The lake house was just as Michael remembered it.
It was a modest, rustic little A-frame that just barely peeked out from the tree line, its glass front facing the water. The furniture was mismatched, a little archaic, and uniformly cozy; the walls and shelves were covered in various decorative trinkets, but devoid of anything that would identify a particular owner—typical, for a vacation home. Stairs from the deck led right down to the beach, where small waves lapped gently against the shore.
There was no second floor; instead, a short flight of stairs led up to a walled loft that was separated into two bedrooms. Michael hesitated at the top of the stairs, considering the half-open door to the master bedroom for a moment before turning and dropping her bags in the second bedroom instead.
Two beds sat on either side of the room, one of which still sported a clumsy, angular IDIC symbol scratched into the headboard.
Michael smiled, remembering Spock’s initial protests that vandalism was illogical and later complaints that her rendition of the symbol was inaccurate.
She made a quick detour to the kitchen to drop off the groceries she’d brought; there was a synthesizer installed, but she was thoroughly sick of synthesized food. Then she circled the interior of the house, throwing open every window she could find. The owners cleaned regularly, but the air was stale.
With that done, she wandered down to the beach and out onto the dock that stretched into the water. The dock faced due west, toward the setting sun that lit up the sky in shades of orange and violet.
It was so quiet. She’d grown used to the constant hum of a starship, noticed it now only by its absence. Here there was only the sound of the water, the rustle of the trees in the wind, and the faint cries of wildlife in the distance.
She’d been eleven years old when Amanda brought them here for the first time.
“What is the purpose of this exercise?”
Michael swam over to where Spock knelt on the dock, watching her. “You don’t swim?”
Spock made that little frown, the one he always made when Michael pointed out something he didn’t know. “Vulcan is a desert planet.”
“We live next to a lake,” Michael fired back. Spock’s frown deepened, and Michael figured it was time for a peace offering: “I can teach you, if you want.”
The sun finally descended below the horizon, and Michael wandered back inside.
A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was still early in the evening, by her usual standards. There was a little lag between local time and galactic standard, but not enough to warrant going to bed quite yet.
The cabin’s bookcase was old and battered, stuffed with paperbacks and hardcovers of wildly varying age, condition, and genre. The selection hadn’t changed much since she was a child, and she ran her fingers over the spines before pulling a mystery novel off the shelf and settling down on the couch to read.
She woke with the book splayed open across her face, the sound of the doorbell echoing through the cabin.
Michael hauled herself up off the couch and looked at the clock again; it was well past midnight. She stood, brushed herself down, and took a few seconds to brace herself before moving to open the door.
Spock waited on the other side, hands clasped tightly behind his back. His expression was fixed into a neutral mask, but there was something wounded in his eyes.
“Michael,” he said, as if saying more than that risked breaking his composure entirely.
“Spock,” Michael answered, and pulled him down into a hug.
Spock didn’t stiffen or resist like he usually did; he let her drag him into the embrace, forehead slowly coming to rest to her shoulder as his hands dropped to hang at his sides.
Michael could feel him trembling with the effort not to cry.
One Week Ago
Even over comms, she could tell something was wrong.
Michael and Spock attempted at least one call a month, although their respective duties sometimes made that difficult. This particular call was three months overdue—and, judging by the shadows under Spock’s eyes when his face appeared on Michael’s screen, it had been a long three months.
“You look tired,” she said. They didn’t usually bother with pleasantries. “Is this a bad time?”
“In human vernacular,” Spock replied, “‘you look tired’ is often a euphemism, used to indicate that one’s conversational partner appears uncharacteristically unkempt.”
“Which you are,” Michael confirmed, prompting a slight, annoyed furrow between Spock’s brows. “What’s wrong?”
Spock’s mouth opened, but he hesitated. If it were anyone else, the pause would indicate a placating lie was on the way, but this was her brother. They kept secrets for each other, not from each other.
“I do not wish to trouble you with the matter,” he said. Stalling. “I am well aware that you unnecessarily take on the burdens of others—”
“We’ll have that fight later,” Michael interjected. “And I’ll drop it if you really want me to. But you know I’ll worry anyway.”
Spock hesitated again. He took a breath, and it left his lungs in a long, shuddering exhale. “I … recently underwent pon farr.”
Michael did her best to school her expression, even as the surprise of it made her eyebrows twitch. “Are you all right? You’re alive, so—”
“I find it difficult to discuss,” Spock bit out. “It was … unpleasant.”
