It came to a head when Captain Kirk suddenly ordered them to enter the Romulan Neutral Zone. Uhura glanced at Spock, worried and puzzled. She was the Enterprise's chief comms officer; she *knew* they had received no such order from FleetCom. But Spock said nothing. He merely nodded, and stepped up his sensor sweeps of the surrounding area.

They left the Neutral Zone, and started into Romulan space -- and that was where the Romulans caught them. Far from home, alone and surrounded; in violation of half a dozen treaties and agreements... When the request came for Spock and the captain to beam aboard the Romulan flagship, there really wasn't any choice at all. Especially after Spock revealed that the order had been Kirk's alone, not StarFleet's. The captain had been coldly furious at that -- but he had not denied it. The crew had been more than a little shocked -- but they were the crew of the finest ship in the Fleet. They went about their duties as if it were any normal shift, and kept their various misgivings to themselves. Nobody wanted to be the first one to say that the captain was acting very strangely.

Two Romulan officers beamed aboard the Enterprise, as hostages in exchange, but that didn't reassure anyone very much. It was common knowledge that the Romulans did not take prisoners. No-one spoke of the danger they were in -- but it was in all of their minds, just the same.

-----///-----

The interview with the Romulan Commander was not a pleasant one. Kirk was irritable and insulting, finally losing his temper entirely and attempting to attack Spock after the Vulcan admitted that they were not there under orders from StarFleet Command. The captain was restrained by the Romulan guards and removed to their brig -- where he promptly charged the forcefield, injuring himself. He lay twitching on the floor of the brig, and would not answer when the guards spoke to him.

Dr. McCoy was summoned; he beamed over, administered a mild stimulant, and verified the captain's condition and recent state of mind. It was while he was discussing that with Spock and the Romulan Commander that Kirk cracked completely and went for the Vulcan's throat, screaming that he was a traitor and that he, Kirk, would kill him... He was wild, irrational, the whites showing all around his eyes.

Caught by surprise, Spock took the captain in a strange two-handed grip, holding tightly to his face for several seconds. When he let go, Kirk slumped to the floor, his face gone slack and empty. He didn't move, and when McCoy took out his scanner, he already knew what it would say. Captain Kirk was dead. He didn't need to see the red alarm lights, or hear the flat monotone of the heartbeat sensor. No-one who lived could have held that contorted, awkward pose. Very gently, then, he reached out, shut the captain's eyes, and straightened out his body as best he could.

Seemingly enraged, he turned to Spock and demanded, "What did you *do*?"

His voice gone flat and toneless, his face as still as granite, Spock explained. "I was unprepared for his attack. I instinctively used the Vulcan Death Grip."

"Well, your instincts are still good, Mr. Spock," the doctor snarled. "The captain is dead!"

-----///-----

In the Commander's quarters, Spock sat waiting, alone. They had returned here, after the fiasco in the brig. McCoy had already beamed back to the Enterprise, taking Kirk's body with him. In keeping with their script for this deception, he had neither looked at nor spoken to the Vulcan, pretending that he wasn't even there, as he spoke to the Rihannsu Commander -- or "Romulan", if one followed the human custom. Spock, in turn, had ignored him, simply waving a hand in dismissal when he announced to one and all that his business here was done. The Rihannsu CMO had verified that Kirk was dead, and that had been the end of it.

Soon after their return to her quarters, the Commander had murmured that perhaps she ought to get more comfortable, and left the room.

As soon as she had left the room, Spock began. He worked as fast and as quietly as possible. Holding his communicator close to his mouth, he whispered into it everything he'd learned about the Warbird's layout and security measures, including the probable location of the cloaking device. He had seen quite a bit of the Warbird's interior as he'd followed her through the corridors. He recorded it all, however insignificant. Then he tapped one button and sent it out as a microsecond zipsqueal. That was it; that was all that he could do for Jim. Now he could only wait and try to keep her distracted, and hope that it would be enough.

He was not sanguine about any of this. Even before meeting her he'd had his doubts. To do as FleetCom's plan required would push his Vulcan ethics to their limits. Among his people, and among hers as well, it was not lightly done to toy with another. It was not precisely true that Vulcans could not lie -- but it was a most disquieting process. It went against the Tenets of Surak. This commander could have been a woman of his own people; he had to keep reminding himself that she was not. If they succeeded here it might well destroy her utterly. And yet, the cloaking device could *not* be allowed to remain a secret. It was far too dangerous, too likely to start a war that nobody needed and no-one could win. This was the first time one of their spies had ever brought them actual Rihannsu flight plans and intercept courses. There had really been no choice. They could have refused the mission, of course -- but there was no-one better suited. After discussing the matter with Jim, Spock had reluctantly agreed that there was Need.

Spock was a StarFleet officer. He took his oath very seriously. He would not fail in his duty. But he was finding it unexpectedly difficult to look her in the eyes and tell her the lies that he and Jim had written. She did not understand why he stayed at Kirk's side; that was the only thing that made his story believable to her -- and the thing that made this so hard for him to do. He stayed at Jim's side because there was nowhere else in the universe he wanted to be. It was not logical, and he had never said anything like it to Jim -- but it was the truth.

When she came back into the room, she had changed her appearance completely. Her hair now curled softly about her shoulders; gold twinkled at her earlobes and her wrists. The uniform was gone, replaced by something smooth and flowing in an elegant black and white print, that draped softly about her waist and clung to her legs. He looked at her and for once, he understood what so often brought a smile to Jim's face in the presence of a beautiful woman. He himself did not go so far, of course.

She served him dinner, delicacies from her homeworld and his; when he complimented her on the Warbird's cuisine, he spoke only the truth. Somehow, the replicators on board the Enterprise never quite got the flavours right, when he tried to order Vulcan foods. They washed the food down with an effervescent green wine from his homeworld, and a cloudy blue liqueur from hers; both were of subtle and delicate flavour. She watched with an odd intentness, as he finished a glass of the blue drink; when he accepted another her expression grew almost triumphant. There was something strange in her eyes, as she raised her own glass and drained it. He raised an eyebrow, and she smiled, and drew her warm fingers along his lips. How odd, to be touched by someone who knew how to shield her thoughts... In fact, how odd to be touched at all; all of his crewmates knew not to touch him without permission. But it was not unpleasant...

She began to speak again, telling him of her progress through the ranks, her assignment to command three ships, a goal she had worked for all her life. Such a contrast to his own quiet, ordered life. He had never desired command; he did not desire it now, for accepting a command would take him away from Jim -- and from his research, of course. Captains had much less time free to spend in the lab than science officers. Yet when she looked at him out of those dark amber eyes and spoke of a command for him, he found it strangely easy to pretend interest...

-----///-----

Aboard the Enterprise, Captain Kirk's body lay in sickbay. The monitors above his head were dark and silent, mute witnesses to his fate. Dr. McCoy had ordered that no-one enter this room, but Nurse Chapel found herself drawn there, to stand and look at him and wonder how it had all gone so wrong, so fast. No-one knew exactly what had happened in the Romulan brig except McCoy -- and he wasn't talking. He had beamed back alone, with Captain Kirk dead -- and Spock had stayed aboard the Romulan flagship. Christine didn't understand any of this. Spock, a traitor? It was impossible. But no-one would tell her what had really happened...

Suddenly there was a beep from the monitor -- and the corpse's eyes flickered open! Chapel's heart threatened to block her throat; flustered, she yelled for the doctor to come at once. And so it was that *she* found out what it was that they were doing, and why. It was the work of but a few moments, then, to apply the physio-stimulator and rouse the captain from his stupor. Christine couldn't help the huge smile that wreathed her face; she'd just *known* that Spock couldn't have done what was said of him.

As soon as McCoy had finished altering the captain's appearance, Scotty was called to Sickbay. He came, albeit reluctantly -- but when he saw Kirk alive and well and looking like a Vulcan, his smile threatened to split his face. "Och, sir, ye look like the devil himself -- but as long as yer alive... Whut's it all about, then?" he asked.

"Are those two Romulan officers still aboard the ship?" Kirk asked him.

"Aye." Brisk, and business-like, now. "They're in the brig."

"I'll need a Romulan uniform, Scotty..."

Scott grinned fiercely, and cocked one large, very solid fist. "Aye, sir. It'll be a pleasure!"

-----///-----

Dinner had been over for a while, now; the two of them sat on the low couch, talking, listening to the soft music she had chosen. It was a classical piece by the pre-Reformation composer Sethan of Vulcan, a duet for ka'athyra and flute. Spock was finding it difficult to keep his mind on his purpose here... He was faintly surprised, when he consulted his timesense, to discover they had been here for almost four hours. Jim should be awake by now; soon, he would come to steal the cloaking device. So far, things were proceeding as planned...

She leaned closer and whispered into his ear. Softly, she asked if he knew her other name... He answered that he did not. Very softly, she whispered it. "It is Llwyn..." Fire Aspect, by the way she pronounced it, so "Swiftfire".

In the time since the Enterprise's first encounter with her people, Spock had gone back into the old records on Vulcan, and studied the records S'Task and his followers had left, of the Rihannsu language as it was when it was first created. His accent was wrong, of course, hopelessly archaic -- but he understood most of what he heard.

"How rare," he told her, "and how beautiful." And it was beautiful, even as she was, herself... Once again he found himself regretting the circumstances of their meeting, the necessity for what he had already done. His regret was illogical, of course -- but it was real.

She stood then, and he followed, not entirely for the sake of politeness. She held out a hand with two fingers paired; hastily he tightened his shields and returned the gesture. For some reason, sweat sprang out upon his brow at her touch. After so long among humans, the warm touch of one of his own kind was ...different. It was pleasant to stand here with her, watching the light glint in the curls of her hair, breathing in the slightly musky scent of her. From the place where their fingers touched and gently moved together, a wash of heat poured through him. She kept her thoughts as tightly shielded as he did, but he could tell that this was just as pleasant for her. But it was definitely too hot in here. It was too hot, and there was not enough air...

She briefly lowered her eyes, in response to something he had said, looking hungrily up at him through long black lashes. Her eyes were a rich warm brown, flecked with green and gold, just a little darker than Jim's were... For a moment, he wished that he could see that look in the human's eyes, some time.

Spock blinked. What was -- why was he *thinking* things like this? Such thoughts belonged to the dark of the night, when he was in his cabin, alone. Really, he was beginning to feel *most* peculiar... His hands were starting to shake and he couldn't get them to stop. His fingers and toes were beginning to tingle and go numb. Something was wrong...

She leaned forward and brushed her fingers across his lips, and for a moment he could not catch his breath. His vision had begun to blur. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain on his feet. Something was wrong... Somewhere inside him, alarm struggled to be felt.

She was talking again, now -- something about loyalty and rewards and a command at her side... but her voice was developing a hollow metallic echo.

He shook his head, trying to clear the growing haze from his thoughts. "I'm sorry," he heard himself say from some vast distance, "what did..." He fell silent -- he couldn't remember what he'd meant to say... Something was wrong -- but he couldn't seem to move...

Way off in the echoing brassy distance he dimly heard a beep, and her voice saying, "Now, Tal!" Heard doors open, footsteps come running in...

