1. First Contact I

**A/N: **So this is my companion piece to my other Star Trek fic, _Fe x Cu_, but doesn't exactly follow the same timeline. This can be a stand alone or you can read both, but to understand some references from _Fe x Cu_, then reading this would help. Basically, this is a fic that deals with a different Spock and Kirk from different universes in each chapter.

Hope you enjoy :)

Chapter 1: First Contact I

Although clusters of stars could be seen amongst the night sky, not a single moon could be seen. The planet had one, once upon a time, before it was knocked out of orbit before the Great Purge. An act of natural universal forces of course.

Above, tiny star lights ruled the dark atmosphere. They were unmatched in both brilliance and beauty—unmatched until a streak of azure double-crossed them all. And when it did, it did more than shatter the established hierarchy.

It pierced both the sky and a pair of dark eyes.

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A hooded figure came to a sudden halt, his feet slightly sinking into the sand below him. He took a breath of hot, dry air, however difficult it was, and brought a hand over his brows to shield the sunlight from his eyes. Squinting, he saw a dark form on top of a hill in the near distance and held his breath. Since travelling a month ago, and with the exception of last night's spectacle, he had not seen anything beyond sparse vegetation and a few animals. That dark form, based on its bulk, was neither plant nor animal, but it was better than nothing at that point in time. If that form was a sign that his journey would soon come to an end, then he would gladly approach it.

Despite the glaring hotness that surrounded him, the hooded figure pulled the layers of cloaks closer to him, making sure his face was wrapped properly save for the eyes. Any amount of skin exposed to the sun for more than two hours would surely blister. Exhaling, the hooded figure began his slow descend from the hill top he was on; a cloud of reddish dust trailing in his wake.

On this desert planet, an oasis is the treasure that everyone searches for. Surrounded by a land of suffering, the oasis is the hard-earned haven to its searchers. With its lush vegetation, tall trees, and fresh water, it is any desert traveller's dear companion. Some people find it in days; others find it after years of trekking across barren wastelands, while others may search their entire life and never come across it. What they find hasn't always been the same, but what they find has always been life-altering.

The travelling figure was looking for that life-altering experience, something that would answer all his questions about himself, an existence that he, and his people, could never quite accept. His birth was somewhat scandalous and shrouded with mystery. His childhood was not joyful. Even in adulthood, although he was accepted into the most prestigious science academy on the planet, he continued to feel discrimination and unwarranted hate from his people. In a culture that prized logic and disapproved of emotions, it was a stark and bitter contradiction. Yet, it was he who suffered.

He who was seen as the wrong-doer. Him and his mother.

After five minutes of crossing the distance between two hills, the hooded figure made the swift climb upwards. All the while, his dark eyes were trained on the form just at the top. He hoped, with every bone in his body, that his discovery was not a rotting carcass.

Against his father and his beloved mother's will, he had temporally taken leave of his senior studies at the Academy. They had told him that finding the oasis was only figurative language, of a legend that pre-dated the Great Teacher, and that he may not _actually_ find one. It didn't matter. They did not know of his _need_. He was compelled to search for something greater—something that neither his family nor his studies could provide him. He could not stay in the capital and continue his life there. He felt that if he did, he would have died an uneventful and lonely death.

So, here he was out in the desert looking for an oasis. He could have tracked one beforehand, hired a guide, asked locals, but there would be no point. There would be less meaning to his trek if he did not do it all by himself. However, since his journey had started, his body did nothing but grow weary of the harsh environment. With too much time to think, his mind had grown bitter. And with nothing out of the ordinary, his spirit had dwindled. He had thought himself a fool for thinking he would actually gain from this traverse. But he did not want to give up.

With a final step, he reached the top and trained his reaction.

The dark form was really a body laying face down; an arm was extended pointing eastward. The body itself was covered in a swath of light-weight materials from the head down to the ankles. Unfamiliar make of shoes adorned the feet.

Curiosity getting the better of him, the hooded figure slowly bent down and put a hand to the body's shoulder. Inhaling and holding his breath, he pushed the body with surprisingly great ease until it was on its back. He had feared hollowed eyes and a face half-chewed out by desert inhabitants. Instead, the face he was met with was unlike any other. The eyebrows were strangely shaped and comparatively lighter than his own. Even the facial structure was not characteristically oblong like his people. The skin was moist, flushed red, but other than that, there were no signs of decay or being a victim other than the desert's. It was unusual, that colour and state of the skin's complexion. Was it some kind of disease?

The body too was strange. Light and smaller than most men—was this creature a woman? No, even most women were heavier than this one and more feminine too. What kind of person was this? The face looked mature, masculine…so not a child either but a man then?

Heart beating faster than normal, the hooded-figure brought two fingers to the stranger's side of the neck just below the jaw line and pressed.

_Tha-thump…Tha-thump._

However slight the pulse was, he still felt it and his spirit that had been dying rekindled. He withdrew his hand and quickly moved to shield the face from the sun, resting the head on his lap. Foreign or not, whoever this individual was, he was still alive and as the hooded figure valued life of any kind, he would not allow this stranger to die in his presence.

There were symptoms of dehydration: fatigue, dry lips, tight skin, and perhaps the unusual red flush, but to whether these were mild or severe, the hooded figure wouldn't know. He would not meld with the stranger to find out, but either way, he knew what to do. Unhooking a flask from his belt he unscrewed it. Then he carefully ripped a piece of cloth from his cloak and dampened it before patting it gently on the stranger's face, neck, and wrist. Lastly, he put the flask to the stranger's mouth, held open by his fingers, and tilted it slightly so only a small amount could be poured out.

