Chapter Text
Neal burst out into the sunshine on Federal Plaza and just stood there, taking deep breaths. The memory of what had been done to Heshie – of what was left of him – was enough to make him want to vomit, and he just needed the fresh air and time away from the office to think. He’d already called all eight of Moz’s numbers, including two that he knew were already burned just in case. Now he just needed to wait, and he thought it just might kill him.
He paced a tight little circle in the plaza, gnawing a thumbnail and going over it all in his head. He came to the conclusion that he didn’t know enough, that the enormity of what he didn’t know was too scary to even contemplate, and when he saw Moz he was going to hug the little goblin, then strangle him, then hug him again.
As he walked, he kept his eyes on the ground, so he practically collided with Peter before he even saw him. “Peter.”
Peter stilled Neal’s forward momentum with a hand on his upper arm that he left there, squeezing gently. “You OK? I’m worried.”
“There are some things you can’t un-see, Peter.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Heshie and I were far from friendly, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to him. I mean, who could do something like that to another human being?”
“Calm down, we’ll find them. Now, how long has this been going on? It’ll help to know.”
“I had nothing to do with it, really, Peter. It was all Moz and Hesh.”
“I believe you,” Peter said, his voice gentle. “But now there’s an actual crime, Neal, and people who are willing to do anything to get their hands on those stones. If you know anything, anything at all –“
“Let me talk to Moz, I’ll bring him around.”
“Neal, we can’t afford –“
“I’ll bring him around, Peter,” Neal said, his voice shorter than he meant it to be, but the stress of seeing what had been done to Heshie and the fear that the same thing had happened to Moz were overwhelming his ability to maintain a cool exterior. He left Peter behind, intending to head for home and hoping he’d find Moz soon.
----
Neal's cell buzzed in his pocket as he entered June’s mansion. “Moz?”
“Heshie’s dead.” Moz’s voice was flat, with no affect, which meant he was terrified.
“I know, I saw the pictures.”
“Yeah, well I saw the body – who do you think called the cops?”
“Moz, where are you? We need to take this to Peter.” Having entered the house, Neal began to trot up the stairs toward his third floor apartment.
“You really think the Suit can help with this?”
“Who else do we know that can protect you? That can get to the bottom of this, Moz? This isn’t like hiding the treasure – these people are dangerous.”
“You’re right.”
“Where are you? The sooner we get you into protective custody –“ As he spoke, Neal pulled his keys out and unlocked his apartment door.
“The better?” Moz said sheepishly from where he was sitting at Neal's table.
Neal sighed inwardly, relieved his friend was already there, and was agreeing to cooperate with the Feds. “Moz, I was really scared,” Neal admitted in a rare moment of frankness.
“Me too, mon frère. I think whoever killed Heshie might also be following me.” When Neal opened his mouth to protest, Moz held up his hands placatingly. “Don’t worry, I gave them the slip before I came here. Are the stones still safe?”
“That’s all you’re thinking of?” Neal snitted.
“If they’re going to help me get out of this alive, then, yes, I’m thinking about them.”
“Well don’t worry – they’re safe. Now let’s get you to the Bureau before anything else bad happens.”
xXxXxXx
The chime at his door sounded and he roused himself. “Who is it?” he called, sitting with his back ramrod straight in the chair.
“Spock, it’s Jim.”
“Computer, lights to 70 percent,” he ordered. Then, “Come in, Captain.”
“Any developments, Mr. Spock?”
“No, sir. The subject has yet to make anything but a passing mention of the trilithium. They continue under the impression that the material is in actuality precious gemstones, though I believe Caffrey suspects otherwise.”
“We can’t let that material get into the hands of the Cardassians, Spock, it would be devastating to the history of the period, and would undoubtedly impact our own timeline.”
“Agreed, Captain. Any weapon they might use the trilithium for would surely tip the balance of power, leaving the Cardassians as a nearly unchecked force in their sector. As an aggressive race, there’s no predicting what they might do in neighboring sectors. Retrieving the trilithium must be our first priority.”
