Title: What the Heart Remembers
Author: Killa
Codes: K/S
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Saving the world is all in a day's work, but can heroes ever really go 
home again?

This story doesn't fit perfectly with Vonda McIntyre's movie novelizations, but 
I liked the Deltan characters she created for all three books, and decided to 
borrow them. She also made up the atrium in the Vulcan embassy.

Thanks to kira-nerys for hosting the Fest, to Jenna for prodding me into 
playing, Ivy for encouragement, elyn for insightful beta help and most 
especially to T. Jonesy for talking through the whole thing with me and getting 
me jazzed up to write it. I really hope she likes it. :-)

***
What the Heart Remembers
by Killa

It was nearly midnight by the time Kirk was able to slip away from the party, 
leaving Gillian under McCoy's dubious guardianship. She, along with most of the 
population of Earth, was still jazzed on adrenaline from Earth's narrow escape 
and the reappearance of whales in the world, and had barely noticed him leaving; 
like the probe, the Starfleet reception seemed to be running on some limitless 
source of power, and showed no signs of winding down. He was glad for his crew. 
They deserved a party, if anyone did, and he was glad to see them making the 
most of it.

Even Sarek seemed to be sharing in the spirit of celebration, sipping cognac and 
observing the proceedings from a comfortable chair with the closest thing to 
benevolent tolerance Kirk could have imagined on that hawkish visage. His eyes 
had been kind whenever they had come to rest on Kirk, but for some reason, Kirk 
found that acknowledgment more difficult to bear than the praise and thanks of a 
dozen Starfleet admirals.

They were calling him a hero, of course. How many times had he heard that word 
over the years? Enough to know that it wouldn't win him any points with the 
Federation tribunal they'd be facing in two days. The sentiment was sincere 
enough, but sounded hollow after all they'd been through. Spock had been a hero, 
in that engine room. David had, when he'd bought the lives of Saavik and Spock 
with his own. Jim Kirk was no hero, he was just riding the tail end of a lucky 
streak that had somehow, miraculously, brought them home and in one piece.

Not all of them, though. The one he'd failed was foremost in his thoughts now, 
on this night of homecoming and celebration. Watching Spock with his father had 
awakened too many responses in Kirk to sort out, the knot in his chest both glad 
and bittersweet. Though he knew too well that the human heart had ways of 
letting a man forget, he'd been ashamed to realize that he'd barely thought of 
his own son in days. Maybe Carol was right; maybe it had been presumptuous of 
him to think he could have had a place in David's life. Maybe she was right to 
refuse his calls. Maybe he was a fool to think that they could find some kind of 
solace in each other, or make any kind of sense of it.

He hadn't gotten this far by taking no for an answer, though, and he wasn't 
about to start. He couldn't do anything about the political forces that would 
demand a reckoning for the fear Genesis had left in its wake, couldn't protect 
his friends from the consequences of the choices they'd made, couldn't keep 
David from dying, or bring the Enterprise back. He couldn't turn back time and 
force Spock to be the man he'd known, the friend who'd understood him like no 
one else ever had. This bitter thing between him and Carol, though -- this, he 
might be able to do something about.

He found a public comm station two levels up. The cool, darkened room housed 
four terminal screens, each tucked into a three-sided alcove to provide at least 
a measure of privacy, all currently empty. He took a seat at the one closest to 
the door, rubbing his hands once on his thighs as the terminal scanned his 
retinal pattern and logged it. "Good evening, Admiral," the computer said 
pleasantly. "What is the termination point of your call?"

"Delta Four," he said, and found he had to clear his throat. "Terminal code 
theta epsilon, three-oh-seven-seven-two." The computer thanked him, and there 
was the slightest hesitation as the signal was relayed.

A few moments later, the Starfleet insignia disappeared from the screen, 
replaced by the inquisitive face of Verai Dva-Payjh. Even insulated by light 
years and prepared as he was, Kirk couldn't help the flush of response he felt, 
her mahogany skin and amber-colored eyes as breathtaking as he remembered, his 
body involuntarily remembering what it was like to serve with a Deltan. 
Something that might have been compassion touched her expressive face when she 
saw him. "Welcome home, Admiral," she said in her deep, musical voice.

"Thank you, Madame Verai. Please forgive the intrusion."

"It is no intrusion. Many would forfeit a prince's ransom for the chance to 
speak with you today."

"And a few would be glad to feed me to the Klingons, I imagine."

She didn't return his wry smile, but her eyes were kind as she said, "She is not 
ready, Admiral. You must give it more time."

Something heavy came to rest in the pit of his stomach. "It's been three 
months."

"She has asked me to tell you to please stop calling her."

His hand clenched into a fist on the edge of the console. "Let me talk to her."

"Admiral--"

"Please, Verai." Hearing the frustration in his own voice, he pressed finger and 
thumb to the bridge of his nose and forced himself to get it under control. He 
knew he was putting her in a tough spot, but he was tired of playing the waiting 
game. Anything could happen at the tribunal. For all he knew, this might be the 
last chance he'd have to talk to Carol privately for a good long while.

He leaned forward, imploring with all the persuasive force he could muster. "I 
know she doesn't want to talk to me. I'm asking you as her friend to please put 
her on. We can help each other, if she'll just talk to me."

The Deltan woman regarded him so impassively, it was a struggle to hold her 
liquid gaze; at last, one pale eyebrow flickered upward, and she inclined her 
head. "I will see what I can do," she said, and the screen switched to a lazy, 
swirling pattern of color.

His heart seemed to beat too loudly as he waited, a heavy numbness settling in 
the rest of his body. He didn't know what he was hoping for. Carol's silence and 
refusal to take his calls should have made her feelings about him clear enough. 
If he hoped to hear her say she didn't blame him, he probably had a long wait 
ahead of him.

Kirk rubbed his hands over his face, seeing the Genesis planet so clearly in his 
mind's eye, feeling the wind whipping his hair and clothes as he knelt beside 
his son's body, dead leaves blowing cool against his face, like tears. For a 
moment, perception shifted, and everything that had happened in the past year 
ran together like a dream upon waking, an unbelievable tale that had happened to 
someone else a long time ago. He could wish for that to be true, for someone to 
come and tell him that it had all been a mistake, but it was all tangled 
together, the good and the bad, and to deny any of it was to spit in the face of 
lady luck, who had surely been with them the last few days. Could it be only 
this morning they'd crashed down in San Francisco Bay? Somehow, in some crazy 
way, everything that had happened since the training cruise had gotten them to 
the right place at the right time, and life on Earth went on because of it.

Better not to think about that kind of thing too much, if you wanted to keep 
putting one foot in front of the other.

He must have planned what he was going to say, but when the screen finally 
cleared and Carol appeared, it all seemed clumsy, inadequate. She'd been twenty-
three when they'd met, and before she'd turned twenty-four, their friendly 
affair had been a memory. She hadn't told him about David until almost ten years 
later, and by then there had been so many turns in the road between them, 
there'd been no way to go back. Her clear blue gaze hadn't changed.

