~)o(~

I never thought I'd end up here.

I take a deep breath and look up at the moonlit sky. The stars are familiar, only shifted a little from those of Earth, and if I squint I can just see Sol dropping behind the Northern horizon. It's strange – I just spent three years there, and yet I can't think of it as home. Home is up there, in orbit above me. Or maybe it's back there, in the mountains behind me.

Home is where the heart is, right?

I'm so confused. Sarek just told me that Spock was in the mountains. Then he said, "Go to him" in his inscrutable Vulcan way. Now I'm sitting here in the garden, stunned.

I mean, it boggles my mind. Sarek *has* to know what he was really telling me to do. Hell, a blind man could see that something is up between us -- that something has *been* up for the past three years. And Sarek is probably the galaxy's expert on Vulcan-human relationships. Did he just give his implicit support of our relationship, or am I crazy? He had to know what my going to Spock right now would do.

God, I just wish *I* knew what to do. It's kind of funny, when you think about it. I'm famous for making all kinds of split-second, life-changing decisions, and I can't decide whether to leave this garden or not. But I really don't know if I'm the same man who earned that reputation, or if I have been that man for three years. I don't really know I ever *was* that man.

I wonder if I have ever known myself, if I ever bothered to look beyond what I wanted to see.

My thoughts feel like they're moving through thick molasses, back and forth over the same territory, slower and more frightened each time. And the hell of it is, I know *precisely* what I'm scared of -- it's the same thing that caused Spock to take off for three years and the same thing that made me hide on Earth, staring at Eridani on nights like this. We're both older now, and maybe a little wiser, but has anything else changed? Has anything really *important* changed?

Why would it work now, when it wouldn't have before?

And if it didn't work, could I handle it?

~)o(~

I guess it started after we ran into Flint. Well, on some level "it" had always existed, growing slowly between us ever since the first day I boarded the Enterprise. But after that mission, neither of us could ignore it any longer.

I remember what it was like back then; even apart from anything between Spock and myself, life was getting complicated. The five-year mission was ending, and I kept veering emotionally between excitement and panic. Excitement, because I desperately needed to take some time off, desperately needed to ground myself on Earth and visit my nephew and my mother and just plain *rest*. I had underestimated how exhausting the five-year mission would be, not only for the crew but especially for me. It was glorious -- the best time of my life -- but it was five years of constant decisions and constant pressure balancing our military interests, exploration, command politics, crew dynamics, and personal life. I guess I never really had an idea, before I was captain of the Enterprise, how much that can take out of a person.

Anyway, so I was tired -- I had pretty much been operating on adrenaline the entire last six months, and there were only two weeks left at that point, so I was desperately looking forward to reaching the end of the mission. But at the same time, I was really worried. I mean, I recognized that I was tired, but I also knew that I definitely wanted to retain command and eventually set off on another deep-space exploratory mission. After I rested, of course. I couldn't see how I could be happy without command of some sort.

But by that point I had become pretty adept at reading the political winds of Starfleet, and I could tell that Nogura and a few others really didn't want me out in deep space any more; I was too valuable back on earth as a figurehead. So I was getting ready for the intense political battle I was sure was coming: the battle not only to retain my command, but to also keep some of my most valuable officers.

Spock, of course, was number one on that list. I was so stupid that I gave absolutely no thought to the possibility that he might want to be anywhere else other than with me. We were that good of a team, and that close. I had no clue that he might leave me.

Damn it, Jim, be fair. He didn't want to leave me any more than I wanted to leave him, ultimately. We both just ended up feeling like we had no choice.

I'm getting ahead of myself. At the time we met Flint, I was bone-tired. I had begun spending more and more time with Spock, nothing special, just playing chess or working out or getting in one of our conversations that would last for hours. Bones told me once that as people near the end of a period in their life, they spend more time on what they have that is most valuable and less time trying to create more. I guess that is what I was doing -- what both Spock and I were doing.

It's funny, though, that neither of us spent more time with Bones, or on the observation deck, or among the crew in the rec room. As if we were both each other's "most valuable" thing. I should have realized it then. But I didn't. I knew I enjoyed spending time with him, and I never felt safer or happier anywhere else, so I saw no reason to question things.

Anyway, I came back from the mission after meeting Flint feeling careworn and oddly saddened. I fell asleep on my desk after making my log, and woke up suddenly with the feeling that something was out of place or something was wrong. I had a crick in my neck, but as I glanced around my dimly lit quarters could see nothing unusual.

There was a tentative tap on the door to the alcove I shared with Spock, and I realized that must have been what woke me. He had always been reticent about walking straight into my quarters, but I had finally persuaded him that it was illogical to go all the way around to the corridor door when we had our own private entrance. So he used the side door, but oddly guiltily, as if it wasn't strictly proper.

"Come on in, Spock," I called. "I'm not asleep anymore." I let a trace of amusement in my voice to let him know I was teasing; it was probably best for my neck that he woke me, anyway.

He stepped in hesitantly, even more so than usual. The door softly shut behind him, but Spock made no move to enter my quarters any further, and stood looking for all the world like a recalcitrant cadet ready to receive a dressing down.

I frowned. "Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

He was silent, and I peered forward, trying to see his eyes, shadowed and hidden in the dim lighting. "Spock?"

He took a step closer, then stopped again. "Captain," he said formally. "I wish to… make a confession."

Huh? My stomach began to roil. "Are you okay?" I asked again. "Is this about the ship?"

He swallowed. I could have known he was nervous even without that telltale clue -- believe me, I've gotten quite adept at reading Spock's most minimal body language over the years -- but the fact that he was out of control enough to give such an obvious cue (for him) gave me pause. I softened my tone. "Whatever it is, you can tell me, Spock."

At that he raised his head a bit, but his eyes were still shadowed. "I have committed a grievous wrong against one who did not deserve it." I couldn't see his eyes, but his posture -- back straight, head poised as if to receive a blow, and braced for it as if such a strike was no more than he deserved -- well, that posture sent a spike of fear up my spine.

I crossed the rest of the space between us and grabbed his biceps with both hands. I just wanted to give him the reassurance of my touch -- whatever he had done, he genuinely believed it was horrible -- but he flinched back as if my hands burnt him. I raised them then, palms up. "Sit down. Tell me about it."

I could never in a million years believe that Spock had done something deliberately hurtful. Sure, he had made mistakes before; we all have. But if there is one word that describes Spock, it is *integrity* -- integrity to his principles, to his inner voice. The man has been pressured by other people his whole life to be something he is not -- by his parents, by Starfleet, even by many of us here on the Enterprise. The same integrity that makes him unwilling and unable to be anything but himself, in spite of that pressure, is what makes me trust him more than any other being. If he *had* done some horrible thing, I was sure it was unintentional.

But convincing him of that would take some doing.