“What is going on down there?” Jim asked, changing his angle so he could watch the scene Spock had been watching.
“It is night, they are sleeping.”
“Is that Caffrey?”
“It is.”
“Huh, you expect an icon to be, I dunno, more imposing-looking.”
Spock frowned. “I do not understand why there ought to be a correlation between a person’s augustness and their appearance. He is a man like any other.”
“You like him,” Kirk pointed out, a slight smile making his lips quirk to the side.
“I have long been an admirer of his work, even if I had not taken the time to learn more of his history until recent events made it necessary.”
“No, Spock, you like him. You find him appealing, I can tell.”
Spock blinked at his friend and furrowed his brows. “I – feel I have grown to know him better during the course of my surveillance, yes. While it is necessarily one-sided and even intrusive, I find I esteem him greatly. I have had two occasions to watch him work, and it has been elucidating.”
“And the fact he paints practically naked has done nothing to pique your interest further?” Kirk was grinning openly now. Spock felt the color rise in his cheeks and silently cursed Nyota, who had clearly reported some of their conversation to the captain.
“It does not, Captain,” Spock replied, perhaps too forcefully.
“Spock, it’s OK to admit you’ve got the hots for him. Having a crush is a normal part of the human experience.”
“Indeed, that may be, but it is not the case here,” Spock insisted, feeling the heat in his cheeks increase and spread to his ears.
Jim winked. “Keep me apprised of all developments, Mr. Spock. We may need to beam down to the planet at a moment’s notice.”
“Aye, sir.”
Spock saw the captain to the door and then returned to his observation of the sleeping man on the screen. Jim’s words reverberated in his mind and he found he could not quiet his own thoughts. He told himself the captain was wrong – he certainly felt concern for Caffrey’s safety, but it was only because he was their only link to the trilithium. He told himself that any harm that might come to Caffrey or his friends would irrevocably change their timeline, and he of all beings understood too well what one small change in the course of events meant to the universe. Naturally he wanted to prevent that from happening, as well as any danger coming to a man whose art had brought enjoyment to so many generations.
To feel anything other than esteem and respect for Caffrey was irrelevant, illogical and irrational, and his was a highly ordered, logical and rational mind.
So why, then, was he clearly falling for Neal Caffrey? The sleeping man on-screen offered no answer.
xXxXxXx
“Neal,” Peter began.
“Don’t Neal me, Peter, what you’re asking him to do amounts to suicide.”
“I’d be the first to agree,” Moz said, resting a hand on Neal's forearm, “but it was my idea.”
“What? Moz, are you crazy?” Neal thought that yes, Moz had to be crazy to think exposing himself to the very men who’d murdered Heshie would solve their problem. But after two days’ investigation, the team had been unsuccessful in flushing the perpetrators out, and Moz had been going stir-crazy inside the tiny house in Queens where the FBI had been protecting him. Some probie on the night shift had mused about WITSEC for Moz, and the very idea had given the man hives. Actual hives – Neal had seen them. Now, apparently, he’d gone to Peter to propose this latest scheme.
“Not crazy, Neal, just fed up with Feds. I want my life back, and if offering a deal to these people will help, then I’m there.”
“And how do you propose to do it?”
“Let them find me.”
Neal almost ruptured something protesting, but in the end, Moz was adamant, Peter confident he could keep him safe, and Neal really had no choice in the matter.
The plan was to have Moz hit all his usual haunts until he was certain he’d picked up a tail, then turn around and approach them, offering a deal for the stones and setting up a meeting to make the exchange. Peter and Diana were with him as muscle, with Jones and a few of the Organized Crime bruisers around just in case things got ugly.
Neal spent a tense couple of hours in the van with a surveillance tech he didn’t know, nervously folding a veritable bouquet of origami flowers. He nearly dropped the one he was working on when Moz’s voice came in over the wire.
“All right, hold it right there,” Moz was saying, and his voice sounded improbably strong to Neal's ears. He wondered at the head of steam his friend had to have worked up to be this pissed off, but it was working. ”Don’t you idiots think you’ve been following me around enough lately? What do you want?”
