Eight months into their five year mission.

It was a different, older crew who lived in the Enterprise now; the events of the previous year had taken their toll on everyone, Kirk more than most. He was quieter- less brash and reckless these days. He relied on his crew- his family- more than ever, Spock especially. Spock was the only one who didn't need to ask if he was alright; who didn't fuss or pander to him. He was always very solidly there though, just to Kirk's left, silent and stoic as ever- and occasionally Kirk would catch him throwing him an appraising glance, just out of the corner of his eye, and it made him feel safer than he would ever admit.

The rest of the crew tried, in those early days; and of course Jim appreciated it more than they could know- but they were loud, and sympathetic, and full of "oh how awful, are you alright," and it made his head pound and his pulse race to be reminded every waking moment that he had died and the only reason he was still here was because his crew risked everything. He had seen Spock's broken knuckles, healing after the fight with Khan, and he knew that it was a punishment meted out by the Vulcan on himself, a reminder that he had failed to stop his Captain's death. That had made his gut wrench painfully even though Spock pretended it was nothing.

He also saw the relief on Bones' face when he had woken up, and he knew that it had been a close thing, despite what the Doctor would have him believe. He saw Bones scared for his life, and it was terrifying.

It had been these small details which had affected him the most.

Spock had watched him die. The Vulcan refused to tell him more than this; his eyes dark and deliberately blank when Kirk pressed him for details. It was enough for Jim to gather that Spock had been wounded somewhere deep inside as well- he was just a lot better than Kirk at hiding it.

Their brief sexual encounter not long after Kirk had been revived had been a mistake; they were both hurting too much to be able to give anything except pain and rage and desperation, and it wasn't enough for either despite the attraction they both felt.

Uhura didn't know; as far as she was aware, Spock was in a relationship with her, albeit a non-consummated one. Spock couldn't seem to find the words to imply that they should part ways, and Jim didn't feel like it was his place to interfere; and so they drifted in a sort of stalemate, a triangle whose three sides didn't dare touch, tiptoeing around each other in case the peace shattered like glass.

Kirk and Spock definitely did not discuss that night; even if they had wanted to, the subject was awkward enough that Jim felt weird bringing it up with a Vulcan, and Spock felt embarrassed to talk about it at all. Frustration welled up inside Jim every time he opened his mouth to begin the conversation and stopped, throat dry as the words stuck on his tongue like sandpaper and Spock stared at him in mingled horror and deep, expectant need.

This particular shift was no different. The usual bridge crew were off duty, doing whatever they called relaxation. It was 2100 hours and Jim was leaning over the bar, staring out at the stars streaking past them in a sort of daze.

Spock had left the bridge two hours ago, and headed back to his quarters in an unusually tense mood.

He could feel something in him straining for release, a nagging ache at the base of his skull which he couldn't quite identify, and which had been there for the last three days. He was restless, and meditation seemed to have no effect on the strange, almost feverish frustration he was feeling. He also seemed to be experiencing anger, though at what, he could not decipher. He paced his quarters, his hands balled into tight, painful fists at his sides as he attempted to logically understand his condition. He had not ingested anything unusual, nor had he been in contact with an alien life form within the last week. It was most disconcerting.

After several minutes of walking his rooms and examining his symptoms- and this was also disturbing, as he had failed to keep an exact count of the time- Spock had only two logical conclusions he could make. The first was that he was suffering from Bendii Syndrome. This was extremely unlikely, however, as the disease was very rare and primarily affected elderly Vulcans. The second- and most probable- was that he was experiencing the onset of Pon Farr.

Spock couldn't quite decide which would be worse.

He growled low in his throat, his frustration rising as he realised the full implications of this. One; he was in space with nowhere to hide. Two; his intended partner, T'Pring, had died in the destruction of Vulcan, leaving him no potential bondmate even if he had not been completely and utterly unwilling to take her as his wife. And three; the likelihood of Nyota visiting his quarters tonight was approximately eighty-nine point three percent, a probability he was not comfortable with in the slightest in the light of his condition.

He had already been studiously avoiding her company as much as possible in the wake of the Captain's death, unable to cope with the waves of overpowering sympathy and understanding she gave off with each touch. She was beginning to wonder why they had still not engaged in intercourse; a reasonable query, Spock had to admit- and one he did not have a reasonable answer for as he found that the accurate explanation left a lot to be desired in regards to mutual understanding and satisfaction. How exactly did humans explain that not only did they not wish to engage in intercourse with their partner of over a year, but in fact they had already engaged in said sexual act with not only their superior officer, but in fact, a male superior officer, and found it more satisfying than any and all intimate contact they had shared with their current partner? Did humans, in fact, even bother to attempt an explanation such as this, or was the phrase "it's not you, it's me," made for situations just like Spock's current predicament?

