Okay, so...this particular prompt from the infamous kink meme has been filled several times, and here I am, filling it again. Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: I've seen a lot of these. But they all have a happy ending, and that irked me. I wanted to see something where things didn't work out in the end. I have seen Jim lose his memory, undergo therapy, start dating Spock again, and I have even seen him go off with Spock Prime (which, for the record, is one of my favorites). So here is your warning; there is angst. There is tragedy. There is lots of hurt!Jim without a lot of comfort. There is very little happiness ahead.
As a side note, the title comes from the Evanescence-tribute song "Angel of Mine". I suggest you Youtube this, either before or after. It was a great companion during the writing of this, and perhaps will help set the mood.
Angel of Mine
I should have known better than to make the assumptions I did. As early as the first evening of our first shore leave, I have been provided with an excellent example of how the captain responds to any aggressive stimuli. I have overheard precisely two hundred and nineteen lectures from Doctor McCoy aimed at Captain Kirk on the subject of barroom brawling since our five-year mission began, but not even constant admonishments from his closest friend could sway the man from engaging in fist fights at every opportunity.
That first evening of our first shore leave was my first clue. The captain had been under an undue amount of stress owing to the strenuous nature of his first command. He had been given a crew not completely loyal to him, and a First Officer who used every opportunity to needle an emotional response out of him. Add that to the intrinsically tricky nature of our first few diplomatic missions, and most beings would agree that the captain was entitled to a few drinks.
What none of us anticipated was that the captain would use that opportunity to get, as he later termed it, 'shit-faced drunk off his ass' and start a fight. I was not watching the captain closely when he provoked an Antarian male to throw the first punch. The scuffle quickly escalated into an all-out bar fight, with the captain at its unseen center. Doctor McCoy quickly comm'd Scotty in order to beam the three of us up to our Lady the Enterprise. Although the doctor and I were still in peak physical form despite a slight increase of Doctor McCoy's blood alcohol content, it shocked me to see the captain's state.
He was bleeding profusely from one side of his mouth, with another trickle of blood leaking from his left nostril. Both eyes showed the signs of swelling that pointed the way towards a black eye, and his shirt was bloodstained and ripped. His knuckles were bruised and bloody, and someone had run a knife up his left arm.
This astonishing state did not faze the good doctor. He assisted the captain in placing his right arm over the pair of blue-clad shoulders, and positioned him in such as way that they would both be able to walk to the medical facilities. At the time, I did not know what prompted my actions. I offered my assistance in carrying the captain. Vulcans, even only half-Vulcans who are handicapped by their human heritage, are three point six times stronger than a human.
The captain, I now refer to him only as 'the captain'. Once, he was much more to me. I called him by his given name, and, yes, his given nickname. He and I shared a relationship far beyond that of Captain and First Officer, and yet I cannot bring myself to use such personal monikers. I hold those rights forfeit for my actions.
That day, my blue Science tunic became stained with the scarlet blood of a human as I carried my – the – battered captain to the medical facilities, where Doctor McCoy had the supplies and machines he would need to patch the captain back together. The trip from the transporter room to Doctor McCoy's realm took exactly seven point nine three six minutes, during which time the captain's blood had soaked through my tunic and my black undershirt to paint crimson designs on my bare skin. I did not discover these designs until well after the fact, once the captain had been placed under the doctor's care and I was able to return to my quarters.
It was in my quarters that I discovered the patterns painted on my skin using the captain's lifeblood, which sent me into a never-ending cycle of realizations. Yes, that was only the first time of many that I would wash human blood from my body, but it was the most significant. It made me realize that while the captain was a most fascinating example of humanity, he was also distressingly mortal. That proof of mortality would later prove to be my downfall, and my folly.
Not long after this, the captain invited me to his quarters in order to play chess. The captain played a very good game of chess, despite his unfamiliarity with the board I requested we use. He gained a proficiency in three dimensional chess to match my own, and I realized something else. This infuriating, irritating, commanding, caring man had a startlingly complex mind. Even more amazing than the complexity of his mind was how well it seemed to mesh with my own. This worried me, as I was then in the midst of plans to ask Nyota – Lieutenant Uhura – to become my bondmate. I would not ask it of her if I did not think our minds were compatible enough to handle the bond.