“You know what we want,” a male voice said and really, Neal expected the voice of evil to sound less like a folksier version of Wilford Brimley than it apparently did. ”Your associate, the smaller one, stole from us. We will need our materials returned.”
Neal heard a rustling on the wire, then Peter spoke, his voice deep and menacing, ”That’s close enough.” Neal imagined he’d be pretty intimidating and so tried to relax a bit, with little success.
”I may be able to recover what you’ve lost, but I have a price. Bring me $250,000 dollars for the inconvenience you’ve caused me, and we’ll call it even.”
The Brimley sound-alike agreed without a pause, which made the hairs on Neal's neck stand up – why didn’t they try to negotiate? In the end, they agreed on a time and a place for the exchange the following evening, one that Peter’s crew had already vetted and declared controllable from an operational standpoint. Neal would act as front man.
The stage was set, the plan set in motion, and the damned stones would be out of his life for good. So why did Neal feel so uneasy about it?
xXxXxXx
Spock, in his thorough and efficient way, had prepared a report detailing the likeliest procedures the FBI agents would employ to cover the place and protect their human assets, as well as photos and bios of the principle people involved (though any information on Mr. Moz was impossible to discover). He’d also prepared a primer on 2012 dress, slang and current events. They had had their briefing earlier in the day and were to meet just prior to beaming down, but Spock was now late – he had had difficulty choosing the appropriate tie to go with the suit he’d had the ship’s quartermaster fabricate for him, and then the mechanics of tying a double Windsor knot had proven more complicated than he’d anticipated. All eyes turned to him as he entered the room, and at least two people whistled. Spock frowned – he knew one of them had been Nyota, since he was looking right at her as she did it, but wasn’t sure who the other one had been, and suspected it might be the Captain.
“Is something amiss?” Spock asked, looking down at himself. He had chosen a dark grey suit with dove grey pinstripes, complimented by a crisp white shirt and a silver patterned tie with coordinating pocket square. He held a fedora in his hands that he would have to wear to camouflage his ears, and he hoped that the phaser and tricorder he’d brought with him would not ruin the lines of the suit. If there was anything he’d learned observing Neal Caffrey for the last several days, it was the importance of a sleek silhouette.
“Nothing,” Nyota said, clearly suppressing a smile. “You look very dashing.”
“Thank you. As do you.” She was wearing a simple shift in a clinging, dark red material, shoes whose heels made her more or less the same height as Spock, and had tied her hair into a simple knot at the back of her head that set off her long and graceful neck. “Er, I mean you look very fetching.” Their relationship had instilled in Spock the importance of complimenting a woman on her appearance.
“What about me? How did I do?” Jim asked, coming up to them with a smile. He was wearing tight jeans and a pale grey t-shirt, plus a black leather jacket and his uniform boots – basically the exact same clothes he’d have worn had they been on shore leave on any number of planets.
“What exactly is 21st century about this ensemble?” Nyota asked him.
“What isn’t? The classics never go out of style.”
“Uh-huh,” she said dubiously, though Spock did notice that she lagged behind Jim so that she had a full view of his buttocks as they headed for the transporter room.
xXxXxXx
Neal regarded the patrons and staff around him dispassionately. He assumed the ones he didn’t recognize were FBI agents from other divisions, or else some other kind of LEOs, there to provide the needed muscle. A prickling at the back of his neck alerted him to the fact that one of them was watching him. He sipped at his water and turned his head to find a young man about his height watching him intently. He was handsome, Neal thought, with pale skin and large, dark eyes the color of rich chocolate. His suit was tailored impeccably, flattering his broad shoulders and slim torso. Neal noted with a slight frown that he wore a fedora – indoors. The man noticed Neal's frown and raised an eyebrow. Neal smiled and cocked his head. The man understood the gesture for what it was and approached.
“You know, a gentleman removes his hat indoors.” Neal delivered the rebuke with his most charming smile. The young man cocked his head to the side, brown eyes intent on Neal’s.
