By request, this is a sequel to 'Shattered Mirrors'. If you prefer the ending to the last, you can certainly ignore this. However, it has something of a more hopeful ending. Even if it's, um, not exactly all rainbows and puppies, either.

Also, I think I missed a few people answering reviews - my inbox is crazy-confusing. So, if I didn't get to say it, thank you to anyone who reviewed 'Shattered Mirrors'. (Or who will review this, for that matter!)

Hope you like it!

"Is there any permanent damage?"

The words were quiet. Sickbay was dark, the Gamma-Shift rotation having exited to give the two privacy. There was only one patient, lying silently on a biobed, between the two men in the private room. The readings displayed above the biobed were not the best the captain had ever seen them at, but not the worst, either.

"Physically?" Doctor McCoy paced around the bed, slowly. "Physically, there'll be scars - lots of scars. They also got his system addicted to a few things, but nothing that'll have major effects - he'll have a rough time detoxing, but I'm not too worried about that. He won't be quite as flexible, I imagine, with all that damaged tissue, but even that should subside, given a few months. Won't be winning any beauty contest or finishing first in races, in other words, but with modern medicine I can take care of most of his injuries."

Kirk eyed him. The words gave him some hope, despite the silent figure on the biobed, swathed in bandages. But the sober cast to the doctor's features belayed any possible relief he might have felt.

"And psychologically?"

"Psychologically… I'm not going to lie, Jim, but even for a Vulcan, what he went through was no cakewalk. Frankly, I can't even confirm that he'll be sane when he wakes."

The captain exhaled, slowly. "This is Spock we're talking about, Bones. I can't imagine that any amount of physical pain could break him that easily."

"Easily? Hell, no. Jim, this isn't just about physical pain. Don't get me wrong, that would be bad enough, but this is something entirely different. Here, he's been missing seven days. That's horrible enough in itself. But with the time distortion, who knows how long he was about that a minute. He was being tortured for over a weeks - maybe months - tortured by perfect replicas of his crewmates, who even probably shared some of the same mannerisms. He probably thought he was stuck there forever! And then, yes, there's the physical abuse - sexual abuse - not to mention whatever sick new forms of torture that universe spawned - damn, Jim, I shudder to think what an even more cruel version of our reality could cook up! Some of the things people have devised for the mere purpose of torturing others…"

"I can't accept that, Bones."

"I can see that. But that mindset isn't going to help him. If you just try and refuse to acknowledge what happened - "

"Who said anything about refusing to acknowledge it?"

Kirk sat by Spock's biobed, agitated, staring at the form of his friend. "I just mean, Bones, that I'm not going to let it destroy him. Whatever trauma he's endured - he'll get through it. I'll see to that."

McCoy sighed. Perhaps he could do it, he thought - but sometimes, Kirk didn't fully realize the impossibility of a situation. He was a person who believed anything could be accomplished if one just tried hard enough - and, as McCoy had learned painfully in the past, life wasn't always like that.

But it was clear Kirk wasn't backing down, so for the moment, he was silent.

Of course, he thought, it was that same relentless, dogged determination that had led to the reclaiming of the first officer - the scientist finally stumbling upon a way into the alternate universe (with help from the scientifically inept captain, somehow - McCoy wasn't going to question it) and Kirk himself devising a way to steal him back from the ISS Enterprise, utilizing a mirroring technique similar to that of their first encounter with the Romulans - quite effective, considering their signs read as identical to the alternate Enterprise.

They'd manage to retrieve him, but none of the rescuers would ever forget the sight of their quietly reserved, pristine first officer lying unconscious on the transporter room floor, matted with blood and a number of questionable substances covering his body. It was hard to tell what parts of him were injured in that mess.

Even as pandemonium roared around him, medical staff shouting and hefting him onto stretchers, the Vulcan had lain silent and still.

Kirk knew he should be on the bridge, really - it was still Alpha Shift, after all, and he had duties to be doing. Quite frankly, though, he wasn't quite sure he could pull himself away.

Spock had been gone a week, and the Enterprise crew had no idea if he was even alive during that time. For all they knew, their counterparts could have killed him immediately, and none of their efforts would matter. The thought had haunted him during the long wait.

But he hadn't given up then, despite Starfleet's insistences to move on - and now Spock was back. He had to believe they could work past whatever effects the torture had had; it would be too cruel of fate, to deliver him back otherwise.

"Jim - I think he's waking up."

And, indeed, his vitals were slowly rising. The Vulcan twitched on the biobed, then was still.

Hardly daring to hope; "Spock?"

The response was immediate.

Immediately, the eyes snapped open - but before Kirk could even feel relief, the Vulcan had thrown himself off the biobed, falling to the floor in disarray.

Alarmed, McCoy stepped forward.

On the floor, tangled in the bed sheets, the Vulcan had pushed himself into the corner between the bed and floor, and now curled forward, arms shielding his head and his legs bent up to protect his stomach. He was trembling just slightly.

They both stilled a second at the pitiable sight.

