Hell of a way to die.
But he wasn't going to die, not today. He had things to do, responsibilities—Spock had told him, he had to do...something, what was it? Hold, hold something, hold—on?
No, that wasn't Spock-like at all. Spock wouldn't tell him to hold on, that was something Bones would say, something like—
Hold on, Jim, help is on the way.
But McCoy wasn't here, he was safe on the Enterprise—wasn't he? He made it up before the second transporter malfunction, Kirk was sure of it. He counted on it.
God, if only he weren't so damn tired, he could think straight. Plan his next move, remember what it was he was supposed to do, or hold—hold out?
Hold out for what? No, for who, for Spock, that sounded right—hold out until he, until they, had a chance to find out—find out—find a way—
Kirk's head jerked back as he struggled to stay awake. Dinner, they had dinner plans, that was it. After the brief mission planet-side to work out some pre-diplomacy details, they'd agreed to share dinner in Kirk's quarters, something they'd been doing frequently in the weeks since they'd left Starbase Two—and an incarcerated Janice Lester—far behind. These quiet interludes had become precious to Kirk, a haven where he could shed the heavy mantle of command in safe and treasured company. More importantly, the time he spent with Spock, away from the rest of the crew, was building sturdy walls on an already rock-steady foundation of trust and respect, walls that would shelter them through the changes their relationship was experiencing.
No, Kirk definitely wasn't ready to die, not on this ice cube of a planet, not with so much to live for.
Jesus, so tired. And cold, so cold he could barely feel his gloved fingers and his toes in their insulated boots, but thank God not so cold he'd stopped shivering. He flexed his hand, expecting to clutch the fabric of the jacket that covered him, surprised when his fingers skidded across something thick and cylindrical.
Hold on.
"Here."
"No, you take it. No telling where they are out there—"
"Yet we know exactly the danger you will be vulnerable to while I am gone. Since I am ambulatory and in full possession of my faculties—"
"You're wounded, Spock."
"Irrelevant. My wounds will not prevent me from my duties."
"Yeah, but, damn it—there are monsters out there."
"Monsters, Captain?" The thread of humor was clear beneath the ragged edge of Spock's deep voice, made deeper by the unrelenting cold. "As inaccurate as I find that word to be, I believe the native quadripeds intent on killing us regard you and I in much the same way."
"That's why I'm ordering you to take the phaser."
"With all due respect, Captain," Spock covered Kirk's hastily bandaged wound before rising from his kneeling position at Kirk's side, "since you are unable to defend yourself, the logical course of action would be for you to retain the remaining phaser. The odds are five point seven to one that the cave creatures approximately forty meters in front of you will attack again if the fire is not kept burning. Therefore, I submit that while even a marginally charged phaser such as this would be a distinct advantage while I gather more fuel for the fire, the odds of my being attacked—"
"All right, all right, I get it. Just—don't take too long, okay?"
Did that happen? Or did he dream it?
How long ago had Spock left? Too long—the fire was dying, the scant warmth it generated fading away. Spock was right, they had to keep the fire going until dawn, and Kirk had to stay awake, keep his attention on a fissure in the ancient stone slabs that formed his shelter, and hold on to the phaser.
Hold on...
Kirk felt himself begin to fall asleep and fought to reopen his eyes. He needed to focus on something to keep his mind alert until Spock returned. He eyed the last few sticks of wood that Spock had placed close at hand, trying to gauge how long they might last, hoping Spock would return before the fire had burned out.
Stay awake, damn it! Kirk forced his gaze to look past the fire's glow to that crack in the stone, the deep hole that hid the creatures that had attacked them, their claws and teeth made only slightly less deadly by the lumbering pace of their onslaught. It was that clumsiness that had saved their lives then, but Kirk knew that as wounded as he was, he'd never survive another attack.
Shifting against the boulder that was propping him up, Kirk bit back a moan. He knew he could either use the phaser to heat the stones around him and avoid hypothermia, or keep what was left of the charge to defend himself, but there really wasn't much of a decision to be made. If Spock didn't return soon, Kirk would have to go after him—but even as he formed the thought, he knew he'd never make it. Blood loss, shock, cold—he was getting weaker with every passing moment. He tried to flex his fingers, unsurprised when the phaser slipped out of his palm and onto the frozen dirt beside him, skittering out of his reach. He stared dully at the shadows where the phaser had disappeared, knowing he should be more alarmed and unable to summon the energy to care. Now that his only choice had been taken away, there was nothing to do but wait for Spock's return or the welcome whistle from the communicator that lay nestled in his other hand, his rigid fingers nearly frozen in their cupped position around it.
