Patience.

Spock repeated the word like a mantra, rolling it through the structured halls of his mind with practised precision. He was a Vulcan. Raised in the disciplines of logic, the teachings of Surak. He had been taught patience from the moment he could form thought, taught that emotion—especially frustration—was a path that led nowhere. A Vulcan does not snap.

But Spock was only half Vulcan.

As the hours slipped by, and his communicator remained devoid of response, even his formidable control began to waver.

His t’hy’la—his bondmate, or something dangerously close to it—had gone planetside with the rest of the crew. Shore leave. Celebration. Spirits were high, and rules had grown… loose. He hadn’t objected, not openly. Jim had smiled at him with that reckless spark in his eye, said something charming, disarming, maddening, and then vanished into the night with the others.

At first, Spock occupied himself with purpose. Reports to finalize. Starfleet’s endless tide of bureaucratic tedium. Cadet performance reviews. He marked them all with ruthless efficiency, though more than once, he found himself re-reading the same sentence. He re-checked for accuracy. Twice.

Still no message.

He tried meditation next—candles lit in perfect symmetry, the stillness of his cabin undisturbed save for the soft whir of the ship's systems. He sat in position. He breathed. He chanted in Old High Vulcan.

Nothing worked. His thoughts persisted.

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he safe? Was he being reckless again?

The worry, of course, was illogical. Jim Kirk had proven himself more than capable. But Spock also knew that capability often warred with his Captain’s instinct for danger, for leaping before looking, for finding chaos like a moth finds flame.

Spock's fingers twitched on the edge of the console. He stared at the silent communicator with growing discontent.

How long had it been? Hours? How many intermissions—no, attempts at communication—had gone unanswered? Four. No, five.