"Spock?"

There was no reaction. Exchanging weary looks, they kneeled on either side of him.

"Heart rate's through the roof," McCoy muttered. "But there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong…"

Spock didn't look like there was 'nothing wrong' with him, in Kirk's opinion, but he said nothing.

"Shaka, shaka, klee-fah -" Spock shook his head slowly, still in that strange position.

"What?"

"I think that's Vulcan," McCoy muttered. He ignored the rambling mutters that followed. "He might come out of this, Jim - but I'd recommend getting a Vulcan healer to see him."

"I'll see if there's one at the closest Starbase," Kirk agreed quietly. "Spock? Can you hear me? You're back on the Enterprise."

McCoy gave him a distinctly unimpressed look.

"Your Enterprise," Kirk amended. "USS Enterprise, not…" he trailed off. Still, there was no response.

"And you're safe," McCoy added uncomfortably. Kirk shot him a look, calculating, obviously displeased with whatever conclusion he reached.

"If you can't stand to watch this, Doctor McCoy?" the captain asked coldly.

McCoy flushed. "That was uncalled for, Jim! I'm staying right here."

The captain said nothing, turning back to Spock, who had not yet reacted. McCoy quelled his rising anger ruthlessly. Kirk was concerned, that was all; and when he was stressed, with no convenient answer, he could become somewhat - short with his friends. It meant nothing.

But, damn it, he wasn't sure he could watch Spock like this.

"Spock?" Kirk prodded, gently. He reached out with one hand, carefully, to touch the Vulcan's shoulder.

A chill went up McCoy spine at the reaction to this. Spock shied from the touch, head still hidden, scrunching himself farther into the corner and letting out a low moan, halfway to a whimper.

This wasn't right.

Kirk, if he felt any similar sentiments, ignored them.

"Spock listen to me. It's Jim - you're fine now, you're back on the Enterprise - "

Despite his earlier words, McCoy felt himself shaking his head.

"No one will hurt you…"

He knew, from his medical scans, that the time had been even longer than what he'd hinted at to Jim - some of the torture had obviously gone on months ago. But, even looking at Spock, he could hardly believe it himself. Seven days ago, the morning before Spock had been taken, they'd ate breakfast in the mess hall and McCoy had mocked his ears, and Spock had mocked McCoy's skills as a doctor, and there was some general bickering over stubbornness and logic and emotion that everyone had heard a hundred times over. Perfectly ordinary, perfectly routine.

And now Spock cowered, unable to look at him, a ghost of his former self -

It was mind-boggling. And that said something, because McCoy was not easily thrown off. But he, an experienced physician, couldn't understand how Kirk could look at his closest friend and seem so calm!

Jim, strangely, had apparently stopped trying to reach Spock. Instead, he sat by the Vulcan silently, crouched on the floor, and waited.

They were doing it again.

He knew it, but it hurt every time, in a horrible, heart-tugging way that none of the bodily torture did. He closed his eyes, pressed them to his knees, and even covered his ears, but he couldn't block out the sounds - the low, concerned murmur of Jim's voice, the gentle beeps of Sickbay. He knew, if he looked up, it would be to meet the concerned gazes of his two friends.

And if he looked up, he would break.

"Damnit, Doctor, I wanted more time!"

The first time they had deceived him - fooling him into thinking he had been rescued, and was home - he been swift to learn, through one of McCoy's errors, that he was, indeed, still in the mirror universe. It had nearly destroyed him - had destroyed him, in a way, for it had crippled any of his faltering hope that had survived to that point.

But, nonetheless, some hope must have survived, somewhere - because the next time they had deceived him, he had believed them. Again.

He recalled mirror-Kirk's words from the first trickery.

"Who knows if we'll manage to trick him again."

They had managed. They had managed. He had listened to their words in terror, soothing entreaties, pleading voices begging him to understand. He was on the Enterprise, they insisted, his Enterprise. He was home. He was safe. Why couldn't he realize that?

He hadn't dared believe, hadn't dared hope - until -

He remembered it, clearly - lying in the ISS Sickbay, turned into a cruel facsimile of his memory, pretending to sleep. Mirror-Kirk had entered, and, putting his hand on the 'sleeping' Spock, had whispered to him all through the night, parting just before Spock 'awoke'.

"You're safe. Safe. I don't know how we'll get you to see that, but - we will. I promise you, we will." A sad chuckle. "They miss you down in the labs, you know - and Chekov gets unbearably sad at your posts, like he's remembering -" the voice trailed off. "You need to come back…"

Surely, he had thought, with a horrible, horrible hope, surely mirror-Kirk would not sit with him through the night, comforting a senseless, sleeping body? It must have been Jim.

Yet, even after ample first-hand experience, Spock had underestimated the cruelty of his captors - because Kirk had been fully aware he was conscious. Kirk had, again, tricked him.

Spock hadn't known you could shatter a soul twice.

Or three times, or four, or five. There had been five incidences in total, each more horrible than the last.

