Archive of Our Own

It started when he refused food and his tempers spiked. It started with a growing heat and the frenetic pulse of his heart. His skin felt tight where flames licked beneath its surface, consuming, maddening, and he needed. Needed to claim, to fuck, to own. Needed the aching, burning length of his cock buried in the cool oasis of his bondmate’s body. Needed to submerge his mate in semen, needed to fill each hole and pore, needed to declare his dominion in the oldest of ways. He burned.

“I got you,” came Jim’s voice. His chosen, his t’hy’la, his mate, his need.

“Jim,” he growled, and his hands searched out his mate blindly.

“Shh, Spock, it’s going to be fine. I got you.”

Hands, cool and bloodless with age, well-loved hands, touched him gently, bore him down onto the bed. His body collided with Jim’s and he rutted against the glorious expanse of bare skin, no obstacles. He pushed inside Jim’s body and drew out again. Slammed in, out again, and in, over and over. Tried to force the entirety of his being into Jim’s.

Distantly, he was aware of Jim speaking – Be with me here, Spock – and Jim’s hands guiding his towards the lines of his face, to his temple and forehead. Mindless, thoughtless, Spock obeyed.

The flames rose higher.

Jim woke to the scratch of overstarched hospital sheets on his cheek, the low hum of machines, and the acrid scent of medical-grade sterilization. When he blinked away the bleariness of sleep, he met a dim room decorated in beige and grey, almost as if the room itself were designed to undercut its inhabitants’ spirits with a bland melancholia. In the chair pulled up to his bedside sat Jim’s bondmate, curled in on himself and slumped to one side with his mouth hanging open as he huffed out gentle snores. There was a bit of drool threatening to escape from the corner, and Jim couldn’t contain the curve of his lips at the sight. Smiling, however, involved moving muscles in his face, and he had no idea how, but they ached – in fact, everything ached, from his eyebrows to the soles of his feet, and an involuntary groan rumbled out of his chest.

Spock jerked awake, blinking furiously as he leaned in over the edge of the hospital bed. He set his arm over the rail and took Jim’s hand.

“Jim?” His voice was deep and gravelly from disuse, and Jim felt suddenly as if he hadn’t seen Spock for weeks, months, and his heart swelled to hear him.

“Hey,” Jim whispered. He frowned and cleared his throat. “Hey,” he tried again, but the word was still tremulous and weak.

“Do not trouble yourself, Jim,” Spock said with a squeeze of his hand. “I have been assured that we can return home today.”

“Am I on some good drugs?” Jim asked, voice muted. “Everything is… soft.” Spock’s fingers tangled with his, the salt and pepper of Spock’s hair, the brown of Spock’s eyes.

Spock’s other hand came around and settled on Jim’s thinning hair, stroking idly.

“Painkillers,” he said, “which should be wearing off. I have a prescription for a weaker one under the influence of which you will not seem so… altered.”

“Stoned,” Jim said. The smile stretched his face wide, and tiny flares of pain shot through him again. He shut his eyes against them and let out a puff of air. Spock’s thumb rubbed along his hairline, and through the bond, past the haze of drugs, Jim felt the thrum of Spock’s guilt and fear. “Don’t,” Jim murmured. “Not your fault.”

“I am sorry nonetheless, t’hy’la.”

Jim called up his strength and pulled Spock’s hand to his lips. He kissed each withered fingertip, each thickening knuckle. Spock crowded against the head of the bed where no rail blocked him and laid his head down beside Jim’s, forehead pressed to Jim’s temple.

“That can’t be comfortable,” Jim said.

“I find myself uncaring of my own comfort at this moment.”

Jim hummed and let his eyes flutter closed, Spock’s hand still pressed to his mouth. Spock’s pulse beat a warm rhythm against his lips.

Jim’s steps were ginger but he refused to take Spock up on his offer to carry him from room to room.

“I’m not a baby,” he’d grumbled as he hobbled to the bathroom. He had to piss constantly these days, and apparently the twenty-minute interval between leaving the city hospital and arriving at home on the outskirts of Shi’Kharuzh was enough to send his bladder into a panic.

“Call if you require assistance,” Spock said. His tone was mild, but Jim could hear the note of worry underneath. “I will begin meal preparations.”

Jim’s penis was still tender from the dermal regenerator treatments, so he handled it with exaggerated care. When he was finished, he shook off, dabbed at it with a bit of toilet paper, flushed and tucked himself back in his pants. At the sink he looked up and met his own eyes in the mirror. The color, he thought, used to be a brighter blue. But he used to be a lot of things, and those times had passed. Now he wore glasses, his hair was white, and his skin was weighted with wrinkles and spots of discoloration. His beard was coming through, silver and unkempt. He blinked, ran a hand through it. That hand shook, and his knees trembled.

“Spock,” he called out. He gripped the edge of the sink and Spock was there in an instant, arm around the small of his back.

“Are you all right, Jim?”

Jim waved a hand. “I’m fine, fine,” he said. “Could you get one of those tall stools so I can sit? I need a shave, but you’re gonna have to do it.” In the mirror he watched Spock nod and leave, and when he came back Jim sank gratefully into the stool, back pressed up against Spock’s front. Spock’s hands settled on Jim’s shoulders and Jim met his gaze in the mirror, a conduit for their intimacy. Spock broke the eye contact and moved away to gather Jim’s shaving things. He fiddled, he dawdled, and finally Jim said, “Are we gonna talk about this?”

Spock paused. His shoulders had hunched further inward from his habitual stoop, muscles locked and tense. He didn’t look at Jim.

“I suppose that would be the logical thing to do.”

Jim sighed. “Right,” he said. “Well. Why don't you lather me up, I’ll zip it, and you can tell me what you’re thinking while we get rid of this Grizzly Adams thing I’ve got going.”

“There is hardly a quarter inch of growth, Jim.”

“Yeah, yeah, and all of it patchy and terrible, I know. I’d do it myself, but—”

“I will attend you, t’hy’la,” Spock interrupted, moving to stand behind him. “That is my right and my duty.”

Jim’s jaw snapped shut. In the mirror he watched Spock rub the foam between his hands, and then those hands were on his face, smoothing the lather over his cheeks and along his jawline, under his chin and over his lip. It was soothing and, in another life, it would have been arousing. The early days of their courtship, that tumult of lust, seemed unreal by light of memory. The urgency of their affections had faded into a comfortable lull, and Jim didn’t think about it that often, but sometimes the longevity of their union absolutely flabbergasted him. Watching Spock, also greying and touched with age, as he moved around the bathroom taking care of him was one such moment.

Spock stepped to the sink again to rinse his hands, and he patted them dry on a towel. He plugged the drain and ran hot water into the sink. He tapped the razor in the water and came back around. Gentle fingertips on the crown of his head encouraged Jim to tip back so Spock could reach his neck, but no razor touched his skin. Spock held him there, head against stomach.

“I’m ready,” Jim said. Spock braced him with fingers on his jaw, stretching the skin taut, and then he began to run the razor over Jim’s face in long vertical strokes. Jim closed his eyes and Spock began to speak.

“I was foolish to believe that I had aged out of the time of mating,” he said, “and it was doubly foolish to believe once it began that the intensity would be mitigated by my age. It was – wishful thinking, and with that indulgence in illogic, I have injured you beyond forgiveness.”

Jim reached a hand up and grasped one of Spock’s wrist. Through the point of contact he pushed his protest, his Spock, there’s nothing to forgive. Spock paused and made eye contact through the conduit of the mirror briefly before dropping his gaze. He swirled the razor in the basin.

“I am a low beast,” he said in a deceptively level tone, “to sate my base desires on an infirm mate, to treat him with such lack of regard. To tear him. To revel in his cries and his blood.” His lips thinned when they pressed together has if to stopper his words. Jim watched his Adam’s apple bob with a convulsive swallow. His heart hurt, but he could say nothing as Spock cradled his face and began to drag the razor over his skin again. “The solution is clear.”

“And what’s that?” Jim murmured. Spock steadied Jim’s head and flicked away the whiskers beneath his nose. He turned Jim’s face to the side and paid careful attention to the line of his sideburns. He did not speak, and Jim was in no position to move his mouth. They sat in silence as Spock finished shaving Jim, and Spock’s eyes never rose to meet his in the mirror.

Following his grooming session, Jim felt the pain in his rectum begin to throb back to life, and with it all the soreness of his joints and muscles. He’d felt lucid, as if the narcotics had worn off, but now he knew they were gone completely. He’d intended to set up a nest on the couch in the living area instead of being confined to his bed like an invalid, but he needed a nap and a pain pill and the couch wouldn’t suffice.