Begin at the beginning. "What did you do?" I asked when Spock had maneuvered himself so he was sitting on the chair in front of my desk. I myself was perched on the edge, near enough that I could touch him, but far enough that he didn't get too nervous.

The lights were still dim.

Spock's voice, when it came, was low and rough. "You are the one affected," he informed me. His eyes were on the floor.

I guess I should have started to feel mad, or anxious, or *something* at this point, but all I could feel was concern for Spock, who was obviously beating himself up far worse than I ever could. "Spock," I said quietly. "Please, look at me."

He did, and our eyes held. I could see pain in his black depths, and anxiety, and deep, deep shame. I wanted nothing more than to erase those things. The lateness of the hour and the bizarreness of the day must have been catching up with me, for everything suddenly felt surreal. There was no *way* Spock could hurt me intentionally; I knew that as certainly as I knew my name. Yet he plainly believed that he had.

"Tell me," I said, putting all my faith in him into my words, willing him not to look away.

I'll give Spock credit, when he decides to do something difficult, he doesn't shy away from doing it. His words, as always, were precise, blunt, and utterly truthful. "I have removed a memory from your mind without your permission."

Oh. Well.

I waited to feel angry, to feel violated, because if there was one thing I held dear, it was the sanctity of my own mind and the privacy of my own thoughts. I should be enraged, I thought, and waited for the emotion to come. But it didn't.

I took stock of what I was feeling. Curiosity as to what he had removed. A little piqued that we had mind-melded and I didn't even remember it; I loved the special sharing that melds with Spock entailed. We melded fairly often -- Spock was teaching me some Vulcan disciplines, and it was just plain *fun* for both of us. I regretted not remembering this time. But mostly, I still had that rock-bottom certainty that if Spock had removed my memory, there must have been a damn good reason. I realized to my astonishment that I trusted him so much I didn't even feel a strong desire to find out *why* he felt the need to tamper with my mind. If Spock did it, it had to have been important, and that was really good enough for me.

Plainly it wasn't good enough for him. He still faced me, shame now written openly across his face -- shame, and contrition, and fear. What was he scared of? My reaction?

I groped for something to say. "I assume you thought it was important for you to do," I said at last, struggling for words that would diminish his self-vilification.

Astonishment flared in the black depths of his eyes, then dulled again to remorse. "It was unnecessary, illogical, and completely selfish."

I crossed the few feet that separated us, kneeling in an effort to reach him. I wanted to rest my hands on his knees, to communicate my forgiveness through touch, but I didn't dare. I settled for words instead. "You had to have a good reason, Spock, and I trust you."

He shook his head and closed his eyes. "Jim, do not trust me," he said hoarsely.

I clenched my fists helplessly. "But I *do.* Tell me why you think I shouldn't."

There was a long silence, then Spock began to speak, still not looking at me. "There was a woman on the planet with Flint," he began.

"Yeah, I remember. Rayna. She was an android, wasn't she?"

Spock nodded. "She also… you were in love with her, Jim," he said rapidly.

This situation was turning more and more unreal. My emotions were completely not cooperating with what they were supposed to be doing. First I should have felt enraged, violated, *angry* at Spock -- but only felt this overwhelming compassion and trust. And now I was informed that I should love this woman, but when I called up her face in my mind I could only summon mild, objective curiosity about her.

"I don't feel in love with her, Spock," I informed him.

He opened his eyes, and again they drew me in. "I know. That is the memory I removed."

"I don't get it. You removed my memory of falling in love with her? Or of loving her? How long were we down there, anyway?"

His tone was almost dry, and I was relieved to hear a trace of amusement in his voice. "Less than two days."

I grinned sheepishly. "Spock, I couldn't have been in love with her. Even *I* don't fall in love that fast. And she was an android. How could I have been in love with an android?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You told me you loved her. And you were extremely dismayed when you lost her. More than dismayed."

I shrugged, still not letting go of him. His touch was the only thing reassuring me during this strange late-night conversation. "She was probably special," I admitted, recalling the woman -- machine? -- dancing and smiling. "But that's not love."

He shook his head, not angrily, but determined. "I appreciate your attempt to alleviate my guilt, Jim," he said earnestly, "but the fact remains that I entered your mind without permission and removed the memory of your … emotion … for her." He paused. "Infatuation, if nothing else. The exact nature of the emotion scarcely matters, \anyway; regardless of it, my actions are inexcusable."

Suddenly I knew what to do, how to reach him, how to expiate his guilt and ground myself all at once. I leaned forward, resting my hands on his knees and my weight on his hands, entering his personal space. "Fix it, then," I whispered. "Give me the memory back."

Spock looked startled. "You want me in your mind, after all that I have done?"

I mentioned already how much I like mind-melds. If truth be told, I crave them, like an addict. That hadn't changed, and I still trusted Spock implicitly. "Please, Spock."

He lifted his fingers and slowly, so slowly, placed them at the meld points. As always, I felt the same delicious dislocation I always do, and the same soul-deep spark of recognition as I recognized Spock's essence. Bones asked me once how I could stand the experience of losing myself in someone else's mind, but melds are never like that, not with Spock. If possible, I feel more myself, as if the mental union completes parts that I never realize are missing till they are filled.

Spock's cautious presence guided me. //Here, Jim, here is the memory//, his mind-voice said, and I was drawn in. There was Rayna, laughing and dancing, impressive in her intellect and beauty. She was stunning, and I remembered wanting nothing more than to take her in my arms and forget my exhaustion, the mission, my own uncertainties about the future for a moment. She was someone I could admire and give up my own burdens to for a few hours, her loving giving me the strength to go on.

Like Spock was there for me, all the time. But he couldn't do that for me, and she could.

Love? No, I didn't love her – wanted her, needed her, admired her, yes. I could now remember my defeated exhaustion on returning to the ship and felt a wave of affection sweep over me. //Spock, feel this?// I thought at him. //This is for you – thank you for trying to ease my pain, however misguided you were. I don't need you to help me, ever, by removing my memories, as long as you are there in other ways. But I am honored and humbled that you would care enough to want to do so//.

That's what I love about melds. I can tell Spock I care, and he doesn't get all fidgety, and I can feel his pleasure like my own.

That's what I was feeling then -- his pleasure at my forgiveness, and my own gladness. I suppose it might seem strange that I was *glad* he had messed with my mind, but that wasn't what I was glad about. I was glad he cared so much. Even glad that he then came to me and confessed, that he was willing to trust me enough and our friendship enough not to let it be based on a lie.

Spock and integrity.

The meld slowly subsided, and I opened my eyes. I was kneeling in front of him, hands still on his knees, leaning forward so our faces were only inches apart. His eyes opened, too, and we locked gazes, not speaking, for a long time. I couldn't look away.

"I have one more confession to make, Jim," he finally said softly.

The world had narrowed to his face in front of me, his warmth under my hands, and I felt dizzy. "Yes?" I whispered, imagining I could feel my breath float towards his.