"You stupid, desperate Vulcan. I can't really believe you fell for it again."

He had tried every method of suicide available to him, from biting his tongue to throwing himself onto the weapons of others in the gym, or even incensing his captors. But that just seemed to amuse them, and always, always, they ensured that he lived. He always lived.

"I just don't think they make 'em the same in that universe, Bones, they really don't. Either that or this imbecile's a special breed. I can't believe he fell for it again."

"Oh, I can."

But he would not fall into the same trap a sixth time.

"No one will hurt you."

No one will hurt you.

No one will hurt you.

"Jim - are you really - "

CRACK

Stunned, Spock stared at the image of his closest friend, struck dumb with shock after the slap.

"It's funnier every time, Bones!" Mirror Kirk yelled with glee, the earnestness fading from his face. The comforting visage of Jim was gone, a cruel caricature left in its place. "' No one will hurt you', I know - sorry, but, I may have exaggerated - "

There was silence.

Silence. Kirk was not talking.

How… strange.

But, still, he did not look up. He could imagine the look. It would be full of concern and sorrow and love, fierce love, false love, and it would melt every resistance he had, to see that look on the face of Jim Kirk. It would break him again, and then, once more, everything would return to normal -

Silence.

No consolation? No soft murmuring? Odd. No, no, they wanted something different this day, some other form of reaction to entertain them. He mustn't look, he mustn't. He mustn't.

He looked.

And he didn't understand.

Jim was closest, close beside him, watching Spock's face - but instead of that fierce love, only a stubborn set to his jaw that betrayed any thought. His eyes were carefully guarded as he fought to contain whatever emotion was in him, his fortitude that of which any Vulcan could respect. Next to him, McCoy attempted to do the same, but the more overtly emotional man failed; he seemed, instead, ill-at-ease.

His mind ground to a halt.

This… this was different.

Surely not. Surely, surely not. A new trick. They were just trying to fool his again. He would not be taken in by this, he would not.

He would not.

He wouldn't…

"Jim?"

The guardedness of Kirk's eyes fell; his eyes widened.

Spock flinched, bracing himself for a blow, the gloating smile -

"AGAIN, Bones! Can you believe it - "

- but it never came.

"Spock. Do you - know where you are?"

Spock said nothing.

There was silence a moment.

McCoy, uncomfortable, tried to help. "Spock, here get up on the bed - you'll pull all your bandages like that…"

He trailed off, awkwardly, and was quiet. He didn't make any move to enforce his proposal.

It looked like Jim. But it always looked like Jim.

They were just trying something new - something new -

Kirk saw it, he realized. Kirk knew he didn't believe, not really. Perhaps that was why the charade hadn't ended yet?

"Spock, you're safe. Really."

He closed his eyes again. The Love was peeking back through Kirk's eyes, that false poison that stung his chest, and it hurt.

"Jim?" McCoy, confused, not understanding.

"He doesn't really believe it, Bones."

No, he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't.

A hand grasped his hesitantly. It was McCoy, he could tell that much by its roughness, but the tell-tale scar by the thumb was not present. Another part of the lie.

"Bones," Kirk breathed.

Confused at the tone, Spock hesitantly opened his eyes.

Kirk was staring at Spock's hands as though they held the answer to life itself.

Slowly, Kirk met Spock's eyes. Then he grasped Spock's other and, without hesitation, raised it to his own face, pressing it against his skin.

McCoy followed suit without hesitation.

This was an anomaly. This was not how it happened. This was not a part of the game. Kirk's eyes begged him to believe, but that didn't seem right, either.

Mirror-Kirk was a very good actor, but even he couldn't escape his natural personality enough to beg, even with his eyes.

"Do it," Kirk said, and he did.

He touched their minds at first, softly, expecting some horrible reprisal - perhaps they were somehow disguised Vulcans, ready to attack his mind at the intrusion, a double invasion. But there was only trust - and two very familiar minds. He plunged in further, going from tentative to desperate, grasping at everything in their minds.

It was Kirk and McCoy. His Kirk and McCoy. And everything, every feeling of concern and anxiety, every thrill of terror at the sight of his emaciated, cowering form, had been real. Unfeigned. Honest and sincere and so full of positive, warm, sheltering thoughts and emotions that he could have wept at the release of the past cold.

Perhaps he did, but it was hard to tell. He knew only that he shook so very terribly that he could not speak, his whole body shuddering. McCoy slipped away long enough to find a shot of something, and in his absence the Vulcan clung to Jim as his lifeline, hands grasping along his face and neck and arms with the wild desperation of a starving man. Kirk bore it, clasping the spent body against him and whispering nothing at all. When McCoy returned he was promptly dragged in, as well, but did not complain. And they stayed there, on the floor, their warmth and sweet thoughts his lifeblood, and after months the ashes of his soul, slowly, started to take shape again.

End.

Poooossibly. I know I'm going to regret asking this - anyone still want more? I think this is a nice ending point, but this one has now snared me... meh, we'll see.