Spock’s idea of ‘unpleasant’ usually indicated nothing less than an unmitigated disaster.
Michael sat back in her chair, reaching for her PADD. An idea was forming. “How much leave time do you have saved up?”
Spock blinked at the sudden change in topic, but answered automatically: “96 days.”
“Do you remember the lake house? The one Mother liked?” At Spock’s nod of assent, Michael continued, “Captain Georgiou has recommended I take some time off. I’ll be at the lake house one week from today. If you want to talk, come see me. Okay?”
Spock nodded again, but his reticence didn’t leave her with high hopes.
Now
Despite Spock’s insistence that he could carry his own bags, Michael moved them upstairs and into the second bedroom herself. Spock followed, pausing when he noticed Michael’s bags already there.
“Your intent is to leave the master bedroom unused?” he asked.
“I thought this might be more fun,” Michael answered. “Like when we were kids.”
And letting him sleep a room away in his current state was out of the question.
Spock looked pointedly at the two beds; one a double, the other a twin. Michael had slept in the double bed the last time they were here—big sister privileges. Wordlessly, he raised an eyebrow at her.
“Yes, I’m aware you’re bigger than me now,” Michael said. “You can take the double this time.”
Spock opened his mouth, probably to poke fun at her for being a sentimental human, but at that moment the weariness of travel seemed to catch up with him. He wobbled a little, and his jaw clenched.
Best to pretend she hadn’t seen that. Michael turned to her bags and started digging for some sleepwear. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “If you plan to stay up, try not to make too much noise.”
Spock didn’t reply, and Michael headed to the bathroom to change.
When she got back, Spock was dead asleep in the double bed. He hadn’t even managed to turn the lights off.
Spock had trouble sleeping, ever since he was a child. Sarek and Amanda’s room had been too far away for them to hear him tossing and turning and pacing all night, but Michael’s room was right next to his. And so one night she’d crossed the hall with Amanda’s old copy of Alice in Wonderland and read to him until the familiar words lulled him to sleep.
It had become a little tradition between them, until Michael left for Starfleet.
That Spock had fallen asleep so quickly could be a sign of improved training and discipline. Or it might be an indicator of how little rest he’d had in the last few weeks.
Michael pushed the worry down as she switched off the lights and climbed into the twin bed; she wasn’t likely to get any answers until the morning.
That reasoning didn’t stop her from lying awake for a few hours before finally succumbing to fitful, worried sleep.
When Michael woke at dawn, Spock was still out cold.
Michael got out of bed as quietly as possible and made for the kitchen. She filled the kettle and set it to boil; by the time the water was ready, she’d warmed the teapot, filled the diffuser, and selected two mugs from the cabinet.
A grumbling Spock appeared within a few minutes. Though he hid it well around anyone but his family, Spock wasn’t exactly a morning person. Bleary eyes blinked in quiet confusion as Spock attempted to recall where he was and why Michael was here.
“Morning,” Michael said. “There’s tea.”
After downing a cup and a half, Spock seemed a little more conscious. He studied the mug in his hands, as if seeing it for the first time. “Xial spice tea. Grown only on Vulcan.”
“A few cuttings made it off-world, before …”
Michael didn’t bother to finish the thought.
She’d been deployed with the rest of the fleet in the Laurentian system when the distress call came through. Too far away to help. So far away, Starfleet had been forced to deploy a relief fleet crewed by untested cadets instead.
Michael wondered, sometimes, what would have happened if the Shenzhou had been close enough to intervene. If it would have mattered.
She forced that train of thought away. “I found a specialty teahouse on New Vulcan,” she explained. “You can take some back with you, if you want.”
Spock made a noise of assent, and a quick glance at his blank expression confirmed he was still preoccupied with his own memories of Vulcan.
Michael pulled a box of gloves down from the cabinet, donned a pair, then pulled a few vegetables from the fridge. “Here,” she said, depositing them on the counter next to Spock, along with a knife. “You can help with breakfast.”
That seemed to pull Spock out of his reverie. He put on his own pair of gloves, and they worked silently for the next few minutes.
Surprisingly, he was the one to break the silence.
“I understand that Captain Georgiou has been persuaded to accept a promotion,” Spock remarked idly. “Which would leave her position as captain of the Shenzhou vacant.”
“That’s correct,” Michael said, chopping mushrooms with a bit more focus than necessary.
“It would be logical for her first officer to take command,” Spock continued, asking the question without asking it.
“Maybe.”
