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As they're dragged away by the natives, Spock hazily hopes he can manufacture an escape before he invariably vomits. Kirk – hands bound in the same fashion – stumbles next to him as they're prodded along at spearpoint. “You alright?” he asks. “It looks like they hit your head back there - “
A minor blow. But Spock's stomach has felt tight and twisted for a few days. It didn't seem worth mentioning to the doctor, but he can feel saliva gathering in his mouth, his chest occasionally spasming. “I am fine,” he says. “We must focus on the situation, Captain.”
It's a useless reminder; Kirk's scanning their captors even while they approach the crowd assembled before a low stone altar of some sort. Careful as Starfleet researchers are to avoid detection, it's not the first time Spock and Kirk have been mistaken for vengeful demons; it probably won't be the last. If they survive this.
“If you have any suggestions,” Kirk hisses as one of their captors jabs him forward hard enough to draw blood, “I'm listening, Mr. Spock.”
Spock swallows something prickly and bitter in the back of his throat. No time to dwell on physical ailments. “I regret that I can see no way to avoid this situation.”
They're both pushed in front of the altar. A long, low piece of carved stone, flat and square. Big enough, Spock thinks, for a man to lay down. Or to be held down.
Kirk tries to appeal, yet again, to the grim-faced woman who seems to give directions to the mob. A chief of some sort? A spiritual leader? They don't have enough information, but Kirk persists. “Allow us to make our case. We've committed no crimes against your people; we haven't hurt anyone. A decision like this cannot be undone, and I would - “
“Enough,” the headsman snaps. The man clearly takes no pleasure in his task; his crude axe looks, to Spock's untrained eye, professionally sharpened. The stranger's purple-lipped mouth clenches tight, his bearing solemn as he prods them to stand before the stone. Beyond the crowd waits, silently expectant without the sort of sadistic delight one might expect – this is clearly a duty to them, a necessary fate for malicious spirits, not a diversion.
“You will not beguile our people, creature. This is your last opportunity to redeem yourself. So: do you have any last words?” the maybe-chief demands.
Kirk's nod comes as no surprise. Naturally they must both use any chance to stall – and Spock immediately assumes that Kirk will use the opportunity to moralize, to make a last effort to appeal to the sympathies of this species.
He doesn't expect Kirk to turn toward him.
“I'm sorry I couldn't get us out of this, Spock,” he says. He sounds almost rueful – like this is a minor embarrassment, not the end. He reaches out to touch Spock's wrist, eyes warm and sad. “But I'm glad to be here with you. There's no one else I'd rather have at my side, in any situation.”
Kirk waits. The murderous alien crowd waits. Spock needs to say – to say something – but all words fall short of the traitorous warmth in his chest. He cannot adequately respond – cannot admit, in full view of these people and the unjudging gaze of his captain, how he returns the sentiment. How he surpasses it, because his regard – his feelings for the captain - are greater than he dares to think about.
Spock opens his mouth.
And he coughs.
He coughs, and coughs. Kirk's expression melts into alarm as the coughs turn into a deep hacking. Though the experience is utterly foreign, Spock realizes what is happening even before the first petals spill from his lips – a soft lily-pink.
The petals resemble roses, and he thinks, resigned: of course.
The headsman exclaims and stumbles back as Spock continues to cough. Kirk moves forward without impediment, grasping his shoulders in concern, which has the unintended effect of making Spock convulse harder.
How is he meant to stop feeling, when Kirk looks at him like that?
“Spock, what's happening?” the captain demands. The crowd has fallen into a startled stillness, some watching with open mouths. The woman at the front of the crowd crosses her arms, stepping forward.
As she says something to a nearby guard, Kirk loops an arm around Spock's waist to steady him. This is counterproductive. Spock finished his fit by somehow gasping out a fully-formed rose, roots and all, straight at the captain's feet.
…
...