When the stranger coughed and groaned, he noted the deep voice and capped the flask. It was enough for now. Taking the damp cloth, he set it on the stranger's forehead and asked, "Don't move or speak. You must conserve your energy." His own voice croaked from lack of use. The stranger did not answer, only moaned a bit more and tried to open his eyes.

The hooded-figure watched with interest at the stranger's rebellious effort. He wiped the damp cloth from the forehead down to the stranger's cheek, and was about to move to the other before he abruptly stopped. The stranger's eyes had been fluttering before, but now they were wide open, looking directly into his as if half-dazed.

In all twenty-one memorable years of his life, never had the hooded figure seen such a pair of eyes. On this planet alone, they were rare colours only matched by lapis sea stones from ancient oceans past. One could view those artefacts in the National Museum, or a private collection, yet here was a set of equivalent splendor in the flesh.

They strangely invoked a sense of contentment within him, as if he was lying in a hammock back at home, swung by the wind and warmed by the sun.

At such a thought, the hooded figure swiftly discarded it and blinked back at the stranger's face. The stranger gazed curiously up at him with what appeared to be wonder. His lips mumbled words but they were too incoherent for the hooded figure to decipher.

"Do not speak," he repeated, but not unkindly. He reopened the flask and put it to the stranger's mouth once more. He withdrew it before too much could be taken and capped it. Giving too much water too quickly would do more damage than good in the stranger's condition. Placing it back on his belt, he wrapped the stranger's face loosely so only that the eyes, now closed, were exposed, before coming around, crouching, and pulling the stranger up on to his back. He securely placed the stranger's arms around his neck, allowed the head to rest on his shoulders, and grasped the stranger firmly behind his knees before hoisting the individual up.

As expected, the stranger was light and the hooded figure heard another mumble in his ears. Yet again, it was incoherent and he paid it no heed as he looked around. Up until then, he had been wandering aimlessly, walking where he intuitively thought he should head until last night. Since meeting this stranger, however, he knew for the second time without a doubt where to go.

If following the direction of the blue streak brought him to this man, then hopefully this man's hand would point him to the next destination. Wherever that may be.

Feeling rejuvenated and having found a new purpose, the hooded figure began his journey east.

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It was a shorter journey than he had expected, one in which involved reaching the destination two hours before sundown. He was very glad now that he had not gone north, his earlier intended path. If he had, who knew where he would have ended up?

Long, fringed tree leaves could be seen in the short distance. Its image did not waver, so the hooded figure knew that what he was seeing was no mirage. Slowly, he began to approach it.

Over the last five hours, the body he had been carrying grew heavier and heavier, despite its initial lightweight. His arms were cramping, but not once did he think of abandoning the stranger. Of course, logic dictated that his own survival was more important and that he should leave the individual immediately. However, the hooded figure had more than self-preservation in mind. He wanted the oasis, yes, but now he wanted it more for the stranger.

The five water flasks that he had left home with were now depleted. He had used up three in his month of travel, but the stranger was not built like he was. That was blindingly evident. They had to stop five times so that the stranger could rehydrate and cool down, and that was when the two flasks were emptied. The stranger's health did not improve much, but it was clear that he needed more water and a cool place to rest.

Reaching the oasis had grown more imperative in the last hour, so, when the hooded figure saw the fringed trees in the distance, relief swept over him.

When he finally reached the shaded grounds, he did not drop the stranger. His eyes swept over the greenery and continued forward. While admiring the flora and fauna, he was also watchful of any hostile inhabitants. Everything appeared peaceful however.

It didn't take long to find the center of the oasis, where a small pond and most of the vegetation were gathered. The hooded figure carefully placed the stranger in the shade against a nearby tree so that the head was upright. Then he unwound the cloth covering his own face and swung it over his shoulder before unwrapping the stranger's. His hand froze when all the head gear was completely off.

For the first time, the stranger's head and face was revealed in its entirety. Not only were the eyebrows abnormal, but so was the dark golden hair and the rounded ears. The hooded figure felt like a child again as curiosity took hold of him.

He crouched, unashamedly reaching forward to run his hand through the stranger's hair. He revelled in the half-soft texture and the unique hair colour. It reminded him of his adorable furry pet back home, which he missed dearly now that he thought about it. Next, his fingers held the tip of the stranger's ears. With wonder, he traced it with his thumb, bent it with his index and middle finger, and then raised his brows. He was surprised for three reasons: one, the ears were extremely flexible, second was that they were round with no scars, and thirdly, they seemed familiar as if he had seen them before. However, whatever the state, the rounded feature was the real thing.

Gradually, bit by bit, as if mesmerized, his fingers dragged across the stranger's face. He could feel warmth permeate his skin, felt the stranger's course brows, his firm nose, and the tips of the stranger's mouth. The colour, the texture—everything was alien, but it was thrilling to touch nonetheless. When a rough cough escaped through the stranger's lips, the hooded figure sharply pulled his hand back and immediately felt guilty. He shouldn't have indulged in all those touches. It was unacceptable behaviour.

The journey must have done something to him.

Standing up stiffly, he walked over to the body of water just a few feet away and dipped his hand in. He drank it with caution; deciding it was safe enough, he filled a flask and dampened the cloth that he took hanging over his shoulder. He did not forget the reason he was here.

