kuv kath-vuk fator - AgentStannerShipper (2024)

“What’s this?”

The words don’t silence the rec room, because even Jim isn’t full of himself enough to think that seeing the captain and first officer having an off-duty conversation warranted special attention. But the words do echo a little, and it occurs to him abruptly that the room has emptied out since he’d first planted himself in a corner chair with a book, leaving just him and Spock and a pair of ensigns by the game tables, arguing in hushed tones over the official rules of starship Fizzbin. Spock’s eyebrow jerks upward. “I believe your training, though hasty, was thorough enough for you to recognize a PADD, Captain.”

Jim resists the urge to roll his eyes at the jab. Or to smile. Possibly both. Spock inspires a lot of those little contradictions in him, and Jim can’t find it in himself to be bothered. He likes being challenged. Spock definitely challenges him. He shifts in his chair, from his rec-room slouch into the bearing he usually reserves for formality on the bridge, setting his book on the chair’s arm and tapping the PADD in question against his thigh. “I know it’s a PADD, Spock. I’m asking what’s on it.”

It isn’t unusual for Spock to hand him PADDs. Hell, it’s part of the job description of first officer. Jim sometimes feels like Spock is forever handing him things, from mission reports to crew rotations to subtle barbs volleyed back and forth in their constant sniping debate – a side effect, Jim assumes, of their first meeting being an academic disciplinary hearing and their deeply conflicting personalities. Spock hands him a lot of things, always with raised eyebrows and a tiny, not-so-Vulcan quirk to his lips that Jim is convinced means Spock is judging him, waiting to see if he’ll crack under the weight. He has a habit, too, of folding his arms behind his back while he waits for Jim to sign off on whatever needs to be signed, a gesture that should look stiff but is instead unfairly graceful on Spock’s lithe figure. All of which goes to say, Spock handing him the PADD hadn’t tipped Jim to anything strange about this conversation. He’d noticed that the second his first officer entered the rec room, his posture far more rigid than usual, his jaw clenched and his lips pressed into the thin, tight line reserved for biting back discomfort that Vulcans definitely didn’t feel. He’d made a beeline for Jim’s chair before Jim could so much as straighten, and instead of waiting for Jim to take the PADD on reflex – Jim has gotten used to holding his hand out whenever Spock starts hovering in his periphery – had thrust the device into Jim’s free hand hard enough that their fingers brushed.

That’s a novelty in and of itself. Spock is meticulous about avoiding physical contact. It’s a Vulcan thing, Jim is pretty sure. Spock tolerates an occasional hand clapped on his shoulder, mainly from Jim, but he never initiates. And he avoids handshakes and any other finger-based contact like the Terrellian plague. The closest Jim has ever come to touching Spock’s hands had been strong, elegant fingers wrapped around his neck, hell bent on squeezing the life out of him.

Strangely, it’s one of Jim’s fonder memories. Also one he’s abused in ways his Vulcan first officer can never know about, because even Jim feels kind of ashamed of himself for it, which means if Spock knew he’d probably finish the job. Spock isn’t…they’re friends, if that. Jim knows his crush is stupid and unprofessional, and for all that Bones jokes about Jim’s inability to keep it in his pants, this is one time he knows better. He’s been promised life-defining friendship, dammit. After a long string of no one sticking around, Jim isn’t dumb enough to turn that down.

Even if it seems, sometimes, like Spock is clinically unable to defrost in his presence, even after months of knowing each other.

Case in point: Spock’s lips get even tighter at Jim’s retort, his shoulders pressing back until Jim half-worries his spine will snap from the pressure. He looks smaller without hunching, like he might vanish, even with Jim looking up at him – craning up, really, because his first officer is tall, and Jim is maybe half his height sitting and tantalizingly close to getting his hands-

He cuts that thought off and schools his expression. Spock can’t have noticed, because his gaze is fixed firmly on the far wall, which is white and grey and definitely not as interesting as looking at Jim. The muscles in his arms twitch under his blue science uniform, as if pushing his hands even further behind his back can make up for the fact that his fingers made contact with Jim’s. “As you are capable of reading, Captain, I do not believe I need to elaborate on the document’s contents. Suffice to say, it needs your signature.”

