils flared, and Jim moaned hollowly like a sea-lion, his blue eyes wild. Losing no time, T’Pau placed a hand to the psi-points of both, wordlessly initiating a meld. The moment the bond was sealed, electricity seemed to spark in all directions, licking around all those present.

“It is done,” T’Pau declared.

She stepped back, and those with her watched as the fevered Vulcan launched himself at the young man, his hands scrabbling to tear off the fabric which kept his mate from him. Before Spock could properly observe it happening, the Elder sank his teeth into the juncture between the human’s neck and shoulder. Jim’s cry echoed around the chamber—a triumphal shout, a scream of agony; Spock could not say—and he fell back to the flagstones, limp. The Elder cradled the man’s shoulders, running his free hand over the flushed face and neck and pectoral muscles before looking up.

“MINE!” he snarled, the telepathic force of the declaration making them all fall several steps backwards.

“Come,” T’Pau commanded. “It is time to leave them to their fate.”

“Wait a minute,” McCoy stepped forward.

“Do not approach them!” T’Pau warned.

McCoy froze where he stood. “Will Jim be all right? What happens next?”

“They must satisfy the ancient blood fever of our people. If they do, they may live. If they do not, both shall die,” T’Pau explained.

“Yes, I know that, cold comfort though it is. But I mean, will Jim be safe? Shouldn’t someone stay to monitor them at least?”

“This is the Vulcan heart; this is the Vulcan soul. It is our way. Whether he survives shall be up to him.”

“I’m not sure I like that. Spock? Don’t you have something to say?” McCoy appealed to Spock.

T’Pau’s eyes narrowed, as though daring Spock to defy millennia of his father’s people’s tradition. He felt all that weight bearing down on his shoulders in this moment. He turned to his grandmother.

“Is it not usual that when our people are joined at the koon-ut-ka-li-fee, they are secluded at a prepared kelek t’teraun, a place where new bondmates may consummate their bond?”

“That is so,” the old woman nodded once.

“Then surely it is incumbent upon us, as Elder Spock has failed to prepare for this… consummation, to ensure that he and his mate have all that is necessary for comfort at this time?” The flagstones were uneven; hardly the place to be at the receiving end of rough sexual and physical exertion for days. Looking at the two bodies, which were now writhing and grinding against each other, Spock knew he would not wish to consummate his bond with Nyota in such conditions. Nor should his Captain, Jim, his friend, suffer.

T’Pau gave way. “It is logical.”

“I thank you, T’Pau.” Spock wondered why she had been reluctant to provide basic necessities; was it because the Captain was human? Was it because of his older counterpart’s foolishness in seeking a solitary death at a time when their race was still decimated, and the rebuilding only recently begun? He doubted she would give him a reason were he to ask.

In Vulcan, T’Pau ordered the guards to search the house for towels, blankets, lubricant, water, non-perishable food items, and a medical kit. Once these had been procured and placed in obvious positions around the room’s destruction, they retreated from the space. Spock felt an inexplicable pull to stay, remain at his friend’s side in his hour of need. But it wasn’t logical. They had done all they could—he had done everything in his power—to bring the man here to the Vulcan who had claimed him. Now, all that was left was to wait. And to be ready when the fever resolved itself. Spock suspected Jim would need his friend when this was over.

And his elder counterpart would have some explaining to do.

***

Chapter Text

***

For days he had known he was dying. The fever raged—why, he did not know. He thought his old bones were beyond the mating fires; too many years had passed since he’d lost his bondmate. The link in his mind had now become a sparkling river. But he wasn’t sure whether this was the wishful thinking of his biology, casting him back to an earlier time, or whether this was some blessed miracle he’d been granted to ease his passing into the next realm of existence.

Back in the first stages, when he’d still been lucid, he’d barricaded himself into this stronghold, this death-chamber, never expecting to emerge. He’d given himself up to the fever, to let it run its maddening course and with it to snuff his insignificant existence.

“T’hy’la!” he had called unceasingly into the void, mentally and physically, until he was hoarse, his throat swollen, and he was unable to swallow.

He’d laughed like a madman; madness was his friend. And the madness brought with it visions of stunning clarity. It mocked him, taunted him with the paradise of delights which had been his, shared with the golden Other, his mate.

He remembered. He remembered, relived every pon farr they’d shared. The delectable flesh beneath his quivering fingers; the worship he himself had offered this god in human form. The golden one’s smooth pectoral muscles, his proud cock—his cock! (he salivated, the memory delicious). Every creamy inch of his skin which he had mapped with tender hands. Plunging into the body beneath him, his thirst ever quenched and unquenchable when it came to this man. The feral drive which had led him to claim his mate over and over and over again in a thousand ways in a thousand places.

He laughed again. For once the visions stopped, they started again, like a holocube on endless looping replay, their torment exquisite and agonizing.

He called again with his whole being for the mate who could never come, the mate who was lost and could never be found until he’d taken his last sorry breath. He cradled the bond in his mind, the river of hope, river of stars and sunshine. He crooned to it, begging it to bring his mate to him, pleading for death to be swift—anything to unite him to the golden Other once more.

Almost beyond consciousness, finally the visions had stilled, each breath like fire, his eyes burning but not consumed, his raging pulse quelling. It was a kind of peace, as in the eye of a storm which continued to wail and pull on the periphery of his existence. And in this calm, in the still, dark hour, the coldest before dawn, as he’d huddled into his destiny in a broken room, it had come. Just as he’d closed his eyes and willed his katra to follow the bond to its source, a golden orb had flickered in the far distant darkness. Full of grace and life, full of golden beatitude, it had pulsed along the bond, slowly moving like molten gold until it took on form. Its halo, its glory shone around him, its beauty heart-piercing like the hazel eyes he’d found when he finally looked up.

“T’hy’la!”

The golden one smiled, love unbounded pouring from his eyes, his hands, his mouth. And then he’d drawn close, and kissed Spock’s forehead in blessing. And in the kiss… the kiss… the kiss of gold coated his skin and seeped into his being and he was possessed. It was delightful, a climax beyond sexual release. And while his heart had craved the golden presence for a hundred years, and found its desire slaked, his flesh still hungered, and his heart was torn.

Still, still, it was something. A foretaste of the divine life which awaited. A foretaste of what would be, and soon. Not soon enough.

He breathed, and he wondered if he’d been transformed into a dragon, for he felt he was breathing fire, and that he was drying up like a potsherd in a kiln. Or bleaching his own old bones with the full force of the light of Eridani A and its trinary sisters blaring from within him. Could he shed his skin like a snake?

The bond, the tether… It still shone, silver now as with the light of the moon, but living. Where was his mate?

Among the stars.

There was no point in bringing himself to completion, aching though his genitals were. He lacked the wherewithal to achieve solitary release, and knew it would never be enough without the Other.

Time passed.

***

YES! Oh, he thought without words. The teeth of the other—finally! Claimed! There was blood, red blood, his blood, and the blood was good.

Hands roaming and plucking, playing and molding, slapping and pinching, fingers digging deep into muscle until he was owned. Teeth biting, lips sucking, that tongue wrapping itself around nipple or earlobe. And he wanted it all. All! And more.

Not enough!

He burned, he burned with the Other. Still more… Why would he not…? Couldn’t he see the need? The yearning?

And then the earth split, his knees quaking as he was rent asunder, the magma spurting within and scalding and burning. But then, he was already smoke and cloud, rain hissing and evaporating as the lava flowed in his veins.

And the Other drew near in his mind, hands clasping his face so that eye locked with eye. Overwhelming that vast presence. Overwhelming its claim and desire, and in the face of that he was tempted to resist.

Let me in. Still it asked, though it had the strength to force, and it would. Let me in, mate.

All his last defenses crumbled into oblivion as the Other moved in him, claiming his mind until he was lost in the depth of night and had forgotten he was other than MINE.

He was the ocean, he was a vast and depthless lake, into which the Other plunged himself again and again, overflowing into every dark depth and lighting up places he never knew existed. There was life there, the throb of the deepest heartbeat, and the scream of a nervous system, there at the molecular level of existence. He knew only that he was the Thirst-quencher, as well as the one whose chalice the other constantly craved.

Drink me! he pleaded. Drink me until there is nothing left and there is no I nor Thou.

He was the one filling the burning void, falling in a cascade, casting himself into the Other, pouring his waters until the fire no longer turned them to scalding steam.

It was an apocalypse, a great unending cataclysm, a reshaping of the world… the sun turned to sackcloth and a moon to blood, and a third of the stars wiped from the expanse of night…

And the Other shouted YES, making the foundations of the universe itself tremble and know their need and their triumph.

And then an eruption in which stars were born anew in the nursery of the universe, new moons made, suns flung into space to give new light and meaning as the dark matter between them finally, finally began to cool.

He could breathe again.

***

He moaned himself awake, and cracked open an eye which felt as though a sandstorm had blown into it. He couldn’t feel his right arm. He tried to roll over and shift to alleviate its deadness and bring on the pins and needles which would herald the return of painful sensation, but soon discovered that to be a task that was beyond him, every atom of his body aching and throbbing.

What had happened to him? Where was he? Why did he feel as though he were cracking a crust with each subtle shift of muscle?

His heart rate soared with fear and adrenaline, and there was white-hot agony in his rectum. Had he been violated? But no, it didn’t feel like violation.

There was another current, a purring sense of satisfaction mixed with guilt and remorse in the back of his mind, and he was alone and not alone, another consciousness breathing in tandem. Huh?

Something warm and wet began to run over his limp body, removing the crust. A washcloth.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” a whispered litany accompanied the motion of the cloth. “Oh, Jim. Forgive me, I beg thee.”

It was soothing. And along with the strokes down his aching and probably bruised flanks, he felt the wash of a love so immeasurable and so great he could drown in it, though he didn’t deserve it. It washed him away on its gently lapping tide.

***

It was dark. Jim was warm and comfortable, the surface he was on soft and supportive. He felt protected, cherished, and he sank back into the chest behind him, pulling the arm around his middle closer. There was a hum of satisfaction, more felt (and in his mind, no less) than heard.

His eyes snapped open. What?!

He tried to shift away from the body behind him, but found it hurt too much to move.

“Hush, Jim. Allow me to care for you. What do you need?”

With difficulty Jim rolled over.

“Spock?” he said, incredulous. “Wait.” He’d just noticed one of his eyes wasn’t opening fully. He raised a hand to touch it, and winced. It was swollen. He quickly took an inventory: one hand throbbed as though it had been strained, and his right quadratus lumborum muscle was knotted tight and painful, and his lower back hurt. Oh! And his thighs, he added with a groan.

Jim fell back to the pillow. “What happened? What am I doing in… your bed?”

“What is the last thing you remember?” The old Vulcan’s voice was raspy.

“Uh… I was on the ship. No. I was in sickbay. Uh…” Fire, stars bursting, rutting and being drunk without having consumed alcohol. Fragments only.

A flare of lust illumined his mind. It was a strange sensation, seeing and hearing something physically, and seeing mentally as well.

“Are you in my head?” Guilt, shame, remorse. “Are those your feelings I’m feeling? How are you in my head, Spock?”

The old Vulcan sighed, his cloudy brown eyes weary, great dark circles beneath them. He had a scabbed series of scratch marks down one cheek, and beneath the folds of the robe, Jim could see bites on the silver-haired chest.

“Did I make those?” he asked, anxiety beginning to fill him. Just what kind of weird-ass trip was this?

Abruptly, it was too much for him. Panic seized him, and ignoring his many bruises and other injuries, Jim pushed himself backwards out of the bed, retreating to a far wall. His vision dotted in black, closing in on him. He was naked and vulnerable, and alone with this Vulcan whom he hardly knew, and…

“Breathe, Jim. In, out. In out.” The voice was soft and low and flowing with milk and honey. Against his own fears, he allowed it to wash through him and sweeten his state.

Jim opened his eyes. He must have slid down the wall to curl into his knees, and the old Vulcan was kneeling before him, not touching, but from the look in his eyes longing to do so.

A hand reached out.

“Don’t! Don’t… touch me,” Jim panted.

The light of resignation flashed briefly in the old eyes. The Vulcan nodded. Soft fondness caressed Jim’s mind, and he couldn’t help himself: he pushed into it like a cat into a head-rub.

“Explain?”

Spock looked down at the hands now folded in his lap. He was wearing a simple robe, crossed over the front like a bathrobe but obviously Vulcan in design.

“We are bonded.”

Jim stared at him in disbelief. “What?”

“Perhaps if I recount my understanding?”

Jim nodded, dumbfounded, too drained from his panic attack to move, and needing to understand.

“Every seven years Vulcans experience a mating drive, similar to your salmon on Earth or to the great birds of Albaroth V. We are driven by ancient biological urges to return to our origin to mate within a certain time frame, or die. I had thought those fires long since passed for me. My bondmate… passed beyond this realm of existence one hundred years ago, and because of the peculiar nature of his disappearance, the mating drive no longer made my blood burn. Or so I thought.

“I do not fully comprehend myself how it came to be that the pon farr enflamed me once more. But this I suspect: my bondmate and I were t’hy’lara. When I melded with you on Delta Vega just after Va’Pak, the desiccated bond recognized your mental signature as compatible with his, and reasserted itself, making an unbidden preliminary link with your mind.

“Perhaps because of the spontaneously renewed link, the old biological fires were stoked, the bond itself surging for completion. And so my mind and body called to yours. I do not know how it is so that you are here; I assume that you also suffered, that your shipmates determined the cause, and so brought you here at the eleventh hour. For I was at the point of death, yet I live. And you bear the marks and cost of my life on your person.”

It was a lot to take in at once. Jim raised a shaking hand to his forehead and found wet tracks on his cheeks. He pulled his hand away and looked at the moisture uncomprehendingly. Pity, sorrow, remorse, understanding swirled into him.

“I am sorry, Jim.” The old one prostrated himself with his hands and forehead on the ground before Jim. Apology from the deepest part of self. “Forgive me, for while the worst of the blood fever has passed, I shall again have need of thee.”

Along the shared mind-link flowed the willingness of the other to gift the whole of his self to Jim. Were the whole realm of nature mine, it were a present far too small, the words lilted along with it.

It was overwhelming, the pressure building in Jim’s own tender mind. He wasn’t used to this, and he certainly wasn’t ready for someone, anyone, to… do what Spock was doing now.

“Stop! Stop!” he clutched his temples. Rejection. And then he was surprised by the sting of a corresponding loss so sharp he inhaled at the pain of it as it cut his own soul. “No! No! It’s not that… I can’t… Uh!” he groaned in frustration, fisting both hands. “I’m not rejecting you. I just. I have to make sense of this.”

Understanding. Spock nodded. He rose, his knees creaking. “I shall go out to the garden. There is a bathroom over there,” he gestured beyond the bed, “if you feel inclined to bathe. Call for me, and I shall come. Or,” the Vulcan’s expression turned sheepish, “you will know when I shall need you.” He observed Jim for a moment. “I have laid out clothing for you, if you would prefer to be covered. Please, Jim, be at home. This is the least that I can do for you, after…”

Jim didn’t respond, but sent a quiet thanks along the mind-link as Spock turned and left. Warmth and gratitude.

How was he to…? No, he couldn’t. Could he? Was this even possible?

Delta Vega. Right. He thought back to the information dump Spock had performed, the transference of powerful emotions, especially of loss and the horror of seeing a home planet destroyed. Jim remember those flashes of insight, the moments of double vision, the dreams in which memories of things he’d never experienced replayed in his unconscious mind’s eye. It made sense.

He didn’t remember much of the last few weeks, but he supposed his illness, the increasing frequency of the visions, the heat and burning—that all made sense too.

Such a multitude of emotions, like a swirling torrent, bombarded him; he didn’t know which one to feel first. Deep breath, Kirk. Deep, even breaths, he told himself. And there was a quiet nudge of warm support from Spock. Beyond that, Jim had the impression the Vulcan whose life he was apparently connected to was sitting back and meditating, as though in another room. It was as though the door to the other room was open in his mind, and he could sense Spock giving him mental space without leaving or shutting him out.

He exhaled through his mouth in a great gust. Okay. So, the mind-link. Being bonded meant sharing mindspace. That was both terrifying and comforting. Comforting, because Jim found himself, in spite of his uncertainty, drinking it in. He’d never felt so…cherished, so desired, so wanted, so loved. Terrifying, because… he’d been alone in his head his whole life, and it wasn’t a pretty place. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted all his thoughts and feelings open to the scrutiny of a far larger awareness with the telepathic capability to manipulate the space of the link. Spock’s mind was a force in its own right, beside which his own psyche paled.

What could Spock possibly value about Jim’s insignificant mind? More to the point, would there ever be privacy for him again, to have a thought that wasn’t scrutinized and interpreted—and responded to? He was conscious of having been claimed; more than that, in the heat of the blood fever, he knew that every fiber of his being, his mind and body, had cried out to be claimed, had wanted that interpenetration to the roots of his autonomic system. And he also knew in his depths that it couldn’t be undone. What did that mean? What did it mean for him to belong to Spock, and not to himself?

Was he Spock’s slave? Was he forever bound to submit to Spock? His spirit rebelled against the thought. But surely that wasn’t the way it worked? A few minutes ago, the old Vulcan had made a gesture of self-giving greater than anything Jim could have imagined. That didn’t speak to Jim of dominance and submission; if anything, it suggested mutual regard of the other, mutual gift of the self.

But once again, what did he have to give? Jim Kirk knew he was hardly quality relationship material. Not only had his childhood provided him poor exemplars of how one person related and committed to relating to another, but he’d also never been with anyone longer than six months—and that had been weird, to say the least. The thought of being bonded for life scared him… What would happen when Spock decided he’d had enough of Jim? What would happen when Spock found his memories of Tarsus IV? What would happen when he saw the truth: juvenile delinquency, neglect, every socially disruptive act Jim had ever committed, every sexual situation he’d found himself in, every dishonest interaction, every lie and falsehood? Or worse yet, what would happen when the Vulcan he was bonded to searched through and found out his deepest insecurities, his fears, his daddy issues, his instinct to fight or fly? Would this being still want him when Jim was being a tetchy shit because he didn’t know how to discharge the energy which built over months of being in deep space? Especially now that they were bonded, and from what little Jim knew of Vulcan bonds, it pretty much precluded finding a convenient port to dock in while on shore leave.

He worried about the vulnerability the bond uncovered. There was no hiding from the presence of his mate. Jim didn’t like being so exposed; it felt as though he were wearing a gown he couldn’t quite draw closed around his nakedness.

How was this long distance relationship going to work, anyway? Jim had no intention of giving up command of his ship. But surely Spock was required to remain on the colony? And in any case, for all that he was most likely brilliant and adaptable, there was only room for one Spock on the Enterprise.

Oh God. Spock! How would he react to knowing…? But then, he must know, given that he would’ve ordered the Enterprise to New Vulcan in the first place. How would this new bond affect Jim’s friendship with his Spock?

And Bones. Jim shuddered at the thought of how Bones was going to react to all this. And Command. And—oh shit—his mother.

But a pressure was beginning to build within the bond itself, like a sun rising.

For all his worries about a bond with a Vulcan, Jim couldn’t help but respond to its attractions. Spock was offering the same unfettered access to his being as he had to Jim’s. And so far, Jim found himself beginning to crave the affection of the old Vulcan like a well-aged wine. The tenderness, the golden light and warmth which conveyed that Jim was more treasured and cherished than gold or fine gems. The patience, the deep, calm pool of acceptance and desire. The mental caress which made Jim’s flesh pimple and his being shiver with the love it communicated. These were all things Jim had longed for his whole life.  He’d be a fool to turn his back on such a serendipitous gift.

Except… he didn’t love the old Vulcan. He wasn’t in love with his own Spock; they had a great friendship which Jim enjoyed and valued, and he’d always known he’d take a bullet for Spock if it came to it, without a second thought. But as for the older Spock, he barely knew him. It was a stretch to his mind to realize he was in effect married, and yet without any of the usual romantic underpinnings, at least from Jim’s side. There was no doubt in his mind that the old Vulcan loved Jim with all that he was and was prepared to honor him with all that he had. Being unable at this point to return that affection, Jim felt inadequate and scummy, undeserving of such devotion.

His last question (for now, anyway) hovered unpleasantly. Thinking all this through, and given the circumstances of the bond’s formation, was Jim entitled to Spock’s affection? Was he only benefiting second-hand from love given to his counterpart in another time and universe? Was he, really, only an imposter, an avatar standing in for Spock’s true mate? Was he loved for himself, or for who Spock had perceived Jim’s counterpart to be? Ah! Jim felt so confused!

He should be angry. He should be furious that he’d been trapped into this. He should be raging against his bondmate for his lack of restraint. But that was the funny thing; he didn’t feel the need to do any of that. He didn’t know how to describe, even to himself, just exactly what it was he was feeling, but it wasn’t negative.

The heat and pressure were building again. He began to want…

Restless, Jim rose and made use of the bathroom, stepping into a cold shower to wash away what felt like a lifetime’s worth of grime. He opened his mouth and drank freely, though it did little to answer the other kind of thirst gripping his whole being.

He stepped out of the shower without toweling himself; no point in drying off in this heat. Jim exited into the bedroom to find his bondmate sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked up and held Jim’s gaze as he stood and moved closer to him.

“Jim, please know: I do love you. How could I not love you?”

“Do you love me only because I am another version of him?”

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed. “I have seen your heart and mind, James Kirk. And yes, you are like my Captain. But you are not him. You are yourself. And it is you, yourself whom I find irresistible.”

Jim was about to dismiss this, disbelieving, when the old Vulcan fell to his knees before him.

“I cannot thank you enough for coming to my aid. I bless the happenstance of the bond’s reformation. I wish to be open to you as you are to me, and please believe me when I say I shall do all in my power to give you what I am able.”

And in that moment, Jim longed to be touched, the pressure inside him needing an outlet. Instinct was driving him to reach out, and before he knew it, his hand was brushing through silver locks. So fine. So silky. He began to grow hard, wondering what it would be like to grip that hair in the middle of… A vague memory; had he already? Yes! Oh! A memory of being pounded, pulling on the strands of his bondmate’s hair, holding on for dear life as he rode out a fevered wave…

“Let me love you, ka-telsu. Let me give myself to you, t’hy’la. Let me,” Spock crooned.

And stars began to trail up Jim’s thighs as the Vulcan rubbed his hands over supple muscle, briefly lingering where there were hand-shaped bruises with a purr of approval. Jim felt the answering guttural moan of agreement deep within himself. Here was his mate, and his mate was—

He cried out as Spock swallowed him whole, sucking his entire length, massaging with his tongue beneath the frenulum until Jim achieved a rapid, almost painful, full hardness. Jim was swiftly losing rationality to instinct, and it wasn’t unpleasant. He focused on the connection, on the wet lips into which his length disappeared again and again. He clutched the silver strands as he pressed his mate’s head against his groin. Spock moaned lasciviously, and Jim came, pouring himself out. His mate received everything he gave.

He had enough awareness to know he’d been swept up and carried bridal-style to the bed, and enough wherewithal to realize he was being ravished once more, before the fever took hold of him, and he was swept into the fiery maelstrom with his bondmate.

***

The Enterprise had been in orbit of New Vulcan for a week. Command had finally agreed, at the behest of T’Pau, that the crew should be assigned to missions in support of the colony. Any who chose to engage in these voluntary missions would be credited with shore leave. Most of the crew, being the caliber of people they were, had signed up for tasks ranging from engineering projects, to assisting with preliminary work for the planetary defense system, to agricultural projects setting up greenhouses with specialized climates, to social projects focused on the building of society and the healing of the Vulcan people.

It was like a never-healing wound in Spock’s mind, the place where before had been a background hum, now a symphony missing significant parts, forever incomplete. It was something he and every other Vulcan still living was adjusting to.

Spock stood up from the command chair, appreciating the stretch in his cramped calf muscles. It was the end of shift, and he and Doctor McCoy had a house call to make.

“Mister Chekov, you have the conn.”

This time, Nyota followed him only with her eyes. He nodded to her as he entered the turbolift; they would have dinner later in his quarters. He knew she wanted to brief him about the progress her people were making, and to beg again to be able to go down herself to supervise them. Until now, Spock had not permitted the Chief of Communications to join her colleagues on the surface. Officially, the logical and acceptable reason he’d given was that, in the absence of the Chief Engineer, she was the next most senior officer, and so was required on the bridge. He admitted to himself his ulterior motive: wanting to ensure Nyota had no access to Jim at this vulnerable time. He knew this was a sacrifice for her; Vulcan was a language which held endless fascination for Nyota. Spock felt warmth in his chest, knowing that the woman who shared intimacy with him held his culture in such high esteem, and respected his values.