He made his way back to the stranger and as indifferently as he could, ignored the half-lidded eyes and wiped the stranger's face and neck. He left the towel on top of the stranger's head as he began to remove the cloak wrapped around the stranger's body. What he found beneath surprised him. The stranger wore a synthetic yellow top and black slim fitting pants below. Just as the stranger's face was foreign, so were his clothes. What culture here wore such a fashion?

Upon closer inspection, there was a pointed arched symbol on the stranger's left chest—another added mystery. The crouching figure left it to ponder another time, choosing instead to wipe the stranger's wrist and ankles after the odd shoes and foot covering were pulled off. He went back to the pool, filled all his flasks, rewetted the towels and returned to repeat the process in addition to rehydrating the stranger.

Again, there were more murmurs and the hooded figure began to wonder if the stranger endured some form of brain damage from the dehydration. He hoped that wasn't the case. A conversation, after a month without intelligent contact, would be warmly welcomed.

00000000000

Light drained from the skies as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Amongst the darkening land, only a small fire could be seen amongst shadows and silhouettes. It cast its yellow-orange glow on the wet towels that hung on low tree branches, and it cast its flickering light on the two figures near the base of its blaze. One individual lay motionlessly on the ground with layers of cloth over his body. The other individual sat tending to the fire, close to the immobile figure's feet. Shades of black danced across the sitting person's face, defining a pair of deep set eyes, thin lips, subtle cheekbones, slanted brows below cropped bangs, and curved pointed ears that stopped just above his temple.

Since arriving at the oasis, the sitting figure had wondered more than once if his journey was complete. He had arrived safely, with the stranger in tow which he was glad of, but was there more? There were many questions he wanted answered, surprisingly nothing about himself but rather the fellow that slept soundly beside him. Like where did he come from? How did he come to the desert? Was he looking for the oasis the same reason he was? Why were his eyes so bright? Was it a mutation or a genetic trait? What was wrong with his ears? If they weren't mutilated, then why were they so small and round?

He mentally sighed, realizing many of his questions revolved around the stranger's features.

Exhaling, the sitting figure saw his breath mist in the air and pulled his cloak closer to himself. After the sun had fallen, the temperature had rapidly decreased. He tried not to frown. More than being baked during the day, it was the night that he could not endure. For more than thirty days, he had lay sleepless shivering and fearing in darkness. He did not want to admit it, but being alone in the harshest of conditions can do a number on one's nerves. Not even the stars that lit the sky comforted him, for they only made him yearn for the light of day even more.

However, his insomnia proved useful when he caught light streaking through the previous night. It determined his route that morning. The stars may dazzle but they were not guides.

_Chatter-chatter…chit-chatter-chatter._

He turned to the figure on the floor and saw that the stranger's mouth was moving slightly. Standing up, he shuffled over and realized the stranger's teeth were clacking rapidly together.

"He's cold," the other figure murmured, worried. Even with all the cloaks on the stranger, shakes could be seen throughout the body. Their many interactions had already proven that out of the two, the resting one was physically weaker.

Without hesitation, the weary individual lifted the edges of the cloaks on the farthest side from the fire and silently slid in beside the stranger. He lay on his side, his back keeping the cold darkness at bay, while he pressed close to the stranger's body. Adjusting his arm so his head could comfortably lay on it, for the next few minutes, he stared at the stranger's face from his slightly elevated position. Eventually, the teeth chattering and shivers from the sleeping body stopped altogether and he unwittingly felt better knowing that he himself was the cause.

As he listened to the sounds of crackling wood and light breathing, slumber snuck up on him and felled his eyes.

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_A field of gold bowed to the wind…winged creatures marked an aquamarine sky…a night peppered with stars and a moon in the sky._

_A sense of longing._

_Voices. Laughter. People with rounded ears. Floating machines._

_A feeling of deep loneliness._

_But not his own._

_What dream is this?_

Whose_ dream is this?_

Something shook his shoulder and an aggressive voice reached his sharp ears from the other side. Yes, reality—he must return to reality.

He sluggishly sat up, eyes blinking sleepily; his vision still hazy.

He hadn't slept that well in a long time, even when he was home.

By the coolness still in the air and the faint light of day, he concluded that it was early morning. Then he heard the same voice again, somewhat farther, and looked to its direction. Rubbing sleep from his face, he saw the stranger standing opposite of him in the dark shade. A pile of ashes in the centre divided them.

Again, there was that aggressive voice, similar to an angry child before they are taught control. Despite the danger that could follow when it is expressed by an _adult_, the freshly woken figure could not help and stare at the lively stranger. The shadowed individual was clearly well, and very cautious, based on the distance he placed between them. How had it not occurred to the sitting individual that this stranger could potentially be harmful? More importantly, why were the stranger's words still incoherent?

The newly-awoken figure frowned, not knowing how to respond to the other individual who obviously wanted answers. Perhaps, all this time, the 'incoherent' murmurs and mumbles he had heard was actually another language. Did the stranger not speak standard? Or was this some other variation? A dialect of some sort?

"Speak slower," he tried. Perhaps he could pick up similar sounding phrases.

There was silence, then a rapid response in unrecognizable syllables from the stranger.

Perplexed, the pointed-eared fellow blankly stared back at him and tilted his head to the side. "Unfortunately, I do not understand you."