Spock struggled to remain upright, but his knees gave way and he sank to the couch. His vision greened out, wavered double for a moment, then grew steadier, but it was blurred, full of haze... There was a vast roaring in his ears; he felt as if it were a flood, trying to wash him away... Dimly he felt hands grasp him at shoulders and wrists -- impossibly strong hands, hands as strong as his own. Stronger, in fact, for his own strength was running down like sand through a timeglass... Fingers plucked at his waist, took his phaser, his communicator -- he tried to reach for them, couldn't break the relentless hold. He saw Tal reach for a weapon, then a bright flash of heat and light. Small hot shards stung his cheek.

No. He wasn't going to get out of here that easily. Now he could feel his alarm -- but it was faint, unimportant, something happening to someone else in another room...

Then *she* was there again, leaning down to caress his cheek. The hands on him tightened their grip, and he watched numbly as she put the point of her knife to his arm, cut the sleeve open, and swiftly dug out of his flesh the transponder McCoy had inserted there. Even the hot brightness of that pain couldn't clear the thickening fog from his mind. She dropped the device to the deck and crushed it beneath her heel. Then she leaned close to him again, and the last thing he heard as he fell into the darkness was her voice, saying, "There. Now we won't be interrupted..."

He had just enough time to shout <<JIM!>> with his mind, as loudly as he could, hoping to reach the human's thoughts. Then he was gone.

The small, slender woman in the black and white dress stood smiling, as the Vulcan's eyes rolled up and he slowly slid from the couch to the floor. She wiped his blood off her knife and sheathed it. Perfect -- all had gone exactly as planned.

She had watched, earlier, on her security monitor, as he gave his captain the needed information. She had smiled as he put the communicator away. A worthy adversary indeed, this one... Now she nodded, and everyone but Tal left the room. Loyal Tal -- he did not approve of this scheme, she knew, but he would never say so; he knew how much this meant to her. And he was, as he had always been, hers to command. She looked down at the unconscious man on the floor, and smiled again. It was not a pleasant smile; it was more the snarl of a predator than anything. The revenge she had planned for and dreamed of for so long was finally here, and she was going to make the most she could of it.

Had he been anyone else, she might have felt sorry for him. But this was a matter of mnei'sahe. This one and his partner had deprived her of cherished kin, two years past. Her father; her mother's-father... Mnei'sahe and the ghosts of her loved ones demanded that she make them pay -- and by all the Elements and Powers, she was going to *enjoy* this...

-----///-----

Kirk looked in the mirror and grinned fiercely. Bones had done a beautiful job -- no-one would ever know he hadn't been born with these ears...

Scotty would be back with a uniform any minute; then he could get going. Spock had sent on his usual thorough report. He had all the information he needed. But he couldn't help wondering what was happening on board that ship, how the Vulcan was doing. His was the more dangerous part of this operation; he had been reluctant, at first, to take part in it. But he was the only one aboard who could do it, and finally Jim had talked him into it.

He knew Sulu would let him know if anything showed up on scan, but just the same, he couldn't help wondering...

Aha. Here was Scotty now, nursing a puffed hand and grinning like a madman. Quickly Jim got into the "borrowed" uniform; it fit him pretty well, once he got all the weird fasteners figured out. Scotty assured him once more that he looked like the devil himself, and that was it. He was ready to go.

The colours were funny, inside the Warbird. Everything was just a few shades too orange or too green, a bit darker than a human would have done it... The lighting was yellower than he was used to; that exaggerated the colour distortions. The proportions of things were just a bit off, and it was too hot. Kirk shook his head, reminded himself of his mission, assumed a business-like air and strode off down the corridor toward the area that held the cloaking device...

The guard on duty regarded him nervously, as he walked up and gave the regulation salute -- odd custom, that; reminded him of ancient Rome, more than anything. He spoke calmly to the man, praising his alertness, saying he would be sure to mention it to Tal -- and slowly, as he made no threatening move, he saw the feral wariness diminish. He made as if to turn away -- then spun, as fast as possible, and put everything he had into a short sharp punch to the point of the other man's jaw. The soldier's head snapped back, his eyes rolled up, and he collapsed against the door.

"There, that'll show *you*." Kirk leaned against the wall and rubbed his aching knuckles. It was worth it not to have to kill, but he was going to hurt later. He bent, dragged the man inside the room, and shut and locked the door behind them.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he'd memorized what little they had on record of Romulan schematics; all he could do was hope it would stand out.

For once Saint Murphy was kind; it didn't take long at all to spot the tall, translucent column mounted atop the main power conduit. Moving as quickly as he could, Jim began to power it down and disconnect it. There were a couple of tricky moments, but fairly quickly he was able to lift it up off the conduit housing. He took out his communicator and tapped one key twice -- and the tingling numbness of the transporter effect washed away the Warbird's engine room.

Jim hopped down off the transporter pad, handed the device to Scotty, and described where and how it was mounted. "You have fifteen minutes, Scotty, to get it operational..." He didn't want to leave Spock there one minute longer than necessary. He was all too aware of how little chance one Vulcan would have to escape, on a ship full of people who were all just as strong and fast as he... The engineer merely nodded, took the device, and vanished into the nearest turbolift, muttering under his breath the whole way.

Back on the bridge, Jim sat quietly. He was back in StarFleet uniform now, but hadn't had his ears bobbed yet. Despite the seriousness of the situation, every time one of the bridge crew looked at him they couldn't help smiling... He finally cracked Uhura up completely by giving her the infamous Spock raised eyebrow look.

Grinning himself, he let the laughter run its course, then said quietly, "Thank you, people, that will be sufficient... Mr. Sulu, Mr. Chekov -- make no change in flight parameters. I think you'll find, if you look, that they're doing a massive search over there right now; I don't want us to do anything to attract their attention before Mr. Scott can finish hooking up the device." Pavel checked, and announced that in fact there was a full-blown intruder alert in progress on the Warbird -- and that they still had a transporter lock on Spock. It was a fail-safe arrangement; not only were they locked on to his communicator, McCoy had provided him with an intradermal transponder. The doctor's researches had indicated that the sensors might not be able to distinguish one Vulcan on a shipful of Romulans. This way, they weren't taking quite so many chances. Kirk grinned again, and sat back in his chair. As soon as Scotty got the device online, they would snatch Spock back and get the hell out of here. He, for one, would be glad to see the last of both this place and this mission. Leave the spook shit for the spooks, that had always been his belief. If not for its vital importance, he would have refused this mission completely.

Uhura turned to face him, her dusky face gone suddenly pale. "Captain -- we just lost sensor lock on Mr. Spock. Both communicator and transponder just went off-line." Her hands worked the comms board, trying to find an answer besides the obvious one.

Kirk turned. "Chekov! Take the Science station. FIND him!" No-one said it. The same thought was in all of their minds -- don't say it, and it won't be true...

Pavel jumped up. "Aye, keptin!" He took Spock's seat, and went to work. Very quickly he discovered that picking one Vulcan out of a ship full of Romulans is *not* easy. In fact he was not at all sure it was possible, but he wasn't about to tell the captain that. He'd just have to work that much harder. *Spock* could have done it, he was sure. Therefore he had to.

When the cloak suddenly came on line, the sensor feed got even weaker. Pavel muttered to himself in Russian, recalibrated yet again, and started yet another scan. As Sulu gently took them to a different course, he peered into the scanner, trying desperately to see something that simply was not there...

In the captain's chair, Jim sat motionless, staring blankly at the main viewer. Suddenly he winced, put his hand to his head, and went very pale. Then he slumped, and slowly, shakily, drew a cautious breath. *oh, god -- spock... what have i *done*? it should have been me...* He looked around the bridge, not saying anything, and finally it was Uhura who asked him, "Is everything all right, sir?"

He shook his head. "No -- but there isn't anything we can do about it yet. Carry on, people, we've got a job to do." He didn't want to tell them that he had just heard Spock in his mind, calling for help that they were powerless to give. They couldn't do a damned thing until they *found* him...

-----///-----

The terrible thing was that he could *smell* her, in here. He had not expected any of this. The room was thick with her scent; it clung to the bedding beneath him and wafted through the air. He found it most disquieting -- and he could not get his fill of it. It ignited a smouldering warmth in the pit of his belly. He *ached*, in a way he could not quite define, a way that was somehow all too familiar...

There was a piece missing, a period of time that had vanished. He had been drugged... He had been fighting to stay awake -- and now he was here, in a different room. Alone, at least for the moment. And he was ill -- something was very wrong, and he was very afraid that he knew what it was. It shouldn't have been possible; it would be years before that was due... But he *remembered* this feeling. His heart was racing and he was nauseated. It was progressing so fast! It should have taken days to get this bad... He shook his head and regretted it, as dizziness threatened to claim him. He tried to sit up, to stand -- and could not; a stout wide belt was locked about his waist, firmly attached to another that was locked about the bed. He could turn from one side to the other -- but he could not slide out of it. It was fastened too tightly. He set himself, and pulled on it as hard as he could -- he had broken out of just such restraints as this more than once, in the past. But this was not the Enterprise. This belt was made to withstand Rihannsu strength, the equal of his own; it easily withstood his best efforts. He fought with it until the breath came hard in his throat, till his clothes were torn and the skin at his waist was nearly raw -- and still it remained, locked as tightly as ever.

Finally there was a small noise and he looked up, to see her standing in the open doorway, leaning on it. She was smiling at him, and that smile was all teeth and no warmth. "All you have to do is say it," she purred. "That's all. Say it, and I am yours." She lowered her eyes, and licked her lips, and a sudden flash of heat flooded his body, pooled in the pit of his belly.

*Yes*! cried the Fire now burning in his heart -- but he gritted his teeth together, and somehow he managed to tell her "No", although his voice was a rough growling shadow of itself. He was a Vulcan -- he would *not* give in to this.

Her smile only grew wider. "As you wish," she told him. "It doesn't matter. You *will* say it, soon enough. You will beg me. It won't be long, now -- I can tell."

Spock was very much afraid that she was right. But for now, he could still defy her. He turned his face away from her, closed his eyes, and did the best he could to ignore the growing need that was burning inside him, the increasing barrage of bizarrely sexual dreams and visions filling his mind. Thoughts of her, thoughts of Jim -- dreams of the hazel eyes half-closed with pleasure, that familiar face flushed and hectic, that warm human voice whispering his name... Thoughts of how the beloved body might feel beneath his hands -- so cool, so pleasantly different from his own... Shameful thoughts, illogical thoughts, the kind he never allowed himself. And now, he could not escape them. She just laughed, and stood there for a time, watching him, smiling that fierce, cold smile.

He refused to speak to her or look at her again, and eventually the door swished closed and she was gone. But he knew that sooner or later she would be back. The fire already burning in his blood told him that, the fire that she had ignited somehow, so fast, and years too soon. It might be that he would die, of this. It might be his only escape... but he did not think he would be that fortunate.

As the lock clicked shut he clenched his fists and curled up with his back to the door. He put part of the blanket between his teeth and bit down on it. He could not stop the tremors or the *wanting*, but at least for now he could keep his silence. It was all that he had left; that, and the hope that Jim had gotten the Enterprise safely away...