McCoy met him in the transporter room, as they’d agreed, and they beamed down to the same coordinates as the previous week. How odd, Spock mused, the aspects of a setting one could notice when at leisure, and which were overlooked completely when dire circumstances dictated. The courtyard of the house was a pleasant place, the plants chosen for their coolness and hardiness against the heat of the sun. A fountain, a rare luxury on Vulcan-that-was, but not so unusual here with the more plentiful water supply, burbled before the door, a sign of welcome. And, he thought, perhaps a sign of the dual identity of the occupant.

They were greeted by Elder Spock.

“Peace and long life,” Spock said, holding up the ta’al.

“Hardly fitting at my age. But it appears I shall, indeed, live. Live long and prosper, friends.”

Elder Spock stepped back to permit the doctor and Spock himself to enter. The Captain was wearing a light robe, reclining on a lounge, and rose as they entered. The Elder went over to him and held out two fingers, which Jim met with his own. Spock caught not the slightest hint of hesitation. He found it unexpectedly jarring to witness.

“May I introduce James Kirk, he who is my mate.” If Spock had said it, it would have been with a high flush. But this was apparently either something the Elder had no problem with, or he had a greater grasp of his emotions than Spock did.

McCoy went over to the captain with his tricorder and medkit. “Are you all right, Jim?”

“I’m a bit bruised and sore; I have a sprained wrist, and as you can see, I’ve got a black eye. But apart from that I’m fine.”

“Really?” The doctor was skeptical.

“Yes, Bones,” Jim replied, his tone not quite serene.

“And you?” McCoy turned his attention to Elder Spock, who acquiesced to being scanned with an enigmatic expression.

McCoy’s brow furrowed as he worked the tricorder and analyzed the results. “Well, this says you’re both strong as oxen, and hale. Though I wouldn’t mind getting you back to the ship to run some scans; I’m not happy at all about this telepathic mumbo-jumbo, and would like full documentation.”

“As soon as our confinement officially ends, we shall beam aboard to satisfy your purpose, Doctor,” Elder Spock soothed.

McCoy looked at the old Vulcan suspiciously. “Two more days?”

“It is taking me longer to recover from the full effects of the blood fever, Doctor. It is one hundred years since the last time…”

“Right, right. I don’t need to know more right now. Jim,” he said, turning back to his captain and friend, “I’d like to examine you, if that’s alright. The tricorder can only tell so much.”

“The Commander and I shall walk in the garden,” the Elder announced, rising from the arm of the couch where he had been perched.

Spock raised an eyebrow, but complied. It would give him an opportunity to confront the Elder, and he had been practically seething with a desire to do so since he and McCoy had first determined the source of the Captain’s distress.

He followed the Elder onto the terrace, and down a series of flagged steps, to what appeared to be an orchard, albeit in its infancy. Spock saw pla-savas, kasa, sash-savas, and yon-savas trees; clearly his counterpart was endeavoring to further the research and development of native Vulcan species in this new environment. There was a moveable shade set up as a canopy over the plants, and they were fed by an automatic watering system.

They didn’t speak until they had reached the far edge of the garden. The Elder, clearly still weak from his recent ordeal, sat on the stone wall. The shade of the canopy barely covered Spock. Looking at this much older version of himself, Spock couldn’t find the wherewithal to be harsh.

“Are you well?” Spock asked, genuinely concerned.

“As well as may be expected, given the nature of the Time, and my advanced age.”

“I do not yet know the nature of the Time.”

“You shall, eventually. It cannot be avoided for wishing, Spock,” the Elder cautioned. “It is taking longer than it used to for me to recover from the demands and exigencies of the blood fever.”

What was a Vulcan to say to that? One did not talk about such things. Spock maintained awkward silence.

“T’Pau has decided not to prosecute,” Spock eventually commented after a lengthy pause.

The Elder closed his eyes briefly, as though in painful acknowledgement. “What I did was unforgiveable, Spock. It was also inadvertent.”

“Explain.”

Elder Spock sighed deeply. “My Captain and I shared the bond of t’hy’lara. When I melded with Jim on the day our planet was destroyed, I was not as well guarded as I should have been. The remains of my bond recognized his mental signature, and it was sufficient for a preliminary tel to form. Please understand, Spock, I did not intend for this to happen.”

Spock stood up straighter, the bottom dropping out of his world and refocusing. “T’hy’la?”

“Yes, Spock. I have seen that it is so in many universes: Spock of Vulcan belongs at the side of James Kirk, in whatever capacity or form that relationship takes.”

“It was still a violation, unpardonable by the old laws of our people.”

“I know,” the old one said quietly. “He has forgiven me,” he continued, wonder suffusing his voice, “miraculously.”

Anger flared within Spock. “He should not have done so; you do not deserve it. And nor does his forgiveness in any way alter the magnitude of the crime you committed. The only reason our grandmother refuses to press charges is that the penalty formerly, as you would know, was death, and with so few Vulcans we cannot resort to such barbaric methods; that, and the fact that you claim it is a t’hy’la connection.”

“And I shall spend the rest of my days atoning.” The older Vulcan shut his eyes in resigned acknowledgement of his guilt. “Believe me, Spock, I am acutely aware of my transgression, and of its consequences.”

Spock nodded. To pursue any further would be only petty and vindictive. However, the Elder had something else to say.

“Spock, I must seek your forgiveness too.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, yours. For it is my belief that in bonding with James Kirk, I have denied you the opportunity to know him as t’hy’la, that most precious of bonds. And for that my expression of sorrow would be insulting to you in its inadequacy.”

“Do not concern yourself further,” Spock dismissed. “I intend to bond with Nyota; the nature of my relationship with Captain Kirk does not resemble the close connection you have claimed.”

It was obvious that the Elder did not believe him. As the words left his mouth, Spock was aware that perhaps he himself did not believe what he had spoken. He changed the subject.

“If Jim is in any way hurt or harmed by this, his blood shall be on your head, and I shall personally see that your life is forfeit.”

The Elder’s lips quirked. “I would expect no less.”

***

Jim lay face-down on the couch, squirming uncomfortably beneath his best friend’s cool professional touch. He’d already endured the indignity of a probe being inserted into his rectum, with the resultant relief that, apart from bruising, everything was fine.

“Turn over, Jim.”

Jim rolled over and sat up, squirming to close the robe around his body. The action was still uncomfortable for his abused muscles, and he was aware also of the squishy sensation of the lube McCoy had used sticking between his cheeks and upper thighs. The sensation sent a shudder of delicious memory through him; if he were honest with himself, he was well and truly fucked out, and still a little out of it.

His mind jumped back two days, to the time after that first lucid conversation with his bondmate.

The fever was gradually ebbing, the flames diminishing. It came and went in waves, with periods of lucidity in between. But over the last twelve hours the difference between lucidity and madness had been diminishing, as had the severity of the madness. Their couplings now were not so much about driving biological imperative, as about affirming the insatiable desire of knowing another at the deep level of the mind. Exhaustion tugged on Jim’s consciousness, making the experience blur: now his mouth was being filled, and now he was on his stomach being pounded into, and yet again his own cock was being swallowed, and something between a bite and a sucking kiss was being planted in a line down his neck, over his shoulder and down his chest. Lost in it all, all Jim knew was need—his own, magnified tenfold by that of the Other. Spock. Bondmate. T’hy’la.

Over and over again the meaning of those words wrapped in and through him. An infant hope was beginning to dawn in his heart of hearts: was it possible? Was it true that he could be so wanted, so needed, so beloved? Spock’s constant whispers of adoration and love which were not empty words born of ecstasy, but grounded in knowledge of his mate, deep understanding which saw and accepted all…

Another memory overlaid the last.

It was the last wave of heat, and it had felt like hours since it had started, less intense this time, gentler. They lay spooned together, Spock buried deep within Jim from behind. Jim was still comfortable and warm, although the pain of overextended muscles pushed well past their tolerance was hovering on the edge of his awareness. He felt filthy, his thighs coated in the excess spendings of his bondmate—although it didn’t bother him. He felt used, he felt sated, and he wondered how he could feel both at once.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sensation of being washed with a warm, damp cloth, and it was good. He rolled over and slept again.

And when he stirred, still groggy, it was to see the hoary face above his own, dark eyes shining with the love he could feel wrapped around him through the bond.

“I brought you some light nourishment. I hope you shall be able to eat a little. You have no doubt much strength to replenish after giving so fully of yourself,” Spock said quietly, sitting beside him on the bed.

Jim was so tired he found he couldn’t hold the citrus fruit wedges. Spock peeled each one and fed it to him. He lacked the strength to feel humiliation or helplessness at this; the dominant sense for him was the care this being was taking of him.

Tears came into his eyes.

“Hush, Jim. Do not cry.”

Long, sinewy arms wrapped around him and drew him into the Vulcan’s lap.

“What is wrong, ashayam?”

“You wouldn’t love me like you do if you really knew who I was,” he said, his voice quavering and pathetic to his own ears. God, what a worthless, contemptible, slobbering mess!

“Jim,” the deep voice murmured, and Jim felt its resonance through the bond as well as through his own chest cavity, “your essence, your spirit, calls to mine. There is nothing about you, there could never be anything about who you are that displeases me. You are altogether beautiful. Yes, I am sure you have your faults, and I am aware of your insecurities. There are character traits which lead to certain destructive behaviors. I may wish that you choose not to engage in those practices. But nothing you are, and nothing you have done, could affect who you are to me, or that which I experience towards and hold for you.”

Unconditional acceptance? Jim had never thought it possible. Was he capable of returning it? He may not have loved the old Vulcan five days ago, but with such unrelenting… grace offered him… how could he not respond in kind? Any resistance Jim might have offered to Spock’s affection was dwindling.

“Hey, Jim. You just zoned out there.” McCoy’s voice brought Jim back to the present.

“Yeah, sorry. Was thinking about the last two days.”

The hazel eyes of his friend regarded Jim, looking at him closely with a mix, Jim thought, of pity and curiosity in equal measure. “Tell me honestly, Jim, scout’s honor: are you really okay?”

“I’m still not one hundred percent sure of all this, if that’s what you’re asking, Bones. The sex was…”

“I do NOT need more details about the sex. That’s a mental picture I don’t need, thank you very much,” McCoy said with a glare. “What you’ve already shared was more than enough to last a lifetime. The things I do for a living.” The doctor shook his head.

“I don’t know, Bones,” Jim laughed, but then he sobered. “I’m still processing the whole thing. I can’t believe that he wants me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not just convenience for him. He’s… He loves me, Bones. I have never…” Tears welled up and trembled in the corners of Jim’s eyes. McCoy patted his arm soothingly. “Sorry. It’s overwhelming. Out of nowhere, you know? And I don’t have to explain to you.” I don’t have to explain the way this fills an ache I’ve always had. How I feel wanted for the first time in my life. How seductive the pull, and how addictive it is to drink in his cherishing. He couldn’t say the words, somehow too sacred even for a friendship as close as the one he shared with Leonard McCoy.

McCoy was silent for a moment. “How are you adjusting to the bond?”

“I was terrified at first. It’s still really weird, having this current of feelings and thoughts that aren’t your own constantly flowing through the back of your mind. So far he says he hasn’t closed the bond, because it needs to settle. But he’s shown me ways to be able to shield my thoughts from him when needed. And honestly? It’s… amazing to be present for someone else’s thinking.”

Ever the shrewd observer, Bones commented: “You sound like you’re falling for him.”

“Huh. Maybe I am,” Jim said, looking inwards wryly.

“Be careful, Jim.”

“I know.” He paused. “He’s looked after me so well.”

“If it makes you happy, I’m happy,” McCoy said, although Jim could tell from his expression he was still concerned.

***

All day Jim had felt tense and unsettled. He paced the terrace, back and forth, worrying his nails with his teeth.

“Jim, would you please sit down?” Spock pleaded, exasperation lacing his voice.

It had been two weeks since he beamed down to succor this elderly half-Vulcan who shared so much of an identity with his own XO. He took a seat opposite his bondmate, and looked at him closely.

Two weeks. It was so odd, looking at someone and seeing them from the outside, but also in a way knowing them from the inside. And it was doubly strange because the vast awareness connected to Jim’s own felt… young, supple, nimble, well-honed and well-trained. Certainly not old. Yet his eyes couldn’t deny the man’s outward appearance: his sagging skin, muscles that were no longer as taut as they’d once been, his spare and fragile-looking frame, the silver hair, the eyes becoming cloudy with age. Of course, they were still sharp as flint stones, and his muscles were still sinewy and strong—strong enough to hold Jim’s weight up effortlessly the day they’d attempted wall sex… And his stamina…

Jim flushed a little at the thought. The sex was the best he’d ever had with anyone, and that was saying something. Perhaps it was because Spock instinctively knew what he liked, had had years to learn what would make him (or his counterpart, at least) very happy. He, on the other hand, was still experimenting, lacking the advantage his mate had of having shared a similar relationship with his counterpart in another universe.

What was certain was that this was not something he’d ever imagined, and yet it was the fulfillment of so many life-long dreams and yearnings he’d never fully articulated. He felt known, held, valued for who he was, and that was new.

He wasn’t exactly a prime specimen. Growing up without a father had marked him, his mother’s absence in space augmenting the deep, bitter longing to be loved and treasured. For years he had yearned and sought some connection to offer him value, gradually hardening his heart to hope as rejection joined rejection, and people began to see only a genius-level juvenile delinquent. And he’d pulled that mask close to himself, allowing it to define him.

To find that mask shattered, and the possibility of his deepest longings being answered and met, was beyond his wildest dreams. Two weeks was a short time, he realized. But from the memories Spock had shared, and the way he looked at Jim, the way he touched him, it felt like he’d known this Vulcan for centuries.

What had moved him most was the old Vulcan’s humility. There was no pretense or artifice, no attempt to hide the factor of their age difference, or that his body was gradually breaking down, day by day. In spite of the fact that there could be no hiding in a bond, Spock had kept his distance, waiting for Jim to come to him—except for the times the fever in his blood drove him to cross the threshold and enter Jim’s space. And even then, he was most respectful, never assuming or presuming. In fact, Spock treated Jim like royalty, as though, if it were possible, he’d strip all the stars from the sky and affix them to a crown to adorn Jim’s head. Jim felt he didn’t deserve such heartfelt devotion.

And Jim had basked, basked as though in the light of a warm spring sun, in the love and utter cherishing the old Vulcan offered. He couldn’t quite believe the tenderness with which he was held, the gentle reverence of the green-tinged hands as they touched him, the warmth of the half-Vulcan’s mind and personality. Something in his gut curled sweetly at the thought that after the pon farr had ended, Spock had still kept the bond open, so that there was a constant fountain of affirmation and affection and love directed at Jim.

And in return, Jim’s own heart had melted. It was something he’d never felt before for another person, something so all-encompassing that it felt bigger than he could contain, as though his chest would burst.

How was he ever going to leave? How was he ever going to be able to let go of that encompassing love? His whole being was crying out too soon, too soon! It felt as though a trusted blanket were being yanked out from under him.

Jim got up again, and resumed his agitated pacing. He continued for a few minutes until he turned and careened into the chest of his mate, strong arms clasping his biceps.

“Jim,” the deep voice rumbled, and folded the human to his chest.

Jim buried his hands in the rich fabric of Spock’s robe, clutching as if letting go simply wasn’t possible. He breathed deeply, willing his olfactory receptors to remember the smell of him—desert and incense, and something spicy.

“Jim,” the old Vulcan said again, one hand coming up to cup Jim’s cheek. He looked up.

Jim laid one hand over his mate’s, holding it in place. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Spock nodded. “Of course I do. Our minds are one.” Those deep mahogany eyes, cloudy as they were with age, seemed infinite in their understanding and compassion, and so, so much love.

“I don’t want to go back. Tell me I can stay here. Or that you’ll come with me.”

“Jim, being the Captain of a starship is your first, best destiny; not being the plaything of a decrepit old bag of rags and bones.”

“Don’t say that!” Jim chided, his hands sliding down to squeeze the still well-formed muscles of his mate’s ass just a little harder than necessary. He let go of the gluteal mounds, his hands brushing around to clasp Spock’s, interweaving gnarled fingers with his own. “Tomorrow is too soon.”

“You must return to your ship, your crew, your duties.”

“Yeah. But I still think Command’s been unreasonable not to allow us more—”

“Hear me, Jim. As long as we are bonded, no one can separate us. Distance is no obstacle. I shall always be with you: here,” he touched Jim’s temple gently, “and here,” he laid his hand over Jim’s heart.

“Two weeks is not enough!”

“No length of time would ever be enough for us to be together, ashayam.”

Jim brought their joined hands up to kiss the thin skin on the back of Spock’s palms, conceding the point; in some ways it was that truth which led to their current status.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Spock’s eyes danced with amusement. “Yes, Jim.” He gazed at him until the young man realized the implications of what he’d just said.

“Oh.” He let go of Spock’s hands, blushing, and rocked on the balls of his feet, looking down. Spock had how many more years, decades, of life experience? Of course he was capable of looking after himself. He’d been stupid to even imply otherwise. How insulting! He should have thought of that before he opened his mouth. What had he been thinking?

Jim’s self-deprecating train of thought was interrupted when Spock’s finger nudged his chin, making him look up. For a moment he held Jim’s attention, and Jim lost himself in the soul shining through those eyes, giving himself up like a fly in a spider’s web as cool lips descended to claim his own.

He wrapped his arms around his mate’s head, pressing his body into the wiry form at the same time as he opened his mouth with a groan. Spock’s tongue was doing delicious things to the roof of Jim’s mouth. He shivered with delight, his toes curling as current ran down his spine, and then back up again, setting his abdomen aflame with desire. An answering hardness met his thigh as he slipped it between Spock’s and began to grind.

Jim wanted more, but he wanted this too, to be surrounded by strong arms, to be held, to have his breath stolen by this being as though his life depended on it (and it did). He didn’t know what to call the overwhelming emotion welling up within him in response to Spock’s gift of himself, but it didn’t matter: it was good, and that was more than enough. But he wanted more! Would always want more.

He pulled back from the kisses, instead burying his head on Spock’s breast. In the long, lonely stretches of space, during the times in between missions as they traversed vast distances, he would lie on his bunk and relive some of the sexy memories of this time. But what he’d treasure most, what he’d hold closest to his heart was this warmth and security the old Vulcan offered—a safe haven, trusted, tried, and true. Jim imagined himself gathering the bond’s essence around him like a blanket, a mental image which caused Spock to laugh softly and with infinite tenderness.

“You make me feel young,” Spock murmured into Jim’s hair, rubbing large circles on his back.

Jim found it hard to swallow around the lump in his throat, closing his eyes in contentment.

After long minutes, Spock eventually pulled away, taking Jim’s hands. “Let us make the most of the time left to us. Come, t’hy’la.”

The dark eyes smoked with intent, and Jim felt the renewed stirrings of lust deep within. He allowed himself to be tugged into his mate’s bedroom, giving himself over to the moment. No point in fearing a parting which would come all too soon. No point in worrying now about what would be. He vowed that they would forge a way forward; they would take advantage of every possible opportunity to be together. And right now, this hour, this day, was theirs.

***

Chapter Text

***

“Spock! Ah! Spock!” His bondmate’s name was a prayer whispered hoarsely and with increasing reverence, demand, and brokenness as he was pounded into, being brought masterfully to the crest of pleasure and riding it like a wave. “Please!” he begged, no longer articulate enough to ask for what he wanted. But that was all right: his bondmate fitted his hand to the side of his sweating face, aligning his fingers to the psi-points.

No words were needed, not here, not now, not with so little between them keeping them apart. They slid effortlessly into mindspace.

Here, silver and gold wove around each other intricately, a strong vine the energy of which pulsed and throbbed. Today it was covered with verdant leaves, and the fruit dripping from its branches was ripe and begging to be picked. And all around them was the musky smell of fresh grape. They feasted together, relishing the bursting of skin and the fleshy satisfaction beneath it melting on the tongue. Even better, the fruit of the vine shared in a breathless kiss. Here in the meld, the kiss was unending, a closer communion than lip to lip; more like soul apprehending katra, deep calling to deep until both were drunk.

They spun endlessly in an infinity of stars, as though they were the centre of the Milky Way, the centripetal force holding the galaxy together. It was dizzying and exhilarating.

“Jim, ashal-veh,” Spock’s mind voice spoke after suns had been born and died again, “Let me give myself to you.”

“You already have,” Jim thought back to his mate, wonderment and awe filling him.

“As you have given yourself to me. But Jim, I am old, and unlikely to survive you.”

Denial. It wasn’t something Jim wanted to think about, to contemplate: a world without this extraordinary being in it.

“Jim,” and it was as though Spock were mentally shaking his mate, ever so gently. “Against that time, let me give you this.”

Jim saw before him a large ornately carved box. It was beautiful and took his breath away.

“Do not open it now. When you are in need of comfort, when you are in deep space and far from me, you may visit this box and know something of what I shared with your counterpart. Be warned: time may well not flow in the same way here in this reality, as it did in the time from which I came. But take this as a token of what you are to me.”

Jim accepted the gift, placing it in a corner of his mind where it would be safe from prying telepathic eyes.

Fat tears slid down his cheeks, mingling with the water of the shower. He mentally brought out the gift as he stood beneath the spray, and placed a hand on it, feeling the vibration of energy and the power within.

But the fact it was there, the fact that Spock had planned for this—and had still made provision for Jim’s needs, had foreseen his loneliness and yearning, affected Jim deeply. He didn’t want to open the box now. It felt like he should save it against the day when he would truly need it.

Oh! It was an ever-present reminder of dearest him who lived alas, away. At least, unlike the writer of the poem he was thinking of, Jim didn’t need to send “dead letters” to his bondmate. The bond was still there, albeit attenuated because of the great distance between the Enterprise and New Vulcan, but there nonetheless. This far away they could not communicate specific vocalized thoughts, but they could send general emotional intent. Jim knew he could send a wave of longing along the bond. But he didn’t want to worry his mate, and to send anything other than reassurance and love felt like he would be imposing on the old Vulcan.

Instead he allowed himself a moment of misery, unseen and unknown by anyone, and it mingled with the cleansing water. In this moment, he could wallow a little in the distress and tyranny of distance. In this moment he could be the needy Jim Kirk who’d whined in his mate’s lap until he’d been claimed, filled with him, and who yearned for physical contact. When he stepped out of here, he’d once more become the ever-confident Captain, brash, reckless, brilliant. When he stepped out of here, he’d be the best friend of Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer, and confidante of Spock of Vulcan, First Officer and Science Officer, and he’d do it with poise, never letting on even to his closest friends how much he missed his bondmate.

Gods, Kirk. What idiot lies to his friends about how he’s really feeling?

Well, he answered himself, it’s not as if they’d be able to comprehend, not even Spock. There’s no point in saying anything.

So what’re you going to do, Kirk? It’s a bit pathetic, you whining internally and mooning over what you can’t have. Suck it up, princess, and get on with life. That’s what he’d want you to do.

Yeah, but…

Use the bond. Send him love. You know he’ll send it back tenfold; that’s how he is. And isn’t that what you want, what you crave?

But I shouldn’t have to! I hate being so… so… desperate for him.

He probably feels the same way as you.

That’s not very helpful at all.

At least his inner dialogue had distracted Jim from his musing and pining. He shut off the water, and stepped out of the shower grabbing for a towel. He quickly dried his hair and body, and then wrapped the towel around his waist to stare in the mirror. Having convinced himself, and feeling such a great need to share his thoughts and feelings with another, Jim reached deep within, breathing evenly as he’d been taught, and focused on the bond. Gathering together his affection, his longing, his all, he visualized a great, glowing globe, and sent it pulsing along the tether between his mind and that of his mate.

Interesting, the fact that often one feels better for having shown love without expectation of return.

But in this case, he didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes, a reciprocal wave of intense cherishing filled all the nooks and crannies in Jim’s heart, and for a few moments he was whole once more.

***

“Mr. Sulu, heading?” Spock touched a button which brought up one of the many astrogation displays on the command chair’s interface. Sulu entered some values which Spock checked, logged the course heading, and then approved. “Engage.”

“Aye, Commander,” the lieutenant replied, busying himself effecting the order.

The Captain was due on the bridge any moment. He wasn’t technically late, as such. As Captain he could run the ship from wherever he pleased. However, Jim usually presented for alpha shift ahead of time. Spock had noted the change in the pattern, and had noted it to be significant.

He had, he admitted, been paying intense scrutiny to the Captain’s movements since he’d returned from New Vulcan two months ago. Correction: since he had returned from the confinement with his bondmate. Spock wondered what lay behind his own impulse to watch the Captain so closely. He was concerned for his friend, watching for any harmful aftereffects of bonding with an elderly Vulcan. It had nothing to do with learning all he could about how a human experienced bonding with a half-Vulcan; or to do with wishing to observe the operation of the rare t’hy’la bond; or to do with experiencing a modicum of jealousy. It was illogical to be envious of his counterpart’s relationship with his Captain, and for these reasons: he was in a romantic pairing with Nyota Uhura, and intended to bond with her; he did not experience a physical draw to James Kirk sufficient for the forming of a bond; and in any case, it was redundant for Spock to be essentially at odds with himself.