I was to be proven wrong, though, when the dreaded pon farr overtook my system. Rushed to complete our bond before the imbalance of hormones rendered me dangerous, I nearly damaged Nyota's brain for good. As it was, she required only a few days under Doctor McCoy's care before she was fully functional. I was grateful when I learned this, as my uncertainty of her fate had been a source of worry during the few moments of lucidity spared by the plak tow.
Actually, I do not remember much after I learned that Nyota and I were not mentally compatible. I remember feeling quite bereft, as I had lost T'Pring when Vulcan was destroyed, and I had lost the woman I had selected to take her place. I remember intending to go to my quarters to immerse myself in healing incense and soothing meditation.
And then I awoke in the captain's bed.
I do not wish to remember the details. My faultless memory has preserved those details perfectly, but I cannot bring myself to dwell on them. They belong to a different time, in a different place, with a different Spock. I do not wish to remember the details, and yet, those flawless details are all I have left of a truly beautiful being. A being I...
The captain helped me piece together what had happened; how I had cornered him just outside of his quarters, and he had dragged me into his residence in order to avoid making a scene. He told me of the mind meld I had performed, and how that had informed him that I required a release from the imbalanced hormones – sex – or I would cease to live. The captain has never been one to turn away a bed mate, although I became quite certain that had he realized the depth of the relationship he was attempting with me, he would not have proceeded as he did.
I first took him to Doctor McCoy, to heal the wounds inflicted by my superior strength. I was subjected to a bombardment of questions as the doctor worked his trade on my new bondmate. As my bondma – the captain – was healed of the lacerations, fractured ribs, and heavy bruising that was the horrific legacy of the madness, I tuned into the newly forged bond. Jim's mind was absolutely fascinating, and I wanted to learn all there was to learn. So engrossed was I in learning that both the captain and the doctor had to pull me out of my reverie to answer the requisite questions.
Among the myriad thoughts in his head shouted one fragment of an idea that was in itself an entire idea. Maybe I'm not a fuck-up after all! For some reason, that bothered me, though I did not know why. The relief behind the declaration made my knees weak, which was my first clue that the bond between us was strong from the very beginning. Most bonded pairs cannot transmit emotion through their link, and my chosen CAPTAIN could send me enough of his emotions to have the same clout as unrestrained Vulcan emotion.
Once Doctor McCoy had finished healing my...captain, we returned to his quarters to discuss our new relationship. Someone had clued him in to what pon farr was, and what being my bondmate would entail. I later discovered that the informer was in fact myself, albeit myself from an alternate universe. The captain was unusually informed about Vulcan ritual, and particularly Vulcan physiology. He took every opportunity to caress my fingers, using light touches that left me yearning for more, more, dammit! Of course, his actions could not go unpunished – or is that unrewarded? I decided this without realizing it, because one moment, he and I were talking about things like where we would live and how to conduct ourselves around the crew, and the next moment, I was kissing him.
And I do not mean kissing him the way Nyota and I once kissed. When I was engaged in a relationship with our Communications Officer, all of the passion in our interaction was supplied by Nyota. I was indeed quite fond of her, but I did not initiate kisses, and my reactions were negligible. No, this was something different, something much more passionate and precious. I longed for the golden figure of...my bondmate with something akin to ferocity, eager to claim his lips as my own. Nyota's lips were soft and forgiving, even submissive. But kissing Jim was so much the opposite of that experience that I might as well not consider them the same thing. This was not gentle.
There was nothing gentle in the way we kissed that time. I knew at that time that Jim would never be content if I placed him always in the position of the submissive. He refused to back down from me, meeting my strength with his own despite the difference. We battled in that kiss, fighting for dominance, for superiority, for each other. It was perhaps the single most arousing thing I had ever participated in outside the madness of pon farr.
I especially do not wish to remember that last day. The day my world shattered, and with it, our Lady the Enterprise.
That last day, I met the captain in one of the exercise rooms. This was not a planned meeting, and had I known what would result, I would never have gone. I had entered the room seeking the punching dummies, wanting to release the rage and hurt betrayal that clouded my mind and hindered my quest for coolly logical reasoning. To physically vent my frustration on an inanimate object would be cathartic, I had been told, and would enable me to regain my control.
Of all the coincidences in the world – though I have learned that aboard the Enterprise, and under Captain Kirk's erratically illogical but astoundingly competent leadership, the more improbable the situation, the more likely it is to occur – the captain had selected the same room for the same purpose. The odds of that happening – and there are no fewer than twelve exercise rooms on the Enterprise – at the time it did – two Standard hours after Alpha shift – were twelve hundred thirty nine to one.
