Kirk/Spock Advent Calendar 2006

A Time to Receive

by Debbie Cummins; rated R
Summary: One year after the V'ger mission, Kirk and Spock travel to Iowa for the holidays.
Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom. No infringement intended. No money being made.
Note: A gen version of this story was first published in Bev Volker and Nancy Kippax's zine, Contact Christmas.
FB: deborahcummins @ comcast.net

The snow fell quietly, a hundred billion crystals floating gently to the ground, their combined numbers casting the earth in that muted and unearthly silence so peculiar to snowfalls. Spock understood, of course, why this should be so; the result of the density of matter within a limited space, blocking the sounds that would normally filter through from the landscape beyond. And yet there was an illogical eeriness to it, a supernatural quality that all the years of training and scientific discipline could not quite dispel.

A change in the wind caught the snow drifting near the house and blew it against the windowpane. He watched as the flakes adhered to the warmer surface, creating an intricate filigreed pattern across the glass. This, too, he understood but still he wondered, as he'd done so many times before, why it was beautiful. Logical, yes, but beauty was irrelevant. And yet it was, all of it, from a hydrogen electron orbiting its nucleus to the swirling arms of the Andromeda Galaxy. Order and beauty. Strange and somewhat disquieting in an odd way.

The sounds of feet stamping on the porch outside cut into his thoughts. Moving quickly to the door, he pulled it open.

James Kirk stood before him, three huge logs balanced somewhat precariously in his arms. His cheeks were flushed, his hair tousled and white with snow. He was smiling, shifting his weight as the wood began to slip.

Spock lifted one from the top, giving him a rather severe look as he did so. "You should not have tried to carry so much on your own. You could have fallen and injured yourself."

"I'm fine." Kirk edged past, slammed the door shut with one foot. "Steady as a rock on the ice. It's in my genes. I love being out there, in the cold, the snow."

Of that Spock had no doubt. Several times over the past few months he'd heard Kirk wax poetic about the joys of an Iowan winter. Always as an aside, really. Didn't want him to think he was dropping hints, knowing how he disliked the cold, that such a vacation would be like visiting the seventh circle of hell for anyone born into the searing sands of Vulcan. So he'd kept his words brief and if it weren't for the link Spock might never have realized just how important it was to him.

But they were lovers now and the bond that joined them roared with life constantly. He'd felt Kirk's longing as if it were his own and so he'd taken it upon himself to arrange the transport. A Christmas gift from himself to the admiral. The Kirk family home had been sold years before but this cabin in the woods nearby would do just as well, and he could be as frigid as he was in the childhood of his memories.

"No, no," Kirk had said when he'd told him. "It'll be minus ten every day. You'll freeze."

Kirk had seen his hesitation. Fourteen days of vacation stretched out before them and he'd be damned if he'd let Spock spend it in one of the coldest places in North America. "How about we go a thousand miles south, something in between. Arizona maybe, where we can divide the trip into desert and mountain. A bit of both. Seems fair to me."

Fairness was not the issue. And Arizona was not Iowa. It wasn't home. The air felt different there, filled with the chill of the prairies, the wind howling across a thousand miles of open land, silos in the distance, beeches and oaks and ragged stalks of corn.

He'd folded his arms across his chest, his jaw set. Kirk had seen the stubbornness on his face and given up without another word.

Scrambling out of the transport that dropped them at the cabin's front door, Kirk sucked in his breath as the arctic air hit his lungs. "Damn," Spock had heard him mutter. Goddammit. You're going to freeze your ass off.

He'd spent a moment trying to determine why his ass would freeze first, then decided it was just an English colloquialism and let it go.

Spock didn't need to look. "It is minus eleven degrees Fahrenheit," he said without hesitation.

The bags were duly put away but Spock, determined not to let a simple weather system defeat him, had reached again for his coat.

Wisely dropping it, Spock returned to their discussion of earlier. "I will be fine outside." Again the Vulcan repeated the words. Kirk didn't believe him for a second.

For a moment silence fell as they puzzled over their dilemma. "Jim." Spock was the first to break it. "I assure you I will be fine."

A gust of wind picked that exact moment to slam into the house, creaking the timbers, rattling the windows. A branch hit one on the north side, came very close to shattering the glass completely.

The admiral had approached him then, draped both arms across his shoulders. "It won't be so bad," he'd murmured, that familiar purr to his voice, low and soft and irresistibly seductive. Spock knew by the third syllable he was a goner.

Kirk knew it, too, but twisted the blade anyway. "I've been told that I'm a pretty resourceful guy." His hands drifted down, began to play with the waistband of Spock's pants. "I bet I can come up with something else to do."

Three days had flown by in this way, long, rather licentious days that would have shocked any full-blooded Vulcan. Lazing around, not even bothering to dress half the time. Such decadence and he'd often heard that voice inside his head, whispering that he should resist the urge to do nothing, should devote himself to more profitable pursuits.

And logic dictated no other course regardless. Resistance was futile and fighting an obviously hopeless battle was not the Vulcan way. When the admiral turned on the charm, looked at him with those big, beautiful eyes he was quite defenseless; a fact not lost on either of them. "Relax," Kirk had said, wrapping him effortlessly around his finger. "It's that human blood. No way you can repress it. Not anymore."