Still, he had continued to find the alterations in Jim’s behavioral patterns since his bonding somewhat disconcerting. This lateness in the mornings was one element. Then there was the fact that Jim’s whole manner had toned down considerably. He was more serious; perhaps more troubled, than he’d ever been before. Spock had calculated him to smile and engage in small talk with bridge crewmembers approximately 35.78% less than previously.

There had also been an alteration in their friendship. This, Spock thought, was inevitable; it wasn’t the first time a friend or friends of his had been married and so lost their interest in passing time with him. Jim was different; his mate was far away. And so, they’d managed to keep up their routine of spending time together in Jim’s quarters at least one night a week. But it left Spock with the impression that Jim was not altogether present to their activities. Four days ago, they’d played several tournaments of chess. Spock had caught himself observing Jim, noting his cocked head and faraway gaze, as though he were listening to a far off melody and straining to hear the next sequence of notes.

On that night, Jim had been staring unseeing at the ledge beside the desk on which the chess board was set for the last four minutes.

“Jim?” Spock had said gently. He wouldn’t admit that he had been sitting for most of the last three minutes simply looking at the human; Jim was aesthetically pleasing, and Spock was drawn to the spirit that shone through him.

Jim had stirred, apology breaking over his face. “Sorry, Spock.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Oh,” he had said, focusing his attention on his pieces, “nothing in particular.”

Spock had felt the rebuff, but had decided it was inconsequential. “How is your bondmate?”

Jim had blushed, but his brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him in three days. We were supposed to have some kind of communication yesterday—written, verbal, mental, face to face, doesn’t matter; we always do something. And he’s not giving me anything through the bond. Apart from the usual reassurance, I mean,” Jim had hastened to add.

“I’m sure there is a logical reason,” Spock had replied, putting emphasis on the word logical. It had drawn the expected response from the human: Jim’s eyes had lit up. It had been an endearing sight.

Jim had chuckled a little. “You’re so like him, you know.” He had sobered, but had kept looking at Spock with such an intense gaze, pinning him with his attention. Jim had reached a hand over to Spock’s, which had been resting on the table. “Thank you for being my friend, Spock. I’m glad you’re here with me.” The warmth coming from the human’s eyes had been mesmerizing.

Spock had turned his hand over to take Jim’s, enjoying the sparks of connection and awareness which danced between them. An intimate gesture, but one Spock had been most happy to share with his Captain and friend.

“I, too, value your friendship and companionship, Jim.”

They had held each other’s eyes for another twenty-two point four seven seconds, before resuming the game.

For the rest of the evening and ever since, Spock had been contemplating the question of whether Jim was indeed t’hy’la to him, as his Elder counterpart had said.

Yesterday, the Enterprise had been engaging in a planetary survey of the Barigae system, which had involved beaming down to one of the two planets in the habitable zone. Of course, the Captain had insisted on beaming down, along with Spock and McCoy. Spock had learned years ago the futility of arguing with the Captain about his choice of away team personnel. At least this way his friends would be able to protect him; it was always infinitely worse when the Captain chose (or was instructed) to beam down alone.

It had been an instinctive reaction, and the more Spock thought about it, the more he realized that it hadn’t been mere instinct, but something more prescient which had spurred him, unthinking, into action. They’d been walking through a rainforest—an unusual feature for this latitude—when the vines which trailed from the tree branches started assaulting the away team. Spock had thrown himself in front of the Captain, and it had been just as well: the vines were poisonous to humans when aggravated, and one of the security ensigns had died before McCoy could synthesize an antidote.

“Thanks, Spock,” the Captain had said when they stepped off the transporter pad.

Spock had nodded, and together they’d walked out of the room to make their way to the bridge.

On reflection, Spock counted 256 times he had protected or prevented his Captain from danger, and 175 times the Captain had done similarly for Spock. The only reason for the imbalance in their numbers was that Spock was less likely to take reckless actions requiring rescue. There were a further 90 times McCoy had had to save both his Captain and commander with either his medical knowledge or intelligent heart, and 87 times Mr. Scott had instigated engineering genius to extricate the command team (plus or minus the CMO) from peril. As far as Spock knew, these statistics were unusual amongst Starfleet personnel.

Suffice it to say, the number of times Spock had defended his Captain, or Jim had defended Spock, suggested that their friendship had a strand within it of willingness to give all for the other. That wasn’t ordinary best-friends affection. Spock knew from his heritage that that sort of relationship between ancient warriors had been described as t’hy’la: shield-brother. Had not the ancient oath between t’hy’lara included the words: “With my body I will thee shield, haven of safety in time of need”? And of course the entendre had been deliberate.

So: he felt friendship for Jim, and the affection that went along with it. And they were shield brothers in the old sense, willing to sacrifice themselves for each other, a bond deeper than ties of blood. Was that t’hy’la? Spock was not sure whether what Jim was to him could be defined. But if it could, t’hy’la might well fit the description.

Was Elder Spock correct then, to apologize to Spock for “denying him the opportunity to know Jim as t’hy’la”?

Spock mentally shook himself. These reflections were inappropriate for this time of ship’s day, and on the bridge no less. A moment later Jim emerged from the turbolift, looking far more at peace than he had the day before. He smiled at Spock.

“Morning, Spock. How’s our ship today?”

Spock rose, tucking his hands behind his back. “Functioning at 99.5% efficiency, sir. Captain on the bridge.” He bowed his head slightly to his Captain and stepped back.

Jim’s grin broadened at the playful formality.

“As you were. Now, what has gamma shift reported about the fifth and sixth planets in the system? Did they discover anything interesting while we were sleeping?”

***

Nyota Uhura noticed the exchange between the captain and first officer, and it was like cayenne pepper in a wound: it irritated her.

It wasn’t that Spock was less affectionate with her; Spock had never been one for public displays of affection, but in private he was more than willing to meet her needs. In that respect, he was a considerate and caring partner—almost unexpectedly so, given his Vulcan heritage.

The problem was that, since they’d had to ferry the captain to New Vulcan, Spock had been more distracted than usual. Nyota always knew when Spock had a major project on the go; part of his mind would always be directed towards the project and its demands, even when they were together. She didn’t mind sharing him with his work; in fact, she found it an endearing part of the whole package making up “Spock of Vulcan”. Usually. But the distraction he’d had since the Enterprise had arrived at New Vulcan hadn’t been about scientific experiments or projects.

That was the thing. It wasn’t as if he were hiding anything from her. But he also hadn’t been forthcoming about what was on his mind. Sometimes, when it involved emotions, Nyota had a hard time getting her partner to talk to her about what was going on.

This time, she knew his distraction had something to do with the captain; she’d noticed the way his gaze lingered reflectively on Jim, and the way in which she’d know the captain had entered a room because Spock’s eyes automatically gravitated to Jim’s person. Nyota didn’t resent Jim for this. She simply wanted to know what was going on.

It was time to confront Spock, and see if he would divulge what he was thinking about. An idea seized her. She leaned across to Spock.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

Spock looked up at her, his eyes soft. “Of course. In your quarters?”

She smiled. “Nineteen hundred?”

Spock nodded in agreement, and returned to his work.

That evening after shift, Nyota went all out. She’d bought a new dress at the last starbase they’d visited and had been saving it for a special occasion, along with a killer pair of knee-high patent faux-leather boots she knew from experience drove Spock wild. Along with the perfume she’d acquired on a recent diplomatic mission, which she had been told was guaranteed to allure and ensnare, Spock surely wouldn’t be able to resist her. Not that she really felt she needed to “allure and ensnare” him; he’d repeated many times that he was hers, and she his, and his intention to bond with her. She didn’t doubt his intentions in the slightest. But she did want the whole of his attention to be on her, with her, tonight.

Spock failed to arrive at nineteen hundred. Nyota tried comm.ing him half an hour later, and he was only able to give her a terse and short message: Emergency in science lab 3. Sometimes, Spock being the science officer and first officer sucked. Nyota sighed, and took off her boots. If Spock wasn’t coming for dinner, and the emergency—if it went the way of others—could take hours, she might as well enjoy herself, in spite of being miffed and disappointed.

Nyota poured a glass of wine and settled in, crossing her legs, to wait. This was a discussion they needed to have tonight.

Four glasses and three hours later, Nyota looked up from reading fan fiction on her PADD to the sight of Spock walking through her door. She stood, putting the PADD down on the couch beside her.

“My apologies, ashayam. I could not help—”

“No, no. I understand. Are you hungry? I kept some dinner for you; you’re lucky it’s a salad.”

“Thank you, Nyota.” Spock came over to her, took her hands, and kissed her fingers by way of apology.

She led him over to the table and urged him to sit. Nyota knew that if she didn’t, Spock most likely would not eat anything, and knowing him, the last time he ate was likely to have been breakfast this morning.

It wasn’t the habit of Vulcans to talk while eating, but Spock asked Nyota about her day, and she happily told him about the translation projects her team was working on. They’d discovered some hieroglyphs in ancient ruins on the third planet in the Barigae system, so there was plenty of work for the communications department.

Finished, Spock drank a draught of water, and then dabbed his lips with his napkin before putting it on his plate. Nyota cleared the table, and reached across to interweave her fingers with those of Spock’s free hand; his other was holding a teacup. She squeezed gently and let go, making sure to trail her fingernails along the delicate webbing between her partner’s fingers in a way she knew would make his heart rate jump: he shuddered.

A silence lapsed as he sipped his tea.

“Spock, I need to ask you something.”

He nodded.

“Since we left New Vulcan, you’ve been distracted.”

“There has been much on my mind. You know, surely, the multiplicity of tasks of which I as first officer and science officer must keep track.”

“Yes, Spock,” she reassured, “of course I do. It’s not that.” She sat up a little straighter in her chair. How ridiculous that she should be feeling coy about raising the issue with Spock. Why was she nervous? Spock had never shown anything other than willingness to listen—and to work together to find solutions to issues she raised with him.

“It’s… I’ve seen you watching the captain closely. I’ve seen how you gravitate to him, how your eyes linger on him. You are wondering something about him; I know that ‘I’m trying to work it out’ look you get when you can’t rationalize something, or when a problem defies logic.”

“James Kirk defies logic,” Spock quipped.

Nyota snorted. “He does. You’re right. And neither of us has ever said otherwise. But there’s something more, isn’t there?”

Spock didn’t reply, staring contemplatively at his tea.

“Is it something to do with Elder Spock?” she asked softly. “I imagine it’s weird for you that Jim is bonded to someone who’s yourself, but older.” She watched Spock’s face, noting the myriad of emotions which passed in a small grimace, but which spoke volumes. So she was on the right track. Nyota was not a communications specialist for nothing.

“Are you wishing you were in his place?”

Spock looked up at her immediately. “No, Nyota. I do not envy my counterpart the bond he now shares with the Captain. And as I have said before, it is my desire to bond with you.” He picked up his tea again. “In any case, the bond shared by Vulcan mates is exclusive.”

Nyota’s eyes went wide. “Ah. So you have been thinking about Jim.”

Spock put his cup down, rose, and stepped away, his back to Nyota. “Not… exactly.”

Nyota got up and went to sit on the couch. She needed to be comfortable for this. “What happened on New Vulcan, Spock? I know you spoke with the Elder. What did he say which so… agitated you?”

“I am not agitated.”

“All right. You are not agitated. But something about what he said has got you thinking, trying to puzzle something out, and you don’t have an answer. And that’s bothering you.”

The silence was a concession.

Spock sighed and turned around, folding his arms and leaning against the bulkhead, facing slightly away from Nyota in the shadows.

“My counterpart apologized to me for inadvertently bonding with Jim.”

“Why would he apologize to you? That makes no sense at all.”

“In his timeline, he and his Captain were t’hy’lara, and bonded. When he melded with Jim on Delta Vega, the bond recognized Jim’s mental signature, and reestablished itself. It was unintentional. He apologized to me, because he made the assumption that Jim was t’hy’la to me.”

Nyota’s heart began to race. How did she even begin to comprehend what Spock had said? And what did it mean?

She swallowed. “And is he?” She knew what t’hy’la meant; as a linguist Nyota was all too aware of the significance—and sacredness—of the term and its reality. “Have you been wondering whether Jim is your t’hy’la?”

“How can he be?” Spock said darkly. “He is bonded to another.”

Nyota was silent a moment. “Then you feel the pull the ancient texts spoke about? You feel drawn to him?”

Spock sighed. “I do not know. There are signs.”

“Yes, I suppose there are,” Nyota commented thoughtfully, her mind racing through and analyzing the many interactions and patterns of behavior Spock and Jim had exhibited. Yes, it was a possibility. “What does that mean for us? For me?”

“You know the ancient meanings. I do consider Jim a friend—you have encouraged that.” Nyota nodded. “And, there is a connection between us which suggests brotherhood, especially of the quality described by t’hy’la. However… there is no evidence that those who were t’hy’lara were by default bonded, or that they were necessarily lovers. The ancient sources suggest the contrary: that some t’hy’lara had wives or other warriors who were their mates. In any case, the question is moot in relation to the Captain.”

“If Jim can be your t’hy’la without being bonded to you, why are you so perturbed about the Elder’s claim on him?”

Spock was silent a moment, the tension in the air between them almost zinging. “In the first place, I do not know whether he is my t’hy’la, or whether he is able to be t’hy’la to two simultaneously. I do not know enough about how t’hy’la bonds function. Secondly… I do not know why my counterpart’s claim is problematic.”

Nyota was a perceptive individual, and felt an insight emerging. “Is it something to do with the fact that, had you not jettisoned Jim’s pod, he would never have met Elder Spock on Delta Vega?” The more she continued, the more convinced she felt that she was right. “Do you blame yourself for Jim’s relationship with the Elder?”

Spock deflated, coming to sit down on the couch beside Nyota, his head in his hands. It was possible that he himself had not been able to discern or name these feelings. “It was the equivalent of telepathic rape, a violation of a psi-null mind. It forced Jim into bonding with the Elder, depriving him of the power of choice. I not only failed to protect him, but put him in the position where he could be taken advantage of in the first place. If we are t’hy’lara, I am not worthy of him.”

“Spock,” she said, sliding closer to him, and tipping his chin to look at her. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. What happened was between Jim and Elder Spock.” Nyota suspected there was something more in the back of Spock’s mind, that part of his pondering had to do with how Jim had accepted the bond, the situation of its forming, and the ongoing relationship. She herself wondered at Jim’s remarkable calm, and the changes in him since the bonding with Elder Spock. If that had happened to her, she knew she’d not have been able to move past the feeling of having been violated. But she didn’t press Spock now, because she knew he wouldn’t want to pry into that which was private and between two other individuals. And speculation was pointless.

“It’s not your fault.” She wrapped her arms around him, and he went to her willingly. Nyota held the half-Vulcan to herself. What would be, would be. For now they had each other, and she was determined to relish every precious minute with the incredible being in her arms.

***

“Shuttle now docking. Stand clear. Clamps activating in three, two, one.” There was a beep as the shuttle’s clamps clicked into the Enterprise’s docking port, and a hissing sound as atmosphere was pumped into the adjoining corridor.

Spock purred with excitement. This would be a huge surprise to the Captain, his mate. New Vulcan had indicated that a diplomatic negotiator would be ferried by the Enterprise to discussions on Altus Prime, but they had not named delegates—on Spock’s orders. Altus Prime had requested assistance to broker a peace deal to end a one-hundred-year, and very complex, conflict. Accordingly, the peace talks had many strands to be discerned and resolved by the gathered representatives of Starfleet, the Federation, and the planet.

He remembered a similar, albeit far more bitter arrival. But he also vividly remembered the joy on his Captain’s face when he’d appeared on the bridge, and the effort and determination it had taken not to respond. Of course, he regretted that now, regretted ever running away to Gol from the bright light of James Kirk’s face.

He shook himself. What he wanted was to see that same delight dancing in the blue depths of his bondmate’s eyes, to remedy the shadows and sighing which had come to haunt the dear features when Spock spoke to him by vid link.

The shuttle door opened and Spock exited into the gangway, waiting for the Enterprise port to open. He resisted feeling through the bond for Jim’s whereabouts; he didn’t want to give his secret away. Better at the moment for Jim to think he was days away on New Vulcan.

The port opened slowly emitting a mist as atmospheres combined, and Spock saw the welcoming party as the air cleared: the Chief Engineer, Mr. Scott, and a communications lieutenant.

“Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted. Welcome, Ambassador!” Mr. Scott said, his grin spreading. “Who would’ve thought it, eh?”

It was always good, if somewhat disorienting, to see these younger manifestations of people Spock had known and loved in another universe, another time. “Who would have believed that this could happen, indeed, Mr. Scott?”

“You’ll have to pardon the captain and commander not being here to greet you, sir. They have their heads locked together trying to come up with plans B and C for if plan A fails.”

“I understand, Commander.”

“But I’m sure your presence will help enormously in settling things down.”

“Between the captain and commander, or between the warring parties on Altus?” Spock asked, raising an eyebrow.

The chief engineer laughed. “Aye. Would you like to go to your quarters now, or shall I deliver you straight to the briefing room?”

“I should prefer to speak with the command team immediately.” Spock turned to the lieutenant, who was carrying Spock’s belongings. “Please have these delivered to the Captain’s quarters.”

“Oh yes. Sorry, I forgot you and Jim were… you know…”

“Bonded.”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Scott guided Spock through the corridors of the great ship, and he accepted the companionship with a pang of sadness for the shipmates he’d had in another reality. When the engineer came to a stop outside a briefing room, Spock was glad he had led him here, because the layout of this ship was nothing like his own had been.

“Anyway, we’re here. I hope the negotiations go well, and go our way, if you follow my drift.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Scott.”

He watched the man retreat down a corridor with jaunty steps, and shook his head fondly at the similarities between the Scotty of his time and this one.

The doors to the briefing room opened as he turned. His eyes searched out and found his mate, bending over a table, his delectable ass in the air, the black fabric of his pants stretched deliciously over twin mounds Spock abruptly couldn’t wait to touch. The spike of lust must have burst along the bond, for Jim straightened and turned to him, his face moving through shock to delight to desire to joy and back again in the space of milliseconds. How dear this young man was to Spock.

Noticing his Captain’s sudden silence, Spock’s younger counterpart followed his gaze, also straightening to face the Ambassador.

As though a chime had rung out, Jim bounded over to him, and Spock prepared for the onslaught of excited human. Almost too late it seemed Jim remembered himself, pulling up short before Spock and offering two fingers, drinking him in as hungrily as Spock was his mate. Those azure orbs promised him a paradise of earthly delights, burning into him in their intensity. They stayed like this for a full minute, the bond drawing around them and magnifying their happiness to something golden and glowing. Jim broke their physical contact, though the warm aura continued to shine in and through them both.

“When New Vulcan announced it was sending an Ambassador, they didn’t say it would be you! Welcome aboard, Ambassador Spock.”

“Peace and long life, Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock,” he replied.

Spock felt great contentment in the prospect of working alongside his bondmate, although he also caught the speculative glance and sharp look from his counterpart. Oh yes, he was being watched. Let the young one watch. And learn.

***

They went without dinner that night, unless consuming each other constituted a meal. The diplomatic discussions had lasted long into the evening, by which stage both the Captain and ambassador were veritably vibrating with the need to be with each other, the need to have and to take and be taken and held.

They’d managed to behave professionally, leaving under the hawk-like watch of the first officer, and walking through the ship’s corridors without more than a brush of fingers. But the moment the Captain’s door closed behind them, they were all over each other: hands and mouths and lips and legs hardly knowing where to place themselves.

Jim broke the searing kiss, which had been making Spock’s toes curl in ways they hadn’t for a hundred years—or three months. He panted, his breath puffing over Spock’s chin as he pressed the Vulcan into the bulkhead.

“Oh my gods, Spock. I have…” Jim tried to devour his mate, as if his life-force could be sucked or inhaled.

They broke apart again when Jim started seeing stars.

“Yes, Jim?”

Jim pushed the high-collared tunic back slightly so he could latch teeth and tongue onto the juncture between neck and shoulder. Spock moaned in delight and relief. “Ah, Jim! I have missed thee! Ah!”

Jim mouthed up to suckle his mate’s earlobe, nibbling it and delighting in the whole-body shudder it elicited. His hands rubbed up and down the Vulcan’s chest, weaving around to grasp his buttocks and press their groins together. Spock groaned deeply, and Jim enjoyed the sensation of his bondmate’s sex filling, hardening with each rock of his hips. One cool hand tangled in Jim’s hair, and the other pressed fingers into the tissue between shoulder and clavicle, a pleasure-pain which spurred Jim on.

“Jim, if we do not cease temporarily, I fear—”

“Don’t care. Want you,” Jim muttered in between ministrations.

“Jim,” Spock said again, pushing his mate back by the shoulders, his eyes shining with love and warmth. He looked into the confused, lust-addled face for a moment, and was lost. But not before he’d been able to maneuver further into the room, taking Jim’s hand and tugging him towards the sleeping area. The man stumbled a little, but never wavered in the desire he was projecting with his body and through the bond. “I am yours.”

And then Jim was on him again, swiftly removing his outer robe, undoing the ties that closed Spock’s tunic, pulling off his undershirt until Spock was left in only his underwear, his torso bare.

Jim took in the slightly sagging paps, the wrinkled skin, fragile and almost translucent in places, the smattering of curling, wiry grey hairs peppering the Vulcan’s chest. He swallowed his salivation at the sight; there was nothing more delicious than this being, his body the garden of Eden, his mind the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, laden with utterly, utterly desirable fruit ripe for plucking.

He pressed the Vulcan’s tummy, feeling its malleability with both palms, massaging them up to his nipples. Spock threw his head back and shuddered pleasingly as Jim pinched them, pulled them, and then closed his mouth over one, flicking it with his tongue and sucking a love bite over it. Spock’s hands moved restlessly over his head, through his hair, traced his ears, brushed his shoulders. Jim brought his arms up, his fingers testing the biceps and triceps, digging tips into the lightly sagging fascia, and feeling the strength still coiled there.

Spock’s legs gave out with weakness from the pleasure, and he fell back onto the bed, Jim’s weight firmly on top of him. Both felt the surge of enjoyment at the position, Spock beneath his virile lover. But it was time to turn the tables; Jim still had far too many clothes on. Spock flipped them, and taking the collar of Jim’s uniform in both hands tore it down the middle. Jim’s pupils dilated and he cried out.

Spock eyed his mate possessively. Those pants had no right to cling as they did to the taught globes of his ass as he walked. And Spock had been watching that part of Jim as he’d moved through the corridors; could not resist its power. Without second thought he tore the pants off, casting the fragments on the floor. Jim’s dark briefs were darker with leaked desire, and Spock nuzzled into the rich scent, sucking his hard length through the fabric and relishing the needy sounds his bondmate was making in response, his hands closing and opening repeatedly in Spock’s hair.

“Spock, I’m going to—”

With great satisfaction, Spock dragged the sodden undergarment down with his teeth and swallowed the rigid flesh, sucking hard. Three more times and then his lover poured tribute down his throat, writhing and arching his back. Spock sucked him through his release, and then in one fluid motion stood and rolled the man onto his stomach, tearing away the ruined fabric. He maneuvered the pink buttocks so that they faced him, trembling. Pressing Jim’s head to the bed he was able to see the rosy taint and beneath it deliciously pendulous sacs and a member that was becoming half hard again already.

“In the… bedside…” Jim waved a hand towards the table beside the bed, and Spock reached across to open it, locating the lube.

Jim felt the cool slick dribbling down the sensitive skin of his crease and resisted the urge to flinch. It was followed by a single finger which traced down over his entrance and perineum to spread the lube over his balls and inner thighs. With a commanding grip, Spock pressed Jim’s thighs together, and he complied.

Jim wasn’t expecting Spock to slide his penis down Jim’s crack and between his legs, the head of the Vulcan’s cock hitting the underside of his sac. It was more than he’d imagined and he groaned, fisting a hand and pounding it on the bed with every thrust of his mate’s hips. A slippery hand snaked around to grasp Jim firmly, tugging in sync with the press against Jim’s body.

Spock shallowed his thrusts, and traced the rim of Jim’s hole with a finger, feeling it wink and give, and sinking his digit in the first knuckle. He hooked it, digging the tip into Jim’s prostate.

“Spock!” his mate shouted. “Not fair! Not… fair,” he panted.

Spock added a second finger, and then a third, massaging, opening the steadily loosening orifice. Jim had gone silent, pushed passed pleasure. Good. This was as it should be; Spock wanted his mate to remember this night tomorrow and for days to come.