“What’s that prescription you told me about?” he asked Spock when he changed course to the bedroom. Spock was at his side in an instant with two little containers rattling with pills.

“An antibiotic to ward off infection, a mild oral opiate to ease pain, and a topical ointment for both. You may take the oral painkillers once every four hours, but you will not be due another antibiotic until the evening meal.”

“And the ointment?”

Spock’s shoulder came up in a tiny shrug, a habit he’d grown into after years on the Enterprise. The innocent look on his face was his version of flirtation, and Jim laughed a little. He couldn’t resist leaning in to steal a kiss – just a brush of his dry lips over Spock’s.

“Right.” Jim steadied himself with a deep breath. “I’m gonna make a nest in bed, and probably go to sleep. But could you bring me a glass of water so I can take a pill?”

Spock nodded. “I will also prepare a light meal so you do not become nauseated.” There was a touch on the small of his back, and then Spock was gone. Jim sighed and made his way toward the bedroom, which was another floor up. He reached the stairs and they were a barrier he’d managed to forget about.

“Balls,” Jim muttered. He made a guttural grunt before gripping the rail and hauling himself up the stairs, each movement a strain on his legs, a flare of pain in his ass. By the time he got to the bedroom he was sweating and exhausted, and he had no idea how he’d gotten so old. He arranged two pillows beneath his head, one behind his back and one in front of him to be hugged by arms and legs as he lay on his side. He burrowed beneath the covers. His breath was labored, everything hurt, and he wanted to close his eyes, just for a moment.

When he woke, it was to Spock’s hand smoothing down his arm from shoulder to elbow. Jim craned around to blink up at him.

“I do not relish waking you, Jim,” Spock said, “but I thought you would rather the minor inconvenience than waking later in great pain.”

With more effort than he cared for, Jim sat up against the headboard and accepted the glass of water and pill Spock handed him. He swallowed the painkiller and half the water and thanked him. Spock took the glass back and set it on the bedside table beside a sandwich on a plate before climbing in beside him. Jim sagged against him while he fluffed up the blankets. Spock reached over him to get the sandwich, settling the plate on his lap.

“Eat,” he said, handing one half of it to Jim. The bread was nondescript, but under a leaf of lettuce was a thick slice of roasted turkey breast Spock knew he liked. It was expensive, raised on an organic farming commune south of the city, and Spock must have made arrangements to get it before Jim had even left the hospital. It had been almost eighty years since the establishment of the original colony on New Vulcan, and it was now home not just to Vulcans but to populations with whom Vulcans had made families: Terrans, Romulans, Remans, and myriad others who had originally come to offer aid, but stayed when they found themselves in love with a Vulcan, much as Jim had, once upon a time. Meat was still a luxury on a planet with a largely vegetarian population, but not one too difficult to come by, and Jim bit into his sandwich with zeal. To his delight, he found that Spock had smeared a generous dollop of cranberry sauce on the turkey.

“’s good,” he said after the first swallow. “You pamper me.”

Spock patted his thigh. “This is no hardship,” he said.

“Crumbs in the bed drive you crazy.”

Spock gave his tiny shrug. “I will change the sheets.”

Jim finished his sandwich while Spock told him about some of the goings-on at the Vulcan Science Academy: there was some scandal involving a scientist in charge of the DNA banks, but Jim was missing some crucial pieces of the puzzle and thus was not following very well. Jim put the plate on the bedside table and nestled into Spock’s side, head tucked under his chin.

“So there is a committee meeting to assess the severity of Stendor’s sabotage,” Spock was saying, “but of course I will remain here, with you. I am reasonably certain the board will come to the proper decision with all the evidence before them, even if I am not there.”

“Hey, wait.” Jim may not have had all the details, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tell this was something Spock was invested in. He didn’t come home and gossip often, after all. “When is it? It’s not like I can’t be home alone for a few hours. Hell, I’ll probably be sleeping.”

Spock’s arm tightened around him. “What if you require assistance to go to the bathroom? What if you fall?”

Jim rolled his eyes. The master bedroom was attached to a bathroom, and it was a trifling six feet away. “When’s the meeting, Spock?”

After a long pause, Spock said, “Tomorrow at 0700.” New Vulcan’s day had twenty-eight standard hours, and for some reason, Vulcans didn’t take this as an opportunity to sleep in. Jim was a fan of sleeping in now that he was in his dotage, and he had gotten used to waking in an empty bed.

“Spock,” Jim said. “I’ll be fine. I can get around and I have my pills, and I’ll do a lot of sleeping or reading or whatever. You should go. I want you to go. Have fun.”

A silent huff of breath served as Spock’s show of amusement, and he said, “Hardly ‘fun,’ Jim. Whatever else he has done, Stendor was once a great scientist who contributed much to our knowledge of biology. It will bring us no satisfaction to depose him.”

“Mph.” Jim pressed closer to his bondmate. Spock rubbed his arm. “In any case, you should go, say your piece, make sure they do the right thing there. I’ll be fine.”

“Very well,” Spock said. “But I will have my comm device on my person and turned on the whole time. And you will be sure to keep yours with you no matter where you go.”

“You worry too much.”

“I will prepare meals and snacks in advance. Should I bring a small refrigeration unit up here so you don’t have to traverse the entire house again?”

Jim sat up and cupped Spock’s face in his hands. His thumbs traced the strong line of Spock’s cheekbones. The brown eyes were big and imploring.

“Listen to me,” he said. “It’ll be half a day at the most. I’ll be fine,. You’re beating yourself up and it kills me.”

Misery crossed Spock’s expression, a deadening in the eyes.

“I’m killing you,” he said. “I’m killing you.”

Jim shook his head and pulled Spock in to hug him, arms tight around his neck.

“Don’t do that, t’hy’la,” he said. “Please don’t do that.”

Spock pried Jim off him and shifted to the side. Jim took both of his hands in both of his, but Spock let them lie there, inert in Jim’s grip.

“This is why the pon farr is a time of great shame, Jim. You have always been jocular in your references to it—”

“Spock, you gotta admit: we had some great ones.”

“Jim.” Spock clutched his wrist firmly. Too firmly. Delicate bones ground together and Jim suppressed the surprised grunt that threatened to slip. “We are not young men anymore. That has become painfully obvious. Even now, you do not comprehend the gravity of what I have done to you.”

“Oh, I get it,” Jim snapped. He yanked back his hands. “You’re the one who puts your head in the sand and pretends it’s not happening every single time. I’m just trying to make it easier on both of us.”

“You almost bled to death in my arms!” The words echoed off the walls of their bedroom and buzzed in Jim’s ears like sparks of lightning. The air left his lungs, and distantly he was aware that Spock was panting. Interminable moments passed when there was nothing but the sound of Spock’s breath and the roar of Jim’s blood in his ears, but quietly then Spock began to speak. “When the fever abated I held you, limp and lifeless, and I realized I was covered in your blood. Covered, Jim. I had never – I had never done such a thing, even in my most terrifying nightmares.”

Jim hadn’t bothered to ask about what he couldn’t remember once he’d woken at the hospital. He knew he’d torn, and that he’d been dehydrated, but the beginning of the pon farr was as clear as the moment he was living right now, and it went much as the last few had gone: a smoldering passion, a reaffirmation of their bond. Pon farr had always been, for Jim, a time when he was closest to Spock, when they were as thoroughly buried in each other’s minds as they could possibly be, when no barriers prevented them from complete knowledge of all that they were. It was a time of incredible intimacy, and he’d never feared it, never resented it the way Spock had. He’d never had a reason to. Despite his irrationality during the blood fever, Spock had never hurt him, and the most he’d gotten was a little dehydrated, a little sore, and a lot exhausted, but the best kind of exhausted there was. And Spock had been slowing down in recent years – the last one, about ten years ago because Spock’s Time had never been what one might call regular, had been downright tender by pon farr standards.

“What – what happened?” Jim asked, his voice a croak.

Spock clasped his shaking hands together in his lap and stared down at them.

“You are one hundred and three years old by Earth reckoning, Jim. And you are human.”

Jim clenched his jaw. “And I was human and damn old last time too, Spock. What about this time made it different?”

Spock shook his head. “I am unsure. Your tissues are thinner, weaker. Perhaps…” He swallowed back whatever he was going to say and turned his head away completely.

“Spock.”

He looked up on a sharp inhale and met Jim’s eyes. There was an unparalleled devastation there that tore at Jim’s heart.

“Perhaps the differences between our species’ aging rates are growing more apparent.”

Jim sat back against the pillows. He watched Spock for a long moment until Spock shut his eyes against the connection between them and turned his face away again. He moved to get out of bed, but Jim stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Because you’re more like middle aged and I’m more like elderly right now,” he said. “You’re still strong and I’m getting weaker every day.”

