Written by Jane Bovacs

The doors to Spock’s quarters slide open with a gentle swish. Two men enter. The first, twenty-seven-year-old Spock, wears his blue first officer’s uniform. His hair is perfectly styled with an even Vulcan cut, like a puddle of obsidian covering his scalp. Muscles bulge from his clothing; he is fit, spry, and rigid. The second man, Spock one-hundred-eighteen years older, wears his wrinkles like a Klingon wears his Ha’quj, with quiet dignity. His white robes are billowing and contain the dirt and stains of a man who is active in his quadrant, who puts his clothes to use, and who has seen much tragedy. The older Spock exudes wisdom, purpose, and, to a certain extent, the joy of youth, whereas the younger Spock only exudes cold logic and deep-seated confusion and insecurity. Young Spock knows nothing of what he eventually wants from life; Old Spock knows precisely what he wants in his life, in his mind, and in his lovers.

The two men have met in the cargo bay at the completion of Young Spock’s first mission on the USS Enterprise. After a quick discussion of why Old Spock had to travel back in time—to follow and destroy the nefarious Nero—Young Spock insisted that Old Spock come back to his quarters. There was so much that he could learn from this man, himself, who had lived his life and experienced his future, one where his mother hadn’t died, where he and Jim Kirk, that pompous nitwit, were friends. But no, he must stifle his irascible human emotions. He only wants to know about his future for the simple fact that he is fascinated by it.

Upon first impression, Old Spock finds himself nostalgic, reminiscing about his days at Starfleet Academy, living in his quarters with such sparse decoration but for a few well placed items: a fern, a lute resting gently in a corner, a print of a Picasso painting, a bookshelf. Everything was so familiar yet licked with the glaze of an alternate reality from the one in which he grew up. And his younger self… Had he really been so authoritarian? So cold? So muscular? So desirable? Old Spock moistens his lips and heads to the kitchen to prepare a meal for Young Spock, as was Vulcan custom. Young Spock sits patiently on the couch, reading his old copy of Clash on the Fire Plains.

Twenty minutes pass, and now Old Spock emerges from the kitchen with two glasses of 2250 Romulan Ale and then goes back in again and comes out with the entrees, plomeek broth with gespar and redspice and a side of jumbo mollusk. He only ever prepared this particular dish for his most esteemed of hosts. Old Spock softly chuckles thinking of who was more esteemed than himself. Time travel—a deceptive and vile mistress, but not without her sense of humor.

Spock on spock Old Spock gently places the two dishes on the table that he isn’t quite sure he remembers. At the table, Young Spock has already set up candles and silverware. This was exactly the kind of hospitality that Old Spock would offer even to this day. The Vulcans are not only the most logical race, they are perhaps the kindest race. For all of their warlike instincts they instead showed empathy, caring, and love. Sometimes they even showed pure, unadulterated lust, for instance, during the time of pon farr, which Old Spock had just happened to reach several days before. It so far had sat in his belly, waiting patiently for this business with Nero to reach its conclusion, but now it had shown itself. There it was; sharp yet soft, persistent yet malleable. This would end up very differently from that time he had fought Jim. He sighed. Those days had been so magical.

Young Spock is hoping that his older self is pleased, because he feels pleased with himself. The mission had been a success; Earth had been saved. Uhura was happily with him. Perhaps he could find friendship with Kirk. The business with his mother was painful, but that too would subside. Of course, pain and pleasure were irrelevant. There was only one other thing, a strange and pleasant aroma that flitted at the edge of Young Spock’s olfactory senses. No, he thought. It couldn’t be that.

Supper is served; two Spocks simultaneously sit.

Old Spock sips from his Romulan Ale. “Spock, you have kept your quarters as clean and organized as I remember.”

Now Young Spock sips. “Thank you, Spock. The vintage on this ale is excellent. I can taste each component. Of course, we can’t enjoy the intoxication afforded to humans when they drink.