-----///-----

He was lost, now. They had tied his wrists some time ago, as his condition grew worse. He had fought to escape until he ran out of strength, then rested, then fought some more... now he lay quietly, shivering, his breathing fast and shallow, waiting for the next wave to hit.

Earlier, he had cursed, raved, shouted... He had shamed himself, begging her to let him go, or at least to have mercy and just kill him. She had just smiled at that, the tip of her tongue running lightly across her teeth as she watched him. But now his words were all gone. He *burned* -- this was far worse than it had ever been, the first time. Sweat dripped down into his eyes, making them itch and sting. His wrists were raw, torn and bruised from fighting the restraints, but it had done him no good. He was held as securely as ever. Pain filled his nerves; pain from his wrists, from his waist -- pain from the muscles he had damaged, trying to escape... He tried to control it, to make it go away, and he could not remember how... He *burned*. The touch of his clothing upon his skin was an exquisite torment.

He had tried to stop his heart, and had been unable to focus well enough to do it. Instead he kept remembering the scent of her, and the feel of her fingertips as they'd brushed against his lips. Kept thinking of Jim, though he knew, as he had always known, how futile that was. Jim was human, and only interested in women. It didn't matter; in this state, he could not keep the *wanting* away. At the mere thought of it, his traitorous body reacted again...

No! He would *not*... He shook his head, a shiver ran down his spine, and for a moment all his muscles locked and he couldn't breathe. When it ended he lay limp, gasping for air. Every single muscle in his body ached and trembled. He felt hot shame; to lose control in this way -- even a child could do better. He did not understand how she had done this to him. He heard himself moaning, and could not stop, though such behaviour filled him with disgust.

He wondered whether she would leave him to die. It would be better so, but a part of him couldn't help wondering how much longer it would take... Sharp copper taste in his mouth; he had bitten his tongue, this last time. No flesh-eater, he found the taste of blood nauseating -- but he swallowed it anyway, rather than choke. Though logic dictated that death was his best escape, still he found he couldn't stop fighting for his life. When he swallowed, the taste of it made him shudder, and again all his muscles locked, arching him up against the ties. The bed frame creaked, but did not break. Finally it was over, and he lay as one born boneless, fighting for air... His breath whistled harshly in his throat.

That was when the door swished open and *she* was there again, leaning up against the doorframe and watching him. He tried to turn his head away, and this time he could not bring himself to do it, could not take his eyes off her. Her scent was in his nostrils, and he *burned*...

And she knew it. She reached behind her and locked the door with a click. Then she came a step or two closer, still well out of reach, stopped, and stood there licking her lips and smiling at him. Inside him the fire raged, burning up his mind, his flesh... Once more a tremor ran through him and all his muscles locked, and this time when it ended he had no more strength to fight with. That was when she walked over and stood beside him, and drew two fingers gently down the line of his jaw.

To his shame, he turned his head to meet her touch. He was lost... Her scent filled him with longing. Her hand again, tracing down his neck, his shoulder. So warm -- humans were always so cool... Her warmth was strange, it felt almost as if he was touching himself... Somewhere down inside his mind, he was still trying to fight -- but his body betrayed him. He turned his head and leaned into her hands, rubbing up against them like a petted cat... Even as he cursed and raged in the back of his head, he heard himself moan, feeling her fingers upon his flesh, and hot shame filled his thoughts. He did not want this. He did not want *her*... But he did. He had lost control of himself, of the situation. Though he had fought with all of his strength to deny it, he *burned* -- the touch of her hand made him long for more. He was lost...

-----///-----

Once more she ran a languorous hand down his body; once more he groaned and arched up under her touch, fighting the ties that held him, trying to get closer. This was *sweet* -- she ruthlessly crushed that traitorous voice in her mind, that wished this were of his own free will... There was no point in wishing for what could never be.

Mnei'sahe drove her now. She had removed what was left of his clothing some time ago, simply cutting it off with her knife. It had been badly torn anyway, during his struggles to escape. She had spent some very enjoyable time then, caressing him, petting him, helping the process along. His gasps and moans were music to her ears.

He was beautiful; he could almost have been a man of her own people. It was rare, but sometimes one of the People would burn, as he was burning. His skin, under her touch, was slick with sweat where it wasn't softly furred; the copper and musk scent of him filled her nostrils. She could smell his blood, where he had injured himself fighting to escape... It was the scent of one of her own kind, and it brought the old response from her, a sharp pulse of heat down below, a hardening of her nipples -- a certain shortness of breath. She was ready, now.

His eyes were half-closed; he was deep into it now, lost in the visions the drugs and the fever had brought him. His breathing was harsh and shallow; under her fingers his heart was racing. He was constantly shivering, and when she leaned down to kiss him, a bone-deep shudder ran through him. She took her time, exploring his mouth with her tongue, learning the taste and the feel of him, in a way that he would never otherwise have permitted her to do. She had always had a little of the Gift, which many Rihannsu did not; as she ran her fingers over him and touched his face and lips, she began to feel some of what he felt, the hunger, the burning... Even his shame was delicious -- where was that pride of his, now? *She* was the stronger -- and well he knew it. He twisted and turned, but he could not escape. Even as he tried, his body betrayed him. She reached down to caress his sex and smiled, as he gasped and thrust himself into her hand. She felt his anger; his shame and his desire... Oh, yes, she was definitely ready.

It was the work of but a moment to let her robe slip to the floor, and lie down on the bed next to him. It was narrow; she had to press herself tightly against him in order not to fall off. So much the better... Taking her time, she stretched out beside him, rubbed herself against him, savoured the feel of his skin sliding under hers. The soft fur on his chest brought her nipples to a tingling hardness, making it suddenly difficult to breathe. His face was flushed; one of his lips was swollen where he had bitten it, fighting for control... He moaned and turned to meet her kiss, rubbing his face against her and shivering. She could wait no longer. She slid her leg over his and brushed herself against him. The feel of his hardness pressing against her belly made her heart start pounding. Wetness bloomed between her legs, where she ached to be filled...

This was supposed to be revenge. But even the ghosts of her kin surely could not begrudge her if she found a measure of joy in it, as well... Unable to hold out any longer, she lifted up her hips and took him deep inside her, filling that aching void within with his Fire and his flesh. He cried out then, arching underneath her, fighting to get free, to pull her closer. No more worries now, no thoughts for the future... She bent down low, laced her arms and legs around him, and gave herself up to his Need, holding on tight, riding as if her life depended on it. It felt so good -- ah, Elements, she had *needed* this; it had been too long... Waves of pleasure ran through her, from the place where their bodies joined. She held on as he heaved and thrashed beneath her, still fighting the ties -- and when at last his climax claimed him, she was drawn into it with him, burning, dying, powerless to stop, crying out his Name...

Afterwards she lay there, quite exhausted, until she felt his breathing quicken, felt him stir to life again beside her, heard his breath catch when she moved. She stroked his face with her hand, and he gave a great shuddering gasp. The fire in his mind now burned in hers as well -- as she moved to lie once more atop him, it seemed to her that both of them were but one flesh -- one spirit, in two bodies, trying become one... And she gave in to it, surrendered herself utterly, let it burn her away until nothing but her spirit remained.

-----///-----

And O, the irony! She had not expected *this* -- that she would care for him. It made no difference. Mnei'sahe commanded that she finish what she had started. But that the scent of him would prove the most intoxicating thing she'd smelled in years -- no, that she hadn't expected. Nor the feel of his silk-furred body beneath her, that threatened to burn her up to ash and gone...

He slept, now. She had finally sedated him so that *she* could get some rest. She was deliciously sore; even now, after several hours of sleep, she was exhausted. Her lips were swollen, her knees were skinned, and there was a deep and oddly pleasant ache between her legs. It had been two days since the theft of the cloaking device, since the drugs had overwhelmed his defenses and given him to her to use as she would. His captain must be frantic; one of the things she had learned from his thoughts as she lay with him was the depth of affection and understanding between those two, the degree to which they trusted and depended on one another. Good. It would make her revenge that much the sweeter.

Despite the sensors she was convinced the Enterprise was still out there, somewhere. It was what she would have done, with this one at stake.

She stretched, feeling muscles snap and pop along her spine. Soon, now, his madness would pass. Soon, now, she would declare herself tired of him and allow them to reclaim him. But it didn't matter; this morning the monitors had confirmed that she had gained what she wanted of him. Let them steal the cloak, if they would -- soon enough the People would learn to pierce it, and it would be as useless as all the other secrets each side had stolen over the years. She would worry about the Tal Shi'ar later -- she was not without powerful friends herself. She was, after all, sister-daughter to *Ael* t'Rllaillieu, commander of CHR Bloodwing, one of the most decorated captains in the Fleet.

And this her revenge would grow sharper over the years, as the dirhja she had planted began to turn, to rend his heart and the heart of the one he was bound to. She had seen that, too, in his thoughts, seen what he had thought to keep secret even from himself... In the heat of the Fire that burned him, he had not been able to turn his thoughts away. When the time came she would send the child to him, and she knew he would accept it, regardless of any trouble it might bring him. She could see that in him, too -- he was, after his own fashion, an honourable man. It had been difficult for him to carry out his orders, to deceive her; only his own version of mnei'sahe had let him do it at all.

It was only fitting that she, too, would suffer. She had not planned to care for him; had not expected that he would please her heart as well as her flesh. Here was such a man as she would have been proud to call her mate, and by her own actions she had ensured that it could never happen. When at last he returned to his senses, she knew that he would hate her for what she had done. All that was left for her was to dive back down into the flames and let herself be consumed. It would play itself out now without need of further intervention on her part. She licked her lips and got carefully into the narrow bed again, to lie pressed tight against him and breathe his scent, to run her hands through his sweat-soaked hair, trace the line of his mouth with a fingertip. He began to wake, to stir once more... She leaned down and delicately bit at one of the small bronze nipples -- and he jolted, underneath her, the shock of pleasure running through both her nerves and his...

Beneath her, he began to moan again, to try to rise. His blood began to burn again, pulling her back into the Fire with him. She stooped to kiss him and felt him harden against her, felt his arms tense against the ties, trying to pull her to him. A warm throb of pleasure coursed through her belly; a sudden wetness grew between her legs.

And she sighed and threw her arms around him, lowered her head to kiss him again, and let the Fire and the darkness carry her away...

-----///-----

It was time to send him back. She knew it. Though she wanted to pretend otherwise, there was nothing to be gained from waiting. The madness had run its course, leaving him exhausted and deeply unconscious. She already knew that she did not want to see the look on his face when he awoke. She had what she'd wanted of him, or at least, she'd had all that she was ever likely to get. There was no reason to keep him any longer, and yet she found herself oddly reluctant to part with him. She stood beside her bed looking down at him, and could not bring herself to do what was needed.

Delicately, she traced the line of his jaw with a fingertip, smoothed the sweat-soaked black hair back into place, drew the flat of her hand down the side of his face... Lifting her fingertips to her face, she breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of him, that all too soon would be gone. Ahh -- she would miss this one. Carefully, she bent to release the ties that had bound him. Lowered his arms, turned him on his side to ease his breathing. She picked up a plain grey military-issue blanket, and covered him with it.