“Do not say such things.”

“Spock. It needs to be said.”

“No.”

“Who’s being illogical right now?”

“Do not mock me, Jim.” Spock brought a hand to his brow as if to hide from Jim’s gaze.

Jay lay back down and closed his eyes. He tugged Spock’s hand and met resistance. He sighed.

“Seriously, Spock? You’re not gonna let me hold your hand?”

Spock’s arm went limp and he allowed the touch, but he didn’t face Jim and all Jim saw was the broad, powerful line of his back.

“Will you please look at me?” Jim said. Spock pulled his hand away and swung his legs back on the bed to arrange himself at Jim’s side. He pulled Jim to his chest, entangled their legs. He held too tightly, but Jim let him. When Jim spoke, his lips brushed Spock’s pulsepoint, which beat like the wings of a hummingbird. “Even if I’m alive for the next one—”

“T’hy’la—”

“Shh, just listen,” Jim said. He felt Spock swallow. “Even if I’m alive for the next one, which no one can guarantee, I won’t be able to go through another pon farr with you. So. That’s where we are. And we’ll have to come up with a solution.”

Spock threw his entire leg over Jim’s body and crushed him in a hug. Jim gurgled and gasped Spock’s name until he let him go.

“I know what to do,” Spock said.

Jim craned his neck up to look Spock in the face. “What?”

“You will protest, but you must understand it’s the only way.”

“Spock. Just say it.”

“Chemical castration.”

Jim pushed Spock off of him and sat up without care to the bolts of pain that lit his ass and traveled up his spine. He gaped at Spock, who lay prone beside him, bangs askew.

“Jesus Christ, Spock, that’s the worst thing I have ever heard.”

“It is the only guarantee, Jim.”

“It is not! And it’s— It’s really short sighted! You could live another hundred years. You could have kids, and a fulfilling relationship with someone else.”

Spock propped himself up on his elbows. “You must know that there can be no one else, Jim. You are the chosen companion of my life. After you, I will be alone. I choose to be alone.”

Jim rubbed at his eyes which suddenly stung. “Okay. Listen. That’s really sweet, I guess, but Spock, I don’t want you to be sad and alone for the rest of your life. I want – all I have ever wanted was your happiness. The fact that your happiness included me was this insane bonus that I got to enjoy for almost my entire life. And I will continue to enjoy it until I’m dust. But I… I don’t want you to lock your heart away, Spock. It’s too big and full of love and vitality. It would be a waste.”

“My counterpart lived alone until his death.”

“And you envy that, Spock, really?” Jim pressed his palm to Spock’s side, above his heart. “Spock, my heart broke for him. Every time I saw him until he was gone, I felt like someone punched me in the gut. The way he’d look at me.”

“He comported himself with dignity. He never betrayed his t’hy’la.”

Jim frowned. When he and Spock had been together for about ten years, they’d gotten a call from New Vulcan asking if Jim would attend a most serious matter having to do with Spock’s counterpart. It turned out to be pon farr, which Jim had become familiar with two years previously, and after long talks and even longer silences, Spock agreed to allow Jim to ease the elder Spock through his Time. And he did so then and again eleven years later. Two years after that, Spock went to sleep one night and never woke up. When Jim got the news he locked himself in the head of the captain’s quarters on the Enterprise and cried bitterly, cried hard, cried like he hadn’t since he was fourteen and ran out of tears on a godforsaken planet whose memory he’d buried deep, cried until he choked and puked and had nothing left in him to wring out. Even now, decades later, he felt a lump form in his throat at the thought of Spock, any Spock, leaving the universe so permanently.

“Well,” he said after clearing his throat. “We don’t have any extra Jim Kirks lying around this time.”

Spock’s expression darkened, his mouth turning downward and his brows drawing together.

“You make light of this.”

Jim sighed. “No. No, I don’t. I’m just saying it’s not a betrayal, Spock. You could never betray me by continuing to live and love and – and contribute to society like you always have. I don’t want you to do what he did – to do the misplaced nobility thing and pine your days away. It’s not just sad, it’s kind of pathetic.”

“I thought you harbored… affection for him.” Now the brown eyes were accusing, though Jim couldn’t tell if it was because Jim had loved another Spock, or if he hadn’t loved him enough not to question the way he’d wasted his final years.

“I did,” Jim said. “I do. And he did a lot of great things for the colony, and for peace with Romulus. But Spock, he was lonely. He was so lonely it hurt him all the time. He was so lonely his health deteriorated and he died sooner than he had to.”

Spock squeezed his eyes shut. “Then he merely hastened his journey to meet his Jim again.”

“Spock!” Jim landed a harmless blow on Spock’s shoulder and Spock opened his eyes again. “Are you serious right now? Are you really giving me the ‘dying for each other is romantic’ clap trap? I can tell you right now – his Jim never wanted for him to waste himself like that, and I certainly don’t want you to live some kind of barren, sterile, acetic life where you moan about your lost lover until you wither away and die!”

“Vulcans do not moan,” Spock said.

Jim barked out a single laugh. Fondly, he brushed Spock’s protruding lower lip with a thumb.

“You do pout though,” he said. He counted out five breaths until he said in a conversational tone, “You know, you’re being really illogical about this. This is the way of things, the cycle. We age, we die. Just happens that I’m gonna do it sooner than you. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life in mourning because of something natural. Kaadith, right Spock? We’ve had seventy-seven years, and that’s a lot more than most people get. And there’s at least a few more in us.”

“It will not be enough,” Spock said, bitter. “Even if you lived a hundred more years, it would not be enough.”

Jim swallowed down the thickening in his throat. “I love you too, Spock,” he whispered. He lay back down and set his head on Spock’s chest. When Spock’s arms came around him this time, they were limp, as if sapped of strength and the will to fight. “We’ll figure this out and no one’s getting castrated, for Christ’s sake. Don’t worry, for now.”

“I cannot abide the thought of hurting you again.”

Jim was getting an idea. He might be too old for pon farr , but he wasn’t too old for a brilliant turn. He decided he’d start on it tomorrow while Spock was away. For now, he nuzzled Spock’s throat and breathed in the deep perfect scent of him.

“You won’t,” he said. Then, “Spock?”

“Hm.”

“Wanna apply my ointment?”

Spock was careful not to disturb his bondmate when he rose to prepare for the day in the early pre-dawn hours. Jim was a softly snoring curl on the far edge of the bed, the blanket cocoon expanding and contracting with each steady, sleep-drawn breath. Spock watched the puff of grey hair sticking straight up out of the swath of bedding for a moment before replacing his bedclothes with a meditation robe.

He wondered at the vagaries of time. How, though divided by standardized mathematical increments, it seemed to speed up and slow down according to individual perception without care to logic. Though days and weeks and months and years passed as they always had and always would, he found now that despite time’s steadfast reliability, his life — Jim’s life — had somehow gone by too quickly. The joys and agonies they had shared, their passions, their resentments, their lulls, their ebbs and flows had passed with alarming alacrity, and now they were here, two old men on New Vulcan, one ailing and the other hale. It made Spock’s gullet rise to think of it. It seemed, now, that they had spent the lifetime they shared avoiding the topic of their differing lifespans altogether, but time had come upon them and forced them to face its ravages without respite.

Spock knew that his inability to control the caprices of his body had probably just cost Jim a few years of his life. For that, Spock would never forgive himself, no matter how Jim protested, no matter what the outcome of whatever scheme Jim thought he was so clever in devising right now. Until the end of his own life, Spock would live with his mate’s blood on his hands.

Jim slept through Spock’s meditation time, his ablutions, and the forty-five minutes he spent preparing a day’s worth of Jim’s meals and snacks. Before he left for the meeting, Spock put on a blue tunic and black trousers and peered at his sleeping bondmate, his face smushed into the pillow while his hair stood perpendicular to his head. With a light touch Spock smoothed the cowlicks, and when he laid a feathered kiss on Jim’s crown he commited the scent of him to memory.

When Spock arrived at the VSA, Sarken was at his side in mere moments, as if preternaturally aware of his presence. Sarken was a slight young man of mixed human and Vulcan heritage, barely thirty years old by standard reckoning but quite accomplished enough to have become Spock’s assistant. He cut a striking figure: willowy, but with an understated strength about him. Brown eyes lit to see Spock again, a smile hastily and unsuccessfully suppressed.

“I trust you are well again, Dr. Spock?” Sarken asked. Accustomed to Sarken’s gentle forays into impertinence, Spock only nodded wearily.

“I wish to return to my bondmate as quickly as possible, Dr. Sarken,” he said.