The one positive side to a mortifying situation: apparently this planet has a great respect for 'mischievous gods of nature.' As they're dragged away to a feast – the same one originally scheduled to celebrate the deaths of the sky-demons – Spock tries desperately to think of an explanation for this.
But first, he needs to stop coughing.
“...So. Are we going to talk about the flowers,” asks Kirk when they finally get back to the Enterprise.
“No.”
“...I, ah, think we need to talk about the flowers, Spock.”
“You nearly get killed,” McCoy grumbles from where he's patching a scuff on Spock's arm, “And you're worried about some damn alien fauna?”
Kirk hesitates. Opens his mouth; closes it. The look he shoots Spock is uncharacteristically uncertain, but concerned. Probably he's realizing just how ludicrous the situation would sound to other humans – but of course, of course he's still obligated to intervene. Kirk feels a deep responsibility for all his crew; he would never be able to suffer the possibility that Spock's situation will hurt him.
Spock coughs. A single pink petal falls from his mouth.
McCoy freezes.
“Ah,” says Kirk wryly. “Yes. Those flowers.”
“What the hell,” spits McCoy, diving for a scanner.
Spock folds his arms as McCoy hovers around him, making incredulous faces down at the instrument. At one point, clearly fed up, he tosses the technology aside and retrieves an old-fashioned stethoscope from his office. Kirk watches with raised eyebrows as McCoy listens to Spock's chest (the stethoscope is icy-cold). McCoy repeats, “What the hell, Spock. Why – why are there flowers in your lungs?”
“Personal reasons,” says Spock.
This garners stares from both men. “Yeah, I'm going to need more than that,” McCoy tells him.
The doctor's nosiness never fails to exasperate Spock. “It is a condition that sometimes occurs in Vulcans. There is no reason for concern.”
“A condition – you're sick? With spontaneous flowers? How do I get rid of them?”
“You do not. They will disappear independently, if at all.”
“That's not good enough,” says McCoy. With morbid fascination he starts plucking up samples from the ground; it's characteristically rude. “And how do they get in your lungs? God, I'm going to have to call that awful Vulcan doctor and he's going to think I'm insane - “
Kirk clears his throat. “Spock, is this anything to do with, ah – the birds and the bees?”
Technically, yes. “No.”
“Well thank god for that,” McCoy says. “Okay, is this some other weird secret Vulcan thing?”
“Yes.”
“...Well, glad we've cleared that up.” McCoy throws up his hands. “Not like I'm your personal doctor, or anything. Not like flowers in your lungs could be a medical concern.”
“Indeed,” sighs Spock, and watches in mute resignation as McCoy puffs with the beginnings of a rant.
He's cleared for duty.
A rather uncomfortable Vulcan physician assured McCoy by transmission that Spock's condition “is chronic, but not threatening,” and also “within accepted parameters of Vulcan physiology.”
McCoy calls it witchcraft. “One day we're going to find out Vulcans can time-travel and – and see the future, and speak to birds and breathe underwater,” he tells an amused Kirk, “and they'll say, oh, didn't you know? I suppose it just never came up.”
“Telepathy with animals has only limited use; time travel rarely happens without mechanical aid,” Spock says, “And the ability of Foresight is exceptionally rare, though I did show an inclination for it as a child.”
- in the resulting yelling, he's almost late for duty.
But then it's alpha shift. Spock prefers to work in the labs today, if only to avoid Kirk's piercing gaze. Cruising in an easy orbit, there shouldn't be anything to warrant his attentions as Science Officer or First Officer.
And Science Lab 3 is pleasantly quiet. The only other officer using the space is a nervous young man fresh out of the academy, Ensign Perry. Perry is an unexpected sight; he isn't assigned to this shift, but his clear discomfort working under Spock's scrutiny would make this an odd choice of recreation. Spock approaches to ask whether the man's direct supervisor – Lieutenant Sella – adjusted the roster without notifying Spock.
“...Erm,” says Perry. “No, Sir. It's just, the captain remembered I studied geomorphology for two years before the Academy, and the geologists are meeting in an hour to map out the planet's evolution... He told me to work this shift instead and, um, sit in?.”