Another few pulls and Jim spilled over Spock’s fingers, collapsing on the bed face-first. Spock purred and drew back, hefting the human over onto his back and shimmying him up to rest against the pillows. He pressed the still shaking legs back to his mate’s chest and sank into Jim’s body with a small moan.

“Jim, open your eyes. Look at me,” he commanded softly, tenderly brushing aside blond hair. Desperation filled the blue irises, pulling at the tiny muscles beside Jim’s eyes. “Ashayam,” Spock murmured, leaning forward to capture the kiss-bitten lips with his own, and swallow Jim’s moans at the sensation of Spock’s cock pushing deeper into him.

Spock’s hand settled on the side of Jim’s face, and Jim blinked consent—

And their minds joined once more, open and welcoming and home whispering around and filling both with wholeness. Images poured through their bond of what this joining meant: a ship docking, a plumb line sinking to the ocean floor, dew falling on grass, birds alighting in their home-tree to roost… And through it all their shared love shone, bright and warm and real, their energy comingling and mutually giving until both were full.

Jim wondered how he’d ever lived without this, and Spock wondered how he’d lived a hundred years without the light of James Kirk’s mind brimful and connected to his own.

Spock pulsed deep within his bondmate’s body, their expression of unity complete. He stilled a moment, and then withdrew carefully, lying along Jim’s side, carding his hand through the man’s hair, and kissing him. Jim had no words, but Spock heard them wrapping around, in, and through his being: love you, love you, love.

***

Two years later

Spock stood by the transporter controls. This was, by his count, the eighth time in two years he had stood here to bid farewell to either his counterpart or his Captain after time they had spent together. Somehow, the two had managed to pull sufficient strings to ensure that Ambassador Spock was given diplomatic missions for which the Enterprise was assigned ferrying duty, or the Enterprise was sent with supplies to New Vulcan, or that Jim had managed to take accrued leave to travel to meet his bondmate. All in all they had done well, by Spock’s estimation, and both parties were happy and made all the more so by their relationship.

But the half-Vulcan before him, while he was surrounded by an aura of contentment, did not look well. Spock knew that he had been doing his best to hide his illness from Jim so as not to worry him. Now there was no hiding or pretense; Spock felt a reluctant and resentful sort of honor that the old Vulcan trusted him enough to show vulnerability.

“You are unwell.”

“Indeed,” the other replied, his eyes locked with Spock’s.

“You do not know when or if you will return.”

The Ambassador stepped close to Spock, touching his arm. “Take care of him, Spock,” he pleaded gently.

“He doesn’t know?”

The Ambassador shook his head. “No.”

“What shall I tell him? What will happen to him?”

“I do not know. I leave that to your discretion, that you shall know what to do.”

Spock breathed deeply as the other moved to stand on the transporter pad, conscious of the responsibility being placed on his shoulders.

“Peace and long life, Spock.”

Spock raised his hand in the ta’al. “Farewell, Spock of Vulcan. May you again see the bridge you shared with your Captain.”

Something bright shone in the Ambassador’s eyes as he dematerialized.

***

Spock’s shift that day finished before Nyota’s, and he felt the need for reflection and meditation. He unrolled his mat and lit his asenoi, settling himself and breathing deeply, seeing the thoughts and emotions of the day blown away like mist before a breeze.

He was first aware of breathing, his eyes flickering open at the gentle scent of Nyota. It caused an involuntary pang which had become achingly familiar over the last few months; a tension had been building between them. If he were truly honest, the tension had been there for longer than merely the last few months. As one devoted to the exercise of logic and the control of emotion Spock found the fact that there were deep fissures in his relationship with Nyota disconcerting. And he knew that while she was usually supportive when he was processing certain things, the issue with which he had been wrestling in meditation was likely to cause more conflict, stirring up old tensions. It was not a pleasant prospect, and he fought a heavy melancholy as he reoriented himself to his environment.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“My meditation was sufficient; do not concern yourself.”

She bent down to kiss him, her hair brushing his face as she stood again. He carefully unfolded himself and stood, allowing blood flow to return to cramped knees and legs. Nyota wrapped her arms around his head and leaned into him to kiss him again. He kissed her back, drinking her in.

“You’re distracted again,” she commented.

“Of course I am, with you in my arms,” he countered.

“Don’t deflect. You know what I mean.” She unwrapped her arms, cocking one hand on her hip and fixing him with a look.

Spock didn’t deny it, but bent instead to tidy his meditation materials away.

“Okay, seriously. What happened today?”

For a moment he didn’t respond. He didn’t like it when Nyota pressed him for information. He also could not lie to her; that would be most disrespectful. He sighed. “Ambassador Spock returned to New Vulcan. I transported him to the Far’Stokh which will take him there.”

“Why do you do that to yourself, Spock? Every time Jim sees his bondmate, or his bondmate comes here, you go into this downward spiral, into another headspace. And you’ve never managed to give me an explanation for this that makes sense.”

Spock kept his silence, standing opposite Nyota. It was an argument they’d had before.

“Spock? It’s illogical to engage in patterns that make you miserable. I don’t understand why you continue to get involved. Why can’t you leave Jim and his bondmate to themselves, get someone else to deal with them while they’re here, and transport them whenever they separate?”

“I am unable to explain it. There was something different this time. Nyota, I believe—”

Nyota reached out and squeezed Spock’s shoulder gently but firmly, interrupting him. That in itself irritated him. “Have you been to see Lieutenant Komanskowsky like I suggested?”

“Negative. I do not perceive a need for such intervention. Meditation should suffice,” he answered stiffly.

She let go of him, folding her arms across her chest with an expression Spock found hard to interpret, a tangle of frustration, pity, and suspicion.

“We’ve been over this before. Why won’t you seek the help you need? Why won’t you talk about these things?”

Spock gritted his teeth. “You should know, Nyota, that use of psychological services is not the primary way in which Vulcans—”

“No. Not the primary way. Yes, I know Vulcans don’t do things the way mere humans have to deal with their issues. But firstly: you’re human, too; and secondly: many Vulcans have benefitted from seeking psychological support since the destruction of Vulcan. If it’s going to help, I don’t get why you wouldn’t try it, at least.”

“Nyota—”

She raised her voice, speaking over him. “Try it, Spock. That’s all I’m asking.”

He turned away. “You ask too much.” He was deeply resistant to the idea of talking about emotion, or having his rational processes criticized. Spock knew deep down this was about the training his father had forced on him as a child, and being resistant to consulting a psychologist was both about rigid loyalty to his father’s method, as well as a perverse defiance, for he knew that since his mother’s death, Sarek had changed his mind on many things. Why must Nyota raise this again now: the old issue of Spock being neither Vulcan nor human?

“Do you want to know what I think?” Nyota’s voice took on a dangerous, cutting edge. “I’ve seen the way you look at Jim.”

Spock abruptly faced her. “I do not look at Jim in any particular way. He is the Captain, and my friend. That is all.”

Nyota scoffed. “That statement’s so full of rubbish it could be a waste receptacle. I’ve seen the way you look at that man, especially when the Ambassador’s onboard: like a child watching another eat a candy it’s been forbidden.”

“That is unfair, Nyota.”

“See, this is why you need to talk to Lt Komanskowsky. Can’t you see, Spock? Because it’s obvious to me, and it makes me wonder whether this is about the t’hy’la thing, that you’re drawn to him in that way.”

“That is not the way in which the bond of t’hy’lara works.”

“Ah! But it is a bond, isn’t it? You admit that.” Anger flashed from Nyota’s eyes, along with resentment. “Yet you won’t talk about bonding with me?”

“It is different,” Spock said, sighing in frustration, folding his arms. It seemed only to inflate Nyota’s ire further.

She drew closer to him, and he took a step back. “That look you give Jim? It should be directed at me! I’m beginning to wonder whether you even want me. I’m beginning to wonder whether you secretly want to bond with Jim. After all, the Ambassador’s old, and he didn’t look well while he was here.”

Spock stepped forward to face his paramour with the full force of denial. “That is an accusation unworthy of you, Nyota. I cannot stress emphatically enough that I have never expressed either that level of desire for Jim, nor that I desire anyone other than you.”

Tears began to fall down Nyota’s cheeks. “I’m not sure I can believe that anymore. I’m right here, Spock. I love you, and I thought you loved me.”

Spock drew closer to her, wiping away her tears with a finger, putting aside his anger and frustration for a moment. “I do love you, Nyota.”

“But not enough to bond with me, or even to marry me.”

“In due time.”

Nyota dropped her hands and turned away. “Six years, Spock. Six years we’ve been dating. Six years I’ve been waiting for you. I… don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

“Nyota,” Spock began, but then observed Nyota go to the closet and start putting clothes in an overnight bag. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t be here tonight. I’m going to go back to my room.”

Resentment was a cold, oily weight in Spock’s gut. She had no right to demand a bond with him. And the accusations Nyota had leveled at him were… breathtaking. Could she not see that it was possible for him to be t’hy’la to Jim while still being engaged to Nyota, and eventually married and bonded to her? She prided herself on being a fine xenolinguist; she claimed to understand the nuances and importance of t’hy’la. And yet, was she so bound by her humanity that she couldn’t accept an ancient practice of his people? Or that he himself was limited by his biology?

Abruptly, it all boiled over, and he couldn’t hold his tongue from biting out: “You accuse me of failing to face those things which impinge on our relationship. Yet you yourself choose to run away rather than deal with them.”

She looked up at him then, hurt framing her beautiful features. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” Nyota closed the bag, taking a deep breath to steel her resolve. She walked up to Spock, and gently touched his cheek. “I still love you, but you really need to make up your mind about what you want. I think it best we live apart until you make your decision.”

He ignored the soft voice within which suggested he might be wrong to resist Nyota’s desire to bond, wrong to discount the questions she had asked. He ignored it, because facing it would mean facing other truths as well…

***

Chapter Text

***

Two-and-a-half years ago Jim would never have believed his future held a happy bonding to a Vulcan. Now, he wondered how he’d ever lived life without being mentally connected to another, for he had come to crave contact—of any sort—with his bondmate as a thirsty deer pants for water. Huh.

James Kirk, you’re one lucky bastard, he thought as he stared out the window of the observation deck. He almost laughed that his internal voice would sound so like Bones. Yes, he was certainly blessed beyond anything he could have imagined, surrounded by friends and the best crew in the ‘Fleet, bonded to the most amazing being ever. He had Bones’s banter. He had a drinking buddy in Scotty. He enjoyed sparring with Sulu and Chekov. Uhura had even become a friend, although he sometimes caught her looking at him wistfully, almost about to speak but thinking better of it, especially in the last month.

He had a good friend in Spock—his Spock. Well, one of his Spocks. Okay. His first officer Spock. It was kind of weird, actually. Because this Spock, his first officer, was both his mate and not his mate. Sometimes Jim saw in Spock something which resonated through the bond from his bondmate Spock. Jim would be looking at his XO, and suddenly see his bondmate’s face superimposed. It was disconcerting when that happened. His bondmate had explained in one of their vid-link calls that it was the bond recognizing his XO’s mental signature, and also Jim’s own affection for him.

That had been an alarming piece of information to receive. Jim had wondered since whether the bond was trying to establish itself with Spock or whether something else was going on, some manifestation of t’hy’la. For Jim knew the difference between the bond, and the connection peculiar to t’hy’lara, albeit that they mapped over each other.

Recently, Spock had been more subdued than usual. Jim had noted that he and Uhura weren’t spending as much time together, although there was no sign of any rupture in their professional relationship. Spock hadn’t said anything in their weekly catch-up sessions, and Jim knew better than to push him for information. What happened between Spock and Uhura was up to them, as long as it didn’t interfere with their work.

The doors to the observation deck swished open. Jim turned to see Spock silhouetted against the light streaming from the corridor. Seeing that he was already occupying the space Spock paused, as though coming to a decision whether or not to enter, and then moved over to where Jim sat on a cushion, his back leaning against the seat behind him.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He could almost see the eyebrow rising, even in the darkness.

“I came here to meditate. My quarters seem… unusually oppressive this evening.”

There was something in his tone of voice which invited Jim’s attention.

“Any particular reason?”

Spock said nothing, looking out at the streaking stars.

“What’s weighing you down, Spock? You know you can talk to me.”

Still silence. But a cool hand reached for his, and wrapped around it, clinging tightly. All right, if that’s what Spock needed. The singularity of the action, an intimate one by Vulcan standards, didn’t escape Jim. What did Spock want of him?

He dismissed his questions and decided to simply enjoy holding hands with his friend, someone who trusted him enough to be able to sit silently and share the heaviness within, even if it didn’t involve words. After about forty minutes, Jim disconnected their hands with reluctance.

“I’m sorry, Spock. I arranged to comm. the Ambassador.” Jim stood, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck in reluctant embarrassment. “I’d invite you to be part of the call, but, well… you know.”

Spock didn’t say anything until Jim was almost to the door.

“Jim?” He turned back to the darkness where his friend sat. “Thank you.”

Jim smiled, feeling warmth in his chest. “Any time, Spock. Have a good night. I hope you’ll get some clarity around what you’re thinking and feeling soon.”

Three days later, Spock and Uhura announced that they had formed a preliminary bond, with the intention of marrying and bonding fully “when the time comes”. Congratulations abounded all over the ship with cries of, “About time!”

Jim took from the announcement the implication that Spock’s Time would occur soon. Interestingly, it didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought it might. He was bathed constantly in the love and affection welling up from the mind of a soul so beautiful it continually stole Jim’s breath away. It was still sad to contemplate what might have been. And yet, that was also a singularly unproductive exercise.

Instead, Jim clapped Spock on the back, and kissed Uhura on the cheek, congratulating them both along with the rest of the crew. And if Spock looked at him with melancholic wistfulness, tinged with wondering and even a little longing, Jim chose not to notice.

***

Jim had managed to avoid it for two-and-a-half years, but he had always known this time was coming: the Enterprise, like all Constitution-class ships, had to take its turn charting unknown regions of space and boldly going where no one had gone before. In all likelihood, this mission would last about six months, and while they might be able to get messages to Command whenever they were within subspace distance, it would be months before Jim saw or spoke to his bondmate again face to face.

The night before they left subspace range, he had an emotional and difficult conversation with his mate.

“Hello, love,” he’d greeted the silver-haired fox looking back at him. “I miss you, so much.”

“Jim.” How did that one word, his name, uttered in such a way, have such power to make Jim melt? He’d never forget the way his bondmate caressed that one syllable, as though it were the most precious thing in existence.

Spock didn’t look well; there were great bags beneath his eyes, and his skin wasn’t a good color.

“Are you all right, Spock?”

“I have not been sleeping well these last few weeks. There is a project…” he broke off into coughing.

Jim sat forward in his seat. “You are not all right. Have you seen a doctor? Spock! You have to get yourself to a doctor! That cough’s horrible.”

When the Vulcan had regained his composure he looked white as a sheet. “Yes, Jim,” he wheezed, “I have seen a healer, and it is a form of the influenza virus. They have given me supplements and several hypos to assist in my recovery.”

Jim breathed again. Now was not a good time for his bondmate to be ill, not when Jim was about to lead his ship into the unknown. He suspected Spock was holding back, but chose to believe his reassurances.

“What about you, beloved? How is your ship, your crew?”

Reluctantly, for he was still worried about Spock, Jim began to tell stories of their most recent missions. He told Spock everything, about his Spock’s engagement, and about the little things that happened day-to-day on the ship—stories his mate found endlessly amusing. They skirted around the truth which hung over their heads: that this would be the last time they could speak in this manner for some time. Eventually Jim fell listlessly silent, just gazing at the being he loved, whose care and love meant the world to him.

“I love you, Spock,” he said, leaning forward with his chin in one palm, tracing the lines of his mate’s face on the screen with the other.

“And I love you, James Kirk. Never forget that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? How could I ever forget? You’re going to be here to remind me.” He tapped his head and his breast over his heart.

“Jim, as much as I love you, I am old. There will come a day…”

“But it’s not here yet. So let’s not talk about it.”

“We must, Jim, especially given that you’re about to sail into the unknown and I do not know when—”

“We will see each other again,” Jim declared fiercely, tears starting in his eyes.

“Yes, we shall, one way or another,” Spock murmured, his eyes infinitely sad and infinitely loving.

Jim lost it.

“Oh, t’hy’la!” Spock’s finger traced Jim’s face through the screen, as though he could wipe away his tears. “I will not tell you not to weep.”

Jim sobbed, feeling like his heart was breaking. Through the bond the old Vulcan sent pulses of unconditional love and acceptance until Jim stilled, spent.

“I’ll send you messages when I can,” Jim said, his voice still quivery.

“As shall I. But the message you will always be able to read is in your mind and heart, Jim. I will always be there. And do not forget the gift I gave you.”

For a moment a heavy foreboding hovered like a shadow. He felt an inner compulsion to say what needed to be said. After all, the Enterprise was heading into deep space, and there was no guarantee any of the crew would return.

“No, I won’t. I won’t be able to forget you, Spock. I wish I could hug you, cling to you right now.”

“As do I. But wishing serves little.”

The picture became grainy with static as the ship edged towards the far end of the subspace range.

“I love you, Spock.”

“As I do thee, ashayam. Live long and prosper.” His bondmate held up the ta’al.

“Peace and long life,” Jim returned, and then the signal was lost.

For a long time he simply sat there at his desk, looking blankly at the screen. In the space of the bond he pulled the comfort of his mate’s mind around him and held on tightly.

***

Six weeks into their mission, the Enterprise came upon an inhabited star system. The inhabitants of the third planet were space-faring, although they hadn’t ventured beyond the reaches of their own system. The planet, which the Enterprise crew had dubbed Maestoso IV, was a prime candidate for first contact. They were excited, not least because Maestoso IV appeared to have plant life with great healing benefits, and the science and medical staff were eager to learn more about the Maestosan applications of herbs in their medical practice.

Spock noticed the Captain was not as excited about this first contact as he usually was. When he’d asked, Jim had muttered something about life becoming “episodic”, although Spock was unsure what he referred to, and was unfamiliar with the expression. Nevertheless, the Captain’s lack of enthusiasm was curious, and it made Spock concerned for him. Perhaps it was merely pining for his mate; that was understandable.

When the Captain reported to the transporter room for beam down to coordinates prearranged with the planetary authorities, Spock thought he looked unwell, somewhat grey of pallor and heaving great sighs from time to time. It was not like him.

By the time they’d beamed down and greeted the Maestor, the leader of the Maestosans, Jim had put on his best face, laying on the charm as was his wont. Spock nevertheless kept a close eye on his friend, watching with a growing sense of unease for any signs of flagging or illness.

The Maestosans were a generous people, with superlative culinary abilities. They insisted the Enterprise group stay for a meal, and while Spock had quietly warned Jim and asked him to defer the meal until the next day, Jim had ignored his advice, paying attention to the delightful Martin, and playing Prince Charming. It was not a sight he relished, and although he knew it was all in the name of diplomacy, he nevertheless couldn’t help but flinch watching a bonded man flirting with someone other than his mate. Kaiidth. There was nothing Spock could do about it.

It was during the meal that something began to be amiss. Spock had been paying attention to his conversation with the chief scientist when his gaze flicked back to his Captain. Jim had stopped chewing a mouthful of food, grabbing suddenly for his drink. Spock sat up, alert, and alarmed when he saw the drink didn’t help. The people sitting in his vicinity had no idea what to do. The Vulcan leapt up instinctually, racing to his friend’s side. Jim’s face began to go red, and he started waving his hands around and gesticulating, clearly unable to breathe.

“Jim!” he attempted to get the man’s attention. Panicked blue eyes locked with his own.  Thinking it was likely an anaphylactic reaction, Spock looked up to locate Doctor McCoy, to see the medic already rushing to his Captain’s side. Half a minute later they were giving their apologies and calling for beam out, with McCoy shouting instructions to medical staff through his communicator.

The moment they materialized, Jim was hauled onto a stretcher and whisked away to sickbay. Spock followed initially, but realized there was little he could do other than pace back and forth while he waited on the medical team. And pacing restively was something he could do in a number of other places. Besides, he would need to coordinate reports, and ensure that a diplomatic incident didn’t eventuate from this unfortunate instance.

So Spock went to the bridge, relieved the duty officer, and sat in the command chair. Finally, after an hour of clenching and unclenching his hands and engaging in basic meditative techniques to calm his unease, the comm. chimed.

“McCoy to Spock.”

Lightning wouldn’t have been as swift to hit the intercom button as Spock was. “Spock here,” he said, with a great deal more composure than he felt.

“The Captain is going to be all right,” the CMO reported, relief plain in his voice.

“What is the nature of his malady?”

“Well, here’s the thing: there’s nothing wrong with him.”

“There must be something the matter, for him to suddenly stop breathing. Are you certain it was not an allergic reaction?” Spock asked, as confused by this as McCoy sounded.

“Absolutely positive. His breathing is fine now, though his left side is a little sore. Heart, lungs, liver, brain—all check out. He’s a little weak, but nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

It was not what Spock had been expecting. Relief let him breathe again. “That is excellent, Doctor.”

“I’m ordering twenty-four hours’ bed rest anyway; he’s on his way to his quarters now. You may wish to retain command, and visit him at the end of shift.” Spock knew from the tone in the doctor’s voice what he was really saying: Jim Kirk was notorious for not taking his medical staff’s recommendations seriously, and this was a please check in with him and see that he’s behaving himself request. It was also one with which Spock was only too happy to comply.

“Very good, Doctor McCoy. Spock out.” He terminated the call, and immediately asked the communications officer to patch him through to the Maestosan government; they’d be most relieved to know that whatever had afflicted Jim had had nothing to do with their hospitality.

***

Three days later, when the Enterprise was on its way to another star system which had caught the interest of the science department because of the unusual arrangement of its satellites, the Captain arrived on the bridge looking as though he’d had virtually no sleep. Spock immediately went to his side.

“Jim, if you are still unwell today, please consult with Doctor McCoy and rest quietly.”

“What’s your problem, Spock?” Jim snapped. “I’m fine. Just not enough sleep.”

He certainly didn’t sound “fine”. “I beg to differ, sir. Are you sure you have not—”

“It’s just a cold, all right? Nothing to worry about. As you were,” Jim ground out through gritted teeth.

Spock did as he’d been commanded, and returned to his post at the science station. But approximately 4.78 hours into the shift, he caught Jim napping and snoring as he did: a rattling, hollow sound. He quietly called McCoy to the bridge to surreptitiously assess his patient.

The doctor arrived minutes later, and managed to wave his tricorder over 75% of Jim’s body before he woke up with a start.

“What are you doing, Bones?” His voice was thick, as though his nasal passages were congested, and his throat aching.

“Just taking a stroll, y’know,” he said, putting his tricorder behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet.

“With a medical tricorder?”

“Jim, why don’t you come down to my office? I want to talk to you about something.”

Jim stood, narrowing his eyes. “Spock put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“He was worried about you. You sound and look like you’ve got a raging case of Argelian flu. Come down to sickbay and I’ll give you an antidote, along with something to help with that pounding headache you’ve got.”

“Spock, you traitor!” Jim looked at Spock as though he’d betrayed the Federation President. But he followed McCoy to the turbolift, continuing his truculence until the door closed.

The bridge crew breathed a collective sigh of relief. Spock did not; there was something more going on, and it had him on edge.

***

After handing command to the gamma shift officer on duty, Spock reported to sickbay.

“Doctor?” he called as he stepped through the doors. The lights in sickbay were low, as per the middle of ship’s night.

“In here,” Spock heard, and followed the sound of McCoy’s voice into his office.

The CMO had an open bottle on his desk, and was sipping from a tumbler which had two fingers of a dark amber liquid in the bottom.

“Would you like one?”

Spock considered, and nodded.

“Triurn Bru, from Grellia Meridiensis,” the doctor said as he poured a splash into a second glass. “Checking on Jim?”

Spock nodded.

“Well, I confess I’ve got no idea what’s going on. He’s got all the symptoms of an influenza virus, but the strange thing is that while he’s suffering, they’re not actually manifesting in his body, though it is putting a strain on his heart and lungs. According to his blood work, there’s nothing physically wrong with him. I’m at a loss as to how to explain it.”

“Sympathetic illness?”

“Yes, Spock. But of this magnitude? I mean, vomiting in sympathy with someone else is one thing. Developing a headache because someone else has a headache and talks about it—that’s understandable. But this is something else altogether. It’s like he’s experiencing the symptoms without experiencing them.” He took another puzzled sip of his drink.

Spock decided the dark liquid was palatable as he sipped from his own glass.

