Growth: Chapter 10
Spock searched for a place to begin. What could be said? How could he make a human understand the reality of Pon Farr? Jim’s eyes bore into him, and he sat up, slowly arranging himself as he attempted to buy himself more time. The best option, he decided as he settled across from his mate, was to keep his mind to himself as he explained, and he carefully shielded himself from Jim.
The human’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t block me out, Spock,” he growled. Spock reached two fingers out to calm him, watching him absently return the gesture. “I mean it. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
“And I shall do precisely that,” Spock replied. “The accompanying thoughts and images I may produce as I speak will likely confuse you, and I want to make this as easily understood as possible. Have patience, and I will explain.”
Jim nodded, moving his hands down to grip his knees. “Fine. But we’re not leaving until I understand perfectly.”
Acceptable, Spock thought. And with a deep breath, he began.
“It is a madness that overtakes us,” Spock stated, eyes locked with Jim’s. “It is an ancient, violent cycle that afflicts all Vulcans. It strips us of our logic and reason every seven years and demands that we give in to our basest needs. It is called the Pon Farr - the drive to mate.”
Jim blinked. “Wait, it’s a sex thing?”
“Silence,” Spock admonished, attempting to control himself. Humans could not be expected to understand this so easily. “It is more significant than that. If it were merely a sexual drive, it would not pose so grave a threat to us. Pon Farr results from a disruption of our synaptic pathways. It causes aggression, confusion, and extreme sensitivity to psychic phenomena, and that is merely in the earliest stages. As it progresses, we enter the Plak Tow - the blood fever - and it progresses to violent outbursts, mental instability, and eventual insanity. If it is not resolved in time, the individual’s body will cease maintaining homeostasis. The body will attack itself, and the afflicted individual will die an extraordinarily painful death.”
Jim’s jaw dropped open, and Spock took another deep breath.
“Pon Farr is resolved only when the urge to mate and bond has been satisfied,” he explained. “Even for bonded pairs like us, there is a need for extended telepathic contact in addition to the need to copulate. It takes days to resolve, and there is great danger to both parties throughout the experience. Physical damage can be healed - but mental damage, which is a very real possibility, may be impossible to repair.”
Jim swallowed. “That’s why you were so concerned about whether Sybok melded with Uhura,” he stated blandly. Spock nodded. “When does it happen?”
“After the first time, every seven years,” Spock informed him. “My elder self has informed me that I will experience my first Pon Farr at the age of thirty-five. We have some time to prepare.”
Jim was silent after Spock finished his explanation. Spock could feel him processing the information he’d been given, emotions swirling just beneath the surface of his mind. His face was blank, hands clenched on his knees. The Vulcan wished to himself, irrationally, that he would respond. Anger, shock, fear - anything. But he was still. He was quiet.
Finally, his eyes dropped. “We’ve been married over a year,” he said blandly. “When were you going to tell me? When you turned thirty-five and started to go crazy?”
Hurt.
Spock struggled to find an answer appropriate for the situation. His first instinct was to credit the stigma attached - the way his people hid and refused to at all discuss the condition. The silent agreement to never discuss it with outsiders. It was certainly an acceptable answer - he could claim it was his upbringing that made him so reluctant to talk about this.
But he couldn’t lie. Not to Jim. As humiliating as it was, he had to say it.
“I was afraid,” he confessed. Jim’s eyes went wide, and alongside the empathy and the worry drifting from him came a bolt of shock. Spock forced himself to continue. “I did not want to believe I would suffer it. I had hoped that my human genes would keep me from suffering it - but my elder self relieved me of that delusion. I may someday be affected in the same manner you saw Saron and Sybok. I will lose control.”
Jim swallowed, reaching out to lay a hand on Spock’s knee. “But old you said I-or, at least, the man I was in his time-handled it well,” he pointed out. “Maybe it won’t be as bad with you.”
“It is not so simple,” Spock murmured, a hand traveling to his abdomen. “They bonded when they were older. They did not have families. And you must realize that in that state, I may not recognize you - I may not recognize our children.”
Jim froze. “Will there be signs that it’s starting?” he finally asked. Spock nodded. “All right. That’s good. We can plan for it, then.”
And then there was nothing more to say. Spock settled back onto the bed, stretching out onto his side as Jim lay back down and looped an arm around his waist. There was so much to do - he still hadn’t informed his father of Sybok’s death. They needed to inform Starfleet that their assignment had failed and to file an incident report. There was so much to do that he couldn’t afford to stay in bed all day.
But when Jim pulled him closer, one hand spread protectively over his abdomen, Spock found himself disinclined to move.
How odd.
“You said it’s insanity,” Jim murmured against his shoulder. Spock nodded. “I don’t know. Sybok came back to himself in the end. I won’t let you lose yourself to begin with.”
And somehow, Spock believed him.
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Some two hours later, there was a buzz at their door. It really could only have been one person, and Jim called out for the computer to admit him. Dr. McCoy stepped in, eyes flicking directly to the bed before he walked over.
“Autopsy’s done,” he murmured, pulling a hypo and a scanner from his pocket. Spock began to sit up, but Jim pressed a firm hand to his shoulder. It wasn’t enough to really restrain him - Jim knew it wasn’t - but it communicated his message clearly enough. Spock settled back into the bed. The doctor raised an eyebrow.
“No need to get up if we don’t have to,” Jim argued. Spock watched McCoy’s face settle into a resigned expression. It seemed that was a common occurrence around Jim. “What’d you find?”