"You look good," he said at last, meaning it.

The guarded set of her shoulders didn't relax, but her expression warmed a 
little, as if she had resigned herself to the inevitable. "You look tired."

"Been kind of a long couple of days," he admitted.

That brought the hint of a smile to her lips. "It's a rough life, saving the 
world. Long hours, no vacation time..."

"The pay stinks, too, don't let them fool you."

"And here I thought you military guys got all the perks."

He smiled, too, and they just looked at each other for a long moment, feeling 
the regrets, and the affection, and all the reasons why it would never have 
worked between them. The one thing, the best thing, they'd had in common, was 
gone.

"Why wouldn't you take my calls?" he asked at last.

"What were you going to say that would do either of us any good?" she countered, 
not accusing, just infinitely weary.

"I just wanted to know if you're okay."

"I'm okay. It's peaceful here. Verai and Kirim have been good friends to me, and 
I think it helps them to have me here, too. To have someone to talk with. The 
feds seized all my research, of course, but so far, they're not denying me 
access to the data."

"Carol, I--" he began, but she shook her head.

"Don't, Jim. Don't say you're sorry." Her eyes shone unexpectedly. "Don't you 
think I know that?"

An ache rose in his throat, and his own eyes burned. He fought it, drawing a 
deep breath. "I just thought maybe it would help if we could talk." She looked 
down, shaking her head and smiling ironically to herself, as if he'd said 
something predictably obtuse. He felt it like a slap. Struggling to hold on to 
his temper, he persisted. "Look, I did what you asked. I stayed away, like you 
asked. But he was my son, too."

"Why? Because you had DNA rights?" Her eyes flashed. "Don't pretend to yourself 
that you know anything about what it's like to lose a child, because you know 
nothing about it! Not like I do."

A dangerous fury twisted deep within in him, unexpected and unforgiving. Things 
he hadn't known he wanted to say burned on his tongue, demanding to be said. *I 
let him live in your world, like you wanted, and look where it got us. If I 
hadn't, if you and your friends hadn't tried to play God, maybe none of this 
would have happened. Maybe he'd be alive right now.* But he couldn't say those 
things -- was ashamed for even thinking them. She was right, he realized. It was 
still too soon. If he was angry with her, how much more rage must she feel, at a 
world that could take the boy she'd nurtured with her own body, who'd been the 
biggest part of her life for a quarter of a century? Most especially, at him, 
for letting it happen?

He realized he was shaking, and Carol was angrily wiping tears away with the 
back of her hand. "Dammit. See why I knew this was a bad idea?"

"You were right. I shouldn't have pushed it."

"I didn't mean that. What I said."

"No, it's okay. You're right. I don't know about it, not like you do. But I did 
love him, Carol."

"I know you did."

His fingers were pressing against the edge of the console, so hard they ached. 
Painful pressure had risen in his chest. "I tried--"

She looked up then, the lines of her face sharply drawn. "Jim, I know you did. 
Don't say any more, okay?"

He swallowed hard. "Right."

She drew a deep breath, then let it out. "I just... I don't think I can talk to 
you about this. I wish I could help you. I know you should be the one person I 
*can* talk to, but I'm too angry right now, about everything."

"I understand."

"Maybe, one day, things will be different."

"Maybe they will." He knew what she was really saying was goodbye. In the 
awkward silence that followed, he tried to find something else to say; in the 
end, he just settled for, "Look after yourself, all right?" In another moment, 
she had gone, her image replaced by the fleet insignia, and he couldn't help 
wondering when he would have finished paying the price for the mistakes he had 
made with Khan so many years before. Funny thing was, it seemed as though he was 
never the one who ended up footing the bill, not directly; instead, it came due 
for the people he cared about, and they were the ones who ended up paying.

Kirk leaned forward and rubbed his hands over his face again, knowing he should 
get back to the party. Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to get him 
anywhere, and the least he could do was put a good face on it for the others.

He checked the chronometer and was just pushing himself to his feet when he 
realized that he wasn't alone in the room; someone was standing in the doorway, 
backlit by the light from the corridor. The figure was tall, angular: Spock.

Kirk felt his face grow warm. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Forgive me, Admiral. It was not my intention to eavesdrop."

So he had heard, at least some of it. There had been a time when that wouldn't 
have bothered him. "No, of course it wasn't." Kirk ran his fingers along the 
edge of the console, glancing involuntarily at the darkened screen. "I'm sorry 
you had to hear that."

Spock hesitated a moment, then came into the room, stopping a few paces away. 
"My mother says that time heals a great many things."

Kirk looked up, unreasonably touched by the earnest attempt at comfort. Watching 
Spock's growing pains as he tried so hard to understand and connect with his 
human shipmates made him feel things he couldn't articulate, made him smile and 
hope and hurt all at the same time. "Your mother is a wise woman. I hope she's 
right."

"With remarkable frequency," Spock confessed.

Kirk found himself smiling in spite of himself. "You know, I've noticed that 
about her." With a sigh, he checked his chronometer. "Cartwright looking for 
me?"

"Affirmative. Regrettably, I suspect he wishes to introduce you to the Kendaii 
Council delegate and his attachˇ."

"You know, all those months on Vulcan, I'd forgotten how much I love Starfleet 
politics." Spock frowned slightly in puzzlement, and the faint, familiar ache 
settled in Kirk's chest again. "A little joke, Spock. I just find it ironic that 
tonight, Starfleet needs heroes to win them points with the Council, and we fit 
the bill. It'll be a different story in front of the tribunal, I bet."

"My father anticipates much the same thing," Spock admitted. "He says the 
Klingon delegation has threatened to end peace talks if the Genesis inquiry does 
not go forward immediately."

It was no more than Kirk had expected, and he found himself curiously 
unconnected from the thought of what it would mean. They'd made their choices, 
and with the Enterprise gone, it was hard to care too much whether they busted 
him down to Ensign, or worse.

"Well, the good news is, I think we've already met and schmoozed with just about 
everyone who's ever seen the inside of the Council chamber. Maybe we can plead 
exhaustion and bow out of this party before too much longer." He straightened up 
and turned toward the door. "Shall we?"

He led the way back, and Spock fell into step beside him as effortlessly as 
breathing. Sometimes Kirk thought that the hardest things were those that hadn't 
changed, because they made him forget for a while. He would catch himself 
falling back into old patterns, thinking of this man beside him as the old 
Spock, until the next time he was reminded.

Back on the ground floor, he stopped abruptly in the breezeway outside the 
reception hall. "Listen, I haven't said anything to the crew about the tribunal. 
I wanted them to have one night of fun. God knows, they've earned it."

"I understand, Admiral."

It occurred to Kirk that maybe being busted right out of the fleet might have 
its advantages, if it meant that Spock might actually remember now and then that 
he had a first name. "I'm not in command at the moment," he said gently. "You 
could call me Jim, and the world wouldn't end."

Japanese lanterns swung gently between pillars and trees, gilding Spock's 
angular face in red and gold. "Jim," he conceded, the hint of a question in it.