“I am not a gentleman.”
Neal laughed. “Oh no? That’s too bad, otherwise I’d buy you a drink.”
“Alcohol does not affect me.”
“Is that a promise or a threat?”
“It is neither.”
“That’s also too bad.”
The opening and closing of the door to the street alerted Neal to the fact that his marks had just arrived; he recognized them from the surveillance photos Jones had gathered earlier. Jones, for his part, nodded subtly in their direction, and Neal took that as confirmation.
Neal turned back to the man he’d been chatting up. “Listen, don’t go away, all right? I’d like to continue to flirt unsuccessfully with you later, but for now, I’ve got a job to do, so –“ he gestured vaguely over his right shoulder and smiled again.
Neal hopped off the stool he’d been occupying, hefted the messenger bag he’d been keeping on the floor onto his shoulder and began to move to the far side of the bar to where the suspects had taken a small table in a dark corner. The young man began to follow him, so he turned and narrowed his eyes at him. “Look, guy, I don’t know what protocol you’re following, but you’ve got to let me do my job first and then you get to arrest the bad guys, OK? I don’t want you or anyone to get hurt.”
“That is precisely the reason I need to stay nearby.” His eyes, Neal noticed, were now on the bag Neal carried.
“Because you want to get hurt?”
“So that you do not.”
“That’s a – wow – kind offer, but I don’t think you understand what you’re getting into here.”
“Ironically, that statement is more applicable to you than to me.”
Neal, intrigued, looked at the man closely again. “I like you – don’t make me ask my buddy Peter Burke to have you busted down to mailroom clerk, OK?”
“I do not understand.”
“I’ll explain later, then.” Neal put his hands on the man’s upper arms and squeezed lightly, taking note of the hard biceps underneath. “Stay here.” He turned to cross the bar again, striding up to his marks with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Gentlemen, I’ve been sent by a mutual acquaintance to close a business transaction. Shall we get down to it?”
“I believe we shall,” the younger one, whose folksy Brimley-esque drawl had so interested Neal said as he and his partner each pulled a handgun out from somewhere.
“Hey, now, there’s no need for any rough stuff,” Neal said, raising his hands. On closer inspection, the “handgun” was a small, rounded, sleek silver thing that was molded to the man’s right hand, the front of it glowing a bright blue. The two men stood and one of them reached for the messenger bag, which Neal gladly gave over, and then all hell broke loose.
“Gun!” someone shouted, and nearly everyone drew on the perps, who calmly kept their weapons trained on Neal without flinching. Neal tried to back away, but found his way blocked by the same young man who he’d just been talking to; in his left hand, he held a weapon similar to Brimley’s, though this one was a bit larger.
“In the name of the United Federation of Planets, I order you to disarm yourselves,” he said quietly. Neal noticed that two other men – one a dark guy in a red golf shirt and khakis, the other a blonde in a leather jacket and jeans, were now flanking him, and that they were similarly armed.
Brimley’s eyes narrowed. “A Vulcan. I see we did not evade the Enterprise for long, K’t’nga!”
His associate appeared to be livid with rage as well. “Do not speak to me of this - you made the calculations, Grwl, you son of a mountain cur.”
“Hey guys, let’s not make it personal, huh?” said the blonde lightly, brandishing his silver weapon-thing. “The jig is up, now come peacefully. Or not, but you should just give it up, because you’re surrounded.”
“Never, human!” one of them said – Neal wasn’t sure because he was too preoccupied with hitting the deck as one of them started firing, and damn him if glowing balls of light weren’t coming out of these weapons instead of bullets. The guy in the red golf shirt went down screaming when he was hit, and the two perps took advantage of the turmoil to run for the exit, one of them with the bag over his shoulder.
Seeing them rabbit made Neal see red suddenly – there was no way they were going to be getting away after what they’d done to Heshie. Launching himself to his feet, he chased them out of the bar. They ran headlong down the block, turning up 13th and making for the river. He heard footsteps behind him, but didn’t turn to look – he hoped it was Jones or Peter, coming to back him up, because he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do when he caught these guys.
