Chapter Text
“Spock?”
The Vulcan’s gaze lifts from the white bishop, catching the raised brows across the board, the curiosity and confusion there.
“Yes, Captain?”
A crooked smile plays at Kirk’s lips. “Are you gonna make a move in the next century, or what?”
He glances back at the bishop, still sitting undisturbed on the board. Not knocked to the floor by a stray hip that had bumped the table as his captain had climbed into his lap, golden laugh ringing out, hazel eyes crinkled.
The cyan across from him now are expectant, amused.
“My apologies, Captain,” the commander inclines his head. “Your strategy is merely… confounding.”
That golden laugh rings out again, closer now. Tangible. Spock’s heart rate increases, the unruly organ squeezing in his side.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Jim tilts his head, huffing a soft breath, good-natured. “And stop ‘captain’-ing me when we’re off duty.”
It is a name that has left his lips hundreds of times, and none at all. A phantom of it remains on his tongue, an aftertaste he cannot wash away. Endless variations of the syllable click by on a voice that is his, and is not; variations with a shameful degree of emotion in them, of fear, and friendship, and love.
He does not dare make it tangible, too. His nod, at least, seems to appease his captain.
----
Contrary to what other members of his species may believe of him, Spock is no stranger to Vulcan.
His years offworld have not erased nearly two decades of living amongst the sands. He knows ShiKahr, the unforgiving desert, the high council that his family have always remained in close proximity to. Hybrid or not, Spock is still a member of a house descended from Surak, which comes with a certain status, and a certain familiarity with those at the heart of Vulcan society.
His transport to the surface is logical. He knows Mount Seleya, knows where the council will be seeking refuge, knows the place his father and mother will have amongst them.
Spock is no stranger to any face here– save for one.
There is no time for introductions. As unexpected as the sudden presence of an unfamiliar elder Vulcan amongst the council is, there will be no council left to rescue if he does not immediately lead them to safety.
The mountain groans around them, its mouth steadily closing, nearly sinking its teeth into the refugees in their frantic escape. Miles of canyon undulate, spitting dust into the air and shedding their rocky skin. Great raindrops of boulder crash into the ground around them, one of which only narrowly misses Elder Sayik, who wheezes amidst the thick cloud of debris. Two steps in front of Spock, his mother’s gasp is only just audible above endless, rolling tremors.
If there ever existed a true test of control, it is in the trial of awaiting transport here, standing as an unflinching witness to a planet’s death throes.
The desert is swiftly draining. Rock sloughs heavily from rock, turning canyons to seas. A hand of nothingness approaches, reaching its long, dusty fingers towards the face of Mount Seleya and the specks on her surface.
The transporter claims them, but the void claims Amanda first.
----
I apologize, Spock had said to Spock. I have shown you more than I intended to.
In the weeks that have passed since then, Spock has not ceased dreaming.
For his entire life, he has gone months, even years at a time, without experiencing a dream. Strict nightly meditation before sleep seemed to reliably prevent the detested Human habit. Whenever the Vulcan has dreamed, it has always been in times of stress intense enough for the frayed mind to boil over, seeping emotion and conflict into the otherwise tamed subconscious.
But for the 23rd night in a row, Spock wakes again from scenes of hazel eyes, and golden laughter, and cool Human skin against his own.
Try as he has to control it through meditation, he does not leave the imagery behind in his bed. Endless scenes remain with him as he steps through Academy halls, and as he attends planning meetings for the upcoming launch of the Enterprise, and as he faces the captain he has yet to look in the eye without seeing hazel for a fleeting, breathless moment.
“Are you rethinking this?”
Spock blinks. Cyan eyes come back into focus, crinkled with amusement, though some tension appears to lie beneath the surface, his smile not quite certain.
“Excuse me?”
“Signing up to be my XO,” Kirk elaborates with a short, forced laugh. “I don’t know. You look kind of like the Vulcan equivalent of seeing a ghost.”
Spock immediately straightens in his chair, smoothing his features. “I apologize, Captain. I merely became… distracted.”
Jim seems to soften somewhat at that. With a slightly lowered voice, he asks, “Are you having a hard time with– I mean, everything?”
Are you functioning adequately with a dead mother and destroyed home planet?
For a species that embraces emotion, Spock has observed Humans to be oddly fond of evading direct questions about it.
“No, sir,” he declines. Then, seeing that a hint of uncertainty lingers in Jim’s gaze, he adds, “Thank you for your concern.”
When Spock rises to see the blonde out of his office, Kirk pauses at the doorway to gently squeeze his first officer’s arm. The touch is gone as soon as it came, leaving the Vulcan dumb in his wake.
----
Spock does not look at his father. He does not look at the man who has failed to transport the entire party, or the cadets standing by the doorway, or the rest of the shaken, silent council.
He looks at the empty pad until he cannot anymore, and then he leaves the room.