"I admit to an ulterior motive in removing Rayna's memory."

My heart was pounding. I still couldn't look away. "What?"

The words, when they came, were so soft I could barely hear them. "I was jealous."

I closed my eyes, and an eternal moment passed before I was leaning in, impossibly covering the last few inches separating us. His lips under mine were soft, hesitant at first, then more masterful. But always gentle, so gentle. Spock tasted exotic, like a spice the ancient explorers would have traversed entire continents for, like adventure, and love, and home.

I stopped to take a quick breath, and Spock's quiet moan at the separation undid the last of my control. I leaned in farther, and somehow my hands found their way around his back, and his hands were in my hair, and I couldn't think of anything other than him here with me. My heart was beating impossibly fast, and suddenly even this wasn't enough. I leaned in all the way, pulling us against each other so I could feel his hardness against my abdomen.

"Oh God," I was whispering in between kisses. "God, Spock." He tilted his head back, and then I was kissing down his neck, around to his delicious pointed ears, behind them, and he shivered. I was trembling uncontrollably, and so was he. Far away, some corner of my mind was screaming: what was I doing? But it was drowned out by Spock -- by his scent, and his skin, and his vulnerability and intelligence and by the knowledge that it was *him* that I was kissing and tasting and loving.

I can't remember anything that ever felt more right.

We kissed and kissed for a small and glorious eternity. Finally, we helped each other up, one mind in this as we were in so many things, wanting to see and feel more of each other where it was more comfortable. I couldn't let go of him long enough to walk across the room, so we stumbled and stuttered around like desperate drunk men, refusing to separate our mouths for even a moment. His taste was heady, like a drug, and I couldn't get enough of him.

We were moving across the room in our crazy slow-motion dance when I stepped backwards too quickly, jamming my hip against the bed and falling from Spock's grasp and onto the floor. The jolt of pain cleared my senses a bit, and I think my involuntary gasp did the same to Spock's, for he knelt beside me. "Jim! Are you okay?" he asked, reaching up to caress my hip.

I scooted up into a sitting position. "Yeah, no big deal," I winced. "Just a bruise." I grabbed his hand with my own, and felt my gaze being drawn to our entwined fingers. His was too, and after a moment our eyes met over them.

"Jim," he asked after a moment. Softly, fearfully: "what are we doing?"

He was incredibly beautiful, hair tousled and lips swollen from kissing, looking at me with the depthless glance that held everything at once. He was so brave and so vulnerable. "I don't know," I whispered.

And I didn't. I still don't. I know we unleashed something between us that day, something that had been sleeping, quiescent, but whose power we felt from the beginning. It scared me. It still does, just because it *is* so powerful. I'm not used to that in relationships. That kind of power can destroy even as it creates – destroy me, him, everything we worked for, everything we thought we knew about ourselves, everything we thought we were.

He swallowed, and I could see that he was scared too. "I did not plan this."

"Neither did I."

His hand still gripped mine solidly. "What should we do?"

The question was asking a lot, and I was awed all over again at the trust it implied. He was asking me, giving this whole thing over to me, trusting me to come up with the route that would keep our souls and our careers and our selves -- and what we meant to each other -- intact.

Hell if I knew how to do that, though. The fear of losing him and myself and *us* got all tangled up in knots, and I knew with despair that there was no way I could straighten it by myself. And he still looked so damn beautiful. "I don't know," I whispered again.

Spock stood then, gracefully pulling me up with him, so that we faced each other, separated but only by inches. One strong hand caressed my cheekbone, lightly, and I couldn't breathe.

"I can't think when you touch me, Spock," I said hoarsely, wanting him to stop and wanting him to continue forever.

One touch down my cheek, then, and his hand withdrew. "As you trust me in your mind, I trust you now," he said softly, and took a step back.

"I don't *know*, though!" I said again, desperately. "I don't know what we should do, Spock. I don't know what is best." I was so far from being me, so far from being the starship commander who was in control of himself, who knew what he wanted, who could decide anything.

Still, Spock only looked at me. Trusting, and beautiful.

I took a breath. "Maybe, let's just think about this logically, ok?"

A corner of his mouth quirked up. "I do not believe that this situation is discussed in the Dialogues of Surak, Jim."

I chuckled – not a laugh, just a small relief of tension. Our eyes met again, and my desire swept up again, as did a rush of affection -- love? -- so strong it nearly staggered me. But with it came the feeling of fear, the terrifying thought that we were both on an out-of-control train that would only stop when it crashed and destroyed us both.

I cleared my throat. "Maybe you'd better leave, Spock. Let us think this over. We'll talk later."

His eyes still met mine, reading me, his own uncertainties unmasked. I seemed to have shed my own mask sometime during the course of this long strange evening. Funny how bare it made me feel. Frighteningly bare, but exhilarated. Like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to jump, and I didn't know if I had a parachute on or not.

Spock nodded, and a rush of relief hit me when I realized he was agreeing with my suggestion. "That is logical, Jim," he said. "I –" and he trailed off, at a loss for words.

But I thought I knew what he was saying anyway. "I know," I said softly.

He turned to go, but paused at the doorway. I had followed him, and his slight turn again brought our faces within inches of each other. I leaned up to kiss him, a soft chaste kiss of goodbye-for-now, and don't-worry-we'll-work-it-out, and maybe even I-love-you.

Then he left, and I moved dazedly to my bed, and didn't sleep for hours.

In hindsight I can only laugh bitterly at how stupid we both were. How stupid he was to give me his trust, and how stupid I was to believe I was worthy of it.

~)o(~

I woke up the next morning feeling like shit.

That was really no surprise. Remember, I had just gotten returned from an extremely tense mission during which someone whom I cared for very much had essentially died and half my crew had been in danger of death themselves. The night before I had found myself nearly making love to my best friend, after he confessed to removing memories from my mind without permission. To make matters worse, I had slept only about three hours, and what sleep there was had been plagued by nightmares very reminiscent of those I had had when I got back from Tarsus. I never remember much of them, but I had awoken, tangled and sweaty in the bedsheets, feeling terrified and utterly helpless.

I told myself at the time that all these things were mitigating circumstances that explained why I did what I did, but from this perspective it all feels like so much self-justifying bullshit.

None of these things really explains what I did, and that's why I'm so confused now. I can't be sure that if we tried to have a relationship this time, that I wouldn't go fuck it up all over again. I mean, yes, I was stressed because of the mission – but stress is the name of the game for a starship captain, and I've operated far better under conditions of far worse stress. And if I get to keep the Enterprise -- which may in fact happen; this time, for once, politics is playing in *my* favor – anyway, if I get to keep the Enterprise, I will almost certainly face situations just as stressful. If I screw up what I have with Spock the first time I'm stressed, that's not much to build a relationship on.