Unfortunate indeed. He had not wished this. The intelligent conversation he had been looking forward to was already gone before it could even develop.

However, all was not lost. There were always other ways to communicate.

With painstaking care, the sitting figure reached for one of the flasks near the fire. At the motion, however, the stranger stepped back defensively. Freezing, the sitting individual stilled his movement and trained his eyes on the stranger's, hoping to convey that he meant no harm. It was like the first time he reached out to his pet, an abandoned wild he continued his movement until his hand clasped around the flask. He slowly opened it, without looking away from the stranger's, and took a gulp from it. Intent on making peace, he held it away from his body, silently offering it to the other fellow even though there was a pool of water just a few feet away.

Wearily, the stranger lightly touched his own throat, which was most likely parched no doubt, and wetted his lips. He frowned before slowly approaching the offered flask.

Not wanting to betray any trust that could be building between the two, the sitting figure tried to look obedient, passive—anything to bring the stranger closer to him—but he continued to boldly stare at the approaching individual. He did not know _how_ to look away for with every step the stranger took, it brought him out of the shadows and into the orange cast of dawn. The stranger's hair glowed and his eyes appeared clear, like first morning dew. It reminded the outstretched individual of the windswept golden fields in his dream.

And just like that, the flask disappeared from his hand.

Raising his brows, the sitting figure looked at his palm, wondering at what point had the flask left his fingers without him feeling or seeing it. Deciding that his lack of self-control in front of this stranger was just getting ridiculous, he stared at the ashes in front of him instead. As he tried regaining his bearings, he heard a heavy thump beside him and knew the stranger was sitting beside him. Three gulping sounds succeeded that and it took every ounce of control for the pointed-eared individual to not turn his head and watch. He could imagine it—his acute hearing practically allowed him to _visualize_ those noises. The stranger's act of rehydrating himself, in his mind, was slow, sensual, almost perverse…

_Thunk!_

The flask was placed between them, to gain his attention presumably. Bemused, the sitting figure chanced a glance at the stranger, wondering what the individual intended to do. He patiently watched as suspicion disappeared from the stranger's eyes and something akin to determination replaced it. After a moment of silence, in which bright eyes roamed over him, the stranger cleared his throat and lightly placed a hand to his chest. He said only one word.

Figuring the man wanted him to repeat after him, the sitting individual gave it a shot.

"…_Zh-hymn_?"

Was that how it should go? He wasn't familiar with the combination of syllables he had just heard. His own variation sounded too broken, too sharp.

Nonetheless, the stranger's eyes lit up and his lips almost curved. He shook his head fervently before settling down and repeated the word more loudly and slowly.

Determined to impress and naturally determined to do well in everything he did, the pointy-eared figure licked his lips, cleared his throat, slackened his jaws, and then tried again.

"_Jim,_" he said more boldly and stared at the stranger, looking for confirmation. When he saw the enthusiastic nod and the full upturn of lips, his fingers nearly numbed. He did very well then, but what did this word _Jim _mean? A greeting? Some form of truce? A reference to oneself?

The stranger repeated the word with more casualness, without the exaggerated pronunciations, and motioned to himself. With the same hand, he gestured towards the other figure with an open palm and raised his brows in expectation.

_Ah. So it is the latter, _the other figure thought. He half-turned to the stranger and placed a hand to his chest, the same as he had seen the stranger do, and said one word as well.

"Spock_._"

_My name is Spock._


	2. First Contact II

**A/N: **Thanks for the favs so far and I hope you enjoy the second chapter. You can also find snippets from here in my other Trek fic _FExCU _in chapter 14. Let me know how I'm doing like how's the length, what do you like, or don't like, and what I can do next.

The next chapter would feature a different universe.

Thanks for reading :)

First Contact II

_Hot. Everywhere was hot. The air he breathed felt like fire and it burned his lips, his mouth, and his throat. The gravity on this planet wasn't what he was used to, turning his own weight a burden in itself. Even the oxygen content level was lacking, making him tire out just as quick. He couldn't walk anymore; when his limbs failed on him, he dropped forward, body displacing the red sand around him. _

_He physically and mentally felt weary, worn, and abused from the desert's harsh conditions. Not a breeze ruffled his hair and not a single shadow existed for him to take shelter under. Even the clouds didn't show mercy, absent as they were in this ocean of desert. He was going to be left for dead on an alien planet, dehydrated, and a stranger. No one will find him. No one will save him._

_He would die a meaningless and lonely death. And no one would care._

_Perhaps save for one person, one who happened to cross his path and who was kind enough to be his shadow; darkness never felt so good at that moment. He felt himself being shaded, turned over, and then his head was placed on the person's lap. Cool hands swept over his face and neck and he never felt such relief. Then the moisture came and it was like a balm to his burning skin and his faith._

_He could kiss this stranger. Who was this goddess of mercy? Who was this saviour?_

_So, he opened his eyes to see what beauty or beast would lie before him. Whoa and behold, only a dark pair of eyes, holding his own soul, stared back at him._

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After almost dying, Jim never expected to be sitting with a complete stranger the next morning and trying to impress him.

"_Ss-pouwk_," Jim repeated with difficulty and looked at the man beside him. The "aw" sound seemed simple, but coming from Jim's throat it was wrong, like there was some hidden syllable or intonation he couldn't quite get right. And of all the humanoid species Jim had seen up to date, not one looked close to home as this one did. Dark cropped hair, pale skin, with devilish brows and pointed ears, the other man blinked back, repeated, and then patiently waited. Jim didn't have the same accent as he did. Unwilling to give up, he tried again and kept his pronunciation short. "_Spock_?"