Their eyes held, and after a moment, Kirk realized he was doing it again -- 
searching for something he couldn't even have named. This Spock was real and 
alive and at his side, and to ask for more than that miracle was ingratitude of 
the highest order. "You okay?" he asked impulsively, seeing faint lines of 
strain in his friend's face that he hadn't noticed before. "You look tired."

"I am somewhat fatigued," Spock agreed, "but well."

"They haven't been hassling you, have they?"

"They?"

"The media sharks. Starfleet. Every biologist, geneticist, and medical doctor 
within four parsecs who'd probably kill to get their hands on you."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Negative. The security at the Vulcan embassy is 
exemplary."

Relieved, Kirk nodded. "Good." He hated the thought of Spock having to deal with 
the piranhas after all that he'd been through. The protection of the Vulcans had 
insulated them more than he'd realized, and the media frenzy that had greeted 
him at his apartment that afternoon had come as a rude awakening.

Voices, laughter and music washed out into the breezeway; someone had opened the 
french doors to let more air into the hall.

"You would be welcome, of course," Spock said.

Momentarily distracted, Kirk didn't immediately follow. "What's that?"

"At the Vulcan embassy," Spock clarified. "My father and I would be honored to 
offer you a quiet refuge, should you so desire." He hesitated, then added, "I 
believe you would find it restful."

The offer was so unexpected, for a moment Kirk didn't know what to say. He 
wasn't the kind of man to let a bunch of reporters drive him into hiding, but he 
couldn't deny that it was tempting to take Spock up on his offer. That 
afternoon, his own apartment had felt alien to him, and despite his own fatigue 
he'd been unable to sleep there. He'd gotten used to Sarek's house, and Vulcan.

More than that, in spite of the complex, bittersweet jumble of feelings this 
Spock awoke in him, being near him was still better than the alternative; after 
the confrontation with Carol, it seemed the most remarkable of kindnesses.

"Thank you," he said at last, and had to clear his throat. "I'll think about 
it."

Spock inclined his head. "As you wish, Admiral. The offer stands."

Feeling better than he had all night, Kirk smiled up at him and cast a glance 
toward the festive noise and lights. "Once more into the breach, old friend?" He 
didn't wait for an answer, but felt Spock at his shoulder as he led them back to 
the party.

* * *

The Kendar homeworld boasted a sulfurous atmosphere that most oxygen-nitrogen 
species found quite vile, but that was essential to the survival and well-being 
of its many and varied life forms. Small talk with a Kendarii was therefore not 
Kirk's idea of fun at the best of times, never mind at one o'clock in the 
morning, and by the time the Councilor and his aide at last excused themselves 
to go replenish their tanks, he was more than ready for the evening to end. 
Nothing had ever sounded better than the serene beauty and privacy of the Vulcan 
embassy.

He went looking for Spock, but it was McCoy who found him. "Now, what you need, 
my friend, is a drink." Kirk could tell the good doctor was feeling no pain by 
the friendly arm McCoy draped around him, and the degree of drawl in his voice.

"What I need is twelve hours sleep, a two week vacation somewhere on a boat with 
sails, and a new career track."

"All true," McCoy conceded, "but a drink won't hurt. A good Irish whiskey ought 
to do the trick. Come on, I'm buyin'."

As usual, the doctor gave sound medical advice; Kirk did feel better with a 
little good whiskey warming his insides. He'd learned years ago that any party 
was more fun if you went with McCoy. Somehow, Bones always seemed to know the 
most interesting people at any given function, and Kirk was more than willing to 
let the doctor steer him around by the elbow for a while, introducing him to 
friends from his years in the relief corps, from medical school, from bars he'd 
once frequented -- Kirk lost track early on, and just smiled and went along for 
the ride. At last they spotted Spock and Gillian standing near one of the skylit 
reflecting pools, and made their way over.

Gillian didn't seem to be winding down in the least, from what Kirk could see. 
She was still talking a mile a minute -- about the whales, he'd bet his right 
arm -- and Spock couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise if he'd tried. He 
seemed to be listening with interest, though, and it suddenly occurred to Kirk 
that Spock might very well stay on Earth, after the tribunal. It made sense, 
that he might want to stay and work with the scientists to help solve the 
immense challenge of repopulating the humpbacks. It would be right up his alley, 
and Kirk knew he had achieved a real rapport with Gracie, in particular. The 
project would need someone to communicate with the whales -- and who better? 
Kirk had been second-guessing his decision to let Gillian come with them ever 
since he'd made it, but this was the first time he'd really felt anything like 
regret.

"...what we need is some kind of surrogate, to teach George and Gracie the 
things that whales would learn from each other in the wild," she was saying as 
they came within earshot. "I don't know how we could do it, but I'll bet there's 
a way, with all the technology you've got. Some kind of an android, or maybe 
even a hologram--"

"This guy talking your ear off?" McCoy asked Gillian with an insouciant grin.

"Hey, look who's here! I was wondering what happened to you two." She kissed 
Kirk on the cheek, and he chuckled, pleased that she seemed happy to see him.

"Having fun, Alice?"

She grinned back. "You bet. You guys have parties like this all the time?"

"Nope, only when the new kid saves the world."

Blushing bright red, she laughed. "Oh, like I did anything!"

"Hey, Spock," said McCoy. "Grab us a couple of those glasses there, and let's 
have a toast. You too, don't argue with me." Spock obliged him, retrieving two 
glasses of champagne from a nearby tray, giving one to Gillian and keeping one 
for himself. He eyed the fizzing liquid warily.

"I am not actually required to drink this... substance, am I?"

"Shut up and toast, Spock, it won't kill you." McCoy raised his own glass, and 
waited for the other three to follow suit. "To the lovely Doctor Taylor," he 
said with a gallant flourish -- but Gillian stopped him before he could drink.

"To George and Gracie," she said. "If anyone gets credit for saving the world, 
they do."

She looked to Kirk, and he held her gaze as he said, "To George and Gracie." 
Spock and McCoy echoed him, and they all drank. Kirk could feel the champagne go 
straight to his head, and he knew he was running on fumes. He set the glass 
aside and shook his head. "Okay, kids, that's it for me. Much as I'd like to 
stay, I think I've had enough." He caught Spock's questioning gaze. "That offer 
still open, Spock?"

"It is," Spock said. "In fact, I believe I will accompany you."

Kirk kissed Gillian on the cheek and took her hand in his. "Don't turn into a 
pumpkin. And you," he said to McCoy, " don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"What he don't know won't hurt him," he heard Bones say sotto voce as he and 
Spock turned away.

Together, they found Sarek and took their leave, the elder Vulcan approving of 
Kirk's decision to stay with them. Uhura was dancing with a strikingly handsome 
civilian, and waved from the dance floor when she saw them; their other comrades 
were nowhere in evidence, and at last they made for the door. Kirk caught one 
last glance of McCoy and Gillian across the room, watching them, their heads 
together. He smiled and waved, but was troubled by the cat-got-the-cream look on 
McCoy's face, and the speculative look Gillian was giving them. She smiled and 
waved back, but...was that a wink? Had she just winked at him?

