A/N: Hello all, Kleinchen here! This is my first Trek fic, so I am very pleased to be presenting this to you. n-n Please note that this story is already complete, and as such, although I enjoy and value critiques, any advice you give is unlikely to be incorporated into later chapters, because all 20 chapters are already completed.

Warnings: This story contains (non-graphic) rape and a lot of angst, K/S pre-slash.

Comments and critiques are more than welcome! I am always striving to be a better writer. :]

And that's about it! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. :]

Chapter One: Confession

For Jim Kirk, it started off as a normal morning aboard the Enterprise. He had awoken at his usual time, eaten his usual breakfast, and he now leaned against the white plastiglass of the command chair, cool to the touch, with one booted foot resting jauntily atop the other thigh. He looked how he often did when he first sat down for Alpha Shift – as though he had just conquered the world, surveying his kingdom, the bridge, with his trademark confident, charismatic grin.

He joked around with the crew, who laughed at him as per usual. He checked with Uhura to see if there were any updates on their current mission – to travel to Starbase 49 for some routine scheduled maintenance and speak with some Starfleet dignitaries about about something or other. There were no updates – then he checked with Scotty to ensure the engines were working smoothly, which they were. Everything was running normally and Jim relaxed in his seat.

As the morning wore on, however, something seemed amiss as he surveyed the bridge. He wasn't quite sure – but something felt different, unusual – wrong, sort of. He frowned slightly and scanned the area, seeking whatever it was that was causing his uneasiness – and he spotted it.

Usually Spock stood over the science panel with a strong and stoic stillness, like a marble statue from ancient Terran history. Today, however, his foot was tapping against the clean white floor, in time with his long bony fingers strumming against the equally white shelving unit that held up his controls. He was restless, uneasy – anxious, even – and his discomfort was painfully obvious now that Jim had spotted it.

"Everything okay over there, Mr. Spock?" he asked. He had spoken in a normal speaking voice, but Spock jolted at the sound as if he had shouted, which only worried Jim further. Something was not right.

Spock took in a deep breath as he turned to look at the captain, the other bridge members eying him with guarded curiosity.

"Yes, sir," he responded faintly, "Everything is showing as normal in my vicinity."

Jim sighed inwardly; he was not surprised by Spock's response to his poorly-worded question.

"Are you feeling alright? You look a bit sick," he said. Spock's gaze darted away and he responded with some hesitation,

"I am feeling rather unwell."

"Do you need to take a day off?" Jim asked with a frown – he could not think of any instance when Spock had fallen ill. The Vulcan, however, shook his head curtly and looked back to his controls.

"That would be unnecessary," he said in a clipped tone, "I can work sufficiently in my present condition."

Jim didn't buy a word of it, but he conceded with a simple "all right then," and swept his gaze around the bridge once more, the nosy crewmen dropping their eyes hastily back to their stations as he did so, as if he had verbally reprimanded them. And for the rest of the day he found himself unable to concentrate, his mind being rather preoccupied with thoughts of Spock's peculiar behavior and apparent illness.

"Got a minute, Bones?" Jim asked, poking his head into McCoy's office a little over an hour after Alpha Shift was over. He had been keeping an eye on Spock for most of the day, and the older Vulcan's nervous jitters and never subsided and Jim found himself increasingly concerned.

McCoy was seated at his desk, leaning over a PADD with one hand supporting his head from beneath his chin. He glanced briefly at Jim and replied,

"Gimme a second to finish this up, kid."

"Sure thing," Jim replied, and he sat in one of the several empty chairs scattered about the room. McCoy tapped away at the PADD for a few moments longer, then set it in a pile on the other side of his desk.

"I think it's safe to assume this isn't about the Andorian flu vaccination you were supposed to have six weeks ago," he said dryly, leaning back in his chair. Jim chuckled and shook his head, knowing that Bones knew full well he would rather come down with the full-blown Andorian flu then get a hypo stuck in his neck. "So let's hear it, kid. What d'ya need?"