The time, therefore, had passed quickly but reality did have to intervene at some point and an hour ago Kirk had cast a displeased eye on the dwindling pile of firewood. "Crap," he'd grumbled, disentangling himself from Spock's arms. "Guess it's time to make a few trips to the woodpile." Rising to his feet he'd pulled on his coat and tramped outside. "You stay here," he'd ordered in no uncertain terms. "Temperature's minus six. I'll get it."

That was fifteen minutes and three trips ago, Spock's annoyance growing with every one.

Kirk pretended not to notice. With false ease he walked to the far wall and dumped his latest load onto the floor. "Half a dozen more should do it."

This battle went on for approximately thirty seconds. "I am stronger than you." Spock tried again. "I will be able to carry more."

The heart of the matter. It wasn't the cold per se but his own genetic makeup that concerned the admiral. On a hot desert plain he could run for miles, his balance strong and true. Had, in fact, routinely bested Kirk in such environments, long legs eating up the distance with ease, but ice and snow were something else again. There wasn't a single spot on his entire planet that mimicked conditions on the other side of that door. Not one.

Favoring the admiral with an intractable look, he walked to the closet and grabbed his coat. Buttoning it up, he wrapped a scarf around his neck, pulled a hat low over his face and slipped on his gloves.

Kirk held out for another few moments before giving in gracefully. Despite their rather constant frolicking in the sack he knew Spock was going a little stir crazy anyway. Sixty-eight hours he'd managed to keep him inside while they burned through a quarter cord of wood but it couldn't last. Without a computer and a thousand projects to amuse himself with the Vulcan's restlessness was starting to show. "All right. But be careful."

They made it to the woodshed in one piece, Spock taking inordinate care to stay on his feet and not provide the admiral with any ammunition to further imprison him. "Should have thought of this earlier," Kirk said over one shoulder. "Before the snow started. Stupid."

At three the Vulcan's luck ran out. His attention focused, as always, on Kirk, he hit a patch of ice under the snow and as quick as you could say "told ya so," he was down, landing hard on one hip.

Spock was clearly annoyed with himself. Scrambling to his feet, he brushed off his pants. "Yes. I'm fine."

Twenty minutes passed without further mishap and at last they were done, the porch boasting a pile four feet high and a half dozen long. "Here," Kirk said, turning Spock toward the door. The wind had picked up, the temperature taking a sharp drop, and he could clearly see the discomfort in his eyes. "That'll hold us for a while. Let's get you inside."

The fire had died down and, peeling off his coat and gloves, Kirk began to stoke it up again. "Your coat's all wet. Just toss it on the table and come sit over here."

Spock wasn't the type to 'just toss' anything anywhere and so he took his time, laying his coat, hat, scarf and gloves out to dry before sitting his partially frozen body on the couch. Kirk came back to nestle at his side. Taking one of Spock's hands within his own, he frowned, began to rub the skin. "Next time say something."

A long moment of silence followed. Spock laced their fingers together, pulled Kirk's hand into his lap and they both relaxed as the flames danced before them, the room filling with warmth and soft light. The admiral's head rested gently on one shoulder. "We used to have so much fun in the winter," he said. "Sam and me. Building forts, throwing snowballs against the house to knock the icicles down. My mother would scold us because we'd suck on them. There was no pollution anymore but still she was an old fashioned woman, had heard tales of mercury and soot since her own childhood and she always used to yell at us when she caught us doing it. Funny."

He slipped his free arm around Spock's waist and continued to talk, his tone becoming more abstract as his mind wandered farther afield. Reminisced as he had so often before; about the gentle warmth of spring, fishing in the summer, the clear cool air of fall. But always the winter predominated, the most vibrant tales ones of the snow. How he would walk into a virgin landscape after a big storm, look back at his own footprints and imagine that he was the only living creature on earth. The silence, the beauty, the branches covered with ice and glistening like diamonds against a cobalt sky. Wondrous visions that seemed light years away from the arid heat of Vulcan and he'd often felt a pang of jealousy at all the years Kirk had lived through it, years without him at his side. It was as if he should have been there, as if the two of them belonged together from the first day of their lives to the last.

And yet such a hole he'd cut into it. Such unforgivable, incomprehensible stupidity. He wouldn't have believed himself capable of such a thing.

Glancing to one side, he saw Kirk watching him and he knew what was on the admiral's mind now. A dream he'd picked up through the link, a nightmare that had plagued his friend again and again and again.

Running, hazel eyes blind in the darkness, feet mired in quicksand, barely able to breathe. Chasing a light that slipped farther and farther away no matter how fast he ran, the muck holding him down until he thought his heart would break. "Come back." Hands cupped to his mouth, Kirk would cry the words out into the void. "Come back to me, Spock. In the name of mercy, come back to me."

The admiral had usually woken up at that point, the blood pounding against his skull. Would rise to walk the silent corridors of Starfleet headquarters, try without success to settle his jangling nerves. Get through another day.