So it wasn't the stress. It wasn't the nightmare. I've had those nightmares for years. Truth be told, I hadn't had one that *bad* since Sam died, but nightmares are a known variable. I could deal with them. It wasn't that.

It wasn't the fact that Spock was male. Sure, I definitely prefer women, but I've been with men before. And I'm definitely attracted to Spock. Attracted, hell. I feel like the temperature raises a few degrees every time he comes into a room with me. On some level, I've known ever since we met that we had that kind of chemistry. I just never decided to pursue it; there were so many reasons not to.

So what *did* happen that night? Like I said, I really don't know. Before then, as I mentioned, I had already decided not to pursue it -- Spock was too valuable as a friend, as the other half of my soul, to risk in what I knew was my really spotty record in relationships. Not to mention that he was my first officer, and our hopes of serving together after this mission had a snowball's chance in hell if command heard we were a couple. And I would far rather have had Spock in any capacity than not have him at all.

So I had all those great reasons not to start anything with Spock, and they were all thrown away in the one moment of late-night passion. *That's* the thing I can't figure out. Why did that happen? I've never before made a decision and been unable to stick with it like that. And I'm sure it was the same with Spock – the man has more control over himself than anyone I've ever met. What happened that night wasn't logical, wasn't planned, and yet it happened. And after it happened, I didn't know if I could go back to *not* having Spock in that way, even with all the logical reasons not to.

Even now, I crave Spock's touch more than anything. I've been craving him for this entire three years. I've never been like this.

See what I mean about my thoughts going around in circles? I've tried for three years to figure out what made me act the way I did -- both that night, and later -- and I'm still no closer to an answer. All three years sufficed to show me was that no matter how hard

I tried, I couldn't live without Spock around. Limp around like an amputee, yes. Live, not really.

I'll back up a little. You may be asking what I did after that night.

The answer is, nothing. I mean, I did *nothing*: that's the problem. Spock left that night with the plan that we would talk about it later and come to some sort of decision: move on, or back up (if possible), and whatever we did, we could salvage the friendship.

But I didn't keep up my end of the bargain. I did my best to stay away from Spock – only conferring with him on the bridge on duty, when I had to, and only about professional topics. I cancelled our workout schedule. I took to reading more often in my own cabin, or frequenting the rec room when I knew there would be a lot of people there and there was no chance of personal interaction with him. Basically, I just completely avoided him.

And I *still* don't know why.

I knew as I was doing it that this was *not* what I should be doing. It's not like I wasn't thinking about him or what was between us. God, no. I would sit in my command chair and imagine what would happen if I went up to his console right then and kissed him, and I would get so hard I began holding comm pads on my lap for most of the day. After things started getting strained between us, I took to imagining that he came to my quarters and we melded and every disagreement melted into the fire we created.

By the end of the mission, I would just imagine that he might turn to me with that familiar light in his eyes. But by then, even that was just a memory.

I knew at the time that shoving him away would have that result, and yet I still did it. I had the best of intentions of saying something, but every time there was an opportunity, I fled. That hideous, helpless, falling-off-the-cliff feeling would come over me and I'd do whatever I could to get rid of it, which mostly entailed getting as far away from Spock as humanly possible.

I never knew I was such a goddamn coward.

Oh yeah, Spock did try to talk to me. The man is nothing if not persistent. But I'm even more stubborn than he is. Besides, I think he had his own uncertainties. Spock is the only person I know who has a worse record in relationships -- I don't mean necessarily sexual relationships, just relationships in general -- than I do. And I don't think he really got over his guilt from the Rayna thing. Plus, when Spock hits an emotionally complex situation, he doesn't often stay to work it out: he runs. He ran from Vulcan to Starfleet. He tried to run to Vulcan during the Pon Farr, rather than talk to me.

And he ran to Gol.

After he went to Gol, I stopped hating myself and started hating him. I somehow conveniently forgot everything I had done. Instead, I'd catch myself thinking things like: it's his fault for melding with me that night. It's his fault for trusting me to make the decision in the first place. It's his fault for not being more persistent at talking to me. It's his fault for letting it happen in the first place, because Lord knows, *I* didn't intend it to.

I still remember our last conversation. The Enterprise was in Spacedock. My debriefing was scheduled for the next day, and Spock was leaving for Vulcan. At the time I had thought he was just going to take a vacation on Vulcan, not stay there. How stupidly, horribly wrong.

Anyway, I was stretched out on my bed trying not very successfully to lose myself in some mindless Hornblower that I'd already read a few times. //I wonder where Spock is right now//, I was musing. //I should really go talk to him. This nonsense has gone on long enough. //

I turned a page. Young Horatio had just joined his new ship. //Hmm, this part is pretty good. I'll catch him tomorrow before he leaves.// Yes, that was a good plan.

I jumped at the gentle tap on the side door. All of a sudden my heart was pounding worse than it ever did when we faced the Klingons -- only Spock ever used that door. And he hadn't touched it since that night.

"Come," I said, striving for steadiness.

He came in tentatively. The whole situation was disturbingly reminiscent of the last time he was here -- Spock, hesitant and wary; myself, uneasy and tired; the lighting, dim. "Lights on, 100%" I said, suddenly wanting the reassurance of their sterile flourescent glow.

Spock stopped a few steps inside the door, nearly at attention. His face was opaque and glacial, as Vulcan as I have ever seen it. I couldn't read it at all.

"Captain, I have come to tender my resignation," he said after the silence between us stretched for a few moments too long.

When I was on the Farragut, I saw one of my good friends get her entire lower body incinerated by a stray blast. Sheila later told me that she hadn't felt a thing at the time. It was as if her entire body was numb, distant, not her own. Only later did the agony hit.

That's what it felt like when he said that. Numb, distant. "Resignation," is all I managed to say.

Spock nodded, also glacial. "I seek achievement of the Kohlinahr discipline at Gol."

I was determined to hold on to my control. "And how long will this take?"

Spock glanced down briefly before turning to look stoically at me again. "It is a lifetime commitment."

This time, I could manage only a strangled, "Oh."

The silence between us extended longer, longer, until Spock inclined his head in a formal gesture of leave-taking, then pivoted abruptly back toward the door. I jerked forward then, grabbing his arm at the last minute and spinning him back toward me. His eyes flared briefly with anger and surprise, then dulled back to their former opaqueness.

It was that inscrutability that did me in, I think. The words I had been about to speak died on my lips. *Please don't leave me. Let's talk about it. I'm sorry. I don't want you to go. I love you.* Instead, I asked feebly, inadequately: "Will you be okay?"

His expression didn't change. "The Kohlinahr is the purging of all emotion, Captain. The term 'okay' will no longer be applicable except insofar as it reflects objective assessment of my well-being."

I couldn't answer that by saying, *Well, don't go then, because I certainly won't be ok if you leave.* I couldn't. And who was I to talk, anyway? Clearly we weren't good for each other. The situation between us was untenable, I was losing my command, and life would never be the same anyway. Maybe he would really be happier without emotions. It went against everything I thought I knew about Spock, but then, I thought, maybe I don't know much at all.