Footsteps are close behind him. His father, he is certain. Come to question his control, his capacity to lead the ship, his Human weakness beginning to slip through the cracks.
A weathered voice speaks his name: “Spock.”
This is not the voice of his father, but it is one that has an inexplicable familiarity.
The commander turns, coming face to face with the Vulcan he had not recognized at the Katric Ark. Though Spock is certain he has not met this elder before, a feeling of deja vu passes over him, a further nudge of disorientation to a mind that is already teetering at the precipice of coming undone.
“I do not believe we are acquainted,” he intones, forcing his features smooth, his posture ramrod straight.
“We are,” the Vulcan corrects. “...In a sense.”
Spock’s brows twitch. “Who are you?”
The elder glances around the hall, observing the officers that pass them. The Humans avoid eye contact with either Vulcan. “This is a conversation best held in privacy.”
Spock closes his eyes, exhales a breath that is not a sigh, opens them again.
“As acting captain of this ship, I have pressing obligations to tend to,” he dismisses. “We may speak at a later date. If you will excuse me–”
“No,” the elder insists, taking a step closer, enough urgency in his tone to nearly make Spock step back. “We must speak now. I assure you that this is of the utmost importance.”
The commander’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. “Elaborate,” he demands.
“Come,” the elder ignores him, moving past him to step briskly down the hall. With irritation and perplexion churning just below the surface, Spock follows, his hands clenched at his sides.
Without guidance, the Vulcan leads him into Ready Room III, then issues the code for the lock to activate.
Spock’s gaze sharpens. “From what source have you received intelligence of the Enterprise?”
The dark eyes across from him only seem to grow more weary. “In my younger years, I served as first officer to this ship,” the elder elaborates. “As you are already aware.”
The commander takes a step closer, tension coiled in his muscles, his head shaking in a slight, unconscious movement. “I fail to understand the purpose of your relation of blatantly false–”
“In answer to your earlier query,” the elder interrupts him, “my name is S’chn T’gai Spock. More specifically, I am Spock of a timeline in which Nero never set our life on an alternate path.”
Spock’s mouth is open, but no sound leaves him. When he fails to reply immediately, the elder continues, “You recognize the truth in my statement. You must be aware of the impossible technological advancement of Nero’s ship. Tell me, upon establishing contact with the Enterprise, did he recognize our name?”
“Bridge to Captain Spock,” the speaker on the wall emits. Cadet Uhura’s voice.
A strange expression passes over the elder’s face. “James Kirk is not the captain of this ship?”
The floor feels unsteady beneath Spock’s feet. He closes his eyes, reaches feebly for some semblance of control.
“Why would you believe him to be?” he forces out at length, because any other question is too difficult to give voice to; too absurd to entertain.
“We do not have time for a prolonged conversation,” the elder states. “I believe this information would be easiest to convey through a meld. My memories are critical for your understanding of how best to handle Nero.”
Mother is dead, a small voice taps at the back of his mind. Mother is dead. Vulcan is dead–
“Engaging in a meld under the present circumstances is a dangerous endeavor for either one of us,” Spock resists, though the steadiness is quickly bleeding from his tone.
“I understand,” the Vulcan acknowledges. “However, there is greater danger in proceeding into this battle uninformed of the full context.”
The elder steps closer to Spock. Though he hardly breathes, Spock makes no effort to prevent a wrinkled hand from making contact with his psi-points.
“My mind to your mind–”
----
I have been here before.
No, that’s not quite correct. He was here before.
The landing party is different, but the land itself remains the same. The beam-down site– a plateau with an expansive view of the southern canyons of Diotov IV– is almost identical to the transplanted eidetic snapshot that sits amongst countless others. That, as well as his captain’s presence, remain unsettling constants that turn his stomach as memory unfurls with a terrible clarity.
The elder version of himself had not spilled his entire consciousness upon transference of his targeted memories, but any that had overflowed had centered around the same man, hazel eyes crinkled in some scenes, and wide with terror in others.
This memory, Spock knows, does not fall into the former category.
Our universes are not identical, he reminds himself. I do not know with certainty that any specific event may repeat itself.
Still, he finds himself walking closer to Jim’s side than his usual habit.
By the way cyan eyes keep glancing at him in his peripheral, Spock knows that this has not gone unnoticed by his captain.
The Vulcan maintains a neutral exterior as they advance into the ruins of a long-dead civilization. Just as he expects it to, his tricorder leads them to a massive temple at the edge of the abandoned city, indicating the potential presence of intelligent lifeforms inside.
“Not exactly the place I’d pick for a party,” Kirk mutters, peering uneasily into the shadows beyond the entrance. He glances over his shoulder at the officers trailing behind them. “Let’s fan out. Phasers on full stun. Until we know they aren’t hostile, keep yourselves armed at all times.”
A chorus of yes, sir rings out. The officers split amongst the branching hallways, though Spock remains at his captain’s side. The next time cyan glance towards him, it's with a slight frown and an uncertain, “What’s up?”