She had already written the note. In fact, she had picked it up again, and added one line to it, of flowing Rihannsu characters. Whether he would read it, or listen to it, she did not know, but mnei'sahe dictated she at least try. He was an honourable enemy; she owed him that much. As soon as Tal brought the altered communicator, she would activate it and let them take him back. It was time for Sunfire to leave this area, to return to her assigned sector. The humans had the cloak now, much good may it do them. The Praetor would be angry at her about that, but it wouldn't be the first time. She would survive it, as she always did. Her ghosts could rest easy now; she had done as mnei'sahe commanded.

She couldn't help appreciating the irony, though, knowing that she was caught on the blade of her own revenge. Oh, it had all gone as planned. Everything had unfolded just as it was supposed to. He, and his captain, would not soon forget her face, or her Name. But in all of her planning she had forgotten one thing -- her own heart, which now betrayed her.

She had her revenge, oh, aye. But in the end, she had no joy of it...

-----///-----

Kirk paced. Back and forth in front of the tubolift, then down to Navs, back up to the conn -- and back to do it all over again. He paced, and fumed, and forced himself to stay silent. At Spock's station Pavel sat glued to his monitors; he'd been there nonstop, except for one eight-hour span when the captain had ordered him to bed and Scotty had taken over. He didn't speak either, but the discouraged slump of his shoulders said all that was needed.

It had been three days since Kirk had escaped with the cloaking device. Three days since all of Spock's signals had dropped off-line. Three days, in which the Rihannsu commander kept to a leisurely course, making no attempt either to evade or to hunt them, though she had to know they were there... Sensors had been unable to locate Spock; through the interference of the cloak, there just wasn't enough difference between Romulan and Vulcan lifesigns.

Was the Vulcan even still alive? Jim didn't know, but he thought so -- he'd had some vivid, starkly erotic nightmares, the few times he'd tried to sleep. Dreams of Spock and *her* -- and other dreams, the kind he didn't usually permit himself. Dreams where the Vulcan came willingly to his bed, though he knew that would never happen. It seemed to him that he could *feel* Spock somewhere, in the back of his head, where their thoughts had touched in the past... But he wasn't *sure*, and no-one could tell him what he needed to know. So they lurked and hovered and scanned, again and again, and no-one bothered the captain as he brooded at the conn.

*dammit, it wasn't supposed to turn out like this.* It was supposed to be an easy mission; not without some risk, but relatively easy to execute. An easy mission, a quick snatch-and-grab affair with them making an easy escape and a triumphant return home with the prize, the cloaking device. But it hadn't worked that way.

And the more he thought about the scenes in her office and in the Warbird's brig, the more he felt that she had been expecting them. It was too damned pat, too easy. Somewhere or other there had been a leak. For whatever reason, she had *let* them have the cloaking device. It was the only thing that made any sense... But *why*? For that, he had no answer.

*gods, spock -- i'm sorry... i never meant for you to be hurt...*

For once he was grateful when Scotty brought him the fuel consumption reports. Maybe he could lose himself in the paperwork for a while. Anything to escape his thoughts, his guilt -- his despairing awareness, now that it was too late, of just how much the Vulcan meant to him.

-----///-----

It was late at night, almost time for gamma shift. Kirk had to be on duty in eight more hours, but he didn't give a damn how tired he'd feel. He was staying right here.

McCoy had known better than to argue with him. He'd simply handed the captain a pillow and a blanket, and gone back into his office, where he'd had a cot for years.

On the biobed beside him Spock lay utterly motionless, silent except for the monitor's soft beeping on the wall above his head. He had not moved or opened his eyes since they got him back. McCoy had told him it wasn't the healing trance; it was more like complete exhaustion, almost a comatose state. The Vulcan was very pale, and every time he looked at him Kirk found himself getting pissed off all over again.

It was twelve hours since Chekov had suddenly sat bolt upright at the Science station and blurted out, "Keptin!! I'm getting a signal, ser -- it's Mr. Spock!"

Kirk had called Transporter Control, noting with approval that Chekov was already feeding them the coordinates. Uhura was paging McCoy to the main transporter room -- thank all the gods for this crew, Kirk had thought, and then he was in the turbolift, heading down there as fast as he could, leaving Sulu at the conn.

When he arrived, it was to find Kyle muttering to himself and recalibrating, something about it being the wrong damned frequency. He hadn't really listened; all his attention was focused on the stubbornly empty transporter pads. But finally there'd been a glimmer, a bright flash of silver -- and then the shimmering had resolved and there was Spock, curled loosely in on himself, eyes closed, his face slack and empty. He'd looked as if he'd been to hell and back; he was paler than Jim had ever seen him, with huge bruised-looking shadows around his eyes. He had bitten his lip, at some point; it was bruised and swollen, and there was a thread of dried green blood trailing down his neck. There were bruises and teeth marks on his throat. His face was gaunt, as if he'd fasted for a couple of weeks... His hair, always so neat, was sweat-soaked and matted. Jim'd had to turn away for a moment then, to bring himself under control. This was neither the time nor the place for the captain to lose it. It was almost more than he could bear, to stand and look at that and know that it was his fault, his responsibility... He would have given anything, anything at all, to have not had this happen.

He'd had to remind himself to draw a breath, then -- he had forgotten. McCoy was already up on the transporter pad, Feinberger warbling away, eyebrows drawn together in a fierce black scowl. Behind the console, Kyle's blue eyes were bright with shock and outrage.

Spock just lay there, crumpled and silent, loosely wrapped in a clean grey blanket. It made an odd contrast to the filth and the state of his skin. There was a Romulan communicator beside him, and what looked like a note. One bare arm had fallen out of the tangle of fabric, and seeing it, Jim had cursed bitterly. The Vulcan's wrist was a mass of bruises and torn skin; it looked like raw meat. What could she possibly have *done* to him, to bring him to *this*?

The doctor was cursing under his breath, whipping out first one hypo and then another, trying to stabilize Spock so he could safely move him to Sickbay. Beside the captain, the orderlies had waited patiently. Finally McCoy had nodded, and very gently they had lifted the Vulcan to the antigrav stretcher and hurried out. Jim had wanted, more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, to follow them, to stand in Sickbay and make *sure* Spock would be all right. But he was needed on the bridge, and Bones hated being kibitzed. So he had gritted his teeth, nodded his thanks to Kyle, and reluctantly headed for the bridge to resume his duties. He grabbed the note and took it with him. Maybe he could read it in the turbolift.

It was handwritten on heavy cream-coloured paper, with a strong, stylized hand, and it was brief and to the point.

"Captain tr'Kirk:

Here. You may have him back now, for I have what I wanted. I do this for Nnvaid tr'Rllaillieu, my father, and Decius tr'Iliieth'hwuei, my mother's-father -- and the crew of CHR Lancet, which you destroyed some two of your years ago. You may tell Spock that his son will be raised in clan Rllaillieu.

It is not a personal matter, tr'Kirk. It is a matter of mnei'sahe, which term you may ask Spock to explain.

May we meet again in battle.

Llwyn i'Illiieth'hwuei t'Rllaillieu,

Commander, CHR Sunfire.

When he'd finished, he almost crumpled the note and threw it in the dispose-chute -- then he noticed, along one edge on the other side, a narrow band of Rihannsu calligraphy, and instead he smoothed it out and put it in his pocket, to puzzle over later. Spock's *son*? What the hell was *that* about? He was about to call Bones, when the lift doors opened on the bridge of the Enterprise. Dismissing the note for the moment, he strode in and took over the conn.

The relief among the bridge crew was thick enough to taste, when he informed them that they had successfully recovered Spock, and that he was still alive. He didn't mention the rest of it. He couldn't bring himself to violate the Vulcan's privacy any more than *she* had already done. He could only hope that McCoy's medtechs would be discreet; he knew that Kyle would be.

The rest of that shift had lasted precisely forever; for the life of him Jim could not remember a single thing that he had done, until finally it was over and he could come here, bringing his body to the place where his mind already was.

Spock had looked a little better, by the time he arrived. Someone had washed him and put him into a blue sickbay jumpsuit. The head of the bed was elevated, and he was getting extra oxygen. The distinctive fabric of a heating pad was visible underneath him; McCoy was taking no chances while he was so weak. There was a little more colour in that pale face; and with the blood, dirt and sweat gone, he looked a bit more like himself. Clean white gauze hid the damage to his wrists, and the monitors over his head showed a good strong pulse. Jim had just stood silently for a time, trying to absorb the fact that against all his fears of the last three days, the Vulcan was alive, and he was *here*. He could hardly believe it...

Finally he'd blinked, shaken his head, and gone to find McCoy. The doctor had been in his office, poring over something on his terminal, muttering under his breath. Something like relief had crossed his face, when he noticed the captain and waved him on in.

Jim had sat down on the other side of the desk, his familiar spot, a sudden flood of nervous energy filling him with jitters. "Bones -- how is he?"

McCoy had just shaken his head. "I don't know, Jim. He's stable, at least. Blood oxygen is back where it should be, heart action steady -- but he's still in shock, unresponsive. M'Benga's sure it isn't the healing trance. I just don't know.

"You saw his wrists. He has the same kind of damage around his waist, although not as severe. I don't think he had anything to eat or drink after the first couple of hours; he was dehydrated as all hell when we got him down here. His bloodstream's a damned witches' brew; if he was human I'd put him on dialysis, but that's pretty risky with a Vulcan, especially when he's this weak..." He trailed off, then, and swallowed convulsively. He looked off to the side, not quite willing to meet Kirk's eyes.

To hell with that. Kirk had just leaned forward until the doctor *had* to look at him, and then asked, in his best pissed-off-captain tone of voice, "Bones -- what did she *do* to him?" McCoy had looked even more uncomfortable, but Kirk wasn't about to let him off the hook. "*Tell* me, doctor," he growled, faintly surprised at himself. He'd kept his feelings hidden for so long, and now he just couldn't do it anymore.

McCoy had looked away and swallowed again, looking *very* uncomfortable. And finally, still looking away, he'd muttered something, so softly that Kirk hadn't heard it.

"What was that?" he'd snapped. "Speak up, Bones."

The doctor had whipped around to face him then, fire flashing in those tired blue eyes. "All right," he'd snarled, "you want to know? Then hear this, *Captain*. As a direct result of this harebrained scheme of FleetCom's, your first officer has been kidnapped, drugged, sexually assaulted, and damn near killed. Is *that* good enough for you?"

Kirk couldn't believe his ears. "*What*?"

"I mean, *Captain*, that that... *bitch* gave him something that brought him into pon farr again, about five years too soon -- and then she, or someone, got a *lot* of use out of the poor bastard. He isn't inexperienced anymore, Jim. I don't know whether he was a virgin or not -- it wasn't exactly something that came up in conversation, you know? But he sure as hell isn't one now." He glanced back at his terminal for a second, and then at Kirk again -- and that quickly the anger was gone, leaving only sadness behind it. "I don't know, how he's going to handle this. I can't find anything in the literature that even pertains... I have no idea how to help him, or even if he'll let any of us help him. I never treated a Vulcan for rape, before..."

