Growth: Chapter 8
Despite the bout of atmosphere sickness, Spock remained entirely healthy for the next month. It perplexed Jim, who was adamant that anyone who was pregnant, regardless of physiology, absolutely must exhibit specific symptoms. And no matter how many times Spock explained that his heritage made it extremely unlikely, Jim continued to insist that something would occur.
When Spock selected a dish outside his norms (soybeans had become particularly appetizing), Jim would crow that he was having a craving. When his increased intake of vitamin D caused a spike in his libido, his mate attributed the change to hormones.
And the morning of Komack’s court martial, when Spock found himself unable to remove himself from bed and paralyzed by nausea, Jim was unacceptably pleased.
“I told you,” he murmured, sounding smug even as he held a biohazard bag under Spock’s chin and ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair. Spock’s stomach lurched, and he grudgingly had to admit that yes, this symptom was definitely related to the pregnancy. He opened his mouth to tell Jim such, but instead found himself expelling stomach acid into the bag.
Jim was quieter then, moving his hand to Spock’s back and rubbing soothingly. He tried to suppress the nausea, but there was little he could do but wait until the urge to vomit ebbed.
It took time, but eventually his digestive tract righted itself, and he was able to begin his morning routine. Jim went about his own routine silently, tying off the biohazard bag and sending it down the appropriate chute in the bathroom. For a moment after the chute closed, Jim stood frozen. Just as Spock turned to inquire, Jim launched himself to the toilet, heaving into the bowl with a loud cough.
Intriguing.
Spock knelt at his bondmate’s side, watching his face for signs of distress. He gave no indication of illness or injury - and the spell seemed to break after only two or three minutes.
“Damn,” Jim mumbled, cheeks pink. Spock ran one finger over a rounded ear. The human looked up at him sheepishly. “I guess I’m a sympathy puker. Would’ve been handy to know that earlier.”
Spock made a note to ask M’Benga for advice next time he communicated with him.
Their routine was finished only 7.2 minutes after when they would normally depart for the mess hall, leaving them plenty of time to complete their meal before shift began.
“I’ll talk to Bones about your nausea,” Jim promised. Spock shook his head.
“It will not be necessary,” he told him. “Once I am able to isolate the cause, I can regulate it myself. I do not require medication. You, however, may want to consult him regarding your regurgitation.”
“Did you seriously just call it ‘regurgitation’?” Jim asked, lips curling into an amused smile. Spock wasn’t given an opportunity to answer, as Nyota approached their table. She took a seat beside him, shifting her dress jacket uncomfortably.
“I wonder sometimes whether they designed these things to be as restricting as possible,” she mumbled as a greeting. Jim barked out a laugh, and she glared at him, almost appearing playful. “It’s a legitimate concern, Captain.”
“Of course,” Jim agreed, eyes crinkling with mirth. “But even so, they’re kind of spectacular. My ass looks firmer than a mannequin’s.”
Nyota rolled her eyes. “Ever the narcissist,” she muttered, but even Spock could tell there was no heat in her words. Her expression changed slowly, melting into one of concern. “I keep wondering what I’m going to have to say today. I’ve never been involved in a court martial before.”
Spock met the woman’s eyes. “It will not be so much an interview as a debriefing,” he explained. “You will simply need give a statement on what you observed of Komack’s behavior. Jim and I will give our own statements last, and after the admirals have deliberated, we will be informed of the verdict.”
She squirmed in her seat. How uncharacteristic of her. “And we don’t have to talk about what happened after, right?”
Jim raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I think you’d only have to if the incident extended beyond when Spock was shot.”
Nyota crossed her arms, and Spock almost thought she looked defensive. That hardly seemed possible - Nyota was always on the offensive. “I might’ve accidentally flung the gun into the corner without disarming it. And it might have unloaded a projectile into the consol’s main screen.”
Spock considered admonishing her - reminding her that it was part of her responsibility as a member of Starfleet to maintain the ship’s integrity - but Jim reacted first, snorting.
“Is that why it was so shiny and clean when I got back the next day?” he asked. Nyota looked pointedly at her plate. “You destroyed the main screen. With a projectile weapon that was older than your grandparents. Oh, Lieutenant Uhura, I am way too amused to consider reporting you for that. Just make sure you tell me how you got it fixed without me noticing, okay?”
Nyota nodded, picking up her bagel at last.
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The testimony given by the crew would on its own have easily convicted Komack; having his own testimony taken might have been superfluous, Spock thought. Regardless, he gave it - speaking with honesty, detachment, and conviction. Only after he had given a full account of the incident did anyone ask anything of him.
“So, Spock,” Admiral Pike began. “I understand that your pregnancy is what prompted Komack to assault you?”
Spock nodded. “Yes. He was present when I informed my husband that I was pregnant,” he confirmed. “He later referenced the pregnancy - slightly before the attack - and was informed that it was not my first.”
Pike cocked his head. “You’ve been pregnant before?”