“Tell me: have there been any cases where Vulcan bondmates experienced sympathetic illness? I mean, from what I understand of the physiology of Vulcan bonds, it is possible for the nervous system to empathetically connect; for the mating cycle that’s kind of to be expected. But for anything else?” The doctor shook his head.

“The bond the Captain shares with Ambassador Spock is something rare among my people. The t’hy’la link, especially when confirmed in a bond, is known to act differently when compared to regular mating bonds. The ancient stories pointed to the t’hy’la bond being unpredictable, unique to the couple who shared it, in the way it operated,” Spock said. “I would recommend you read the ancient texts. However, most perished in the Va’Pak, and very few have been preserved in digital form elsewhere.”

“Damn.”

“Of course, the Ambassador himself might have been able to tell us,” Spock commented.

“But he’s on New Vulcan, which is parsecs away, and in any case, if he’s as sick as Jim’s non-symptoms suggest, he’s probably not up to answering questions anyway.”

“What is widely known—and you yourself would be more than aware of this, from the work you did with survivors from the destruction of my home world—is that when one Vulcan in a pair bond dies, there is a fifty percent chance that the remaining partner will follow their bondmate into death. The pain and anguish of a bond being severed is… unimaginable.”

“Yes,” McCoy mused, “I’ve read many journals dealing with psychic trauma in Vulcans. It’s not pretty.”

“No, it is not.”

McCoy looked up at him. “Sorry, Spock. Of course; you’d know from experience.”

Silence drew between them. McCoy drained the rest of his drink, smacking his lips, and stood.

“Well, I’m going to turn in. Jim’s in the private room for observation if you wanted to see him before you go. I guess there’s nothing much we can do except hope that the Ambassador gets well soon—if him being sick is what’s dragging Jim down.”

“Indeed, Doctor.”

McCoy left, and Spock exited his office, entering the one private room sickbay afforded, allowing the door to close softly behind him. Jim was sleeping, his breathing somewhat ragged as if with a heavy flu, but regular and steady. The heart monitor blipped steadily, the usual bleep silenced, although Spock knew it was tied into McCoy’s commlink, and if anything changed dramatically, he’d be back within minutes to attend to the Captain.

He looked so vulnerable, so young, lying there on the bed, his hair splayed on the pillow. Spock again felt anger that he should be in this situation; it wasn’t fair that Jim was here only because an old Vulcan in a fit of emotionalism couldn’t control himself. Spock vowed it would never happen to him; he would never be accused of losing control in such a way as would hurt the people closest to him. He and the Elder differed in this important respect, of that he could be certain.

***

Instead of improving, in another four days it was clear Jim’s condition was getting worse. He was showing signs of pneumonia, and while his lungs appeared clear on the scans, great strain was being put on his internal organs, and also on his mind.

“What do we do, Spock?” McCoy had commed him. “It would take three weeks for a subspace message to reach New Vulcan, and three for a reply. Even at warp 9 we still couldn’t get there inside of a month, and the nearest Federation starbase is two weeks away at high warp.”

“Command would not allow either course change.” It was an uncomfortable reality: they were stuck out here in deep space, with literally no other option other than to go on.

“Jim’s delirious, and because he hasn’t actually got a fever, medication or cooling methods normally used to try and bring a fever down won’t work on him. There’s literally nothing we can do, except watch and monitor his condition, and hope and pray Ambassador Spock’s getting the best care possible.”

Because frustrated impotence was fruitless, and as the ship was in a patch of space that held no star systems for at least another two parsecs, Spock turned his attention to each department in turn. He ran them through drills, did spot inspections, insisted that department heads use this time to clear out half-finished projects, and to generally get the ship in full working order. Ordinarily, if Jim had been in command, he would have been giving permission for various forms of entertainment in order to keep up crew morale as the ship hurtled through the vast expanse of space. Spock decided he would allow any request that came to him, as long as the departmental annual compliance checks were complete, and as long as there was no abating or slacking off in duties performed. This far out of friendly space, they could not afford complacency. Accordingly, he worked double shifts in order to complete his own as well as the Captain’s workload.

Meanwhile, over the following five days, Jim continued to deteriorate. Spock visited the Captain usually at the beginning of gamma shift, sitting by his bed for several hours as he approved reports and scanned compliance materials. Jim often called out, murmuring in Vulcan and Standard, sometimes crying Spock’s name—though Spock knew he was calling for his mate, not for his first officer. In spite of this, Spock held his friend’s hand, hoping that his mental emanations and the strength of his grip would be enough to ground the man in that time and place.

Through all of this, Spock chose not to consider the impact his vigil and workload was having on Nyota. He justified this to himself with a plea to having insufficient mental space to process the situation. Later, he promised himself; later he would meditate, when this was all over. Nyota’s frustration with his absence and overwork, which she had exasperatedly expressed on more than one occasion, would have to wait for resolution. He refused to acknowledge his actions as avoidance and denial, or that there were deep fissures in their relationship, at least one of which might have to do with his relationship with Jim. Later, he would meditate on it; later.

On the sixth night, Spock was roused from deep sleep by his fiancée.

“Spock! Wake up! It’s the Captain. McCoy’s called for you, and it doesn’t sound good.”

In quick order he threw a robe over his pajamas and ran to sickbay, where Jim was sitting up in bed, bent almost double as he clutched his head and screamed, thrashing about. Spock could feel it the moment he walked into the room: the absence of something which had been, and the flailing of energy suddenly snapped.

“SPOCK!” he shouted. “NO!” Tears were streaming down the Captain’s distressed face, and a team of three medical staff attempted to restrain him.

McCoy was waving a hypo around, unable to apply it yet because of the Captain’s constant movement. He looked at Spock, harried and helpless.

“What do you expect me to do, Doctor?”

“Go to him, damn it! Any Spock’s better than none, and right now it’s pretty obvious he’s lost his bondmate. Go to him!”

Spock approached the bed, reaching for the thrashing human.

“Jim,” he said gently, calling through the tempest. “Jim.”

Blue eyes crazed with anguish turned their full force on him, and he wasn’t sure whether Jim saw him or not.

“Jim,” Spock uttered again, placing a hand on each shoulder. The effect was immediate, and this time confusion was cast across the red face.

“I am here, Jim.” It was enough time for the medics to step back, for McCoy to move into place and set off the hypospray against Jim’s upper arm. Betrayal flashed in his eyes before they immediately closed, and Spock laid him back on the bed gently.

Even sedated, Jim still moaned and twitched in unconsciousness. Spock took his hand again, hoping that with Spock for an anchor or tether, Jim would be able to hold on to life. Neither he nor McCoy had any idea what would happen. All they knew was that they were prepared to do what they could to support their friend. And the best they could hope for was that he would sleep, and in time wake up, albeit broken, but himself.

“Keep fighting, Jim,” McCoy said softly, looking at Jim’s life signs with a worried expression. “The next few hours will be critical. If he doesn’t pull through this…” The doctor didn’t finish the sentence and didn’t need to.

“We must hope that it does not come to that, Leonard,” Spock responded.

***

They sat by the bedside, watching as Jim’s chest rose and fell. When alpha shift came around, Spock ordered his replacement to fill in. As the day wore on, Jim’s life signs began to drop on the monitor, and his agitation, which before had been so great that heavy sedation was needed, decreased until he lay, pale and clammy, beneath the crisp hospital sheet.

At last, Spock spoke what had been on his mind for several hours.

“Doctor, I wonder whether it would be useful for me to meld with the Captain.”

“I don’t suppose at this stage we’ve got much to lose, Spock. If you think it will help, go ahead when you’re ready. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

This time, when Spock placed his fingers on Jim’s face and said the words initiating a meld, it was far simpler than it had ever been before to enter mindspace, like stepping over a well-worn threshold. Unlike the last time he’d done this, the space was grey and dead-looking, as though a fire had swept through. Far off in the distance, golden strands slashed through the air painfully, lashing like a fiery cat-o-nine through the scorched air: the remains, Spock realized, of the bond. It was horrifying to see.

Jim? Spock called into the space. His Captain was not immediately visible He kept proceeding deeper into Jim’s mind, observing the creeping effect of distress and decay. With an increasing sense of urgency, Spock continued to search for signs of life.

Finally he found himself in an area as yet unaffected by the encroaching mad nothingness. It manifested as a garden, in the centre of which was a fountain. And beside the fountain huddled a small figure, who was crying.

Jim, Spock said again, and this time the child looked up at him, his blue eyes holding the infinity of space studded with stars.

Who are you?

I am Spock.

You’re not *him*. He left me! He doesn’t want me! He wanted the other me! And I’ve been left behind. I can’t even follow him, because he didn’t leave me a path! And now he’s gone!

He burst into a fresh gale of tears. Outside the garden, a storm raged. Here the sun still shone. For now.

I am not he who was your mate. I am your friend. Please, Jim? Let me be your friend? Spock knelt beside the child and reached out a hand.

The child threw himself at Spock, wrapping his arms around his head. Spock held the child to himself. After a few minutes, he pulled back from the boy a little.

Jim, listen to me. I must go away for a while. But I will return. You do not have to face this alone. I need to report back to your friends that you are here, and what is happening to you.

You’ll come back?

I will. I promise you. And here is something of mine you may hold until I return. Will you promise me you will hold it tightly until I get back?

Jim nodded, and Spock reached into himself, bringing forth a ball of blue light.

It’s beautiful. Jim asked, looking at him.

This is something precious to me, a part of my own life-force energy. Please look after it.

I shall. Be quick, Spock. I’m scared.

Spock withdrew as gently and quickly as he could, staggering back to the chair beside the bed when he returned to conscious existence. The meld had drained him in a way other melds never had. McCoy fluttered around him with a tricorder.

“Your heart rate is elevated, and I’m not liking the increase in cortisol levels.”

“Jim is dying.” McCoy let his tricorder drop to his side. “His bondmate appears to have followed the tether of his previous bond in death, leaving Jim adrift. This is a worse situation than the simple death of a mate; usually the surviving party at least has a tether to follow their bondmate into death. But my counterpart must have foolishly assumed Jim would survive without a tether. Instead, it is as though a Vulcan bond were placed within Jim’s psyche, only for the one at the other end to completely disappear, as though the one he was bonded to had never existed. As you yourself have noted, the physical strain of the sympathetically shared symptoms of the Ambassador’s illness weakened Jim, leaving him little with which to fight bodily or mentally. Now, the remnants of the bond are destroying his mind. Like lashes of flame they are whipping freely, seeking somewhere, some other mind to latch into, and in the absence of berthing place, the bond remnants are turning back on Jim’s mind with incinerating intensity. If we do not act now, Jim has hours to live before his life-essence is extinguished and he will die.”

“But there’s nothing we can do, Spock!”

“There is one thing, Doctor.”

Behind his eyes, McCoy’s mind ticked over as he processed this information. “Spock, you can’t do that. It’s too risky.”

“It is the only possibility.” Spock rose abruptly. “The Captain requires a bond to live. There are no other telepaths capable of receiving a bond on this ship.”

“Except for you.”

Spock nodded.

“What about Uhura?” McCoy protested. “You’re engaged to her; she’s not going to like this at all. And in any case, Jim’s already had one bond basically forced upon him; it’s not right to force him into another.”

“What the Ambassador did was unconscionable, and runs contrary to Vulcan tenets. I would not force Jim into a bond.”

“No. But it’s not like he’d have much choice, is it?”

“Doctor, I shall seek Jim’s permission to proceed, and if he does not give it—”

“But that’s just it, Spock! Medically, he is incapable of giving consent right now.”

Spock was growing weary of McCoy’s—admittedly legitimate—opposition. They were wasting time, and every minute that ticked by, Jim hovered closer to death. “In a meld there is no subterfuge, no lying, no dissembling. It simply is not possible, as the deepest parts of the self are exposed. I shall know whether Jim gives his consent or not, and I would hope you are able sufficiently to trust my integrity to withdraw if he does not grant consent.”

“Well that’s just peachy. Let me tell you, mister, citing Vulcan abilities and arcane knowledge isn’t a trump card in my book.”

“Leonard,” Spock pleaded, appealing to the compassionate heart behind the gruff exterior, “Jim is dying. We have the means to save his life. What does your medical oath suggest to you?”

McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s extremely dirty pool, Spock. Fine. I don’t like it. And I don’t like the inevitable fallout this is going to have. But sometimes…” He chewed his lip.

Spock took that as reluctant agreement and moved towards the door to sickbay.

“Excuse me. Time is of the essence, and I must speak with Nyota.”

***

Spock returned to the quarters he shared with his fiancée. She was seated at the desk, reviewing something on the monitor, and looked up when he entered. It must have been after alpha shift; he’d lost track of time.

“How’s the Captain?” she asked, standing up.

“Nyota,” Spock began, but couldn’t continue, feeling lost in the dark eyes of the woman he had chosen as his mate, and whom he loved.

“What is it, Spock?” she reached out, gently rubbing his arms.

He pushed away, unable to look at her and see her compassion. What he was about to do was unconscionable, and he could only hope she would understand. Eventually.

“Spock?”

“Nyota. I must break our preliminary tel.”

“What?!”Nyota’s expressive face was clouded with disbelief.

“The Captain is dying. His bondmate died, severing the bond he had with Jim. Jim’s mind and body are being destroyed by the remnants of the bond, and without intervention he will die within the next two hours. The only cure is for someone to offer to bond with him. There are no other telepaths on board capable of doing this.”

Nyota took this information in, a hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with tears which she refused to let fall. Spock felt a pang deep within; she was such a strong, admirable woman. He did not want to do this to her, to bring her down in any way.

“You want to end things with me in order to save his life by bonding with him.”

Spock nodded slowly, once.

She turned away, trying to process what Spock had said. After a moment she faced him again, suspicion and betrayal framing every angle of her body. “This is the real reason why you refused to bond with me before now, isn’t it? You suspected the Ambassador wasn’t long for this universe, and so you hedged your bets!”

Pain lanced through Spock’s awareness. “Nyota, as you are aware, I chose you. I love you.”

“Then choose me now,” her eyes flashed with the challenge, as well as a plea, and held his.

He was reminded of his own recent imprecation of McCoy and felt ashamed as all that he’d been denying and suppressing became ineluctably clear, all assuming its correct place, like a kal-toh set being solved. Nyota was right; he had been waiting and watching, ever seeking to protect the man who was his t’hy’la. He looked away.

“He will die.”

“Spock, tell me why it’s always Jim you put first. Why, when you say you love me,” the tears she’d been holding back started pouring down Nyota’s cheeks, “in the next breath you affirm your attachment to him. Would it be so bad if you chose me, and he died? He loved that old Vulcan, and was loved in return. Surely he’ll be able to follow him in death if their love is so strong?”

“But that is the problem. He will be unable to follow my counterpart, as the bond was completely severed. At the last hour, his bondmate chose to follow the attenuated link he had to the James Kirk from his own universe, abandoning Jim.”

“Choose me, Spock.”

Spock’s own heart was fracturing. How could he choose between the woman he loved, and the one who was his t’hy’la? He cursed the currents of reality which brought about his counterpart’s interference in the first place, and the circumstance in which he found himself now.

“Nyota—” He reached for both of her hands and held them, and for a moment she allowed this tenderness. “The preliminary tel with you was my choice. And were Jim not dying, it would still be my choice.” He took a deep breath. “Believe me, Nyota, you have always been first in my affections.”

“But now that he is dying, he’s your choice,” Nyota said, her eyes going round in realization: Spock had already made his decision. And he saw that she knew: the ancient bond of t’hy’lara called too insistently, pulsed in Spock’s blood, and it was something he was only just beginning to realize, acknowledge, and name.

Nyota ripped her hands away from Spock, anger building in her features in hot waves.

“Do you love him? Be honest,” she warned.

The truth felt like a tooth being drawn, but he owed it to this woman he had wanted to marry.

“As a friend and brother, yes. As my t’hy’la, yes.”

Nyota’s eyes widened. She had never accepted Jim’s place in his life as Spock’s t’hy’la.

It was as though Spock had put a spark among stubble. The trembling sorrow and disbelief, betrayal and hurt he’d been witness to in Nyota abruptly became a torrent of fury and rage, burning in its intensity.

“Do you WANT him? Do you drool thinking about his cock? Do you want to fuck his tight ass, tear his hair until you come down his throat? Kiss him until both of you are panting like needy bitches in heat?”

Every question was a knife slashing at the link between their minds. Spock felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, partly in response to the mental pain, and partly because he was the cause of Nyota’s cruel words. This was not like her, and Spock knew her accusations came from a deeply wounded place. He had pushed her to the limits of rationality, and grieved that he’d done so.

“I do not know. I desire that he lives.” He paused, and she breathed, seething. “Nyota, there is no other way; if I do not do this, he shall be lost.”

She didn’t reply.

“I am sorry, Nyota.”

“If he could stand on his feet, I’d fight him for you,” she declared fiercely. “It shouldn’t have to be a fucking fight, though.” Fresh tears fell down her face.

“I would not allow it. I would not wish to risk either of you,” Spock murmured.

With a soft cry Nyota threw herself at Spock, casting her arms around his neck and clutching him tightly. He returned the embrace with as much strength.

“I’m angry with you, and I’m hurt, and feel betrayed, and I can’t believe you’re doing this, only I can because it’s so typical of you to put others before yourself, and I still love you, and I hate you for doing this, and I want the captain to live, but not at the expense of us, and it’s not fair! And what I feel is just, is just, is just… too much!” Nyota sobbed into Spock’s shoulder.

He had his own eyes clenched shut, his nose tucked into the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair which he’d always loved. Tears, for her hurt and for his own, for the breaking of something beautiful in the face of great uncertainty, rolled down his cheeks in hot streams.

She pushed him away a little, and reached up to give him a chaste kiss, a parting. “I’m not ready to give you up. Nor am I going to forgive you for this. It’s never good to be someone’s second choice.”

Spock caressed her cheek. “Then I shall not insult you by asking forgiveness.”

She laughed brokenly, stepping away a little to wipe her tears with both hands.

“Nyota, to break the tel we must…” Spock raised his hand towards her temple.

She nodded, swallowing apprehensively. “You’ve made your decision, and clearly I can’t change your mind. Let’s get it over with.”

“My mind to your mind; my thoughts to your thoughts.”

Their meld was bitter with anger and sorrow and pain. Perhaps for the first time Nyota was able to grasp the difference in what he felt for her and Jim; love for her—so much love, while his affection for Jim was more complex, woven of duty and loyalty and some other inhuman sense of connection he called t’hy’la. He saw in her mind reluctant acknowledgement of this difference, and acceptance that Spock had been truthful in his declarations of love and intention to bond with Nyota. It made the grief and hurt all that more potent, because it was shared.

Together they found the place where their minds superimposed around the bonding centre, and stood together facing the tel, a silvery-blue strand of energy dancing between them.

If we’d completed it, it would have been beautiful, Spock, Nyota observed.

I know. I am sorry, Nyota, he repeated, words in this space carrying with them the full force of his being.

As gently as he could he grasped the strand in the middle, Nyota following suit. Each tugged until the fibers of energy woven into the strand disintegrated, and the link was severed, its energy dissipating, leaving behind emptiness and lack of light.

Spock withdrew from the meld, disoriented. Nyota tottered over to the bed, holding her head in both hands and weeping profusely.

The link he’d created in leaving a portion of his life-energy with Jim was tugging at him with urgency; how long had they been here, arguing, emoting, melding? And meanwhile…

He looked over to Nyota, wanting to reach out to her, wanting to help, but not knowing how.

“I must go to the Captain.”

“Go. Go!” she commanded

“Nyota, will you be—” Spock took a step towards her.

“GO!” Nyota screamed.

He couldn’t delay any longer. Spock went as swiftly as he could to sickbay.

***

This time when Spock reached for his Captain’s face, his hands were shaking. There was a chance this would fail; Spock did not have the level of skill of a Master of Gol in controlling his telepathy. But he had to try, and he hoped that the bond itself would recognize him in spite of his lack of experience.

“Jim, parted from me, and never parted; never and always touching and touched,” he murmured, and reentered the dark space of his soon-to-be-bondmate’s mind.

He quickly found the garden, the fountain, and the child, even though the dark storm clouds by now were casting all in shadow, and the cold destructive wind buffeted the trees. Still the golden fiery strands of the severed bond searched and flicked like lightning across the mindscape.

Jim was almost unconscious, but he was clutching the blue orb which represented Spock’s life-energy. Spock gently removed the orb and reabsorbed it, and then picked up the child, cradling him.

Jim, I have returned. It is I, Spock.

The eyelids fluttered and opened in welcome. I’m glad you came back. I think I’m dying.

Jim, do you want to live? He nodded. I am not the one whom you have lost, but I am here. And I am willing to replace him, so that those flashing strands have somewhere to belong. Is that what you want?

The child took Spock’s face between his hands. You’re my friend, Spock. I want to live with you.

Very well. He made to release the child, but Jim wouldn’t let go, holding on with determination.

Everyone else has left me. No one wanted me… until him. And then he left.

Jim, listen to me. I shall never leave you. I am your friend and brother, and you are my t’hy’la. Do you know what that means?

Jim nodded solemnly.

If I do this, if death ever parts us, there will still always be a path for you, or for me, to follow. Because we are t’hy’la. Do you understand, Jim?

Yes, I do.

Spock removed the child’s hands from his face, putting him down and taking him by the hand. Trust me, now, Jim. He led the child out of the garden and into the desolate wasteland beyond.

Drawing his energy together, Spock expanded, willing the strands of the bond to find him—and find him they did, burying themselves one by one in his depths, wrapping around and through his body, his mind, his katra. Each seared like fire, burning through him, until he himself was woven into, connected as part of the conflagration, aflame, but not consumed.

And then: release.

***

Chapter Text

***

The first sensation Jim was aware of was of a heavy weight lying across his chest. The second awareness was that the place in the back of his mind which had been a gaping hole was filled with light, although different than before, like a skin graft over the site of a burn. He couldn’t help but pry at it with disbelieving fingers; he’d lost something, and yet here…

He blinked his eyes open, and realized there was a body lying beside him, curled into him, with one arm flung over his torso—protective, or pinning him to the bed, he wasn’t sure which. He moved, and the body stirred.

“Sp—!” His throat was dry, and he couldn’t speak.

The eyes of his first officer, and now… bondmate? (His bondmate?!) looked back owlishly as he pushed up.

“Jim, are you well?”

Overwhelming grief washed through him, along with bewilderment. Hadn’t he been dying? No no no no no no no no no! This couldn’t be happening; it couldn’t be real.

Everything around him seemed surreal, objects sharper but with blurry edges and too, too close. He was snapped out of this state by Bones bouncing into the room.

“What’s happening? The monitors—Jim! You’re awake! My god, man, it’s good to see you returned to the land of the living.”

Jim let his head fall back to the pillow. It was all too much to take in. Bones raised the head of the bed, and held up a cup of water to his lips, tipping it for him to drink.

“Th-thank you, Bones,” he said.

Spock had risen from the bed, and was standing off to one side, watching. Jim sensed apprehension and anxiety through the bond, and curled in on himself mentally, away from those foreign emotions. Keep away! he felt like shouting, while at the same time yearning for the intimacy of mind-touch.

“We’re bonded?” Jim asked, putting a hand to his temple, which was throbbing.

Spock nodded.

“How? What happened?”

“How much do you remember, Jim?” Bones asked calmly as he fiddled with dials and checked read-outs.

Jim had to struggle to think through the maelstrom of emotions vying for his attention, his own, and Spock’s, which were thankfully muted. The last… however many days were pretty fuzzy. “Maestoso. We were at the banquet…” He trailed off.

“—and you had to return to the ship, because you started having what looked like an allergic reaction,” Bones prompted.

“Only it wasn’t,” memory caught up with Jim. “And then I started feeling like I had a bad case of the flu.”

“That’s right,” McCoy nodded, encouraging.

“I remember being brought to sickbay, seeing faces...There was pain beyond anything I’ve ever—” Jim’s face fell and he looked down at his lap with disbelief. “Oh my god. Oh my god!” One hand flew to cover his mouth, and the other to his breast, over his heart, as though he could hold back the waves of intense sorrow and longing and anger, and stop his heart from being torn and hemorrhaging. “He died,” he whispered. “My bondmate… he died.”

“We think so, yes.” Bones’s tone was gentle, and his brows drew together in sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Jim.”

Jim felt a fountain of mixed emotions welling within him. He threw himself back on the bed, tears starting in his eyes which he knew would be difficult to stop. He clenched his fists. “Why didn’t I follow him? Don’t you understand? There’s no reason for me to be here when he’s not. I want him!” He covered his face with his hands, and the tears flowed, bitter and hot.

“I’m sorry to say this Jim, and well, there’s no good way to explain: Spock here says that when he died, your bondmate’s katra followed the tether of the old bond he had with the Jim Kirk from his universe.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jim shouted. “I, of all people, know that. His mind was joined to mine. And the ultimate betrayal is that he didn’t choose me in death! How could he do that to me? I thought he was the other half of my heart, other half of my soul. But I clearly wasn’t his! How could he do that to me?!Why would he do that to me?”