Where the hell was Spock? This bone-shattering cold must agonizing be for him, despite all his protestations to the contrary and his dubious explanations regarding his ability to regulate his body temperature. That memory made Kirk smile, even though he regretted it when his wind-burned lips cracked with the effort. He knew Spock would never admit to taking pleasure in thwarting every opportunity Kirk gave him to complain about their circumstances—it was an old game they played, a game that had only recently taken on a new, more intimate dimension, bringing out in Kirk a yearning that was by turns painful and exhilarating.
Ever since their conversation in that stony garden on Starbase Two, things had been different between them. At first, Kirk had been unable to define the subtle changes, a frustrating situation for a man who prided himself on his ability to read body language in general and interpret the very special kind of non-verbal communication he'd shared with Spock for years in particular. Analyzing his opponent was one of Kirk's greatest strengths—it had gotten them out of trouble more times than he could count. Part gift, part carefully honed skill, that ability seemed worthless when it came to putting his finger on exactly what was happening between them.
The pain in his side easing, Kirk felt his head begin to clear. He bit down hard on his lower lip and let his body tip sideways until a few pieces of wood were within reach, grasping at them until he had a handful. After taking a moment to gather his energy, he flung them toward the fire, relieved and somewhat amused that his aim was true. The fire flared up with a shower of sparks as Kirk reclined against the rock, letting himself dwell on the small victory before his thoughts returned to his absent first officer.
If it had been anyone but Spock, Kirk would have defined that heightened awareness easily. In fact, he'd almost go so far as to say it was a familiar and welcome feeling. It was that special tingle when someone was near, eye contact that lingered just a heartbeat too long, the little thrill in his belly when the lift doors behind him opened and closed and he knew exactly who had just appeared on the bridge. Oh yes, Kirk knew the joys of sexual tension in all its forms, but it would be sheer madness to apply that term to the undercurrents that danced on the air between them now.
Or would it?
It wasn't that Spock wasn't a sexual being outside of his biological imperative—Kirk had anecdotal proof that dispelled that myth—but the attitude of Vulcans toward choosing a sexual partner was something of a mystery. If Kirk hadn't seen Spock's expression just as he'd dematerialized out of the garden that day, he might have thought that the deepening of an already intimate relationship between them merely a unprecedented gift. The addition of sex wasn't necessary, as it would only enhance their longstanding connection, but maybe the one good thing to come out of Janet Lester's insanity was the idea that he and Spock could take that next step.
That's when Kirk's thoughts scattered into uncharacteristic confusion, at the point where he tried to anticipate Spock's wants and needs when it came to physical contact. To Kirk, it was a natural progression of the connection they shared, a connection stronger than friendship, a deep link that had long ago moved beyond the professional loyalty and camaraderie of captain and officer. If he were to be truthful, Kirk would readily admit that he yearned for that level of commitment, knowing without question that it would tie them together with bonds that would endure beyond their mission, beyond Starfleet, beyond the ephemeral boundaries of life itself.
Yet if they never touched each other in the way of lovers, if they never crossed the line into that pleasurable territory, Kirk would be content, knowing that in Spock he'd found the match for his own soul, and all relationships, past and future, could never compare nor compete. It was a truth Kirk would bet his life on—had bet his life on—and would do so again without hesitation.
Kirk wasn't the only one who'd noticed that conversations with his first officer were now conducted in lowered tones, or that even in staff meetings, it sometimes seemed as though there was no one else in the room besides the two of them. McCoy had taken to teasing them both, using ancient regional colloquialisms—thick as thieves was a popular phrase—that amused Kirk as much as they annoyed Spock. Yet behind the teasing twinkle in McCoy's eyes was a watchful, protective friend, and Kirk knew that whatever lay in store for him and Spock, McCoy would remain both brutally honest and unfailingly supportive.