They led him across the West Side Highway – where the hell was the traffic? – and down past a pier to the greenway. It was nearly dark now, with less foot and bicycle traffic, and Neal didn’t want to lose them in the straightaway. He caught a glimpse of them heading for a row of large planters and they suddenly stopped. As Neal got closer, he saw why.
The two men had been joined by two others, who were very tall – the shorter one was six-foot-six at least – with broad shoulders and thick necks, their skin a dark, almost grey color, with strange ridges and bumps on their faces and necks. They turned toward Neal as he slid to a stop in front of them, and pulled out a pair of their own weapons. These looked like something out of a science fiction movie, large and imposing chunks of metal that they needed to hold in both hands. “Shit,” Neal muttered, panting, wondering what to do next.
“You will freeze and surrender your weapons,” said a calm voice to Neal's left, and he turned, eyes boggling, to see that the young man from the bar had been the one who followed him. He’d lost his hat somewhere along the way, and Neal noticed that his ears, as well as both his eyebrows, were pointed, giving him a foreign, almost alien air. Well, that explained the hat indoors, at any rate. The young man moved protectively in front of Neal, his weapon aimed at the four men in front of them.
“A Vulcan?” one of the very imposing men said, a sneer in his voice. “What have you brought to us, Grwl?”
“They followed us from the future, do not blame me!”
“We’ll discuss blame later, when we also discuss the reduction in payment you will receive due to your incompetence. You have the trilithium?” He didn’t wait to be given the bag, just snatched it away from the cowering Grwl and opening it up. Inside, of course, was nothing but old ceramic flooring tiles – June was having her kitchen remodeled – that Neal had stuffed inside earlier in the afternoon, expecting just such a double cross.
“What treachery is this?” the imposing man roared, dumping the material on the ground. He aimed his weapon at the hapless Grwl, who fell back.
“It appears you will have to leave empty-handed, Cardassian,” the man in front of Neal said. “I arrest you all in the name of the Federation.”
“I recognize no such organization, nor your jurisdiction, Vulcan,” the man said through clenched teeth. He aimed his weapon at him, and Neal heard a high-pitched whine, as if it was charging up.
Neal, his mind boggling, seized on the one thing he could understand – the fact that the person who was currently protecting him was in danger. Moving fast, he pulled on the Vulcan’s right arm, to get him out of the way as the Cardassian opened fire. Unfortunately, the alien fired again as Neal tried to back away, and he was hit in the belly by the flaming ball of light – this one red – that emanated from the tall man’s weapon. The shot sent Neal flying backwards nearly twenty feet, where he skidded to a stop beside another large planter.
The pain was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his life; when Neal looked down at himself, it seemed as if his belly had erupted outwards, torn flesh and organs alike. Nauseated at the sight, he let his head fall back to the ground, panting in shallow breaths, and hoping that his death would be quick.
Suddenly, a face was hovering above his, concerned brown eyes looking into his.
“Ow,” Neal groaned as the young man from the bar, the one they’d called a Vulcan, pulled Neal against himself, cradling his head and shoulders in his lap. There was a commotion behind them – apparently others had shown up and a firefight was now in progress. Luckily, the planter shielded them.
“Please, do not move or you will do yourself further harm.”
Neal looked down at himself again and nearly passed out. “You’re not from around here, are you?” The understatement of the century, Neal thought, given all he had just seen.
“I am from… France.”
“Really? What part?”
“You should not strain yourself over-much. Disruptor blasts cause much damage to soft tissues. I believe you are experiencing extreme blood loss.”
Neal's eyes crossed as he began to lose consciousness. “Tell my friend Peter Burke that it was fun while it lasted, will you?”
“That would be imprudent as there is no time to find he to whom you are referring.”
Neal blinked, taken aback. “Well, I’m dying, and I figured… last words and all?” The Vulcan’s features lost their immobility and Neal could see concern and even sorrow in his eyes. His fingertips ghosted across Neal's brow.
“Not today,” he said quietly, his voice low, gentle.
