Chapter Text
*
CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.25. Nothing out of the ordinary to report, except that First Officer Spock’s acting weird.
...I’m beginning to think I start too many of these logs with ‘Spock’s acting weird.’ Computer, how many of these-
*
CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.25. Since our five year mission began in 2260.41, I’ve apparently started forty-three of my captain’s logs with ‘Spock’s acting weird’ or variants on that theme. Whoever ends up reading these things is gonna get a weird impression of First Officer Spock. Who is weird, by the way, but he’s also an exemplary first officer. And an exemplary pain in the ass. God, I sound like Bones. Space is the worst. Spaaaace, grrrrr.
*
CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.25. Yeah, I just played that back and we’re definitely gonna need some shore leave soon.
*
Night on a starship doesn’t have a strict definition. They can pass multiple suns over a period of twenty-four hours. There’s nothing to rise and set, just the underlying gravitational pull of nearby celestial bodies altering, however slightly, their charted course, and the calculations necessary to compensate for those alterations.
That being said, Jim’s still awake when he knows he should be sleeping.
And somehow he also knows that Spock’s awake when he should be sleeping, too.
Yeah, that’s...that’s a thing. There was an Incident, capital I, on Alpha Ceti VI involving explosive rocks and poisonous dart plants, and though he can’t actually remember much after he collapsed, Bones explained that Spock had mind-melded with him while he was unconscious to prevent him from going into anaphylactic shock and keep him alive long enough for the Doctor to get there with his trusty hypos.
He woke hours later in the medbay to find both men at his side and a sort of tickle in the back of his mind. Spock’s mouth twitched in a gesture Jim’s learned, over time and trial and plenty of error, to interpret as embarrassment. Spock explained that the tickle was just the lingering effects of the meld and that they’d quickly fade.
That was two months ago. Jim closes his eyes and concentrates, casting out a line or reaching out a hand, and - yes. There. A presence. He can sense that Spock is awake, that he’s well, and roughly how far away he is. He wonders if he should be concerned about that as he pulls on his shirt and heads in the direction he’s being called.
Of course, there’s the reciprocal effects to worry about - like how Spock is waiting for him in the room; like how Spock always seems to know he’s coming. That rules out surprise birthday parties and surprise anything, frankly. Even if Spock has insisted that he’s shielded against the deepest parts of the link, nothing can dim Jim’s constant awareness of Spock’s presence, his mental state. Jim sighs, rubbing the familiar tension headache pinching the bridge of his nose as the door to Spock’s cabin door slides open.
Spock’s there, as predicted, with his hands folded behind the small of his back, like all of this is normal.
It’s not normal. But Jim’s not big on normal, anyway.
“This isn’t an us thing now, is it?” he asks, before Spock has a chance to inhale and ruin the moment by calling him Captain. This late at night - this late in their friendship - and a Captain could ruin everything. “You never sleep, I can’t sleep- ah, forget it. It’s not like I slept much before you did the thing anyway.”
The thing.
“Captain,” Spock says.
Jim steps in, the door shuts behind him, and he rolls his eyes in a practised motion. This side-step of the routine is getting to be routine. Two months. The tension headache clearly isn’t quitting any time soon.
“First Officer Spock,” Jim replies. The subtleties of the humour in his response go unremarked upon, but not unnoticed.
“Captain,” Spock repeats, voice a little softer at least, “It is not healthy for you to-”
“You think I don’t know that, Spock? God, I feel like death warmed over-” Jim cuts himself off, then laughs. It’s hollow. Protocol dictates they’ll ignore it. Friendship suggests something else. “Wow. That’s, uh, that is a surprisingly accurate description, isn’t it?”
Jim flops into the chair by his first officer’s immaculate desk and scrubs his hands down his face. Spock’s gaze feels like a physical weight on his shoulders.
“Have you spoken to Doctor McCoy about your sleeping patterns as I advised you two point four weeks ago?”
Jim’s mouth twists into a scowl to hide his embarrassment. “No. No, c’mon, Spock, I hate having him worried about me. You know how he gets. Fussy and cranky - and then he stabs me with a hypo when he thinks I’m not looking. I’ll be fine, I’ll get over it. Can we play some chess?”