Kirk turned to Spock, frowning. "Did you see that?"

"Did I see what, Admiral?" Spock followed the line of his gaze towards the pair 
across the room.

"What do you think he's telling her?"

Spock considered. "I am certain I do not wish to know," he said at last.

"Sound advice, if ever I heard it," Kirk said, and put his suspicions firmly out 
of his mind.

Outside, a row of idling air taxis wound down the hill. They climbed into the 
nearest one; the moment Kirk sank into the comfortable seat, he felt exhaustion 
he'd held at bay for too many hours settle over him like a two-gee gravity 
field. He closed his eyes, letting Spock set the auto pilot, grateful beyond 
measure that this night was finally over. For long moments he just drifted, the 
motion of the car's lift-off smooth and effortless.

When he felt the car reach gliding altitude, he opened his eyes and watched the 
bay fall away beneath them. They curved out and away from the Presidio before 
turning back towards the city; in a moment, San Francisco lay before them, 
glittering against the night. So close to being dark forever, he thought, and it 
really hit him -- how near Earth's brush with death had really been. "Sulu was 
right," he said quietly. "It's doesn't look that different, does it?"

Spock steepled his fingers before him, and the familiar gesture made it hard to 
breathe for a second. "There is something organic about the nature of cities," 
Spock said, "and like all living things, they continue to grow according to the 
patterns that shape them."

Heat closed Kirk's throat, gathering behind his eyes, and he had to take a deep, 
careful breath to get it under control. God, he must be tired -- he was starting 
to lose it. The questions he couldn't ask were a tangled knot inside of him, one 
he didn't dare look at too closely. "What about you, Spock?" he asked at last, 
still watching the lights below.

"Admiral?"

"There's no pattern for you to follow, is there? Nobody's ever gone through what 
you have. You're on your own, without a star chart."

The figure beside him was silent a moment, considering. "Doctor McCoy said much 
the same thing. Curious. Perhaps it is because I have been a unique being all of 
my life, in more ways than one, but I am not troubled by the idea of finding my 
own path."

Kirk couldn't help smiling at that. "You certainly are a unique being."

Spock met his gaze, and though he didn't smile back the way he once might have -
- that subtle shift of expression Kirk had so long coveted and, at the same 
time, so long taken for granted -- Kirk thought maybe Spock was right, and some 
patterns persisted.

Yes, but he left you once before, too, he reminded himself harshly. Don't forget 
that.

The aircar began its descent, and Kirk looked out to see the ornate lines of the 
embassy's elegant roof line, the steep hillside falling away towards the water 
and the winking lights of the grounds beyond the house. "I can't remember the 
last time I was so tired," he said, keeping his voice light with effort. "I hope 
you don't mind if I just go straight to bed."

"As you wish, Admiral."

Silence fell between them, the soft hum of the engines the only accompaniment to 
Kirk's circling thoughts.

* * *

Hours after James Kirk had succumbed to the generous mercy of his own exhaustion 
and slipped into the deepest levels of sleep, three rooms away, Spock of Vulcan 
woke with a gasp. He lay awake for a full five seconds before he could remember 
where he was, his heart racing, eyes wide. No Vulcan should experience what had 
just happened to him -- what was happening to him. He had hoped that the 
previous night's experience had been an anomaly, but if anything, tonight's 
episode had been more intense, more disorienting, the images and sensory 
impressions so vivid that it was difficult to discern dream from memory. Vulcans 
did not dream, not in the way that humans dreamed, but Spock knew that he had, 
indeed, experienced the dreaming state in the past, if infrequently. Dreams were 
manifestations of the human subconscious, driven largely by emotion. Like many 
other aspects of his human heritage, his ability to dream had been something 
that had at first shamed him, but that he had grown to accept, and even learned 
to find useful, in time.

When at last he had succeeded in bringing his respiration and heart rate under 
control, Spock rose from the bed and went to the meditation stone, folding his 
body easily into a kneeling position, seeking the quiet center of reason that 
would allow him to examine these experiences without emotion. Since his 
refusion, he had not dreamed, not until the previous night, their last on the 
Bounty. What this sudden change might mean, he did not yet know. He could not 
remember ever dreaming with such disturbing intensity.

He had just begun to achieve the necessary stillness in his thoughts when a soft 
breath of cool air touched the back of his neck, ruffling the fine hairs.

Meditative state broken, he looked up. The door to his room was open to the 
corridor, when it should not be. Of course, as on Vulcan, the rooms were not 
locked, but he was quite certain it had closed firmly when he had retired for 
the evening. Perhaps it had malfunctioned. Rising from the meditation alcove, 
Spock went to investigate.

As he drew near the door, he felt a stronger current of cold air from the 
corridor, the unexpected chill raising goose flesh on his arms. He frowned. 
Perhaps the malfunction was more widespread than he had suspected, and the 
atmospheric controls had been affected. He drew his robe more closely around his 
body, and stepped out into the hallway.

"Mister Spock!"

Instantly on alert, Spock turned; Captain Kirk was striding towards him down the 
corridor, his expression and body language intensely focused in a way that made 
Spock's short hairs stand up, though not from cold. He knew that look.

"They've done something to the life support system," Kirk said, as Spock fell 
into step beside him. "Some kind of a device. It's got a force field around it I 
can't break through." Kirk glanced sharply at him as they hurried towards the 
lift. "Where's your phaser?"

"I seem to have... misplaced it."

"Never mind. We've got to get to Auxiliary Control. Maybe we can reroute life 
support through there somehow, or rig a backup."

Kirk turned down another corridor, and then another, and Spock was troubled by 
the feeling that they should have reached the lift by now -- or that, 
impossibly, he had lost his sense of direction. He glanced down a side corridor 
as they passed it, but it, too, looked unfamiliar. "Captain, I--"

Kirk was ahead of him now, and widening the distance between them with each 
step, not seeming to notice that Spock was no longer beside him. The temperature 
in the corridor had dropped. Spock shivered, and realized he could see his 
breath crystallizing. At the same moment, the lights seemed to dim, and he felt 
a sharp stab of apprehension about what lay in wait ahead. Kirk was almost out 
of sight around the curved corridor. "Captain, wait!" But he was too late; Kirk 
had vanished.

Sheets of ice were forming on the walls, and flashing red alert beacons sparkled 
in the facets as he ran down the corridor, trying each door that he came to. The 
cold numbed his limbs, his hands, and he realized it was not the lights that 
were dimming, but his vision; he was almost out of time. At last he found the 
right door. It was frozen shut, but he knew Kirk was on the other side of it -- 
knew that if he could just find a way to get through it, he could save Jim. His 
hands slipped on the slick surface as he fought for purchase, his vision faded 
almost entirely to black. The logic was utterly inescapable; if he failed, they 
would die. Jim would die. Therefore, failure was not an option.

"The kobayashi maru scenario frequently wreaks havoc with students and 
equipment," Kirk said mildly, watching him struggle to break through the door.