Oh, god. There it was. It was true, then, what he'd dreamed when he'd tried to get some sleep. He had hoped it was just a nightmare, that he wasn't really feeling Spock's thoughts... But it was true. *oh, god. it should have been me...* Knowing that it couldn't have been was no damned help at all.

Where the hell did they go from here? Unable to meet those knowing blue eyes, Kirk had fled back to the Vulcan's bedside. Mercifully, McCoy hadn't followed him -- in his current state, he couldn't have borne that. He felt as if he was trembling on the ragged edge of control. It was all he could do to sit still, when every fibre of his being yearned to shout, to rage, to break things -- to break *her*.

To break himself...

But it was his own thoughts he really wanted to avoid; thoughts of guilt and regret, the desperate wish that none of this had ever happened. And from those, there was no escape. So he sat silently, hating himself, at Spock's bedside, until finally he fell asleep.

-----///-----

Chris Chapel woke him the next morning, holding a hot cup of coffee under his nose till the smell of it woke him up. "Morning, Captain..."

Gratefully, he took the cup and sipped at it. It was perfect; strong, black and hot. "Thanks," he told her. They both looked over at the biobed and its occupant -- no change. Although Jim thought that perhaps the indicators were a little lower this morning, he wasn't sure. And after a glance at Chapel's pale face and reddened eyes, he said nothing of it. She might never know it, but he and she had something in common.

She busied herself taking readings, fiddling with the IV lines, smoothing the covers... Jim looked away, both to give her some privacy, and to try and clear the fog from his brain.

0730. He was supposed to be on the bridge in half an hour. His neck hurt from sleeping in the chair, and his eyes felt as though someone had poured sand in them. Then he caught a glimpse of Spock again, and none of that mattered any more. *damn you, nogura -- you owe us for this. this was your idea.* They had both sworn an oath, on entering the Fleet -- everyone did. They were soldiers, as well as explorers. But for *this* to happen to *Spock*... Oh, god. And it had been he who talked the Vulcan into this, against his better judgement.

Chapel had finished, and was making notes on her padd. Spock just lay there, not moving. If not for the monitors, Jim would have wondered if he was breathing at all.

Dammit! He had to go; he had a hell of a lot to do today. Never mind what he *wanted* to do; the captain of the Enterprise didn't have that luxury.

He glanced up, saw Chapel watching him, saw her flick a glance at the bed, and nod. "We'll call the bridge if there's any change, Captain." Both of them knew it wasn't likely; neither said it.

"Thanks, nurse Chapel. When you see Bones, have him check in with me, would you? I've got to get going."

"Yes, sir. And Captain --"

"Yes?"

"Get something to eat. *Before* you go on duty."

He gave her a wry smile. "Aye, aye, cap'n Chapel, sir!"

He didn't, though. He settled for adding cream and sugar to his second cup of coffee; by the time he'd washed and changed, he could honestly say that there wasn't time to eat. In truth, the very thought of food was nauseating. No. He would eat later -- if he was hungry...

-----///-----

Every eye was on him as he entered the bridge. He met their glances, and spread his hands. "No change yet," he told them, knowing what the question was. "He's still alive. That's all we know."

Uhura gave him a watery smile. "Well, at least that's something, sir." She handed him a padd with the morning's comm traffic on it. Nothing much, but it reminded him of something else he had to do.

"Lt. Uhura -- send the following message, triple-encrypt, to Admiral Nogura at Fleet HQ: Mission accomplished, returning home post haste. Note commendation for Commander Spock, who was seriously injured in the performance of his duty. That will be all."

"Yes, sir. Sending it now."

He dived back into his paperwork, chewing through it much faster than he normally did. He was full of frustrated energy that had no place to go. After a while, Scotty called him down to Engineering, ostensibly to discuss the cloaking device. In truth, once he was seated in what Scotty called his office -- a converted storage closet, if Jim wasn't mistaken -- the engineer simply set a bottle and a glass down, and poured a couple fingers' worth of the precious whisky he'd brought from home. "A wee drop, sir -- 'twill fortify ye against the day..."

It wasn't his usual habit -- but nothing was as usual right now. Kirk picked up the glass and gratefully drained it. And once his eyes stopped watering, he had to admit the engineer was right. It took some of the edge off, at least. "Thanks, Scotty. I guess I'd better leave it at that, but it does help."

The burly Scotsman drank a measure himself, then put it away. "Aye, sir. 'Tis a devilish business, all this creepin' aboot in the night like a bunch of spygamers. I've nae use for it, maself."

"No more do I, Scotty..." After that, they discussed courses and options available to them. The cloaking device was online, but it drew a tremendous amount of power, limiting them either to Warp 4, or else to rationing all other power usage.

They were almost a full day into Federation territory, now. In the end, he ordered Scott to deactivate the device and go to warp 7. There had been no sign of pursuit since before they had left the Neutral Zone. It was almost as if she had *wanted* them to steal the cloak -- this whole mission had been peculiar, from the very beginning.

Kirk would have bet a large sum of cash money that the hot tip Nogura's informants had recieved had been hand fed to them by this Commander Llwyn t'Rllaillieu. Lancet, then, must be the name of that ship which had come so close to destroying the Enterprise, two years ago. It had self-destructed, after sustaining massive damage. That captain had been *her* kinsman...

*god -- the things that come back to bite you, years later...*

-----//-----

He was surprised, as he entered sickbay that afternoon, to hear music playing. He walked in to find Uhura sitting at McCoy's desk, playing softly on the Vulcan harp. It had been a gift from Spock some time ago, when she had reached the point in her study of the instrument that necessitated one of her own. It wasn't an antique, as his was, but the sound was rich and full, testimony to the crafter's skill. She looked up at him and smiled, the same fear in her eyes as in his, the same hope that if they didn't say it, it wouldn't happen.

McCoy was nowhere in sight; the door to Spock's room stood open, but there was no sound from within except the soft beeps of the monitors. Jim peered around the door, to see that there had been no change while he was away. He turned back, to see Uhura rising, preparing to leave. "You can stay if you want to, Uhura," he told her.

"I know," she answered simply. "But I'd better get moving; things to do, you know..." Kirk nodded, and watched her leave. She wasn't fooling anyone, but then, he supposed, neither was he. He watched her go, then went to talk to McCoy.

The doctor was in his office, surrounded by journal padds, data solids, and hardcopy of assorted article abstracts. He looked singularly unsatisfied, and his expression didn't change when he caught sight of the captain. If anything it grew gloomier. "Evenin', Jim," he muttered, leaning back in his chair for a moment. He waved a laconic hand at the piles of journals. "Biggest bunch of multisyllabic hooey I ever saw," he groused. "Never knew there were so damned many ways to say, 'the hell if I know'..." He heaved a long sigh, sat upright again, and brushed a clear space amongst the clutter in front of him. "What can I do you for?"

Kirk took the chair across from him. "Thought I'd better check in," he said. "Is he any better?"

McCoy didn't have to ask who. He looked away for a moment, and when he faced the captain again, his expression was mournful. "No..." he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

Jim Kirk's heart fell to his boots. "Give it to me straight, Bones. How is he?"

The doctor sighed again. "Not good, Jim. He's just... fading on me. We had to put him back on oxygen an hour ago, his breathing is just too shallow. If he gets much weaker I'll have to put him on life support. For some reason, he hasn't gone into the healing trance." He scowled. "Dammit, Jim -- it doesn't make any *sense*! We treated his injuries -- hell, they looked worse'n what they were, really. Most of it was exhaustion and dehydration. I can't find one damn medical reason why that man isn't awake right this minute!" He leaned his forehead on his hands for a moment, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and wincing. "Sorry -- it's been a long day."

Jim leaned forward, met and held that piercing blue gaze. "Bones -- it isn't your fault. Hell, if anything, it's mine. I'm the one that accepted this mission, and talked him into going..." He trailed off into silence, unsure of what to say. Looking up unexpectedly, for one moment he could see the worry and the fear in those tired blue eyes. "Hey -- when's the last time you set foot outside Sickbay? Or had something to eat?"

"Don't start, Jim. You haven't exactly been knockin' down the mess hall doors, lately." His lips pressed together, in a gesture Jim had seen Spock use before. "Plain fact of the matter is, the man's dying, and I don't know why." He scowled again, even blacker than before. "Actually, I think I do know why -- but I don't know what I can do about it."

"Bones -- tell me. *Why*?"

"Because he wants to, Jim. He's decided to check out. Don't give me that look; M'Benga and Chapel agree with me." He sighed, and ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "Basic first-year neurology, now, Captain. Vulcans have a lot more conscious control of bodily function than anyone but a trained adept might have, among humans. You know that you can't interrogate a Vulcan if he doesn't want you to -- he'll just stop his heart. But suppose a Vulcan were to be drugged, somehow prevented from using that control?

"I don't know exactly what he went through on that ship, but I can make some pretty good guesses. And for it to be Spock, of all people -- hell, you know how he is. Remember how ashamed he was when the pon farr came to him, how the loss of control disturbed him. Hell, he was willing to die, rather than speak to us about it... I don't think he *wants* to live. He isn't even trying; he's just... drifting away. And I'll be damned if I know how to stop him." He looked up, and Jim was shocked at the way he seemed to have aged, overnight. "I'm sorry, Jim..."

There was something wrong with the air in here. Even as he filled his lungs, it felt as if there was no oxygen in it; it wasn't doing him any good. Spock was -- even in the privacy of his thoughts he couldn't bring himself to say it.

McCoy rubbed at his eyes again. "I haven't given up, Jim. I won't give up. We'll do whatever it takes."

He glanced at the jumble of padds, data solids, and sheets of printout flimsy. "I've just got to look harder, that's all. I must have missed something..."

-----///-----

The captain awoke sometime in the middle of the night, groggy and disoriented. At first he wasn't even sure where he was, until his vision cleared and he saw Spock lying there so quietly -- so pale, except for his injuries. The Vulcan hadn't moved at all since they'd brought him to Sickbay. McCoy had finally started him on passive range of motion exercises, to prevent complications of immobility.

Jim glanced up at the monitors, and his heart sank -- all the indicators showed the same pattern as before, but every one of them was definitely lower than it had been. Spock was simply fading away, letting go...

That thought brought an icy rush of adrenaline into his blood. *god -- what if he dies? i can't -- i never told him... * No. He *couldn't* sit back and watch that. If not for him this never would have happened. He had to *do* something.

He sat up and leaned forward, the better to see in the dim night-shift lighting. The rise and fall of the Vulcan's ribs was barely perceptible. Jim closed his eyes and *listened*, searching for that indefinable trace in his mind, the place where he'd felt Spock's thoughts in the past. He was still in there, somewhere -- the monitors showed brainwave activity, though it too was gradually declining. But nothing any of them had tried had gotten any response.

Spock and he had touched minds before, more than once. Hell, he had dreamed, while the Vulcan was missing, only to find that some of the dreams had been nothing but the truth. There was a connection between them; he just had to *find* it.

It might help if he touched the other's face, but he found himself oddly hesitant to do that. Spock had always been a very private person, yet *she* had touched him as she pleased, against his will. Jim could only guess what that must have been like for him, but he knew one thing -- he did *not* want to invade as she had done.