At the time, I found it highly illogical that the captain should want to vent. After all, to my organized mind, I had been the one wronged, and the captain should be smugly celebrating his newly liberated time with an attractive female personnel. I was angry, and unable to speak without lashing out in my grief. Thus did I begin the downward spiral that would lead to a horrific death and a shattered conscience.
Th- no, this is ridiculous. It is not logical that I should fear to think his name, though I bear the full weight of responsibility for his death. Jim flinched when he heard my voice, though he had seen me prior to my speech. I had noted how his beautiful – blank, hollow, empty – blue eyes lingered over my body when he entered the room, lingered with a thinly disguised, desperate hunger. It shames me now to think that I considered him unworthy, but unworthy he had been, in my eyes.
He did not answer me, and I noted with disgust the slight tremble in his thin frame. Jim Kirk had always been a slender man, but in the month since our relationship had been terminated, he had lost weight at an alarming rate. I had noticed this development, but only in passing. From the way his black shorts hung off his pelvic bones and the disturbing sunken flesh between his ribs, he had not received care from the ship's medical facilities. That should have alarmed me much more than it did, for it demonstrated just how off balance the Enterprise had become. Not even Doctor McCoy, who this man affectionately called 'Bones', would stand by him.
What happened next should have never happened. Should never have entered into the equation.
I had primed myself for a fight with the exercise equipment, but when I found the object of my frustration available, I took advantage of the situation. I attacked my captain. Even more disturbing than the fact that a ship's First Officer would willingly and violently attack his captain was said captain's response.
Jim Kirk, the man who never backed down from a fight, refused to defend himself. It should have been obvious that something was wrong a month ago, but I missed it then, and I missed it now. Once he saw me coming for him with violence on my mind, he gave up. His trembling form offered no resistance to my heavy blows, and moisture flowed freely at last from his over-bright, blank blue eyes.
As bondmates, as t'hy'la, Jim and I had sparred. We sparred mentally in our repartee, we sparred logistically in our chess matches, we sparred sexually in our quarters, and we sparred physically in the exercise rooms. We had especially emphasized the importance of Jim overcoming his human weaknesses. By the time our relationship ended, he was well capable of not only fending me off, but disabling me.
But he just stood there. He did not lift a single finger to help himself, only whispered something that served to fuel my anger.
It was the nearest I had ever heard him come to crying, and it enraged me. My first blow landed just below his ribs, where his diaphragm lay. I denied him everything at the end, even the right to breathe. After that, I honestly do not remember each and every blow that landed on that fragile body. I know that when I had finished, my hands were coated with human blood, and Jim lay perfectly still. There was a sunken area of his chest where I had crushed ribs, and blood poured freely from his mouth and both nostrils.
Even then, I was horrified at what I had created. To see such a strong man reduced to such mortal remains had the potential to be empowering, and, indeed, I could easily see myself having taken that situation and molding it to my advantage. But as events lay, I stared in horror as the man I once called t'hy'la fought a valiant battle for each shallow, insufficient breath.
Not for the first time, I felt the bond in my mind being tugged. I had shut it firmly down, though I knew it was there. I decided that at the very least, I owed it to him to hear his last words. Those words would send my stomach into a roiling mass, and set a heavy layer of trepidation around my heart.
'...just figures. Stupid, self-righteous Vulcan. Serves me right for picking you, Spock. You're probably ignoring this, but hey...'
He did not feel me enter his mind, being too far gone by the point. I had become accustomed to the chaos that was my mate's mind, but this...overwhelming bitterness and despair...floored me, as humans would put it. Even more than the tirade, the raw emotions I received through the bond hurt me. He was awash with feelings of worthlessness, of uselessness, and of betrayal. He hated...someone, but that someone was not myself.
'Fuck it, I don't care anymore. Your fuck-up is going, Spock, one way or another.'
I was unable to assert myself in his mind using the bond, but I did what I could. To start, I held him. His blood painted its patterns on my skin once more, but in light of what I was about to learn – what I should have learned long ago – it was a trifling price. I would give anything to go back to the beginning to fix this, but my universe does not work that way. I can only hope that somewhere, a Spock was able to be there for his t'hy'la when he was...he was...