The solemn face that was present on the stranger stirred slightly, but Jim couldn't tell what kind of expression it was. Did he fail at pronouncing the man's name? At the thought of disappointing, he tried to make another attempt, but Spock nodded and Jim didn't. Funny how some gestures were pretty much universal.

"Nice to meet you, _Spock_," Jim said smiling, despite knowing Spock wouldn't understand a thing he just said. When the other man responded, Jim wished that his universal translator hadn't broken when he crash landed on this godforsaken planet. There was nothing but miles of sand all around, but the plot of greenery he was sharing with this stranger was haven he must admit.

After losing all his weapons and communicator to the landing impact, Jim had wandered lost trying to look for some form of life. The gravity was not like Earth's and the air seemed too thick to breathe. He was also scorched by day while freezing by night, so Jim owed it to the stranger, to _Spock_, for saving his life. He wouldn't know where he'd be if it weren't for this peculiar alien.

Taking another swig from the flask of water, Jim didn't notice Spock staring at him until he capped the bottle. The man's face was fairly stern, unmoving, but the deep brown eyes held such emotion that it seemed like a juxtaposition manifested; it left Jim baffled. Just like the first time he had fainted under the sun, feeling certain he was going to die an unremarkable death, only to have his head cradled not long after in shadow of a hooded figure. Jim had seen nothing but the eyes, the same deep brown as Spock's, and the same wonder and curiosity that filled it.

The face too was beautiful for a male and despite all the stranger's sharp features, the humanity that rose above it all was what jarred Jim the most. Not even a simple person, born and raised on Earth with love and compassion, could look remotely close to human as Spock did. Or maybe Jim's recollection was twisted by factors like deliria, dehydration, and overwhelming relief during a crisis. Perhaps that was what made Spock so captivating to him.

Clearing his voice, the man glanced briefly away, feeling slightly uncomfortable now that he was very coherent. When he remembered the position he woke up in, coddled warm and safe in the stranger's arms, Jim felt even more awkward. "Uh, thanks by the way," he said, gesturing with his hands and making only half glances at Spock, "for saving my life. And I know you don't understand," he added shrugging, "but I just feel like I needed to say it anyways."

Not surprisingly, Spock didn't answer. He merely nodded. After a moment of quiet, the alien pointed at Jim's clothes, then his head, then his ears in particular, and babbled the same language Jim could not decipher. Spock pointed to his own ears and then at Jim's to try to make the man understand, but Jim did not know how to respond. Frustrated, he stood up.

"Look, I have no idea what you're trying to say, so let's just stop it, alright?" he asked. Glancing down, Jim didn't know why he bothered. Spock looked blankly up at him. Then the other man stood up as well and motioned with his hands—something about eating and that he will return. Jim blinked and nodded, unsure about it all. He let Spock leave without commotion though and sat on the ground.

Glancing about, he made sure Spock wasn't around before Jim started drawing in the sand with a stray stick. He pulled from his memory the position he was last in before he was jettisoned from the starship _Enterprise_. Captain Pike, his commander, had exiled him for insubordination but it wasn't supposed to be on this planet. Jim was supposed to land in the adjacent solar system—how had his space pod's trajectory changed so inaccurately?

A body moved beside Jim and the man was startled to see Spock crouching beside him. How much time had gone by? Jim didn't even hear the alien approach him, let alone sit down right beside him. What was more important was that Spock shouldn't have seen his map of constellations drawn in the sand. Even in exile, Jim respected the Prime Directive: to not interfere with another alien's civilization internal affairs or to reveal who he is in a pre-warp society.

Spock, for all Jim knew, might not know anything about this planet's solar system, yet alone the universe they lived in. Or that even Jim himself was an extraterrestrial being. The man hoped that the other man would dismiss the carefully positioned circles as silly drawings to pass the time. However, to Jim's surprise, Spock took a thin stick of his own and pointed to one of the circles on the lower centre of the crude illustration and drew a line out of the image and wrote in foreign text. Then Spock looked at Jim and gestured around him and tapped the labeled circle. Next, he pointed to the sun at the horizon and redirected Jim's attention to another circle in the sand.

Shocked, Jim stared wide-eyed at the dark-haired man. There was no doubt now that Spock absolutely knew how to interpret the drawings. He wasn't as primitive as Jim had pegged him for, but did Spock's knowledge surpass astronomy? The man didn't want to find out, in case Spock didn't.

Nodding his head in understanding, Jim smiled at the alien just to give him something. Spock stared at him for a second, a little bit in wonder, and then offered the man a fleshy blue fruit from his hand. Jim accepted it with reluctance. His body usually didn't react well with different foods from other planets, but Jim was hungry. He was going to die of hunger if he wasn't going to die of food poisoning anyways. It was all a matter of which would happen first. So, he took a chance and bit into the fruit.

To his surprise, the fruit was succulent, sweet, and thick in his mouth like a peach. Viscous juice escaped his mouth without warning and slowly dripped onto the red sand. Jim continued to eat anyways. After the third bite in, he realized that Spock was looking intently at him.

Jim paused, bringing the fruit away from his mouth. "What?" he asked.