“Of course, Dr. Spock.” Sarken nodded and let Spock lead the way to the meeting in the administrative wing of T’Pau Memorial Hall, following half a step behind at his side.

Spock’s steps were not as quick as they might have been ten, twenty, fifty years ago, and the silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the click of their shoes on the floor. As they neared the meeting room, Sarken paused and Spock stopped to quirk an inquisitive brow at him.

“I – I wish to extend my good wishes to your bondmate, Dr. Spock,” he said. “And to tell you that should you require more time away from your work here, I would of course pay careful attention to your projects.”

Spock considered Sarken’s face: more human, perhaps, than his own. Or maybe it was just that Sarken allowed his human expressions a certain freedom that Spock did not, even now. He did not know Sarken well on a personal level despite Sarken’s occasional tacit invitations, but he imagined that Sarken had never been so conflicted as Spock had been at his age. Human, Vulcan, and the vast differences that lay between the two seemed inconsequential in Sarken’s hopeful smile, his beseeching eyes, in the delicate sweep of pointed ears and brows. Truly the universe had changed in the past century. The nerves he saw bare in Sarken’s expression, the fidgety energy, the smile, warmed Spock even as it made him feel old – old and sad and regretful.

“Thank you, Dr. Sarken,” he said. “I may well take advantage of your offer.” Spock pushed the door open to enter the meeting, and he ushered Sarken through. As he passed, his body brushed Spock’s.

Spock settled in a seat next to T’Dahlen while Sarken took the seat beside his. Spock nodded at T’Dahlen and at Soltek across the table. He greeted them both, but he did not acknowledge Stendor, who sulked in the corner in a shamefully unVulcan display of petulance. Soltek gave Spock a grave nod, though his eyes softened when they met his. Soltek was a Reman who had moved to the colony as an infant when his parents answered the call to aid Vulcans in the immediate aftermath of the genocide. They had perished in a terrorist attack shortly after the colony was established, and Soltek was adopted by two Vulcan women who had passed child-bearing age. It was Soltek who had approached Spock almost twenty-five years ago about joining the DNA research team following his and Jim’s retirement from Starfleet, and Spock had come to admire Soltek’s tempered nature – no repression for Remans, nor hormonal rages and uncontrolled emotional explosions – and his keen, scientific mind. Soltek, he ventured, was his friend, the likes of which he did not have outside of Starfleet circles.

“Dr. T’Britha has a habit of tardiness,” T’Dahlen said with a moue of distaste. She shuffled some of datapads in front of her in an effort to get the corners to square off exactly. Spock saw Soltek’s eyes alight on the play of her fingertips over the datapads. She was just over seventy standard years of age, but she remained slender and upright, her skin clear and taut and her pitch eyes sharp. Her father was Vulcan while her mother was Betazoid; their union had been a scandal of sorts, her father having broken a bond with a Vulcan woman of good breeding to marry T’Dahlen’s mother in the early days of the colony when citizens were being encouraged to reproduce only full Vulcan children. According to some in the council of elders, on whose board Spock was obliged to sit once a month, T’Dahlen’s parents were still enamored of each other. T’Dahlen reminded Spock of himself, how he used to be when he was still embroiled in the effort to be more Vulcan than Vulcan – to eradicate that part of himself that marked him as separate from his wholly Vulcan peers. He had hoped over the years of his acquaintance with T’Dahlen that she would find a measure of peace as he had, but even as she approached middle age she rigidly controlled her telepathy, her pheromones, her expressions – everything Betazoid about herself. Again Spock felt weary and mournful, and he let his spine sag a bit in the chair almost in silent protest of strict Vulcanhood.

“She will be here in due course,” he said with a sigh. He glanced at Stendor, who seemed occupied in the study of the floor. Resentment flared in Spock; he had respected Stendor, admired him, striven to please him with his work here. All the while Stendor thought of him, of T’Dahlen, Sarken, probably even Soltek and T’Britha, as lower lifeforms, not even worthy of his regard or their places on the governing board of the VSA. Somehow, though there was no logic to it, the thought humiliated Spock, made him feel as diminished as he once felt as a friendless child of mixed heritage. Stendor looked up at him, and Spock could glean nothing from the flat blank slate of Stendor’s perfectly Vulcan eyes.

“It is 0701,” T’Dahlen bit out.

“What is a minute to the long-lived?” Soltek said. He sent her a soft, cautious smile, but she turned back to her datapads with a furrow in her brow.

In a flurry of comm devices, datapads, flowy clothes and long, unfettered black hair, T’Britha burst into the room and plonked down next to Soltek, her stacks of work spreading out before her and him in an untidy sprawl. T’Dahlen managed to stiffen even further beside Spock.

“Sorry, sorry,” T’Britha said. She was, aside from Stendor, the only one among them who was fully Vulcan, but she was v’tosh ka’tur – she practiced logic without repression of emotion. Spock found her refreshing and exasperating in equal parts. “I was collecting cactus blooms in the western dunes when I realized the time. Forgive me.”

She produced a bright pink flower from amid the folds of her gown and placed it in the middle of the table. She caught Spock’s eye and they shared a smile: one minute, barely distinguishable, the other a sunny beam.

“You forget yourself, Dr. T’Britha,” T’Dahlen said, and T’Britha’s expression dimmed.

“Oh,” Spock said, “it is nothing. Let us convene on the matter of Stendor, son of Skoren.” A hush came over the room, and the atmosphere took a distinct turn toward the somber. Sarken, Soltek, T’Dahlen and T’Britha each sat straighter in their ergonomic chairs, and they turned to him expectantly. Suddenly Spock realized that as the eldest in the room after Stendor – by scant years, if he recalled T’Britha’s birth year correctly – he was expected to run the proceedings. He felt foolish; he should have known Stendor’s removal from the board of governors and the DNA banks placed Spock in his place by age if not seniority. Spock swallowed and began. “Dr. Stendor, you stand accused of fabricating reports of DNA incompatibility and offspring inviability between races. What say you?”

Stendor, straight and rigid in his chair, was taller than all of them, even though he must have passed his bicentennial some years back. A proud man, an accomplished man, he had been the sole elder to remain in the VSA’s employ when the new colony had been established seventy-eight standard years before. The others, what few were not taken in the singularity, chose to become historians of Vulcan culture or to train in the healing arts so as to ease the suffering of those unable to integrate the psychic backlash of six billion dead in an instant. As such, the New Vulcan Science Academy, as it was no longer called, saw an influx of young scientists and researchers like T’Britha, who brought with them new approaches, ideas, and attitudes – which they now knew had grated against Stendor’s values from the start. Spock wished to abdicate the entire meeting to T’Britha since she had been here since the beginning, but what he started he could not abandon. Stendor stared resolutely forward. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough with age, and it hid none of his contempt.

“I was under the impression, Dr. Spock, that you and your colleagues had evidence with which to condemn me. I am under no obligation to speak in the least.”

Spock’s temper sparked and he clenched his jaw. “It was a professional courtesy I will not make the mistake of offering twice. Dr. Sarken, please note that Dr. Stendor has refused the right to speak.” Sarken’s stylus tapped an erratic rhythm against his datapad as he obeyed. “We will now present our findings, and at their conclusion we will put the matter of your continued employment to a vote.”

Over the next six hours, Spock, T’Britha, T’Dahlen, Soltek and Sarken presented and expounded upon every act of clandestine sabotage they could prove Stendor had committed since the inception of the VSA on New Vulcan. He had been cunning – small changes once in a while to a report, to DNA analyses, nothing glaring or even particularly noticable. But, when identified and compiled in one place, they created a pattern of treachery staggering in its proportions. It spanned seventy-five standard years and had doubtless contributed to the misery of countless couples who were told they would never produce viable offspring. Stendor had singlehandedly stopped the births of more mixed-race children than the New Vulcan for Vulcans blood purity group that had risen to a short but tyrannical reign in the first few years of the colony’s establishment. NVFV had eventually toppled in disgrace, but it seemed the spirit of their ideals had lived on in nauseating splendor in Stendor’s work. The thought of working side by side with Stendor for the past twenty-five years, of being eager for his favor, sickened Spock now.

