“You can talk to me, you know.”

  Uhura crossed Spock's quarters, sitting on the bed beside him.  He was lying on his side, nearly fetal, and did not react as she touched his hair.  “You don't have to suffer in silence.”

  His voice was distant.  “I am not suffering.  I am merely recovering.”

  She frowned and lay down, lightly trailing her fingers along his shoulder.  “You don't have to lie to me, Spock.  I won't tell anyone about your 'weakness.'”  She kissed the back of his neck.  “Honestly, I expected it sooner.  It's only natural to grieve over the death of your planet-”

  He rolled over abruptly, capturing her hand.  “This is not about Vulcan.”

  “Not about . . Spock, what else could there be?”

  He stroked her cheek.  “Would you like me to show you?”  She frowned up at him, but his fingers were pressing on her face, his voice hard, his eyes drawing her into himself.  “My mind to your mind . . My thoughts to your thoughts . . “  Our minds are one, Nyota . .

  she was withering under his stare the stare of a horrible ancient angry being that pressed and twisted and groaned beneath her as she wrapped around him holding him in devouring him slowly mantling his turbulent core that spread her too thin with the weight of his hates dreams memories straining to maintain control reason soul being all too much

  He let her go and she jerked back, bumping to a halt at the head of Spock's bunk.  She stared.  He reached out to her and she flinched away.

  “You're mad,” she whispered.

  “I am not mad,” he said.  “I am simply . . strained . . by the effort of assimilating such a powerful mind.  When it is done, I shall be quite normal, Nyota.  Only much more powerful.”

  She shivered.  “Spock . . “

  “We will rule, beloved.  Kirk and I are already planning the ways that we shall save the Empire.  Join with us.  I was once an Emperor; continue to be my consort.  You will have everything you could desire, I promise it.”

  She could not look away.  Slowly at first, then firmly, she took his hand.