Home is the Sailor

By

Pat Foley

Chapter 17

Spock’s eyes followed Jim out the door without a trace of anxiety, indeed with relief in every line of his body. After his stressful day, he seemed at peace, at least as regards Jim. It came back again to Sarek that his son’s condition earlier today had not been due to dreams or delusions or nightmares, but a justifiable concern, given the circumstances, and his own attunement with his Captain. He was sane; his mind sound, or at least Sarek’s recent fears had proved to be unfounded. He was simply a very strong telepath, stronger than Sarek or his son’s previous esper tutors had divined. That might prove dangerous in itself, considering the profession his son had entered. The stresses of a confined shipboard life, without even the necessity of personal space to separate him from hundreds of undisciplined, unshielded human minds, had left him unusually sensitive to those he associated with most closely. No doubt it hardly fostered his son’s practice of the logical disciplines. But at least there was no real evidence that the Klingon mindsifter had irreparably shattered his mind as had been previously feared. Not yet.

Sarek let out a little sigh on that thought, a breach in his own control that attracted Spock’s attention. His son’s eyes rose to his. And with that meeting, the consciousness, the memory, of his emotional behavior before Sarek had left to retrieve the Captain flooded into them. A trace of embarrassment crossed his face as well before he ducked his head, his typical mannerism when he was trying to conceal his emotions before his father. It was a gesture so familiar to Sarek it hit him like a blow, took him back in time as if the eighteen years of distance between them had never been, as if that period vanished in a mote of Vulcan sunlight and Spock was eighteen or younger, the child he had been before Starfleet had become the prevailing issue, the ultimate cleaver that had separated their lives.

“Thank you, sir.” Spock’s voice was so low, even Sarek had to strain to hear it.

“Captain Kirk is a guest in my own. Our home,” Sarek corrected himself. “His well being is also my concern. Thanks are -- ” he avoided the harsh censure of illogic he would normally have assigned, and merely said, “unnecessary, my son.”

Spock risked a brief glance at what the acceptance that title, so recently resumed, meant to their relationship. And this conversation. But still, the tension had returned to his shoulders. His hands, concealed under the light blanket, were clenched into fists. “Never-the-less, I am … grateful,” he said in that same low voice. Between them was the consciousness of what Spock had so rashly promised in his desperation.

Sarek looked down at his son’s bent head and taut shoulders, the tip of one pointed ear - and how relieved he’d been, at the first sight of his infant son, to see that characteristic Vulcan feature – just visible through the tumbled raven silk of his too long hair. And though he had never seriously considered Spock’s wild promise as being valid, part of him had been, was still, so tempted by it.

I could have him so easily. One word from me now and his honor alone would hold him here. Amanda would not approve at the exigency, however much she wants him home. And it would hardly be honorable in me. But I could have him – by his own promise, given in trade. He would never speak of it. She would never know.

And in spite of his awareness that his own honor would be ever forfeit to it, it was still tempting. After eighteen years of strain and worry, the prospect was far more attractive than his wayward child could ever realize. At least, Spock would never understand that a child’s life is precious enough to lure even a son of Surak to forfeit his honor and lose his control. Perhaps not until he one day had a child of his own. Then Spock might understand.

But I could never have him thus. He would honor his promise and stay. But he would never be mine. It would be between us, always.

Eighteen years ago, Sarek would not have cared, would not have hesitated to bring Spock home by any means, convinced that he was right. Then Sarek had been sure that the passing fancy of Starfleet was merely a rebellious, undisciplined phase that with time and training he could – and should -- eradicate from his son. Or at least suppress, much as he’d done with his son’s emotions.

But that was then. It came to him now that, however tempting the prospect, he did not want Spock kept home by force. Then, dealing with a naïve and sheltered teenager, he’d been justified, perhaps, in believing he had the right to make that decision for Spock. But he did not have that excuse now. And even if he had some rights over him, as a clan leader, as a parent, now he wanted Spock to choose Vulcan willingly. Or if his Starfleet career was closed, at least his enforced return home would not be at his own hands. He knew what he had to do.