McCoy twisted a dial on his tricorder. “His synaptic pathways were fried,” he said gruffly. Of course they were. He had been in Pon Farr. “Toxicology on him’s a mess, though, Jim. Every mind-altering substance on record, I swear. And a few not on record. Looks like it was a chemical from a grass native to Uyamirtha IV that did it. But I think it’s not contagious, so you two don’t need to worry.”
Spock felt, rather than heard, Jim’s sigh of relief. Spock had to admit to feeling much more at ease himself. McCoy quietly ran the tricorder over him.
“Yup, normal synaptic activity,” he confirmed. “Absolutely no signs of distress in either fetus, too. Looks like everything’s going all right, physically. Are you gonna be all right otherwise?”
Emotionally, the doctor no doubt meant. Spock nodded, and McCoy seemed satisfied with that. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll call in Sybok’s death to New Vulcan. You shouldn’t deal with that kind of stress when your kids are just developing a telepathic awareness, and I don’t trust that psychic bond thing you and Jim have not to let things slip through. Spock, you’re officially on leave until we leave New Vulcan.”
Spock forced himself not to respond. He did wish to return to work, but the doctor was right. His efforts were better served calming himself so that the first telepathic impressions his children would receive would be appropriate. Jim propped himself up on one elbow.
“I take it he’s cleared for New Vulcan’s atmosphere this time?” he asked. There was a trace of concern in the bond, but the majority of what he felt from his husband centered more on confidence that he was right. And indeed, McCoy nodded, holding up the hypospray. Spock allowed him to administer it, even as Jim grimaced. “Jesus. All it takes is seeing you give someone one of those and I get a pain in my neck.”
McCoy snorted. “Say what you want about them; they’re still better than hypodermic needles. I got poked by more than a few of those my first year of med school,” he drawled. “Anyway, that should do it. You’re good to go down tomorrow. But for now, get some rest.”
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This time, their stop at New Vulcan was short and heavy. There had barely been time to arrange and attend the funeral service for Sybok before they returned to the ship, and barely over a week later, it became evident that the strain was getting to Jim.
Of course, that was also likely due to an unnecessarily difficult negotiation with the leaders of a dilithium-rich planet that had taken nearly thirty-six continuous hours before concluding. Humans weren’t built for that kind of strain, Spock knew. Jim certainly wasn’t any exception. When he had returned to the ship, he’d snarled at anyone who asked him how he was before collapsing in the center of the bed and sleeping twelve hours straight.
He hadn’t been much better since he’d woken up.
For a few long moments, Spock wondered if Sybok’s Pon Farr had somehow been transferred to Jim. But he knew better. His husband was merely exhausted, and with Starfleet sending them on enough missions for three ships he was likely to stay that way.
And there was nothing he could do.
Another week passed slowly with little change. Jim was constantly weary, barely making it through his shifts on four shots of espresso before returning to their quarters to sleep. His nausea had subsided, but it hardly seemed something to celebrate when it had been replaced with something so disabling. Spock found himself curling in bed with Jim some days, trying to sooth his mate’s frustration and usually failing spectacularly.
“I don’t need to cuddle with a personal furnace, Spock! Or did you not get the memo that humans hate sweating?!” Jim growled one evening, pushing Spock by the shoulders towards the other end of the bed. Spock moved himself away quickly, sensing that his mate was not in a mind to calm down if asked. “Fuck this. You know, you’re the one who’s pregnant, and yet here I am - nauseous, moody, exhausted. Am I the only one who thinks this is fucking unfair?!”
Spock edged himself away slightly. “Jim,” he warned. His mate threw the covers off, stomping to the center of the room.
“No. Okay? No! Whatever you wanna say, I’m not listening,” he hissed, crossing his arms. “I didn’t sign up for this, Spock! I can barely function! This is all your fucking fault. I know it!”
Spock sat up slowly, one hand going to his rounded abdomen. He knew Jim would never hurt him or their children, but the fear was there regardless. He tried to sort through his mind, trying to separate his and Jim’s emotions-
Fear, anger, depression, frustration, anxiety, disgust, pity, confusion, joy-
Joy?
He felt his brows knit together, Jim’s emotions blanking out into nothing but confusion. Where had the joy come from?
Calm, warm, peaceful, happy, loved, joy, joy, joy, joy, awe, loved, together-
Suddenly, Jim’s eyes met his, jaw slack. Together, he and Spock moved to cup Spock’s abdomen, both their eyes dropping to the Vulcan’s stomach as they realized exactly who these feelings were coming from.
“Holy shit,” Jim whispered. Spock had to agree. The barrage didn’t stop there. It seemed that at some level, the beings inside him had realized they weren’t the only ones experiencing their emotions, and the intensity increased threefold. There was silence in the room as they took in the foreign sentiments, the awe and happiness of this new awareness of the outside world their children were projecting unto them, as though they wished to share with the world itself the wonder of what they were experiencing for the first time.
When Spock finally looked back to Jim’s face, he noted there were telltale streaks on his cheeks, mouth still open and eyes still locked on the flesh beneath his hands. When at last he met Spock’s eyes again, he swallowed once, taking a deep, shaky breath.
“I take everything I just said back,” he managed, moving one hand to the back of Spock’s neck to pull him into a kiss. Without breaking it, he whispered, “thank you. Thank you so much.”
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