At odds with the internal promise came the only sound he was able to make now on the physical plane, those horrible, wet, hacking coughs. Blood gurgled in a nearly crushed esophagus, and he gritted his broken jaw against the pain of coughing against broken ribs and pierced lungs.
I fitted my fingers to his psi points, attempting to coax a meld with one I had once melded with as easily as I breathe. It was a struggle to connect our minds fully, and when I did, it was too late for Jim.
'...But hey, if you're even listening, it wasn't even my idea. Got that? I didn't even fucking want to sleep with the fucking guy, and you fucking left me. Fucking Vulcan...I don't know why the fuck I love you so much, but there you have it. Fucker...'
I attempted to calm him, letting my mental presence fill the space around his mind. That mind, however, continued on its foul-languaged tirade until I forcibly broke it.
'T'hy'la, I am here. Please repeat that.'
The force of his last thought – the last words from Captain Kirk – humbled me as much as it frustrated me.
'I loved you, you pointy-eared bastard, and you threw me to the wolves. Fucking...'
His mind completely faded from mine, leaving me with a dull, cracked, lifeless bond, and an anguish that summoned tears that I could not, and did not want to, banish. I now know that I deserve every iota of pain that was coming my way, but right then, I knew nothing but the pain. I hurled thoughts and emotions through the useless bond until I was exhausted, and it did no good. My t'hy'la was gone, and I had killed him.
I remember that day, but only as in a haze. I remember calling Doctor McCoy to the room to retrieve the body. I remember that he called Security to hold me. I remember too much.
The worst thing I remember is that,worse than the knowledge that I had killed the man who completed my soul, it was for a lie.
It was a lie. That last month, the most painful month to remember, would never have happened if I had not relied so heavily on the teachings of Surak. It was logical to assume my mate had been unfaithful when I detected the scent of another on his skin. His particularly musky smell of sex had mingled with the smell of another, and I had been hurt. Though it had been two point seven nine six years since my first pon farr, and in all that time we had been with only each other, I knew the captain's reputation. I knew how he viewed relationships, and that he had made not only a big step, but a huge sacrifice in bonding with me. Subconsciously, I must have been expecting a sort of betrayal from the very beginning.
Why else would I have left him the way I did?
That decision would come back to haunt me as I began the task of boxing up the captain's belongings to send to his family – his mother. While in his quarters, I admit to searching through Jim's private files in an attempt to find out what had happened the month previously. What I found quite literally broke my all-too-human heart. There was a series of unencrypted messages left on the terminal in the corner of his room, none of them titled with anything more than a numeral.
With trepidation, I called up the first message. It was a video message, as I would discover they all shared the same format. There was no date attached, and the content did not follow the captain's usual style of reports. He was curled in the bed we shared, on what I recognized to be my side and spoke quietly. He clutched a pillow – mine, I assumed – to his torso.
'Bones always tells me that I should keep a diary log, separate from the captain's log. I don't think he meant this, because this is something I think I want people to see. At least Spock – I can't keep any secrets from my Vulcan. I don't want to do this. I want to go find Spock, and tell him what happened so he can hold me, and love me, and tell me it isn't my fault. But if I don't get this out now, it'll fester.'
Jim paused to take a deep, bracing breath. His throat caught at the air, and his exhale sounded suspiciously like a sob.
'Starfleet sent us to negotiate a peace treaty between two warring clans. They guarded a precious resource, but were unable to allow the Federation access to it due to their feud. Spock, Bones, Uhura, and I beamed down to get formal greetings underway. I suppose they went well – no one complained that I heard. The surprise came when the male leader of one clan requested that I remain on the planet's surface for the duration of the negotiations. Since Starfleet wanted that stuff, I really had no choice.
The room was pretty nice, if not exactly luxurious. I was assigned a servant, as ridiculous as that made me feel. The bed was adequate, though I missed the furnace of my bondmate. The trouble began the day before we finalized the deal. Each side had selected a representative to undertake the debates, and I had endeavored to become friendly with both of them. That night, one of them came to my room, alone. I anticipated a lively discussion, as he had a most intelligent mind. It almost made up for my separation from Spock.
I should have known better. These people are, according to Spock, four point three times stronger than the average human, which means that even Spock would be overwhelmed should things come to physical blows. I was knocked out with one punch to the jaw. When I awoke, I had been...had been tied to the bed, there was a gag in my mouth, and he was touching me. Touching. Me. There are only two people I trust enough to let them touch me. One is Bones. He's my doctor, my brother, and my best friend. The other is Spock, and he's my freaking husband. He told me that the negotiated treaty was insufficient, and that he had to punish me. I couldn't say anything – couldn't even move against the ropes. I have never felt so human and weak, not even the time I provoked Vulcan rage.