Bones reached out and began to rub circles on Jim’s shoulder.

“Maybe he never wanted me. No one ever wants me, Bones,” he trailed off forlornly, tears running down his cheeks.

“Now that’s not true, Jim. Spock chose you. No, no. Listen to me, all right? When that bond you had was severed completely, the psychic trauma was driving you mad. Your life signs were failing. You were going to die, but you wouldn’t have been able to follow him. Spock melded with you, and then bonded with you to save your life, your sanity, and I suppose, your soul. Even if you discount me as your friend, Spock wants you.”

“Then why the fuck do I feel like second-hand goods? Like…”

Silence hung heavily as Jim gazed in stupefaction at Spock, feeling numb. He kept his distance, a fact for which Jim was grateful.

“Forgive me,” Spock murmured, an unsearchable look on his face. “When I touched your mind, there was little of your self left; the bond was self-destructing. I did ask your consent. Had you not given permission I would never have bonded with you. That was the only rationale on which I could operate. Understand, Jim: I could not let you die. I hope you will forgive me…”t’hy’la, he added as a mental aside, although the thought was loud enough for Jim to perceive it.

The word was an amulet, and Jim felt something clicking into place, though it would be some time, he thought, before he could come to see Spock in anywhere near that sacred light. He knew deep within that he had said yes to this, whatever it was and would be. He was angry right now, his mind addled with grief and loss, and when he began to recover, there would be a whole field of issues to sort through with the Vulcan whose mind was now connected to his—not least among which was the nature of the new relationship the bond would entail. A part of him could not believe that he had to endure for the second time in his life a mental link he hadn’t exactly asked for, and his heart sank at the prospect. It was effectively an arranged marriage. How the fuck had he managed to get into one twice over?

He laughed maniacally at the thought, making Spock and Bones both flinch and look at him with concern.

“Jim? You okay?” Bones asked.

He didn’t reply, lost in the bitterness of his own thoughts. Jim had never seen himself as the marrying type; it wasn’t as if he’d had any good models on which to base hopes and dreams of a fairytale romance ending in wedded bliss. And yet, he’d had the fairytale, after a fashion. Oh god! How was he going to live without the constant stream of love and devotion Elder Spock had directed at him, without his affirmation and rock-solid belief in Jim?

Fresh tears fell.

And then a memory flashed: Spock immolated in flames as the bond lashed him. It occurred to Jim that Spock had given up something too, perhaps more than Jim knew or could comprehend in this moment. Jim wasn’t sure from whose mind the image had originated.

Pain of a variety that had no definition flashed in the bond and in Spock’s eyes and then was gone. Jim looked closely at Spock. Did he regret this? It wasn’t likely to be an easy road, going forward from here.

“I do not regret my decision, Jim.” Oh. So he’d heard Jim’s musing? Jim frowned.

There was something else on the tip of Spock’s tongue which he bit back, but which filtered through the bond. With my body I shall thee shield; haven of safety in time of need. If that ancient saying were true, then Spock had indeed fulfilled it today. In spite of what he was feeling, the grief, soul-deep weariness, confusion, anger, pain, Jim could recognize and respect the commitment Spock had made to him.

Spock’s action required some acknowledgement. With a shaking hand, a broken heart, and great uncertainty, he held out two fingers, and Spock met them with his own, his eyes widening and then softening. Kaiidth: the deed was done, a bond formed which could not be undone. There was no choice but to work out how to go forward together.

***

He’d forgotten: bonds required a certain amount of time spent in close proximity to truly settle, and for the minds of the new bondmates to become more accustomed to each other. At least, that had been the case with his first bonding. Lying in bed having woken from a heavy dream, Jim contemplated his situation again, his mind attempting to make sense of it all.

Gods! Jim thought, disbelief making his stomach feel as heavy as lead. My first bonding. Didn’t expect that one. Certainly didn’t expect… this.

Even in a case of extraordinary compatibility such as this obviously was, Jim would need to be close to Spock for the next few days. McCoy had reluctantly released him from sickbay, insisting on another two days of bed rest, something Spock was enforcing.

Accordingly, Spock had moved some of his belongings into Jim’s quarters. Sharing a bed should have been weirder than it was. Not that they had done anything more than spoon one another as they slept; that was something else Jim found strange. Didn’t Vulcan bonds require a joint sexual climax to be completed? And yet, Spock had made no such overtures, and in any case, the bond felt full in Jim’s mind, as full as it had been with his previous bondmate after the pon farr. Being honest with himself, he didn’t really want to have sex with Spock anyway, his heart still too bruised and tender for the one he’d lost. Nevertheless, he puzzled over differences he didn’t understand and which bewildered him.

For all the similarity, for all the mental compatibility with his First Officer, Jim still couldn’t reconcile the difference between the two Vulcans. They felt both the same and completely different, as though the essential lattice of their thoughts was similar, but the contents supported by that structure were parsecs apart.

His first bondmate had held an overwhelming and unconditional love for Jim, and only for Jim. Sure, at times he felt that esteem was only borrowed from the one to whom Spock had been bound in another time and place. But it had nevertheless been fulsome, warm, and unshakeable.

Spock wasn’t in love with him, and it hurt. Jim sensed through the bond that Spock’s heart was still given to Nyota; there was loyalty and affection and commitment and duty owed to Jim, yes. But it wasn’t the unconditional, never-ending support, desire, and affirmation he’d come to depend on. This bond was quiet in Jim’s mind, and not because Spock was shielding. He knew it wasn’t fair to expect this Spock to act or feel or… anything, really. But that didn’t stop his own heart from grieving the loss of what he’d had, or from wishing this bond could be every bit as breathtaking as the previous connection had been.

Jim shuffled into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. He’d had a restless night, finally falling off to sleep when he’d allowed himself to be lulled by the sound and sensation of Spock’s deep, even breathing behind him. When Spock had left Jim’s quarters for his shift, Jim must have been deeply asleep, for he didn’t notice his bondmate’s departure. Looking at his reflection now, he saw disheveled hair, dark circles under his eyes, and the shabby pajamas he preferred. He also saw a broken heart reflected in pain-filled, red-rimmed blue eyes.

There was an unexpected flash of searing pain: the one he loved was gone! Followed swiftly by another: rejection! Fat tears formed and fell, making silvery trails which caught the light before they plopped to the countertop. He was alone. Alone. Alone…

Dark thoughts circled like carrion-fowl, pecking at his sense of self. Did Spock really want him? Was he merely pre-loved, pre-used, broken-in to Spock, old leather to be ridden by a new owner? Was this something they might have come to gradually on their own, without the influence or incursion of another universe, without Elder Spock’s interference? Or was he trapped? Had he and Spock both been forced into living what his counterpart and the Ambassador had had in another time and place, just because of the Elder’s emotional compromise? Was Jim a victim here? Was he a subject or an object? And could he escape fate and the hand of destiny? He’d never believed in destiny before, and he didn’t want to believe in it now.

He felt cold all over, and found himself on the floor, his back to the tiles beside the toilet, hugging his legs. He couldn’t breathe! Gasps… bands of steel around his chest, and the dark birds of anguish and pain and anger circled in his vision. It was too much. It was… he’d be better off dead. Why was he still alive? Let him die, right here on the bathroom floor. Can’t… breathe! Can’t… can’t…

***

Panic sizzled through the bond, spiking Spock’s awareness. He berated himself; he should have been listening more attentively to the fragile emotional state of his bondmate. And now those strong emotions were bleeding through most disconcertingly. It distressed Spock to feel such strong negative emotions from his mate; his instinct, ancient instinct finely honed, was telling him he should be defending his mate from the monsters whether they were real or imagined, lematya or mental processes. How could he have missed the signs? Spock had been deeply engaged with some fascinating results from a dichromatic spectrographic survey of the latest star system the Enterprise had passed by. Those results were pointing to something of astrophysical significance, though Spock couldn’t put his finger on what that was. Such interest was still an insufficient excuse for ignoring a t’hy’la’s need.

As the anguish of his bondmate reached a critical intensity, Spock dropped everything and left science lab four, calling to Doctor McCoy as he tore through the corridors to reach his mate. Bursting through the bathroom door, Spock found Jim almost blue in the face and at the edge of consciousness.

“Jim!” Jim couldn’t afford either to stop breathing or lose consciousness; his system, including his lungs, was still weak after his recent ordeal with his broken bond and sympathetic illness. The last thing he needed was to further compromise his health with a panic attack.

Spock stood frozen for a moment before his memory kicked in: he knelt next to Jim, catching up one hand to place on his own chest.

“Breathe with me, Jim. In… 2… 3… Out… 2… 3…. Breathe, Jim. Feel my breathing. Breathe with me. In…” Through their connection Spock sent waves of reassurance that Jim wasn’t alone.

McCoy arrived, medkit in hand.

“Panic attack?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Spock nodded, continuing the steady breathing rhythm he’d established. McCoy ran his tricorder over Jim. While the man was shaking, his breathing still erratic, he was at least breathing, and the hand on Spock’s chest was clinging to his shirt.

“You’re doing great, Spock. There’s not much more I can do right now.” He addressed Jim. “You’re going to be ok, Jim. Deep breaths.” The doctor continued to kneel beside Spock.

Spock could feel the wild crest of his bondmate’s emotions gradually stilling and calming. He also felt his own exhaustion. Since bonding with Jim, Spock had been dealing with mental disorientation. Jim’s emotions were overwhelming and as changeable as the ocean his eyes mirrored. Jim had thankfully learned to shield to some extent, although it was by no means consistent. So be it: shielding was a technique that took practice, and for a being as vibrant as Spock’s Captain, it could take years before he reached proficiency. In any case, at this early stage the bond practically demanded an absence of shielding. The intensity of emotions flowing across the bond was part of its settling, and to be expected.

“That’s it, Jim,” McCoy soothed. Jim’s hands no longer clenched into fists, and his arm slid down from around his knees. Spock had to hold Jim’s other hand to his chest because it had gone limp as the adrenaline high worked its way out of Jim’s system.

The open and unshielded bond probably had something to do with Jim’s attack, Spock reasoned. For if Jim was open to Spock, Spock’s own barely-acknowledged feelings were also open to his mate’s experience and scrutiny. Which meant, Spock realized too late, the man would be aware of Spock’s inner turmoil concerning him: the fact that it was not easy to simply stop loving someone one moment and transfer the intensity of those feelings to someone else the next; the fact that Spock wrestled with seeing Jim as the one he desired, rather than an object of duty;  his awareness of and attitude toward Jim’s prior state of having been bonded to another, of having been at the last rejected by that other, and the primal suspicion that that rejection was not only owing to the circumstances of the original bond, but perhaps had to do with Jim himself…

Not for the first time over the past few days, Spock reminded himself that he had chosen this, had chosen the bond with Jim. Part of him acknowledged grimly that, at least for now, he would have to actively continue to choose to be bonded to Jim each and every day. They had been friends first, and so there was affection between them, regardless of the bond—that, Spock sensed from Jim; there was no hint of betrayal or rejection at the level of friendship. It was a good beginning, and a solid foundation from which to work. Spock knew he loved Jim; it simply wasn’t the affection usually associated with intimate relationships.

He sighed. He acknowledged the complexity of what he felt for Jim, although he would not call it romantic love. Until desire developed (and it would, one way or another, because pon farr eventually would force intimacy), Spock was prepared to embrace determined service, engaging in behaviors of mind and patterns of action which would foster the bond. His mother had once said something about there being many different types of love; perhaps this change in his relationship with Jim would prove that. He could only hope that the shift would happen before the fires touched his blood, and that by the time it eventuated Jim would at least be open to Spock’s advances.

Spock felt a pang, and suddenly aware of the bond’s communicative qualities, he raised light shields so his bondmate would not be hurt by his thoughts: it would take some time for him to adjust to the fact it wouldn’t be Nyota who shared his Time. Logic had its uses, but while he could logically declare Jim his Chosen, the emotional and physical connection he’d had with Nyota was not so simply discarded. Nor should it be, if he were properly to honor the relationship they had shared. Spock knew Jim saw himself as runner up to Nyota. He had seen Spock’s love for her, and cringed away. Knowing how his previous relationship with Nyota affected Jim, Spock carefully stowed the broken pieces of his situation for later meditation. His focus right now needed to be on Jim.

Jim’s breathing had evened out. He slouched limply, exhausted. On an impulse, Spock reached for the human, drawing him into his arms and cradling his head on Spock’s breast. Jim heaved a shuddering breath and sighed—a good sign that the worst of the attack had passed.

After running his tricorder over Jim one more time, McCoy nodded, fishing into his medkit for a hypo which he applied to Jim’s neck.

“Hopefully this triazolam will work quickly. Make sure he drinks some water before lying down. And you’ll probably want to stay close to him, though don’t assume what he wants; ask him. It’s important that Jim regains his sense of self and power of choice.”

“Jim,” Spock murmured, “Would you like to rest?” The man nodded into Spock’s tunic. “I’m taking you to bed. All right?”

Taking the absence of disagreement as an affirmative, Spock carefully gathered Jim’s limp form in his arms, and carried him to their bed, nodding to McCoy as he left.

“Let me know how you get on,” the Doctor said as the doors swished shut.

Spock paid him no heed, his focus on his bondmate as he laid him down gently. He fetched a glass of water and held it to Jim’s lips as he drank, before sitting on the edge of the bed. Jim rolled over, facing away from him. Spock laid a hand on Jim’s hip, his thumb absently pressing soothing circles through the fabric of Jim’s sleep pants.

“I am here, Jim.”

When there was no response to this after several minutes, Spock tried again. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Jim shook his head into the pillow.

“Let me fetch you more water and you can rest.” Spock refilled the cup in the bathroom, and brought it to his mate, who was huddled in on himself in a fetal position. Spock gently shook his shoulder. “Here. Sit up. I shall assist you.”

With some coaxing Jim sat up, refusing to meet Spock’s eyes. Oddly, Spock wasn’t sensing very much through the bond; he reasoned that this was his brain’s way of coping with the flood of adrenaline and the subsequent come-down. Jim drank from the cup Spock held to his lips, Spock wiping away with a thumb a stray drop before he went to set the cup aside.

Jim resumed his former position, turned away from Spock. Spock worried for his mate, wishing he would communicate either verbally or through the bond what had triggered the anxiety response. Spock realized that was an impudent expectation, especially coming from him, a Vulcan, who was himself fighting years of training in eschewing emotions. Right now, he wanted Jim to know he was there, to feel him, to know he didn’t have to be alone in dealing with whatever was burdening him so. He laid his hand on Jim’s upper arm.

For several minutes he stroked gently. It felt as though Jim were drifting to sleep, so he went to rise—only to have a hand grasp his, pulling him forward.

“Sleep with me?” Jim’s voice was soft and quivering.

Spock didn’t need to be asked twice. He settled in to spoon the warm body with his own, Jim drawing Spock’s arm around him. As he settled behind his bondmate, Spock acknowledged the simple pleasure of holding this man.

***

Nyota shoved several sets of pants into the suitcase on the bed. She wouldn’t have done this if she could help it, but the fact remained that all Starfleet personnel were entitled to only a certain number of synthesizer credits, and she simply couldn’t afford to replicate her entire wardrobe. For the last two months since she and Spock had… since the tel between her mind and Spock’s… since Spock had chosen the Captain over her… Fuck it all to hell!

She picked up a vase she had gifted Spock, a piece by a famous glassworker on Fundar Prime. It was tempting to hurl it against the mirror, to hear it smash and shatter. But she did not need to engage in senseless violence to express her ongoing pain. Instead, she set the vase down, deciding to leave it for Spock, and breathed deeply as the ship’s psychologist had instructed her.

For the last two months she’d avoided coming here, living in the three uniforms she’d managed to grab in her haste to leave after her last conversation with the Vulcan. Oh, she’d known Spock was effectively living with the Captain now. But she hadn’t wanted to risk running into him off-shift.  She was still angry and hurt, although it was beginning to lose its tight grip on her life, and she now felt she had the fortitude to be able finally to clear her belongings from the space she’d shared with Spock.

I understand, but I don’t understand: why did he choose Jim over me? she wondered sadly for the umpteenth time, in spite of the fact she knew the answer already: because the pull of t’hy’lara was too strong.

Her fingers wrapped around a delicate carving of a grundlebeast, the Braxian version of a horse. Spock had given this to her, she remembered, a token from a first contact mission. He had spent all morning listening to the chief Braxian scientist as he had carved this miniature before freely giving it to Spock. Spock said the strongly telepathic Braxian had read his mind, and had woven into the piece Spock’s thoughts and feelings for Nyota. The creature was poised with its mane flowing in an unseen breeze, its forelegs charging the air, its nostrils flared. Every sinew and muscle was perfectly finished, and the stone out of which it was made felt warm and alive to the touch—part of the miracle of the art of Braxian carving. Running her finger along the spine, she realized something. Spock wasn’t sentimental, but he always appreciated and treasured the gifts she’d given him. She carefully laid the carving on top of a skirt, cushioning it in the midst of several pairs of socks. If only she could have done the same with her relationship…

Shaking her head to clear the thought, she turned back to the closet, returning with three designer coats. She’d forgotten about these; it would be good to have them to wear the next time they had a social function on a cold-climate planet. She sighed.

Sadness and anger, depression and grief had her caught in a cycle. It wasn’t natural to her outlook; she hated feeling as though she were riding a rollercoaster of emotion. She resented Spock for putting her on it—correction: Nyota had been working through what she felt with Lieutenant Komanskowsky, the resident psychologist, and she knew her emotions were but a reaction to Spock’s choice, and not his problem but hers. The interesting thing in her conversations with Lt Komanskowsky was that she’d discovered she bore Jim no ill will. It was ironic that both of them should be engaged in a grief process. And quite frankly, she empathized with the man: how horrible must it have been for him to be rejected by one he’d grown to love, to experience his sickness and death, and then to wake up bonded to a friend? And for it to be the second such experience in Jim’s life, the second unsolicited bonding, the equivalent of a Terran arranged marriage… At least, Nyota comforted herself, she had the power to choose whether to engage in a relationship with someone else. Jim had never even been given that option. She couldn’t be angry with Jim Kirk, even though she’d tried.

Jim. She worried about him.

Biting her lip, Nyota tucked an evening dress into the portmanteau.

Jim hadn’t been himself at all since bonding with Spock. He rarely smiled or laughed, and was unusually quiet compared to the Jim Kirk she’d grown used to over years in space together. In fact, the Captain appeared for his shift every day, completed his work as efficiently as always, and then returned to his quarters—at least, as far as she knew. He’d stopped socializing with the crew, and his yeoman had taken to delivering food to his quarters, which was often returned to the kitchen untouched. He’d lost weight, although he didn’t look unhealthy. And perhaps the most telling symptom was that he’d stopped going on away missions unless there was no other choice.

Several times she’d turned in her seat as he passed her station on the bridge, meaning to enquire after his health, or to offer some kind of reassurance of solidarity, an offer of friendship. But he passed on, not noticing her or anyone else, whether deliberately or because he was so consumed by his own issues. In any case, they’d not spoken outside of duty since before Spock had bonded with Jim.

Last week at the end of their bridge shift, Nyota had decided to seek the Captain out, to speak to him. Once again he’d brushed by her, striding to the turbolift, and she’d sworn under her breath at losing the chance to catch him. Later, on her way to the mess for dinner, feeling melancholic she had taken a circuitous route through rarely used corridors on Deck 6, and had been just about to turn a corner when she had overheard a conversation in progress.

“… is it not logical?”

“Spock, I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Jim, we must. You have resisted such a conversation, and it needs to be had. This cannot continue. I cannot continue to live in this manner. You are suffering, and it is within my power to alleviate that suffering.”

“But you don’t want me. It wouldn’t be right.”

There was a sigh. “We are bonded,” Spock’s voice explained with infinite patience, “and it is the duty of bondmates to meet each other’s need. I am offering to meet your need.”

“Yes. But it’s not just about duty, or logic! I can control myself; it’s not like I’m so sex-starved that I can’t survive without it. In fact, I can’t believe…” Jim sounded as though he were becoming increasingly irate.

“Of course, Jim. I was not implying anything by my suggestion. I was offering.”

“Yes. Out of duty,” the word was spat. “Out of some sense of honoring an ancient code.”

The silence was brittle.

Another sigh, this time from Jim. “Sorry, Spock. I shouldn’t have—”

“Jim,” Spock began quietly at the same time, a tenderness in his imprecation, “if duty and the honoring of my people’s ancient tradition is all I am able to give you, then be assured I shall endeavor to devote it to you.”

“Is that all there is, damn it?” But there was no bite in Jim’s tone, the fight going out of him, to be replaced by pensiveness. He huffed. “Would you listen to me go on. It’s not as though I even know what I want right now. I’m so angry. And I want him. But I don’t. I miss him so, so much,” Jim’s voice quavered, as though he were tearing up. “And I’m drawn to you because of the bond. And I…”

There was a shuffle, a step forward, and then a sigh embodying connection. Nyota dared not move or even breathe.

“Are we still friends, Spock? Brothers, like we were? Do you still feel…”

“Jim, I am fond of you. I desire that your life continue, because mine would be diminished by your loss.”

“That’s why you did it.” Jim’s voice was muffled, as though his face were pressed to Spock’s shoulder. There was another pause, this one more comfortable, companionable. “You know, that’s love, Spock,” he said sadly.

“I may never be able to give you what he did.”

“No. But then you’re not going to go running off to some other ex-bondmate in extremis mortis like that bastard did, are you? You’re not going to abandon me too?” There was a hint of uncertainty in Jim’s voice.

“Jim!” Another shift, and a thunk as something heavy connected with a bulkhead with a soft oomph. “All that I am and all that I have to give is yours, and the very thought that I would do such a thing to you, t’hy’la, is anathema to me.” The sound of a zipper being drawn down and breathing becoming heavier filled the space. “Let me meet your need, Jim.”

A cry was silenced as though by meaty flesh; whether protest or surprise or want Nyota couldn’t tell, and she didn’t wait to find out.

The next day the Captain had appeared more rested, if not at peace. Nyota supposed that was to be expected; the man was grieving after all, and she of all people knew and understood the wild process of sorrow and heartache.

Her hand alighted upon the red chiffon gown she’d worn several times in games of seduction. She’d always been irresistible to Spock in this one. Nyota smiled wryly. Perhaps she should leave it for Jim… Or burn it.

The door swished open, and Nyota swung around. Jim Kirk stopped abruptly as he stepped into the room and saw her, the door immediately swishing shut behind him.

“Oh. Uhura. I’m… uh…” He flailed about. “I’ll go.” He turned, and she leapt after him.

“No! No, don’t do that,” she said, a hand on his arm. Jim glanced down at where she touched him. She let go.

They stood, looking at each other. Nyota’s heart was in her throat, and there was suddenly simultaneously a great deal she wanted to say, coupled to an inability to know where to start. The incident in the corridor on Deck 6 flashed in her mind, and she swallowed.

“Look, I realize—”

“Lieutenant, I’m sorry, I—”

They both stopped.

“You go—”

“Please—”

Nyota snorted. This was ridiculous. She took a deep breath, and then stepped forward to wrap her arms around Jim. After a moment, his hands closed over her back in surprised reciprocation. For a minute or so, they simply stayed in place before separating gently.

“Jim, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry about everything.”

“It’s not like any of it’s your fault, Nyota. If anything, I should be apologizing to you. In fact, I, uh. I found you because I want to, you know, talk.” He brushed a hand up the back of his neck. “I know how much Spock loved—loves—you, and from what I’ve felt from him through the bond, he knows how you love him too. I’m so sorry to have become the wedge driven between you.”

Nyota shrugged diffidently, turning away slightly to fold and refold a shirt. Jim moved, coming around to sit on the bed.

“We haven’t really talked since it… Well, since it all happened. To tell the truth, I didn’t know what to say to you,” he finished awkwardly.

“That’s all right. I’ve been pretty angry, though I’ve been talking with Lieutenant Komanskowsky. It’s helping,” she shrugged again, and resumed collecting her belongings.

“Spock’s not been able to come back here except when he needed something specific. Duty is a powerful motivator for him. But this—his break up with you, bonding with me—has affected him deeply.” Nyota felt acutely uncomfortable at Jim’s words. “He says love is not an emotion he feels for me.” Jim absently stroked the cover on the bed. “He says he is ‘fond’ of me, and that if I wasn’t around his life ‘would be diminished’.”

“That’s Spock all over,” Nyota murmured, her heart aching and torn for herself, for Spock, and for Jim. What did Jim want of her? What kind of response was he expecting from her?