It was a good three seconds before the pointy-eared man said anything, not that Jim understood—he was too concentrated on Spock's fingers that have reached his lips, swiping the juice at the bottom with a gentle stroke. To Jim's mortification, white pearls of juice were on Spock's fingers as he pulled away and licked it off with his tongue. Jim gawked at the other man; it was as if Spock was wiping cum off his lips; even worse, it seemed as if Jim was the one who had helped Spock put it there.

At the crazed thought, Jim immediately coloured. Who knew if cum on this planet was white or not? Jim hastily wiped the rest of the juice away from his mouth anyways and ate with extra care and precision. He also tried not to think if Spock was as human underneath his clothes as he appeared on the outside.

00000000000

Hours passed as Jim and Spock doodled in the sand, ate, drank, and explored the oasis. From their time together, Jim learned that Spock was very intelligent. The strange man not only knew of the solar system but the surrounding ones as well. There were also scribbles of what looked like calculations to Jim, or even formulas, either way, he was liking Spock even more and more—not when the man offered him the same blue fruit again though.

Jim also noticed that no matter what Jim said, or what happened in general, the pointy-eared man's expression didn't change much. However, Spock's stares always left Jim feeling a little unnerved but a little happy. He wasn't sure why, just that he liked the attention.

By midday, or however time passed on the planet, Jim noticed that they were packing up and getting ready to leave. He didn't really want to though, not if that meant suffering under sweltering heat again. Plus, he wasn't carrying enough bottles of water to last how far they were going. Jim tried to communicate this to Spock.

"I can't travel in this heat," Jim tried, pointing to the sun and to his skin. He made a swooning motion to try and get the point across. Spock nodded and shifted his robes aside, pulling out what looked like a communicator. Jim balked. It was the first time he had seen anything remotely advanced or technological so far. "The hell? Is that a communicator?" he asked pointing at the machinery.

Spock raised a brow, one of the many gestures Jim loved about the stranger, before flipping it open and speaking into it. Another voice, higher in pitch, replied. Jim was left speechless as the exchange continued.

_Alright_, the man thought, feeling overwhelmed, _not only is this guy an astronomer/astrophysicist or whatever, but now he really is some kind of intelligent, modern man?!_ Jim had thought that Spock was a nomad, but now he truly wondered what the hell the pointy-eared individual was doing in the middle of a desert. It hadn't been like the man was conducting any scientific experiments of any kind, nor were there any instruments to indicate anything. All Spock had on him were the rich dark robes draped around him, shoes, three canisters of water, a simple shoulder bag, and now a communicator.

Spock snapped the communicator shut and put it back in his robes. He then waved Jim over to a rock jutting out of the sand and pointed at its shadow. Jim understood when Spock pointed at the sun then back down and drew an arched line from where the tip of the rock's shadow was to thirty degrees to the right.

_Like a sundial_, Jim thought amused. He looked at Spock, appreciative of the man's efforts to consistently and patiently interact with him. Jim didn't exactly know what was going to happen in the time that will pass, but he knew that they weren't going anywhere anymore.

For the duration of what felt like forty-five minutes, Jim sat in the shade of the oasis, occasionally hydrating himself with the two canteens that Spock had given him. He needed to refill it twice and wondered how the pointy-eared man could last so long without water. They also attempted to converse with sketches in the sand, mild hand charades, and a few words. Jim noticed that the other man liked to call his name whenever he got the chance.

"Jim," he would say sometimes and when the human turned his eyes on him, Spock would not say anything for a few seconds as if reveling in the man's attention. After the fourth time, Jim would sigh, and repeated Spock's name too, just to play along with whatever the pointy-eared alien was trying to do. Despite Spock's lack of emotion, whenever Jim did respond with the other man's name, his eyes would seem to twinkle.

Jim smiled when Spock did, just because he thought the reaction was kind of funny and endearing for someone who appeared so serious. _Like a puppy_, Jim contemplated not unkindly.

From the distance, there was a low drone, steadily growing louder as it came closer. Spock heard it first and Jim wasn't surprised that he did. _Big ears after all, have to be good for something_, the man kept to himself. He followed the alien towards the edge of the oasis and shaded his eyes from the sun as he looked to the sky.

Hovering low in the air was a small aerial craft, about twice the size of a helicopter, white and dull in its colour, and propelled by what seemed to be four super fans at the bottom.

_Communicators, hovercrafts, what's next? Secret ability to warp?_ Jim thought in awe as Spock walked towards the machine. Jim still stood where he was, wondering how Starfleet could have missed a planet like this when such an intelligent civilization was right beneath their scope.

He didn't have much time to spare his thoughts any more consideration though because right then, a grey-skinned creature, about the size of a Bengal tiger if not bigger, with yellow marks along its spine to its tail, was sneaking up towards them. In fact, it didn't look like it spotted Jim at all, with the man a few metres behind Spock and probably out of its peripheral vision, but Jim knew its eyes were locked on the other man. By the beast's slow stalking across the sands, sharp teeth flashing in the harsh sun, Jim knew this creature was a threat.

It was a predator and Spock, clueless Spock who waved at the hovercraft, was its prey.

Self-preservation didn't matter to Jim when he started sprinting towards the other man. It didn't even matter that he could die trying to save a complete stranger, because Jim's life at that moment was not his own; not when he was indebted to Spock already for sparing his.