Spock’s expression - even though it’s barely shifted - suggests he doesn’t approve of the idea.
“Okay, let’s have it,” Jim says, “Why should we not play chess?”
“Chess is a game that requires focus of the mind.” Jim’s ready to protest that he’s focused, as focused as ever, more than ever, when Spock continues. “Though it is not active in the sense of your more physical pursuits, neither is it, strictly speaking, a relaxing pursuit.”
“Worried that this-” Jim passes his forefinger back and forth through the air between them, “-Is gonna help me beat your moves, huh, Spock?”
Not that, either. Spock still hasn’t sat down and his shadow is long; it’s not making Jim nervous but it is making him thoughtful, which is honestly worse.
“As I have informed you on multiple occasions, I have shielded the bond to prevent the sharing of thoughts and it will therefore provide no benefit to your illogical strategies. Regardless, I believe that you would benefit more greatly from meditation, given the results you presented at Doctor McCoy’s latest physical.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality-” Jim begins.
“As your first officer, it is my duty to know everything about my captain.”
“You’re ganging up on me. You’re ganging up on me with Bones.”
“Vulcans,” Spock replies, “Do not gang.”
“Sure they do.” Jim stretches, feeling something pop in his shoulder. “Meditation, huh? You really think I’m a suitable candidate?”
“It is my impression that your candidacy, or lack thereof, is exactly why the task should be undertaken,” Spock says.
Jim chuckles. When Spock delivers those lines, bam, he always hits his mark. Jim rubs his chest, too far right of the heart, “Is that your official recommendation, Spock? As my first officer?” Spock inclines his head, brief and small, “Then I guess I’ll have to take it under advisement. Wouldn’t want you to write me up...again.”
Spock breathes out a little heavier than usual; a barely perceptible change but one that connotes a sense of frustration. A very Vulcan sigh. “Captain, I am unsure as to why you are so offended by my logical concern for your wellbeing.”
Jim glances up sharply, a grin forming on his face. “Concerned about me? You, Spock?”
Spock’s mouth tightens. “As your first officer, it is my duty to-”
Jim flaps a dismissive hand to cut him off, crushing his disappointment before it grows. He isn’t entirely sure how much the Vulcan can sense through theirthing but he doesn’t want to further bewilder his friend or complicate the four years left to their mission.
It’s complicated enough as it is.
“Never mind. Meditation, right? Meditation.” Jim licks his bottom lip. “So, what do I have to do? I don’t have to stand on one foot, do I? My foot always falls asleep, and I hate pins and needles.”
“I do not know of any forms of meditation that require such a specific physical arrangement. I believe what you are referring to is in point of fact a form of terran Yoga practice.” Spock gestures to an intricately woven mat on the other side of his quarters, one of the few incongruities of form over function for a logical Vulcan to have. Jim’s always liked that mat. “We will sit over there. Most meditate cross-legged; however, that position may be amended to whatever is most comfortable for you.” He pauses, eyes distant for a moment, and then the dark gaze flicks back to Jim. “Although, Captain, I must first-”
Jim reaches out and catches Spock’s wrist, hand clamping around the sleek blue material of his uniform sleeve. Does he sleep in the thing? Jim wonders. Or, more likely, does he just not sleep?
Jim’s thumb brushes the pale skin along the heel of Spock’s hand. Spock stiffens in his grasp.
“Please,” Heat rises to Jim’s cheeks when he realises that, technically, what he’s doing constitutes begging, “It’s like 2AM. Call me Jim .”
“Jim,” Spock complies, after a beat.
So Jim complies, too.
It’s the first rule of captaining as far as Jim’s concerned. Not know your limits or face your fears or accept your weaknesses or even figure out when to listen to what other people are saying. But give what you get. Don’t take more than what you return. If there’s one rule Jim plays by, it’s that one.
Well. Maybe it counts as two. Still important.
He sits on the mat, folding his legs underneath him. Spock does the same, moving with an unexpected kind of grace given the sharp lines of his body, as he tells Jim to regulate his breathing.
“I’ve never been one for regulations,” Jim says. It’s a good line. Not exactly wasted on Spock, but not exactly appreciated, either.