It was Sarken who had first noticed. He had been working with the DNA of a couple whose combined heritage was a mixture of Vulcan, Romulan and Terran. According to his findings, there was enough variance between their genes not to contribute to genetic stagnation in future populations, which was the main concern of the VSA DNA banks. However, when he was rechecking his analyses, Sarken found one small change in the hormone levels of the half Romulan, half-Vulcan parent that he could not recall recording. He compared it to the quarter Vulcan, three-quarters human parent, and found a similar change in her nineteenth chromosomal pair. Together, the changes represented a genetic mutation called Ca’hadranni Syndrome which would result in an almost 100% fetal mortality rate – if the findings had been true. But Sarken, unbeknownst to Stendor, paid a visit to the couple and re-took their blood and tissue samples. In secret he ran them again and again; he did not eat nor sleep nor attend to bodily functions while he personally analyzed each chromosome, each hormone reading, each blood test. The results were always the same: a pleasing amount of genetic variance with 0-7% chance of genetic disease. He concluded that only his direct superiors, Spock and Stendor, could have perpetrated the act of sabotage on his personal project. He approached Soltek – who was neither v’tosh ka’tur nor of mixed heritage, and therefore could not be accused of bias – for advice on how to proceed. From there, several months’ worth of digging through decades upon decades of work revealed but one culprit: Stendor.

At the end of six hours when everyone seemed to have exhausted their mountains of evidence, Spock felt brittle and ill-used, wrung out. He wanted nothing more than to return to his bed and his bondmate and let Jim’s scent lull him to sleep. He wanted to turn Stendor away and never see him again.

“If that is all, we will put the matter to a vote,” he said. “Dr. Stendor, please stand.”

Stendor stood, a towering figure who dwarfed them all. He squared his shoulders and leveled his gaze at Spock. Spock refused to flinch.

“Those in favor of dismissal, raise your hand.” Spock raised his, and he watched as four hands rose around the table without hesitation. “Then it is agreed.” Spock pulled out his comm device and called for security. “You will be escorted by security to fetch those things which belong to you.”

Security arrived and Stendor moved to join them outside the meeting room. He paused in the doorway and addressed Spock.

“You enjoy things, do you not, Spock, mongrel son of Sarek?” Beside Spock, Sarken gripped the arm of his chair, and he could hear T’Britha’s sharp intake of breath. “Enjoy my expansive office now that it is yours.”

When he left, Spock let himself deflate, and he stared for a moment at the table.

“I did not know he was so hateful,” Sarken said, regret clear in his tone. “You would do well not to listen to him, Dr. Spock.”

“He disgraces New Vulcan,” T’Dahlen blurted. Her fists clenched on the table, and Spock thought he saw a tremor of disquiet crack through her Vulcan façade. “He brings shame to the VSA. Are you aware of what this will do to the reputation of the genetics project? What it does to the entire institution?” The questions were directed at no one in particular, but T’Dahlen seemed increasingly agitated, and then a wave of lust overcame Spock and he gave an involuntary gasp.

“T’Dahlen, control yourself!” Soltek said even as he shook his head in a vain effort to clear it of T’Dahlen’s pheromones. Spock saw him restrain his hands from reaching out to her.

“I apologize,” T’Dahlen said, face flushed. She squeezed her eyes shut and Spock averted his gaze to give her some semblance of privacy.

“It is a sad state of affairs,” T’Britha said. She cast a look of compassion T’Dahlen’s way, but otherwise bulldozed through the moment as was her custom. “We will need to produce public statements, go over any cases Stendor had a hand in, contact the parties therein. We may have to conduct all the corrupted research over again. I will arrange for a public relations consultant.” She caught herself and colored a delicate pale green. She gestured at Spock. “I apologize, Dr. Spock. Of course these decisions are in your purview.”

“Do not trouble yourself over me, Dr. T’Britha,” he said with a wave of his hand. “In fact, I was wondering when it would be appropriate to propose that you take over the genetics project rather than me. Now is as good a time as any. Do you accept?”

T’Britha favored him with a soppy look of gratitude. “Of course, Dr. Spock. Thank you.”

“If you will excuse me, I am still on a short sabbatical.” Spock stood and began to gather his things. “I expect to return next week. Sarken will oversee my cases and I trust any inquiries will—”

“Dr. Spock, I have a message from the commodore in my inbox,” Soltek interrupted him. His attention was trained on his comm device, on which he prodded the virtual keyboard with his stylus in quick, spare movements. “It was sent three hours ago.”

Spock’s brow furrowed. “Jim?”

“I have one as well,” T’Dahlen added. She angled her comm device so that Spock could see. Dr. T’Dahlen, it read, I would like to speak to you in person at the earliest possible convenience. Jim Kirk.

“And I,” T’Britha said.

Sarken poked at his own comm device before his face crumpled in on itself. “I do not,” he said. His lower lip threatened to extend beyond its proper place.

“I see,” Spock said faintly. “Perhaps if you make arrangements—”

“I have done so, and I have already received a response,” Soltek said. Spock blinked. “The commodore invites me to your home following the conclusion of our business here.”

“I as well,” T’Dahlen said.

“And I,” said T’Britha.

Sarken stood and put his datapads into his bag. He nodded vaguely in Spock’s direction but didn’t make eye contact as he scurried out of the room. Spock sighed.

“My bondmate puts me in an awkward position,” he said.

T’Britha turned her wide eyes to him.

“He was not to know Sarken would be in the room when we received our messages. He is not on the board officially, after all.”

“I am not upset at Jim,” Spock said. “Merely frustrated at the circumstances which have conspired to cause my confusion and Sarken’s wounded feelings. Did Jim not indicate to any of you the subject of these meetings?”

Soltek shook his head. “His correspondence was more terse than what I have become accustomed to receiving from him in person, but perhaps that is a function of his late… ordeal.” After a pause, he added, “I have found him a warm and open individual in social gatherings. You are lucky to have him as a bondmate, Dr. Spock.”

Spock saw T’Britha nod with more vigor than seemed necessary. Spock was self-conscious – it was never spoken of but hardly secret when Vulcan males took sabbatical in deference to their cycles, and his colleagues had never before made so blatant a reference either to the time of mating or to Spock’s specific domestic situation, though neither same sex unions nor inter-special ones were uncommon. The sentiment Soltek expressed was almost too personal for their level of friendship, and yet he spoke a truth that Spock could not deny. Spock decided the path of graciousness was most appropriate, and he gathered all his dignity when he stood tall and upright.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “I have often reflected on that fact myself. Am I escorting all of you to my house?”

“If it is not too much trouble,” T’Britha said. “I came by public transport.”

“I can follow in my air car,” Soltek said. “Dr. T’Dahlen, if you require transport…”

“No need, Doctor, but thank you. I recently acquired a personal transportation vehicle.” PTVs were open air single-passenger vehicles known for their ability to travel at high speeds; they were popular among young non-Vulcans, and Spock could not contain the uptick of an eyebrow at her choice. She challenged him with an arch of her own, then stood and brushed past him to leave the room.

Soltek blinked after her while T’Britha just grinned, plucked the flower from off the table and tucked it behind her ear, and followed T’Dahlen out.

Jim had a pot of tea brewing and a bunch of fruit arranged on plates when Spock came home. Jim was lounging on the couch in the living area, dressed and clean. The bruises were hidden by clothes, and the painkillers were doing their job without sending him high as a satellite. Spock entered with T’Britha, and behind them were Soltek and T’Dahlen, and Jim stood to greet them.

“Hello, hello,” he said, parting his fingers in the ta’al. “Thanks for coming.” He turned to his bondmate and gave him a smile. “Hi, Spock.”

“Jim.” Jim could feel the faint strains of suspicion and disapproval prodding at the edges of their bond. He brushed them off and turned his attention to his guests.

“Commodore,” Soltek said in greeting. “I trust you are well.”

“Hey now, Soltek, I’m just Jim these days. Like I tell you every time I see you.” He slapped Soltek’s shoulder, and Soltek cracked a crooked, endearing smile. He turned to T’Britha and T’Dahlen. “Ladies, please come in. I’ve got tea and snacks.”

Spock’s colleagues fanned in and took seats in the sunny living space, and Jim went to fetch the refreshments in the kitchen. Spock cornered him there.

“What are you doing, Jim?” he asked. Jim turned around and found Spock too close, eyes dark.

“What are you, angry? What the hell?”

Spock put a firm hand on Jim’s hip, where Jim knew Spock knew a bruise bloomed purple and green and ugly, covered by his clothes. Jim suppressed the wince.

“You are not well, and you are meant to be resting. Instead you invite my colleagues for tea? What are you playing at, Jim?”

Jim pushed Spock off him and turned back around to gather the tray.

“Turns out, you’re not my keeper, Spock, and I’m not some kind of delicate flower you have to keep from wilting.”

“I don’t understand why they have to be apprised of our personal business. I don’t know what your plans are, Jim, but I request that you cease this at once.”

“Suck it up, Spock,” Jim said, and he swept out of the kitchen as gracefully as his creaking bones could muster.

