A Third Option
Title: A Third Option
Author: Tempest
Raiting: PG
Pairing: Pre-S/Mc
Setting: TOS, Post- Amok Time
Disclaimer: Star Trek and all characters belong to Paramount/NBC/Viacom and do not belong to me. I own only this story and make no profit from it. Please don't sue me.
Author's notes: My take on a bonding challenge. I hope it isn’t too disappointing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Captain!...Jim!” Spock grabbed Kirk by the shoulders, spinning the man around so that they could face each other. The expression on the Vulcan’s face ill-befit the strict training of his father’s race, but Spock felt so overwhelmed in this moment that he could not make propriety his priority.
Jim was alive. He had not killed one of his two closest friends in the madness. He need not resign his commission and report for court martial. He could remain aboard the Enterprise and continue with the mission. At this moment, he felt as though he could walk on air, and the fact that he felt so keenly did not inspire the shame that it typically might in a different situation.
However, he could feel the attention from Kirk, from McCoy, from Nurse Chapel, intermixed with amusement and...something he could not place but assumed was judgment. That would not do.
Immediately, he dropped his hands from the Captain’s shoulders and stepped back. “I'm pleased to see you, Captain. You seem uninjured. I am at something of a loss to understand it, however.”
Kirk continued to smile at him. “Blame McCoy. That was no tri-ox compound he shot me with. He slipped in a neural paralyzer. Knocked me out, simulated death.”
“Indeed.” That was a particularly clever subterfuge, Spock thought, and he felt immediate gratitude towards the doctor for finding a way to save him, to save Kirk, and to find a way to end the madness. However, he had already displayed enough for the moment.
McCoy turned to Chapel and requested, “Nurse, would you mind, please?”
She did not appear particularly pleased with the request, but she obliged, slipping out of the CMO’s office and back into sickbay proper.
When the three men were alone, the doctor leaned in. “Spock, what happened down there? The girl? The wedding?”
That had almost slipped Spock’s mind. He had been so consumed with guilt and grief over Kirk’s apparent death, and then overwhelmed by relief to find that it had been a ruse. He owed both men an explanation, given that Kirk had almost lost his life, and McCoy had risked a diplomatic incident in order to save him, to save both of them. “Ah, yes, the girl. Most interesting. It must have been the combat. When I thought I had killed the captain, I found I had lost all interest in T'Pring. The madness was gone.”
That was accurate enough, was it not?
He glossed over certain specifics, such as granting T’Pring’s freedom so she could marry Stonn, or the lecture he gave them. He glossed over the cultural aspects he did not think that his friends would understand, not even after all they had witnessed and experienced. He sensed that McCoy did not care about those specifics, but instead wanted to know if the madness had passed and whether he had married T’Pring.
He glossed over the fact that he had no interest in T’Pring before his pon farr began, as that, too, was irrelevant here.
However, the familiar whistle of the intercom interrupted any further questions. Then, it was time to return to duty, and he left with Kirk to return to the bridge.
He was surprised that the doctor neglected to look him over. While he was sure that McCoy had checked the Captain for injuries when they beamed up ahead of Spock, he thought it remiss that the doctor did not demand a check for him as well. Although it was undeniable that, prior to McCoy’s intervention, Spock had the upper-hand, and that, left to his own devices, he would have killed Kirk easily and without hesitation. Obviously, the Captain had suffered greater injuries as a result of their battle.
At the same time, the doctor had identified that something was amiss before the physical exam. He had seen Spock’s hormone levels and knew that, left unchecked, they would kill him within a week. And Kirk had managed to make contact here or there during their battle. Surely that warranted a follow-up exam.
Yet, McCoy made no effort to prevent him from leaving sickbay; in fact, the closest the doctor made to holding him back was a little dig at his composure, asking whether he had experienced strong emotions upon learning that the Captain was still alive.
Curious.
The rest of the bridge crew appeared pleased to have him back on duty, although nobody approached him specifically. That was proper, as the rest of the bridge crew consisted of junior officers, with the exception of Mister Scott, who was absent, presumably down in the engine room.
The mental clarity that Spock enjoyed proved a sharp contrast to how he could barely focus in the days and weeks prior to their trip to Vulcan. He compartmentalized his thoughts, as he wished to pursue that further, but not while on the bridge. For his first duty shift back after his pon farr, he found it all the more important to prove that he was at peak functioning.
When the shift ended, hours later, Kirk invited him for a game of chess. “I must meditate,” Spock replied, and he thought that the Captain accepted that. At the least, his friend put forth no argument and made no attempt to guilt him into playing a game.
There would be tomorrow.
He had no appetite, although the Vulcan thought that this was typical. He had vague recollections of his parents returning from seclusion and his father forgoing meals for days afterward. His appetite should resume within a few days, and, if not, he could survive at least a week without eating; the same physiology that had cursed him to suffer pon farr provided him with that resilience.
As he reached for his meditation robes, it occurred to him that he was not pure.
While Surakian beliefs had different notions of purity from the assorted Terran beliefs he had encountered over the past two decades of service, they had one commonality: one should be clean, physically, before touching an altar.