“Then you have not accepted the position,” Spock concluded.
Michael finally put the knife aside and glared down at the counter. “I’m considering it.”
“You are the ideal candidate,” Spock said, blunt as he usually was with praise.
“I’m the default candidate,” Michael corrected. “It’s easier to promote me than it is to find someone else. Doesn’t mean I’ve earned it.”
Spock turned to look at her, head tipping slightly to the side. “You would not have been offered the position if you were not qualified.”
“I just—” Michael stopped and took a breath. Now was not the time to start snapping at Spock. “I need some time to think it over. That’s all.”
“Is it possible this insecurity stems from your rejected application to join the Vulcan Expeditionary—”
“Don’t.”
Spock stared at her, then nodded. “Very well. Do you have plans for the day?”
Michael sighed, relaxing a little. “Nothing.”
Spock gave her the eyebrow. “There are a number of diversions within the town if—”
“No, Spock,” Michael explained. “I have plans, and my plans are to do nothing. Care to join me?”
Living with Vulcans was, Michael often reflected, not unlike living with cats. They socialized primarily by gathering in close proximity and then ignoring each other.
While Michael read in the daybed by the window, Spock settled on the couch across the room and sketched on his PADD. They cooked and ate together, and kept a drive-by chess game going on one of the tables. Conversation, however, was sparse and brief. Michael kept her ear open, waiting for any indication that Spock was ready to talk, but he remained almost entirely silent throughout the day.
After dinner, Michael headed down to the beach for a swim. She didn’t bother to ask Spock if he wanted to join; while he’d taken to swimming with the same aptitude he took to most other pursuits, he didn’t seem to like it all that much.
She lost track of the hours she spent in the lake, but before she knew it the sun was setting and it was starting to get cold.
And she could see Spock sitting on the edge of the dock, staring out at the water.
Michael swam up to meet him, one hand braced on the dock to keep the waves from pushing her away. “Planning to go for a swim?”
“No,” Spock said, absently. Then he looked down at her, with that wounded look in his eyes. “I came to speak with you.”
“Okay.” Michael hauled herself up out of the water and sat next to him on the dock, leaving some space between them. With Spock, it was sometimes hard to tell what would help and what wouldn’t.
“I … had expected I would be spared the pon farr,” he said, looking out at the dark water.
When he didn’t continue, Michael guessed he was waiting for a response. “You’re not the only one,” she said. “You were the first hybrid to make it out of childhood. Nobody knew what to expect.” A memory surfaced, and she allowed herself a quiet laugh. “Mother was a wreck every time you got sick. Even when the doctors said you’d be fine. She told me ‘it’s a mother’s job to worry.’”
Spock tensed next to her, and his eyes turned to where his hands where folded in his lap. “… I miss her.”
Michael shuffled closer, pressing her shoulder against Spock’s. “So do I.”
There was another long stretch of silence, until Spock said, “I tried to control it. There is precedent that allows for pon farr to be suppressed with meditation.” His eyes squeezed shut. “I could not maintain focus. Perhaps if I were a full-blood Vulcan …”
“Perhaps not,” Michael said. That train of thought led nowhere good. “There’s no way to know.”
Spock nodded, but his eyes remained shut. “We were too far from New Vulcan. And with T’Pring’s death, even reaching the colony on time was no guarantee of survival. I had resigned myself to death, except—” Spock took a shaky breath. “—except that Captain Kirk—”
“Oh, Spock,” Michael sighed.
She’d long had her suspicions about Spock’s regard for his captain. And even if Spock hadn’t acknowledged his feelings, his instincts clearly had, judging Kirk a viable mate in the absence of his childhood bond with T’Pring. As for the other half of the equation …
Rage boiled up in Michael’s chest. “If he took advantage—”
“He did not.” Spock turned to look at her then, eyes wide. “He left the choice in my hands. I was the one too weak to—”
Michael shook her head, still angry. “You were dying.”
“Exactly my point,” Spock said, emotion choking the words. “His consent was compromised—”
“Not by any fault of yours,” Michael interrupted. “If I needed a transplant, if I’d die without one and you were the only possible donor, your consent would also be compromised. But I know you wouldn’t consider that coercion on my part.”
Spock raised a disdainful eyebrow, a little of his usual composure returning. “An irrelevant hypothetical. The degree of medical compatibility between us is so narrow as to make organ transplant impossible.”
“We’re discussing ethics, not biology,” Michael sniped back. “I have a point and you know it.”