Maybe this was a bad idea. I should be telling Spock all of this. But he is down having dinner with the clans, and the damn thing is psychic. He thrust a shield between us so that I couldn't use our bond to alert him. If I had access to that, I could be telling him all of this telepathically. But no, I am a stupidly psi-null human, and thus cannot access the bond. I wonder what Spock thought when we couldn't feel me anymore. Probably relieved to have a bit of reprieve from my illogical thought processes. Vulcans are so damn logical.
I can't do this. The words are there, but I can't force myself to say them. When Spock can fix our bond, he can hear my thoughts. I won't have to say it. Never thought I'd be so dependent on that pointy-eared bastard from the Academy. Can't have been too bad, though. I married him.'
He did indeed marry me. We first had a ceremony on Vulcan, linking our katra and forming the marriage bond. He seemed to find it quite humorous when the Ambassador informed him about the nature of our new bond.
"It is a mating bond. It requires mating."
We have never had issues with fulfilling that requirement. A year after our Vulcan ceremony, the Enterprise was near Earth. Mister Scott had asked for repairs to the dilithium chamber, which required a few weeks of work. While on planet, the command crew was invited to the Kirk household in Iowa. I met Commander Kirk for the first time, and was able to witness the interaction between my husband and his mother. Theirs seemed to be a rather strained relationship, perhaps only newly forged. I do know that there was a large segment of time where Commander Kirk could not interact with her youngest boy, for he resembled his father. I can see such a resemblance, though my husband took those features, and made them even more handsome. Perhaps I am biased.
The video categorized under the fifth numeral showed a Jim with bags underneath his eyes, as if he had not slept in a week. His shirt was stained with several substances that I recognized as blood, vomit, and alcohol. A fist-sized lump beneath his left ear showed where he had fallen and hit his head.
I just wanted to sleep. Just for a little bit. I wanted...not to dream... For once.
I remember that day. Jim had not appeared for Alpha shift, which while not unprecedented, was unusual. After Alpha shift, I used my First Officer override to enter the captain's quarters. I found him passed out on the floor, lying in a pool of foul-smelling vomit. His fingers had been loosely clenched about the neck of a large bottle of Saurian brandy. Empty. Saurian brandy is incredibly potent, and even a man as capable of holding his liquor as Jim would be floored by only two point five of the recommended servings. The recommended serving was approximately one 'finger', as opposed to the two 'fingers' recommended for Terran brandy.
It would be too easy to overdose, and that was all I thought had happened. Captain Kirk had decided to indulge in liquor, and had simply miscalculated how much he could safely imbibe. Or so I thought. At the time, I had simply called down to the sickbay to alert Doctor McCoy that the captain had suffered alcohol poisoning, and would require assistance. I waited for the doctor to arrive with an anti-grav stretcher, and left.
My t'hy'la had nearly killed himself with the need to forget – his full lips were blue when I found him – and I just left him there. Under the supposed care of Doctor McCoy, true, but I still left. This was a time I could have used to redeem myself, and I did not. My disgust for myself and my actions only grows with each video I click open.
The last video showed him as I had seen him in the exercise room. His bright blue eyes were dull and black, his cheeks gaunt, hair uncombed. He wore a faded gray shirt which only emphasized his weight loss and the shorts that clung so precariously to his over-thin pelvis. They were rumpled, as if he had slept in those clothes. Seeing him again, as he was possibly just minutes before we encountered one another...I have no words to explain. He was broken. My Jim had always picked himself up and shrugged off almost anything that happened. He fought, even when the odds were not in his favor, and he presented a slightly over-cocky demeanor to the rest of the world. I know he still held secrets from me, secrets that he feared would overwhelm him if he were to share them. I know what it cost him to present such a facade to the rest of the world, but I had never seen that facade crack.
The golden, radiant man who held such confidence in his crew and who had saved Earth...was broken. And I was the reason.