But in the end, he realized that he was going to have to touch him. He had reached into his own mind as best he knew how, but although he had finally found that place where Spock's mind touched his, the trace of the other's thoughts was so faint he could hardly detect it. So finally, he pulled his chair up close and tried to prepare himself as he had so often seen Spock do. *damn. i'm not a telepath -- i don't even know if this will work...*

Deep slow breaths; that was one thing the Vulcan always did. Deep breaths, and the hands clasped together... A sudden thought, then -- *bones'd have a hissy fit if he saw me doing this.* But it didn't matter. He *had* to do it. There was nobody else who could. He couldn't just sit and watch his best friend die...

What else, now? The fingertips; placed just *so*... And the words; there were some words he always said... Right. Jim remembered them now, although part of him thought that he was crazy to even try.

For this to work, Spock would have to hear or feel him, and reach out to make the link for both of them. Would he, or was it already too late? No choice but to try.

He bowed his head over his hands and breathed, slow and calm, willing his mind to stop racing, trying to relax despite his fear.

He reached to take the Vulcan's hand in his own, shocked all over again at how cool it was. Put his own hand to the other's face, seeking out the spots where his fingers ought to go. Pressed Spock's hand to his temple and held it there... Spock's skin was clammy beneath his fingers, scarcely as warm as his own. That scared him more than anything Bones had said... *what the hell am i doing? -- what i have to. come on, james t... quit stalling.* He took a deep breath, and trying not to feel ridiculous, recited the words. "My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts..." Willed the other to hear him, to respond.

He looked up. No change, in that angular face. The black eyes were closed, not moving. "All right, Spock. It's just you and me here, now. Everyone else is gone. If you really want to die, you're going to have to *tell* me that. I'm not about to just walk away and let you go."

No response. Not so much as one flick of a fingertip against his face. Nothing in his mind except the slowly fading traces of past contacts. All right. He hadn't expected it to work right away. He reached for Spock's other hand; now he was holding both of them. The Vulcan's skin was nearly as pale as the bandages around his wrists. "Dammit, Spock! I *know* you're in there. I *know* you can hear me... I have to *talk* to you -- I can't just sit and watch you die!"

Nothing. No reaction.

He was leaning over the bed, now, gazing into that quiet face -- so calm, so empty. *shit -- it isn't working; i'm going to lose him...*

And suddenly his anger flared, hot and bright; rage at the universe, at himself, at *her* -- at Spock, for giving up... He reached for the Vulcan's shoulders and shook him once, sharply. "Damn you, *wake up*! Spock, we need you -- *I* need you... I know you're in there; *talk to me*! I can't do this alone -- help me! *You're* the damned telepath -- *do* something!"

Something -- a flicker, then, in his mind, so fast and so light he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. He grabbed Spock's hands again. "Come on, Spock -- reach for it. *Talk* to me, my friend. You can't just die -- come *on*!" He concentrated fiercely, trying to touch that place where the other's thoughts met his, trying to reach through the grey emptiness, touch the quicksilver lightning of the Vulcan's mind...

Again, that instant of contact, no sooner felt than gone. Jim lifted one of those limp long-fingered hands again, pressed it to his temple; reached for the other's face as he had seen Spock do, so many times before. He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. "My mind to your mind; my thoughts to your thoughts..."

Flicker...

Flicker... *come on, spock...*

Flicker...

...Slowly, Jim's awareness of his body faded. He lost the soft beeping of the monitors, the hissing of the oxygen, the beating of his own heart. Gradually he lost the headache that had been with him since he awoke. He lost the feeling of the Vulcan's hands in his. He forgot that he was sitting in a chair in Sickbay... Forgot that his eyes were closed... Almost, he forgot who he was and what he was doing...

Spock. He was looking for Spock. And he was Jim. He held to that knowledge.

Slowly it grew lighter. He began to see blurred shapes, amidst the featurless grey gloom. In some way he could not quite define, he slowly realized that he was not alone, that there was someone else just ahead of him, just out of reach. He concentrated, and felt himself draw closer...

...and found himself, suddenly, as one does in dreams, sitting in the Vulcan's quarters, across the desk from Spock. Some moments passed before the other looked up and noticed him.

"Jim? What -- you should not be here; it is not safe for you..." Spock's voice was a hoarse whisper; even here he looked exhausted and ill.

Remorse twisted like a knife in the human's heart. "No, my friend. *You* shouldn't be here; it's my fault all this happened to you. Spock -- I can't just stand by and watch you die -- I *can't*."

The other looked away for a moment, unable to meet his eyes. "Jim, I am... I am *tired*. It is better, so..."

"No! Spock, *listen* to me -- I'm *sorry*. I never should have accepted the mission. You were right, it was a fool's errand."

The black eyes reluctantly met his. "If you had not, they would have sent someone else -- someone less able to survive it. Kaiidth! It is done." He looked away again. "Jim -- please... I am tired. I do not wish to fight it any more."

"Fight what? Spock, it's over. You're safe aboard the Enterprise. She's gone. You don't *have* to fight her any more. Please -- come back with me. We need you -- *I* need you!"

Infinite weariness, in the hooded black eyes. "Please, don't... It is not your fault, Jim. It is I who is at fault, and I am tired of it." Was that shame, on his face, in his voice? It was.

"Spock -- why are you ashamed? You've done nothing wrong..."

"But I have. You do not understand... Jim, please -- I am not fit. I have failed; I have lost myself. Let me go, I beg of you."

"The *hell* I will! Spock, I don't understand any of this; it doesn't make sense. Explain it to me -- *please*..."

"I -- cannot..." So quiet; Jim could hardly hear him say it. He reached across the narrow desk, to touch the other's hand -- and Spock flinched.

*good one, jim -- can't you see the last thing he wants is physical contact? think about it! god -- he must hate me for getting him into this.* Jim drew a breath, amazed at his ability to do so despite the pain in his heart. "Spock -- *please*. Come back with me; I'm sorry. Please believe me -- if I could go back and do it differently, I would. It's my fault this happened; I never should have talked you into going.

"If you want to leave, to transfer out, I won't stop you --" *oh god, not that...* "But if you died -- I could never forgive myself."

The Vulcan looked up at him again. "No, Jim. I do not wish to leave. I --" He trailed off into silence. Visibly fought for control. Finally he whispered, "...you -- you still blame yourself? For this? For me?" He winced and shook his head. "This is true?"

Jim leaned closer. "Yes. Spock -- how could I not? I'm the captain; I'm the only one who could have told Nogura 'no'. And I didn't. That *makes* it my responsibility..."

The Vulcan's eyes were closed again, his face a study in fierce concentration. Jim kept quiet -- but his heart ached, to see the battle Spock fought within himself. He wanted to reach out to the other, to help -- but he was afraid Spock would simply feel it another intrusion into what little remained of his privacy. He made himself stay quiet, and he waited.

Long minutes passed, before finally a shudder ran through that bony frame. The black eyes flickered open, bottomless pools of pain and loss. "It *is* true," Spock whispered. "Then I cannot --" He swallowed, hard. "I must not -- Jim. I will stay. I will... wake up. But you must go now. Please... I give you my word, that I will stay."

*thank all the gods that ever were...* Jim closed his own eyes for a moment, a flood of relief nearly washing him away. Then he looked up at the Vulcan, and nodded. "Well enough, Spock. I'll go. And *thank you*, my friend. For everything. I don't deserve such loyalty -- but I appreciate it, very much indeed." And with that, he ceased to fight the current that was pulling him away. Grey blankness swirled through his mind again, and when he opened his eyes, he was back in Sickbay, sitting beside Spock's bed. He flexed his stiffened fingers and let go of Spock's hand; then he gazed up at the monitors again, and found them changed. Instead of that slow and deadly fading, the pattern now displayed was that of the Vulcan healing trance. He knew that pattern; he had stood here and watched it more than once, in the past.

Spock was going to live. He was going to live, and he was going to wake up soon. Relief made him dizzy for a moment, and he realized that he was exhausted, as tired as if he had hiked all day. It was all he could do to climb up onto the empty second bed, before he was gone, claimed by the sleep he'd been short on for days.

He was still there in the morning, when McCoy checked in. The doctor noted and logged the change in Spock's status, a broad grin of relief on his face. Then he quietly spread a blanket over the sleeping human, and tiptoed out to start the day.

-----///-----

Spock stayed in the healing trance for just over two days. 24 hours after he came out of it, McCoy discharged him from Sickbay, having agreed with the Vulcan that he would rest better in his own quarters. Within a week he was back on duty, and except for the bandages peeking out from under the blue uniform sleeves, he seemed unmarked by his experience.

But that wasn't entirely true. Although he worked as hard as ever, he was very quiet, even for him; he kept even more to himself than he had before. He still played chess with the captain, two or three times a week. But where before they had often played until the small hours of the night, he now excused himself after one or two games, pleading fatigue. Jim didn't believe it, but he didn't know how to approach the issue. It was obvious that Spock was having problems, but he was also wearing his very prickliest keep-away manner.

Finally, McCoy pounced. A routine followup exam a month after the incident showed that the Vulcan had lost weight and was suffering from continued stress. He tried to draw him out about it, and Spock grew almost agitated in his haste to get away. McCoy just shook his head and watched him leave, muttering, "You can't run away from yourself, Spock." Then he sighed, and reluctantly put in a call to the captain.

Jim sighed, too, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, Bones... Maybe I can talk to him. I don't know. I'll try, anyway." He snapped off the intercom and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. His head hurt. It had been a long day already, full of interminable dealings with Fleet bureaucracy -- and now this, just to top it off. Spock had already called him and begged off their chess game for tonight. What was he supposed to do about this?

Jim didn't know *what* to say to him. His own feelings were confused enough that he was very unsure of how to proceed.

It all came back to the mission to the Neutral Zone. To Sunfire's captain, and what she had done to Spock. *He* would have had a hard time, dealing with that, and Spock had been -- well, *inexperienced* was about the kindest way to put it. Hell, no wonder he was having problems.

*yeah -- but he won't talk to me. i've tried, already. he just clams up and leaves.* Which was true -- but not all there was to it. The other part of the problem was Jim himself; his own feelings, and the fact that he didn't dare speak of them, especially now. Especially not to Spock. Not after what the Vulcan had just been through. It would have been hard enough to tell him before. Now? Jim couldn't imagine it.

So he sat, and pondered, and cogitated -- and got nowhere. Eventually, for lack of anything more constructive to do, he started to clean out his desk drawers. Sometimes that helped him to focus. And that was when he found the note. *Her* note, the one he'd picked up in the transporter room, stuck in his pocket, and forgotten about. He'd looked up the word mnei'sahe and concluded that it was more or less like the Japanese concept of bushido -- and then he'd forgotten it.

So it was a surprise to find it again, and to notice, on the back, that single flowing line of Romulan calligraphy. Aha! A puzzle to solve! Now this was more like it.

He called up the library computer, accessed the intelligence files on the Romulan culture and language, and dove into them. The very first thing he learned was that Romulan was never their name for themselves. "Ri-hann-su," he muttered, wondering how it was really pronounced.

It took him just over an hour to first transcribe and then translate what she had written. And having done so, he sat there with his mouth hanging open like the damned fool he so obviously was. God, it was so *simple* -- and he hadn't seen it, though it was plain as day when he thought about it honestly. And he laughed, then, long and loud.