Spock’s face settled into a familiar little frown. He turned his gaze back to the water, lapping gently against the dock.
Michael sighed. “Is that why you …” she trailed off, unsure how to continue.
“Not … entirely.” Spock swallowed, his posture slumping a little. “During the—when we—I was … unable to control myself. I knew that to use my strength recklessly might cause harm, but I did so nevertheless.” His eyes closed again. “I … injured Jim. Not because I wanted to, but because I did not care—”
A sob escaped him in a sudden, gasping rush.
Instinctively, Michael looped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close. Spock went with the motion, weight resting against Michael’s side.
“He insists he is unharmed,” Spock gasped, “and that he would have consented even if my life were not at stake. But when I look at him, I see what I have done to someone I love. What I could do again, if I stay aboard the Enterprise.”
Michael stilled, her hand tightening on his arm. “You’re thinking about resigning.”
“I am unfit to be a Starfleet officer,” Spock ground out. “I am unfit to—to stay with him.”
His head dropped to press against her shoulder, and Michael put her other arm around him.
“Okay,” Michael said, resting her chin on the top of his head. “Here’s the part where your big sister says something true, but not something nice.” She felt Spock tense in her arms, but continued anyway: “Sometimes it’s easier to call yourself a monster and run away than it is to face what happened and deal with the consequences.”
Spock didn’t lift his head, instead mumbling into her shoulder: “You believe my desire to resign is an avoidance tactic.”
“I do,” Michael said. “Uncertainty scares you, Spock. You know that if you try to make things work on the Enterprise, there’s a possibility you’ll fail.” She rubbed his back with one hand, soothing. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”
They sat there in silence for a while.
“Ambassador Spock is dead,” Spock eventually said.
“I heard.” Michael’s own emotions regarding Spock’s counterpart were hard enough to navigate; she could only imagine what Spock had gone through.
“There is much I wish I could ask him.”
There was regret in his voice, and grief, and … disappointment, the disappointment of not living up to an ideal. Michael knew that feeling well.
“I met him once,” she said. “We had dinner on New Vulcan. He didn’t tell me much, but …” Michael squeezed Spock a little tighter. “I got the sense he had his own Michael. And he lost her, in a way that hurt. Deeply.”
Spock lifted his head from her shoulder, sitting back a little. Michael loosened her grip, but left one arm slung around his shoulders.
His eyebrows were just slightly furrowed, the closest he usually got to open confusion.
“His life wasn’t the ideal version of yours,” Michael said. “He had his own regrets. Made his own mistakes.”
“You …” Spock paused. “You are likely right.”
“I’m always right.”
The sun had set long ago; it was pitch black out, and Michael knew neither of them would accomplish much of anything else tonight.
“Come on,” she said, releasing her hold on Spock and hauling herself upright. “I could use some sleep, and I’m sure you could, too.”
Spock managed to compose himself, rising to his feet with his usual grace. But there was still something vulnerable in his voice when he said, “May I ask a favor of you, Michael?”
“Of course.”
“I … I believe I would find it easier to sleep if you read to me.”
Michael’s throat tightened, but she managed to feign a casual, “Of course.”
There was an old copy of Swallows and Amazons in the cabin’s bookcase; she cracked it open once they were both settled in their respective beds and began to read aloud, quiet and steady.
Within minutes, Spock was asleep.
Michael jolted awake, bewildered as to what had woken her.
Until she saw, curled into a fetal position up against the headboard of his bed, Spock. His hands clutched his head, tangled in his hair, and a continuous keening noise ripped from his throat.
Michael threw the covers back and leapt into the other bed. “Spock?”
“Jim,” Spock sobbed out, palms pressing tighter against his temples. “Where is Jim?”
“Shit,” Michael hissed. The pon farr was more recent than she’d thought; he was still having aftershocks. Gently, she braced her hands on his shoulders. “Spock?” He didn’t respond, and she shook him a little. “It’s okay, Spock.”
Her only answer was another wordless wail of loneliness and fear.
Michael moved back, slowly made for the door, then bolted downstairs toward the cabin’s comm unit. It took at least three overrides to open a priority channel directly to the Enterprise.
The call finally connected, and the resulting video feed displayed the interior of the captain’s quarters. A startlingly young man, only half-dressed, looked at her with bleary eyes; it was early morning, by galactic standard time.
“Kirk here,” the man said. “What’s this about?”
“Captain. I’m Commander Burnham, U.S.S. Shenzhou.” She waited for a nod of acknowledgment before she continued: “I’m with Commander Spock right now. He needs your help.”
