Chapter Text
A pungent smoke rises over a crippled San Francisco. Recovery efforts and evacuation continue, wail of sirens piercing the chilly morning air. Capturing Khan can hardly be considered a successful conclusion of the mission, not when so many lives are lost. Spock’s own remorse and a constant onslaught of emotional tumult from all over the city against his strained shields add to a deep-set fatigue, dragging him down, making every step forced. He has to admit that a Human expression ‘bone-tired’ is quite accurate.
Having being debriefed by Starfleet Internal Affairs, Spock beamed up to Starbase 1 where the Enterprise had been safely docked and spent the rest of the day and the night there, supervising damage assessment and initial repairs of the ship. At 0320 hours came a comm message from Doctor McCoy that the preparation of serum was finished, and it had the effect they all had hoped for—the captain’s life signs returned. Spock requested updates on Jim’s condition since then, but received only a terse “He’s stabilized, stop pestering me” 45.6 minutes ago.
Ambulance hovercars keep delivering the injured when Spock enters Starfleet Medical. The hospital is functioning at its peak capacity: teams of doctors and nurses are taking stretchers with patients to the surgery department; people with less severe wounds are being treated in the clinic section, there is an incessant flow to and from examination rooms; comm units are constantly ringing at the front desk while its personnel is barely coping with an immense amount of information—everything is a flurry of motion and a cacophony of sounds.
The restricted area, located in the left wing of the building, is quiet. Spock passes the security post, walks into the ICU and asks a nurse if it is possible to see the captain. She shows him into a secluded ward.
The man on the biobed looks very young and fragile, utterly defenseless without his energy and audacity. Jim. His face is ashen, half-hidden behind the breathing mask, vitals are off the charts, but his hand is warm to the touch. No more barriers. The link, which broke when they were separated by the glass, forms again, its tendrils entwine, expanding into a familiar presence in Spock’s mind. The thin thread is mute and dark, yet it serves as one more proof that Jim is alive. Spock loses the track of time, just standing by the bedside and simply relishing Jim’s closeness. After a while, he hears the door open and soft steps approach.
“Good god, you look terrible,” says a tired voice with a Southern drawl. “I bet you’ve been up since yesterday without a morsel of food.”
“So have you,” Spock returns impassively as McCoy comes to the foot of the biobed.
“I think I had some coffee,” McCoy rakes his fingers through his mussed brown hair. The hazel eyes gaze pointedly at Spock’s hand which covers Jim’s. Spock finds that he does not care.
“It’s still difficult to make a long-term prognosis, but the regeneration rate of marrow and tissues is amazing,” the doctor answers an unspoken question. “Respiratory activity and cardiac function are gradually normalizing; I think soon he’ll be able to do without the life support.”
“It is most gratifying to know,” Spock’s tone is carefully level. “What is the further plan of treatment?”
“Along with adjuvant therapy, all we can do now is wait,” McCoy says with a frown. “That’s why you’d better go get some rest.”
“While I appreciate your concern, Doctor, you cannot give advice that you don’t follow yourself,” Spock raises his eyebrow.
“Aw, don’t worry, my shift ends in twenty minutes,” McCoy scoffs. “Then I’ll have a decent meal and a much needed shut-eye. Won’t be of much help to my patients in a zombie-like state.”
“Vulcans can withstand long periods without sleep or sustenance if necessary,” Spock counters.
“What is necessary, Spock, is that you run the ship with a clear head in Jim’s absence,” the doctor snaps back, obviously becoming irritated. He sighs, rubs a hand over his face and continues more calmly, “Listen, it’s not as if you can’t come later, when you don’t look like you’re about to collapse.”
“Very well,” Spock gives in. It’s not the time or place to argue, and perhaps the good doctor does have a point. With a final glance at Jim, he turns and leaves.
There is still much to be done before the meeting with Starfleet Command which is scheduled in 3.7 hours. Therefore, Spock heads to HQ, takes nourishment at the mess and reserves an office to work. A comprehensive ship status report and a preliminary plan of extensive repairs are to be finished before the meeting; additionally, the crew shift roster needs an adjustment since replacements for casualties have been recently provided.
But first, meditation is in order. Windows switched to opaque mode and lights dimmed, Spock lowers himself into a chair and folds his hands together with two first fingers extended. Listening to his breath, he lets his mind flow and starts with simple relaxation techniques. Wh'ltri, which is usually done at the initial and the final stages of a session, is especially welcome in his disordered state.
His consciousness is drifting over the material world, letting go of its heaviness and some of the fatigue with it, then slowly descends to a deeper level, analyzing the gruesome events of the past 48 hours, until it confronts koh-nar, the source of a gnawing emotional pain. Keeping distance from Jim was a profound mistake. Like before, Spock discarded an integral part of his life, realizing its value only when it was too late. Never saying to Mother he loved her, not visiting his homeworld when he could, not telling his t’hy’la of the link, denying him the right to decide. Instead, believing that he chooses the best course of action, Spock decided for them both. A growing affection to the captain was ruthlessly subdued, interactions kept strictly professional while all Jim’s attempts to reach out rejected. However, the Human persisted, seeming to have an inherent feeling of their connection. Jim has always trusted his instincts whereas Spock learned long ago to disregard his own in favor of rational reasons. Only no reasons, no logic—nothing matters without Jim. He knows it now. Fear, rage, desperation are smothering him again as he remembers Jim’s eyes, full of regret, the last farewell on his pale lips…
A ragged gasp escapes Spock’s lungs, and his sight comes in focus. V’ree’lat has failed. His time sense indicates that one hour has passed; work on the current tasks should be resumed.