"Okay, then," I said awkwardly. "If that's what you want, I mean."

"Wants are irrelevant."

God, I hated this Vulcan mask he was wearing. "Fine, then," I snapped. "All your shallow human friends will try to *deal* with our emotions and I hope you're happy getting rid of yours."

Anger flared in his eyes, then. Looking back, I really wish he had let that into his voice or said something I deserved to hear. Maybe, 'I was unaware that friends ignored each other for weeks at a time.' Or, 'Does the human concept of friends include accepting a trust and then betraying it?' I wish I had pushed him more. If we had fought, maybe we might have gotten everything out in front of us, and maybe we wouldn't be here now.

As it was, he didn't even bother to say anything else. He just turned again and left. That was the last time I would speak to him for three years.

~)o(~

After that, well, I felt even more like an amputee. The pain only really started to hit during the next week, when Bones blew up at Nogura and angrily resigned from Starfleet himself. I was finally beginning to realize that I would never see Spock again, and then Bones was the last straw. I couldn't believe that he had the gall to try to dictate to *me* how to run *my* life, to presume what was best for me. That was the problem with letting people close to you, I decided. They think they can control your life, but the only one who can really do that is you.

At that point I became a survivor. No, not *became.* That's who I *am.* Nothing, and I mean nothing, beats me, and it hasn't since I was 13. So I didn't have the Enterprise. I didn't have Spock, or Bones. I still had me. I was the only person in charge of my destiny, and damned if I was going to let anything else affect that.

Well, it was easier said than done, but I did it. Hah. James T. Kirk, wrestling victory from the arms of defeat. If you call "survival" victory in this case.

When my friend Sheila was recovering from her injury she had said that one of the hardest parts was trying to convince herself that her legs were really gone. Intellectually, she knew it, but she would constantly catch herself trying to move them. Or she would feel itches or pain in her phantom limbs, as if they were really there. Then she 'd be shocked all over again when she realized they weren't.

That's what I felt while grounded Earthside. Before that, I hadn't realized how much Spock was a part of me. I would keep turning around to say something to him, or saving some tidbit from the day to share with him later. Only then would I realize that he was no longer there to share it with. I would dream about making love to him only to wake up and realize that he would never be there to make love to.

But, like I said, I was surviving. James Kirk does not waste time thinking of what might be, he only works with what is. That's one of the things I learned at Tarsus. That, and to never be helpless, never rely on anyone, again. That was plainly the mistake I had made with Spock, and damned if I was going to repeat it.

So I met Lori, and she seemed to be exactly what I needed -- someone to hold at night, someone who believed that I was the man who had earned the reputation I was famous for and didn't presume to press any more deeply than that. I let her close enough that we could patch bits of each other's wounds, but never so close that it was dangerous, and that was enough for both of us. She was a good woman and she had wounds and walls of her own. She was never Spock, but I was never completely what she needed, either.

And that's how I limped along for three years. Surviving, because that's what I always do.

That's when V'Ger came.

~)o(~

Once V'Ger came, things happened so fast I'm still reeling. One moment I didn't have my ship or my two best friends, and the next moment I had all three but Earth itself was in horrible danger. I made so many missteps on that mission, but maybe Fate decided that she'd had enough fun with me over the past three years, for it all managed to work out in the end. Earth was saved, McCoy and Spock both stayed, and it looks like I might end up with the Enterprise after all.

On second thought, "it all worked out" is about as big of an exaggeration as you could make while still being somewhere near the truth. Lori died. Will Decker and Ilia both had to give up their lives as they knew them. I am no longer certain *myself* that I have what it takes to be Captain of the Enterprise. It's coming back, yes, but I still feel like something is missing. I still feel like too much of the last mission was due to luck and not enough was due to me.

In spite of what Bones may think, I really *don't* want command of the Enterprise if I'm not the right person for the job. I used to never doubt that I was, but now I do.

And I think the reason is related to what happened with Spock. A starship captain has to know himself. He has to be able to make a decision and make it stick. He has to not let personal considerations interfere with what is best for the ship. I did none of those things with Spock.

It is such a relief that he is back, at least. It isn't like it used to be, but I'm so grateful to have him here, in any capacity, that I'm not going to question it further.

Ok, James T., that's another lie. I know I *should* just accept what I have and not want more -- I just don't know if I can. When he got back, we were so tentative with each other, tiptoeing around, trying desperately to rebuild the foundation of our friendship. Refusing to let myself take the easy way out again, I went to talk to Spock the first night after V'Ger left.

It seems all our real conversations occur at night. It was really late, and I was exhausted, but events -- and Spock -- kept turning themselves around in my head and I couldn't sleep. So, gearing up my courage, I went to Spock's quarters and chimed gently at his door. Spock didn't yet have the first officer's quarters on this new Enterprise, so I couldn't use the private entrance.

Thankfully, I heard an immediate "Come in." Apparently Spock wasn't sleeping any better than I was.

When I stepped in, the heavier gravity and higher temperatures of his quarters settled over me. Normally it's uncomfortable, but this time it was a relief, almost like coming home.

Spock was seated at his desk, dressed in his meditation robe. His eyes widened fractionally when they saw who his visitor was, but I was relieved to see that he didn't appear guarded. His whole attitude was one of an uneasy sort of friendliness that mirrored my own.

"Spock," I started to say, then stopped. I really didn't know *what* particularly I had come here for. I wanted to talk, but not about anything specific. I wanted to know how he had been doing. I wanted to tell him all about the last three years. I wanted to know that we were still friends, in spite of everything.

I wanted to kiss him until that Vulcan demeanor was completely shattered.

"How are you doing?" I asked instead, lamely.

"Adequate," he allowed. "I am unused to the noise of the starship, after three years in the desert."

I smiled tentatively. "Yeah. On Earth, I thought I'd never get used to *not* hearing the sound of the engines all the time, but apparently I did, all the same."

A pause. "You are planning to get the Enterprise back?" he inquired solemnly.

"If they'll give her to me, yeah." I nodded, then confessed: "I was miserable for these past three years." Without you.

He looked directly at me, then, and said quietly, "As was I." And we were finally -- *finally* -- really seeing each other, for the first time since sickbay, or perhaps even that fateful night two weeks before the end of the mission.

He looked tired, thinner than I had ever seen him, and there were wrinkles there that hadn't been there before. But it was still the same essential Spock – all long lines and sheathed control. Yet where before that control had been tight and coiled, this control was deeper, less obvious, but perhaps stronger still. He carried himself like a willow, bending before Fate but never bowing to it, rather than like an oak, proud and unyielding but more vulnerable to breaking.

He seemed peaceful. "You look well," I commented.

Spock nodded. "Though painful, the Kolinahr was an excellent method for discovering what I did not want in life." He paused a beat. "I would, however, not recommend it."