Spock gave up trying to force the door and put a fist through the wall with 
violent precision, grunting with effort and pain as he wrenched the metal back, 
heedless of the way it cut him. "You are unreal," he said harshly. "Physical 
laws simply cannot be ignored."

Kirk seemed unconcerned by Spock's accusation. "We judge reality by the response 
of our senses. Once we are convinced of the reality of a given situation, we 
abide by its rules. You taught me that, Spock."

Components and circuitry grew slick under Spock's shaking fingers, and he 
blinked, and blinked again, struggling to see the intricate control matrix, to 
make his hands obey. He was beginning to hallucinate, he realized, the pain 
coming now in dizzying waves. A thread of desperation wound its way into his 
fiercely focused concentration. Jim, the real Jim, was somewhere on the other 
side of this door, in mortal danger. The hallway had closed in around him, his 
vision almost gone. Their time had nearly run out. "If you are real, then help 
me."

"They call it a no-win scenario for a reason, you know," the dream Kirk said, 
not unkindly.

"Please. You must help me." This time, there was no answer. He was alone, blind. 
The pain and the sirens rushed away from him as if down a long tunnel. Had he 
failed, then? Despair gripped him, an emotion so powerful he could not deny it, 
could only press his face, his hands, against the smooth, unyielding surface of 
the wall.

And then Spock sensed him, close by. Just on the other side of the wall. "Jim?" 
He held his breath, listening.

"The ship," Kirk said hoarsely. "Out of danger?"

Understanding spilled over him in a cold wave. "No," Spock whispered, refusing 
to accept it. A dream, he told himself fiercely. This is a dream. Unreal. He 
pressed his hands to the wall.

"Don't grieve, Spock."

Spock willed himself to wake with all the force of his denial. *"No."*

"Remember," Jim said, as clearly as if he were sitting beside the bed, and Spock 
woke, shuddering.

"Jim," he said, his voice dry as sand.

But he was quite alone, no sound save the nearly inaudible hum of the climate 
control, and the harsh rasp of his own breathing.

Profoundly shaken, Spock rose at last and poured water from an earthenware 
vessel into a cup, spilling some on the floor, drinking deeply until his heart 
calmed somewhat and his throat no longer felt raw. How many times tonight had he 
believed himself awake, when he was really still dreaming? He didn't know, but 
it felt as though it had been going on for some time, each false awakening a 
betrayal, making him feel that he could no longer trust his own perceptions of 
what was real. He had fallen asleep only a little over an hour before, but he 
might easily have believed he'd been dreaming for days.

Even now, he found himself questioning the reality of his darkened rooms. In 
spite of his certainty that he was, in fact, awake, he could not entirely 
suppress the urge to go to the door and open it, the need to verify that the 
corridor outside was that of the Vulcan embassy, on Earth, and not that of the 
Enterprise. Illogical. If one could not trust the evidence of one's senses, then 
one could not use them for verification.

That thought was of little comfort. If dreams had been rare for him in the past, 
nightmares were so infrequent as to constitute an aberration. To suffer multiple 
nightmares one after the other was unprecedented, and unsettling in the extreme.

His body still trembled faintly, his heart rate accelerated beyond his ability 
to bring it fully under control. Apparently, even the long meditation session he 
had engaged in the night before had not been sufficient to free him of whatever 
inner conflict his subconscious strove to resolve. Examining the experiences as 
a logic problem had yielded only possibilities, and no answers; therefore, 
meditation having failed, logic suggested that the answer lay not with the 
waking mind, but with the subconscious. He must resolve it within the context of 
his dreams, or seek help if he could not.

Refusing to give in to his lingering unease, Spock returned to his sleeping 
pallet. Though his knowledge of human dream patterns was limited, he knew that 
disorders involving dreams were almost always related to emotional stress, and 
he could not deny the intensely emotional nature of his reactions. More 
disturbing still was his inability to maintain a clear division between dream 
and waking awareness. He could not dismiss the ominous possibilities that loss 
of control presented. One thing was certain: whatever that inner conflict might 
be, as with so many things, James Kirk stood at the heart of it. Other figures 
had appeared in several of the dreams, but Kirk was the constant.

With effort, Spock cleared his mind and at last calmed his breathing and heart 
rate. He closed his eyes. Deliberately, he let awareness of his surroundings 
fall away, and opened his mind to thoughts and feelings about the man who had 
sacrificed so much to bring him back.

Curiously, it was not Kirk's image that came to mind but his mother's puzzle 
box. She had brought it from Earth and kept it on her desk when he was a child, 
and she kept it there still. It was made of teak. Spock had been fascinated by 
the box's intricate construction as a child, the warm smoothness of the wood 
pieces, the way it only allowed you to remove one piece at a time. As you 
removed each piece, more interlocking pieces were revealed inside, until you 
removed enough pieces and the remaining ones fell apart easily in your hand. His 
memories had been like that, returning slowly, each one that came free revealing 
more pieces of the puzzle that was his true memory, the first ones difficult to 
unlock, the later ones sliding free more easily. He had found the box again in 
the long weeks of his recovery, and it had seemed to draw him to pick it up, its 
mathematical and aesthetic beauty reassuring in some way.

As if the image of the puzzle's interlocking shapes were itself a key, a memory 
surfaced, powerful and vivid, of standing on the steps of Seleya, saying Kirk's 
name for the first time. He could still remember what it had felt like to 
experience that first true memory: just the name, its certainty like a homing 
beacon shining through the confusion of his mind. He had wished for that 
certainty more than once in the months since. Perhaps, most especially, with the 
Admiral.

James Kirk was not unlike the puzzle box in his own right, Spock realized. He 
had been aware for some time that there was something Kirk wanted from him, 
something in his eyes that waited, expectant, when he looked at Spock, questions 
unspoken that Spock did not understand, that demanded a response Spock did not 
know how to give. Kirk was good at hiding those questions most of the time, but 
Spock had become increasingly aware of them. Perhaps more disconcerting was his 
own nearly overwhelming need to respond to that unspoken demand. Kirk had 
allowed his frustration to get the better of him only once, on the Bounty, but 
Spock found it impossible to forget that momentary flash of anger, masking 
deeper hurt that had cut Spock to the quick. *You're half human. Haven't you got 
any goddamn feelings about that?* His own hurt had been swift and unexpected, a 
sense of betrayal he couldn't have explained.

Half human. Half-breed.

*Is that your best recommendation?*

Spock drew a sharp breath. A hot feeling rose in his chest, and he experienced 
shame, as he had not since adolescence, when his father had disciplined him for 
spending the night in the desert under the stars without proper regard for his 
own safety, nor for his mother's concern.

As if the thought evoked her presence, he heard a soft footfall behind him. 
"What is it, Spock?"

Amanda's compassion was like a balm. "I do not understand the question, Mother," 
he admitted, feeling his failure sharp within him.

"You're half human," she said, as if it should be obvious. "Jim knows that."

"But the question is irrelevant," he said, perplexed, looking to her for 
guidance.

"Oh, Spock." She smiled gently. "Of course it isn't."