“Young Self, you have not yet drunk enough. We are, after all, half human. Try a healthy amount, see how it affects you.”

“Curious. Perhaps you are correct; I will indulge you and see what happens,” Young Spock said, then took a large gulp of his ale. “Let me also say that it would be most preferable if I end up aging as gracefully as you seem to have had. I can only hope that I end up as handsome as you. In fact, you remind me of—“

“Father,” said Old Spock, taking a sip from his broth and chewing on small piece of gespar.

“ You are very astute. Is Sarek still alive in your time?” said Young Spock, spooning the broth into his own mouth.

“He is alive and very healthy.”

“This was his favorite dish that our mother ever made,” said Young Spock, taking a succulent sliver of jumbo mollusk past his lips and letting the sweet and salty flavor roll around on his taste buds before he swallows it.

“Which is why I made it for you. She was a perfect human. Emotional…”

“And beautiful.” Suddenly Young Spock feels his ribs twisting around each other, his internal organs screaming out. Why did she have to stand on that ledge? Young Spock wonders. She died so quickly, so helplessly, so pointlessly. He flushed green and took another bite of jumbo mollusk. “Perhaps I would enjoy a—”

“Vulcan Brandy?” Old Spock says, getting up to go to the kitchen. He feels the ancient hormones running through his blood stream and he likes it. The rush is exhilarating, the lack of control intoxicating, and his younger self, he knows, has not yet learned about all the wonders of his own body. Perhaps he can show himself something—everything. Of course, that might affect the space-time continuum in a negative way. But everything else has gone fine, has it not? For a different outcome to occur at this point would not be logical.

Old Spock pours the two brandies and brings them back to the living room. Young Spock was no longer at the table, but staring out of the window at the Golden Gate Bridge. He seemed to be meditating in the soothing presence of the tremendous structure. Seeing Young Spock’s back turned to him, Old Spock cannot help himself but come up behind Young Spock and swing the drink around to his front.

Young Spock looks down to see the brandy. It shimmered just like his mothers eyes, and suddenly, he cannot control his very human curiosity. Quickly, he swallows the entire load of brandy, coughs unexpectedly, and asks the question that has bothered him since meeting his older self.

“Old Self,” Young Spock says, feeling his older self’s hot breath on his neck and the brandy beginning to swim on the shores of his consciousness. “What was she like? Our mother. I mean, later on in life.”

Old Spock is thrown off by the question and takes a large sip of his brandy then sets it on a nearby table. He begins pacing behind Young Spock, who hasn’t moved his gaze from the vista.

“She was as you have known her. Radiant, caring, always there. She lived to be very old for a human, and when she died, our father remarried. It was the logical thing to do, as was marrying Amanda. His mission was to observe human behavior, and the only way he could get close enough to one was through marriage. He is truly Vulcan.”

“He told me he loved her,” Young Spock said, shifting his gaze from the bridge to his feet.

“I knew he did. Although he would never admit that to me, his love for her was always apparent, as illogical as it might have been. You know, he and I were estranged for many years after I joined the academy. Perhaps, some day, you will be able to tell me things of Sarek that I do not know,” Old Spock said, placing a hand on Young Spock’s shoulder. He could feel the trembling muscles underneath, and green blood rushed to his face then down below his stomach.

Young Spock sensed Old Spock’s excitement. There was a regality to the man. He was the man that Young Spock so desperately wanted to be. His mannerisms were warm yet purposeful. His countenance was welcoming yet unemotional. His touch was electric.

“Your hands are very firm, Old Self.”

“There are many things that these hands could show you,” Old Spock says into Young Spock’s pointed ear.

Suddenly Old Spock’s proximity is overwhelming, and although Young Spock is confused, he does not protest as Old Spock’s hand moves from his shoulder down to his belly, still young and taut with muscle fibers. The hands circle and he feels Old Spock’s body pressing up against his, and Old Spock’s half-human half-Vulcan bulge pressing against his rear.