He realized he had not taken the time to shower after beaming back to the ship after the kun-ut kali-fi; he had been too focused on resigning his commission. Then he had been blindsided by Kirk’s reappearance, and that had distracted him enough to accompany the Captain to the bridge.
Because McCoy had not held him back to examine him, or to insist that he change into a clean uniform, wash, eat, and sleep, the way that a mother would. The way that the doctor always insisted.
He paused. Was it accurate to place responsibility on McCoy? Was it fair to do so, when the doctor had saved Kirk’s life and had saved Spock’s in the process?
It was not.
He undressed and sent his uniform down the recycler, allowing the chute to take with his clothing the memories and remnants of the events of the day.
Then he stepped into the sonic shower, letting the waves flow over him and cleanse his body the way that the meditation would cleanse his mind.
When he finished, he donned his meditation robe, dimmed the lights in his quarters, and then came to his knees on his meditation slab. Closing his eyes, he cleared his thoughts and slowed his breathing.
The red sands of home flashed before him. Fire flashed before him.
Unsurprising, the remnants of what had happened, the memory of the burning.
A flash of blue.
A flash of blue?
He took a deep breath and turned his focus inward completely.
The sands, sky, and sun of Vulcan were red. The color of life, the color of blood, was green. Blue had little imagery among his people.
Yet, there it was, deep wells of blue. He followed the thread in his mind, seeking out the source. The thread felt new and tender, new.
Unsurprising, since the bond with T’Pring had been broken, but surprising because when could he have forged a new one?
Another flash of blue, and this time, he saw a face.
Leonard McCoy’s face.
The Vulcan’s eyes flew open.
Leonard McCoy’s face was in his mind.
How?
How could that have happened?
When did it happen?
His memory was a haze, but he thought he recalled touching the doctor’s hand when McCoy shoved him away from Kirk’s body. Could that have been enough?
He had burned, at the time, and so it could have been.
His hands began to shake, while he tried to process this.
Leonard McCoy was in his mind, which meant that he was in the doctor’s mind.
Did he know?
Possibly not, since the doctor had not brought it up to him. Then again, there had been more pressing concerns.
His comm. unit whistled, and he took a deep breath before answering. “Spock here.”
“Mister Spock? This is Nurse Chapel. Doctor McCoy has scheduled you for a physical exam tomorrow at 1400 hours.”
So the doctor had not forgotten after all. “Duly noted.”
That gave him eighteen hours to compose himself and determine the best course of action.
Finit
Author: Tempest
Raiting: PG
Pairing: Pre-S/Mc
Setting: TOS, Post- Amok Time
Disclaimer: Star Trek and all characters belong to Paramount/NBC/Viacom and do not belong to me. I own only this story and make no profit from it. Please don't sue me.
Author's notes: My take on a bonding challenge. I hope it isn’t too disappointing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Captain!...Jim!” Spock grabbed Kirk by the shoulders, spinning the man around so that they could face each other. The expression on the Vulcan’s face ill-befit the strict training of his father’s race, but Spock felt so overwhelmed in this moment that he could not make propriety his priority.
Jim was alive. He had not killed one of his two closest friends in the madness. He need not resign his commission and report for court martial. He could remain aboard the Enterprise and continue with the mission. At this moment, he felt as though he could walk on air, and the fact that he felt so keenly did not inspire the shame that it typically might in a different situation.
However, he could feel the attention from Kirk, from McCoy, from Nurse Chapel, intermixed with amusement and...something he could not place but assumed was judgment. That would not do.
Immediately, he dropped his hands from the Captain’s shoulders and stepped back. “I'm pleased to see you, Captain. You seem uninjured. I am at something of a loss to understand it, however.”
Kirk continued to smile at him. “Blame McCoy. That was no tri-ox compound he shot me with. He slipped in a neural paralyzer. Knocked me out, simulated death.”
“Indeed.” That was a particularly clever subterfuge, Spock thought, and he felt immediate gratitude towards the doctor for finding a way to save him, to save Kirk, and to find a way to end the madness. However, he had already displayed enough for the moment.
McCoy turned to Chapel and requested, “Nurse, would you mind, please?”
She did not appear particularly pleased with the request, but she obliged, slipping out of the CMO’s office and back into sickbay proper.
When the three men were alone, the doctor leaned in. “Spock, what happened down there? The girl? The wedding?”
That had almost slipped Spock’s mind. He had been so consumed with guilt and grief over Kirk’s apparent death, and then overwhelmed by relief to find that it had been a ruse. He owed both men an explanation, given that Kirk had almost lost his life, and McCoy had risked a diplomatic incident in order to save him, to save both of them. “Ah, yes, the girl. Most interesting. It must have been the combat. When I thought I had killed the captain, I found I had lost all interest in T'Pring. The madness was gone.”
That was accurate enough, was it not?