"Your mother is a wise woman, Spock." Kirk kissed Amanda on the cheek. "Hello, 
Mrs. Sarek."

"Always a pleasure to see you, Captain." She gave them both a fond, indulgent 
look. "I'll leave you two alone. I'm sure you have important matters to 
discuss."

She left the room -- Kirk's quarters, Spock realized now -- and Kirk turned to 
him. "You ready to play?"

"Play?"

"Chess, of course. You did come here to play chess, didn't you?"

Spock frowned slightly, unable to remember why he had come to Kirk's quarters. 
He looked around the room, then at the chess set on Kirk's desk, the two empty 
chairs on either side. He supposed that he must, indeed, have come here to play 
chess. "Of course, Captain."

"'Jim,' Spock," Kirk chided gently. "I thought we agreed to do away with name, 
rank and serial numbers after hours." He sat down on the far side of the desk 
and opened the cabinet behind him, pulling out an amber decanter and two 
glasses. "Can I pour you a drink?" He didn't wait for an answer, but was already 
setting out both glasses, filling them with a generous portion of the smooth, 
aged brandy he favored.

Spock sat down across from him, unable to prevent himself from staring at his 
captain. Kirk looked young, perhaps no more than the thirty-two he had been when 
Spock had met him, full of that vibrant, vivid energy Spock had almost 
forgotten. The force of his charisma felt like sunlight, and even a Vulcan was 
not immune. It was that as much as Kirk's appearance that drew the eye, that 
made it hard to look at anything else.

He was fully aware of it, too, Spock realized, as Kirk pushed the second glass 
across the desk and leaned back in his chair, sipping the rich liquor, watching 
Spock speculatively. Spock's cheeks warmed. He sipped his drink to cover it, and 
the brandy sank through him with a seductive heat of its own.

"You okay?" Kirk asked at last.

"Quite all right. Why do you ask?"

Kirk reached out and made the first move, king's pawn immediately claiming one 
of the neutral levels. "You just don't seem like yourself tonight, that's all."

Spock frowned slightly. "Indeed. Whom would you say I seem like, Jim?"

He shrugged, an eloquent gesture. "Just... not yourself. I don't know if I can 
explain it. Something on your mind, maybe?"

Spock met his gaze for a second, then focused on the chess board. He was 
troubled by what Kirk had said, though, and found that he could not seem to 
choose an appropriate answering move. "Perhaps you're right," he said at last. 
"I fear..." He broke off, suddenly sure that if he spoke his fears aloud, they 
would become fact. Reality felt very fluid, his own perceptions nothing he could 
trust.

Kirk leaned towards him, his eyes wide, inviting. "What is it, my friend? You 
can tell me."

Spock bowed his head, eyes on his hands, folded in his lap. "I fear that I have 
disappointed you," he confessed.

Kirk chuckled softly. "You could never disappoint me."

Unable to sit still any longer, Spock got up and crossed the small room, the 
sense of unreality washing over him again, stronger now. "You will not always be 
so certain," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "One day, you will 
look at me with pain in your eyes that I put there."

He heard Kirk put his drink down and come towards him. "Spock, you're not making 
any sense." His hand closed on Spock's shoulder, squeezing. The touch was wholly 
unexpected, and Spock started; Jim's grip was surprisingly warm, undermining his 
self control in ways he did not begin to know how to combat. Kirk gently turned 
him around. Their eyes met and held. "You didn't really come here to play chess, 
did you?" Kirk said, his voice husky.

He was close, so close, his body almost touching Spock's, his scent spicy and 
masculine and enticing. He was watching Spock's eyes, and Spock knew that he had 
no secrets, that Jim knew the way his heart was pounding, the way his breath 
shortened and tingling anticipation slowly flooded his body, starting in his 
stomach and between his thighs. What Jim saw in Spock's eyes seemed to set him 
alight, his breath coming faster, his lips parting, his color rising in 
response. Spock made a faint sound of defeat. He moved, his hands coming up to 
touch Jim's face, to guide their mouths together, the kiss dissolving him into 
shivery tremors of hunger.

Jim moaned softly, a sound that made pleasure hum through Spock. He reached for 
Jim's tongue with his own and felt Jim press against him, full length, the feel 
of him unbearably erotic through their uniforms. Their tongues met, Jim's hands 
were in his hair, and for one endless moment, they held on to each other and 
gave in to that most intimate caress, tongues moving gently against one another, 
erections pressed hotly together through their clothes. Trembling fiercely, they 
could bear it only a few moments before they broke apart, gasping.

If Jim had been alight before, now he was incendiary, his eyes bright, lips 
reddened and full with arousal. "Spock?" he managed, a breathless plea, as 
though he were helpless in the face of his desire.

Deliberately, his own desire a force of gravity, Spock found the seam of Jim's 
v-neck tunic and slid his fingers down it, exposing his chest and belly. "Oh, 
God," Jim gasped, pressing into him, sex throbbing faintly against his. "Oh, 
God, Spock." Feeling Jim's readiness, his own arousal shivering through him in 
waves, Spock didn't waste time pulling the shirt off, just let his hands close 
against the bare, soft skin at Jim's waist and pulled him close, finding his 
mouth again.

This time they kissed deeply, tongues mating. Spock felt Jim gripping his 
shoulders, but couldn't spare thought for it; Jim's skin was cool satin under 
his hands, the muscles in his back as firm and yielding as he had imagined, his 
mouth soft and wet and hungry, desperate as Spock felt. Impossible to have 
enough of him. Spock wrapped one arm low and tight around his waist and pressed 
him closer still, guiding Jim's mouth to his own again and again until Jim was 
moaning softly with each kiss, until he was gripping Spock's hips and rocking 
against him and they were both dizzy from lack of air.

"Your mouth," Jim gasped when they broke apart at last. "God, it's so hot--" 
Spock bent his head and pressed his mouth to Jim's throat in answer, tasting 
salt and sweet musk, sucking gently at the jugular. Jim shuddered in response. 
"Please--" His hands came up to cradle Spock's head, exerting gentle pressure 
downwards. Spock went willingly to his knees, closing his eyes and pressing his 
face to the rigid heat of Jim's arousal, fumbling with the catch of his 
trousers. Jim helped him, his breathing harsh in the small room, accompaniment 
to the soft sounds of fastenings, and fabric sliding down, and the rapid 
pounding of Spock's pulse in his ears.

Jim's flesh was urgent in Spock's hand as Spock wrapped one arm around his hips 
and took him deep. "Yes--" Jim gasped, his hands urging Spock on, pushing 
himself hard against the back of Spock's throat; Spock's own sex ached in 
response, the blood pulsing heavily between his legs and in his belly. "Oh, God, 
yes, Spock--" Jim groaned as they found their rhythm and his hips began to 
thrust helplessly. "Come with me," he ordered, a fine sheen of sweat breaking 
out on his flanks and thighs. Jim wrapped his own hand around the base of his 
sex, squeezing fiercely and freeing Spock to fumble with the catch to his own 
trousers, to shudder as he at last freed himself and took himself in hand. Jim 
traced the curve of his ear, and cupped his head close. "Come with me--that's 
it--" He bent protectively over Spock, and it felt as though they became one 
being for long moments of slick, rhythmic ecstasy -- a rough, perfect union of 
mouth and sex and grip and friction -- until Jim cried out, staggering against 
him and pulsing bittersweet fluid over his tongue, and Spock remembered even as 
his own climax surged over him, merciless as the sea, that this was not real.