Spock found himself irrationally angry at the fact he was in this situation at all, and before he even realised it, he punched the wall of his quarters with sufficient force to dent the metal and bruise his fingers. It felt good, so he did it again, and again, screaming inarticulately, until his knuckles were bleeding and his head was pounding. The pain reminded him of Khan, of watching his face turn red and unrecognisable under his fists, and that now familiar tug at his heart, the ache of loss still remembered even when reversed, tightened his abdomen painfully.

He knew he had little time, that his control was slipping beyond repair already- he could feel the pounding like a drumbeat in his head, could see the tension in his hands as they trembled minutely. It was affecting him more rapidly than he had anticipated, he realised with mounting dread. He needed to gain control. Perhaps he could meditate, dampen the effects enough that he could survive this without forcing himself upon anyone. Perhaps he would not have to embarrass himself further by revealing his condition to the Captain, or worse, to Doctor McCoy.

He knew, of course, that his chance of success-indeed, of survival- was minimal with meditation alone. Few Vulcans who attempted it succeeded, even with years of intense training and uninterrupted concentration-and Spock had neither; his control now hanging by the barest of threads, the primal, driving need to mate, to take and have and claim as his own beginning to overpower his reason and coherent thought. Spock struggled to maintain mastery of his emotions, the surge of arousal and adrenaline in his system causing his hands to shake more violently, his nails digging painful crescents into his blood streaked palms as he fought. He became aware that his cock was almost painfully hard, the restriction of his trousers uncomfortable and maddening.

"Spock," Uhura called cheerfully as she entered his quarters unannounced, a practice which had always irritated Spock even when in his usual state of mind. Today it merely served to fuel his rage, and he rounded on her savagely. "Why must you always enter my personal quarters without asking permission?"

"Spock…we've discussed this. We're a couple, and-"

That word- oh how he hated that word.

"A couple. I do not recall ever agreeing to become a couple with you, Lieutenant. I recall a great many assumptions and liberties on your part, but not once do I remember acknowledging a relationship such as you believe yourself to be in."

"But Spock, we've been together for so long-"

"Correction. You have been under the assumption that we were together, because I could not find the correct method in which to tell you otherwise. Have we engaged in intercourse, for example?"

"We were waiting…you haven't had experience, and we wanted it to be special…"

"You wanted all of those things. I wanted something else- and I took it."

"Spock…what do you want? What do you need?"

That pathetic, whiny voice was starting to hurt his ears. Everything was painful; everything was blurred and tinged with grey like he was going to pass out, his brain ringing.

"I wanted the Captain," he roared. "And while you were busy talking about us and our perfect little relationship, I took what I wanted and I fucked him."

He knew now he was gone, with no hope of recovery; his heartbeat thrumming in his ears like a call to war, his erection aching with the need to take, to ravage and break the nearest body. He lunged at her before she could answer, grabbing her shoulders, suddenly disgusted at the outpouring of disbelief, fear and anguish crashing over him from her. She was small, puny. She would break, and it would be good. He pushed her down onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head easily with one hand. She fought, she bit at him, freeing one hand to claw at his face even as he ripped at her clothing with the other hand, and she was crying, sobbing something but the words meant nothing to him now, his mind a haze of pain and want. He focused hard, managing to understand- "please Spock, not like this, we wanted it to be gentle when we took that step-" and dimly he remembered that she was supposed to be his partner, though he could not recall why he would choose to potentially mate for life with a being so weak, so easy to break and so suffocatingly, overwhelmingly emotional.

His condition was worsening. His mind reached out, the remnants of a pre-bond torn by death desperate to forge a link, to create a strong connection- and it faltered when it reached Uhura. She was wrong. There was no connection, no intimate recognition of her in his thoughts. Nothing it could use to create their bond.

His confusion turned to rage, the blood fever screaming in his ears.

She was not his mate, not worthy of him. Spock snapped her wrist like a twig as she reached to slap his face, her fresh cries of agony barely even registering as he stood, dragging her to her feet by her hair. "You are not mine," he spat, enraged that she would be in his quarters at all, would offer herself when she was so clearly lacking.

He shoved her back against the wall, leaving her slumped on the floor as he exited his rooms and made his way through the labyrinth of corridors towards Engineering's lower decks, using the last of his conscious thoughts to attempt to lose himself and avoid hurting anyone further before he succumbed to the plak tow.