Spock shivered. Kirk's pain was a terrible weight on his soul, one that would never really go away. "I am so sorry, Jim."

Long fingers tightened, their grip beginning to hurt, but Kirk kept his silence for he, too, knew what his companion was thinking.

A tragedy. That's what it was. Three years lost; three endless, irreplaceable years, standing between them like a wall at times and yet they'd never spoken of it, not really.

"I can still see you walking out of the turbolift." He had to force the words out, a large part of him not wanting to confront the issue at all. "I had no idea you were on that transport. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I deserted you, never even said goodbye." A hateful, bitter memory that, despite the bond, he'd kept locked tight from that day to this.

And Kirk hadn't pushed him, knew how grievous the subject must be. They'd brushed past it a hundred times, a thousand, allowing it to linger silently in the air; the unspoken break between the time they'd walked the Enterprise shoulder to shoulder, friends to the core, and now.

Not three years, Spock thought. Two. Two years, eleven months and twenty-eight days to be exact, and the fact that he knew it nearly to the hour somehow made him inexpressibly sad.

"There can be no excuse for what I did." His voice was low, scarcely above a whisper. "It was a shameful thing and hurt you deeply. Even as I did it, I knew that was so." A pause. "I was frightened. The incident on Samarra profoundly unsettled me."

Samarra, and it was Kirk's turn now to shudder, the scene as vivid in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. A routine mission, a diplomatic function suddenly disrupted by an assassination attempt. Three heavily armed men rushing the podium, Spock knocking the Samarran president away only to end up as a human shield, a gun pressed to his head.

The men were wild, clearly higher than a kite either on drugs or religious fanaticism and he recalled he'd stood a dozen feet away, the entire room frozen in place, and watched that trigger finger tighten, thinking, he's going to kill him. Dear god in heaven, he's going to kill him.

A second later a phaser set on a wide beam enveloped the group and all four men collapsed in a heap. A security guard who'd just happened by. A fluke, blind luck, really but it had saved Spock's life and Kirk had run to him, gathered him in his arms, his heart hammering madly in his chest.

The order was sent, the transporter catching them and then they were on the pads, McCoy racing to their side, a hypo in one hand.

Steady, Kirk. Steady. He'd felt light-headed, flying on adrenaline, puzzled at the same time for his over-reaction. It wasn't the first time he'd nearly lost Spock, after all. The four years prior had been filled with dangerous assignments and time and again he'd ordered Spock away with a stoicism that would have done a full blooded Vulcan proud. No one, certainly not Spock, had ever sensed it; how his blood would turn to ice every time his first officer beamed down into harms way, took off alone in a shuttlecraft. More than once it had nearly killed him but he'd always kept his fear and the intense love that fueled it buried far away, even took a grim and somewhat perverse pride in his flawless concealment. He was a realist, after all, the friendship they shared something beyond price. He would never have endangered it by bringing up such a thing.

Because the relationship he'd so longed for was never going to happen. Despite their closeness there had always been a distance with Spock, a wall that even he'd felt he shouldn't breach. Alone, apart, Spock was the by-the-book first officer; courteous, respectful, lightening up on occasion but certainly not given to the wild abandon so often played out within the walls of the captain's quarters.

And those frolics had been mechanical for the most part. Indeed, often, as he copulated with one female or another, the images in his head were not of her but rather of Spock lying naked beneath him, arms and legs spread wide in a pose of such eroticism it sent him spiraling off into orgasm whether he liked the woman or not. Spiraling off as he leaned over the prone body that lived in his dreams, hard and dark and so incredibly beautiful. Ran his hands across the Vulcan's chest, traced the outline of one ear, made love to him all night. Every night. For hours. For days. Forever.

All night. Every night.... The grim reality of those words had been crushing because he had no delusions about the strength of his own libido. If that wall ever came down and he actually had Spock in his bed his lust would swallow him whole. A seven year cycle? He'd be lucky if he made it from morning to night and his own constant arousal, indeed obsession, whether spoken or not, would annoy Spock, likely disgust him eventually.

Then there were the Matriarchs. Kirk had no delusions about them either. They'd never say it aloud but they looked down on humans, saw them as emotional, irrational inferiors. Spock might profess not to care but Kirk knew all too well how important acceptance was to him, the perfect Vulcan that he tried so hard to be; that the barbs they'd throw would sting, perhaps erode their relationship in the long run.

If that weren't enough, if Spock had responded to him and they'd somehow managed to deal with these issues, there was the fact that he was his commanding officer. Starfleet would have disapproved, would have seen it as a dangerous conflict of interest. Might even have transferred Spock off the ship for the safety of them all.

And they'd have been right to do so. A third reality he couldn't deny. Knowingly sending Spock into danger, if they were bonded, would have been devastating. And if the Vulcan were injured, held hostage, perhaps? Tortured to force compliance from the captain of the mighty starship circling overhead, squaring off against an enemy in battle. What in god's name would he do?

Impossible. It was impossible for a dozen different reasons and he'd buried his hunger, falling into one love affair after another; beautiful women all, many of the flirting interactions taking place under Spock's very nose lest the Vulcan ever suspect the truth. He was a telepath, after all. One couldn't be too careful.