Spock settles into his seat, which Jim figures is as relaxed as he ever gets. With the rise and fall of his shoulders, the even rhythm of his deep breaths, Jim can feel it working on him like one of Bones’ injections, only without the brief sting of the needle. It’s peaceful, calm, soothing. It might be just what the doctor ordered - and the captain ignored, until the first officer intervened.
In and out. Steady. The tension headache fades into the background and so do his surroundings. Jim’s not sure how much of this is him meditating on his own and how much of it is the undertow of this latent telepathic connection - which, okay, if he’s being honest? That’s exactly what’s had him on edge for so long. Can’t even lie back, relax, and let his thoughts wander. He’d just end up thinking about the one guy who can hear him thinking.
Or maybe feel him feeling. Jim’s not sure which is worse, though it depends on exactly what he’s feeling at the time…
Jim’s eyes open suddenly, but it’s not because of his own thoughts. Next to him, Spock’s eyes are wide, but distant; this close to him, the discordant note in Spock’s thoughts sticks out like a sore thumb, so unusual that the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Spock-” Jim says.
The presence in Jim’s mind suddenly grows in pressure, like the sound of a speaker crackling to life next to his ear.
Jim, I - is loud in his mind and it’s definitely not his thought. It’s not an audible voice but he knows, instinctively, that it’s Spock he’s hearing. Like an autonomic response, Jim reaches out his hand to his first officer to touch, to comfort. Spock’s mouth has dropped open slightly, his gaze still not returned to the room, eyes focused on somewhere far away.
“Forgive me, Captain,” Spock swallows, “I cannot maintain - the shielding is - It is imperative that I-”
Spock’s expression tightens, his hand lifting in the direction of his forehead in an abrupt, aborted gesture. Jim doesn’t need a telepathic link to know that Spock’s in pain, but it ricochets along their connection anyway, and he feels the calm he borrowed for a few precious minutes dissipate. The tension headache returns, sharper now, clearer somehow, and Jim wonders whether it was ever a headache at all or just a manifestation of this burning thing in Spock’s mind, and now, by proxy, his.
Spock tries to stand and actually wobbles before Jim grabs his arm, pulling them both to their feet. “Damn it, Spock, how long have you felt like this? And you were lecturing me about not going to see Bones? If anyone should be written up-”
“I have been experiencing mild mental discomfort for several weeks now; I had previously assumed it was simply a projection from your own physical discomfort and so took the necessary steps to attempt to alleviate it through improving your health. It seems, however, that I was incorrect in my conclusion. The agitation stems from an outside source...one that I am unable to trace.”
“And it just got worse out of nowhere? Just like that?”
Spock’s pause rackets the intensity of Jim’s tension headache up a couple notches.
“I have not felt such intense pain from another individual with whom I share a telepathic link since the day my planet was destroyed,” he admits.
Jim realises he is holding Spock by both shoulders and quickly releases him. “Another Vulcan?”
“Indeed. A mind unfamiliar to me. I am not entirely certain how it is possible, and yet-”
Spock freezes. For a split second, he’s completely, perfectly still, even the furrow in his brow frozen in place. Then, just as suddenly, he’s moving again, striding across the room with his long legs. Jim has to jog to keep up with him as he powers down the corridor. “Spock - Jesus, Spock, warn somebody. Where are you going?”
“I must contact the Vulcan Council.”
Jim nods vaguely at the bemused crewmembers they pass, attempting to project some semblance of business-as-usual to conceal Spock’s obvious and uncharacteristic agitation. He tries not to think about how many people just saw them both exit the same bedroom in the middle of the ship’s night, and prays his shirt isn’t rumpled enough to start rumours. Well, any more rumours.
“This is a personal matter,” Spock adds brusquely as they come to a halt in front of the turbolift. “I will inform you of any developments should they affect my duties to you and to this ship.”
“Spock,” Jim begins.
Spock steps inside the turbolift. “Your health, Captain,” Spock replies.
The turbolift doors close between them. Jim reaches up, then presses the flat of his palm against the cool surface of the door, squeezing tension through his arm in an attempt to release it. It comes out as a sigh of frustration, before he’s back to normal. Everything’s shipshape. First officer, telepathic connection, two near-death experiences, and all Jim knows for certain is that he’s not a fan of meditation.