“A ceiling comprised of–”
“I know you know what that means,” the Human rolls his eyes, though a slight smile has replaced his disconcerted expression.
For several echoed steps into darkness, Spock does not speak, only observing the hall illuminated by their phaser lights. Then, he answers, “There is nothing ‘up’, Captain.”
He is aware that Jim does not believe him. In the 3.4 months that have passed since the Enterprise’s launch, his captain has come to discern subtle cues of his status to a startlingly accurate degree. Though Jim is no telepath, Spock dares not touch his skin; he can already see straight through the Vulcan with one glance alone.
Whether or not Kirk believes him, however, becomes entirely unimportant when dark eyes spot the pressure plate only a few steps ahead in the dim lighting, cutting right across his captain’s path.
“Jim–”
He cannot voice the syllable fast enough to stop him. A boot decompresses the plate, and something at the end of the hall clicks, the sound reverberating off of stone walls.
The terrible red of Human blood flashes across his vision, how it had pooled beneath a crumpled form, gasps wet, desperate–
Spock is only aware of moving after he has already tackled his captain to the ground. A spear shoots past them, close enough to hear it cut a sharp whistle through the air.
The danger has passed. He is aware that he must return upright, withdraw from where he is presently shielding his captain with his body–
But Jim is trembling with shock, and an additional 5.2 seconds elapse before Spock is able to let go of him.
“Jesus,” the captain breathes, his voice hoarse. After he is released, he stands slowly, pointing his phaser light down the hall, then at the sunken plate on the floor. “How did I not see that?”
Spock… How did I not…
Those words ragged and limp, choked through red-stained lips. The last that the captain had spoken until waking several days later in sickbay.
Spock’s hands clench, the urge overwhelming to touch him again, ensure that he is not harmed. Following a slow breath, he calmly replies, “As a Vulcan, my vision is superior to yours in minimal lighting conditions.”
He does not mention his failure to see it in another time, another body.
There is that uncertain glance again, a whistling spear in its own right, cutting into him with unbearable precision. Whether for Spock’s sake, or his own, Kirk accepts the explanation with a short nod.
That night, the Vulcan dreams not of hazel, but of glassy blue, distant with shock, drowning in that crimson pool.
Spock– How did I–
----
The floor of the ready room is cold beneath sunken knees.
Mother is dead– Vulcan is dead– Jim is dead– Jim is–
Spock can hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears and his own shallow, uneven breaths. He grasps uselessly at his head as though he could hold in every unspooling thought, every fragment of his shields, every memory of–
“I apologize,” Spock says to Spock. “I have shown you more than I intended to.”
The unbearable weight of decades upon decades presses down on him; of longing, and loving, and letting go. It is an agony equal to no other he has felt before.
35.1 seconds pass until the commander is able to lower his hands from his aching head. An additional 10.7 seconds are needed to get back to his feet. Once upright, the room takes several lazy, nauseating spins around him.
“I understand that this information will be… difficult to process in our present state,” the elder continues. “However, it is urgent that you immediately follow what I am about to instruct you to do. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The voice that leaves him is too quiet, too unsteady, to be his own.
“You must relieve yourself of captaincy on the basis of Regulation 619. James Kirk belongs in the chair, and you at his side.”
Jim is dead.
“The James Kirk of this universe–” he struggles to speak through the tiny tremors that seize his voice, “is not–”
“We have seen each other’s minds. Though the courses of our lives have differed, we are of the same soul. This is also true of your Jim and mine. In times of crisis, you must allow him to take the lead. Logic and protocol alone will not defeat Nero.”
“Bridge to Captain Spock. Come in, Captain Spock.”
“I am not compromised,” Spock utters, his voice low enough to barely be audible, drained of force, and of fight.
The elder stands at the intercom, waiting.
----
Spock could cite each and every regulation verbatim that a first officer must adhere to.
He understands the workings of a starship, knows every minute detail of his science station and his laboratory, has memorized the role and personnel files of every single crewman under his command. He is thoroughly prepared for the Enterprise’s launch, as he is always prepared for everything.
But when he seats himself at his station for the first time since Nero’s attack, and he makes eye contact with the crinkled blue across the bridge, and he hears that golden voice give its first command, Take us out, Sulu–
Spock becomes acutely, irrevocably aware of a fate that he has never been able to sidestep in any universe.
Like the mixing of matter, or the cleansing hand of fire, theirs is a process that cannot be undone. There is no planet far enough, no vessel fast enough, to make his soul any less bound to the one at the captain’s chair.
“Something on your mind?”
Some time later, Jim is leaning his hip against the science station. A universal constant, it seems.
There are hazel eyes, teasing and affectionate, and then there are cyan, curious and amicable. Too tangible, and not close enough.
“No, sir,” Spock says. “Not at all.”