Feb. 17th, 2013

perform_admirably: (from dark matter to)
He cannot tell Jim.

There is not much, anymore, which moves Spock quite so strongly to that decision. There is not much, anymore, which he would keep private from James T. Kirk. Not much is not nothing at all.

But someone must be told.

Kuchiki Rukia, it comes down to, and Spock seeks her out across town, finding her apartment listed along with the others -- he would be more uncomfortable with all of the databases available in the city if it were not plainly true that those which they might most want to keep that information from are those which would not be affected by any petty and strong-minded attempts to obfuscate it by removing, by hiding, by keeping on the move.

He sighs, outright, pausing outside of Rukia's door for a lengthy moment of reconsideration, before Spock acknowledges that the reconsideration is only nervousness, perhaps fear, and he knocks. There is no reason to compromise the situation because of emotion that he, by right, ought not to be allowing himself to acknowledge, and he swallows it.

His knuckles rap on the wood of Rukia's door with a steady rhythm, and Spock waits patiently in front of it for signs of life form within, tucking the lapels of his jacket closer around his neck in the hallway and hoping to avoid much attention.

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