For four years the strategy had worked, an endless succession of women parading through his life, only a handful of whom he'd felt any real affection for. Going through the motions: James Kirk, the great ladies' man, stud of the galaxy. A perfect guise. Nobody questioned it. Nobody.

After a time his passion for Spock became easier to control. Sometimes an entire week would go by without a single erotic dream.

Perhaps it was the suddenness of the attack, the horrified realization that he was about to watch some deranged lunatic put a bullet through Spock's head, but something inside seemed to crack and when he'd gathered him up in his arms, when in a totally random quirk of fate the Vulcan had been miraculously restored to him, all those repressed feelings, all of them, came flowing out like a storm surge. He'd put one hand on Spock's face, fingertips blindly, instinctively reaching for a bondmate's neural pathways, his touch possessive and desperate; his need, his love, everything exploding outward in one great fiery mass. Lust, yearning, terror, anguish. He could actually feel it, years of pain and desire jumping like electric sparks from one to the other, funneling directly into the Vulcan's mind.

Spock's eyes had opened, filled with bemusement at first, then shock. Then fear. Total, complete fear and his heart had stopped at the sight of it.

By start of shift the next day Spock's resignation was on his desk. By its end he was gone.

And for three years there had been nothing, not a word spoken between them. He knew where Spock was, immured in the wasteland of Gol, but had never contacted him.

But he'd stayed this time, the hand clasp they shared in sickbay binding them together in a way they'd never been before. Spock lying on that bed, looking up at him with an odd combination of amazement and total serenity on his face, all the barriers he'd constructed for decades, the years of deprivation and self-denial gone as if they'd never existed at all.

"Nonsense." Kirk tried to soothe him but they both knew the Vulcan's words were true.

The mood had become somber and Kirk moved to kneel before him. Running his hands along the Vulcan's thighs, he slid them between his legs. "Enough of this. What's done is done. Let's forget it." His fingers probed, felt a quiver of response. "I have something I'd rather do."

Spock smiled but his eyes were still sad. Kirk put his hands on either side of his face and drew him forward in a kiss. "That's an order," he whispered, his tongue gently forcing the Vulcan's teeth apart.

Spock relaxed and let himself go. The admiral was right. It was over. Long passed and they'd survived it.

And besides he was a Starfleet officer. He would never refuse a command from a superior officer.

The next day was a bit warmer and, feeling restless, Spock insisted he was more than able to go outside and somewhat to his surprise, the admiral didn't argue. Just handed him, in succession, his coat, a hat, gloves and a scarf. "Well, all right," he said. "But I'm gonna keep my eye on you."

Spock was affronted by all this mothering. "It is twenty-four degrees, Jim. I will be too warm."

A few moments later they stepped onto the porch, Spock feeling rather silly when he noted that the admiral hadn't even buttoned his coat, but he understood Kirk's concern, realized it was not without foundation, so he said nothing. "I think I shall build a snowman."

Settling himself into a foot of snow, Kirk watched, suppressing his laughter as Spock went about constructing his figure with single-minded purpose.

An hour passed, Kirk growing antsy at one point. "What do you say we take a walk? You need to move around more, get the circulation going. You can finish this later."

But with true Vulcan obstinance Spock refused outright to leave until his task was completed. The fact that the finished creation looked nothing like a classic snowman the admiral had the good grace to keep to himself.

The sun was setting now, the wind blowing out of the north. "Come on." Kirk had been circling him for the past ten minutes, grasped his arm now in exasperation. "McCoy'll never forgive me if I let you catch pneumonia."

Entering the house Spock pulled off his coat and assorted paraphernalia, resisted the temptation to shake his fingers in the air.

The admiral peeled off his own, tossed it over a chair. He knelt on the hearthstone, threw more wood on the coals. "Nice try."

The fire caught with a vengeance. Kirk curled his legs beneath him, poked the wood a bit more, sending a shower of sparks up the flue. Spock clearly saw him flinch as the heat assailed his skin. "You are too close."

Kirk ignored him, tapped the hearthstone with one hand. "Get your ass over here and warm up."

The Vulcan stood his ground. "Jim, it is not necessary to sit in the fireplace."

A thin sheen of perspiration was beginning to form on the admiral's brow. Spock approached, crouched down to touch it with one finger. "I am no longer cold."

Spock sighed. Rising again he seated himself on the couch, aware that the admiral had turned to watch him. "You will be far more comfortable if you sit here."

A frown greeted his words but Kirk didn't protest any further. Walking to Spock's side, he sat.

"You needn't be so solicitous of my welfare. I assure you I will not allow myself to die of exposure."

Spock continued regardless. "The outside temperature was dropping one degree every quarter hour and at that rate it would have taken approximately three hours and eighteen minutes for my body heat to reach 81.47, which, as you know, is the critical threshold at which point hypothermia can...."

I know all about your body heat. Aloud the admiral said, "I never thought I'd hear myself say this."

The Vulcan smiled. Looking back, he watched the flames for a moment, their warmth settling deep inside his bones, and a long, companionable silence stretched out between them. Save for the snapping of the fire and the occasional gust of wind the world was completely quiet. He stretched his legs out before him in a most non-Vulcan way.

