Chapter Text
Captain Kirk rejects his request for shore-leave.
It's not surprising. Spock understands, and anticipated, his reasons. The Enterprise's course cannot be altered without missing the deadline for their visit to Altair IV. The captain has a responsibility to his entire ship – and no knowledge, of course, of the true motivations behind Spock's request for leave.
In truth, Spock isn't sure he'd even be able to reach Vulcan before the Fever overtakes him entirely. There are no other Vulcans on this ship. He has checked their flight-path obsessively, thinking that perhaps the Enterprise might at least drop him off at a nearby space-station, but he can find no place that would be able to help him. He needs to go to Vulcan. He cannot. But neither can he allow himself to enter the dangerous plak tow on a ship of vulnerable, fragile humans.
Humans who trust him. Human who do not understand the dangers of pon farr.
There is only one ethical option.
After his duty-shift Spock finds himself pacing through the halls. Entering the gym would be unwise, given that his condition may be irritated by heightened activity. But he is, already, unpleasantly restless. Spock should eat, but the mere idea of food is nauseating.
He is a Vulcan, though. More Vulcan than he ever realized. He must maintain control as long as he can.
So Spock works through his shift like normal. He quells his shaking hands, ignores his irregular heart-beat, and carefully modulates his voice to sound even and precise. Captain Kirk doesn't seem to notice anything amiss, and Spock easily excuses himself at shift's end.
He forces himself to take a meal in the officers lounge, stomach clenching with each bite. Likely he will not manage to keep down any more food after this point. Spock eats slowly as the room fills with officers coming off shift. Uhura enters when he is almost finished, making a beeline for his table.
“Commander!” She throws herself into the seat across from Spock, a sly smile on her face. “You practically ran away at the end of shift... would you care to settle a bet?”
The room's artificial lights make her hair and skin glow. “Wagering is prohibited by Starfleet regulations,” says Spock automatically.
“Oh, only if we bet credits. And there are much more entertaining things to trade, Mr. Spock. Now, tell me the truth; were you running away to see a woman? A secret, romantic rendezvous...” she holds a hand to her heart.
This, the pseudo-flirting, is just a game they play. It's like McCoy's pointed barbs, or Mr. Scott's propensity to communicate through deliberately-obscure references to ancient technical manuals and famous disasters. She doesn't mean any of it, and Spock is just a safe target for Uhura's comments.
But he doesn't feel like bantering today. “I was not,” he says simply.
“My mistake,” Uhura smiles at him.
Spock has worked with the lieutenant for years without being distracted by her physical form. Yet now, he can barely look away. Her body is composed of smooth lines, deceptively soft – but he knows she is fit and strong, as Starfleet requires of all officers. Her hair shines a healthy black, and her eyes are dark and deep, almost Vulcan.
She smells slightly of some floral perfume, and underneath it exudes a mild sweat. Very, very faint is a muskier scent – the slight and natural odor of her sex, which would go entirely unnoticed by humans. The scent deepens when she exhales. Spock wonders what it would be like to hear her panting. He wonders what it would be like to hear her scream.
Uhura doesn't notice his preoccupation. “I've been thinking about visiting the gardens,” she says cheerily. “Would you care to join me, Mr. Spock?”
“No,” he says abruptly. “I must... file reports. If you will excuse me.”
Uhura nods. Her expression doesn't twitch; she doesn't seem offended or alarmed at his sudden announcement. But Spock leaves the room as fast as he dares. He wonders if any of the officers who glance at his passing can somehow sense his inappropriate thoughts. If this were a ship of Vulcans his condition would be obvious.
He returns to his own quarters with relief. Here there is only his own scent, with a few faint places where he's reminded of Captain Kirk. He is tempted to rest, to meditate, and hopefully dampen the aching pain between his legs. But there are more pressing matters.
His condition is escalating quickly. He has no option; he must make arrangements.
Spock begins by formulating a summary of all his experiments and duties in the Science Department, both official and not. Next he carefully lists future plans and creates an index of reference-files, as there is no way to rapidly coalesce his lifetime's work – despite the fact that this file is merely a revision, an update to a document he has started and set aside many times before in the course of dangerous missions.
Spock carefully makes a list of officers who would be able to adequately replace him, starting with Lieutenant Zera, who has always been an exceptional and rational officer. He creates a separate list for his future successor, which includes examples of past duty-rosters, several important notes about his personnel, and so forth.
Next comes the more difficult task of leaving instructions for the Enterprise's next first-officer. Naturally, every first-officer is unique. Spock will not insult this unknown individual by presuming to micromanage. But he creates a number of lists similar to the ones provided for Lieutenant Zera; a document identifying the locations of relevant files, examples of notable reports, and so forth. There is actually less to say for this officer, and he finishes sooner than anticipated.
It is 2000 hours. Spock anticipates that he can manage at least 2 more days of duty without risk, but he is unable to sleep.
Spock chooses to meditate in the Observation Deck. His presence tends to make other officers feel obligated to leave, but under present circumstances he seems entitled to the indulgence.
He remains there until his next shift begins.
“Chess tonight?” Kirk offers at the end of the next day. “It's like we keep missing each other lately.”
Spock seriously considers the offer.