I grinned. His humor made my shoulders feel about ten pounds lighter. Yes, still the same essential Spock. Then I sobered, hearing the message behind the joking. In spite of his levity, he had just admitted to being miserable -- a misery that was my fault.

I crossed his quarters to his desk. "I'm sorry, Spock," I finally said the words I'd been wanting to say for three years. "I'm so sorry." I wanted to go on, but the words tangled in my throat again, not because of fear this time, but just because I didn't know what to say first. "I'm sorry," I repeated again.

Slowly he moved his hands to cover mine, grasping at the edge of his desk. "Jim," he said. "I, too, apologize."

I shook my head violently. "Please don't apologize, Spock," I pleaded. "It wasn't your fault. I was the one who couldn't deal with it. I was the one who avoided you for no reason. Please, just let me apologize."

"I did the original wrong, by tampering with your mind. Then I did not try to discover why you felt the necessity of running. I did not try to help you. And I also retreated in my own way -- at first, within myself, and finally, to Gol." Spock spoke so intensely.

"You are not alone in making mistakes."

I clenched his fingers within mine. "Can we try -- I mean, are we friends, then?"

He nodded, and there was a light in his eyes that I hadn't seen in years. "I would be honored," he said, and though the words were formal, the sentiment was deeply personal.

I looked at him, trying to show my happiness in my eyes. Our gazes locked again, and I abruptly became aware that I held his hands in mine, that they were hot under mine, that my skin was touching his, that I could feel his strength and goodness in the fine form of hisfingers.

It was too much. Ever so gently, I disengaged my fingers from his. "I'm glad," I said, instead, trying to put everything I was feeling in the words. We had a peace, a foundation. It was tentative, it was fragile, but it was real.

In the few weeks since then we've been doing our best to restore what we were before this all began. If we aren't as unthinkingly comfortable with each other as we once were, we take -- if anything -- more pleasure

from each other's company, now that we realize what it is like without it.

We have begun working out together again, and Spock is beginning to teach me some of the arts he learned while on Vulcan. We eat together whenever we can. If there is one thing that the past three years have taught me, it is that -- important as the Enterprise is -- Spock is just as much so, if not more.

The one thing we haven't done is meld, even though we used to a lot. I'm afraid to, now. I don't think I could keep enough distance between us if we did, even though Spock would never and has never -- with the exception of the Rayna thing -- gone anywhere in my mind I don't want him to be. Melding would just be too hard on me -- I don't know if I could handle being that close to him without wanting more. As it is, I find it hard enough to treat him just as a friend. We'll be working out, and my eyes will be drawn to the strong lines of his body, and I have to wrench my attention back to the situation with an effort. We'll be playing chess, and for a moment as I watch him contemplating the pieces, I'll be overcome with the desire to lean across the board and kiss him senseless.

I still carry a lot of comm pads held in appropriate places when I'm on duty.

It's harder to treat Spock as just a friend than I ever thought it would be, now that we crossed the line. I think it's equally hard for him. Occasionally I'll turn and catch his gaze turning from my back, or we'll hold each other's eyes for just a bit too long.

More and more, I find myself wondering just *why* it is we are trying so hard to just be friends. There are some good reasons not to cross the line, I know -- the fraternization policy against relationships in the line of command, the fear that I might lose him as my first officer, how it might affect our jobs. But none of those are really persuading me -- at least, 'not any more. I know I'm better *with* him than without him, command knows it, and I really don't give a damn about what anyone else thinks. Well, I don't think I do.

The thing that stops me is the memory of what I did and the fact that I still can't figure out why. I can't stand to hurt Spock again. I definitely can't stand to lose him. Whenever I think of us getting together, that falling-off-the-edge-of-a-cliff feeling overwhelms me again, and I mentally step back. What is between us is so powerful that I'm helpless against it. I lose myself in him. I can't be sure of what I would do if we tried it again.

I want to talk to him about how I'm feeling, but I don't want to jerk him around. And I don't want to broach a topic where I don't even know, myself, what I want.

So now I'm here. Eventually, of course, we had to bring the Enterprise back to earth to finish her refit, and to figure out her new crew complement, including who will be captain. After a week of briefings, I was told we all had a week of leave -- basically Nogura told me, in no uncertain terms, to "get lost" and take the media circus with me. Spock mentioned that he wanted to visit his parents, who he hadn't seen in person since Babel, and invited me along.

Well, I'd rather be pretty much anywhere with Spock than anywhere without Spock, so I said okay. Not to mention that Vulcan is the one planet in the Federation I think the media is afraid of. As for Spock -- well, I think he wanted me along for the moral support. I sure didn't want to be in his shoes, having to face Sarek after all that. Babel, and then Gol, and then quitting. I didn't know which Sarek would disapprove of more, running away *to* Gol, or not achieving Kolinahr. Regardless, I felt that he would certainly disapprove of *something*, and I had a feeling Spock thought so too.

Nevertheless, he was set on going. I think Kolinahr really did help show him what is important. Like family. Like starting to fully repair his relationship with his parents, even though they still disagreed with him on many things. And if me being there helped at all, I was happy to come. Maybe atone in some small way for the past three years.

This is now the second night we've been here. Sarek and Amanda have surprised me so far; they've been unfailingly gracious, without overt reproof towards Spock at all that I can see. That first evening we just had dinner and polite conversation -- not talking about much important, at all, just feeling our way around. I kept seeing Spock in his parents. I kept imagining what it would be like to come back to this house as part of the family, rather than just a friend.

Last night, though, was awful. I had the nightmare again -- the same recurrent one from Tarsus. This time I remembered it vividly. I woke up feeling terrified and helpless, but couldn't shake the emotions off like I have before. My mind kept returning to the images from the nightmare -- things that I knew were real memories, not just imagination -- and the emotions would return anew. But this time I wasn't asleep and couldn't escape them by waking up.

After an hour of tossing and turning, I was beginning to see why I'd forgotten the nightmares in the first place. Damned if I knew why I was suddenly remembering now, though.

Finally I got up, thinking I'd maybe sit outside and the peace of the stars would help. I was making my way quietly across the front room when I heard a rustle behind me.

"Jim?" it was Spock's voice, lightly roughened from sleep.

Oh, dear God. I couldn't face him now, with my control shattered and my emotions a wreck. "I'm fine, Spock," I whispered back. "I'm just up to get some air, that's all."

There was a pause. I strained my eyes, but couldn't see him in the darkness of the hallway. "Jim, it is approximately 0330 hours. I assure you, the air, although colder, is little different outside than it is in your room."

I managed a shaky laugh. "Well, I couldn't sleep. I didn't mean to wake you. Please, go back to sleep, I'll be fine."