Ah. Spock should have considered that himself.
Noting the change into his padd, Spock reflects that it's moments like these which prove he has much to learn as a leader. Captain Kirk, he knows, has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the crew, an impressive grasp of every personality that helps him make the best decisions. Not that Spock should seek to match that level of skill, he supposes. It is illogical to hope that he'll meet the captain's prodigal abilities in command, but he can always try.
That sort of dedication isn't all the result of rote-memorization, either. Spock still remembers speaking to the captain in the early months of the mission and realizing with startled bewilderment that this earnest young captain genuinely wanted to know him. That he wasn't asking personal questions to make small-talk, or chatter, as humans do; he simply cared about everyone around him. And he cared for Spock, in particular.
Thinking on this, Spock clears his throat.
And coughs.
Still holding the padd, Spock catches the three slender blue petals that slip from his mouth into his free hand. He and Ensign Perry both stare in silence for a minute. Blinking, Perry opens his mouth.
Spock eats the petals.
Perry's jaw snaps shut.
Chew. Swallow.
Spock hands over the padd.
“I have entered this change into the schedule,” he says. “Please inform me if you would like to pursue more work with geology in the future; we offer supplementary courses onboard and it would be a beneficial second field.”
“...Yes, Sir,” says Perry.
Spock's mother once informed him that humans are happier to pretend that strange or abhorrent things do not happen. In crowds of other human socialites, she had an enviable ability to pretend etiquette mistakes were perfectly natural, to gloss over events that would be embarrassing – or, rather, mortifying – for anyone else.
Content that Mr. Perry will ignore the 'elephant' in the room, Spock clears his station and decides to check on the other labs.
Yet Spock pauses outside. The door closes behind him, but with superior Vulcan hearing he hears a thud of metal from Lab 3, followed by frantic whispering:
“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck - “
“Sulu, why.”
“Why does everyone keep blaming me?” Sulu's voice comes from across the rec room. “I'm not the only person on this ship who likes flowers! We have an actual botany team!”
“You're the only person who likes mobile flowers,” says Ensign Clarice. “And I found leaves in the Jeffrey's tubes today. If there's some thorny rose-monster eating the engines, I quit.”
“...you think there's a mobile plant somewhere?”
“Sulu. That's not a good thing.”
“I took some samples,” offers another voice. “I found some petals down in the Operations computers. A few of them seemed to be earth-species, but there was also some DNA that the computer identified as Vulcan...?”
(Spock takes this as his cue to leave.)
Spock learns that his body can produce different types of flowers when he's on the bridge the next day.
The first half of shift passes peaceably. They only need to take a few more scans of the planet below (which has been deemed hostile to foreign life), and then the Enterprise is scheduled to pick up a group of scientists at the nearest Starbase, who they'll take to join a research station along the way to their next site of investigation.
Easy enough. As the crew attend to routine work, Kirk and the rest of the bridge affect an easy, casual manner. Joking and 'smalltalk,' Spock has learned, is a very good indication of morale among human officers.
“You should write a book,” Sulu calls from the front. “'What to do when you're mistaken as a deity - '”
“That sounds like I'm recruiting for a cult,” Kirk muses.
“I would join this cult,” Chekov says.
“Thank you, Ensign. I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”
“I would be an excellent cult member!”
“That's not a good thing, Pavel...”
“Mr. Spock,” says a quiet voice from his side, “Are you alright?”
Uhura's left her station, bending close and speaking soft enough to escape the notice of others. Uhura's always tactful. Spock appreciates that, though he'd prefer if she hadn't noticed anything odd about his behavior."
“I am adequate.”
Uhura squints. “...that's not a yes, Commander.”
Humans. “You can return to your work.”
But behind Spock, he can't help but hear Kirk talking to the rest of the bridge-crew.