He wasn't, in fact, the least bit hungry but the link told him the admiral was. "Yes."

So much for that old folk tale. Kirk shook his head. "In a little bit, then."

More silence. "I remember," he said at last, "being in our house during a snow storm. My dad would build a big roaring fire and we'd sit, me and Sam, and play cards. We had this rickety table and we'd sit there and play for hours. Sam wasn't very good at it, really. Usually lost although sometimes I'd let him win." He paused. "You've done that, haven't you? Let me win at chess."

Spock assumed a suitably shocked expression but one lie a day was his limit and he made no answer.

Kirk chuckled. "Thought so," he whispered before picking up the previous conversation. "Anyway, we'd play cards and drink chocolate. My mom would make these biscuits out of cinnamon and sugar. Boy, I ate those things by the ton. They'd melt right in your mouth. She'd bring them out and we'd polish off a dozen at a time. Then, on Christmas day she'd bake cookies, Santa Claus, snowmen, reindeer, all the old traditional shapes. She was cut from the typical Midwestern mold, you understand, preferred an old-fashioned Christmas." Another pause. "I recall once, though, my dad brought home a spiked torquinia from the crystal caves of Io. She was none too pleased at first but it was a beautiful thing and she soon came around. I can remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Glowing with that inner light, purple and red. It lit up the whole downstairs." He glanced over. "Have you ever seen one?"

Spock nodded but, not wishing to disturb his friend's reverie, made no verbal comment.

Kirk turned to stare into the fire. "The traders brought them to Earth a hundred years earlier and, within a decade, they were as much a part of Christmas as Santa Claus. My mom put ours square in the center of the room. I swear that if I closed my eyes I could still see it there."

A strange look came over him then, an odd mixture of sadness and joy. A peculiar human trait, one Spock had seen often in his mother; a pleasant memory that nevertheless brought with it a certain melancholy, the realization that the images would never recur, the people in them often long gone.

The thought brought others with it. Amanda sitting on his bed when he was young, relating tales of her own childhood and how Christmas had always held a special place in her heart. An important part of her, of their, joint heritage, and he'd always sensed her sorrow at having to leave the holiday behind. Sarek had not objected to her celebrating the event, but made his opinions known in a hundred more subtle ways and Amanda had agreed. Somehow Christmas seemed hopelessly out of place on a planet of logic and restraint.

"Leave cookies and milk on the mantle for Santa Claus. And hay...we'd put an armful of hay on the doorstep outside for his reindeer. I remember when I was very small I used to think of how hungry those reindeer must have been, lugging that sleigh across the entire planet in only one night." He smiled at his own innocence. "My parents were always careful to throw it all away after we went to bed. I caught them at it once, but they didn't see me." His expression grew distant. "I never did tell them about that."

A little boy staring through the banister slats in wide-eyed fascination and Spock found himself wondering what it would have been like if, instead of one mesmerized child on that landing so many years ago, there had been two.

A hidden air pocket within one of the logs suddenly exploded, throwing a flaming chunk onto the rug. Kirk leaned forward and slapped it out, brushing his hands against his pants to wipe off the soot. "After dinner, what do you say we set up the tree?"

Puzzlement and a hint of dismay flashed across Kirk's face. Yesterday he'd shown Spock the small stand of conifers behind the house, sending off a hurried message to the building's owner earlier in the day. Planted years ago for the express purpose of Christmas harvesting, the man had told him. "Go ahead. Help yourself."

They'd stood before those trees, he and Spock, and he'd taken great pains to explain that they had been seeded by man and were not naturally occurring. "Just like pulling a carrot for dinner," he'd said lightly, casting a worried glance to one side. Spock had examined the tiny grove for a moment before nodding his head in silent approval. The admiral's relief was obvious.

But now he was clearly uncertain if he'd misunderstood his friend's views on the matter or if the Vulcan was simply teasing him.

Spock, for his part, kept his expression noncommittal, the link locked tight so Kirk couldn't hear his thoughts. It was, to use a human phrase, a fait accompli. He'd heard the chopping early this morning. The tree, he knew, stood propped against the back door at this very moment.

The admiral scowled. "Sometimes," he said slowly, "I honestly don't know if you're joking or not. You're really very good at that Vulcan façade of yours."

He brightened at the lightness in Spock's tone. "I take that to mean you have no moral objections to my 'sacrificing' a tree?"

The words, spoken with such seriousness and intensity, were too much and the admiral broke into gales of laughter, the sound high-pitched, almost childlike. Spock's stolid expression did not change and Kirk's composure disintegrated completely. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and for an instant Spock was certain he was about to fall off the couch. Another peculiar human quality, he thought to himself. To lose oneself in laughter like this. Interesting.

Kirk slowly regained control. Wiping his eyes with the back of one hand he sniffed. "That was a good one, Spock. You're very good at that, too."

"Deadpan humor. I just wish you'd show it to someone other than me. McCoy'd love it."

The tree tilted precariously to one side. Spock caught one of the lower branches and tried to straighten it. "You are making it worse."