*
CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.26. Don’t ever have a Vulcan for a first officer.
No - scratch that. For the record, Vulcans make excellent first officers. They just make terrible friends.
No - scratch that, too. They’re not so bad. This one, though...Ah, screw it.
Computer, delete-
*
CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.26. Having a little trouble with First Officer Spock. Think he might be keeping valuable information from me. I’m the captain and I’m pretty sure that shouldn’t happen.
...Nobody actually listens to these things, right?
*
After twenty hours - six of those involving a slim Vulcan back faced very pointedly in Jim’s direction and a tight-lipped Vulcan mouth responding curtly and promptly in a manner that only suggests Jim’s something Spock just noticed on the bottom of his boot - Jim is getting desperate. With nothing eventful occurring, he leaves the shift early, casting one last, scrutinizing look in Spock’s direction.
There’s no getting through to him when he’s in First Officer Mode.
Uhura corners Jim in the turbolift and doesn’t even let him start speaking before she lays into him. “All right, spill. What have you done?”
“What the- c’mon, Uhura, why do you-”
“Nuh-uh. Don’t you give me that routine, Kirk.” Uhura learned the eyebrow trick pretty well from Spock, that’s for sure. “He doesn’t get like this unless it’s about you two, and because you’re not the one moping, I’m going to go ahead and assume that it’s your fault. Sort it out or spill.”
The right now is implied but no less obvious.
Jim scowls, then pinches his nose; the headache hasn’t abated, but the pain has lessened, something’s clouding his perception of it. He suspects Spock is trying to shield it from their link and he’s equal parts thankful and furious.
“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m the captain.” It’s the truth, but even Jim would be the first to admit that it’s half-hearted at best.
Uhura’s expression softens and she reaches out to squeeze his arm. “True. But you’re my friend, too.”
“Something’s wrong with him,” Jim blurts out before he has a chance to regret it. He feels a twinge of guilt, knowing how private Vulcans are, but if anyone understands this song and dance, it’s Uhura, “And he’s Spock, so he won’t tell me what it is. But I think-” Technically, Jim knows, “-I think he’s in pain.”
Uhura sighs in commiseration, playing with the end of her ponytail as she orders her thoughts.
“It happens,” she says finally, in a quiet voice. “Spock. Not telling you what’s wrong. Thinking that’s the best way for things to be. ”
“Yeah. That’s Spock.”
Jim lets the silence linger for as long as it needs to before his questions bubble to the surface again. “No advice? No words of wisdom?”
“This one’s uncharted territory,” Uhura replies, “Jim, whenever you’ve needed to push, you’ve pushed. I don’t know what’s stopping you this time.”
The turbolift doors open. Jim’s half-expecting Spock to be there; when he’s not, he realises Spock is doing a better job of blocking him than he first thought.
“Best first officer in the fleet and it had to be Spock,” Jim mutters.
“Good thing he has a decent captain,” Uhura replies, offhand.
Jim bites his lip on a grin, “Is that so, Lieutenant?”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” she examines her nails, deliberately avoiding his gaze but unable to hide a smile, “Probably just scuttlebutt, though.”
“Probably,” He agrees, feeling a just little lighter than before he’d stepped into the lift.
When the teasing glint fades from Uhura’s eyes and she finally looks back at him, Jim knows he’s in trouble. “I’m serious, though, Jim. If it’s as bad as you think, then he’s going to need your help, regardless of what he believes. Don’t let him get away with pushing you away. He does that. He really does that.”
“So I’ve gotta corner him and...what, drag it out of him?” Jim winces at the thought.
“Pretty much. Good luck with that.”
“Can’t you ask him? You two are still close.”
Uhura’s mouth twitches and he can tell she’s barely refraining from rolling her eyes as she steps out of the turbolift, “Jim, if he’s not telling you, there’s no chance he’ll tell me .”
He watches her walk away for a few seconds before yelling, rather feebly if he’s honest, “What's that supposed to mean?”
The only response he gets is Uhura’s arms thrown in the air and a rather frustrated, “Oh my God, ” to the empty corridor. She doesn’t even turn around.
*
The final straw arrives two hours later, and Jim realises he can’t put this off any longer.