“You should have seen how they were fawning over Spock,” he says, smiling fondly. It's just a subtle twist of the lips, that look he reserves solely when speaking with, or about, Spock. A look that would make it impossible to think his affection anything but completely real. “Of course it's a shame we were forced to interfere with the native culture... but they were acting like he was the pinnacle of godliness. I suppose there are worse models, don't you agree, Mr. Spock?”
This is an invitation for Spock to make some haughty claim about Vulcan superiority, and then be teased in turn; an old pattern. Spock tries to answer – but instead, he coughs.
He coughs and coughs and chokes. Small blue-pink blooms shiver past his lips, deceptively soft. Each one tears from his throat like a knife.
Uhura's mouth falls open. “Sir!” she gasps, silencing the rest of the bridge. “I – are you alright - ?”
“Yes,” Spock manages.
Uhura clearly doesn't believe him. “It's fine, Lieutenant,” Kirk sighs. He waves her back toward her console. “Mr. Spock just has a... medical condition.”
Uhura stares at the captain without budging. Looks between him and Spock, as though hoping for a contradiction. “A... medical condition?” she asks.
Kirk's face twists. “Yes,” is the dogged reply.
“The flowers,” Uhura clarifies, pursing her lips.
“I have been informed that the specifics of any medical conditions are not my business,” says Kirk with an expression he once wore while being tortured by Klingons. “Nor yours, Lieutenant.”
“...Yes, Sir.”
So with that reprimand, the bridge falls into uncomfortable silence. Except for Spock, occasionally choking and pretending his station isn't rapidly crowded with petals. And thin green leaves. And once an entire orange bulb, after he gets distracted watching the captain's hands as he signs a report.
Spock resolutely faces his station for the rest of shift.
“This is physically impossible,” says McCoy, watching Spock turn aside from his lunch to cough up a spray of blue and pink flowers into his napkin. “I hate your body so much, Spock.”
Spock currently shares the sentiment. It's not his fault the captain felt the need to start praising his entire bridge crew. If he doesn't want Spock to dispel an entire botany garden from his lungs, Kirk needs to stop being so nice.
He can't say that. “I assure you, Doctor, this is a well-documented phenomena.”
“But, lemme guess, I'm not allowed to access that documentation.”
“Correct.” Spock swallows. It feels like a leafy stem has caught in his throat. Which is... probably the case.
“Where do they all fit,” McCoy despairs. “Why – why are some of these flowers fully-grown, how do they come out in such good shape, how are your lungs not poked full of more holes than an anthill- “
“I would thank you not to pry into my private affairs, Doctor.”
McCoy makes a mute, violent gesture.
Ignoring these dramatics, Spock eats his salad. Colorful blossoms have mixed in during his distraction. The flowers are edible. It's fine.
This is all fine.
Beside him, Kirk picks up one of the flowers from the table (a gesture which, in Vulcan society, would have a wealth of implications.) McCoy smacks it out of his hand.
“Don't you dare, Jim. This is the most unhygienic nonsense I've ever seen, and if we get an outbreak of flower-vomiting disease - “
“You demonstrate a very poor understanding of the subject,” Spock reproves.
McCoy swells.
Some of Spock's scientists start weaving the flowers into crowns.
These are rapidly tugged away and hidden, of course, whenever Spock enters a room. He notices anyway, and they all politely pretend it never happened, because Spock has no idea how to broach the subject without sounding like he cares.
Which he doesn't. Obviously. This is a minor physical inconvenience, and it will pass in time.
In the botany labs, Spock overhears a frenzied, whispered conversation about a slide-sample taken from one of the bulbous orange flowers. This also goes ignored.
When Spock attends the bridge the next morning, he overhears Sulu telling Chekov that he's looking into perfume-making.
On Vulcan this would definitely be considered workplace harassment.
“You are not allowed to plant the flowers,” Spock tells his head botanist, long-suffering.
“What about - “
“Or clone them.”
A mutinous look. “Sir, we could really learn a lot - “
“I am certain the Vulcan Science Academy has already studied the matter thoroughly.”