A slight pang struck his chest, but he nodded regardless. “Jim and I did conceive another child,” he said quietly, “but we suffered a miscarriage approximately two months into the pregnancy.”
Pike was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured. “Was your crew aware?”
“Of the first pregnancy, yes,” he said. “But they are not aware that we have conceived again.”
Pike nodded. “I understand,” he informed Spock. “We won’t tell anyone about it. You ought to have your privacy for once.”
There were no further questions, and Spock exited the room. Jim caught him just outside, manipulating their hands into an embrace and wrapping his free arm around him, projecting comfort and reassurance. Spock noticed Nyota watching them out of the corner of his eye, but it seemed not to matter. Jim met his eyes.
“He’ll be found guilty,” he assured him. Of course he would. The conviction would certainly be inevitable. It was only the sentencing that remained in question. Jim clearly heard him think this and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. I’m playing the role of the supportive husband. Indulge me a little.”
They weren’t waiting five minutes before the verdict and sentencing results were returned. Guilty of attempted murder and assault on an endangered species were the most relevant of the six charges. The sentence: twenty years in a rehabilitation center.
The relief of the crew was palpable, and the younger ensigns were loud in their glee - jumping, hugging, laughing. Spock couldn’t conceive of why they were so excited, particularly given that so few of them had so much as spoken to him. But most importantly, Jim was pleased. And that was more than acceptable.
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The next few weeks passed with little change. Jim awoke nauseous most days, despite Dr. McCoy’s increasingly creative cocktails of anti-nausea hyposprays. Spock’s diet evolved to encourage the twins’ development. Biweekly exams in medical bay. McCoy’s fits every time his cocktails failed to stem Jim’s nausea or exhaustion.
And then, abruptly, Pike called them with new and distinctly troubling orders.
“Ambassador Sarek has asked that you return Sybok to New Vulcan as soon as possible,” he informed them, face grave. “I’m sorry. There isn’t anything I can do to change your orders. You are the only ship close enough to pick him up in the time span we’ve been given.”
Jim frowned. “Why is it so imperative?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Pike shrugged. “Spock, I know you and Sybok aren’t close. I’m sorry to make you do this.”
The call ended, and Jim looked quietly to Spock. “You told Pike about Sybok?”
“He met him once,” he confirmed. “I would prefer he hadn’t.”
Jim didn’t seem offended by the discrepancy, instead moving to confirm the coordinates they were now heading towards. After he’d received and checked the transmission, he turned back to Spock.
“Does Sybok know you’re pregnant?” he asked. Spock shook his head. “Should we tell him ahead of time?”
Spock considered the question. Sybok would be able to determine that he was pregnant on his own. Telling him beforehand might prevent him from proclaiming it in front of the crew - but it might not. In fact, it probably would not make a difference whether they told him before his arrival or not. He had never been one for social restraint.
His hand traveled to his abdomen. He’d had to start wearing a larger size in trousers, and the stitching of his shirts hand needed to be altered to keep his expanding stomach from becoming obvious to the crew. Jim had hardly noticed, even when Spock was nude - but it would not be long before it became obvious to anyone who witnessed him that he was pregnant.
“Rather than informing Sybok,” he decided, glancing to Jim, “I believe it may be prudent to inform the crew.”
Jim stared. “You believe what?!”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “The pregnancy has already progressed to sixteen weeks,” he reminded his mate. “It has stabilized. It is nearly to the halfway mark. And besides, Jim - it will be noticeable to the blindest of the crew within the month.”
“You’re not showing,” Jim grumbled, turning his face away. A thrill rushed through Spock at the realization that he would be the one to enlighten Jim here, and he moved forward pulling his shirt up over than his rounded abdomen.
“Actually, Jim,” he murmured, taking his jaw in his hand and turning his head to look at his stomach, “I am very much ‘showing’.”
Spock watched, pulse accelerating as his jaw slackened. Almost unconsciously, it seemed, his hand stretched out to rest on his abdomen, tracing over the gentle curve with wide eyes. The emotion on his face was nearly reverent.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Spock. Oh my God.”
“You’ve known of the pregnancy for thirteen weeks,” he reminded him, amused when he brought his other hand up to his abdomen.
“I’m suddenly more immediately appreciative. Shut up.”
Jim’s eyes were locked on Spock’s midsection. He turned him sideways, taking in the curve. “Wow,” he managed. “I want to record this. That’s-I mean-look. That’s from our kids.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “Although in approximately twenty weeks, they will be more accessible.”
Jim swallowed. “Just twenty weeks,” he murmured. “Hard to believe.”
He hesitated. “I can very nearly connect with them telepathically when I meditate,” he admitted. “If they follow typical Vulcan development patterns, they will begin to communicate vague impressions within four weeks.”
Jim froze. “You’ll be able to meld with them?”
“Something similar,” Spock confirmed. Then, a beat later, “will we be informing the crew?”
Jim looked him in the eye again, finally. “Yeah,” he agreed, moving to remove his shirt entirely and undoing the button on his trousers. “Yeah. We will.”
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