“There is no obligation,” he said. For all his control, his voice came out sounding harsh. He could not help that, as he gave up a hold that any time in the past eighteen years he would have ruthlessly used, had Spock been so rash as to place himself in such a position of obligation.

Spock did not move. Did not react. It was as if he refused to understand. Or perhaps he did not believe him. Sarek could understand that. He didn’t quite believe he was doing this, himself.

Sarek sighed, just a little. Summoning a discipline that came hard even after a century of practice mastering his own desires, he let go the emotion of regret he felt as well.

I think Amanda would be pleased I am doing this. But there is no occasion for her to ever know. He forced control back on his own voice, with the same ruthlessness toward his own emotions that he had once demanded of Spock, so that his next words came out sounding gentle. He would not even use the familial title that, in itself, could be construed as a tacit demand for obedience. “It is all right, Spock.”

He’d puzzled, perhaps shocked him. Spock raised his head, disbelief, perhaps relief, bringing his eyes back up to search his father’s.

“It’s all right,” Sarek repeated, more firmly this time, using an English colloquialism in an effort to enable Spock to understand.

The tension, in his shoulders, in his hands, melted from Spock’s body, even as his eyes widened in wonder. He let out his held breath in a sigh of his own. “Really?”

Sarek flicked a brow, half amused, even in this situation. “I am not used to having my word doubted, my son.”

“I—I--” Spock stuttered like a five year old at even this gentle chastisement, reminding Sarek how once, before he'd gone to Starfleet, Spock had yielded to his lightest command, had been flushed and shamed at even the mildest reproof. It was with an effort that Spock managed to shake himself back down to some semblance of control. “I am …sorry.” He grated out the words, striving for control.

He is still such a child, Sarek thought. If you must make me do this, do you have to be so young still, and make me regret it even more? If I thought I could retrain you…He had to look away briefly, before the knowledge of that tempted him to take back what he had just relinquished.

“Thank you, father,” Spock’s voice came to him.

Sarek closed his eyes, shocked himself at how much pain he felt at a title that both gave him his son back, but in a conversation where he had, perhaps, lost him yet again.

I could have kept him here. But he would have called me Sir to the end of our days. Or I could relinquish him, perhaps to choose Starfleet again, and have the relationship, and the title, but not the child. Never the child.

If he chooses Starfleet yet again.

Sarek forced himself to look down at his son, as if looking at Spock could tell him what he would choose, but all he saw was that Spock was shuddering again, this time from fatigue and reaction. He was still so very ill.

“You need to rest, Spock. You are still unwell, and this has been a stressful day.” Sarek was grateful himself, to put aside all future considerations, and deal with more immediate concerns. He helped settle Spock back in his bed and covered him. Spock dropped into an exhausted sleep even before Sarek had finished tucking the quilt over him.

Sarek looked him over, the marks from the mindsifter burns fading from his temples, the vicious scars from restraints on his wrists and ankles fading even more slowly. Spock had always been underweight, but the Klingons had given him only enough water to keep him alive in the weeks he’d been in their custody, and had kept him in freezing conditions, well aware how that taxed Vulcan control. There were scars on his back from some sort of whip. The Klingons had a playbook to attack Vulcan control on all fronts – starvation, dehydration, cold, pain, and on top of all that, the mindsifter. The torture had run roughshod through his system, burning up resources, outrunning his metabolism. Spock had lost thirty pounds or more in their hands, had probably gone through what little body fat he’d had in the first week, and had been consuming muscle mass to keep himself alive through the rest of his incarceration. Part of the reason he was so weak. He was only slowly regaining a little of that weight on good days, most days either holding his own, or on stressful days like today, he had barely touched food. Still painfully skeletal, he looked too fragile for Vulcan, much less Starfleet.

What have I done? Sarek thought and then closed his eyes against the sight of his son’s wasted frame, lest it further erode his so recently avowed decision, and walked unseeing out the door, seeking the peace of meditation to reconcile himself.

He hoped it would be enough to serve him, if Spock left again.

To be continued…

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