This, of course, is the wrong strategy. Crewmen that were politely pretending not to eavedrop turn to regard Spock with affront. Lieutenant Bollema is aghast. “Sir! There's always use for independent research! And if only the Vulcans are studying this, how do you know there's no perspective bias - “
“The answer is no, Mr. Bollema. Return to your work.”
Spock feels no shame utilizing his rank to remove himself from the situation. But, knowing his officers, he fully expects the 19-page, neatly cited research proposal that arrives in his mailbox the next morning.
Sometimes, he wishes his fellow crewmembers could be slightly less competent.
“Think about it,” Spock overhears the next day. “Vulcans have green blood, right? You know why they don't talk about this disease? He's turning into a plant. It's the next stage of Vulcan life.”
“Eric, I am going to kill you if you don't shut up.”
Spock's particular variation of his disease seems severe; he coughs up approximately eight pounds of organic material each day (to McCoy's ever-increasing indignation). But his condition is not fatal – not even harmful. Just inconvenient. He's fortunate that this is a ship full of humans, too alien to understand precisely what the flowers – and the volume of them – signifies.
Then, of course, Captain Kirk announces their upcoming assignment; ferrying Vulcan researchers carrying top-secret material to a classified starbase near the Neutral Zone.
A boring but important task, in normal circumstances. But in normal circumstances, the mission-briefing would not pause halfway through so Mr. Scott can sweep away a mound of flowers from the computer display on the table.
Spock resigns himself to his fate.
“Ah,” says Dr. Surin, uncharacteristically speechless as he watches Spock cough up leaves and buds. The other three Vulcans on his team stare only a moment before hastily looking away, one coloring from clear second-hand embarrassment.
They've been aboard over an hour. Spock managed to lead a tour of the ship without once hinting at his... problem. And then Kirk had to show up, clapping Spock on the back and saying such flattering things, and -
“My apologies, Doctor, Commander Spock – does this. Sometimes. I'm told it's a Vulcan ailment – are you familiar with it?” Kirk asks. He looks a little accusingly at Spock. After a stretch of time in which there's no reply, the captain adds, “My apologies - Spock says it's private for... religious reasons? I don't mean to pry.”
“...Yes,” says Surin, avoiding Spock's eyes. A green tint gradually darkens the researcher's ears. “A religious matter.” The other Vulcans nod.
Kirk sighs. “Well, as long as it's nothing serious,” he mutters. “But enough of that – are your quarters to your satisfaction?”
The Vulcans hastily accept this change of topic, but Kirk's still frowning; the crease along his brow speaks of worry. Spock doesn't want to cause his captain needless concern, of course. But it's flattering how the captain always expresses such sincere concern for him – always wants to help, comfort, protect, when most people would leave Spock to his own devices. A testament to the depths of their friendship.
Miserably, Spock coughs. The Vulcan guests politely find the ceiling of great interest as blue petals spray into the air.
So. This is going to be terrible.
“I don't want to invade your privacy,” Kirk says later that night. “But I'm – worried, Spock. It seems like your – symptoms – are getting worse.”
Well, yes. It's rather hard to try avoiding thoughts of Kirk when signs of his traitorous emotions litter the halls.
The scientists no longer bother to hide their crowns and bracelets. Surin looked openly appalled when he toured the labs, and pulled Spock aside later in the evening to make a very awkward attempt at offering assistance if he needed to press claims for sexual harassment.
It was unpleasant on all ends.
“There is no need to be concerned, Sir.”
Kirk catches Spock's elbow. Standing close, he looks unbearably earnest as he leans into Spock's space. “I know it's hard for you to discuss certain things about yourself. But if you need anything – Spock, I just don't want this to be like our last visit to Vulcan. You're my best friend. if there's some way to stop this, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?”
This close Spock can feel the captain's body heat, the faint press of his emotions where their skin touches. And he aches, hearing the genuine pain and worry in Kirk's voice. He wants to reassure his friend. Maybe even admit -
Instead, Spock starts to cough.