“What?”
“You do not die today, not if I can stop it.”
Neal laughed just a little and choked on the blood that bubbled in his throat. Before he passed out, though, he learned his savior’s name.
“Spock to Enterprise. Two to beam directly to sickbay.”
It was weird how dying made Neal feel like his atoms were falling apart.
xXxXxXx
“Hell’s bells, what happened?” Dr. McCoy exclaimed, rushing over to Spock, his medical tricorder already out.
“We were waylaid by Cardassians. He was shot by a disruptor at close range.”
“Bring ‘im in here,” McCoy said, leading Spock directly to the surgical suite. Spock laid Neal gently onto a biobed and McCoy slammed a stasis field over him within seconds; Neal's vitals were immediately displayed on the readout screens above his head. McCoy scowled as he read, running his fingers over them as he took mental notes. “He’ll need emergency surgery. What possessed you to bring him here?”
“He was dying.”
“Well, let’s see if we can’t stop that, at least.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“You can thank me at your disciplinary hearing for violating the Prime Directive. Now get the hell outta here and let a man work.” McCoy ushered Spock into the waiting area in a surprisingly gentle way, despite his harried tone, where Spock stood, unsure what to do with himself for perhaps the first time in his life.
“Spock!” Nyota exclaimed when she found him there several minutes later; she was supporting Ensign McCormack, the man in the red golf shirt who had taken fire from the Vendorians as they fled the bar. “You’re covered in blood!”
Spock looked down on himself; he was, in fact, soaked in Caffrey’s blood from his waist to his knees. “I had better change my clothing.” He went to leave as she handed the injured man off to a nurse, then turned back to her. “What happened after I left the bar?”
“I stayed with McCormack – the Captain and Morales weren’t that far behind you; they managed to capture one of the Cardassians –“ As if to illustrate, a gurney with an unconscious Cardassian strapped to it approached from the direction of the transporter room under heavy guard and they both were forced to make way. “If he makes it, maybe we’ll be able to find out why they’re here.”
“I doubt he will be forthcoming. Caffrey did not have the trilithium with him, despite his promise to ‘deal’ with the Vendorians. He was injured by the Cardassians when I challenged them. We are no closer to our goal of recovering the trilithium than we were before.”
“Is that whose blood you’ve got on you?”
Spock nodded, again taking in his bloodied appearance with distaste and dismay both. “He was injured attempting to pull me from harm’s way.”
“How is he?”
“Doctor McCoy is operating on him now. I do not know.” Spock looked away from her, the realization that Neal's injury was disturbing to him creating an emotional response he fought hard to control; he clenched his jaw.
“You should get cleaned up,” she said, taking his forearm with her hand and pulling him toward the exit.
Spock did not move. “I find I am unwilling to go, I – want to be here and receive news of Caffrey’s condition as soon as it is known.”
Nyota’s smile was kind as she pulled his arm again. “The Captain will want a report, and you will need to be presentable to give it to him. The doctor will alert you as soon as the surgery is over. Come.”
Spock allowed her to lead him to his quarters.
----
Spock found he was in need of a shower, and so took longer to make himself presentable to the Captain. He stood outside Kirk’s Ready Room and hit the door chime, requesting entrance.
“Come,” Kirk called brusquely and, when Spock had been standing at parade rest in front of his desk for more than a minute, he finally looked up from the PADD he was reading and said. “Please report, Commander.”
“After the Vendorians fled the bar, Caffrey gave chase, as did I. We pursued them for perhaps half a mile until we reached the river, where the Vendorians rendezvoused with a pair of Cardassians, who I assume are their buyers for the trilithium. They… did not wish to surrender to me.” Spock didn’t see the point in going into great detail as to what the Cardassians said.
“Go on.”
“The Cardassians then seized the bag that Caffrey had been carrying from the Vendorians, only to discover that it contained what appeared to be disused ceramic tiles.”
“We found that. So, we still don’t have the trilithium?”
“No sir.” Spock flinched as Kirk made an angry noise and clenched his right hand into a fist.