“Old Self, perhaps we shouldn’t be doing this,” Young Spock says, his voice heavy with exhalations. “Won’t this have serious implications for the spacetime continuum?”

Old Spock adds his other hand to Young Spock’s front, and now begins caressing smoothly and thoroughly. He leans over and sucks on Young Spock’s ear lobe, moving up to the pointed tip.

“You already know the answer to that,” Spock whispers with Spock’s ear between his lips. “I am experiencing pon farr, Young Self, and I have chosen you to be the creature with whom I mate.”

Young Spock suppresses a moan, keeping his voice cold and logical as Old Spock’s hands explore him. “But what about meditation?”

“Why would I meditate when I do not desire to? Back when I failed achieve Kolinahr, I began to follow the advice of my father. Some emotions must be met and embraced. And lust has become one of my favorites.”

“But Old Self—” Young Spock says, but Old Spock grabs his shoulders and twists him around so they are facing each other and suddenly their tongues are doing battle, thrusting, flipping, and sliding. Young Spock breaths heavily through his nose and his own hands are now on his older self’s body, feeling the elastic and leathery skin through the robes. He yearns to remove them.

As though he read Young Spock’s thoughts, Old Spock takes a step back and pulls his robes over his head. He now stands before Young Spock, completely naked except for his boots, and Young Spock marvels at how well his body has held up. Although it is now more wrinkly in areas, it has maintained its slim form and boyish lack of body-hair. In the middle of it is Spock’s stiff phaser, looking as if it is set for “kill.” For Young Spock, the whole sight is beautiful, and he can feel his green blood rushing to his own Vulcanhood.

Old Spock revels in the analysis that he is receiving from his younger self, but he is hungry for something else. He must show his younger self how to enjoy pleasure.

“Turn around,” Old Spock says.

Young Spock turns around and suddenly Old Spock is upon him. His uniform is being unzipped and now it had slid down to his feet. Reflexively, he steps out. A hand at his back roughly pushes him forward and he has to stop his fall by placing his hands against the window. Something begins to gently probe him and he feels drops of warm liquid hitting his lower back.


“Shhh… it’s just my saliva to make it… simpler.” Young Spock is confused; what is going to be simpler? And then, without a sound, he is given ample evidence as to what Old Spock was referring when he feels the phaser, that hard green phaser, entering him slowly. He grunts in reaction, unable to control his voice. It feels so uncomfortable.

“Control your emotions, Young Self,” demands Old Spock. “Give it time.”

And so Young Spock does. He remains quiet as Old Spock slowly travels deeper and deeper, feeling as though he were too full of plomeek broth. He wants to scream, the pressure is so great, and then something changes. Old Spock bumps into a region that sends waves of pleasure through Young Spock’s body, and he moans loudly.



Now Old Spock begins to move back and forth, slowly thrusting and giving Young Spock charged beams of pure ecstasy with each one. So this was Vulcan sex, was it? This was what many Vulcans sought to control, to hide, to suppress. But why? Something so glorious could only be—

Now he hears Old Spock spit again and a moist hand comes around to his front and grabs him, stroking him firmly, repeatedly. This continues for what seems like ever, and then Young Spock feels a familiar buildup in himself. His phaser was going to discharge. He knew it. But apparently Old Spock senses it too and removes himself.

Young Spock turns around, surprised.

“But Old Self, why have you—“

Old Spock places his hand on top of Young Spock’s head and pushes forcefully down. This might surprise his younger self, but no matter. He would learn soon enough. When Young Spock gets to his knees, Old Spock thrusts himself into Young Spock and finally feels his young self’s saliva encircle him. Perfectly executed, just like the first time that Jim had done this to him.

Young Spock’s tongue is timid but deft, taking various and unpredictable paths, and before too long Old Spock knows that he is about to achieve warp speed. He grabs Young Spock’s head and shoves his hips forward, letting his Enterprise soar off into space, both his inner and outer eyelids half closed, his body shuddering, Young Spock making gurgling and gagging noises.