Fighting what seemed to be _everything_: the heat, the groundless sand beneath him, the plus 9.81 meters per second square gravity pressing down on his body, the undernourished air, and even his own body's fatigue. Jim struggled and breathed, but managed to scream out Spock's name.

"SPOCK! Get out of the way!" Jim shouted. He waved his hands, motioning to the beast less than eight meters away from them. Seeing a hand-sized rock half-buried in the sand, Jim scooped it out with difficulty and ran with it.

The beast, aware that they have seen it, was already sprinting towards them at a deadly speed. Jim wasn't so sure he could reach Spock in time, who tried to run away, but the man did. He shoved Spock aside, before the creature could swipe him, and heaved the rock as best as he could straight towards the beast's head. Jim missed though, the rock hitting the creature square in the shoulder instead. It howled in pain, a fierce rumble that shook the air and Jim's legs.

_Fuck_, Jim thought as he backed off. He tripped, feet sinking into the sand just as the giant predator scratched him across the chest, claws scraping through skin and flesh, until Jim thought it might've struck bone. The man fell to the sand, screaming in pain.

"JIM!" Spock yelled, and it's easily the most emotional tone that Jim had heard all day.

His body burned where he was scratched, because more than the obviously gaping wound, Jim felt like somebody added salt to it. He held his chest, trying to stop the bleeding, and trying to endure the pain as he heard screeching from the beast. Jim writhed in the sand, fear gripping his mind at the image that Spock was already done for as he searched frantically for him. To Jim's surprise, the beast was on the ground, just like Jim was, thrashing in the sand as Spock held the creature in a deadly lock in his arms.

Between the loud humming of the hovercraft finally reaching them and the creature's pitiful howling, Jim also heard a sharp and sick snap. Then only the sounds of machines were heard for the predator was lying limp in the ground, its blood staining the red sands a deep green.

Spock rushed to Jim, a flurry of words leaving the man's lips. His robes were torn and his hair was more ruffled than usual as he bent down and pulled Jim up into his arms. The man felt weak, unable to respond as Spock's eyes widened, travelling around Jim's red blood covered chest.

_Damn_, Jim thought hazily, eyes blearing. He looked at the dead beast where green blood dripped from its neck and was bright against its grey skin. He looked at Spock's stunned and confused expression as he whispered, "Fuck," before he blacked out.

00000000000

When Jim next woke up, he was on a soft bed in a large muted coloured room where ceilings stretched high like cathedrals and where tall windows were decorated with flowing white curtains. It was still hot, but still significantly cooler than it was earlier. His chest also hurt, although not as much as before and when he looked down, Jim saw that white bandages were around him. He looked around, confused about where he was, and saw a middle-aged woman staring right back at him.

She sat gracefully on a simple white chair near the head of the bed, adorned with light brown and grey cloth around her head, covering her ears, and the rest of her body.

"Hello, Jim," she greeted with a warm smile. "Welcome to the planet of Vulcan and welcome to the city of Shi'Kahr." Her eyes seemed to twinkle with almost the same intensity as Spock, but Jim had bigger issues in mind.

_Vulcan? Shi'Kahr?_ Jim repeated the names in his head, trying to let it all sink in. "You speak Standard?" Jim asked, startled. "How..?"

"I am also human, just like you, Jim," she answered gently. "My name is Amanda Grayson and I crash-landed on this planet many years ago. However, you are the first human I have seen since then."

Jim's head swam with questions but the one that came out was, "How do you know my name?"

"You've met my son, Spock," Amanda said with even a wider smile. "He told me all about you and how you tried to protect him from the _le'matya_."

"Spock is your son?" Jim asked surprised. He wasn't going to ask how that worked out on an alien planet, but it apparently did if a hybrid was breathing and walking around. And now Jim knew what had attacked them. "Well, uh, that's interesting—not going to question what happened there but I'm glad it worked out or I'd be dead," he said and Amanda laughed. "By the way, speaking of the thing that attacked us, I'm surprised Spock killed it so easily."

The older woman looked grave then when she agreed. "Yes, I'm surprised too. Spock has never hurt, let alone kill, any other creature before."

"Really?" Jim asked taken aback. "I could've sworn he took it down without a problem."He glanced around the empty room, curious to see where their topic of discussion was. "So, um, where is your son?"

Right then a tall door creaked open. A familiar face, with dark structured clothing, emerged from the opening. Relief swept through Jim. "Spock," he said almost sighing and moved to get up, pulling his blanket away, but the Vulcan stepped forward in a start speaking sharply. Jim paused and looked at Amanda. "What did he say?"

"He said to not move yourself too much. Your wounds will reopen," the woman answered. She held out her hand to her son, spoke something, then the man extended his own hand and touched hers. Jim saw that as a good sign as Spock quietly sat down on a chair beside her. A few more words were exchanged before Amanda looked back at Jim with amusement. "He says that you have weird ears and that your eyes are very stunning."

Startled, Jim stared at Spock but the Vulcan's expression stayed the same. Jim looked to Amanda. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" he asked.

"He didn't put it in my words but I get the feeling that he is very interested in your features. Blue eyes don't exist here on Vulcan," Amanda explained, "and of course round ears. He thought you had cut yours for some cultural practice."

_No wonder he kept staring at me in the desert_, Jim thought and chuckled. "Well, you can tell your son that his eyes are just like yours. Beautiful."

Amanda laughed, wrinkles crinkling her features as she translated to Spock. The Vulcan glanced at him, with the same twinkle in his eyes and briefly nodded his head.