“What happened next?”
“In their anger, the Cardassians began firing their disruptors. Caffrey pulled me out of the way but was shot himself. I returned fire while I could and believe I hit one of the Cardassians.”
“You did – he was dead when we arrived.”
Spock blinked, relieved that at least one dangerous alien had been taken out of the picture; with the other he saw headed to sickbay, that left just the Vendorians, who he asked Kirk about.
“The Vendorians escaped and Dr. M’Benga reports that the second Cardassian has died.”
“That is unfortunate. With the lack of a buyer, the Vendorians will want to leave the planet immediately, and it is unlikely they will do that without the trilithium, after all that has transpired thus far.”
“If the Vendorians get it and go back to our own time, they can peddle it to the Klingons, the Ferengi or worse. Spock, this is not the outcome I had been hoping to see.”
“Nor I, Captain.”
“And there is an injured, worlds-famous painter dying in my sickbay, Mr. Spock.”
Spock could feeI the blood draining from his face. “As Mr. Caffrey was mortally wounded, I did the only logical thing I could think of and brought him to the Enterprise for treatment.”
“’The only logical thing’? Is that what that was?”
“Neal Caffrey did not die on this date,” Spock explained.
“And a pair of Cardassians didn’t start shooting up Chelsea either, but that’s what we’ve got now. So much for keeping a low profile.”
“Quite.”
“And we’ve still come up empty-handed. Dammit, Spock!”
Spock flinched as Kirk rose from his desk and began to pace the room in an agitated manner. “I’m not mad at you, just so you know,” he said after several moments of silence. “I’m mad at this whole situation.”
“That is gratifying to hear.”
“What the hell do we do now?”
“If it means anything, I believe the trilithium is still in Caffrey’s possession, or he knows where it is being kept.”
“So, what, if we ask him nicely maybe he’d hand it all over now?”
Spock merely inclined his head.
“Except he’s in surgery and if he croaks, then where will we be?”
Spock clenched his jaw but remained silent. Noticing, Kirk’s face softened. “I’m sorry, that was crass of me. You care about him, don’t you?”
“His continued well-being would please me, yes, Captain.”
“Spock, we have to get that trilithium back. I’m holding you responsible for that.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“As soon as possible, you will find out what Caffrey knows, and you will find a way to recover that material, are we clear?”
“As Andorian crystal, sir.”
“This is your only assignment, Spock, and you will accomplish it with the same Vulcan efficiency I have learned to depend on. You are dismissed.”
----
Spock was in the waiting area when Dr. McCoy emerged from the surgical suite ten hours later, exhaustion written all over his bowed shoulders and pained gait. Spock rose and the doctor came to him immediately, a scowl on his face to hide the exhaustion. “He’s stable for now, but his liver was shot all to hell. It’ll take a while to regenerate – days. He can’t be moved.”
“He is alive, then?”
McCoy’s scowl softened at the hopeful tone in Spock’s voice. “Yes, and barring any complications, he’ll make a full recovery.”
“That is good news, Doctor, thank you.” Spock made to move past McCoy, who stopped him with a hand on his elbow.
“Just where do you think you’re goin’?”
“The Captain has assigned me to question Mr. Caffrey on the location of the trilithium. I intend to do just that as soon as possible.”
“That won’t be possible for a couple of days yet, Spock. He’s in a coma for now.”
“I see. Thank you, Doctor.” Spock turned toward the door to leave, but found he was reluctant to do so.
“Do you want to see him anyway? Check up on ‘im?” McCoy asked, his voice kind.
“I – believe it would quiet my mind to assure myself of his well-being,” Spock admitted.
Caffrey was alone in a private room, a sheet covering him from the waist down, the tissue regenerator situated over his midsection. He looked pale yet peaceful, not at all as alarmingly bloodied as he had been the last time Spock saw him. Spock stood at his shoulder, looking down on him, musing at how different he looked while so still, where before he had been so animated, always moving as if he could not contain the energy within himself.