Kirk’s poise immediately shifted, his shoulders stiffening as he leaned toward the comm panel. “Spock? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s having an aftershock.”
“I don’t—”
“Captain, I don’t have a lot of time to explain.” Michael was talking too fast, stumbling over her words. She couldn’t worry about that now. “I need you to talk to Spock. Try to calm him down, if you can.”
“Of course,” Kirk breathed. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs.” She grabbed her communicator from the side table, tapping rapidly at the screen. “I’m patching you through to my communicator. Stand by.”
Spock was exactly where she’d left him, curled up and unresponsive. Michael scrambled up onto the bed and managed to pry one of Spock’s hands free, shoving her communicator into it.
“Spock,” she murmured. “Spock, it’s okay. Jim’s here.”
“Jim?” Spock called out, voice cracking over the name.
“Talk to him, Captain,” Michael urged.
“What do I say?”
“Anything,” Michael said. “He just needs to hear your voice.”
“Okay,” A shaky inhale echoed down the line. “Okay. Spock? Can you hear me?”
“Jim?” Spock repeated, voice trembling. “Where are you?”
“I’m here,” Kirk replied, soothing. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“You were gone,” Spock gasped. “I could not find you.”
“I’m here now, Spock. Don’t worry. I’m right here.”
The string of reassuring babble continued for a few more minutes. Spock relaxed by increments, until Michael was able to coax him to lie down again. His eyes slid shut, and his breathing evened out until he drifted off to sleep again.
Michael gently slid the communicator out of his slack hand. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Commander.” Kirk sounded shaken. “What the hell’s going on down there?”
“I’ll explain what I can, sir.” She glanced over at Spock’s sleeping form. “Just … not right now. I’m sorry.”
“Understood. Kirk out.”
Michael sat heavily on the edge of the bed, clutching the communicator. Spock slept peacefully, as if nothing had happened.
Her eyes burned, and she blinked away tears.
The second time Michael woke that morning, it was to the smell of bacon.
The other bed was empty; unless they were the victims of a particularly courteous burglar, Spock was downstairs, making breakfast. And he was feeling extra contrite this morning, if there was bacon involved. He usually couldn’t stand the smell.
Michael rolled out of bed and made her way to the kitchen. Sure enough, Spock was there. And he’d made tea.
Green tea, which Michael loved and Spock hated.
Michael announced her presence with a yawn and reached past Spock to grab a few plates out of the cabinet. “Apology accepted,” she said. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I believe I did,” Spock replied stiffly.
“What, for waking me up in the middle of the night?”
“… No.” Spock turned off the cooktop and set the bacon aside. “I should not have come here. You do not have the training to manage my current condition without causing harm to yourself and it was irresponsible of me to—”
“I asked you to come here,” Michael corrected. “I want to help.”
“I accepted the invitation despite being aware of your fixation on my well-being to the exclusion of your own,” Spock said. “Including—”
“Spock!”
Spock’s mouth snapped shut.
Michael groaned and rubbed a hand over her face. “Damn it. You’re right.”
When she looked up, Spock was giving her the eyebrow again.
“Stop that,” she groused. “You’re right that I can’t be your therapist. But I can still help. And there are plenty of Starfleet counselors that I know you haven’t talked to.”
“… You are correct,” Spock conceded. “I—”
On the table behind them, Michael’s PADD beeped.
Michael reflexively turned to check, and froze when she saw the message that had just come through. It was from Kirk, consisting solely of the words “Can we talk?” and an address.
Spock sensed her tension immediately. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, Michael passed him the PADD so he could read the message. Spock studied it for a long while.
“If you want me to ignore it, I will,” Michael said firmly.
“No,” Spock replied, handing the PADD back to her. “The captain deserves an explanation for the incident last night. And he would clearly prefer that it come from you.”
“Not sure about that,” Michael muttered. “I’ll go get dressed.”
The address Kirk had sent led Michael to an outdoor cafe, just off the town’s main strip. She spotted him at a table in an isolated corner; he was out of uniform, but still held himself with an official air. A common tactic for command officers trying to hide anxiety.
Kirk jumped when Michael dropped into the seat across from him; he hadn’t noticed her arrival. Another bad sign.
“Captain Kirk,” she said.
“Commander Burnham,” Kirk replied, with a stiff nod. “Although, from what I’ve heard, I might as well call you ‘Captain,’ too.”