What a prize pair of fools the two of them were!

-----///-----

He nearly didn't go. Once in the turbolift, and again just before he reached the Vulcan's door, he nearly chickened out and returned to his own quarters. But that wouldn't solve anything. So in the end, he went ahead with it. Stood for a moment outside that door. Read the nameplate -- "Spock, Commander." Gritted his teeth. *quit stalling, james t...*

He pressed the door chime. There was no immediate answer, so he pressed it again. "Spock -- it's Jim. Can I come in? I need to talk to you..."

There was a long pause before finally the other said, very quietly, "Come."

The door opened, and he walked inside, hot dry air puffing out into the corridor behind him. God, it was hot in here.

Spock was sitting at his desk, which was covered with a clutter of padds and data solids. No sign remained of his injuries; the bandages were long gone, the scars on his wrists already fading to silver. But he still looked pale and unwell -- only now did Jim really see how much.

He glanced over at the empty chair, and the Vulcan nodded. The human sat down and drew a deep breath. At least the oxygen level in here was ship's-normal. The heat was quite bad enough. He clasped his hands together and looked down at them for a moment. "Spock -- I heard from Doctor McCoy today. He's worried about you -- and so am I."

The Vulcan looked away, the black eyes haunted and uncertain. "His concern is noted, Captain, as is yours -- but it is misplaced. I am well enough. I live. I shall continue to do so."

Jim sighed. Obviously he wasn't going to make this easy. "Listen -- I *know* that, Spock. That isn't what I meant. Ever since we left the Neutral Zone, something's been wrong with you. Bones knows it, I know it -- and if you ever looked in a mirror, you'd know it, too."

Spock said nothing, refusing to meet his eyes. On the edge of the desk, his hands had curled themselves into white-knuckled fists, and Jim realized that he wasn't even aware he was doing it. He took another deep breath, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. He'd forgotten that Spock kept his quarters at Vulcan-normal temperature. "Spock -- when we first got you back, I wanted to *kill* that woman for what she did to you."

The Vulcan flinched and started to turn away. "No," Jim said, "hear me out, please... This is important. When you first materialized, there was a note with you. Do you remember the first time we encountered the Rihannsu, the ship that blew itself up to avoid capture?" After a moment, Spock nodded, slowly. He still wouldn't meet Jim's eyes.

"It turns out that ship's captain was her father. Its exec was her mother's-father. That's why she did it -- for 'mnei'sahe', if that's how you pronounce it. And I found, suddenly, that I could understand her. It's the kind of thing a human from certain cultures might have done.

"I found that I couldn't just hate her any more; I understood too much." He reached into his pocket for the note. "But even that isn't what's important. I just found this again tonight, and I noticed she had written something else -- something I'm pretty sure she meant for *you* to see." He handed it over, folded so that the Rihannsu characters were showing.

She had written, "You are a fool, Spock. You should tell him how you feel."

Spock took it, flattened it out and read it -- and all the colour went out of his face. He swayed, and Jim almost took his hand, but held back at the last moment, not wanting to intrude any more than he already had. Instead, he made his face be open, let his concern, and the rest of it, show, as he hadn't dared to before.

Spock finally looked at him, his face shuttered, unreadable. "Jim... I--" He couldn't finish it; he just sat there, looking as if he'd been pole-axed. Jim's heart ached in sympathy.

"Spock -- listen, I'm no damned good at this. I just got done translating that myself, and when I did, I looked about the way that you do, now.

"What I'm trying to tell you, my stubborn Vulcan friend, is that you aren't the only one around here who's been hiding his feelings." *damn, this is hard to say...*

Spock shook his head, no. "I... do not... understand..."

"I -- ah, hell! Do me a favour, Spock. Take my hand, and just *listen*. Please?"

Very slowly, the long slim fingers reached for his. At the touch of the other's hot dry skin, Jim felt his pulse start to race. He gripped the Vulcan's hand and willed himself to be open, undefended... He had fought so hard, for so long, to hide his feelings. Now he concentrated on them, on how much Spock mattered to him, what the Vulcan really meant to him. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done -- and perhaps the most important...

"Spock -- when I got done translating this, you could have knocked me over with a feather." One long, slanted eyebrow rose, and for a moment Jim could *hear* the inevitable dry comment. He grinned, nervously.

"My friend -- I came here tonight, to tell you that we have got to be the biggest pair of fools in all of the Fleet. All this suffering in noble silence is stupid... Take a moment; *listen* to what I feel, will you? Just read me -- and tell me what you see."

Silence, then. Spock had closed his eyes, the better to concentrate. Jim just watched him. Trying to breathe around the sudden lump in his throat was taking all the energy he had to spare.

Shock, then, on that angular face. The black eyes snapped open, and locked onto his. The first faint spark of hope flared brightly in him -- and Jim felt it. "Jim?" Open surprise, on the Vulcan's face, in his voice...

"Do you *see*, Spock? Do you see what a pair of idiots we've been lately, you and I? Even *she* saw it -- that's why she wrote this. She said that you should tell me, that you were a fool; well, she was half right. I've been just as foolish...

"All this time, I've been hiding what I felt. All this time, I figured it was just me, that you couldn't possibly feel the same way, or even understand. You're a Vulcan; I couldn't get past that. All this time, I figured it was my problem, that I was just going to have to learn to ignore it.

"But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

And Spock looked up at him, then, his face for once open and unguarded. And Jim saw that it was going to be all right. For a moment, the Vulcan's hand gripped his, hard enough to bruise. The black eyes flickered closed, and a shudder ran through that lean frame. Then they opened again, and Jim saw something he hadn't dared to hope for -- an expression of wonder, and the beginnings of delight, dawning on that usually impassive face.

"Jim?" Spock whispered. "You -- this is true?"

And Jim laughed, feeling the weight of the universe lifted off his shoulders, feeling like a man reprieved, at the last minute, from the hangman's noose. "Hell, yes, it's true. And for you, it's the same, isn't it? That's what she meant. Even she saw it, though neither of us had the brains to." He reached, then, for Spock's other hand, felt it willingly grasp his own. Held on tightly, hardly daring to believe. "Both of us -- the same. *Both* of us."

"Both of us..." Spock whispered. "Indeed..." And then he did something that Jim had only seen him do once before -- after the kalifee, when he'd realized that the captain *wasn't* dead. He smiled, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a shy half smile that threatened to make the human blow a field coil. "It *is* true," Spock murmured. "I can feel it in you... Jim -- t'hy'la... I did not... I had no idea..."

"I know, Spock. God, do I know." He squeezed the other's hands -- so warm, against his skin. "I've known for over a year, now -- since Deneva -- how I really felt about you, and I never dared to say anything to you. And then this happened. She was like some dark star, passing by and changing our orbits from what they've always been..." He stopped, had to wipe sweat out of his eyes. It burned. "Umm -- Spock, one favour. Could you turn the heat down, please? It's too damned hot in here for me..." And he smiled again, wryly.

The Vulcan nodded solemnly, though his eyes were sparkling. "Of course, Jim. I am sorry; I did not think of that..." And he rose, graceful as ever, and turned down the thermostat. Cooler air immediately began to pour through the vents, and Jim drank it in, gratefully.

Spock sat down across from him again, that look of wonder and delight once more lighting up his face. He reached out, very delicately, to brush the human's hair away from his face. Heat flared in Jim's skin, everywhere those fingers touched.

Slowly and carefully, Spock traced all the shapes of Jim's face. Gentle fingers, a feather-light touch. Finally, he drew two fingers down the edge of the human's jaw and let his hand fall to the narrow desk between them. A small sigh of utter contentment escaped him.

"I dreamed of this," he said, his voice a husky whisper. "On that ship, in the fever -- I dreamed of this. Of you." A slight blush of green highlighted his cheekbones, his ears.

Jim was smiling now, a broad relieved grin. "I had the same dreams," he said, quietly. "I kept waking up, all night; I dreamed about *her*, about me and you together... I thought I was going crazy." He reached out to touch the other's face, drew his fingers down the plane of Spock's cheek. So much warmer than his own -- and yet, so familiar. So *right*...

The Vulcan leaned into his touch, the black eyes half closed in pleasure. "If you are mad, t'hy'la," he murmured, "then it is a madness which I share..."

"Spock -- I *heard* you. In my mind. I heard you call my name, call for help..." He swallowed, hard. "God -- I was so afraid. I thought -- I thought I'd never see you again, never get a chance to tell you..." He fell silent, not entirely sure what he was trying to say.

Spock gave that incredible half-smile again, and reached to grasp the human's hands between his own once more. "But I *am* here, t'hy'la -- with you. She never intended my death. It was --" he paused, thinking for a moment. "On Vulcan, the practice was once known as t'cheh'erriiedh 'akkhash, the Binding of Houses. She wanted a child, to tie her House and mine together. It is a very old custom, from the time before Surak, before the Rihannsu left my world to seek their own Path." He paused, frowning for a moment. "I must admit, I do not know what she thought to gain by doing such a thing. In all probability, the child will not survive -- I was born through genetic engineering; any children I wish to sire will almost certainly have to be born the same way. But it was once a very common form of revenge... It may be that she wishes for an eventual bridge between our peoples. If she follows the full extent of the custom, she will send him here one day, if he lives. I simply do not know."

"Well, whatever she gained, I think I got the best of that deal," Jim said, amazed all over again at his undeserved good fortune. "I got *you* back, my friend -- when I had despaired of it." Suddenly he felt flooded with energy, needing to pace, to run, to jump -- he wasn't sure *what*, just that he had to move. He leaned forward, losing himself for a moment in those bottomless black eyes.

"Spock -- I know it's late. If you're too tired, I'll understand. But if you aren't -- would you walk with me? To the observation deck? I want to look at the stars..." *and thank them for bringing you back to me...*

Spock inclined his head, gracefully. "2330 is not *late*, Jim. I am not tired; on my homeworld the days are longer than on yours. It would please me, to go with you..."

-----///-----

They met only two people on their way to the for'ard observation lounge -- crewmen working gamma shift, going about their business. Neither seemed to think it unusual that the two of them were prowling this late at night. Both parties exchanged polite nods and continued on their separate ways.

The lounge itself was empty, and the next block of reserved time wouldn't start until noon the next day. Seeing that, Jim smiled and keyed in a request for a privacy lock, to hold until either one of them released it. He turned off all the lights, leaving only the fierce glow of the stars. Then he joined Spock in front of the giant clearsteel window, drinking in the sight of the myriads of stars surrounding the ship. Since they were in warp, that vista should have seemed curdled and distorted -- but the computer was able to compensate for that, sparing tender human eyes and minds the gut-wrenching strangeness of warp space.

They stood quietly together for quite some time, each wrapped in his own thoughts, sharing their familiar companionable silence. Jim glanced over at the Vulcan, at the way the starlight shone on the sleek black hair, and wondered how he ever would have survived losing him. It had been a very near thing, he knew.

Spock considered what he had learned this night of Jim, and of how they both felt. He knew that sooner or later he would have to tell his father -- and hence, T'Pau -- that the House of Surak might have an heir among the Rihannsu. He was not looking forward to that -- but he did not have to do it just yet. There was time in plenty for that. For now, it was enough to stand here in front of the naked stars, to share that sight with his human. With Jim -- his t'hy'la...