When they’d begun the five year mission, in an effort to be the efficient captain he knew his crew deserved, he’d put into place a system of solar-weekly team meetings. Usually it’s just the bridge crew and a few others commiserating over replicator coffee and sharing updates on their various sectors, but Jim enjoys them as they are a chance to solve minor issues before they become big enough to rock the boat - figuratively and literally.
They tend to be a casual affair, though true to form Spock is always the first one to arrive, takes the minutes no matter how off-topic conversations end up, and is always the last to leave.
This week, when Jim shoulders open the meeting room door, terrible coffee in one hand and whatever passes for a replicated chicken sandwich these days in the other, the room is empty.
He has about three seconds to be confused by this before Uhura and Carol arrive, energetically debating the merits of some new game installed in the rec room. Bones trails them, nose still buried in a PADD, and in the following few minutes Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, and the security officer that Jim still affectionately thinks of as ‘Cupcake’ turn up. As the group get comfortable and the bustle dies down, Jim watches the door, drumming his fingers on his Starfleet-issue mug. Being ten minutes late for a meeting - being ten minutes late for anything - is unheard of for Spock. Concern begins to gnaw at him.
Bones leans in and jerks his head towards the empty seat on Jim’s left, “Where’s Spock?”
Jim attempts a smile, “Probably just got caught up with an ensign in one of the labs - you know how they like to run their research by him.”
“He wasn’t in the labs when I left,” Carol pipes up, “I was actually looking for him, I had some questions I wanted to ask about his thesis.”
There’s an awkward silence for a few moments until Chekov voices the question everyone’s thinking.
“Do...do ve start vithout him?”
All eyes turn somewhat guiltily to the door, as if expecting the Vulcan to come marching in and catch them in the act. He doesn’t. Everyone looks at Jim. Uhura’s gaze in particular - the most knowing - makes his stomach twist.
Jim clears his throat and stands, tugging down the bottom of his shirt, “I’ll, uh, see if I can get hold of him on his communicator. I’m sure it’s nothing major and he’ll be along in a logical Vulcan minute.”
He hurries out into the corridor to the sound of Bones musing loudly about the possible scenarios that might have made Spock late. Most of them involve romantic interest in computers. Jim shakes his head, snapping open his communicator and jabbing in Spock’s frequency. Any other day and he might have been as amused as Bones, but with Spock’s weirdness all shift, and the agitated way he’d reacted the night before, Jim can’t help but be worried.
“Captain?”
“Spock!” Jim hisses, lowering his voice as two ensigns pass and salute him in the corridor, “Where the hell are you? Our weekly meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago.”
There is no response for a few seconds. Jim is certain he can actually feel his blood pressure rising.
“My apologies, Captain,” Spock’s voice is unusually hesitant, “I will not be able to attend the meeting.”
Jim breathes out harshly through his nose, “Really,” he says flatly, “Feel like enlightening me about why?”
“I have time-sensitive research which requires my immediate attention.”
“You could have let me know.”
“I apologise, Captain; I should not have allowed my personal research to interfere with my duties to the ship and yourself. I had assumed that the issue would have been resolved by the point at which my presence was required at the meeting. I was...incorrect in this assumption.”
Scotty sticks his head out of the meeting room doorway, eyebrows raised. Jim presses his lips into a tight line and shakes his head. Scotty retreats with a sympathetic grimace. When the door closes again, Jim heads down the corridor a little further for privacy.
“Is this about-” he begins, but Spock cuts him off.
“Captain, I will not allow this...research to interfere with my duty again, and I understand if you believe disciplinary action necessary-”
“What? Spock, I’m not mad at you, I just-”
“-However, with all due respect, I must continue with my research. Spock out.”
The communicator goes dead. Jim stares down at it, imagines the immense satisfaction he would get from throwing it at the wall, and then clips it back to his belt.
“Alright,” he mutters to the empty corridor. “Now I’m mad at you.”
Enough is enough. Time to push.
*
CAPTAIN’S LOG, STARDATE: 2261.27. Wish me luck. I’m going in.
*
These days, Jim knows when Spock’s getting closer. And Spock knows when Jim’s getting closer, so there’s no chance of catching Spock in an attempt to change course the moment he realises he’s running into an ambush.
Spock wouldn’t do that.