Still he pressed. "Jim –"

Suddenly my fraying emotions snapped. Couldn't he tell that I didn't want him here now? "I'm *fine*, Spock. Good Lord, I just need some air, and you're giving me the third degree," I snapped, regretting the words as soon as they were out.

"Very well, then. I can see that I am unneeded here." And he left, all hurt dignity and quiet concern.

Damn it. The air outside didn't help, anyway. I didn't get any more sleep that night.

~)o(~

I apologized to Spock first thing this morning for last night, and he said he understood. I think he did, too. I really wanted to talk to him about it, to tell him about the nightmare, to share with him my doubts and fears, but he has his own worries. He doesn't need that. And I didn't know if I could say anything without letting my emotions get the better of me. The fear and helplessness of the dream is still too raw, too near the surface.

So I spent most of the day giving him and his family some space. I did some mindless window shopping in Shi'Kahr while he stayed at home with his parents. I think he wanted the time alone with them. He never talks much about his relationship with his parents, but I get the impression that -- even after Babel -- it's still not comfortable. Too many things remain unspoken between them. If Spock did want to finally talk with his parents, I wanted to give him the space to do so.

So I got home and after dinner Spock said he was going for a walk. Iended up here in the garden. I'm sure he's thinking about the same thing I am. Us. The situation is better than it has been, but if anything became clear last night, it is that it is still untenable. I can't keep pushing him away and trying to bring him closer. We can't simultaneously want to be just friends, and more.

We have to resolve this, somehow. I'm just trying to figure out how.

There is a rustle behind me and I turn to see Sarek. He seats himself on the bench next to me.

"Sir," I say in greeting. I was sort of looking for quiet contemplation, but I am sure the ambassador would not be out here without a reason.

He is silent, though, and my thoughts are beginning to wander again before he finally speaks. "I was once told me that love is exception-making," he says conversationally, as if we've been talking for hours.

"Excuse me?" I ask somewhat idiotically.

"Love is exception-making," he repeats patiently, as if to a slow child.

"What do you mean?" I ask after a moment. Perhaps if I can get him to talk more, I will figure out what he's talking about. I am reeling a bit with the surprise that this Vulcan, Spock's *father* of all people, is calmly discussing love with me.

He sighs and rearranges the folds of his robe patiently, then steeples his fingers in a familiar gesture. "Did you never wonder why Amanda and I married, Admiral?" he asks rhetorically. "When I met her, I was a typical Vulcan: controlled, proper. I would never have imagined doing something as unheard-of as marrying a Terran." He shrugs then, a small, almost invisible gesture. "Then I fell in love."

Well, I have to admit, I *have* wondered about Spock's parents. And never in a million years would I ever have guessed that we would be having this conversation. But I'm still confused about why he is telling me this, and say so.

As far as I can tell in the light of the moon, his expression doesn't change, but nevertheless he manages to project impatience. "You are in love with my son, are you not?" he asks.

Well. I've never been asked straight out like that, and I fumble around for words. This conversation is unreal. "Well, yeah, I guess," I finally manage.

"You *guess*?" the voice is full of disdain.

"Okay, I *am.*," I correct angrily. Damn, he had just taken me by surprise. "Yes, I'm in love with your son." I say proudly, feeling suddenly free. I've known this for years, I think, but saying the words gives shape to the emotion. "Desperately," I whisper, then, too soft even for Vulcan ears.

Sarek spreads his hands in a well-then gesture, as if everything must be clear now. He stirs, beginning to get up.

"Wait!" I say. "I still don't get it. Why are you telling me that love is exception-making? What does that have to do with Spock? And me?"

The ambassador stills then, giving me the impression that he has decided that he will have to spell it out for me since I am too stupid to understand by myself. Living with this man for very long would give me a hell of an inferiority complex, I can tell you that.

He is talking about himself and Amanda again. "Amanda was my exception," he is saying. "Or, rather, falling in love with her was. It was not logical. When you fall in love with somebody, you fall in love with your entire being, not just the parts that you show to the world."

He pauses. "Okay…" I say slowly, prompting him along.

"The part of me that fell in love with Amanda includes the part that is attracted to emotion. That is fascinated by the ordered disorder of Terran society, so different from Vulcan." He hesitates, then, the first sign of real emotion I have seen in him yet. "It was a part of myself that I was ashamed of, that I had hidden even from myself for years."

I am marveling that the stoic Vulcan ambassador is sitting here so calmly talking to me of emotion. What he is telling me of himself and Amanda is fascinating, and his words are beginning to strike a chord somewhere deep within me. But I need to understand exactly what he is saying; this is important. "Yet you married her anyway," I prod.

He nods. "Yes. Love is powerful enough to reach into the deepest parts of you. Once you find it, you find that you can no longer bear to go back to an existence where those parts are ignored."

Now *that* struck a chord. I remember the past three years without Spock, and nod. I know exactly what he means.

He is continuing. "Of course, it is not always easy to acknowledge parts of yourself that you do not really wish to exist. That is illogical, but true. It took me many years to reconcile my love for Amanda with my image of myself as a Vulcan." He turns to look straight at me, then. "I am afraid that Spock may have bore the brunt of my desire to be twice as Vulcan to make up for it."

I cannot disagree with him. I know a bit of what Spock's childhood was like. And I don't think Sarek is looking for absolution from me, anyway. He seems to have finally made some sort of peace with that part of the past. But oh, what we have done to Spock. What he's had to deal with. First from Sarek, now from me. "What are you suggesting to me? What should I do?" I ask helplessly. "I don't want to hurt Spock, but I don't know what I'm so afraid of. I don't know how *not* to hurt him."

Sarek is silent for a moment. "What parts of you do you hide from everyone? Including yourself?" He pauses, then continues with an edge of humor in his voice. "You need not tell me. There is such a thing as too much information, even for a Vulcan."

I close my eyes, despair washing over me. "I don't know. If I hide them even from my self, how could I know?" I say. "How do I find out?"

Sarek turns to me again. "Kirk," he says. "You should not be asking me this. You should be asking Spock. You are not alone in this. Speak with him."

There is nothing to say to that, and after a moment I hear him get up and head back into the house. My eyes are still closed, but finally I open them and look up at the moon. My emotions are still in turmoil, dancing and roiling like T'Khut's face, but I know what I must do.

I stand and make my way towards the house. "Mr. Ambassador," I ask the father of my love. "May I borrow your flitter? I need to go into the mountains."

~)o(~

I see him from a distance away, which is good, because I had been afraid that -- even with the flitter -- I would be unable to find him. He is on a wide ledge overlooking the city below. Shi'Khar from the air is beautiful, arrayed in typical Vulcan fashion that somehow manages to combine the elements of logic and mathematics in a setup that is stunning in its order. But I have eyes for it for only a moment. After that, I can't stop looking at Spock.