"Well, uh," he began, feeling suddenly unsure of himself, "It's, uh, about Spock." McCoy wrinkled his nose with a faint sneer and retorted,

"If it's something about Vulcan anatomy or some other question I would be better off never hearing from you –"

"No, no, it's not like that," Jim replied quickly, laughing nervously, "Really, Bones, I swear it's not. I'm worried about him, I think he's getting sick." At that, McCoy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked with a sigh, reaching for another PADD.

"He just seemed really – I don't know – nervous, I guess? All day. He was tapping his feet from the beginning of Alpha Shift, and his fingers too, and he kept at it all day. And he practically jumped when I asked him if he was alright." He frowned. "Dammit, Bones, stop looking at me like that!"

McCoy's expression had grown more and more incredulous with every word that came from Jim's mouth, and his eyebrows had long since disappeared under his dark brown bangs. He looked away slowly, eyebrows relaxing but his lips tightening in mild disbelief, and he began pulling things up on the PADD.

"And what did he say when you asked him abut it?" he asked dryly. Jim suppressed a frown at the doctor's barely-contained skepticism, and he replied curtly,

"He said he wasn't feeling well but turned me down when I suggested he take a day off."

"That's not surprising, considering the green-blooded idiot's never taken a sick day in the history of his entire Starfleet career," McCoy muttered, the PADD clicking as he typed. "So he's showing signs of anxiety and restlessness..." He skimmed through the information the PADD spewed up for a few moments longer, then set it down with a sigh.

"I dunno what to tell you, Jim," he said, "There's very few contagious diseases Vulcans are susceptible to anymore, and anxiety and the jitters ain't symptoms to any of 'em."

"Then what do you think it could be?" Jim asked with a perplexed frown. McCoy shrugged.

"If it were a human I'd say maybe he's just gettin' antsy – cabin fever, y'know? Been cooped up in space too long. But this ain't a human we're dealin' with, so I can't give you a good answer." Jim sighed, leaning back in his chair in resignation.

"Well, thanks anyways, Bones," he said and began to rise. McCoy seemed to hesitate for a moment, then as the younger man stepped towards the door he snapped,

"Hold on, Jim. Just 'cause I can't figure out what the hell's up with the hobgoblin doesn't mean you can't figure it out. Maybe he was just having a bad day. But if it's still happenin' tomorrow then ask him about it again. You're the closest thing to a friend he's got ever since him and Uhura called things off. If you pester him enough he'll spill." Jim chuckled.

"Well, then I'll keep an eye on him," he replied with a faint grin.

"And, Jim," he added quickly, scowling, "If he gets worse, let me know pronto. All those hobgoblins on New Vulcan are butthurt enough about Spock choosing Starfleet over them, and if he comes down with some freakish Vulcan sickness and dies on my watch there'll be hell to pay. So you better keep a damn good eye on him."

"Will do, Bones," Jim replied, suppressing a laugh as he strode out the door.

Spock's hands were shaking as he pressed his fingertip to the door's fingerprint scanner. He stumbled into his quarters the moment it granted him access and hastily closed it behind him. For a long moment he stood there, trembling and staring at nothing as his mind raced, desperate for an answer that was not the one he had deduced. This cannot be happening, he screamed at himself, this is impossible, there must be some other reason behind it...

He pulled out his meditation mat, pointedly ignoring the uncharacteristic clumsiness with which his fumbling hands handled the task. He sat upon it the moment it rolled out onto the floor and closed his eyes. Meditation would help – he needed to meditate, and surely then this would pass.

He sat there for twenty-seven minutes and sixteen seconds, and for that entire time he was painfully aware of nothing but the pounding of the blood in his veins, the blood he could feel carrying copious amounts of adrenalin to the rest of his body. His mind told his adrenal glands to cease immediately, shouted at his endocrine system to stop this foolishness, but his once-obedient body paid his demands no heed.