Kirk grabs him when he's forced to bend over. It's one of the worst bouts yet – blue, pink, orange, and yellow blots of color tumble through his lips. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, faintly earthy. For a second he gags.
“Spock,” says Kirk sharply, shaking his arm. Then he moves away – Spock can hear him calling to Sickbay.
His stomach hurts. He can't breathe past the clotted, tangled web in his chest, but he keeps coughing, coughing, as his throat burns and the ground slowly fills with a bright, cheery mound of broken petals.
Spock falls to his knees.
For an instant – gasping for breath – he almost reasserts control. He swallows down the next influx of petals, inhales cool air. Reminds himself to breathe, to stay calm.
Then Kirk is kneeling, wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing warm, heavy and reassuring by his side.
Yellow blooms across the floor.
“For god's sake, Spock. I refuse to believe this is normal!”
Passing crewmen rush by, ignoring the three senior officers speed-walking through the corridors. Spock hoped Kirk and McCoy would take the hint that he doesn't wish to discuss this subject. Of course, they aren't oblivious to his reluctance; they just don't care.
“As you know, Doctor, my symptoms are harmless.”
“As I know? You haven't told me a damn thing about this disease!”
“You do not require that information.”
Kirk grabs Spock's shoulder, jerking him to a halt.
“Do you want to have this conversation here?” Kirk asks, serious. The hall around them is nearly deserted. “We need to talk about it, Spock.”
“I disagree.”
“This is like pon farr, isn't it?” Kirk demands. Stiffening, Spock wonders what the captain knows – what Spock has betrayed – but then Kirk adds, “Some – ridiculous Vulcan secret that's going to kill you out of pride - “
“It is not ridiculous to me.”
A beat. Kirk takes a slow breath, still holding him by the shoulders. “No. Of course not. I don't mean to disrespect your beliefs, Spock, but - “
“I'll disrespect you any day,” McCoy says. “This is idiotic. Just tell us what's going on.”
Spock waits for them to give up, pull away – but they just watch him, expectant, and he realizes it isn't going to happen. “It will not be cured,” he says at last. “There is no point discussing it. These symptoms will pass.”
Spock hopes they will pass.
“Why do you always do this?” Kirk demands.
“This?”
“This – condescending – ridiculous - “ Kirk scowls. “Acting like us mere humans can't help you with anything!”
The genuine anger in this question startles Spock; Kirk isn't usually bothered by Vulcan reticence. “That is not my intent, Jim.”
The captain's voice becomes low and urgent. “Then talk to us.”
“I cannot.”
“Don't you trust us, Spock? Haven't we earned a little honesty by now?”
“Don't bother,” McCoy mutters. “It's more logical to just die alone out of sheer cussed-stubbornness, I guess.”
“You do not understand the situation.”
“And whose fault is that?” McCoy yanks Spock's sleeve when he tries to start walking again. “No, no, you don't get to run from this - “
Kirk deflates suddenly. Sucks a breath between his teeth. Exhaling, he leans back against the wall as though tired. “Let him go, Bones.”
“Oh, come on, he can't just - “
“If Spock needs help, he can learn to ask for it.”
“I do not require assistance,” says Spock. “As I have said.”
McCoy snorts. Kirk narrows his eyes. “Fine,” he snaps. “I'm not wasting more time on this.”
That hurts, even though it's what Spock intended. Illogical. Kirk shoves away from the wall and leaves, McCoy slouching after him with one last scowl for Spock.
This is good. This is what Spock wants.
Spock wakes up the next night, four hours before shift, covered in white flowers.
But the next time he coughs, he finds red, red roses with blood-splattered thorns.
The Vulcan delegation is very terse the next day.
“Your assistance is not required for our work,” says Surin when Kirk suggests they hold a meeting the next day.
“Well, your efforts will go faster if we coordinate to - “
“I prefer to know the backgrounds and character of those I work with,” says Surin coolly. “And I repeat: we do not desire your assistance.”