So it’s not exactly an ambush. Technically. It’s a concerned captain waiting for his concerning first officer to show up outside his quarters. Jim crosses his arms and waits for Spock to round the corner, predicting the timing to the millisecond. That level of precision is a Vulcan thing he’s picked up, among other Vulcan things he’s picked up.
If only he could put them back down again.
“Captain.” Spock’s formality is the worst of it. They shouldn’t have this kind of distance between them
“Inside, Spock.” Jim pulls the Captain Kirk voice. It’s not the first time he’s done that, but there’s weight and experience behind it now. It’s a dangerous thing, that voice; it fills him with a confidence and authority he’s not sure he deserves yet, but he can’t deny its effectiveness, “That’s an order.”
“Understood, Captain,” Spock replies.
He enters. Jim follows.
Spock goes to stand primly by his chair, and, Jim notes as he walks in that Spock has very deliberately positioned himself with the desk between them. He’s not sure if that’s more amusing or worrying. His first officer’s hands are clasped behind his back, shoulders drawn in one smooth line, seemingly untouched by the stifling tension that’s been building between them over the past few days.
But Jim can read him better than that by now and he can see the tell-tale signs of exhaustion and stress in the pinch of Spock’s mouth, the twitching muscle in his jaw as he waits for Jim to speak.
Jim lets him stew for a few moments, leaning against the closed door on the other side of the room. Despite the intention of this confrontation being to ‘corner’ Spock, he knows Spock’s tendency to clam up or, worse, lash out, when placed in a situation where he doesn’t have enough personal space.
So Jim gives him space, gives him a whole room of space in the middle of actual space, and calmly waits.
Well, he’s calm for the first minute or so, anyway. In the end it doesn’t matter because Spock breaks first. Which, if anything, indicates just how drastic the situation actually is.
“Captain, is there a particular reason you have barricaded me in my own quarters?” Spock asks.
“Maybe,” Jim replies. “Is there a particular reason you still feel like you’ve gotta face everything alone, without letting anybody help?”
Spock’s face does the thing, the define your questions so that they are not unfathomably without answer thing, though his mouth is tight and his jaw tighter. Jim wishes - illogically, he knows - that he had never asked Spock to shield their thoughts from each other. What he wouldn’t give to be able to just look into Spock’s head and understand.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Jim says.
Spock’s expression says ‘perhaps’, but outloud, frustrating as ever, he says, “Clarify.”
“I’m not clarifying.You’re clarifying. What the hell’s going on with you, Spock?”
“There are, as with any complex living organism, innumerable things ‘going on’ simultaneously.”
“Spock.”
“Captain.”
“I’m ordering you,” Jim says finally - and this is it, that cornering push, a move that shouldn’t have to be made between friends, “To tell me what’s happening with you. This has nothing to do with us, friendship, whatever this is. I need a First Officer who can do his job and do it right, and you need to tell me what’s keeping your head out of the game.”
Spock’s pause is brief. Even he won’t argue with protocol or chain of command. It’s an order. Jim doesn’t like it, but he likes the alternatives even less.
“Very well.” Spock focuses on a point beyond Jim’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the far wall. “I have been informed by the Vulcan Science Council that my child is dying.”
It takes a good few seconds for Jim’s brain to catch up with his ears and by that point his mouth has caught on and dropped wide open.
“Your- Your what ?” Maybe he heard wrong. No; Spock said it. He definitely said it. My child. “You have a kid ? Since when? With who? Oh my God, Spock, is that why you and Uhura broke up? Actually, uh, no, sorry, that doesn’t matter - don’t answer that. Since when have you had a kid, Spock?”
Spock seems vaguely puzzled by Jim’s incessant babbling but he still can’t meet Jim’s eyes, which is when the second half of the sentence really sinks in.
“Oh, Spock,” he breathes, heart twisting. He takes a few steps towards him, hands reaching out, then remembers who exactly he’s reaching for and jerks them back. Spock’s gaze flickers towards him. “Dying ? Is that- That’s why you’ve been in pain.”
Spock nods curtly. “Yes. As for your plethora of other questions-”
“Seriously, I mean it. You don’t have to answer the one about Uhura,” Jim cuts in quickly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. Spock clears his throat and gives him a look that is so clearly If You Are Quite Finished With Your Illogical Interruptions that he almost smiles.