That was what Kirk wanted to focus on—the exploration of a promise, a chance that a resolutely ignored yet equally nurtured dream had a chance to come true, but as he began to slide into what was becoming an eery, ice-coated reality, his last coherent thoughts turned to the Enterprise. She was only wounded, Scotty had assured him only a few hours earlier, and not fatally. The malfunctioning transporter that had sent them far afield from their original beam-down point would be fixed and he and Spock would be rescued from the dire situation they'd landed in.
Scotty just hadn't been sure when. They'd discussed trying to land a shuttlecraft, but the weather patterns of the planet were in a state of flux, making any landing dangerous for another twenty-four hours. Unless the weather suddenly cooperated, they were trapped.
Kirk's eyes began to close, the ice crystals that had gathered on his eyelashes sifting onto his cheeks. Spock would be back, he thought, and then he'd hold—they'd hold—
The first tug on his arm startled him, but he was too cold to react, even as his heart started to race in fear that the creatures were descending on him in one final, fatal attack. Yet there was no tearing of his flesh, and there were no sharp fangs sinking into vulnerable limbs. No, these gloved hands were familiar, long-fingered and gentle, hands that had touched him in ways more intimate than sex, hands that had healed him more surely than any of McCoy's ministrations. They shifted Kirk's body forward into a cautious fold, a strong forearm bracing him against the pain that had deepened from an initial white-hot blaze into a frozen pocket of numbed agony. Kirk gasped and then choked as he incautiously inhaled the cold, sharp air, but as his body leaned back into a welcome source of warmth, the constriction in his chest eased and he was able to blink apart his frozen lashes.
There was something unfamiliar about the long limbs that curled around him so protectively, the broad, solid torso that supported him so effortlessly. He knew it was Spock, of course—through countless dangerous missions that had required them to be physical with each other, he'd come to rely on and trust that stoic strength as he'd trusted no other. But under those circumstances, Spock's touch had been clinical, brief, even abrupt, often lacking the common compassion one soldier bestowed on an injured colleague in favor of speed and efficiency. Not that Spock was incapable of it—Kirk had witnessed the unfathomable depth of Vulcan tenderness on several occasions—but even in his dealings with his captain, Spock usually kept physical interactions to a minimum. Kirk understood that his life depended on the warmth of Spock's body and even in his exhausted state, he realized that it was now a race for survival for both of them, and sharing body heat might only prolong the inevitable.
Yet the difference in Spock's touch as he cradled Kirk to his chest was remarkable enough that Kirk's mind began to worry at it, trying to ascertain the slight but discernible difference. He was just on the edge of grasping an idea when his thoughts were tumbled apart by the unmistakable whine of a phaser. There was a glow to his right and then a wave of warmth bathed him from shoulder to boot. He felt Spock shift and then the same thing happened on his left side, the enveloping blossom of heat so welcome that he heard himself moan.
"Spock," he gritted out between clenched teeth, "the fire—"
"Is nearly extinguished, Captain." Spock's arms shifted over his chest, steadily drawing him closer and arranging their limbs until every inch of their bodies connected. "I was unable to find sufficient fuel to keep it burning, therefore our only source of heat will be these rocks. I estimate that the damaged phaser's remaining charge will sustain us through one more attack by the quadripeds, provided they have not grown in number since their last attempt."
"Well," Kirk paused to cough as frigid air once more sliced through his lungs, "that's something positive."
"Indeed. Almost as positive as the fact that Mr. Scott believes the transporter will be online within fifteen minutes."
"Better and better." Kirk ran his tongue over his chapped lips, moistening the dried blood that had gathered in the corner of his mouth. "Although I have a feeling that I'm not going to be up to a round of checkers, let alone an after-dinner game of chess."
Though Kirk knew that Spock was fully aware they'd both be spending time in sickbay, he anticipated Spock's response and was not disappointed.
"I daresay Dr. McCoy's potions and invasive examinations will have to be endured before we are allowed to return to duty. Checkers, if that is actually your preference, will have to wait upon the doctor's good graces."
Kirk couldn't quite manage another smile, but something inside him leaned into the familiarity of Spock's ongoing battle with McCoy. It was a relationship he counted on far more than he'd let either of them ever know—he needed these two men in his life, and he needed them to need each other as well. He was aware that Spock had replied in the expected manner as a way of offering Kirk a modicum of comfort, and that alone brought a feeling of warmth to Kirk's midsection that no phaser-heated rock could equal.