Something within Spock, something he had long fought to suppress, compelled him to reach his hand out. He longed to touch Caffrey’s shoulder, to feel its warmth, to know for himself that he was still alive. Being a touch-telepath, of course, Spock usually eschewed making skin-to-skin contact with anyone, not wishing to impinge on another’s privacy, even if all he usually picked up were surface thoughts and emotions. What made him suddenly drop this reticence, he could not say or explain; he only knew that the desire to touch Caffrey was almost undeniable.
His skin was smooth, the muscle beneath it hard and solid, well-defined. The impressions Spock received from Neal, even in his drug-enforced coma, were muddled and confused. There was fear and pain naturally, but also an almost in-born curiosity and openness that Spock had encountered among some humans, and that he found truly fascinating. He longed to know more, to understand Neal more, perhaps through a mind meld, but he would never do such a thing to a non-consenting mind, and the clearing of a throat behind him made him withdraw his hand quickly, as if burned.
“He’ll be out of it for a while, Spock,” Dr. McCoy said, entering and checking the read-outs on the biobed. “I can contact you as soon as he begins to regain consciousness if you like.”
“Yes, Doctor, that would be acceptable,” Spock said, his mouth suddenly dry. He turned to go, but the doctor blocked his egress from the room. McCoy reached out a hand and clasped Spock on the shoulder, an uncharacteristically tender expression on his face as he squeezed. The expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared, though, and he dismissed Spock from his sickbay, lest he get all of his “hobgoblin germs all over the damn place.”
----
Never mind, I'll find someone like you
I wish nothing but the best for you too
Don't forget me, I beg. I remember you said,
"Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead,
Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead."
Spock sat in his quarters, the lights lowered, listening to a selection of early 21st century popular music with his eyes closed, not so much meditating as thinking through the events of the last several days, and coming to the same conclusion: he’d have acted exactly the same no matter what other variables might have been brought to bear, Prime Directive or no. The consequences of what that meant he would deal with at a later time.
The chime at his door sounded and he lowered the volume. “Come,” he called to whoever it was.
It was Nyota. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused when she noticed the music playing softly in the background. “I thought you were off the hook on the 21st century pop culture immersion?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied. “But despite our mission being nearly at an end , I find I have developed quite an affinity for the music of the day. This artist, ‘Adele’ for example, is most intriguing. Until this moment, I had not thought it possible for humans to be capable of such depth of emotional expression, and yet her work moves me more than expected.”
“Does it?” Nyota asked, a look in her eyes Spock had become very familiar with during his time among humans, one he had learned to label “bemusement.”
“Nyota, as I listen to this music, I realize the true depth of feeling that is possible in the human female. I must, therefore, beg your forgiveness for the manner in which we ended our relationship. My behavior at the time might have been perceived as insensitive, and I do not wish –“
“Spock, while I appreciate your newfound understanding of the human female experience, we ended things for very good reasons.”
“We did?”
She raised an eyebrow, but smiled. “I am, as we humans say, ‘over you.’”
Spock regarded her closely to be sure she was not prevaricating; she did not appear to be.
“Plus there was that whole business of you realizing you prefer men to women – definitely a deal breaker for the both of us, yes?” she went on.
“True.”
She crossed over to where he sat and, leaning over, kissed him on the forehead. “My heart will always have a spot in it for you, my dear friend,” she said softly, and he closed his eyes. “Which is what brings me here, actually.” Spock cocked his head to the side to encourage her to continue. “How are you doing after everything that happened down on the planet, Spock? Did the Captain chew you out too badly?”
“Captain Kirk was appropriately stern in his dealings with me, perhaps even less than I myself would have been with a subordinate who had violated regulations in such a manner.”
“What did he say?”
“He urged me to renew my efforts to retrieve the trilithium by convincing Mr. Caffrey of the importance of the matter. The Captain put much emphasis on success – he said it is my only duty.”
“How is he? Caffrey?”
“In need of a new liver. Dr. McCoy assures me he will recover fully, however.”
“But how is he going to handle being on a Starship from 200 years in the future?”
“That remains to be seen.”