The needles brushing against the floor moved and he could barely make out Kirk's face. "I can't see what I'm doing. Damned tree's too dense at the bottom. It's blinding me."

Even through the branches he could see the admiral stare at him in amazement. "The northwest screw? How am I supposed to know direction down here? Just tell me in the vernacular, if you would."

Spock sighed. Kirk was irritated, the result of being poked in the face a dozen times by pine needles. "Turn the screw to your left four and one-half times."

He heard the admiral mutter something unintelligible. The tree slowly began righting itself. "How's that?"

Kirk pulled himself out from under. There were so many needles sticking to his shirt he looked like a porcupine. "Four point three two percent. Well, I don't know about you but I can live with that." He smiled. Reaching behind him he began digging the biomass from his collar.

That made no sense whatsoever. "You just spent thirty minutes rearranging limbs so it would look perfectly symmetrical. If you do that it will weigh down the branches and upset the balance."

Spock regarded him silently. The whispered oaths, the stabbed face and hands, the shirt that tore when a hidden branch sliced it open, hardly seemed like an enjoyable experience to him.

Kirk moved into the other room and dragged a huge, heavily reinforced box into the living room. The words 'Christmas Decorations' were written across the side in large red letters. The box was not much smaller than the tree. The admiral's promise to cover the latter with ornaments was clearly no idle threat.

"Had this in storage for ages," he said, seeing Spock's eyebrow lift. "When we decided to come, I arranged to have it delivered here so we could use them. Came yesterday while you were meditating."

Reaching inside, he retrieved another box, this one made of wood. "I tried to be quiet so I wouldn't disturb you. Not really such a hard thing to do, though. Sometimes you really put yourself out into left field. Place could blow sky high and I don't think you'd notice."

Spock understood the second idiom, illogical though it was, had no idea what he meant by the first but let the statement pass without comment. No matter how many years he lived among humans the English language would always be a bit of a mystery to him.

Resting the box on his lap, Kirk lifted the lid and took out a small transparent ball. "Do you know what this is?"

"A Christmas decoration my dad gave my mom on their first wedding anniversary. See this." Holding the priceless heirloom in the palm of one hand, the admiral brought it over. "The paint's a bit worn now but you can still make out a picture of the village. Armagh is its name. The Kirk family is supposed to have come from there--Armagh, Ireland. My parents had planned to take a trip to see the old country when I was eleven but then my father was called away. He was killed a week later. My mother, she had a lot of trouble dealing with it, sent me off to visit relatives on Tarsus so she could have some time to herself. I don't think she ever forgave herself for that...afterwards."

A bitter chapter in his life, one he seldom referred to and for nearly a full minute neither man spoke.

Spock glanced over but Kirk's attention remained fixed on the ornament for a few more seconds. Then, rising to his feet he walked to the tree and hung the ball from its uppermost branch. "There. Put it up high where it won't get broken."

His tone was light but his mood somber, the tenor of the day having taken another rather grim turn. First Samarra and V'ger and now this. Not exactly how he'd wanted Christmas Eve to end.

"Well." Trying to shrug it off Kirk knelt before the box again. "Where were we?"

Clearly not expecting an answer, he began littering the floor with various objects wrapped in paper. "Careful," he warned as Spock moved to crouch at his side. "Some of these things are breakable."

The paper, freed from the confines of the box, slowly began to unwind and Spock could see that there were, indeed, breakables here; glass shapes made before the discovery of turelium. The thick, heavy products of sodium carbonate, silica and lime, they stood out in marked contrast to their smoother, lighter counterparts of the current century. The addition of turelium had ended the need for high temperatures in the manufacture of glass but still there was a loss of aesthetic appeal in the newer ones that Spock could not deny.

A crystalline figure with an oriental face peeked out from behind a shred of paper. Another, of distinctly outworlder appearance, rested beside it. Spock studied the unfamiliar visage for a moment, uncertain if it was a stylized representation of an alien species or simply a figure from a Terran fairy tale.

Looking up, he saw the admiral pull out what appeared to be a plain gray rock. He held it tightly between his palms for a moment before dropping it into Spock's hand.

His eyes widened the moment the stone touched his skin. Activated by the warmth of Kirk's body and then his own, it started to throb with an inner fire as the chemical chains reorganized into new patterns. The rock's surface began to shift, bulging and stretching, almost as if there was a living creature inside trying to break free.

Spock nodded. He recognized the stone now although he had never seen one before.

"An acanthus," Kirk whispered. "Comes from Persial III. Legend says that the goddess of the Homera walked among the people there and before she vanished she gave life to the acanthus stone as a sign of remembrance." Sorrow came into those beautiful eyes. "Not many of them around these days. The planet, of course, was destroyed in the Earth and Romulan War...."

Another rhetorical question and the admiral turned back to the box, started once again to unload its contents onto the rug. Spock carefully laid the acanthus to one side.

Minutes passed, the ornaments continuing to spread out in an ever-widening circle. Spock did a rapid scan, estimated that there must be well over two hundred, many of which were clearly in less than pristine condition.

Kirk answered his unspoken question. "We used to save everything. Scots-Irish trait, I guess. Packrats, the bunch of us."

