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You are not my captain.

Every syllable intertwines with Spock’s subconscious during his meditation, tone even, directness unmistakable. Yet the image in his mind remains, no longer concealed in a hidden realm, but ever present, alive and unshaken, his amber eyes mesmerizing.

You are NOT my captain!

The Vulcan’s eyelids tighten, hot entangled fingers press against his lap. His voice risen, tone sharpened, determined to win this inner war between logic and emotion.  But the man with his captain’s face is unrelenting, the edges of his mouth curl upward, crumbling the Vulcan’s mental defenses.

Spock untangles his aching fingers, masking his face with hands, sighing into his palms as his head bow between shoulders. No, the man is indeed not his captain.  Just a resemblance of the one he loves.


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