But the physical heat, although welcome, was bringing feeling back to Kirk's extremities, sensation that was quickly turning into waves of sharp, tingling pain that made him forget all about the throbbing ache of the wound in his side.
"Captain?"
Kirk recognized the worried tone in Spock's voice and realized that either his pain or his efforts to control it were being passed on to Spock through the contact of their bodies. If he'd possessed the strength to move, he would've gladly broken that contact to spare Spock any discomfort, but instead he had to settle for something that would distract them both.
"Sorry about dinner," he mumbled.
If Spock was thrown off by the sudden change of subject, he didn't reveal it. "An apology is unnecessary. These events are not your fault and the fact that we will not share one meal does not preclude the fact that there will be other opportunities."
Other opportunities. Even in Spock's matter-of-fact voice, the two words were rife with possibilities, at least to Kirk's way of thinking. And maybe he'd just found the distraction he needed to get his mind off the increasing level of pain rising through his legs and arms.
Shifting a little, Kirk let his head fall back against Spock's shoulder. "Speaking of opportunities," he said, "I've been meaning to ask you a question."
"As I am essentially available to you at any time, I assume any hesitancy on your part is due to subject matter, not lack of convenience."
"Right as usual," Kirk replied, breath hitching as spasms locked up the muscles in his calves and thighs. He concentrated on relaxing through them, peripherally aware of Spock's imperceptibly tightening embrace. After the spasms subsided, he let out a ragged sigh, his eyes drifting shut as the last of his strength began to ebb. "Do you remember our conversation on Starbase Two?"
It was a loaded question and they both knew it. There was a small, telling pause before Spock replied. "I do."
"And what, exactly, do you remember?"
"Captain—"
"It's important, Spock." Kirk hadn't missed the inflection in Spock's tone but couldn't translate it. It was suddenly vastly important to him that he find out if Spock wanted to join Kirk on that narrow, yet ultimately fulfilling path. He didn't want to face another life-threatening situation without knowing if the glimpse he'd gotten of Spock's expression had been a true reflection of his feelings or just wishful thinking on Kirk's part.
Behind him, Spock cleared his throat, an indication that he was under some kind of emotional duress. "We discussed the ramifications of our brief mind meld when your body was under the control of Dr. Lester."
"And since then," Kirk swallowed, trying to ease moisture into his dry throat, "how would you describe the quality of our relationship?"
"I hardly think this is the time—"
"No, it's perfect. Just you, me, and our friends, the quadripeds. No, listen," he went on before Spock could point out the obvious and derail the conversation, "this is something we need to discuss. And I need you to help me stay awake."
Kirk knew he was playing dirty by adding the slyly worded plea, but he knew the value of the solitude they currently shared, even if it was under such desperate circumstances. Or maybe that was the whole point; it wasn't the first time Kirk had used a critical situation to his advantage, and for Kirk's future, the stakes were higher than ever.
"I would say—" Spock stopped, but Kirk could tell that the quality of his hesitation had changed. Spock was thinking, formulating a true and honest answer, and as Kirk fought off another round of painful spasms, he prayed that he wasn't about to hear something devastating. "I would say that our conversation on Starbase Two, followed by the increasing levels of our personal interaction off-duty, have led me to a new conclusion regarding that very subject."
"And what would that conclusion be?"
"That it is possible we may find engaging in a physical relationship a gratifying experience for both of us."
Kirk's startled laughter devolved into a bout of shallow coughing. He clutched at Spock's encircling arms until the pressure eased in his chest, then leaned back into Spock's embrace, straining to capture his breath, caught between pain and laughter.
That's when it hit him, the reason that he detected that ineffable difference in Spock's touch. There was tenderness, care, protectiveness, all of it a gentle, yet unmistakeable undercurrent to what should have been a simple gesture of heat-sharing efficiency.
"Mr. Spock," he gasped, "are you flirting with me?"
"I find the propensity for humans to ask rhetorical questions to be continually baffling," Spock sighed. "Vulcans do not flirt."
"Of course not." Kirk closed his eyes once more, relief turning to amazement—mixed with a considerable amount of amusement—that it had all been so effortless. He should've known that the most important relationship of his life would also be the most unpredictable. But then it had always been that way—from the beginning of Kirk's command, when a pedantic Vulcan science officer had seemed more a hindrance than a help, through the early years of their mission as they learned to balance each othe'rs strengths and weaknesses, to the point where they were now, two parts of a whole.