The shock of waking was not enough to stop the powerful wave of orgasm, nor the 
involuntary cry that escaped him; when it was over at last, and the shudders of 
pleasure released him, it was not enough to stop the flood of shame that 
followed at the evidence of sticky, cooling fluid on his hand and thighs and 
flanks.

Even the shame he felt at his loss of control paled next to the agitation of his 
thoughts. Understanding sluiced over him with startling clarity, and he was on 
his feet, trembling. His dreams thus far had all been deeply grounded in true 
memories, distorted slightly by subconscious interpretation, but true memories 
nonetheless. He had known that gaps existed in his recall. He had even guessed 
that many of those gaps might be emotional in nature, as the Vulcan masters 
would likely have understood little about the more human elements of his psyche. 
*This,* he had not guessed. This was--

He realized he was pacing, mind and body in turmoil. To be confronted with a gap 
of this magnitude in his recall shook the very foundations of his sanity, and 
made him question everything he had learned since his refusion, every memory, 
everything that had been told to him by the adepts, his parents, his well-
meaning friends. Friends! Pacing again, he shrugged off his robes and threw them 
into the recycling chute with uncharacteristic vehemence. He found himself 
remembering all the moments in the past weeks when Kirk had seemed to be waiting 
for something from him, something Spock had not known how to give. The sadness 
Spock had perceived in him but had attributed to the loss of his son, his ship. 
The frustration he had expressed that night on the Bounty. The pain Spock had 
sensed in him tonight, when Spock had failed yet again to say the right thing. 
He has resigned himself, Spock realized, understanding at last. He has given up 
waiting, and resigned himself to what he believes he must.

There was no logic in the ache that bloomed within him at that thought, no logic 
in the imperative he felt and could not deny. He hurriedly pulled on a fresh 
robe and glanced at the chronometer, but it didn't matter that it was not yet 
sunrise. The man who held his answers was close, only a few doors down the hall, 
and Spock could not wait till morning.

* * *

Jim Kirk was finding irony everywhere these days, and in the faint light before 
dawn, he mused on the surreality that seemed to greet him at every turn. A 
weapon that created life only to destroy it; an interstellar probe that 
delivered justice for man's own folly only to be thwarted by a renegade crew in 
a stolen Klingon ship; a Spock that wasn't Spock -- and now, at the heart of the 
old Victorian that housed the Vulcan embassy, the red sun of Vulcan artificially 
recreated by filters, in a city where Earth's own sun barely showed her face 
most days.

Not yet accustomed to San Francisco time, he'd woken well before dawn and been 
unable to get back to sleep, thoughts of the tribunal too much with him. Even 
after showering and checking his messages, he still had time to kill before the 
household was up for the day, and he'd found himself roaming the halls; after a 
few minutes, he'd come across a set of glass doors that led to a climate 
controlled atrium of sand and polished granite, filters transforming natural 
sunlight into an approximation of Eridani's scarlet intensity. Somehow, in the 
months of their 'Vulcan exile,' as he and Bones had taken to calling it, he'd 
gotten used to red skies, and the cool, dry air of desert morning felt almost 
like home.

All this place needs is a hot spring, Kirk thought as he wandered the stone 
pathways, the peace and stark beauty of the place relaxing him. He did feel 
better with a few hours sleep, too. He caught himself idly wondering if Gillian 
had gone home with McCoy the night before, and if so, how he felt about that. He 
supposed it was spending the evening on Academy grounds that had him stirring up 
old memories, but he couldn't help thinking of Gary Mitchell and what he would 
have had to say about Kirk's penchant for blonde doctor types. *You know what 
they say, Jim. Get too predictable, you might as well be dead.*

"Maybe you have a point," Kirk mused. After the muck-up he'd made of it with 
Carol last night, maybe someone was trying to tell him something -- and if 
anyone deserved to get the girl after all they'd been through, it was Bones. In 
the light of day, he could admit that he'd been a little distant with his old 
friend lately. He didn't much like how it made him feel, seeing the easy rapport 
Spock and McCoy shared now, feeling like the third wheel. Was that how Bones had 
felt all those years? Or was he a better man, less prone to such petty feelings 
as jealousy?

*Questions like that will only make you crazy, my friend,* Gary offered sagely, 
and Kirk decided that this time the man definitely had a point.

Behind him, the glass doors opened. He turned, and saw Spock heading toward him; 
one look at him, and Kirk knew something was wrong. He felt a burst of 
adrenaline, and braced himself for bad news, the possibilities flashing through 
his mind. Sarek? Amanda? God forbid, one of his crew? "What is it?" he asked as 
soon as Spock reached him.

"I looked for you," Spock said, his voice only a fraction rougher than usual, 
his breathing and body language just a touch less controlled, but to Kirk, the 
difference was equivalent to a shout of distress. "When I couldn't find you in 
your room, I was concerned."

Taken aback, Kirk didn't quite know what to say. "I couldn't sleep. I didn't 
want to disturb anyone, so I came in here. Is that all that was worrying you?"

"Yes. No." Spock stopped, as if trying to calm himself, and now Kirk felt an 
entirely different kind of concern. A chill of apprehension deep in his gut, 
Kirk reached out and laid a hand on Spock's arm.

"Spock, are you all right?"

At his touch, Spock drew in a sharp breath and looked up, searching his face. To 
Kirk's surprise, he felt Spock's warm, dry hand close over his; he was even more 
surprised when Spock took his hand and turned it over, clasping their palms 
together. "Jim, please, you must forgive me. I didn't understand."

After all this time, Kirk felt the sudden, involuntary lurch of his heart as 
pain, and not the hope it was. He'd forbidden himself from wishing for anything 
more than he'd been given, from even thinking about the possibility that there 
might still be hope, that his Spock, the real Spock, was still reachable 
somehow. He'd told himself so many times that to hope for more was to look a 
gift horse in the mouth.

Nevertheless, a spreading heat started from the place where Spock's hand held 
his, sweet and painful, and he had to fight to keep his sudden breathlessness 
out of his voice. "Understand what, Spock?"

Dark eyes were drinking him in as if they had never seen him before, tracing the 
lines of his face, his mouth. Kirk's heart had started to beat very hard, and he 
thought Spock could probably hear it. He held still, waiting. Afraid to breathe 
or say anything. Belatedly, he realized that Spock was still gripping his hand 
and could probably feel everything he was feeling, all his desperate hope. With 
his other hand, Spock reached up, touched his face, and for a second Kirk 
expected the touch of his mind, and scrambled to be ready for it, to keep 
himself together and not drag them both down into the chaos of his emotional 
reactions.