Afterwards, the outcome of the meeting is satisfactory: Command approves his plan, and Spock returns to the Enterprise to finalize it with the input from the ship’s senior staff. Throughout the day, he continues to make queries about the captain’s health. Thankfully, Doctor M’Benga has a more conscientious attitude towards his inbox, diligently responding in detail and eventually suggesting an ingenious idea of feeding data from Jim’s biobed monitors directly to Spock’s PADD.
Spock longs to be by Jim’s side, but discussions of the repairs last well into the evening, and he does not allow personal wishes to affect his work. Hours are dragging on very slowly. Since there are no temporal anomalies in this sector of space, his perception is erroneous and illogical. Finally, all points covered and department heads dismissed, Spock can retreat to his quarters to incorporate the resulting solutions into the master plan, then he intends to beam down to the hospital again. Mindful of Doctor McCoy’s recalcitrance, he makes a detour to the mess hall and gets takeout—a mere thought of staying in a public place is off-putting.
He has just had a late dinner when the door chimes. It may be some urgent issue regarding the ship, so Spock suppresses a flicker of displeasure at being disturbed and calls, “Come in.”
“Do you have a minute?” Nyota asks, entering the room.
Spock feels a pang of uneasiness. He has barely spoken with her from the previous day, did not even ask of her well-being. Several times during the meeting he would notice her watching him with concern. He should have sought her out to provide reassurance.
“Of course,” he says, rising from the table and coming out to greet her.
“Only wanted to make sure you’re alright,” she gives him a small smile.
“I am fine, Nyota,” Spock tells her gently. “How have you been?”
“Oh, I’m managing—you know of all the chaos that’s going on right now,” Nyota huffs and waves her hand in mock exasperation, then her expression grows serious as she raises her obsidian eyes, gazing directly into Spock’s. “What’s more, you’re trying to sort everything out at once. You look haggard.”
The touch of her palm to his face is tender, but there is something wrong, invasive about it. Recoiling from it involuntarily, Spock becomes aware with astonishment that he finds it unwelcome. Nyota is startled as well and covers her confusion with another tentative smile.
“Well, at least you don’t starve yourself like you tend to do during a crisis,” she tilts her head towards the table. “Anyway, please, do take breaks sometimes, even though the circumstances are pressing.”
“I was going to visit the captain, actually,” Spock says quietly.
“Good. Tell him hello from me,” Nyota nods.
They fall silent for a moment, haunted by the memory of the warp core and the sense of finality, gaping emptiness. Nyota makes an audible inhale, struggling to hold back tears.
“He’s…” her voice falters, “he’s bound to make it or I’ll kick his ass.”
Spock marvels yet again at the Human propensity to use humor as a means of deflection or coping. Over the past year there were many opportunities to observe this tactic which was often utilized by the captain. It worked well with the crew.
“That will undoubtedly motivate him to get well as soon as possible,” he agrees.
“For sure,” Nyota laughs faintly, unshed tears still glistening in her eyes. She clears her throat and adds in a more composed manner, “I’d love to go with you and check in on him again, but you have more chances alone. Maybe McCoy will make an exception for you.”
“An exception?” Spock repeats, perplexed. “Clarify.”
“I thought you knew,” Nyota furrows her brow. “Apart from the family, no visitors are allowed.”
The news alerts Spock immediately. What could have possibly happened? Why was not he informed of that?
“Has the captain’s state worsened?” he demands, snatching his PADD from the table and studying the captain’s readings. “The data does not reflect it, however.”
“No, nothing of the sort,” Nyota says hurriedly. “It’s just too many people wished to see him. When I was there, M’Benga limited visiting for each person to five minutes. McCoy, who came back around that time, turned livid and forbade visits from the crew altogether, saying that there were enough germs in the room which was supposed to be clean.”
This does not alleviate Spock’s alarm in the slightest; he grabs a communicator and flips it open.
“Spock to McCoy.”
He is quite ready to beam down momentarily and find McCoy if the doctor does not answer. At first there is only static, but then a grumbling voice comes through, “McCoy here.”
“Is the sanitation field in the captain’s ward compromised?” Spock asks without preamble.
“Huh? What makes you think that?” McCoy sounds surprised.
“You mentioned contamination of the ambient microflora.”
“Rest assured, there is none. It was damn possible, though, with half the ship loiterin’ here! It’s a hospital, not a lounge bar. The kid must recuperate in proper conditions.”
“Understood. Spock out,” Spock closes the communicator, relieved, and turns to Nyota. “In this case I shall stay. The captain requires rest”.
“You too, so I’ll get going,” Nyota says. She leans forward to kiss him on the cheek, but stops mid-motion and murmurs instead, “Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?”
Spock stares at the doors for 5.7 seconds after she is gone. Something has indefinably changed between them, however, he has no will to ponder over the fact. With a resolve to meditate on it later, he clears the remainders of his meal from the table, contemplating whether the master plan should be reviewed once more. Suddenly weariness overcomes him, leaving no other alternative except for postponing the work until the morning. Having taken a quick sonic shower, Spock trudges to the bed and orders the lights off. As soon as his head comes in contact with the pillow, he falls into leaden sleep.