“We’re off duty. It’s Jim.” The reminder is reflexive too. Jim’s a pretty informal guy to begin with, and he’d kind of figured saving Earth, the Federation, and quite possibly the galaxy from crazy Romulans might have earned him a first-name basis with his first officer, especially after the aforementioned months of knowing each other and with the life-defining friendship he was promised. Apparently, Spock doesn’t agree, but Jim isn’t about to stop offering.

They’re only a couple weeks into what’s going to be a five-year assignment. He’s got a lot of time to wear Spock down.

With a hearty sigh, mostly for show and because it makes Spock’s eyebrows twitch in entertaining ways, he finally takes a look at the PADD. He makes it as far as the title before his eyes start bugging out. “ Medical Dispensation ?” He lurches up out of the chair, just managing to catch himself before his reach for Spock makes contact, forcing himself to hug the PADD to his chest instead. “Are you okay?” He wracks his brain, but there’s nothing, no hint from Spock that he’s ever had any sort of Vulcan illness, nothing on any of their recent missions - Bones usually is the one to handle these things, and Jim just checks off a list. He never has to sign the papers himself, which means whatever this is, it’s a big deal, and the weight of that presses down on his chest until he’s half choking on it.

Spock hesitates, but despite his tension, there’s an uneasy softness to his voice that has Jim standing down from red alert. “I am not in danger at this time.”

Relief floods Jim’s body, so palpable he nearly sags back into the chair. Instead, he glances towards the ensigns – if they’re paying attention, they’re doing a great job hiding it – and lowers his voice further. “But?” Not at this time implies there will be a time. It’s a terrifying prospect.

He can practically see the gears churning, or whatever it is his genius first officer has in his head, as Spock selects his words carefully. His pitch lowers, matching Jim’s, and Jim has to fight not to go weak in the knees, because serious conversation or not, Spock’s voice kind of does it for him. He’s framed by the window on the bulkhead behind him, too, and he cuts an impressive figure against the passing stars. The thought wars with Jim’s need to understand exactly what the f*ck Spock is trying to tell him right now. “In light of the destruction of my planet, Vulcan’s elders met with Starfleet and the Federation council. They agreed that certain arrangements, in the name of preserving the species, might be appropriate to implement. The document is largely a formality, but as my captain, it does require your signature.”

“What…” Jim swallows, his throat dry. The rec room is big, and the swathes of white space and empty tables only amplify how close he and Spock have drifted together for the sake of this private conversation. They’re not nose-to-nose or anything, but two feet feels like inches where Spock is concerned. “What kind of arrangements?” he manages, and pretends that the phrase preserving the species isn’t tempting that red alert signal back to full blast.

Any second now, Spock’s spring-coiled tension is going to snap. He glances over his shoulder, and then back over Jim’s. If Jim were a little less freaked out right now, he might be an asshole and force Spock to look at him. As it is, he waits until Spock says, “The document provides you the necessary information. In summary, if certain hazards to my health present themselves, Doctor McCoy will inform you. Your current orders will be countermanded, and you will instead proceed to New Vulcan as swiftly as possible.” Jim’s jaw drops, and Spock continues, “There are, of course, stipulations excepting missions where the Enterprise’s aid is vital to prevent significant loss of life. While we have a dedication to preserving our own species, the needs of the many-“

“Outweigh the needs of the few,” Jim finishes automatically, struck too dumb to think of anything else. He’s been doing a lot of research into Vulcan culture lately – it’s not creepy , he has a Vulcan first officer, he’s being diplomatic – and he already knows he hates a lot of their axioms, at least where Spock is concerned. The IDIC thing, for example, is good in principle, but Jim’s seen enough Vulcans interact with Spock, living embodiment of the concept that he is, to know that diversity to Vulcans is lip service at best.

He’s half-convinced this is bullsh*t, because the admiralty is a bitch and there’s no way they would have agreed to this, even with the Federation’s vested interest in protecting Vulcan’s survivors. He’s already planning to countermand orders anyway, if/when health hazards present themselves what the f*ck Spock, if it means saving his first officer, needs of the many be damned.

“So,” he says slowly, buying himself time while he tries to put the pieces together, “you just need my John Hanco*ck, and we’re good to go?”

It’s a weak attempt at humor via weird Earth expressions, but it swivels Spock’s head towards him, quirked eyebrows going from humans are baffling and uncomfortable to fascinating in a few millimeters. It loosens Jim’s chest a fraction. Spock nods, and amidst his still-palpable discomfort, his lip ticks up in a hint of one of his Vulcan smiles. “Your signature,” he confirms. “Please.”