He would prefer to speak with Kirk soon – to reassure, to prepare him, even if he cannot make his intent clear – but there are other tasks he should attend. He has spent the past hours considering his final arrangements – including those which extend beyond the Enterprise.
“I am otherwise occupied,” Spock says at last. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“I'm afraid I'm busy tomorrow,” sighs Kirk. “I'm going over one of Scotty's proposals – we'll have to wait until the Altair mission is done. What a waste for a Starship.”
Spock clasps his hands behind his back, quietly accepting the captain's refusal. “You seem unusually preoccupied with this mission,” Spock notes, “Given its low-priority.”
“I'm occupied with it because Starfleet doesn't consider it low-priority,” Kirk says. “Decades in this service, and I still can't understand some of these decisions. But you're right; I suppose there are worse assignments.” He shakes his head. They halt in the corridor, situated squarely between Spock and Kirk's doors. “Still. Two years in deep space, and they're sending us on milk-runs...”
Suddenly, Spock has misgivings. “Jim,” he interrupts. The captain sends him a surprised look; Spock rarely uses his given name. “There is a personal matter I would discuss with you.”
Kirk grimaces. “Of course, Spock – but I'm afraid it will have to wait. I'm expecting Admiral Komack to call in just a moment. Will it keep until after?”
Spock takes a step back. “Of course,” he says aloud.
His offer was a moment of madness, anyway. To speak – to tell Jim about the Fever, the most closely-guarded secret of Vulcan – would be both unforgivable and useless. Kirk would only suffer from the knowledge that he can do nothing to alleviate Spock's situation.
Better that Spock makes his arrangements quietly. No one needs to know why.
Spock tries to eat against at 1800 hours.
He hasn't seen Kirk or McCoy all day – Kirk's conference with Admiral Komack must have been important, because he's been running all over the ship checking reports and harassing Engineering. McCoy has no similar obligations, but he has found it necessary to send Spock a threatening message warning him to increase his caloric intake.
Spock intends to comply, but he feels nauseous – and frustrated – at the mere prospect of food. His salad is utterly unappetizing, and Spock can't determine why until he catches the scent of grilled salmon at a nearby table and realizes that he is hungry. Just not for plants.
At once Spock stands and discards his food. He almost makes it to his quarters when someone calls out his name.
“Mr. Spock!” Nurse Chapel cries. “Mr. Spock, one moment.”
Spock halts just as the doors to his room slide open. He glances back and finds the Nurse half-running behind him, carrying a small bowl that smells strongly of plomeek. His stomach roils. “If you must speak, do so.” He enters the room. Chapel follows without invitation. “I am occupied tonight.”
“Mr. Spock,” Chapel chides, ignoring the hint, “I saw you leave tonight without having a bite of dinner! I know Dr. McCoy has been on you about eating more.”
“My diet is perfectly adequate.”
“No, it isn't,” Chapel denies. Spock exhales, clenching his fists behind his back; why does this woman presume to know his body better than Spock? “Now, the kitchens whipped this up for you – real plomeek soup, from scratch. You need to eat all of it.”
“Do I,” says Spock flatly.
“Yes. And maybe I won't tell Dr. McCoy that you've been skipping meals.”
Her tone is light, teasing. Spock yanks the bowl from her grip and finds his hands trembling with...
With rage, and something else. Nurse Chapel has a tendency to skirt regulations; her medical-blue shirt dips far lower than allowed.
“If I wanted your assistance I would ask for it,” Spock snaps. His voice sounds overly-loud; Chapel's eyes widen, and her mouth forms a small 'o'. “You will desist, and leave.”
“Now, there's no need to be rude,” Chapel bursts.
Spock throws the bowl to the side; it hits the wall and spills open with a clatter. Chapel's entire body jerks in shock. She makes no protest when he grabs her arm and shoves her toward the door, just gasping breathlessly.
She almost falls when stumbling into the hall; Spock can hear footsteps halting, voices cutting away mid-conversation. He slaps the lock on his doors before forced to see anyone else.
The soup – which does, indeed, smell strongly of fresh plomeek – continues to dribble down the wall. Spock stares, breathing hard through his nose. His pulse races a frantic beat under his skin.
It is too late, Spock realizes. He already presents a danger to the crew. He cannot prevaricate for even one more day.
It is time.
The vast majority of his arrangements have been created; Spock runs through his mental list and decides the remainder are unimportant. He lights a stick of incense, then strides to the display of Vulcan weapons on the wall, picking one at random. A small knife – an assassin's knife, of the type not used by his ancestors in nearly 2400 years. Illogically he wonders what those ancestors would think, here and now, to see their line end with a half-breed who cannot sate his Fever.
Spock sits cross-legged and first nicks his femoral artery. The ancient knife cuts through his Starfleet-issue pants like butter. Next he raises the blade to his left wrist, and slices vertically. One final incision; he lifts the knife to his neck.
But the world grows dark. He drops the knife before completing the cut. Spock reaches for it again, but his grip slips. Green spots blotch the floor where his fingers explore. No matter, Spock thinks. The two cuts should be sufficient.
He takes a breath, welcoming the dizziness that finally, finally lets his Fever quiet. The flames abate; his blood runs slow and cold.
And then – right as he begins to reach true peace with his end – he hears a familiar sound.
The beep of a computer. A mechanical voice saying, Override accepted. The hiss of a door sliding open.
And nothing more.