“Did he bring you tea or coffee in bed?” he asked eventually.

“Sometimes.”

“He’s always looking out for me, doing little things.”

“Mmmm,” Nyota agreed. “It’s one of his characteristics which I found endearing: he doesn’t express feelings or love readily, but he does try to show it in his actions. Has he been bringing you gifts?”

“Little things. A data tape with an interesting article. A handwritten note. A flower from Sulu’s greenhouse. A teapot from his collection.”

“What do you mean, collection? He only has five in storage.” Jim smiled wryly, and Nyota’s own lips quirked a little at the joke. “Take note of those gifts, Jim. He used to do it for me. I liked to think that each of those little gifts was an indication he was thinking of me.” She trailed off reflectively. “I’m glad he’s doing those things for you, Jim. It’s a sign he’s trying to make this work.”

“It’s… sweet,” Jim said.

“Yeah. Once he makes a commitment, he has the integrity to follow through on it. Don’t forget that, Jim.” Sadness filled Nyota again. She did miss Spock’s way of showing her the place she’d had in his life. Would she have that again with someone someday?

“Nyota, I want you to know that I recognize how much you lost, how much Spock’s given up, in order that I can still be here. I’m sorry, and thank you for being so understanding. He still loves you.”

“He probably always will, as I’ll always love him. But Jim, you already see how he’s trying to direct his attention to you.”

Tears filled Jim’s eyes, and he looked down to the mattress he sat on, picking at a thread. “Yeah. But I don’t know if I’ll ever love him. Not like…”

She came around the bed and sat down next to him, taking his hand. “I imagine nothing will ever be like what you had with the Ambassador. Give Spock a chance. Maybe what you have with him will be different, but also good—if not better. One day.”

Jim thanked her again and left, and she remained seated on the edge of the bed, thinking about the conversation she’d just had. Jim was in an even more vulnerable place than she’d guessed. She couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of the way Spock’s attentions were being lavished on the man. On the other hand, she wanted to see the spark in Jim’s eyes again, to feel the zing of his energy as he arrived on the bridge at the beginning of shift, and the confidence his own attitude inspired in his crew. If she could help that to happen, she would do what she was able.

“I hope you come to love him, Jim,” she said to the empty cabin. “And I hope he realizes how deeply he loves you, too.”

***

Chapter Text

***

Spock lay on his side, watching the curves of Jim’s body rise and fall as he slept. It was all he could do to prevent himself from reaching out a hand to trace the soft flesh of his abdomen, the bone of his hip, and back up the hard muscle of Jim’s side, to reassure himself that his mate was alive, and though exhausted and bruised, safely sleeping here in their bed.

They’d managed to locate the Captain before the Klingons could use the mind-sifter device on him. Spock shuddered at the thought of that device, and the potential damage it could have done to Jim, and to the bond they shared.

He mentally reached out to it now, feeling the intangible silken cords connecting his life to Jim’s. Right now he was lost in unconsciousness, his mind quiet, although after what they’d experienced over the past week, Spock wouldn’t be surprised if he had nightmares. He quietly resolved to guard Jim’s sleep, and while dreams were necessary for the human mind, Spock wouldn’t let the dreams turn sour. Often in the course of the six months since he had bonded with Jim, Spock had had cause to intervene in his nightmares: to make a quiet suggestion along the bond, to send a pulse of fortifying courage or overwhelming protection into his mate’s sleeping mind, or, if it were serious enough, to wake the man and hold him until his heart rate steadied and they could both sleep.

In the last few days, he’d come close to losing Jim, and with that experience a realization had dawned: Spock wanted this human whose being called to his own. He felt him in the beat of his own heart, and coursing through his veins. Jim had so become a part of Spock that he couldn’t bear to face life without him. He recognized this for what it was: the product of his commitment to Jim, and the result of months of giving him his bounden duty and service. It was different to what he’d felt for Nyota; it was dangerous, this feeling that made his heart beat faster and unpredictably. It was all-consuming and untamable. He could understand now the passion of pon farr, and the importance of having a bondmate to share it. Absently, he wondered if those ancient fires were drawing closer. If so, he and Jim needed to sit down to talk about it soon.

For while the dynamic of what lay between them had changed, Spock still sensed that Jim was conflicted. Grief, after all, is a process with no set ending or beginning—even for Vulcans. Time often gentled its sharpness and gave the griever resilience. But grief kept its own schedule. And Jim had been grieving and angry.

What impact this latest mission gone awry would have on Jim was yet to be seen. The fact that Jim lay beside him now, the lovely expanse of his skin naked to Spock’s gaze might be an indicator of what had changed between them, Spock reasoned, unable to keep himself from almost purring in satisfaction.

He had been emotionally compromised when Jim had disappeared. “Emotionally compromised” was an embarrassing understatement, and the strength of his reaction to the thought of his bondmate being lost, being harmed, would need hours of meditation to calm, even now. The Ferdian traders the landing party had encountered at a trading outpost were Klingon operatives, hitmen trained for one purpose. So far from the Neutral Zone, the boldness of those Klingon abductors had been breathtaking; they had to have known that if caught, they likely faced loss of life.

The experience had stirred in Spock the instinct to connect, to hold his bondmate to himself and shield him from the dangerous world. Logically, he resisted that wild Vulcan urge, while acknowledging the change in how he perceived Jim. This mission had certainly changed both of them, and while the circumstances weren’t ideal, Spock was nevertheless grateful for the changes.

Since the conversation in the corridor on Deck 6, their intimacies had become a constant. Jim had been won by Spock’s argument about meeting the need of one’s bondmate—but he also had unconscious rules about the circumstances in which he would accept Spock’s assistance: He always insisted on reciprocation; whatever Spock did to him, he did in return. He allowed hand jobs and blowjobs, but never first thing in the morning, and only when he’d reached a level of physical tension and frustration which required that variety of discharge. He preferred them both to be mostly dressed or covered; and while he was willing to hold hands, to touch Spock, to engage in Vulcan contact of the sorts mates were privy to, he did not allow human kissing. Spock found this odd, but accepted it for what it was—a utilitarian approach, acquiescing to the pace at which Jim wanted to proceed.

Today, from the moment Spock had found him, curled and shivering in a dank Klingon prison cell; from the moment those blue eyes had looked up at him with such fear and desperation and dawning hope as Jim’s arms had locked around Spock’s neck; from that moment of rescue, Jim had barely been able to stop holding onto him. Even in the debriefing, the Captain’s hand had unexpectedly arrived on Spock’s thigh, and when Spock had moved his hand to cover Jim’s, he’d turned it over, clutching Spock’s so tightly it went numb.

Once they’d got back to their quarters, Jim had wanted to touch Spock all over, to be as physically close to him as possible, skin to skin. Tonight as they’d lain together after mutually “meeting one another’s need” Jim had been reluctant to part, even to clean up after their intimacy, his hands roaming and mapping Spock’s body as though he were about to disappear. Spock had welcomed this change, and he had sensed another deepening in the bond. No, deepening was inaccurate. It was more like a stringed instrument growing into its own through being played.

Jim’s fingers traced swirling designs on Spock’s chest, teasing and pulling lightly at the hair on his pectorals. Jim’s face rested on Spock’s shoulder, and Spock had his arm around this precious being.

“I was so scared, Spock. They were going to come… tomorrow, the next day, I don’t know. He said he’d peel my mind like a pea and then suck out the pulp.” Jim shuddered and Spock tightened his grip. “I couldn’t feel you,” he said quietly, and Spock felt the terror through the bond as though Jim were reliving it. Jim was silent a moment before continuing. “I gave up hope that you’d find me.”

“I shall always come for you, t’hy’la,” Spock said, with steel in his voice. This one would never again feel vulnerable or scared or be endangered in such a way if it were in his power.

Jim rolled over, pillowing his chin on both hands. “It’s not your fault, you know. All that time in deep space with hardly any conflict at all, and the first mission we get on return to Federation territory, this happens.”

Spock frowned. “Perhaps our security procedures require revision. I shall speak with Chief Hendorff at the beginning of shift, and shall schedule a series of drills.”

Jim hummed. “I don’t know. It might be that we got too complacent doing drills, and then when the real thing came along… Mind you, we weren’t expecting the real thing. It was to have been a simple marketplace exchange.”

Spock didn’t respond immediately, the mission flashing before his mind’s eye.

The Enterprise had been delivering sundry supplies for forwarding to the Deraldis scientific facility on Kerla Prime, in exchange for samples of newly developed metals which had the potential to surpass the duranium and tritanium Starfleet used in shipbuilding. Jim had beamed down along with the Chief of Operations in order to confirm delivery and sign for receipt of goods with the broker. On the way out of the broker’s tent, Jim had instructed the Chief and her two foremen to return to the ship and organize transfer while he went to find something to eat (and a gift for Spock). He’d promptly disappeared without a trace. The authorities had been unhelpful, and the worst of it was that because of the magnesite for which the system was renowned, the Enterprise’s scanners were going haywire; when commanded to search for Jim’s biosigns, the scanners had located a foul-smelling fruit the size of a large melon in the subtropical area of the southern hemisphere’s smaller continent.

Throughout the search Spock had endured a sense of “wrongness”. He had initially dismissed this as fanciful imaginings, but as the day drew on the awareness began to itch, pulling at his sense of direction. While he’d been unable to discern anything other than Jim’s strongest emotions through the bond, once the away team had returned to the ship he had focused his thoughts and discovered that it acted something like a compass, its true north always pointing towards his bondmate. The bridge crew hadn’t questioned his orders to plot a seemingly nonsensical course, and the Enterprise had located the Captain five days later in a miserable facility on a moon in a system three parsecs from Ferdia.

“Had I failed… had we not shared a bond…” Spock began, but lacked the words to continue.

Jim shifted up, pressing his body along Spock’s side, reaching a hand to brush through his hair.

“Then it’s just as well we’re bonded, isn’t it?” Cerulean pools fixed him with an intense gaze in which Spock could sink forever. Something fluttered in his depths at Jim’s soft declaration.

“It has its advantages,” he pontificated.

There was much on which to meditate, and in the effort to recover Jim Spock had foregone deep meditation. At the same time, Spock couldn’t bear the thought of being far from Jim tonight. He rose, donned a robe, and set out his mat on the floor on Jim’s side of the bed, and set himself the task of ordering the immense feelings Jim evoked in him.

***

Three days after Spock had found him in the Klingon cell, Jim sat in his chair on the bridge, observing Spock work at his station. He had such mixed feelings swirling through him, and for days now had been irritatingly close to tears every time he contemplated his bondmate.

Spock was an incredible individual. He had to recognize that: intelligent, sharp, an ironic sense of humor. Was that all that different from his first bondmate? Yes, and no. He couldn’t help but compare and contrast the two; in most such studies, the difference was a frustrating sense that he already knew what his Spock was capable of becoming, and why wasn’t he like the Ambassador yet? But that wasn’t fair. This Spock, the one whose ass was turned in his direction—and it was a very nice ass—had already had a life at variance with his first bondmate’s history. For instance, Jim knew that at the age he and his Spock were now, Ambassador Spock would not have been capable of taking the step Jim’s first officer had in bonding with Jim. At the age he and his Spock were, the Ambassador and his Captain were not yet serving together, and had not yet developed the kind of rapport that would later characterize their relationship.

So it wasn’t fair for Jim to compare the two Spocks. In this recent mission, his Spock had suffered, his fear palpable like a suffocating miasma through the bond, until the moment he’d laid eyes on Jim and had been able to ascertain for himself that Jim was relatively unharmed. He’d known through their bond Spock’s wild-eyed determination and single-minded focus in locating Jim. And that had triggered the emotions which were just beneath the surface.

Jim was weary of his grief, weary of pushing Spock outside his boundary. Sitting in the chair now, all he wanted to do was to wrap his arms around Spock in gratitude, in solidarity, in… the emotions which were now overpowering Jim’s capacity to think.

Spock stood up slowly and straightened before deliberately walking down to the command console. He bent down and said softly to his mate: “Jim, what do you need? Your distress is my distress.”

Jim rose, throwing his arms around Spock’s neck and burying his face in Spock’s shoulder.

Nyota looked up from her work in concern, taking the earpiece from her ear, and silently communicating in a nod to Spock. Spock managed to usher Jim into the turbolift before the human broke, sobbing.

“Jim, what is wrong?”

Jim heaved shuddering sighs. “I need you. And I miss him. Oh, Spock! It’s like an empty hole right here,” he thumped his chest with a fist over his heart, “And I’m hollow, and there’s not much left. And you deserve more than this. More than me. You’re, you’re, you’re…” He couldn’t speak through his distress.

“Shhhh,” Spock soothed, cradling him.

“He left me! I’m so angry. And I, I, I,” Jim screwed his face up in another wave of sobs. “I l-l-loved him! So much! And he… me. And I want to have the same with you. But…”

Spock held the human close, and let the pain—Jim’s, his own at hearing such painful words—wash through him.

“Why are you so good to me?” Jim asked tremulously as his breathing calmed.

“Because you are my mate,” Spock murmured softly, though Jim, in his worked-up state, didn’t absorb the words.

“I mean, h-h-here I am, and you know how much we loved each other, and you had to turn away from the love you had for Nyota to have me, but I’m not much, and you give and give and give but I have nothing to offer back, and…” A fresh surge of grief and confusion rose up and swallowed Jim. “And I want him! But I want to feel you too. And, oh!”

Spock rubbed circles on Jim’s back. It was immensely comforting and he began to feel safe in the circle of strong arms.

The lift dinged and Spock guided him to their quarters, sitting him down while he fetched water and a cool wash towel from the bathroom so Jim could bathe his stinging face.

“Come, Jim,” he urged, helping to remove Jim’s tunic, and leading him into the bedroom. “Sit here.”

Jim sat in a daze on the edge of the bed, and watched the dark head bob as Spock knelt to help remove Jim’s boots. Jim sighed, and his heart twanged at the thought of what Spock was doing for him, this tender care.

Spock helped him to lie down beneath the covers, and sat beside him on the edge of the mattress. Jim reached out a hand, fighting another round of tears, and grasped Spock’s.

“Rest, Jim. You are exhausted.”

Spock was right. The Klingon encounter had been the last straw in a long line of straws. Somewhere in the dim back of his memory Jim recalled that death of a spouse was one of the most stressful things a person could experience in life. Perhaps it was all right to feel the way he did. Which just highlighted how understanding and patient Spock had been with him. He deserved more than Jim shutting him out.

Spock rose, intending to leave, gently attempting to release Jim’s hand. Jim held on tightly.

“Stay?”

The Vulcan looked down at him, and in his emotionally fragile state Jim couldn’t interpret the look he gave him before acquiescing. After removing his shoes, Spock joined Jim on the bed, spooning him from behind, an arm encircling the human’s waist. Safely tucked against the bulwark of his mate’s body, Jim inhaled deeply and let go of the remaining tension, and with it, his confused emotions, his grief, his pain.

***

The Captain of the USS Enterprise sprawled in the state chair as comfortably as such a contraption afforded. This was the third day of negotiations with the Ktarians for admission to the United Federation of Planets. While a mostly amiable people, they were insisting on security measures to be able to defend themselves against the advancing Cardassians, whose empire bordered Ktarian space. The Federation Ambassadors were resisting any direct commitment of arms or personnel, more interested in the scientific expertise for which the Ktarians were renowned throughout the sector.

The atmosphere had been tense, and Jim felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on; the lights seemed unusually bright, he felt hot and then cold alternately, and he didn’t think the queasiness in his stomach had anything to do with lunch, though it had been several hours since he ate. He reached for his water again and sipped it, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples briefly.

The worst thing about this whole fiasco was that his First Officer and bondmate had been advocating for the Ktarians. Spock revered the work of one of their worldwide heroes, an astrobiologist by the name of Felton Keygrtaltshfeg, and so had been flirting—in a purely scientific sense—with the half-dozen elected representatives of the Science Academy. The fact that his bondmate was geeking out in a truly sycophantic way, positively fawning all over the Chair of Macrophysics and Bioengineering as they’d sat together at lunch, had contributed to Jim’s general irritation and tension. Grillt Grollergthwer was the latest in a parade of “colleagues” who had, it seemed, been waiting anxiously like clubbers outside a dance bar for their slice of Spock’s pie.

Out of nowhere Jim was smacked up the side of the head by a memory of his former bondmate.

They were lying together, hands weaving and interweaving over and over in the air above them, sated and full of shared passion. Jim had watched the wrinkled green-tinged skin, slightly papery or like old leather to his touch, and beside it, his own youthful, pink fingers; the dark blond wiry hairs sprinkled on his forearm which dragged and pulled against the less robust skin of his mate. He knew that skin intimately. Had sucked and kissed and licked, and still couldn’t get enough. This quirky half-Vulcan: he would never have enough of him.

“I’ll get the Enterprise to transport you to the conference.”

Spock began to protest.

“No, no. Listen. I’ll get the Enterprise to be your chariot-ride. Only instead of going to Caprus Prime, we’ll steal a shuttle and go hide behind a moon for a week. What do you reckon?”

“I think I shall be disappointed to miss the opportunities to sign autographs,” Spock smirked.

“Seriously?” Jim rolled onto his stomach, propped up on his elbows and looking at the amusement dancing in Spock’s eyes.

“I am somewhat of a celebrity in the scientific community. You cannot comprehend the enjoyment I derive from spending seven days avoiding being mobbed by admirers determined to ‘bend my ear’ about their latest research.”

“Surely you wouldn’t make your bondmate wait in line for an audience?”Jim drawled, tracing figures on Spock’s breast. “I am your greatest admirer, you know. That surely deserves some kind of… recognition?” He tweaked a coppery nipple, and Spock groaned.

“You shall always be first in the line,” the Vulcan said, surging up to claim Jim’s lips again.

“Fuck waiting. I want you now,” Jim muttered, wrapping his arms around his mate’s neck and returning the kiss with interest.

He never got to see the moons of Caprus Prime. The Ambassador had died before the conference could take place. Jim’s heart tore all over again, and he wasn’t sure whether his head or his heart ached more. But he did feel the sour taste of sickness which went deeper than his gut, and hated it.

He looked over at Spock and scowled. Okay, so perhaps that hadn’t been such a good idea; Spock was now sporting a halo, and there were little lights dancing around Grillt’s head.

He was struck by the vision, which was such a counterpoint to the direction and tenor of his thoughts. He sent a pulse of amusement through the bond, causing Spock to lock eyes with him. Warmth and gentle affection returned to Jim, along with concern for Jim’s physical wellbeing. Jim waved a hand. I’ll be fine. But he closed his eyes against the physical and emotional pain.

“Jim?”

He opened his eyes to see Spock hovering at his elbow. Sometimes it astounded Jim how quickly Spock could move, especially when motivated by Jim’s well-being. Jim stared at him for a moment in incomprehension, and then regained himself. He stood, and at Spock’s prompting made apologies to their hosts. Fortunately the Ktarians had been most understanding, and the negotiations were at such a point that the ambassadors could continue the conversation without them.

Once they were well clear of the negotiation chamber and on their way to the beam-up point, Jim leaned heavily on Spock.

“Thanks, Spock,” he mumbled, trying to hold himself together until Spock could hail the ship and get him to the medbay. He felt a pang at the tenderness Spock was showing him, and guilt over his earlier thoughts which had been unworthy of the mate of a Vulcan. He knew Spock’s attention was on him, a steady awareness. It still wasn’t the same as…

“I am not him, Jim,” Spock reminded patiently. Jim’s vision was swaying and blurry, and they still had another kilometer before they would reach the agreed-upon coordinates.

Perceiving this, Jim’s world tipped crazily as Spock swept him up to carry him bridal style. Right now, Jim really didn’t care how undignified it might have looked, or what kind of blow it might deal to his pride. Fact was, he felt better tucking his head into Spock’s shoulder and closing his eyes, wrapping both arms tightly around his mate’s neck.

“No,” he replied, fighting the migraine symptoms and pushing away his sorrow, because really, the solid reality of this Spock was better in the moment than memories. “But you can be yourself.”

Spock’s pleased surprise at that was the last thing Jim knew before waking up in sickbay with the most almighty migraine hangover. Thank the gods the place was dark.

A hand came to meet his on the bed.

“Spock?”

“No, it’s me, you dimwit,” Bones’s voice grumped. “Have you been doing the exercises and taking the supplements I gave you?”

“Uh…”

“I thought not. Then you brought this on yourself. Congratulations.”

Jim groaned and then grimaced as a hypospray was released against his neck. “Ouch!”

“That’s to help the headache, and to stop your nausea. Spock’ll be here in a few minutes to take you back to your quarters. You’re on bed rest for as long as it lasts, and then for a day afterwards.”

“But Bones, that means I’ll miss the negotiations.”

“Seriously, Jim?” The doctor’s hazel eyes glinted. “You’re seriously going to argue with me about sitting through that tedium? What was it you used to say at the Academy? Oh yes. ‘Bones,’ you used to say, ‘the life of a starship Captain should be action, not bandying words with idiots’.”

“I don’t have the energy to argue right now. Fine. Bed rest it is.”

“Good, and I’ll see that your Vulcan love-interest knows to enforce it, too.”

“He’s not my love-interest,” Jim protested weakly.

“Could’ve fooled me. Anyway, I’m happy for you. For both of you. Speak of the devil…”

Spock drew close to the bed, hands behind his back, an enquiring probe coming gently along the bond. “The devil, Doctor?” he said aloud, an eyebrow shooting up.

“Oh!” McCoy said, waving both hands dismissively. “Look, take this love-sick fool back to your quarters and see that he stays quiet.” He handed over two hypos with the instruction, “Give him one of these in six hours, and the last one six hours after that. And no sex for at least the next two days, do you hear me?”

“Bones!” Jim wanted to melt into the floor, something his brain was obviously concurring with, since the floor seemed as stable as jelly as he sat up on the edge of the bed. Spock reached out to steady him as he stood shakily. For once Jim had no qualms about leaning on Spock—at least while the way was clear. And when crewmembers passed them in the corridors, still the firm hand rested at the small of Jim’s back, a reassuring support.

By the time the doors to their quarters swooshed open, the medication Bones had administered had kicked in, and Jim didn’t protest Spock physically manhandling him into the sleeping area, and gently and efficiently removing his clothes.

He collapsed onto the bed with a sigh, and immediately rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.

***

Jim was seated at his desk, chipping away at some requisition orders and personnel reports.

Why was it in odd moments like this that he’d find his heart randomly panging, and his eyes tearing up with bittersweet pain, at the remembrance of his first bondmate’s face, his eyebrow lifted in an expression which said, Really, Jim? What was it about doing paperwork which triggered the ache of loss? Thankfully, there was more sweetness than bitterness this time; the pain was fading gradually, though the memories would remain. Maybe one day it would be all right to remember with gratitude the Spock whose love had known no limits, and to rejoice in having had that pure affection directed at him in the time they had shared. If he were honest, Jim knew he was also becoming more accustomed to relying emotionally on the new bond between him and his first officer, and that support was an enormous help as he worked through his feelings about his first bondmate’s death.

He shook his head and reapplied himself to his work for a minute before the door swished open. Soon after Spock had moved in, they had agreed that they would not chime for entry to their own living space, and that if either wished for a private discussion with someone else, that would take place elsewhere. Jim therefore was aware that Spock had entered, but at that exact moment was too caught up in what he was doing to notice what Spock was doing.

What Spock was doing, Jim saw when he finally looked up, was standing at attention. And it wasn’t a comfortable salute. Jim probed along their bond, but it was unreadable; Spock was evidently shielding, which he did from time to time when he needed to sit with something before bringing it to Jim. While the bond told him nothing, Spock’s stance was projecting discomfort so potent it almost stung.

“Spock?”

“Captain, I wish to speak with you concerning a personal matter.”

Jim’s eyes boggled. On duty they were always consummate professionals, Captain and Commander. But they left their titles at the door of their quarters. Jim was tempted to lighten the situation by responding jestingly in kind, but something about Spock’s manner deterred him.

“Come on, Spock. Let’s grab some tea, and sit on the couch for this.”

He went over to the synthesizer and dialed up a pot of Spock’s favorite spice tea and two mugs, and placed them on the small coffee table. Spock had thankfully complied with his suggestion, and had seated himself uncomfortably on the cushion. Jim sat down beside him, close enough so that they could feel one another’s warmth, but not so close to crowd.

“Is this really a conversation for us to have in a work sense? Or one where you need to talk to your mate? Or is it both?”

“Both. Jim, forgive me.”

“Whatever for?” Jim leaned in a little, folding a leg up on the couch so he could face Spock. He reached out a hand to place it over Spock’s where it rested on the Vulcan’s thigh, and felt the fine tremors. “Spock?”

“It is too soon! We needed more time! You are not ready.”