What he didn't expect was the warmth of Spock's mouth on his, the gentle passion 
of a lover's kiss.

When it stopped, Kirk was trembling, eyes closed, lips parted, heart skipping 
more beats than it hit. This was going to kill him, he thought with certainty. 
One way or another. Jesus. He opened his eyes, and found Spock's inches away. 
They were still standing in the middle of the open atrium in the middle of the 
Vulcan embassy. Anyone -- for God's sake, *Sarek* -- could walk in at any 
minute, but it seemed a minor detail, hardly worth mentioning. He had to say 
something, though. "Hell of a place for it," he managed breathlessly. He 
realized he was grinning from ear to ear, and that he was close to tears. 
"Twenty years is a long time to wait, but I'll give you this -- you do pick your 
moments." It was enough, God knew it was enough, but he couldn't help searching 
Spock's face, trying to tell how much he remembered. "Spock?" His grin faded.

"Perhaps I have -- it is possible that I have misunderstood."

He started to let go of Kirk's hand, but Kirk held on. "Hey, wait a minute. You 
caught me by surprise, I'll admit, but I'm not arguing, believe me. Doing this 
somewhere more private might be a good idea, but beyond that, it's about damn 
time, don't you think?"

Spock looked pale. "We are not... we were not lovers," he said evenly.

The familiar look of confusion had drawn Spock's brows together, that little 
line appearing between them. A cold heaviness came to rest in the center of 
Kirk's breastbone. "You didn't remember." His voice sounded flat, even to his 
own ears.

"I have been recovering partial memories slowly, in dreams," Spock said 
hoarsely. "I dreamed of you. Of us. I believed it to be... more than dream." 
This time, it was Kirk who pulled away, and Spock let him go. "Jim--"

"Don't." Kirk held up a hand, turning away from Spock, just needing to not look 
at him for a minute. "Just -- give me a minute."

"I am truly sorry, Admiral--"

Kirk felt it like a blow. "Please, for God's sake, just don't -- say anything 
else for a minute." Carol had said the same thing, he remembered with painful 
clarity. Now he understood. The darkness inside of him felt bottomless, immense, 
but he held himself in tightly, refusing to let it win. "We weren't lovers," he 
said at last, the pressure in his chest like a vise. "I wanted to be -- years 
ago. I asked you if we could be. You said--" He drew a deep, shaky breath. "You 
said it wasn't time for us. You said it would put our friendship at risk, the 
ship... my command. You had good arguments." He closed his eyes, remembering it 
like it was yesterday. God, they'd been such fools, both of them. "I agreed. I 
said -- I said when it was time, you'd let me know."

A long silence from Spock. What could he say, after all? What was there to say? 
*God, Carol, I'm so sorry I didn't understand.*

"Was I very different?" Spock asked hoarsely. "Before?"

Kirk squeezed his eyes shut, but the hot pressure behind them threatened to 
escape anyway. Something crested in him without warning, rage and grief he had 
been carrying for too long, that he had hidden even from himself. "Damn you," he 
whispered, his throat aching with tears he couldn't shed, had never shed. "Damn 
you for doing this to me now, after everything--" He broke off, with effort, 
though it took all of his formidable will to stop the words, the hurtful words 
he would have said to the one person he least wanted to hurt. Wrenching himself 
under control, he strode away from Spock, away from his own foolish hopes.

When Spock came after him, when that iron grip closed on his upper arm, stopping 
him, Kirk was so tightly wound that he swung before he knew what he was doing. 
"Jim!" Spock blocked the blow, catching him and holding him fast. "Show me," he 
demanded, his body warm against Kirk's, one hand spreading lightly against his 
face. Kirk felt himself shaking, and he intended denial, but couldn't seem to 
get the words out. He was afraid, but he wanted it -- had wanted it for so long. 
"Show me," Spock said again, gently, and Kirk yielded, remembering how to let 
Spock in only as he did it.

And it *was* Spock. He realized his worst fear only as it was put to rest -- 
that he would feel the touch of Spock's mind and not be able to recognize him, 
that it would confirm beyond any doubt that Spock was forever lost to him. 
Relief undermined his fierce control as nothing else had, and his breath caught, 
a soft sob escaping him. "You left me," he accused, helpless to stop the flood 
of rage. "You left me." The memory of the reactor chamber welled up with 
undeniable force. "And you told me not to grieve. How the hell was I supposed to 
do that?"

"It was logical," Spock said quietly.

"Don't talk to me about the needs of the many! Don't you dare quote him to me--" 
The irony of what he was saying made him stop, made him start to laugh, 
painfully. "I guess I have to choose, don't I? Either I can be mad at you for 
dying, or I can be mad at you for forgetting me, but I don't get it both ways, 
do I?"

"Jim." Spock grieved with him, for him, for his own loss. The painful truth of 
Spock's incomplete memory lay between them, inescapable, answering the questions 
Kirk hadn't spoken, that he had lived with for so long. His own memories -- 
twenty years' worth of shared dangers and comfort, pain and private jokes -- 
played through his mind like music, seeking resonances and echoes in Spock's 
mind, finding precious few still intact. Each answering silence broke Kirk's 
heart a little more. A lifetime they'd had together, and as much as they had 
loved each other, they had never really understood what gift they had been 
given. If they had, they would have known better than to waste even an hour.

At last he felt Spock withdraw from the meld, the sadness like music in itself. 
Grief and anger spent, Kirk let himself lean into Spock's embrace. They rested 
their heads together, just drawing strength from the communion they had both 
desperately needed.

"Then teach me," Spock said at last, lifting his head with a surge of 
determination Kirk felt in his bones. "Tell me everything you remember. Show me, 
in your thoughts."

"It would take twenty years," he said, though his heart lifted at the idea. "And 
it won't ever be the same, not really."

One eyebrow lifted -- Spock's equivalent of a shrug. "If what you say is true, 
we did leave some room for improvement the first time around."

Kirk couldn't laugh about it, not yet, but something bright surfaced within him, 
something that had been submerged for longer than he could remember. It came to 
him then with stark simplicity that this was Spock, as real and valuable as he 
had always been; that it wasn't Spock he grieved for, but what they had been 
together -- and that if all living things grew according to the patterns that 
shaped them, they could have that again someday, or something better. Twenty 
years wasn't forever, not even by human standards.

He realized that his face was wet only when Spock's fingertips brushed his 
cheek. "You were the first thing I remembered," Spock said softly, his innocence 
tempered now by knowledge neither of them could unmake.

Kirk closed his eyes. His hand rested against Spock's waist. "Just -- hold onto 
me, for a while, all right?"

Spock's arms enfolded him, and he held on for all he was worth.



The End

* * *

The challenge I was given...

After the fal tor pan, Spock thinks he and Kirk were lovers, but in reality, 
they never were. What will Kirk do if Spock propositions him now? What will 
happen if Spock thinks the dreams and wishes of his former life were the 
reality? (NC-17 encouraged)

...and finally, still more thanks to everybody who's reminded me over the past 
year why I've loved these guys for more than half my lifetime.