Mediation was useless.

He stood up quickly and stumbled to his commlink unit, punching in the number he needed without thought. It puttered for a moment before the screen flashed to life.

His father greeted him with a quizzical eyebrow, presumably about his disheveled and restless appearance.

"What ails you, Spock?" he asked without preamble. Spock felt a brief moment of gratitude for his father's astute ability of getting straight to the point – he was uncertain he would be able to handle going through any formalities at the moment.

"Father," he said, his eyes darting restlessly about his quarters, "Forgive the abrupt quality of this call –"

"Think nothing of it," Sarek interrupted, tilting his head down ever so slightly, the Vulcan equivalent of waving a matter away. "Speak your mind, son."

"I am 99.7 percent sure I have entered the moderate stages of Pon Farr," he replied, inwardly recoiling as he forced the foul words out of his mouth, "However, this is a worrisome matter, as it seems I have entered this stage at a rate nearly double the normal speed of the blood fever."

Sarek stared stonily at him, his expression unchanging in spite of the horribly taboo nature of the topic Spock had hurled at him. He remained silent for fourteen seconds, then began to speak.

"This is... not unheard of," he said slowly, "Since the destruction of Vulcan there have been cases of individuals going into Pon Farr as much as four years before scheduled, at a rapidly accelerated rate."

"Why?" Spock breathed, his heart hammering in his abdomen.

"Most doctors believe it is due to the mass genocide our kind has suffered," Sarek continued, "Our bodies have sense the sudden loss of fellow katras, and are responding by attempting to dramatically increase the rate of reproduction."

"I cannot deal with this here," Spock interjected, brows furrowing, "I am at a loss as how to handle – how to –" He snapped his mouth shut, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain the control he felt slipping away from him.

"Request an emergency leave," Sarek replied quickly, "Come to New Vulcan. There are facilities already set up to assist those like yourself. Surely the Enterprise can get close enough to beam you to New Vulcan without any significant detrimental effects."

"We are currently en route to Starbase 49, which is in the opposite direction of New Vulcan. Our scheduled rendezvous is in seven days. There will not be time."

"Make the request, Spock," Sarek replied insistently. They stared at each other for a moment, hints of frustration on both sets of stern features, until finally Sarek spoke again.

"And you are certain there is no one aboard suitable to – meet your needs? Your survival outweighs the secrecy our race keeps around the blood fever, Spock."

"There are only two individuals aboard the Enterprise with whom I am able to meld with at a sufficient level," Spock murmured, looking away. "One is female and would surely be severely injured."

"And the second?"

Spock was silent for a moment, images of soft blond hair and electric blue eyes flashing in his thoughts, then said in a steely-soft voice,

"I would rather suffer the slow death of Pon Farr than bring any harm to the second individual."

"Illogical," Sarek sighed, "But if that is how it is, then you must somehow arrange transport to New Vulcan. How long do you estimate you have?"

"At the rate of progression I am experiencing, I doubt I will be lucid after three day's time. My heart will burst in four to five days."

"Do whatever it takes, Spock," Sarek said sternly, "I will not allow petty Starfleet formalities or our race's desire for secrecy to cause your demise." Spock nodded slowly, and Sarek leaned back while letting out a long breath.

"I will arrange for a room to be prepared for you at my home," he continued, "I will be expecting you in a few days."

"Yes," was all he could bring himself to utter.

"Forgive my abruptness, but I must go," Sarek said, glancing away, presumably at a clock – it was mid-morning on New Vulcan. "Do everything you can, my son. Live long and prosper."

"Live long and prosper," Spock murmured, and the commlink flashed off.

He stepped back and sat down weakly on his bed, his entire body shaking uncontrollably and his breath coming in short, heavy gasps.

He felt illogically and irreconcilably certain he was going to die.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Chapter two will be up in a few days.