"Please tell him thank you for saving my life," Jim said next. "I wouldn't know where I'd be if he hadn't saved me in the desert."

The translation was processed quickly, Jim watching Spock's consistent expression change ever so slightly as the Vulcan responded. With a little hesitance, Amanda reiterated to Jim, "He says that thanking him is illogical as it is mutual. He wouldn't know where he would be either if he hadn't found you." Then with her own words, she added, "I'm surprised he found anything in the desert at all, but he said he followed a shooting star and it led him to you."

Jim figured the "shooting star' must've been his ship as it fell through the atmosphere, but he doesn't comment on it and neither does he get the chance to. When the door to his room opened once more, a handful of Vulcans enter. There were two elderly ones, probably a man and a woman, with three other younger ones following behind them. They wore similar muted coloured clothing ranging from greys, whites, and browns and sported similar short symmetrical haircuts.

Spock and Amanda stood up to greet the elderly ones and as they spoke, the younger Vulcans looked at Jim—not with curiosity or wonder, Jim noticed, but with a strange and chilling indifference. Their eyes did not stir and they looked as dull as a dead fish. It immediately made Jim uncomfortable.

"Jim," Amanda said, redirecting his attention. The man turned his head to Amanda and her group, realizing that everyone, with the exception of Spock and his mother, were wearing the same apathetic expression. Amanda tried to, Jim could see, but her eyes still smiled and grinned at him. She gestured to the tall, greying man who stood beside her. "This is my husband, Sarek. And this is T'Pau, the head of his clan. They greet you in peace."

"Oh, uh, it's nice to meet you," Jim said with a smile, but he suddenly felt like the odd one out. No one else was smiling. He looked to Spock to help him, but the Vulcan stood with his father, his face stiffer than usual and trying to appear like everyone else.

"And those younger three are apparently Spock's classmates from the Science Academy," Amanda further explained. "They were interested in seeing who Spock found."

As their conversation went beyond introduction, Amanda explained Jim's situation to the elders and also told Jim Vulcan's situation. The man learned that Vulcan was already capable of warp-speed and that they were using an isolationist policy due to space travels gone wrong in the past. He now knew that during Vulcan's early years of warp space travel, they had encountered a massive ship of unknown origins that appeared out a black hole and destroyed all their science ships. They've battled the menace several times before Vulcan decided to just cloak their planet and stop using man-operated space travel. The experience had made them wary of strangers, who sometimes happen to discover their planet by accident, but if they're intentions proved innocent and well they would be offered hospitality.

"I see," said Jim, nodding his head. "If you ever want to explore the universe again though," he looked at T'Pau, Sarek, and then Spock, "then I, and my affiliation with Starfleet, can help with that. We can offer protection."

T'Pau considered it and said that if Jim could contact his ship then the planet's leadership would think about it and left along with the other young Vulcans. Sarek moved to follow her but it was after he pressed his index and middle finger to Amanda's did he finally leave.

Curious, Jim asked, "What was that?"

Amanda turned mirthful eyes at him and smiled. "A Vulcan kiss."

Jim was completely baffled by the answer because not only was the exchange fairly discreet, but Surak's face was void of any emotion at all. How could someone initiate affection and not display any emotions?

_This isn't Earth for sure_, the man thought to himself.

But Amanda isn't done with Jim. Since the man would be staying on Vulcan, she suggested that he could learn and understand their culture more if he mind-melded with Spock.

"Vulcans are telepathic," the woman clarified, "and a mind-meld is where a Vulcan connects or shares his thoughts with another being. I won't be around all the time and my son can help you out during your stay here."

Jim hesitantly agreed and allowed Spock to place his fingers on the sides of his face. At first, he doesn't feel anything, but then there was a tickling at the back of his mind. He suddenly felt calm and lucid; all the unease from before smoothed away until there was nothing left but serenity.

Over the course of a week, Jim realized that having a poker face was pretty much status quo in Shi'Kahr. He also realized that Vulcans were green blooded, vegetarian by choice, selective telepaths and largely a scientific society that shared a passion for life. Their most influential historical figure, a man called Surak, greatly shaped their philosophy for everyday living, having preached logic and compassion to control Vulcan emotions. In addition, he learned firsthand that physical contact was extremely rare, discouraged, and that the majority of Vulcans were also reserved individuals.

However, Spock was different. He seemed the rebel, the outcast, the lonely genius that no one could seem to understand. Not even Jim knew completely what the Vulcan was thinking when they shared their minds. He would like to though. Jim would like to know what it was about the mind-meld that made him crave for it even when he didn't need it. He also wanted to know why Spock seemed to put so much effort into him, a stranger, even when the Vulcan didn't have to. Nobody else did.

At the end of one Vulcan week, late one Vulcan evening, Jim was about to found out why Spock did. They were about to turn in for bed when dark-haired man's fingers subtlety brushed over the tips of Jim's fingers. Spock briefly looked at Jim, face completely blank save for the earnest depth in his eyes, and quietly parted. The raw affection Jim felt coursing through his body and the blood filling his groin made him realize his mistake. What Vulcans lacked in facial expressions they completely made up for in small touches. So finite were these small gestures that they could easily be mistaken as accidents, but Jim knew better now. A Vulcan touch was never a mistake.

He just wondered how he was supposed to face his new-found friend the next morning.


End file.