A pause. Kirk looks more surprised than anything. But he's never one to shy from uncomfortable topics. “Have I offended you, Dr. Surin?”
“Yes,” says Surin.
“...Can I ask how?”
“It is not my place to discuss it.” Surin keeps his tone perfectly even, ignoring the hostile glances he receives from all around the bridge. “But I am disappointed in your conduct as a Starship captain.”
“Are you, now,” is Kirk's dry reply. “Then it's a shame you can't criticize me more specifically.”
“Indeed,” Surin agrees. “I would ask that you allow my group our privacy for the rest of the trip, Captain.”
“If that's your preference.”
Spock does his best to ignore these proceedings. But of course, he's first officer; as soon as Surin leaves Kirk asks, “What do you make of that, Mr. Spock?” in a very formal tone. Because he's still angry.
Spock coughs before replying; coughs again. A single bloodied thorn puffs from between his lips. “There could be many reasons for his response,” he lies.
Dr. Surin saw him hacking up green-stained roses outside the science labs this morning. Of course he came to the obvious conclusion. Spock's disease is embarrassing, unpleasant – but to treat someone cruelly, in consequence, is a far greater sin. And that is plainly what Surin assumes of Kirk.
“Hmm,” is all Kirk says. “Well. I imagine he might be more willing to speak with you; can you look into this?”
Choking on leaves, Spock agrees.
Spock attempts to convince Dr. Surin that Kirk is not responsible for his condition.
He is unsuccessful.
Surin listens to Spock's explanation of the situation with a neutral face. Then he says, “If your captain were a better man you would not hesitate to confess,” and refuses to hear any argument on the matter.
How can Spock explain the contrasting emotions of humans – how a human might promise to act professional, insist all is well, and then proceed to drastically alter their behavior?
If Kirk knew of Spock's unfortunate regard he would, surely, insist that it changes nothing. He would be sympathetic, kind, when making his apologies. But their relationship would be forever altered.
Spock cannot bear the thought of losing that friendship. So why risk it? There is nothing to be gained. It is not as though Kirk could actually...
Kirk corners Spock later that day, dragging him to the captain's desk for 'chat.'
“One of the Vulcan scientists told me I'm honorless and a shame to my family,” Kirk says.
“Ah,” says Spock.
“And apparently I'm a faithless lover and seducer.”
“...You do have a certain reputation in the fleet,” Spock demurs.
Kirk is unimpressed. “I'm told I also neglected to consider your 'difficult circumstances' and I'm abusing you. By leading you on.”
“I would consider that quite inaccurate.”
“Spock. Are you – does this have anything to do with the flowers?”
Kirk looks concerned. Spock chokes, swallowing back yellow petals. “No,” he lies.
“Spock.”
“...It is nothing to concern yourself with, Jim.”
“Tell me why the flowers started.”
This is less easy to answer.
“...You already indicated your intent to drop this matter.”
Kirk leans back, tapping his desk. “Well, Mr. Spock,” he says at last. “I would love to do that. If I thought my First-Officer had any self-preservation, or could get over his ego.”
Spock straightens, uncomfortable with this pointed return to rank. He eyes Kirk, but can't quite tell what the captain means by it. “I have no ego, Sir.”
“I can't find any other reason for your refusal to talk with Dr. McCoy.”
“You know that certain Vulcan conditions - “
“Bones already knows about pon farr. Is this really worse?”
Before he can think about it, Spock snaps, “Yes.”
A beat.
“That doesn't make me less worried,” says Kirk, careful now. “Spock, please.”
Spock has never been able to deny that tone of voice.
“...It is... pon farr is a biological imperative,” says Spock. “It is unpleasant. Unfortunate. But it is also involuntary.”
“And you... chose this?”
“Not precisely. But it is a failure.”
“It has something to do with emotions? Your emotions.”
This is not a question.
“It is a failure,” Spock repeats.
Kirk assesses him a moment. He stands up and moves closer.
Spock, predictably, starts coughing.