Smiling wide, he placed the tray on the coffee table and sank into the corner of the couch not occupied by T’Britha. Soltek and T’Dahlen were crowded into opposite corners of the loveseat across the table, and Spock came in barely disguising his smoldering pout and settled into an armchair.

“So,” Jim said when the silence stretched into awkward territory. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I need to talk with each of you in private. Who wants to go first?”

The guests exchanged looks while Spock’s glower became increasingly fearsome. Jim winked at him and he scowled his little version of a scowl and crossed his arms.

“I suppose I will go first,” Soltek said.

Jim clapped once and pushed himself off the couch with some effort and an involutnary grunt. “Soltek, my man. Take your tea and let’s go into my office.” He ushered Soltek out of the living room and towards his office. He called over his shoulder, “Be a good host, Spock!”

In the office, Jim sat behind his desk and Soltek settled in a chair across from him. Jim fiddled around bringing up a word document on his datapad, but then he pushed his glasses up his nose and fixed Soltek with a focused stare. Soltek looked like a surprised animal locked into staying perfectly still in front of a potential predator.

“So Soltek. How would you describe your past romantic entanglements?”

Soltek’s mouth parted, then snapped shut again. “Excuse me, sir?”

Jim waved a hand. “Dispense with the sirs, Doctor. Listen. I’m gonna be plain: As far as pon farr’s concerned, I’m out for the count. KO’d. Done. I did a little finagling on the computers and looked at the employee files of everyone in Spock’s department who was A.) over sixty, B.) unbonded, and C.) not prone to pon farring it up themselves. From there, I weeded out everyone I hadn’t met or who I knew Spock didn’t like. Bam, I got the three of you. Get it?”

Jim watched Soltek swallow. He looked a little dazed when he shook his head and said no, he didn’t “get it” at all. Jim sighed.

“I’m human, Soltek. That’s a limitation now in ways that it never was before. Spock is – Spock’s going to need someone when I’m gone, and he’s probably going to need that person to force him not to wallow in grief and self-pity. I don’t want that, you know?”

Only now, Soltek was regarding Jim with pity. Jim forced a smile.

“I mean, sure, a little grief for the love of your life, but.” A humorless laugh. “Nothing like what I think he’s planning in that totally melodramatic brain of his. So I’m considering you as a… prospective future mate for him. If you want out right now, just say the word and send one of the others in. No hard feelings.”

There was a long silence as Soltek considered what Jim said. Then, cautiously, he nodded.

“I would be honored to be considered, Commodore.”

Jim smiled at him.

How would you describe your past romantic entanglements?

In my youth, I admired a Vulcan classmate, a female. We exchanged certain youthful indiscretions, but I… felt more than she. When she left for Starfleet, she would not entertain my proposals of marriage, nor my desires for fidelity. Our union was, she claimed, illogical because of her career path. When I pleaded with her, finally she let slip that my being Reman meant she could never marry me. I parted from her unhappily and threw myself into my studies at the VSA. There have been occasions for me to develop fleeting relationships with others I have met – fellow students, and when I came to work here, other scientists and visiting professors. No deep connections ever formed, and I have remained alone for much of my life. I have heard, occasionally, that my first partner enjoys a contented marriage with a human male.

What do you think of Spock?

I had spent my formative years hearing of the adventures of Commander Spock, savior of the Vulcan elders. When I had occasion to meet such a legend, I was nervous and giddy as no grown man should be. He was – everything and nothing like I’d imagined. Reserved, and quietly funny, and totally devoted to you, both as a subordinate and as a bondmate. I liked him instantly, and in the years since we have been acquainted, I have come to greatly respect the caliber of his mind and character. He is… eminently admirable.

How would you treat him?

I suppose I would treat him as a companion for whom I felt great affection. We would have to, er, “get used to each other,” I believe the term is. I would hope that we could enjoy each other’s company, whether platonic or romantic, and when his need arose, I would sate him as would be my duty. Neither his company nor his Time would be hardships to endure.

Have you been present for anyone else’s pon farr before?

No.

Describe a night in with Spock.

Commodore?

I insist.

Um. Perhaps we would discuss articles in scientific journals over the evening repast. I suppose much of our time together would be spent in stimulating intellectual conversation.

Why do you think you, of all the candidates, would be best suited for Spock?

I’m not sure I am. But, if it is worth anything, I believe our temperaments would be compatible. I believe we could find a measure of contentment together. I also believe – forgive me, it is not for me to say.

Say it anyway, Doctor.

Commodore. I believe I am better prepared than either one of my fellow colleagues to accept and navigate the fact of Spock’s abiding love for you, which will not be muted by loss. I believe I am capable of weathering that storm with Spock, when it comes.

Thank you, Soltek. That’ll be all. Please send in T’Dahlen.

How would you describe your past romantic entanglements?

Disappointing.

Maybe you could elaborate?

Very well. I grew up separated from my peers by the circumstances of my parentage. I have my suspicions that Dr. Spock’s own social isolation and personal conflict were greater, as he is older than me and was singular in his… uniqueness, but I had my own difficulties, for all that I was born thirty years later. As a child and then as an adolescent, I had difficulty controlling my empathy and my telepathy. This was doubly painful, because I could not help knowing and identifying with my peers and all their personal travails, yet they rejected me as much because of unintended breeches of privacy as for the very fact of my existence as a half-Betazoid. It may surprise you, Commodore, that in my youth I fell easily and devastatingly in love, but it was a state of being rarely reciprocated. In my early adulthood I underwent the Kohlinar without success, but I managed to learn to control my telepathic and empathic abilities. Occasionally I have met people to whom I felt drawn, but these… liasons have never borne anything but brief elation and then an extended period of melancholy. I… I have been told I am – difficult. I learned, many years ago now, to lay the onus of my continued contentment in scientific accomplishment rather than in another being.

What do you think of Spock?

I consider him one of his generation’s great minds. I respect and admire him. Also, I find him pleasing to the eye. Sometimes… sometimes I envy him.

How so?

He has done great things in each pocket of the galaxy, near and far. He has seen more in his service to Starfleet than I ever will even if I live two hundred and fifty years. He has found a peace within himself, a reconciliation between human and Vulcan the likes of which I have seen only in those much younger than he, who came of age in a different time. And, Commodore, I expect you understand this far better than I could, and will not consider it an impertinence: he has loved, and been loved. There are many things to envy, but I find… I find it is the last that I dwell on when I think of him, illogical as it may be.

How would you treat him?

Carefully.

T’Dahlen. I really would appreciate more in-depth answers.

What would you have me say, Commodore? Ours would be a union whose foundation would be grief and obligation. Even if I… cared for him in the manner most befitting bondmates, he could never reciprocate.

He could. He could. You’d just have to give him the chance, and some time.

I would be dutiful, Commodore. I would be… ha, empathetic. I would work with him to build us a life, perhaps a family. I would squabble with him and challenge him and perhaps make him smile in that way he has. But I would not be you, Commodore.

Fine. Moving on. Have you been present for anyone else’s pon farr before?

That is for bondmates. I do not have one and never have.

Describe a night in with Spock. No, seriously, I’m not kidding. Why does everyone think I’m kidding?

Because we are not on a Terran… what are they called, “game shows?” I have read about them in athropological reports about Terran culture. Truly, they are baffling phenomena.

Humor me, Doctor.

I expect we would engage in the usual trivialities of the domestic sphere. Errands. Cooking, eating. Trivial conversation, stimulating conversation. Child-rearing. Affection and resentment. Sex.

Why do you think you, of all the candidates, would be best suited for Spock?

I cannot be certain of that. If I were to assume it as a given of the equation, though, I suppose I would cite my mixed heritage and my empathy as platforms of mutual understanding. I believe I understand Dr. Spock, Commodore – better than my colleagues could. Whether or not that is sufficient for a successful partnership, I cannot say.

Thanks, T’Dahlen. That’ll be all. Please send in T’Britha.

How would you describe your past romantic entanglements?

I was bonded until, oh, forty years ago now.

Oh? What happened?

My bondmate, T’Enna, was born with a heart problem. The valves were... faulty. She was Vulcan and human, not much younger than your Dr. Spock, but she was far less healthy than he, and her physiology was complicated and often beyond the capabilities of the healers here. She finally succumbed to her illnesses in the home we shared, surrounded by her preferred flowers. I got them especially for her, from your planet.

I’m really sorry.

Kaadith, Jim. I may be v’tosh ka’tur, but I am still Vulcan.

Okay. Would you characterize this relationship as a successful one?

Oh, yes. It was worth every moment. Every time I miss her, every tear I’ve shed because of her absence, I know it was worth it for the years we had. She was… the air I breathed. Yes. Yes, it was a successful relationship.