Lifting up a vaguely rectangular object, he smiled again, a true smile this time. "Lord, I'd completely forgotten about this." He held it out. "Something I made in first grade."

Spock took it from him. Nearly crushed flat, he could see now that it was actually cylindrical in shape, or at least had been at one time, and stood about four inches high. Silver foil, its patina dulled now with age, covered the ...whatever it was. Something odd stuck out from the top. A hat perhaps? He really had no idea.

His expression made Kirk laugh. "My mother couldn't see the elf either, but she loved it just the same. Wouldn't throw it out. I remember when I was a teenager how it embarrassed me. She'd stick it on the top of the tree where everyone could see it and some of my friends, boy, would they tease me about that."

"Tinsel," Kirk repeated. "You've seen it before - on the tree someone usually puts up in the crew lounge." He stretched out a forlorn looking object that bore almost no resemblance to the ethereal strands Spock had seen before. The string holding the decoration together was clearly visible due to the fact that seventy-five percent of the tinsel had fallen victim to the years.

"I guess it is a bit sparse." Kirk seemed a tad embarrassed. "But, like I said, we never threw anything away."

Rising to his feet, he carefully eased the bedraggled thing into the light. Three feet, four feet. Five. The ornament kept coming, shedding most of its remaining tinsel as it moved.

The sight of him holding a near-naked string, metallic slivers raining down on the rug, was too much and Spock began to laugh, a low rumble in the back of his throat.

Kirk stopped and stood silently. "I don't see anything particularly amusing. I'll have you know that this has been in our family for centuries."

Spock assumed a suitably sympathetic air. Picking up the other end he carried it across the room. "I understand the importance of such things, Jim. I did not intend to appear insensitive."

Kirk hesitated for a moment and gave him an odd look. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then apparently changed his mind and, turning back to face the tree, draped the ancient keepsake across its branches.

Taking several steps back Kirk gave the tree his undivided attention. "That seems okay." He tapped a finger against his lips, then crossed the room and moved a single ball from one branch to another. To Spock the effect was the same but the admiral obviously thought differently. "That's better." His gaze traveled up and down the glittering mass one final time. "I think it's done."

Gathering up the reams of crumpled paper in one huge armful, he shoved them back into the box. Needles littered the rug, the scent of pine heavy in the air. The fire had died down and now glowed a cherry red at the bottom of the hearth.

Kirk stoked it up, then eased back to sit cross-legged on the floor. "Come over here for a minute." He indicated the spot directly in front of him, waited for Spock to sit, his body so close that their knees touched. "I know it's a little early, but...." Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a small box wrapped in bright blue paper. A large gold ribbon was attached to the top, its folds creased and flattened. "Merry Christmas."

Spock hesitated. "I have a gift for you, but it's upstairs. Let me get it first."

He took the box from Kirk's hand. It was strangely heavy for its size and the sight of the crumpled ribbons touched his heart in a way he couldn't quite explain. Clearly the admiral had been carrying it for some time.

Carefully he pulled the ribbons apart and opened the top. Inside, lying on a bed of scarlet velvet, was a silver IDIC on a fine chain.

And for a moment he did nothing but stare at it. A Vulcan symbol nearly two millennia old, it nevertheless always reminded him of the Enterprise and his life there; the many receptions when he'd worn it, standing stiffly at the captain's side, McCoy's gentle badgering, the crises and triumphs. The chess games that lasted far into the night.

But most of all it reminded him of his unspoken yearnings, the almost physical hunger to stay at Kirk's side while every Vulcan cell in his body had warned him to flee. A crippling weakness, this terrible ache in his chest that had tormented him constantly, drawing him in from the very beginning like bait on a hook. At times it had nearly driven him mad, invaded even his dreams with images of what might have been, his professionalism and detachment the only things saving him. The captain's love of women was known to everyone, his roving eye settling on most every comely figure that had ever come his way. They'd all seen it. A hundred times. A thousand.

So he'd pushed the idea away, not realizing that Kirk was doing the same thing. Ironic, really, the both of them mimicking each other's actions so exactly, stifling their pain, burying their passion for one another. Amusing if it hadn't been so tragic.

But he didn't know that then, knew only what he felt, what he thought he sensed from the captain. Kirk was his fellow officer, his compatriot. His friend. Nothing more.

Until that dreadful day on Samarra when he'd found himself lying in Kirk's arms, the captain's emotions, his love and almost overwhelming sense of horror unraveling him completely. It had caught him totally unawares, his shields splintering before his eyes as Kirk pulled him into a fierce embrace, one hand coming up to lie against his face, sparking a tenuous link almost instantly. Thank god. The words had shrieked through him like a klaxon. Oh, thank god, thank god, thank god....

An answer to his dreams but a nightmare at the same time. A thousand feelings surging to the surface; human voices, loud and insistent, Vulcan ones stern and cold, that internal war he'd been silently fighting for so long suddenly thrust out into the open. It had left him feeling as naked as a newborn, ripped apart and exposed for all to see. There was no way he could possibly have dealt with it and so he'd taken the coward's way out. Had turned tail and fled.