Little bells started ringing in Jim’s mind, and that indefinable sense of something being not quite right which had come and gone over the past two weeks sharpened and came into focus.

“Oh. You’re going into pon farr, aren’t you?”

Spock looked at him balefully, his eyes haunted with dismay.

“And you’re terrified.”

Spock dropped his gaze again and nodded once. Jim decided to give him space as he reached forward and poured two mugs of tea, handing one to his bondmate. He also needed to take a moment to compose himself; news that Spock was on the eve of his Time immediately evoked painful and bittersweet memories. A craggy face scrunched tight, the shaggy silver head thrown back as he came again and Jim swallowed and swallowed and swallowed…

Jim took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“It’s an irony, isn’t it. I mean, this will be your first pon farr?”

Spock nodded again.

“But it will be my second,” Jim mused, cradling his tea in both hands.

“You are… more experienced in this than I.” Jim didn’t know how to interpret Spock’s tone; was he jealous? He probed along the bond, and his eyes widened at the confirmation he found there.

“Spock, I might have been through one pon farr. But that was completely different. I didn’t even know what was happening last time. I was terrified when I woke up, having been…” bonded, married without conscious agreement. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. Jim noticed Spock’s hands were gripping his mug such that his knuckles were turning white. “That’s why we needed the two weeks, Spock. It took me days before…”

Spock looked up at him now.

“… before I was able to move beyond fear to something else. And only because of what he was pouring through the bond.” Jim paused. “I still don’t know whether he truly felt what he did for me, or whether he was just projecting what he felt for the other Jim Kirk onto me to make me feel better. He claimed otherwise. But I don’t know.”

One of Spock’s hands detached from his mug and sought out Jim’s. The grip was reassuring.

“Well, anyway, I’m your bondmate. You saved my life; I’ll save yours. It’s as simple as that.”

Spock’s hand withdrew. “I cannot believe you have been through this… ordeal, and yet can so flippantly dismiss it. Perhaps you do not fully comprehend the nature of this Time for Vulcans.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Spock shifted uncomfortably. “It is shameful, a loss of control, a return to savage brutality.”

“The Ambassador didn’t see it that way.”

A dark look crossed Spock’s features. “He would not. I am not him.”

“No, you’re not,” Jim placated.

“So far in of expression of intimacy, we have maintained boundaries, boundaries which shall be meaningless in the face of the raging fire and lust of the Fever.”

Jim felt the blood drain from his face. It was one thing to remember what had happened to him, to have flashbacks which were as hot as they were disturbing. It was quite another to realize he could again be in a situation in which he had no conscious decision-making capability or control over his own body.

“Jim?” Spock prompted.

There was a silence brittle enough to shatter if one of them moved the smallest muscle. Jim sighed, breaking the tension.

“I don’t think it’s something to be feared, Spock. You called it ‘savage brutality’, but that’s not how it was with the Ambassador,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “We should probably talk things through in advance. But I’ll be there to catch you. And what we don’t know, we’ll work out together. You’re not alone; I’m not alone. We can make this work.” He took a breath. “So… How long do you think you have?”

“I estimate approximately four weeks before I shall require confinement.”

“All right. We’ve both got heaps of shore leave owing; I’m sure we can arrange something with Command. There’s got to be a suitable place for shore leave in this sector.”

***

Four weeks later, Spock and his bondmate beamed down to Halii, a beautiful planet which had recently been admitted to the Federation. Jim had chosen this place because Halii was gaining a reputation for the most extraordinary and exquisite crystal deposits, and was becoming something of a tourist destination, in spite of its relative remoteness from other Federation worlds.

The only way to get to the exotic resort Jim had managed to book for the pair was by boat. They had disembarked at a point where the river they’d followed inland entered a cave system, the entrance to which was covered by an ornate screen of something like silver embedded with colored stones sparkling in the mix of sunlight and river-light.

This resort was no ordinary holiday-place, but a Canarium, a place of sacred union for the Haliians, set aside for those who were initiating a pair bond.

They stood now in an expansive room, equipped with every luxury a new couple could need. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen this as a convenient place to spend Spock’s pon farr. In the centre of the room, on an elevated plinth, was a curious cluster which was emitting an ethereal hum. Jim recognized it as a canar, a clear crystal the Haliians used to amplify the bond between lovers.

The room was cave-like, opening out into a vast chamber. A patio area eased down into a lake filled with water which glowed aquamarine, thanks to an opening in the high ceiling of the chamber through which filtered brilliant sunlight. Running off the sides of the chamber were a series of smaller, inviting-looking alcoves, accessed only through the clear water, and which begged to be explored. The daylight filtering through the aperture far above was dazzlingly bright, the water and semi-precious stones on the floor of the lake refracting sparkles of many colors. Jim had been told that this was their suite for the time they needed it, the cave and the chamber with its alcoves completely private.

Jim was suddenly mindful of the Vulcan who was standing on the patio area beyond the cave-room, his hands twitching. The bond was also uncomfortably restless between them as the onset of the plak tow drew closer.

Jim stowed his bag in a discreet cupboard beside the enormous, white-sheeted bed, and busied himself placing supplies in likely places they would need them. Having completed this, he went out to stand beside his bondmate. The Vulcan was lost in thought.

“Spock?” he asked softly, not daring to touch him, unsure how he would react this close to pon farr.

There was no response. Until now, Jim had been focused on the logistics of getting them here. Spock had required Jim’s prompting and direction to get where they were going. It had been easy to concentrate on action: this, then that, then the next thing, tasks neatly lined up which had to be checked off. It had quelled his thoughts, preventing him from facing his emotions about what was about to happen.

Having come to a standstill, there was no way to avoid the barrage of questions his mind asked, or the imagination and memory of what had been and could yet be.

Jim wondered apprehensively how this was going to go. For all the intimate activity in which they had engaged, for all the ways in which Spock had treated him—only ever tenderly, with honor, with respect, dutiful and loyal to him as Captain, friend, and mate; and for all that Jim knew by now that Spock’s attention had shifted from Uhura to himself, he still doubted. He felt shame that Spock’s choice of life-partner had been made in desperation to save Jim’s life, not from desire. Would that fidelity and loyalty be enough to see them through?

His first bondmate’s constant stream of worship had helped him to endure the ordeal. It wasn’t the same with this Spock; there were still so many mismatched places between them. And Jim had to own responsibility for some of that, because of the boundaries he’d put in place around their intimacy both physical and emotional.

Looking at it now, he’d been so foolish, and questioned himself: had he sold Spock short? Had he created the situation he was now facing?

They’d never kissed. Nor had they melded since the bond had been formed. Jim knew that this must have been hard for Spock, though he had borne it patiently and without complaint. What kind of horrible bondmate was he for withholding what his Vulcan friend needed? Jim’s thoughts were racing, his heart rate picking up as worry set in, and with it paralyzing self-doubt. Even though they had had “the talk” in which Jim had told Spock his history and just how screwed up he was, in this moment Jim felt Spock had made a mistake, bonding with him. He was nothing better than a mess, and did Spock really want him, knowing that past? What if Spock suddenly turned around and decided he didn’t want Jim?

No, no! he told himself. In the weeks since Spock had come to his cabin to inform Jim of his incipient Time, they had made time to discuss the awkward reality it would involve. They had been frank about how the limits Jim had set would need to be transcended, the fires of the mating fever knowing no boundary. Spock had expressed adamantly his intention not to hurt Jim or push him to do anything he didn’t want to do.

But now Jim was panicking. What if, in the throes of the blood fever, Spock forced him? Would he be aware of it? Or would he wake up with no conscious recollection of what had happened, just as he had with his first bondmate’s pon farr? In the cold light of reflection, Jim’s bravado faded; perhaps he had underestimated how much baggage he carried, not just of his relationship with the elderly Vulcan, but of the experience of bonding with him.

Jim took a deep breath. There was no point to worrying about these things; the coming hours and days would sort themselves out; it would be what it would be. He knew he could trust Spock; that was the biggest test of the pon farr, and there was no one else living in whom Jim trusted the way he did Spock. Even if Spock’s animal brain took over, Jim could still have complete faith in his bondmate, first officer, and friend. And that was already a far better starting point for the unpleasant tribulation which was the Vulcan mating fever than the circumstances surrounding his first experience of pon farr.

“Spock?” he asked softly again, reaching out to touch his arm.

Jim and his new bondmate were about to get physically, emotionally, and psychically closer than Jim had been with anyone other than an old half-Vulcan whose heart had been ready for him. Jim felt the tension in every fiber of his being. It was too late for him to pull out now. Besides, it would be unworthy, after the sacrifice Spock had made in receiving the broken bond into himself in the first place.

***

As Jim’s fear and self-consciousness bled into Spock’s awareness, a pressure was building within Spock’s mind, a torrent of thoughts and emotions he was losing the ability to regulate or process. The bond was itching, tweaking erratically between them in response to their thoughts, which were becoming increasingly transparent. Soon there would be no hiding…

Spock whirled around at the gentle hold on his bicep, reacting to the negative thoughts of his mate, grabbing him by the jaw and watching blue eyes go wide with surprise.

“Never… never denigrate yourself so,” he growled, his tone softening when he saw the fear budding in his mate’s eyes. He loosened his grip into a caress of fingers over delicate skin. Hunger for this man began to smolder in his gut. “Bonding with you was not a sacrifice and I do not regret it.” He released Jim, and the green flames at the edge of his vision calmed.

Over the past few hours Spock had felt changes in the bond. It was expanding, clarifying, becoming busy with the exchange of life-force. Somewhere in the back of his rational mind, he recognized that Jim’s doubts and fears were in part his human response to something he was feeling but unable to put into words. Nevertheless, the intensity with which those emotions were filtering through the bond and into Spock’s awareness was unpleasant. As the Time drew near for there to be no barriers between them, Spock found his own emotions heightened, and felt frustration that Jim seemed unable to receive them. With a sense of acknowledgement, he realized Jim’s reticence would be what he would have to overcome in order for the demands of his biology to be satisfied. That meant taking a step beyond the limit he had set for himself, perhaps out of foolish duty: he would have to woo and coax his mate into full consummation.

At that thought, something fired in his blood, and he knew his desire and intention was showing as worried speculation creased the corners of unfathomable blue eyes.

He reached for Jim’s hand. “Come,” he purred, leading Jim into the room. “The fire in my blood begins to burn. Burn with me, Jim.” Spock sent a flash across the bond, and Jim responded, his knees losing their strength as he cried out, arousal spiking through the telepathic link. Spock could feel his control was about to slip; soon they would have no control at all over what traversed the conduit between their minds.

Spock led him to the bathing area and reached to draw down the zipper closing Jim’s uniform top. He did it slowly, bending his head close to Jim’s neck and breathing deeply to taste his cologne and the tang of human skin. The goal was to drive the human mad with want and need, to take him apart piece by piece until all uncertainty was lost, and he cried out with longing for his mate. Discarding the uniform, Spock ran a finger down the black stretch of Jim’s undershirt, lifting the hem and dragging the backs of his fingernails with just enough pressure against the bare skin. Goosebumps, such a curious human feature, pimpled Jim’s chest as the fabric was removed, and Spock felt lust stirring his loins. He watched avidly as the pink aureoles of his mate’s nipples began to harden and peak. Jim’s breathing hitched.

Next, his shoes and socks, his pants, his briefs—all treated in the same way. And Spock was pleased by the reaction: Jim was already half-hard, his heart-rate elevated and pumping steadily to flush his naked skin. But Jim wasn’t naked or vulnerable in Spock’s eyes. His emotional restraint released, Spock found his telepathic senses expanding, and he saw the rainbow of Jim’s aura, the etheric, spiritual levels of who was revealed. Jim’s eyes widened; he too must have been able to perceive Spock’s essential reality, the field of existence which wasn’t limited to mere physicality. Spock felt a sweet yearning, whether his or Jim’s he wasn’t sure, for those fields to merge and be one, and that feeling pleased his Vulcan senses, trained as they were towards union with All, immeasurably.

He stood still, allowing his bondmate to perform his part of the ritual, imitating Spock’s actions until they stood before one another with nothing physical left between them.

It was a pleasant space, this room. Spock felt his expanded telepathy supported gently by the emanations of the canar-stone in the centre of the room. Yes, this would be a good space in which to join with his bondmate.

But trepidation and hesitation still colored his mate’s aura.

Spock stepped forward, reaching out two fingers: the sign of bondmates, and Jim joined his own in this familiar gesture. Almost on instinct Spock began the pattern: up and over, around his mate’s hand, until ta’al shaped fingers pressed against each other. He groaned, for this was delightful stimulation, and grasped Jim’s hand, catching the blue orbs and willing them to lock with his own as if magnetically.

Beyond the fear, something else was dawning and tentatively reaching out. Spock ceased his activity, dropping their joined hands and reaching up to cup Jim’s cheek tenderly.

“Jim, do not be afraid. Whatever happens, I shall not hurt you; I would sooner harm myself than injure you. Beyond what is necessary for the blood fever to pass, we need not do anything with which you are uncomfortable.”

“That’s not how it was before,” the human said, casting his eyes down and off to one side. “I’m sorry, Spock. I can’t help it: I remember waking up unable to move I was in so much pain.”

Spock couldn’t stifle the protectiveness and indignant anger which stirred in him at the thought of this man being hurt by Spock’s counterpart. This would be different, he resolved. “The bond was new, and was completed when both parties were beyond conscious thought. The bond we share is already strong; when it reaches its zenith I shall be unable to hurt you without experiencing pain myself.” If he hadn’t been before, Spock was sure of it now. He wondered what he’d feared.

Jim unexpectedly laughed, an ironic, rough sound. “I should be the one reassuring you, but here you are soothing me. I had all this macho determination…”

“Jim,” an overwhelming surge of something like love for this man welled up within Spock and flowed out as he said his name. Tears sprang up in response as Jim’s eyes went wide. Spock felt the flow back of shock, disbelief, and a fledgling hope stirring within his mate, and regretted having maintained the barrier of duty.

Jim flung his arms around Spock’s neck, and Spock drew the warm body close, delighting in the weight and feel of him.

“The point of the bond is that whatever we face, it shall be together, as one. Are you willing to be one with me, completely and in every way?”

Spock felt the lingering hesitancy, a mix of the human need for mental autonomy and Jim’s own fears about his background. In spite of it, Jim nodded against Spock’s shoulder, that slight movement making Spock’s nipples rub against Jim’s chest and sending a flurry of sparks down his central meridian.

“Then let me in, t’hy’la. Let me in. See, you are welcome to all that I am.” Spock released his last, wavering shields so that Jim could see, could reach for him along the bond. He felt Jim respond, his curiosity awakened and searching.

Jim pushed back, astonishment writ large in his features, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

“Hush, Jim. There is no need for this.” Spock held his hands.

“Yeah, but I feel like a dick, holding out on you all this time, when you’ve been so good to me, so considerate.”

“I also have held back from you, Jim. Knowing this day was coming, I could have approached you sooner. We could have explored greater intimacy. But I held myself back.”

“Out of respect for me, and because you were in love with Uhura. No, Spock. You’ve been nothing but good about this, the whole way through.” Jim’s expression was earnest.

“It is what it is,” Spock dismissed, sighing. “And what will be, will be.” The fire began to build again, edging into his vision.

Jim reached up, taking Spock’s face between his hands. “I still don’t know what I feel about this, or for you, or about anything. But I want to be here with you and for you, and you’re welcome to me.”

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, that first time their lips touched; Spock’s blood-lust was building, his instinct recognizing only mate. One taste of that delectable mouth had him gasping for more, the surge towards oneness driving him to suckle red human lips, to taste teeth and breath. To crawl, if he could, inside this being, or to take him into himself; to give him the breath of life, and in turn to suck Jim’s essence into himself.

Spock placed both hands on the sides of Jim’s face, over the meld points, and they easily slipped into mindspace.

***

Millennia later, the fire banked for the moment, they swam out into the chamber, exploring the alcoves and smaller system of caverns connected to it.

One alcove appeared to be a geode-like cave, studded with amethyst points on the ceiling, trailing down the walls under the water. The Haliians had placed phosphorous lights in strategic places, and the area glowed and pulsed with the energy emitted by the crystals. Floating in the centre of the geode, the two mates could hear the high melody of the crystals vibrating.

In another chamber, a darker space, there was a comfortable nest-like bed on an obsidian shore. Overhead citrine and quartz, canar and several different varieties of chalcedony shimmered. By the time they’d discovered this chamber Spock’s need was surging again, and they enjoyed the amplification of pleasure, joy, hope, love, and belief in the other the various crystals reinforced through the channeling of the canar. In this place, each trace of finger against flesh was like galaxies exploding into reality. Lying on his back as Spock plunged between his legs, tugging on Jim’s penis until they rode the crest of orgasm together, Jim was lost. And it was all right: he was found in the arms of someone who loved him, and, though he lacked the words for it, for whom he also held deep emotion.

They were delighted to discover as they waded back through the main pool, towards where the chamber system opened to the starry night sky, veins of warp-core blue opal flashing beneath their feet, lit from below. It was piercingly beautiful, as though they were held in the womb of earth, and would emerge as one together once the fires in their blood were quenched. Time had no meaning here, and they luxuriated in each other, their souls merging in one, bodies conjoined, minds bound together ineffably.

***

Spock’s lashes stirred. Jim watched him open his eyes, feeling some satisfaction at the collection of teeth marks and green patches he’d sucked into Spock’s skin. Spock had been true to his word: at no point had Jim been forced to do anything he didn’t want to do. He felt a rightness in having been able to give freely, and delight in Spock’s welcome of all he was. It was still overwhelming, and it was still different from his previous bonding experience. And the best thing was, he thought, that they would have decades to explore what it meant to be bonded, to go ever deeper together.

Jim knew something had changed for him, because he was eager to learn and grow with the beautiful being whose dark hair fanned on the pillow beside his.

“Good morning,” he greeted, smiling.

How had he never noticed the shades of Spock’s irises before? They weren’t just brown. They were mahogany with cherry streaks, and many times in these last days, Jim had seen those eyes with light shining through and turning them into smoky quartz.

The pon farr was completed: he saw it in the clarity of Spock’s expression and in the multiple blinks Spock made before he focused on Jim’s face. He felt it, too, in the peace transmuting the bond, which was beginning to return to its usual dimensions.

Spock trailed fingers through Jim’s sleep-mussed hair, drawing him in for a chaste kiss. Since that first kiss, they had barely been able to keep their mouths off each other, or their fingers from seeking out Vulcan kisses.

But there was still one thing he had not given Spock, one final barrier to cross. While they had shared minds throughout the Time, they had not yet engaged in an intentional mind meld while in possession of all faculties. And this afterglow in which they were cocooned reminded Jim of the gift his former bondmate had left for him, until now untouched.

Jim drew Spock’s hand to the side of his face. “Meld with me, Spock.” His voice was harsh; Spock had pleasured him until he had screamed his name again and again.

Dark rings circled Spock’s eyes, mirroring Jim’s sated exhaustion. “Are you sure, Jim?” Spock rasped. Spock had also screamed his mate’s name. A shiver ran up and down Jim’s spine at the memory.

“Yes. I want to. There’s something I want to show you.”

Jim felt Spock’s eagerness through the bond as he joined their minds.

Their shared mindspace had taken on the hues and glitter of the crystals surrounding them in the cave. Citrine-gold danced its joy, amethyst its divinity, and chalcedony glowed with gentle serenity here in the chambers of the mind, bringing healing and delight. Jim’s mental emanation laughed, and happiness and contentment rippled between them.

He took Spock’s hand and drew him deeper into his own mind, which appeared in this vision as labyrinthine and complex.

“Come on,” he urged, beckoning Spock onwards. Spock responded eagerly, pursuing his bondmate’s essential self further into the maze.

They came to a corner, carefully screened by a shimmering silvery curtain: a shield which shuddered and vanished as Jim touched it. In the space behind Jim dragged Spock towards a large box wrapped with a bow on the top like a gift.

“The Ambassador put this here for me, but I’ve never felt good about opening it. After he died I hurt too much. As you can see, he hid it from obvious prying eyes, even of a new bondmate or a telepath.”

“Indeed, he did well,” Spock commented drily.

Jim drew Spock’s hand towards the box. “I want you to open it with me, because… Well, these are his memories, and it affects both of us. And… because you’re my bondmate now, and I don’t want to do this alone.”

Spock looked at him, his eyes in Jim’s soul, their delight in each other mutual with the claim.

Together they raised the lid.

Light burst forth and played before them all the things that love can drive a man to: the ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures, the glorious victories. The lives of their counterparts, t’hy’lara in another universe, displayed the highs and lows: love spurned and mutual pining agony; reunion over a handclasp and “this simple feeling”; risking it all so that the other can live in a stunning Kobayashi Maru; stealing the Silver Lady of the skies and destroying her in the atmosphere of a dying world, the loss of ship and son not too great a price to pay; the slow and painful re-learning of a life; the ecstasies of a second bonding; a host of misunderstandings and arrogant assumptions and “everyone’s human”; the ending of life in a ribbon of fire, and so, so many wasted years.

When the memories had finished playing out, neither was unaffected.

“I think I understand now,” Jim murmured, rubbing his cheeks with a sleeve and allowing the acute sorrow and loss to ebb away, soothed by his mate’s presence.

“Indeed. It is a salutary warning against judging too quickly the situation of another.”

“He could hardly help his mind leaping out to claim mine, amplified by the anguish of a whole planet’s death cry, could he?” Jim mused. “I loved him,” he said, replacing the lid and sliding it securely in place, saying goodbye to the Vulcan who had for a short time given him great happiness, who had offered unconditional acceptance to a hungry heart. In this moment Jim let go of the complex feelings he held for his first bondmate, and leaned into the presence of the one beside him, open to who they might become together. “I’m glad I shared this with you, Spock.”

“It certainly gives definition to what happened between the two of you, and the reason for why he had to follow the bond when he died. Though I shall not forgive him for his actions; they hurt you deeply Jim, and while your wounds are healing, it displeases me that he should have been the cause.”

Jim gently reached up to touch Spock’s face, a much more intimate thing here in the mind, all actions in mindspace representations of that which is indefinable and indescribable. Jim held no blame for the elderly Vulcan; he’d finally been able to release any residual doubt and discomfort he may have felt about his first bonding. He also recognized Spock’s reaction as instinctual, and the idea that his own life was connected to that of someone who had his back was comforting as well as arousing. “Thank you for being my defender, t’hy’la,” Jim crooned, warmth flowing through both of them and carrying them out of the meld.

They continued to lie, wrapped up in each other, Spock tracing calligraphy on Jim’s arm. There was no urgency to move—at least, no urgency other than arousal demanding attention. But even that could wait as they pondered the gift left for them.

“There are a few things they did which we’ll do differently. If you go off to do kolinahr or whatever, I’ll follow you and beat down the doors. That’s not going to happen.”

“That is fair,” agreed Spock, a smile in his tone of voice. “Do you have a son, Jim?”

“I didn’t know Carol Marcus until she joined us for that mission with Khan. And you know how that turned out. And no, we never dated or slept together.”

Jim thought about Spock’s lost lovers and relatives, people who would have no ongoing part to play, their lives snuffed out untimely, now nothing more than memories flickering in Spock’s mind.

“You’re mine!” Jim declared, and he grasped and kissed his mate’s hand possessively. “Guess that means I just have to make sure I don’t go to the launch of the Enterprise B, and avoid energy ribbons lashing the sky.” He shuddered. “I never want to leave you, Spock.”

“Jim,” Spock rolled up onto one elbow, looking at him very seriously, “what we share is as imperishable as the bond of our counterparts; not even death shall sever it. What we do learn from them is that the bond will deepen with time, mutual respect, and trust.”

Jim wove their fingers together, looking deep into Spock’s eyes. What he felt from Spock, now that there were no barriers between them holding him back, was different to what he’d experienced from his former bondmate. Spock didn’t offer him the same cherishing, treasuring, endless affirmation. This Spock offered him something else, something unwavering, a grounding and solidity, a love made not of romantic passion but woven of complete faith in Jim, loyalty, and tempered by the vows of the ancient warriors whose blood flowed still in Spock’s veins.

“Let it be so,” Jim declared, closing the distance between them to dissolve into Spock body, mind, and spirit, once more. It was still acceptance. It was a guarantee.

No relationship is without its flaws, its difficulties, its triumphs, and failures. Sometimes love is made mostly of duty and loyal commitment. Sometimes it grows and sprouts unawares in the most unlikely, unlooked for places. And sometimes it’s foolish to refuse the hand of fate a role in drawing two lives together as one.

The heart knows its own bitterness. But truth says: ask, and it shall be given; seek, and you shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened. And in every universe, across all realities, may Spock of Vulcan and James Kirk ask, seek, knock, open their lives each to the other, and find there sweet remedy.

FIN