But that was as much of a reaction that his body was going to allow him—the tingling shards of pain were amassing now, gathering strength. He knew that it wasn't just the restored circulation to his limbs—something ominous inside him was shifting, changing, the wound in his side beginning to flush with warm blood.
"As usual," Kirk's head lolled sideways, "your timing is as impeccable as your logic."
"Jim?"
The worry had returned to Spock's voice but there was nothing Kirk could do to alleviate it this time. Stifling a moan as Spock unwound one arm from around his torso, he was seconds away from blacking out, barely able to hear the high-pitched crackle of the communicator above the roaring in his ears.
"Spock to Enterprise. The captain's condition has become critical. Advise your status."
Kirk didn't hear a reply. He was drifting now, swirling in a hazy, twilight world where Spock was his only reality. He wasn't even cold anymore, just numb, and filled with a vague regret that the strength of his will might not be enough this time. How ironic that just as he was on the edge of something that would change his whole life, something unexpected yet so utterly right, that very life was about to be lost for no other reason than a malfunction that McCoy had fussed about for years.
"No, I can't," he muttered, having just enough energy left to be angry at a wayward and uncaring universe. "Not now."
If he imagined the little jolt that ran through Spock's arms, it didn't matter. He was descending into darkness just as the world around him dissolved into white sparks.
Consciousness came slowly, painlessly, a soft ascent into awareness. He knew immediately he was in sickbay, the sounds and smells unmistakeable but not unpleasant. He kept his eyes closed, content to silently assess the state of his body and relieved to find that aside from a few aches and sore muscles, nothing seemed amiss.
Until he decided to try and sit up.
Pain ripped through his side, sending his head pounding back against the pillow as he struggled for air. He felt cool fingers wrap around his wrist, a touch at once calming and professional.
"That'll teach you to ask permission next time," came the laconic voice. "You want out of bed, clear it with your doctor first."
"My doctor," Kirk gritted out between clenched teeth, "is a well-known masochist."
"Flattery will only get you so far with me, you should know better than that. Now, I'm known to be cheap from time to time, and I may be easy if the situation calls for it, but I also have a medical license. Hold still."
Kirk didn't have breath to reply. He concentrated on slowing his heart rate until the pain eased, waiting for McCoy to complete his examination of his wound before trying to speak again.
He opened his eyes, immediately reassured by the expression on McCoy's face."Well?"
"Oh, you'll live." McCoy covered Kirk's chest with his blanket. "They took a chunk out of you but nothing a few days of rest won't cure."
Kirk flinched as McCoy pressed a hypo to his shoulder. "Just a few days of rest?"
"Oh, and did I mention medication, maybe some therapy for your nearly frozen extremities, and definitely a friendly conversation or two regarding the relative safety of those damn transporters?"
"Hell, Bones, the cure seems worse than the disease. How's Spock?"
"Your first officer did what he usually does in these situations. Once I told him you were out of the woods, he barely gave me enough time to stitch him up before he reported for duty." McCoy shook his head. "Must be my bedside manner."
"Or lack thereof," Kirk shifted on the bed, trying and failing to conceal a wince. "But he's okay, right?"
"Physically, yeah, he'll be fine." McCoy hitched himself onto the bed next to Kirk's. "But you know Spock, half the time he pulls some damn Vulcan trick out of his pocket before I can even figure out what's wrong with him in the first place."
Frowning, Kirk gave McCoy a hard look. "What aren't you telling me?"
McCoy crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, Jim, I've gotten pretty good at reading Spock over the years. Maybe not as good as you, but I could tell something was bothering him. Did something happen down there?"
Kirk turned his gaze to the ceiling, trying to remember. "Not that I can recall, but I was pretty hazy after the attack. Why?"
"He was, for lack of a better term, preoccupied. Tense, even. Did you notice anything before this whole fiasco started?"
Kirk thought back to the beginning of the mission, when the most pressing problem he had was keeping the tongue-twisting names of the receiving delegation straight in his mind so he didn't embarrass himself or the Federation. Beyond that, he'd been looking forward to dinner with Spock—
Oh.