But a part of him hung back and late the next day, as he'd packed his bags, he'd seen the IDIC lying on the bed where he'd thrown it. Glittering in the dim light, it seemed to rebuke him, reflecting the barren walls around them both and, as he'd left his quarters for the last time, his soul torn to pieces, he'd grabbed it in one fist, a priceless memento, a last touch with the old life he could not leave behind.

The sight, however, as he immersed himself in the sterility of Gol, had brought him too much pain. It had been one of his first possessions to go.

His fingers were trembling and when he pulled the chain from its box the medallion bounced back and forth. He fumbled with the catch.

"Here, let me help you." Much to his relief Kirk took the chain from his hand, unlocked the clasp with ease and fastened it around his neck.

"There. Just like old times." The admiral cleared his throat. "The last time I saw you wear the other one was...."

A pause, then, "...was at the Samarran dinner, right before the president's speech." He faltered then and Spock knew why. In the attack that followed it had been ripped from his neck and he recalled how he'd beamed down to the surface; broken away from Kirk's grasp to walk the ship in a frenzy for an hour or so before going back to the site of his destruction. To search among the tumbled chairs and broken dishes until at last he'd found it lying beneath a curtain. The natives, he recalled, had watched him, remembering the calm, dignified man they'd seen before, aghast at the demon who now tore the room apart. "He's nuts," one of them had said. "He's gonna fucking kill someone."

Further proof, not that he'd needed any, of just how fractured his controls had become. The nail in the coffin, so to speak.

"It always made me think of you," Kirk said into the silence that followed, "more than anything else you owned. I've had this one for nearly two months now. Wasn't really saving it for Christmas. It just never seemed the right time to give it to you. I'm not really sure what I was waiting for...."

Spock saw his jaw tense, and he knew the reason for that, too. They'd come so close to losing each other forever; such a love they shared and they'd come so close to letting it all slip away. So close.

"Thank you." He held the medallion in the palm of one hand, the lights of the tree bouncing off its polished surface. "This means more to me than you could know."

The grandfather clock in the hallway suddenly began to chime and Kirk gathered himself together, turned to count the bells one by one. "Midnight," he said simply when the chimes finally stopped.

"Jim..." So many things he wanted to say, but the words, as always when his composure was wavering, remained lodged firmly in his throat, and he berated himself for his awkwardness, his infuriating inability to express himself. He owed this man more than he could say and yet it was so hard to speak of it. Still.

"Infinite diversity in infinite combinations." Kirk saw his struggle, tried to help him. "It's a good philosophy."

It was indeed. A noble philosophy, one that he'd believed he'd taken to heart years ago.

A fool's errand; platitudes that barely scratched the surface because never, in nearly four decades of life, had they meant more to him than simple abstractions.

Until that day in sickbay when his eyes had been opened, his search for peace taking him right back to his starting point.

Spock's fingers traced out the circular pattern of the medallion again and again. The admiral had found the right time to give this to him, after all. In many religions, many beliefs, the winter solstice was a time of rebirth and he, too, had been reborn. Lying on that bed nine months ago, Kirk looking down at him with such profound joy on his face, he'd seen himself, had really seen himself, for the first time: brilliant, annoying, somewhat emotionally handicapped, forever torn between the warring blood in his veins.

But it was what made him unique unto himself, both the good and bad. Jim loved him despite all that, indeed, in large measure because of it. He was what he was. IDIC at its most basic. Before you can accept the wonder of another's individuality, you must first accept your own.

"Good. Good." Hesitation. It seemed to last a long time. "Tell me something," the admiral added at last.

An impossibility. Planets would stop revolving around their suns first. He touched his friend gently on the cheek. "I will stay by your side as long as you want me there. I will never willingly leave you."

A peculiar shudder ran up Kirk's spine at his words, almost a sense of foreboding that he could feel clearly through the link. Letting the medallion fall against his chest, he took the admiral's hands in his own. They'd survived a lot, the two of them, were now coasting into an easier life. Worry, however, was ingrained in Kirk's personality; worry and vigilance and a healthy dose of caution. An old habit, difficult to break.

But the Enterprise was in different hands now, the concern for her four hundred plus crew someone else's responsibility. For them there would be no more facing off against Romulans, Klingons, the many other unpleasant forces out there. They'd done their bit but were safe now, tucked away in headquarters, Kirk in his office dealing, alas, with bureaucracy a good portion of the time, Spock teaching his young cadets in the arts of survival.

Safe and together. At last. At long last, and he found himself strangely grateful that his life expectancy was longer. The next time they parted it would be he who was left behind. Fitting.

And in the meantime, with luck, they had fifty or so years ahead of them, years filled with quiet and companionship and a love he'd thought only existed in fairy tales. Time was their ally now, spreading out before them with the promise of so many things to share. Perhaps they would return here someday, possibly go to Vulcan to scramble over the mountains, stretch out under a desert sky. Visit some of the places made famous by their missions of long ago. Eat out, stay in. Do nothing, curled up before their fireplace in San Francisco, watching the sun set beyond that huge bay window.

Heaven; the two of them joined together as they were meant to be, the cord binding them forged in iron. Nothing short of death could separate them now.