Orange petals; a further insult. Kirk bends to pick one up, which does not help. Upon seeing his increased difficulty Kirk grabs his shoulder, steadying Spock, except that the hot press of his hand is really counterproductive.
The fit subsides after a minute; Kirk squeezes. “Spock. You know I'll keep your secrets. Whatever this is...”
“That is not my concern, Jim.”
“Please, let me help you.”
But Jim can't. That's the problem.
Jim asks, “What causes this, Spock?”
A breath. Choking. Spock's shoulders spasm as he heaves.
“Spock - “
“Affection.”
“What?”
Spock closes his eyes. “Passionate – romantic, fondness.”
“You mean love.”
“ - That – yes.”
Silence.
“Love causes you to vomit flowers? I think I understand why Vulcans don't want to feel emotions.”
“Jim.”
“Sorry. I – Is there someone, in particular - “
“You are not a fool,” Spock answers. He opens his eyes.
Jim stares at him intently. He leans down, still holding Spock's shoulder, rubbing a thumb against the skin of his neck. “Tell me,” he says.
Spock opens his mouth to give the obvious answer. But before he can Jim kisses him.
It's a soft, simple touch that fills Spock with wild exultation. Flame burst in his stomach; Spock shoves away, leaning over and choking out a riot of orange, yellow, pink, blue -
He grabs at Kirk before the man can withdraw, still shuddering. “Jim. If this is – if you do not - “
“Just say this is for me.”
“Of course it is,” Spock replies. Who else?
Kirk laughs, reaching out to curl a hand over his neck. “Well, Mr. Spock. I think we need to discuss the best way to return my First Officer to full efficiency,” he says, and smiles.
Later, sitting at his clean console – finally devoid of flowers - Spock marvels over his fortune.
Vulcan's oldest stories are filled with references to legendary pairs that were brought together by his disease. As a youth, Spock never expected he would contract the affliction. He certainly could not have imagined such an outcome as this: Kirk accepting him, touching him, melding...
Joining Starfleet was the best decision he ever made.
The shift passes peacefully. Dr. Surin is markedly warmer toward Kirk when he notices Spock's lack of coughing. Everything is pleasant, easy (wonderful).
Then, around 1600 hours, Dr. McCoy arrives on the bridge.
In typical manner, he has no real purpose for the visit. He spends a minute lounging against the far wall, occasionally calling out to needle Jim; he wanders about a minute, scrutinizing people ostensibly to check their fitness for duty. And of course he complains.
“Why is it that every Vulcan I've met thinks they have a medical degree?” he demands of no one in particular.
“You have only met eight Vulcans,” Spock calls over his shoulder.
“Every damn one of you,” says McCoy, unfazed. “Surak must have had an ego the size of Jupiter. Tossing your emotions into a bin isn't the equivalent of years of study and a fellowship.”
“But of course you are an expert on Vulcan physiology – I am certainly misremembering your surprise last month, when you recalled I had three lungs,” Spock muses.
McCoy makes a rude gesture but continues without pause. “Got the whole damn guest team down in Sickbay, sneezing up a storm, but obviously it's just because of the unknown human smell. Love to mix in some good-ol' superiority with stupidity...”
A slight cough works up Spock's throat.
Spock turns quickly toward his console. His next huff is so slight that no one else notices – yet a single, small purple petal flutters out of his mouth.
But as of yesterday Spock is linked with Kirk – shouldn't that stop the problem? Certainly it alleviated Spock's symptoms for the past night. And anyway, he wasn't even thinking about Kirk. He was thinking about -
“ - Not that I should expect any different,” McCoy's saying. “What was that you said last month, Spock? You thought your flu was just allergies? And obviously it would be illogical to, you know, get allergy medication. Much more rational to just suffer through it - ”
“Doesn't medical confidentiality exist,” Kirk wonders. Meanwhile Spock coughs up a red flower.
Oh, Spock realizes, staring down at the innocent flora in his hands.
Oh, no.