But wait, there'd been nothing uncomfortable about his conversation with Spock, nothing at all. Kirk had been cold, he'd been in pain, but he recalled very clearly that it had been Spock, not him, who'd broached the possibility—in a rational way, of course—of the two of them becoming lovers.
My God, did they really have that conversation?
"Jim? Something on your mind?"
Kirk blinked, caught off guard by the seemingly innocent question. He glanced over at McCoy, who was gazing steadily back at him.
"I want—" Kirk began, and then paused. He knew that confiding in McCoy was an option; he trusted Bones not only with his physical well-being but his emotional health as well, and anything he said now would be kept in strictest confidence. He suspected that McCoy had been expecting something like this for some time, but Kirk could never discuss such a private matter like this before he'd had a chance to speak with Spock first.
"I want to talk to Spock as soon as possible. Have him report to me as soon as he's off duty."
McCoy held his gaze, then nodded. He slid off the bed, glancing at the diagnostic readout above Kirk's head. "You'll be asleep in about three minutes. Once you wake up, I'll release you to your quarters. I'll relay your order to the bridge and have Spock meet you there after his shift."
"Good," Kirk muttered, his eyes drifting shut as McCoy's sedative began to take effect. This was good, he repeated to himself. Things were going to be settled. Whatever it was that had Spock upset, if McCoy had picked up on it that easily, Kirk needed to get to the core of it as soon as possible.
"You wanted to see me, Captain?"
Damn. Kirk knew that voice. He also recognized Spock's current stance—parade rest, back stiff, hands behind his back, dark, expressionless eyes firmly fixed on a spot somewhere above Kirk's head. Except they weren't expressionless, not to Kirk. No, to Kirk, those eyes expressed discomfort, restraint, a desire to be understood warring with a deep need of personal privacy.
Trust me,, Kirk wanted to tell him. It'll be okay.
But that wasn't what Spock needed to hear, nor would it have done any good. Kirk remained seating at his desk, deliberately keeping his expression open, letting his body language express his complete trust in Spock's presence.
"I accept."
Whatever I was Spock had been expecting, that wasn't it. His eyes flicked toward Kirk, then away. "Sir?"
"When we were planet-side, you mentioned something about a physical relationship between us. I can't think of anything I'd like more."
Spock was looking at him directly now, brows drawn together in confusion. "Then—you have changed your mind?"
It was Kirk's turn to be confused. "Changed my mind? No, I'm pretty sure I've been looking forward to this for some time." Predictably, the mild joke was ignored, so Kirk pushed on. "What makes you ask that?"
Spock looked away again, closing him off, and Kirk suppressed a sigh. "That was not your original response."
"I can honestly say I don't remember responding at all. I think I passed out and the next thing I knew, I was in sickbay and McCoy was already badgering me about the transporters."
"The transporter malfunction has been traced to a corrupted file—"
"Yes, Mr. Spock," Kirk interrupted gently, "I've read Scotty's report. What made you think I had rejected your suggestion?"
Spock's eyes met his, and Kirk was taken aback at the desolation he saw there. "Your exact words," Spock murmured, "were 'no, I can't,' and 'not now.' Understandably, I took that as a refutation of my conclusion regarding a possible modification to our relationship."
Kirk rubbed at his chin, desperately trying to recall those last few moments of clarity before he'd lost consciousness. He remembered the increasing pain, and the bitter cold, and the anger he felt that his closest desire was about to be forever lost to him because of a technical hiccup.
Anger—that was it. No wonder Spock was confused.
"I hate to admit this," Kirk shrugged, then winced, "but I wasn't talking to you."
Spock's head snapped up. "I assure you, there was no else in the vicinity. Unless you were hallucinating?"
"No," Kirk said, "definitely not a hallucination. I was addressing the universe."
"The universe?"
"Yes, Spock, the universe. And before you try and explain how illogical that is, let me state further that I was expressing my defiance toward it."
Kirk waited while Spock digested that, partly amused by the mental gymnastics Spock must be going through to make sense of his statement, but aware that the situation was far from amusing. He was betting his future happiness on convincing Spock that turning him down had been the farthest thought from Kirk's mind.