Old Spock removes himself and leaves Young Spock with a taste in his mouth that is strangely similar to the jumbo mollusk that he had had only minutes ago. He licks his lips and wonders what he is to do now, when he finds that Old Spock has bent over in front of him, presenting himself.

“You won’t need saliva,” Old Spock says. “I am… experienced.” Young Spock, now feeling cold from the lack of Old Spock’s body heat, hungrily approaches him. This was definitely different that what he had been doing with Uhura. His dilithium crystal still stands stiffly, and before he can command it to move, it had already pushed itself into Old Spock, who makes no sound. He moves in farther and it feels good. Again and it feels even better. He experiences a deeply repressed emotion and isn’t sure what it is. It wells up inside his stomach, rushing into his throat, and coming to a trembling stop in his forehead. Hatred. Not at Old Spock, but at this world, this unfair world that would take his mother from him, and suddenly his thrusts become fierce attacks, ferociously slamming into Old Spock’s wrinkled rump.

“Good,” says Old Spock. “Let it go.”

Young Spock’s mind is elsewhere now, to the view screen as Nero laughed at him, to his mother falling through the transporter’s energy field, to Kirk mocking him, to his loss of control as he strangled the his future friend. It is all too much, and with a loud yelp, he lets everything erupt.

A few seconds pass as Young Spock twitches, his arms supporting himself on top of Old Spock’s body.

“Good,” says Old Spock again, who steps forward and rights himself. “This was healthy for us both.” Old Spock turns around and walks towards Young Spock, who now has a confused look on his face. Of course he is confused, this is a confusing experience for him, but hopefully it will help pave the way for his friendship with Jim and the future of the galaxy. There is one more thing before they can retire to the bedroom and slip into blissful sleep. Old Spock lunges forward and places his hands firmly on the sides of Young Spock’s face, kissing him deeply like before.

Young Spock is enjoying the kiss, when suddenly his mind is full of images flying past, and he can see his mother, but he can’t remember when he’s seen her like this, seemingly older, on earth… And then he realizes that he hasn’t seen his mother like this before, because this has never happened. Old Spock is mind melding with him. And now her sees his mother age gracefully, until she is very old, and all the memories of Old Spock’s time with her are suddenly in his own mind and it is perfect, as if she never died at all, as if she were with him right that second. The images circle him faster and faster, spiraling inward, until it is too much, they overwhelm him and collapse upon him and everything goes black.

Lying on the bed several minutes later, he is awoken by the soft caress of Old Spock’s hand on his shoulder.

“Old Self, I was not aware that a mind meld could be so… intense.”

“You are now aware,” Old Spock says.

“Thank you. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for everything. I only regret that Uhura may not find this turn of events pleasing.”

“She need not ever know.”

“Old Self, you know as well as I that lying is even worse than the act itself.”

“Yes, but you do not need to lie.”

Young Spock looks at Old Spock with confusion, then notices that the walls seem to be changing color. Suddenly one of the paintings in the bedroom slips off the wall, but it does not crash, it disintegrates. The room begins to shake and all the walls begin to fall, but instead of the rest of Starfleet Academy behind them, there is old blackness, as if Young Spock has fallen into the depths of space, and suddenly he is very aware of where he is, and who he is with.

Old Spock stands in front of him, removing his hands from Young Spock’s face. They stand in the cargo bay, right where they first met. Right when they first met, Young Spock realizes. Old Spock smiles.

“You are now aware,” Old Spock says again smiling and turning to walk off towards one of the exits of the bay. But after a few steps he stops and turns back around, thoughtfully. “I think I might say one more thing.”

Young Spock wonders if he is going to apologize for such an invasive and confusing mind meld. Perhaps he regrets taking an action that could so affect Young Spock’s future. But instead, Old Spock smiles mildly and holds up his right hand, his fingers split, his thumb extended.

“I would say ‘live long and prosper,’ but that would seem self-serving. So instead, I’ll just say ‘good luck.’”

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