But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not right now.
“As for your other questions; I was unaware as to the existence of the child before I confirmed it yesterday with the Vulcan Council. Do you remember, shortly after we returned home from the Narada incident, that I was considering leaving Starfleet to help with the repopulation of the Vulcan species?”
“Oh my God,” Jim says.
“Allow me to continue, Captain.” Spock waits for Jim to nod. Jim manages it. “My duty to Starfleet and the Enterprise notwithstanding, I have always remained equally committed to my duties to my people.”
“Oh my God,” Jim repeats. “You didn’t. You… you offered yourself up for repopulation?”
“In a manner of speaking, I did. Vulcan could not commit all of its women of childbearing age to the task when they were also necessary to the numerous rebuilding efforts. Therefore, it was logically decided that to begin repopulation, a scientific approach, while significantly more complicated, was the wisest course of action. I, too, donated my genetic material for this task in order to provide our scientists with the broad sampling of resources they would require for this task.”
Jim absolutely does not think about Spock ‘donating’ his genetic material. It takes a lot of willpower.
“However,” Spock continues, “Perhaps due to the mix of human genetic material, it would appear that the fetus developed with my DNA sample is not projected to survive its final stages of development. As there is nothing that can be done, I can assure you, the difficulty I have caused you due to our...circumstances will not be indefinite.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait - so you’re just going to let this kid die?”
Spock purses his lips. “I assure you, Captain, that while the loss of potential life is regrettable, there is no action that can be taken within reasonable means that would-”
“Hah!” Jim stabs a triumphant finger towards Spock’s chest. He’s moving forward and probably - nah, definitely - crowding his personal space now, but Jim’s won the battle of Vulcan Silence and he’s so close to winning the whole war that he can practically taste it. “You’re doing your special Vulcan wording thing again, Spock. ‘Within reason’. Within reason. That means you found something a little less reasonable that could help, didn’t you? That’s what you’ve been doing all day; it’s why you’ve been avoiding me, isn’t it? It’s why you missed the meeting. You’ve been researching - and you found something.”
They’re about a foot away from each other and Jim’s filled with an energy he hasn’t felt in days. Spock takes a half step back to try and regain his preferred measure of personal space - not to mention some measure of control over the conversation.
“The Vulcan biologists gave me their research and findings on the fetus and I did, indeed, discover the ailment. It seems that, whilst a half-Vulcan child carried by a human mother can survive, Vulcan mothers do not possess the necessary hormones that a half-human child requires for healthy development. As the artificial wombs are modelled on those belonging to Vulcans, the facility on New Vulcan does not have the necessary-”
“On New Vulcan they don’t have it. But somewhere else might have it. We could have it, right here on this ship.” Spock’s face goes completely blank. He might as well have lit up a flashing neon sign. Got it in one. “We do, don’t we?”
“Captain, I need not remind you that we are en route to the Omega Sixteen conference and are due there in twelve point four solar days. A detour of the sort you are suggesting would-”
“Spock.” Jim takes the final step to bridge the gap between them and grasps him by the shoulders. “Can you forget what’s logical for one second? Isn’t it at least worth a try?”
“Your favourite human phrase,” Spock replies, with even less colour than usual. “A shot in the dark?”
“It’s more than that. It’s not giving up when you haven’t tried everything. Just - don’t be logical, just for a second. We could stop off at New Vulcan, a brief detour - OK, maybe not super brief, but not terrible - from the Omega Sixteen conference, and deliver what’s necessary. It’s the right thing to do.”
“I am not certain that is the correct course of action-” Spock begins.
“That’s fine. You don’t have to be certain. I am.” Jim’s hands are still gripping Spock’s shoulders and Spock’s allowing it, even though the combination of touch and their telepathic link has to be an onslaught on his senses. Jim gives him a squeeze, a helpless pat - but not so helpless as he has been the past few days. There’s a goal. There’s an explanation. There’s something they can do, even if that something doesn’t have specific parameters, it’s defined by an unknown variable: to try. “Good thing I’m captain, right?”
Spock glances at Jim’s hand, sideways and down, his knuckles ridged over Spock’s shoulder. “Indeed,” he says at last.