Jim's fingers reached for his; cool human lips pressed against the palm of his hand. Spock sighed, feeling the last of his fear ease itself from his body. "You are a sorcerer, James Kirk," he murmured. "You have bewitched me..."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," that familiar voice drawled beside his ear, sending little trills of pleasure trickling down his spine. Jim's hands were at his waist, pulling him, turning him so that they faced one another. Spock's heart was racing; he couldn't seem to catch his breath. That the look on Jim's face was for him rocked him to his core. He had known, ever since the kalifee, what the true nature of his feelings was. That it was Jim to whom his heart was bound, not T'Pring... It had only been the truth, to turn and give her to Stonn. It had never been her that he wanted. And now, to find that his longing was returned... it was unexpected -- and it was years of what he'd thought were illogical, hopeless dreams, suddenly becoming real. He could hardly believe it -- but he could *feel* that it was true.

Jim smiled and pulled Spock into his arms, wrapping himself around the tall, slim form, hugging him tightly. Spock hugged him back, resting his head on his human's shoulder, drinking in the familiar scent of him, the delightfully cool and beloved presence of him. This, then, must be what humans meant, when they spoke of joy...

"T'hy'la," he whispered, only now really beginning to accept that this was true. "Ahh, t'hy'la -- I have... I have wanted this, for so long. I never thought that it could be..."

"Oh, yes. I felt the same way, Spock." Jim pulled back a little, then leaned forward and kissed him, very lightly, his lips just brushing the warmth of the other's face. Spock felt as if a photon torpedo had gone off in his belly. An involuntary gasp escaped him, and Jim pulled back a little, the hazel eyes gone wide with sudden concern.

"Spock? Are you all right? Is it too much? Too soon? I don't want to push you..."

"No..." Spock leaned forward and returned the kiss, ready for it this time. "Not that. Only -- I was... surprised. It... it is *good*, to be here like this. With you..." His voice was rough with unaccustomed pleasure.

Jim kissed him again, savouring the heat of his touch. "Mmm... you taste good." A shiver ran through the lean frame, and he hugged him more tightly. The copper and musk scent of the Vulcan's arousal was intoxicating; he couldn't get enough of it.

Fire flared up inside Spock, and he gasped again. "Ahh..." He fell silent, utterly undone by the feel of cool human lips at his throat, the nip of sharp white teeth at his earlobe. *She* had done that, and without the fever, it would not have affected him so strongly. But this was *Jim*... He swayed, his knees threatening to give way entirely. Jim's arms around him seemed the only thing that held him up. His heart pounded unevenly in his side, like the beat of a madman's drum.

"Sshh..." came the soft voice, whispering in his ear. "It's going to be all right now. I promise..." Jim's hands were roaming over his shoulders, his back -- pulling them closer together. Spock tilted his head to reach, and lick, at the tender place behind one rounded ear. It was something he had often thought of doing, but never before dared to try. The taste was salty, and a little sharp -- the taste of Jim, of the familiar scent that Spock knew as well as he knew his own. A shiver ran through the compact body in his arms, and he could feel the growing shape of the human's arousal pressing against his own, could feel that the other wanted this as much as he did. And somehow, this time, it was *right*. He sighed, and felt the last of his shame dissolve.

Jim laughed, a little embarrassed. "Sorry, Spock -- I, ah, seem to have a little... problem, here..." But he didn't pull away.

Spock returned the smile, savouring his newfound freedom. "It is not unpleasant, t'hy'la." He bent to kiss the human's neck, and nuzzle at the base of his throat. So different, from the way *her* skin had felt. "And in any case... it seems I have a similar... problem, myself." Deliberately, he rubbed himself against the other. Jim smiled, then very slowly and langourously returned the gesture, and licked his lips. Sweat sprang out upon the Vulcan's brow; of a sudden, it seemed to be much too hot in here. With one suddenly shaky hand, he caressed Jim's face, and drew him close for another kiss, losing himself in the soft coolness and the taste of him, so new, so unfamiliar, and yet so very *right*. So many times, he had dreamed of this...

Both of them sank to their knees, not needing to say a word. Everywhere Spock's hands touched, he could feel little ripples of pleasure run along the human's nerves. He reached up under the other's shirt, to stroke the smooth human skin -- so pleasantly cool, compared to his own. Then he smiled again, knowing it would please Jim to see it and know himself the cause...

Very gently Jim pulled him down, till they lay together on the soft, dark carpet. He rolled Spock onto his back and moved to lie atop him. The sight of that normally calm face all flushed and hectic, that look of passionate abandon on his always-logical Vulcan, lit a fire in the pit of the human's belly. Slowly and thoroughly, he ground their hips together, feeling his own erection brush against the other's growing hardness.

"God, Spock -- I want you. I want you so much..." He rolled off, reached to undo the blue science tunic, and very gently pulled it off over the other's head... "I've wanted to do this for so long," he purred, as he bent down to kiss and lick at the Vulcan's small bronze nipples, rub his face on the soft black fur. To inhale the faintly spicy scent of his skin... Spock gasped, his head thrown back, his eyes closed; his hands, strong enough to bend duranium rebars, resting loosely on Jim's shoulders. He was trembling all over, lost in the feelings that the human's touch evoked...

Jim slithered out of his own shirt and lay atop the other again. So warm... He couldn't help but gasp, at the warmth of Spock's lightly furred body against his own smoothness. Then he lowered his head, to kiss and lick and nuzzle from the Vulcan's neck to his belly. He stuck his tongue into Spock's navel, sucked on it, nipped at it -- and was rewarded with another gasp and a bone-deep shiver of pleasure. Spock's fingers were curled, now, in the softness of the rug. "Ahh..." the Vulcan whispered, struggling to catch his breath.

Jim was so hard it was almost painful -- but he held back, wanting to do this right, to give this man the very best he could, to make a joyful memory to chase the ones of torment away. Very gently he undid the clasp of Spock's pants, and slid them down over the slim, firm cheeks. The Vulcan's cock sprang free, jade-tinged bronze, rock hard, a drop of moisture already glistening at its tip. *ah, at last...*, Jim thought, and bending down, drew his tongue along it slowly, from the root to the tip. He nipped gently at the head with his teeth, licked around the ridges at the tip, then took it into his mouth. It was *hot* -- so different from anyone else he'd tasted... Spock moaned and thrust his hips upwards, his head tossing from side to side, the black eyes slitted closed. Jim took him all the way in, enjoying the salt-sweet taste and the hot, silky feel of him, twining his fingers into the damp black curls at the Vulcan's groin.

Hot dry hands grasped his shoulders, then, pulling him upwards. With a last leisurely lick, he obeyed, moving up to recapture Spock's mouth... And he lost himself again, in the fire that grew between them as they kissed. Spock's hands curved around the cheeks of his ass, pulling them even closer to one another, rubbing them together.

<<...ahhh...>> That was in his mind... He broke off the kiss, and gazed down at the Vulcan, and smiled. Spock was moving underneath him now, writhing, unable to control himself any more. "Ahh... Jim -- t'hy'la... please... I need you; *please*... I want..." The deep voice was rough with the strength of his desire, and hearing it, Jim felt himself begin to burn... Strong Vulcan fingers fumbled at the clasp of his pants, and suddenly they were loose, and he was sliding out of them. He kicked them away, and slid himself between the other's legs. *his skin is so warm!* For a moment, he had to close his eyes, as his cock rubbed up against the Vulcan's heat. *he feels so good...* Spock moaned beneath him, and lifted up his hips -- and Jim found himself pressed up against the entrance to his body. His own readiness had left him slick and wet; he felt himself beginning to push inside...

He groaned, and made himself stop. "Oh, god, Spock -- I want you..."

"Yes," Spock whispered, "yes... *please*, Jim... ahh..." The silky black hair was tousled now and disarrayed; Spock's lips were flushed, swollen with need. His face flamed, blushing green. He wrapped his legs around the human and pulled him in close -- and that quickly, that easily, Jim felt himself buried in the Vulcan's fever heat. He nearly lost it then, but fought for control, for time to do this right, to give as much pleasure as he was receiving...

At first he couldn't breathe; the sensations simply overwhelmed him. He could feel it in himself, and in Spock as well. He felt as if he was burning, inside there. Leaning down, he scattered kisses across that angular face, nuzzled at the pit of Spock's throat. Drank in the scent of him, the taste and the feel of him, so long desired, so newly possessed... Moved his hips slowly, teasing him... *so hot... oh, god, he's tight -- i don't know if i can wait...*

But he did; their mouths met again, and it was as good as the first kiss. So *right*. *how did we ever survive, without this?* He buried himself deeper in the Vulcan's willing flesh, *needing*, wanting -- trying to make them one... So hot, around him; so tight...

...and Spock lifted his hand, laid his fingers on Jim's face... Looked up, with wonder and desire, at his human's flushed and sweating face -- *it is me, -i- brought him to this...* So cool Jim felt, inside him there, so good... He had never laid with a man before, and yet he felt as if he was finally coming home to where he had always belonged. He raised his eyebrow, asking without any words -- and heard Jim's answer in his thoughts...

<<o yes -- do it, spock... join us. i want you inside me, too...>>

...and he did. And the pleasure was his, was Jim's; the Fire burning hot and bright, chasing the last of the darkness away... In the back of his mind, the raw place where his Bond had once been, where *she* had refused him, just like T'Pring, was finally set at ease. A constant nagging pain he had hardly even noticed finally eased, ended. A single line of silver fire reached from one mind to the other. Took hold, joined, began to grow. He thrust, and received, filled, and was filled... So tight, so hot... So cool, so full... He *burned*. Both of them burned -- joined in the Fire, burning up to ash and gone... And still it grew stronger, brighter... he was jim, he was spock; he was One; one flesh, one heart, one mind... Higher they climbed, and higher --

-- and finally fell, both of them, over the edge into cool, quenching darkness. Thirst was slaked, hunger was fed, *need* fulfilled... He sighed and closed his eyes, black and hazel together, and surrendered to it utterly. He/they together, still joined, slipping as one into the peaceful dark...

It was a long time later that Jim opened his eyes, to gaze into the other's. A moment of regret, as he felt himself, slackened, slip free -- then he bent down to kiss his lover, drank in the taste and the warmth of him, hugged him tightly, and sighed. Utter contentment filled him, a bone-deep lassitude that made it hard to even think about moving.

Spock smiled up at him, just a quirk of the corners of his mouth, and Jim *felt* it, as if it were his own. "God... Spock -- that was..." He couldn't find words to even begin to describe it. He found the other's lips again and drank deep.

<<...yes. o yes... jim -- t'hy'la...>>

<<will it always be like this?>>

<<yes... jim -- t'hy'la, t'sol'ya... thee are *mine*. bright one...>>

<<and you are mine. beloved...>> And deep within himself, Jim touched it, the place where they were joined, now, the newborn link growing stronger even as he did so -- and felt it, as a shiver ran through the Vulcan's nerves. And he looked up at the stars, then, and smiled, for the gift that they had brought him, for the treasure that he had found...