“I haven’t accepted the promotion yet,” Michael pointed out.
Kirk shrugged. “At any rate, we’re both off-duty. I don’t think we should worry about formalities.”
“If you insist.” Michael leaned back in her seat, hands in her lap. “You got here fast.”
“I kept Enterprise within a few hours of transporter range after Spock left.” Kirk fidgeted, running a hand through his hair. “Everyone’s worried about him.”
“Of course,” Michael said, nodding. “Spock’s … stable, for now.” She paused, then added, “He knows I’m here.”
Kirk leaned forward, hands clasped tightly on the table in front of him. “What happened last night, Burnham?”
“It’s called an ‘aftershock,’” Michael explained. “It happens sometimes, in the days after a Vulcan’s pon farr. From a biological standpoint, it’s meant to cement the social bond between a mated pair after the initial, uh … coupling.” Michael grimaced a little, her clinical understanding at war with the fact that she was sitting across from one of the parties involved in said coupling.
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question,” Kirk said.
“Long story short, a Vulcan experiencing an aftershock will feel compelled to stay close to their mate,” Michael continued. “And if they can’t find their mate …”
“They freak out,” Kirk concluded. His eyes narrowed. “You know a lot about this.”
“I’m a xenoanthropologist,” Michael said. “And I was raised on Vulcan.”
“Is that why Spock came to you?”
There was something underlying the question. Suspicion. Insecurity.
Michael couldn’t stop her eyebrows from going up. “You have no idea who I am.”
Kirk rolled his eyes. “I know who you are, I just—”
“Spock is my brother,” Michael interrupted. When she saw Kirk’s eyes flit to her ears, she added, “Adopted.”
“… Oh.” Kirk rubbed both hands over his face, mumbling into his hands: “God, what is it with Spock and secrets?”
“He has a hard time trusting people,” Michael offered, by way of explanation. “Try not to take it personally.”
Kirk’s hands dropped to the table. “Is he afraid of me?”
Michael shook her head. “He’s afraid of himself,” she said. “Afraid of what he could do to you. He came to me because he knew he could trust himself around family.”
“He just manhandled me a little. Left some bruises.” Kirk sighed. “He didn’t hurt me, Burnham. Not in any way I wasn’t willing to be hurt.”
“That’s … not the problem.” Michael crossed her arms, the fingers of one hand tapping against her bicep. “The central tenet of Vulcan philosophy is that the only thing one can control is oneself. This belief is ingrained since birth. It’s the core of their identify as a people.”
“And pon farr takes away that control.” Kirk shifted a little in his seat, looking away. “I thought they were just hung up about sex.”
Michael realized she was clenching her jaw, and forced herself to relax. “Most Vulcans can compartmentalize the violent impulses they experience during pon farr. But Spock is half-human.”
Kirk still couldn’t meet her eyes. “So he can’t.”
“Spock is a gentle soul, Captain. A human soul. The pon farr may not have wounded you, but it wounded him. Do you understand?”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, Kirk swore and buried his face in his hands again.
Quietly, he said, “Did I do the right thing, Burnham?”
Michael took a breath. It took all her training to compartmentalize Kirk’s decision away from the memory of Spock crying in her arms.
“You faced a problem with no ideal solution, and chose the course of action that saved a life,” she said. “From a Vulcan perspective, yes. You did the right thing.”
Kirk ground his palms into his closed eyes. “Well, from a human perspective, I still feel like shit.”
“I know.”
Kirk eventually emerged from behind his hands, looking weary. “Can I talk to him?”
“You’re his captain,” Michael pointed out. “I couldn’t exactly stop you. But I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
Kirk bristled at that. “Why not?”
“Because if you want to help him, you need to be honest with him—and yourself—about what happened,” Michael said. “And everything I know about you indicates a self-sacrificing streak a mile wide. You’ll sublimate your own feelings to try and make him happy, and that’s not what he needs.”
There was a defiant flash in Kirk’s eyes, a split-second of tension before he slumped in resignation. “Fuck.”
Michael chewed her lip, studying him. “… I’ll call him. But I can’t promise anything”
She turned her back on Kirk’s expression of abject relief, levered herself out of the chair, and stepped away just far enough to allow some privacy.
Spock answered the comm almost immediately. “Michael?”
“Kirk’s fine,” she replied, answering his unspoken question. “Worried about you, but fine. He’s asking to see you.”
Spock was quiet long enough that Michael began to wonder if there was something wrong with the comm, but then he answered: “Very well.”