Why did you never remarry? You’re still young.

I had my work. I had my physical needs met when I felt the urge. I never met anyone who could compare to T’Enna, and therefore no one worth marrying.

So why would you consider Spock right now?

He is in need. I have admired him idly, from time to time. Phyically, I mean – that his intellect is admirable goes without saying. If I could ease his burden in your absence, I would. He is not T’Enna and I am not James Kirk. There would be no illusions between us, even if there were contentment.

Look, can I ask you something else? Something…extraneous to this series of questions about Spock?

Certainly.

Do you really believe you can’t love someone else after having loved before? I mean, do you actually think there is just one person out there for everyone, and once that person is gone, any possibility of forging something meaningful and fulfilling with someone else is over?

Jim. Great love is a rare thing. Some people share a quiet love, enduring and satisfying and happy. Some share tumultuous, fraught affections, consumptive but brief and often painful. Others never get to experience romantic love in any sense, wretched creatures that they are. But great love, Jim. Great love doesn’t just happen. It’s not common. I had a great love, once. And you, Jim, you share a great love with Spock – to see you together, even if you never touch in the presence of others, is to be blinded by that love. Perhaps Spock could love again. Perhaps I could love again. Perhaps Spock and I could come to love each other. But it would be a different timbre, a different quality. It would not be what we’d had before. And Jim – that would be acceptable. That is… more than many can hope for. Spock and I – we’re lucky. Do you understand?

I guess.

Do you have any more questions?

No. Thank you, though. That’s… that’s enough.

When T’Britha left, Jim sat back in his chair and pressed the heels of his palms into his stinging eyes. It never got less complicated. It never got less painful that he was going to leave Spock so early. He just felt so helpless, and absolutely terrified at the prospect of Spock becoming like his counterpart, the Ambassador. The elder Spock’s life had been desolate in its solitude, and Jim knew even then that it was no way to live. All he wanted was to make it easier on his bondmate when he was gone, make sure he had someone for his Time, certainly, but also for every day. For sharing meals and chores. For sharing joys and sorrows. For sharing his heart, which seemed to be limitless in its ability to give. T’Britha’s words had given Jim pause though – what if he had taken for granted that what he shared with Spock was what everyone felt like in love? What if he’d taken their entire lives, their fortunes, their fates for granted? What if he’d never appreciated it well enough, and now he was a hundred and three years old, interviewing new mates for his own husband like it had all been nothing? Jim choked back a rising sob.

A door clattered and though his eyes were covered and his ears heard only his own low keening, Jim felt Spock stride up close to him behind his desk, felt his heat and the particular presence that had always meant Spock is here when the energy of a room shifted and Jim’s world was put right. Spock wrapped his fingers around Jim’s wrists and pried his hands off his face.

“My colleagues are gone and my mate is indiscreet,” he snarled.

“Spock, what—”

Spock spent only a nanosecond in hesitation. His eyes blazed black and consuming before he leaned down and claimed Jim with a forceful kiss. Jim grunted into the contact when Spock pressed his mouth open with a strong, hot tongue and plundered him without mercy. Jim wrenched his hands out of Spock’s grip and grabbed a fistful of his tunic to pull him closer, to devour him face first, to revel in that flavor that was his alone, his bondmate’s mouth. There was a crash, the sound of datapads and office supplies and knick knacks tumbling off his desk, and then Spock had his legs spread wide, ass on the edge of the desk while Jim pushed Spock’s tunic up and tore his trousers open to free his rampant cock.

“Let me, let me, let me,” Jim chanted, his chair pulled up close to the desk and his glasses cast off to parts unknown. Spock slung his legs over Jim’s shoulders and then Jim was sucking cock with sloppy abandon.

Jim didn’t bother with great stores of finesse. He gathered a lot of saliva, gripped the base of Spock’s cock and pumped it into his mouth while bobbing up and down and applying suction and tongue work he knew Spock found maddening. Spock was thick and hot and hard in his mouth, as if pon farr hadn’t happened just days before, and he oozed copious amounts of lubricant from his shaft and salty-sweet pre-ejaculate from his head. Feebly, Jim felt optimistic tendrils of arousal spark in his own balls, but he could muster nothing more than an intense desire to be as close to Spock as possible, to take the essence of him inside himself in any way it was offered. Throat open, nose buried in lush pubic hair, Jim felt tender and potent at once, and he set his mouth to making Spock come as quickly as possible.

In his hair, Spock’s hands tightened, and above him Jim heard Spock give a long, guttural groan. He felt Spock’s body shudder, and then searing come spurted across his tongue, filled his mouth, slicked his teeth. Jim swallowed it down with practiced ease, moaning around the load like Spock’s pleasure was his own. Jim supposed it was.

Spock collapsed on his back on the desk, chest heaving. Jim slumped in his office chair and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. His jaw was sore and the corners of his mouth hurt from stretching around Spock’s girth, but it made him feel powerful. It made him feel young, like when surprise blow jobs were a regular thing and the taste of Spock’s come – a little sweet, a little bitter – was something he experienced all the time. Outside of pon farr, his and Spock’s passions had tempered, evened out to a comfortable, familiar ember. Spontaneous sex had been out of their lives for years, maybe decades, and Jim allowed himself the satisfaction of having drawn some out at this late date.

Abruptly Spock sat up and slid off the desk, and Jim found himself lifted into his arms and hauled out of his office.

“Hey,” he grumbled. “I was busy in there.”

“Busy signing me off to someone else like so much chattel,” Spock retorted. He had swept them through the living space and now he climbed the stairs while Jim clung to his neck as if there were any force on the planet that could make Spock drop him.

In the bedroom Spock refused to speak as he shucked his clothing and then stripped Jim of his. He laid Jim down on the bed and tucked himself beside him before bringing the blankets up to cover them both. Jim sagged against the warm, solid body next to him and Spock’s arm around his back was strong and unmoving.

“I am compromised at the moment,” Spock said in a low voice.

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispered. He felt compromised too, and his throat closed around an unnamed thickness at its base.

“These events with Stendor have been trying, and then you conduct this… this farce. And my colleagues go along! I don’t understand, Jim, and I don’t approve, and pon farr was terrible and everything seems surreal and ridiculous and I’m unhappy.” It all came out in a rush, his voice shaking, and Jim found himself crushed to Spock’s chest, squeezing his eyes shut against the threatening tears.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I hate this. I hate that this is happening.”

“Spock,” Jim said, “t’hy’la. I’m not going to keel over tomorrow. I’m just… trying to make contingency plans. Trying to do something instead of lying around being a pathetic old man. I’m sorry it was so clumsy. But you wouldn’t listen, and you’re so stubborn, and I just… I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

Spock scooted down and his hand came up to cup Jim’s aching jaw. He set their foreheads together, noses touching. His lips touched Jim’s own, more warmth than weight.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he murmured.

“I found good people who care about you,” Jim said. “Respectable beings with stories and heartaches and a place in your life that I don’t occupy. Any one of them would be a fine choice, Spock. So yes… yes, I suppose I did find what I was looking for.”

“And yet this is not happiness I feel seeping through your skin.”

“It’s silly.” Jim closed his eyes. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to relinquish you into someone else’s care. I want to stay, and for us to be together always.”

Spock kissed him then, hot and slow, pointed tongue sweeping in and taking Jim’s breath.

“I regret that this is not the way life works,” Spock said.

Jim huffed out a little laugh. “Yeah. But listen, Spock. You have to promise me something.”

“No.”

“Yes. Shh. You have to promise me that whatever happens, you won’t lock yourself away. You won’t do the wallowing thing.”

“Your death is not imminent, as you have taken pains to insist. We need not discuss these things now.”

“Spock.” Jim rubbed Spock’s pectorals, softer, perhaps, than they used to be, the hair greyer. “If not now, then when? It’s not going to go away.”

“You could live twenty, thirty more years.”

Jim cast a sad smile at him. “We both know that’s some special bullshit you’ve brewed right there, Spock. I might live to see you go through another pon farr ten or twelve years from now. That’s as much as we can hope for.”

Spock pulled away and turned onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.

“This is where your quest to find me a new bondmate falls apart, Jim,” he said. “You would have me break our bond and forge a new one with someone else while you still lived. I would rather be unmanned.”

Jim pressed in close to him, laid his head on a bony shoulder. He put his arm around him, thumb stroking at his clavicle.

“And I would rather be alone in my head and see you with someone else than for you to do something that repulsive to yourself.” He felt Spock shaking his head. “Then we’re at an impasse.”

“It is my body, Jim.”

Jim bit down on an available earlobe and Spock let out a tiny squeak and winced away. He sent him an irritated look from across the pillow.