He glossed over certain specifics, such as granting T’Pring’s freedom so she could marry Stonn, or the lecture he gave them. He glossed over the cultural aspects he did not think that his friends would understand, not even after all they had witnessed and experienced. He sensed that McCoy did not care about those specifics, but instead wanted to know if the madness had passed and whether he had married T’Pring.
He glossed over the fact that he had no interest in T’Pring before his pon farr began, as that, too, was irrelevant here.
However, the familiar whistle of the intercom interrupted any further questions. Then, it was time to return to duty, and he left with Kirk to return to the bridge.
He was surprised that the doctor neglected to look him over. While he was sure that McCoy had checked the Captain for injuries when they beamed up ahead of Spock, he thought it remiss that the doctor did not demand a check for him as well. Although it was undeniable that, prior to McCoy’s intervention, Spock had the upper-hand, and that, left to his own devices, he would have killed Kirk easily and without hesitation. Obviously, the Captain had suffered greater injuries as a result of their battle.
At the same time, the doctor had identified that something was amiss before the physical exam. He had seen Spock’s hormone levels and knew that, left unchecked, they would kill him within a week. And Kirk had managed to make contact here or there during their battle. Surely that warranted a follow-up exam.
Yet, McCoy made no effort to prevent him from leaving sickbay; in fact, the closest the doctor made to holding him back was a little dig at his composure, asking whether he had experienced strong emotions upon learning that the Captain was still alive.
Curious.
The rest of the bridge crew appeared pleased to have him back on duty, although nobody approached him specifically. That was proper, as the rest of the bridge crew consisted of junior officers, with the exception of Mister Scott, who was absent, presumably down in the engine room.
The mental clarity that Spock enjoyed proved a sharp contrast to how he could barely focus in the days and weeks prior to their trip to Vulcan. He compartmentalized his thoughts, as he wished to pursue that further, but not while on the bridge. For his first duty shift back after his pon farr, he found it all the more important to prove that he was at peak functioning.
When the shift ended, hours later, Kirk invited him for a game of chess. “I must meditate,” Spock replied, and he thought that the Captain accepted that. At the least, his friend put forth no argument and made no attempt to guilt him into playing a game.
There would be tomorrow.
He had no appetite, although the Vulcan thought that this was typical. He had vague recollections of his parents returning from seclusion and his father forgoing meals for days afterward. His appetite should resume within a few days, and, if not, he could survive at least a week without eating; the same physiology that had cursed him to suffer pon farr provided him with that resilience.
As he reached for his meditation robes, it occurred to him that he was not pure.
While Surakian beliefs had different notions of purity from the assorted Terran beliefs he had encountered over the past two decades of service, they had one commonality: one should be clean, physically, before touching an altar.
He realized he had not taken the time to shower after beaming back to the ship after the kun-ut kali-fi; he had been too focused on resigning his commission. Then he had been blindsided by Kirk’s reappearance, and that had distracted him enough to accompany the Captain to the bridge.
Because McCoy had not held him back to examine him, or to insist that he change into a clean uniform, wash, eat, and sleep, the way that a mother would. The way that the doctor always insisted.
He paused. Was it accurate to place responsibility on McCoy? Was it fair to do so, when the doctor had saved Kirk’s life and had saved Spock’s in the process?
It was not.
He undressed and sent his uniform down the recycler, allowing the chute to take with his clothing the memories and remnants of the events of the day.
Then he stepped into the sonic shower, letting the waves flow over him and cleanse his body the way that the meditation would cleanse his mind.
When he finished, he donned his meditation robe, dimmed the lights in his quarters, and then came to his knees on his meditation slab. Closing his eyes, he cleared his thoughts and slowed his breathing.
The red sands of home flashed before him. Fire flashed before him.
Unsurprising, the remnants of what had happened, the memory of the burning.
A flash of blue.
A flash of blue?
He took a deep breath and turned his focus inward completely.
The sands, sky, and sun of Vulcan were red. The color of life, the color of blood, was green. Blue had little imagery among his people.
Yet, there it was, deep wells of blue. He followed the thread in his mind, seeking out the source. The thread felt new and tender, new.
Unsurprising, since the bond with T’Pring had been broken, but surprising because when could he have forged a new one?
Another flash of blue, and this time, he saw a face.
Leonard McCoy’s face.
The Vulcan’s eyes flew open.
Leonard McCoy’s face was in his mind.
How?
How could that have happened?
When did it happen?
His memory was a haze, but he thought he recalled touching the doctor’s hand when McCoy shoved him away from Kirk’s body. Could that have been enough?
He had burned, at the time, and so it could have been.
His hands began to shake, while he tried to process this.
Leonard McCoy was in his mind, which meant that he was in the doctor’s mind.
Did he know?
Possibly not, since the doctor had not brought it up to him. Then again, there had been more pressing concerns.
His comm. unit whistled, and he took a deep breath before answering. “Spock here.”
“Mister Spock? This is Nurse Chapel. Doctor McCoy has scheduled you for a physical exam tomorrow at 1400 hours.”
So the doctor had not forgotten after all. “Duly noted.”
That gave him eighteen hours to compose himself and determine the best course of action.
Finit