I don't care anymore. On paper, I'm the captain of the Enterprise, but not in reality. In reality, they chose Spock. So I'm going to give them what they want; what they asked. I won't even bother with Starfleet command. They would just throw me back in that room to be beaten and raped again, and think nothing of it. In exercise room three, I have a hypo that will kill me. I don't know how it works, and frankly, I don't want to know. The guy I bought the compound from told me that it would guarantee a kill, no matter what.
Doesn't matter, anyways. Not one member of Spock's crew would try to save me. Hell, they'd probably administer it themselves. I'm going to go in there, and administer that hypo to myself. Won't even blink. Within a few minutes, it won't matter anymore. My body will die, and I hope that it's a horrible death. A death that when they find my body, they'll – he'll – wonder what the hell happened. He might even watch these videos I've left behind, but I wouldn't count on it.
Spock, if that's you watching this, you're welcome. I'm gone. You don't have to pretend to submit to a captain you believe incapable of conducting a monogamous relationship. You can have the Enterprise. Treat her well; she is our Lady. But know this; I never wanted you to leave me. If you had let me speak that first night, none of this would be happening. But you didn't, because your logic told you what I had done. What I had done, not what had been done to me, to my body.
In case you only watch this video, I'll spell it out for you. I was...was...God, it's hard to say even after a fucking month! I can't close my eyes without remembering...damn. I'm trying to hide the terror behind the anger, but honestly, I can't feel much right now. I'm no Vulcan, but I've gotten pretty goddamn good at hiding my emotions. Okay. We'll try this again. I. Was. Raped. There, it's out. I think that's the first time I've said that aloud. They locked me in a room with a male humanoid four point three something times stronger than the average human being. One point something times stronger than the average Vulcan. Maybe I can hold my own against you, but I was powerless against him. What you smelled was not my transgression, but my violation. I was violated by him, and I was violated by you when you so blatantly rejected me. I was violated by the crew who took your side without even asking mine.
No doubt you'll want to show this to Doctor McCoy. Bones, you're as much to blame as Spock. You were supposed to be my friend, my wingman, my comrade-in-arms. My brother. You gave all of that up, to side with the green-blooded hobgoblin. How does that make you feel? Probably pretty good. I'm sure you and Spock just bonded over my betrayal, and he's on the verge of asking you to meld with him. Go ahead. See if he'll stand by you, the way he did me. Faithless bastards.
This probably doesn't seem too fair to you two. I'm accusing you of some pretty horrible things, but you know something? It doesn't matter. What the two of you did to me was worse than getting raped. That, I probably could have gotten through, with help. I don't even have the will to call the Ambassador, even though I know he would never judge me.
Hey, Spock, did you know that he offered to take me if things didn't work out with you? That's devotion, right there. I know you can't imagine being stuck with one of me, and he's willing to deal with two? I wish I could. I wish I didn't hurt too much to try all over again. I really do. The Ambassador has never been anything other than kind to me, which is more than I can say for you. Asshole.
Jim – t'hy'la, lover, brother – where do I start? I bear the shame, the guilt, the responsibility of killing you, for something you had no control over. I am...sickened...by the calloused way I treated you. I must turn myself in, tell the Starfleet authority that I have killed my captain. The reasons are not important; the reasons do not matter. Even Vulcans would be horrified by the atrocities I have committed against you. Mister Scott will take command of the Enterprise until we get to the nearest Starbase. Doctor McCoy may deem it necessary to sedate me before confining me to the brig. They will need to use a medical override, because even my First Officer's override cannot subjugate a medical override. In many ways, the medical staff headed by Doctor McCoy is the true authority on this vessel.
In a minute, I will go to Sickbay, and I will tell Doctor McCoy about these files. I will copy these videos to a data solid so that he may see them. If he wishes, I will try to watch them with him. I cannot promise, well, anything at the moment, except that I will lock myself in the brig before anything else can happen. I did not think it possible that I could kill my captain. Obviously, I was in error. I do not know about what else I might be in error, but I shall endeavor that my miscalculation about my own capabilities not endanger the crew in any other way. I will go quietly, under my own volition, for I am operating under a certain brand of shock. The Vulcan mating bond does not take kindly to being broken, and often retaliates in unpleasant ways. Nausea is one such symptom, as is a slowing of motion.
I will go now. I must not delay even a moment, now that I have the data solid within my grasp. I must show Doctor McCoy these, let him know what happened. Let him know how badly we betrayed our captain, his brother. Our brother, though he is more than that to both of us. The doctor was my husband's best friend, first friend, and most trusted friend. He must know.