“That’s what you get,” Jim said.

“Sometimes, you are beyond all logical arguments.”

“That’s part of my charm.”

“Hmph.”

Jim stretched a hand out and fiddled with an olive nipple until Spock sighed and relaxed into the touch. Then he asked, “So. Spock. Who would you pick – Soltek, T’Dahlen or T’Britha?”

“Jim?”

“Come on, Spock, tell me who floats your boat best. I mean, looks alone, I guess I’d go with T’Dahlen.”

Spock got that long-suffering look he’d adopted for moments likes these over seventy-five years ago when their relationship passed out of its lusty infatuation phase.

“None of them suit me,” he said, each word clipped.

“Why not?” Jim pouted. “I put a lot of work into hacking those databases and finding just the right ones, you know.”

Spock sighed. “Jim, have you truly been so unobservant for the entirety of our acquaintance?”

“Quit talking in riddles, Spock.”

“One would think that as my life partner, you would have made note of my preferences.”

Jim yanked his hand away and turned on his back just so he could cross his arms.

“Tell me what I got so wrong then,” Jim said. “You’re so obviously dying to rub my face in it.”

Jim just knew Spock rolled his eyes.

“I am a homosexual, Jim,” Spock said. “I could never muster anything more than platonic appreciation for T’Dahlen or T’Britha. I question my ability to weather pon farr with a female at all.”

Jim craned around with an incredulous look on his face. He knew the expression contorted his entire face, and it got Spock to crack a tiny smile, but the disbelief was real.

“What about that time I got turned into a woman by space clouds and we fucked for three days straight?”

Spock gave a delicate shrug and looked all too innocent doing it.

“Becoming biologically female did not make you a woman, Jim. You were still you, still decidedly male, even without a penis.”

Jim sat up a bit and cast a questioning look at him. “So if I turned into a gorn instead of the sexiest girl on the Enterprise, you still would have been into it?”

Spock seemed to consider the question very carefully. “I would have found a way to copulate with your gorn self, yes.”

Jim’s laugh was loud and sudden and the room seemed lighter for its reverberations between the walls.

After his mirth had subsided, Jim ventured, “So no women? Ever?”

“I tried, with Nyota. She seemed a logical choice, while you seemed erratic and reckless, the very epitome of illogic. You seemed, Jim, like something I shouldn’t want.” Spock pulled Jim down against him and traced the lines of his face, reverent. “That did not stop my wanting you. Nyota finally became impatient with me and informed me that I should pursue you, and give up my – what was it? – ‘delusions of heterosexuality.’”

Another laugh bubbled out of Jim’s throat. “She really said that to you?”

“Indeed, she has always been most astute.”

Jim hummed and took Spock’s hands, squeezed his fingers. “We need to give her and Scotty a call. See how they are. Sulu, too.”

“We have been remiss in our correspondence.”

“Spock?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“You’re derailing the topic on purpose. So. Soltek’s our guy?” Spock tried to pull his hand away, but Jim snatched it back and forced Spock to look him in the eye. “Just keep him in mind is all I’m asking.”

But Spock shook his head and said, “Soltek must have left something very important out of his conversation with you.”

Jim flattened his lips. “What now?”

“He harbors affection for T’Dahlen,” Spock said. “The only one who is unaware is T’Dahlen herself. It is maddening. ‘Oh, T’Dahlen, would you like an escort to the House of Spock?’ ‘Oh, T’Dhalen, you are very logical today.’”

Jim fought a smile and tried to seem very somber. “That is the worst impression of Soltek I’ve ever seen. Also the only one, but still.”

“On the contrary, it is very true to life.”

“I love you, you know that?”

Spock dropped the light humor act and warm brown eyes regarded Jim with affection and gratitude.

“Yes, Jim.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.”

“And not to mutilate yourself.”

Spock closed his eyes. “Jim.”

“Don’t do that,” Jim said, tangling their fingers again. “Don’t pretend nothing’s happening, and don’t turn around and do something you’ll regret for my sake, especially when it’s something I would never wish on anyone. Spock.”

There was a pause. Then, “I promise,” Spock said. “I promise I will not… alter myself.”

Something tight and sick in Jim’s chest eased and he felt like he could breathe again for the first time in a whole day. He took a deep inhale as if savoring each molecule of oxygen.

“Okay. Okay. Point to Team Kirk.” He pulled Spock’s hand up to kiss each tapered fingertip, then he pressed a kiss into the dry palm. “Everything’s going to be fine, Spock. You’ll see.”

Spock pulled Jim flush against him to kiss him again. “I wish to pleasure you,” he whispered as he stroked a hand down Jim’s chest.

Jim hummed out a little laugh. Regretfully, he shook his head and stopped Spock’s hand before it could close around the raw flesh of his flaccid penis. “No signs of life down there just yet, lover. I’m still sore and fucked out from Farr Fest 2336.”

Spock shuddered and cast a dark look at him. “Must you call it that?” he asked.

“C’mere,” Jim said, and he pulled Spock’s hand to his face. Spock gave a contented sigh as if relieved of a profound burden and arranged his fingertips over Jim’s meldpoints. Jim was pressed closely against him, legs tangled, groins nestled together, and then Spock’s consciousness was rushing to join Jim’s own in a riot of ecstatic feeling, love a tangible thing bursting with color and sound. After the initial integration, their minds curled against each other, warm and soft and comfortable, thrumming like a sluggish human heartbeat in a drugging languor.

“There you are,” Jim thought into the dim heat. “I’ve missed you.”

“I will always find you,” came Spock’s reply. “Whatever happens, t’hy’la, we will never be parted. I will always find you.”

“Yes,” Jim thought, and there was no more disquiet.

The well-wishers were gone and the broken bond in Spock’s mind throbbed. Or maybe it was just a headache, the exertion of the day. Either way, Spock was weary and he cradled the box of ashes to himself protectively.

“Go on,” Sarken said behind him. “I will clean up here.”

Spock glanced back at him. He felt a swell of immense gratitude even as his throat clogged with resentment. How did Sarken do it? Live with these emotions in conflict, feelings that should have been mutually exclusive? How had Jim done it? He felt sure that all this turmoil would tear him apart, leave him a carcass ready to be picked clean by carrion eaters.

Spock blinked and opened his mouth to address Sarken. To tell him he appreciated him, and all he’d done, all he was to him. To tell him not to touch him. To tell him everything and nothing, to pour his anguish out onto him until he stood an empty, exhausted husk. But no sound escaped him. Sarken paused in gathering plates and cocked his head at him.

“Spock,” he said. Sympathy thrummed through his voice, affection and grief entwined. “I know. Cease your exercise in self-flagellation and do what you must.”

“I am in your debt, Sarken.” Spock had to push the words past the lump in his throat.

Sarken shook his head and turned away to continue clearing the table of visitors’ leavings.

“There is no debt, Spock. Go. I will be here when you come back.”

Spock paused. Then, “You could have anyone. Do you not want more for yourself than an old man tied to a lost love?”

Sarken put the stack of plates down and faced him again. His eyes were brown, lit and clear. He was beautiful, and so young.

“It is a privilege, Spock, to be with your chosen,” he told him. “No matter what the circumstances, nor the limits of time. Surely, you understand.” With that he lifted his burden again and swept off into the kitchen.

Spock swallowed and hung his head. When he straightened again, he gripped the box of ashes tighter and strode out the door.

By the time he reached the cliffs to the west of the city in his air car, dusk had descended, purple and cool. Spock stood near the edge and took a deep breath. He surveyed the tableau before him: steep, rocky cliff faces framing the valley below, the valley itself a vast sea of rolling sand as far as one could see, the dull red dotted by cacti and tiny oases. Jim used to enjoy coming here for picnics on days Spock had off from the VSA. He liked to watch the clouds and give new names to the colors of the sky. He liked to invent lives for the little creatures – rodents and reptiles and insects – that no doubt populated the valley before them. This was, aside from their marriage bed, Jim’s favorite place on New Vulcan.

Spock produced the slim wooden box from the folds of his jacket and ran a palm over the top before he opened it. In an airtight bag nestled within were Jim’s remains. How diminished he seemed, now that he fit in just one of Spock’s hands, and how unlikely the reality that Jim’s life and force of personality and depth of feeling could be contained now in just these gritty bits of ash, deceptively heavy. Spock’s heart stuttered in his side. He turned away from the sight of his bondmate so reduced, blinked back the unfamiliar burn of tears.

A burst of adrenaline surged up in his veins and he tore the bag open. The box tumbled off the edge of the cliff. Spock shook the ashes into his cupped hand and held them out. A breeze carried them over the valley.