“Nice place,” Kirk remarked, as they approached the cabin.
“One of Mother’s favorites,” Michael replied, without thinking.
The tense silence she expected—the one that usually occurred whenever the topic of Amanda or her birth parents came up—never materialized. And of course it wouldn’t; Kirk’s entire life had been defined by the loss of a parent.
As they stepped through the door, Spock stood from his uneasy seat at the edge of the sofa. “Jim,” he said stiffly.
“Spock,” Kirk replied, voice rough. “Hi.”
Michael glanced between them and turned for the kitchen. “I can give you two some privacy—”
“I would prefer if you stayed,” Spock replied, quickly enough that Michael could detect the anxiety behind the words.
Michael raised an eyebrow at him. “Weren’t you the one pointing out I’m not a therapist?”
“It is my understanding that in—” Spock paused, his throat clicking as he swallowed. “—in emotionally fraught situations between two individuals, it is often beneficial to have a third party present.”
His face was neutral, but his eyes were wide and begging.
Wordlessly, Michael moved to sit on the couch. Spock perched next to her, and Kirk settled into the chair across from them.
“I trust all is well aboard the Enterprise?” Spock asked.
“The ship’s fine,” Kirk said, mildly exasperated. “We’re all worried about you.” After a beat, he added, “I’m worried about you.”
Spock’s gaze settled somewhere over Kirk’s shoulder. “I did not intend my departure to cause undue distress.”
Kirk’s attention drifted as well, until he was glaring at the floor. After a moment, he said, “I don’t regret it. Any of it.”
“Kirk—” Michael began, resisting the urge to yell.
“Well, what do you want me to say?” Kirk snapped. “That it sucked? Because it did.”
Spock flinched.
Kirk looked at Spock again, his expression open and raw. “I hate that you had to go through that. I hate what it did to you. I wish it hadn’t happened.”
Spock drew in on himself a little; imperceptible to most, but clear to anyone who knew him.
“But,” Kirk continued, taking a breath, “You’re alive. And I don’t regret that.” A pause, then: “Do you?”
Spock closed his eyes. “No.”
“So,” Kirk said. “What do we do now, Spock?”
“I am uncertain.”
Kirk’s lips pressed into a firm line for a moment, and he took a breath. “Do you want a transfer?”
“I considered it,” Spock said. “But I find the prospect of serving under any command but yours … unacceptable.”
“Good,” Kirk replied. “Because I don’t want anyone at my back but you, Spock.”
Spock shook his head, eyes still shut. “I hurt you,” he croaked out. “Not out of necessity—or even anger—but simply because, in the absence of my control, I was indifferent to the consequences of my actions. How can I stay by your side, knowing I am capable of that?”
“I don’t know,” Kirk said, quiet and a little lost. “But maybe we can try, anyway.”
Spock’s eyes snapped open, fixing his gaze on Kirk in open confusion. “There is no guarantee of success in such an endeavor.”
“I know.”
“Jim—”
“Spock.” Kirk reached across the space between them, holding out his hand.
Spock went still, gaze darting between Kirk’s outstretched hand and his face.
Then he leaned forward and interlaced his fingers with Kirk’s. Kirk slid out of his chair, kneeling on the floor at Spock’s feet, and pressed their foreheads together.
“Come home?” he whispered.
Spock nodded.
Michael suppressed the urge to clear her throat.
It wasn’t long, though, before Kirk seemed to remember they weren’t alone. He stood, Spock’s hand still entangled with his own. “We should at least stay in town for dinner, though,” he said, turning the charm back on. “I saw a great little Italian place near where I beamed down.”
“Spock hates Italian,” Michael said, preempting whatever excuses were on their way out of Spock’s mouth. Spock turned to glare at her.
“What?” Kirk said, genuinely surprised. “Since when?”
“Since always.” Michael pretended ignore Spock’s glare. “Vulcan palates are more sensitive to certain acids—”
Spock broke in: “I did not wish to be considered a limiting factor during social—”
“You can’t keep ignoring your own boundaries just because—”
Kirk burst out laughing.
Spock and Michael froze, both turning to stare at Kirk.
“Okay,” Kirk said, still giggling. “You’ve convinced me. You two are definitely family.”
Public transporters were located near the town square, well within walking distance of the lake house. Michael accompanied Spock and Kirk there, unwilling to send Spock off alone. She still had big sister privileges, after all.
Michael paused at the entrance to the transporter bay and clasped her hands behind her back. “Captain. May I speak with you in private before you go?”