At first, he is just a shadow among shadows in the distance. But as I get closer, I can start to see the lines of his face and the dark of his hair. He is cast in high-contrast lines of shadow and light, illuminated by T'Khut ahead of him, darkened by the impenetrable night behind him. I am sure he hears the flitter for a long while, but he does not look up until I have landed and stepped out, approaching him on the ledge.

"Jim," he says then, and slides gracefully over a little to make me room.

I seat myself, simultaneously both nervous and at peace. He is so beautiful. I take his hand and turn it over between my own. His is unresisting, and I marvel at the strength in those slim fingers. "I want to tell you something," I find myself saying.

He nods in acceptance. I can see him clearly in the moonlight. "My nightmare," I begin. The words are more difficult to say than I ever thought they would be. I haven't talked about Tarsus to anyone, even the counselors afterward, even though they tried their best. "I want to tell you about the nightmare I had last night. And about Tarsus."

His hand stills for a moment, then clenches mine reassuringly. He is not looking at me, as if he knows that his regard would make this even more difficult. But I think he is paying attention to me, and that makes it easier. "When the dream starts, I'm playing outside with my girlfriend," I begin. "Sandy. She was my first girlfriend, and it wasn't like we were even really mature enough to know what that meant. But I really liked her -- just as a person, I mean. She was so smart, and braver than anyone I knew. We had so much fun that summer. Before -- before Kodos came, that is. I know it was just the fact that she was my first real relationship, but I was really starting to believe that I loved her."

I take a breath. I have to do this. My sentences are becoming chopped, pure description, no emotion in them at all. I can't communicate the emotion; I don't have the words. "Anyway, in the dream, we are playing outside when we hear guns. Kodos is using his soldiers toround up everyone. Sandy and I hide in a building near the center of town,trying to decide what to do. We're not sure, until we see her father. He is shot by a soldier because he slows down to help her little brother."

My hand in Spock's is the only thing keeping me together, and suddenly I'm talking about what really happened, not just my nightmare. "He just disappeared, Spock; disappeared in the phaser light. It was the first time I'd ever seen a phaser used on someone. After that, Sandy and I ran. Everything was completely disorganized so it wasn't that hard to evade the troops. She knew about some caves outside of town, so we went there."

I pause again. I am trembling. I can't believe I'm telling Spock all of this. "We spent a week in the caves. We couldn't find much at all to eat or drink. Tarsus is a desert planet, and we were in the middle of a famine, remember. Finally I couldn't take the hunger and the thirst any more. Sandy and I snuck back into town. I told her to stay back there and wait for me, but she refused. We had hoped to find a ration-pack or something."

Spock raises a hand and strokes it across my cheek. It comes away wet. I never cry. "Jim," he says, and the word is comfort and acceptance and safety all at once.

"Then it got even worse," I say, swallowing. I have to finish telling this now, or I never will. "Kodos' soldiers caught us. They threw us into a cell and decided that since Sandy and I had tried to escape, we should be the next to die."

My voice breaks, then. "They made me watch while they killed her, Spock. They held me in front of her while they hung her. I couldn't handle it. I just went berserk. Screaming, yelling, completely out of control. It took three of his soldiers to hold me down. Kodos got even angrier when I lost it, but Sandy was completely calm. She didn't say anything, even when they put the noose around her neck. Then… she wasn't heavy enough for her neck to break, so she just hung there, asphyxiating. I struggled and struggled, but I couldn't go to her. I have never felt so helpless. I couldn't *do* anything."

Spock's voice is soft. "You are blameless, Jim," he says. "It was not your fault."

"If I hadn't lost control, I might have been able to do something to save her," I say miserably. I notice my tears falling, now. "As it was, I could do *nothing*. I was completely, utterly helpless, and scared to death because I was next. I vowed then that I would never let myself feel that again."

"Helpless, or frightened?" he asks.

"Helpless. Out of control. Both. I don't know. They're so wrapped up in one another I can't tell the difference."

"How did *you* escape?"

I laugh now, bitterly. "That's when Starfleet showed up. They were just a little too late for Sandy."

There is a long silence. I feel empty, but more at peace than I was before. "I've never told anyone that story before," I confess.

He turns to look at me finally. "I am honored that you would tell me, then," he says, and there is so much in his voice: compassion, acceptance. Love.

"I'm so messed up, Spock." I say then, and I can't look at him anymore. "You deserve better than me."

He reaches over and gently forces me to face him. "I do not want anything other than you," he whispers.

"I'm so afraid I'm going to hurt you again, though." My heart is pounding. "I love you so much it scares me. I lose control in the power of the emotion. And *that* scares me. And I'm scared of the fear, scared of the helplessness, because when I am not in control -- of myself, or of a situation -- I do stupid things. I lash out, because I can't stand it. I'm afraid I will hurt you again because of it."

He raises my hand and kisses it softly. I tremble at the feeling of his lips on my skin. He is staring at me intently. "Jim," he says quietly, "You realize that I am half human."

"Yes," I say, confused.

"You are the only one that has made me *glad* of my human half," he says. "I grew up frightened and ashamed of my human emotions. And, yes, helpless in the face of them. I could hide them, but only by refusing to acknowledge that they existed. The more I hid them, the more they controlled me." He pauses. "That is how I felt… until I met you."

I am about to drown in his gaze. "What do you mean?"

He leans forward until our faces are only inches from each other. "My emotions are what makes me want to do this," he whispers, and then leans forward, and our lips meet. This kiss, if anything, is even more explosive than our first one, three years ago. I don't see how I was able to go without this for three years. I am still so scared, but Spock has brought his arms around me and their weight is reassuring, and I can't think of much other than him here with me anyway.

Finally we break the kiss and lean out foreheads against each other. "Kohlinahr taught me that I *am* half-human," Spock continues, somewhat raggedly. I can't seem to stop stroking his back, his shoulders, his neck. "It is most illogical to endeavor to be something I am not. And when I ceased to fight my emotion, I ceased to feel helpless in the face of it." A breath. "I no longer wish to fight against that which makes me love you," he says into my cheek, and I have to kiss him again.

He tastes of salt, and heat, and strength. God, I want Spock -- I can admit it now, I want him beyond reason and beyond fear. "Will you catch me?" I gasp between kisses, and somehow he understands what I'm really asking. When I fear too much, will you lead me though it? When I lose control, will you be there with your own, covering me? Will you help me embrace my fear and helplessness, and in so doing, move past it?

He pushes me down so I'm on my back on the solid ground and he's on top of me, holding up his weight on his arms. The move is sudden, but I want him there. I need him to guide me; I don't entirely trust myself. Spock looks at me intently and hoarsely says, "Always." It has the force of an oath. Finally, just like that, I let go. I give up control. Spock is there. With that surrender, I feel some essential thing inside me being righted -- the uneasy, missing-something feeling of the last three years is gone.

"I want you," I whisper. "I am yours. Always."

And then he bends to me, and I am immolated in his fire. Immolated, and created anew. I thought I would lose myself in him, but I have found myself instead.