"I see." Spock was looking downward, a frown lingering between his eyes. When he lifted his head, one eyebrow arched upward, Kirk felt a flare of hope. "And what had the universe had done to inspire such an emotional reaction?"
"I thought I was going to die." Kirk stood up, bracing one fist on the surface of the desk, refusing to let the weakness of his body spoil this moment. "I thought that the universe was going to take you away from me." The corner of Kirk's mouth quirked up in a wry smile. "With or without a physical dimension to our relationship, I wasn't ready to let that happen."
"Jim," Spock took a step toward Kirk, the rigidity in his shoulders visibly easing, "we have control over neither the past nor the future. Where we stand now, in this moment, is the only certainty that your universe has to offer."
Kirk's smile faded. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to disagree with you, Spock."
Spock took another step forward, drawing close enough that Kirk imagined he could feel the warmth emanating from the lean body. "A not-uncommon occurrence. May I ask why?"
"Because while you're right that the universe owes us no favors and makes us no promises, there is one thing that I am very certain will never change, and one belief that I hold to be true above all else."
The brown eyes were shining now, though Spock's expression remained as placid as ever. "And that is?"
"That what we chose to have between us, however we decide to go forward, the greatest gift I've ever received has been your friendship." Raising his hand, Kirk placed his fingertips lightly against Spock's forehead and temple, approximating the position of a meld. He let the touch linger, making sure Spock understood that Kirk was offering both a caress and a commitment. "I would not risk losing that for the world, but neither would I be foolish enough to pass up the opportunity to offer more than friendship. To offer," he concluded simply, "all that I am."
Spock tilted his head to one side, leaning into Kirk's caress, then lifted his own hand, fingers loosely curled inward toward his palm. Kirk waited, his gaze locked with Spock's and his heart beating in a strong, steady rhythm of soaring acceptance. He dropped his own hand when the felt the brush of Spock's knuckles against his brow. The gentle touch rocked him down to his heels—it was so different from any other touch they'd shared in the past. With Spock's fingertips kept away from the points of connection, Kirk realized that Spock was in turn offering a caress of a lover, entirely physical, yet just as familiar and delicate as the joining of their minds.
"You offer me all that you are," Spock trailed his fingers down the curve of Kirk's cheek before breaking contact completely, "and I accept. If you require a similar declaration in return, I can only say that what you offer to me freely now, I gave to you without hesitation or expectation long ago."
Kirk's mouth lifted in a smile as his own inner universe was finally realigned. Spock's statement felt less like a confession than a confirmation of all that had been left unsaid between them for too long. As close as they stood to each other now, the warmth flowing from Spock's body was palpable, and Kirk knew that very soon he'd push into that heat and let it soak into his skin, surrounding him until it was part of his own body's rhythm and structure.
And Spock knew it, too. Kirk could see his own knowledge reflected in Spock's eyes and for a brief moment they spoke without words, without touch, the same silent communication they'd shared for years brought into the newly born intimacy between them.
But that was all it could be, for now. A slow, steady lethargy was weighing down on Kirk's limbs, and although he was reluctant to break the moment, he knew that he'd have to, and soon. Spock, with his ability to read Kirk in any situation, broke eye contact just as Kirk felt his body begin to sway. A strong arm slid along Kirk's back and he allowed himself to be led toward his bed, where he sat down and waited for the room to stop spinning.
"Do you wish me to contact Dr. McCoy?"
Kirk waved his hand. "No, he told me I was going to be woozy for a while."
"Woozy? An interesting term. Is it accurate?"
Kirk glanced at Spock, who'd knelt beside him near the bed. "Unfortunately, yes. Listen, Spock, I'm sorry—I seem to keep falling asleep just when things are getting interesting."
"Again, there is no need for apology." Spock guided Kirk onto his back, his touch now efficient and calm. As Kirk stretched out with a thankful sigh, Spock continued, his voice dropped low enough that Kirk had to strain to hear him as his eyes drifted close and consciousness began to slip away.
"We have time, Jim." Kirk felt one last brush of Spock's fingers against his cheek. "We have time."
Kirk felt more than saw Spock settle into the chair beside his bed, picturing in his mind those long fingers steepled in an attitude of contemplation. Knowing he was watched over so faithfully, knowing what awaited him when his strength returned, Kirk let himself fall into sleep on Spock's last whispered words.
"The universe did not prevail."