Spock and Kirk exchanged a look, and Kirk nodded. “All right.”
Michael led him around the corner, far enough to be out of earshot even considering Spock’s Vulcan hearing.
Kirk crossed his arms. “You about to give me the shovel talk, Commander?”
“I’d rather not get court-martialed for threatening a superior officer.” Michael offered a small, conciliatory smile. “Heartbreak is a fact of life, Captain. I’m sure you understand that more than most. I do have some advice, though.”
“Oh?” There was a wary look in Kirk’s eyes.
“Never lie to him,” Michael said as sternly as she could manage, considering he had rank and about eight inches of height on her. Then, less so: “And try reading to him once in a while.”
A genuine smile tugged at Kirk’s lips. “Are you serious?”
“Spock has trouble sleeping,” Michael told him. “He can go for a few days without it, but that doesn’t mean he should. Reading to him will help. Trust me.”
Kirk seemed to consider this. “Can I offer you some advice in return?”
“Of course.”
Kirk leaned in a little closer. “Take the promotion.”
The anxiety Michael had repressed for the last few weeks surged up; she carefully schooled her expression. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Nobody’s ready,” Kirk replied. “I sure wasn’t. You don’t really earn the chair until you’re in it.”
Michael raised an eyebrow at him. “In your case, Captain, I’m confident that’s completely true.”
Kirk rolled his eyes with a noise of mock disgust. “God. Now I know where he gets it from.” He uncrossed his arms and clapped her on the shoulder. “Captains serve their crew, Burnham, not the other way around. Just remember that, and you’ll be fine.”
Michael’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Thank you, sir.”
“And drop the ‘sir,’” Kirk said with a wink, sidling past her on his way back into the transporter bay, “Captain.”
Spock was waiting where they’d left him, with a slight air of impatience. “I trust all is well?”
“Just clearing a few things up,” Kirk replied. “Ready to go?”
Spock nodded, turning his attention to Michael. “I am grateful for your support, Michael.”
“That’s what family’s for,” Michael said. “Oh, and don’t forget this.”
She reached into her pack and retrieved a packet of spice tea, holding it out to him.
As Spock reached out to take it, his fingers shook almost imperceptibly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Take care of yourself,” Michael replied. “And maybe come see the Shenzhou sometime. I think you’d like her.”
“I will see what arrangements can be made,” Spock answered, and from him, she knew it wasn’t a platitude.
The transporter activated, and Michael stepped back, watching as the two of them disappeared.
Once they were gone, she turned to make her way back to the lake house.
‘Captain Burnham.’ It had a ring to it.
Weeks later, Jim found himself standing at the door to Spock’s quarters.
The away mission had gone bad. They’d lost three people—including Lieutenant Czeto, one of Spock’s youngest and brightest science officers. No-one had seen hide nor hair of Spock since they’d beamed back aboard and the away team had been cleared to leave sickbay.
Jim braced himself and hit the door chime.
There was no answer, but after a few seconds, the door slid open. Jim stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him.
The room’s lights were turned down. Jim scanned the dim interior, eyes eventually landing on where Spock knelt in the sectioned-off meditation area. His eyes were closed, and a lit firepot sat in front of him, its flame a wavering beacon in the dark.
“Sorry,” Jim said, immediately backing away. “You’re meditating. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Spock’s eyes opened. “The interruption is of no consequence. I am finding it … difficult to clear my mind.”
Jim moved forward again, noting the stiffness in Spock’s shoulders, the shadows under his eyes. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Maybe try to get some sleep, instead.”
“Unfortunately, that eludes me as well,” Spock replied, with a weary glance in his direction.
“Okay,” Jim said. “I have an idea. I’ll be right back.”
The trip back to his own cabin was mercifully brief, and he returned to Spock’s room within a few minutes, a worn copy of Our Mutual Friend in hand.
Spock’s attention immediately went to the book, and his eyes narrowed. “You have been speaking to Michael.”
Kirk gave him a wry smile. “Don’t worry. She hasn’t told me all your secrets.”
Spock seemed to relax at that.
Jim settled into Spock’s bed, up against the headboard, and patted the space next to him. “Come on. Lie down.”
Spock hesitated, then lowered himself to the bed; stiffly, at first, but relaxing when Jim put an arm around him. He rested his head against Jim’s shoulder, eyes already half-closed.
Jim opened to page one and began to read aloud.
Spock was asleep by the end of the first chapter.
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