Jim pulls the PADD away from his chest again, bracing himself as he looks down at it. It gets him past the title, only to be drawn up short by thick black bars cutting through the page. There’s more of them than there are visible words, and Jim flicks the screen a couple times to double-check it’s not just some glitch in the technology. “Spock, what the hell?”

“Sensitive information has been classified.”

“Like ninety percent of this is redacted.” He gets to the bottom and his eyes start doing that unflattering bugging thing again. “You’ve already got Bones to sign this thing? Was his version blacked out or am I just special?” If there’s one thing he knows about his best friend, it’s that he’s a doctor, dammit, and there’s no way Bones wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss about not being able to provide treatment if he isn’t allowed to understand the problem.

All hints of joking die on his lips when he looks up at Spock again, seeing the way Spock’s throat bobs as he swallows. He’s seen Spock plenty tense before, even caused it more often than not, but something about this reads different. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost call it shame.

“As my current physician, Doctor McCoy has been made…more aware of the details of the situation, so he can monitor issues, should they arise.” Spock sounds like he’s reciting something rehearsed, so grave in tone that it might as well be his own eulogy. “Captain…I ask that you accept the level of information provided. Without your signature-“

“It’s fine, Spock.” Jim scrolls to the signature page again. Not just Bones, but half the admiralty has already signed off on this. It’s real. His first officer, his friend, needs him to sign this scary, redacted document because there’s a high enough probability he’ll get sick enough he’ll die, and Jim isn’t allowed to know any of the details. He isn’t allowed to help. He keeps his voice light, already scrawling his signature as he says, “You know, you’ve given me a lot of lectures about reading sh*t before I sign it. Kind of sending mixed signals here.”

“You should familiarize yourself with the return protocol,” is Spock’s only answer. He takes the PADD back without any finger-brushing. Jim might be disappointed, if he didn’t have such a sharp sense of worry still twisting in his gut. Spock inclines his head, and already his posture is melting, not fully into ease but into a far closer approximation of it. “Your compliance is appreciated.”

“You’re welcome.” Jim means to snark it, because compliance, really? Only it doesn’t come out that way. It’s a little too sincere.

Mission accomplished, Spock turns on his heel and strides from the rec room. Jim contemplates calling after him. They’re both off duty, after all. They could chat or play a game or something, anything to take away from the fact that Jim’s just signed a form he doesn’t understand, promising he’ll do whatever he can to save Spock’s life, as if that wasn’t already a higher priority than it should have been for a Starfleet captain. Instead, he lets Spock go.

His book hasn’t moved from where he left it, still hanging off the arm of the chair. He picks it up, thumbing idly back to the page he’d left off on, but his heart isn’t in it. He snaps it shut, loud enough in the quiet room that the ensigns finally look up from their game, expressions curious. He gives a small shake of his head, and they go back to what they were doing, whispering now, maybe about him. Maybe he’s just being paranoid. He leaves them to it, and his march out of the rec room is purposeful. It makes up for the nervous twitching in his fingers.

***

Because Jim’s an asshole, it takes him about two hours to invade Spock’s privacy. Well, strictly speaking, it takes him about seven minutes, which is the length of time it takes him to walk into Bones’s office and say, “Hey, so, Spock just had me sign a really freaky redacted document. How freaked out should I be?” Bones just curses him out, throwing around choice words like doctor-patient confidentiality and professional standards and a few phrases about Vulcans that Jim is starting to think might actually be slurs, based on the venom in Bones’s voice. Although that might also be in response to the document itself. Jim gets the sense that Bones isn’t any happier about Spock’s mystery illness than Jim is.

But the information he provides mostly amounts to “mind your own business, Jim, and get out of my sickbay,” so Jim does. At least, he gets out of Sickbay. Whatever Bones knows that Jim doesn’t, he’s obviously not interested in telling, and no amount of Jim being cute and wheedling is going to get that information out of him. So he goes where his charm will be better appreciated, and that call takes the better part of an hour and a half to connect.

He beams when Spock Prime’s face swims into view on his personal monitor. There are definitely benefits to being the captain of Starfleet’s flagship. “Hey Spock!”

“Greetings, old friend.” He gets a Vulcan salute and a genuine smile, small but positively glowing around the eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You’re not sick or anything, are you?”

Spock Prime blinks, possibly at the oddity of the question, possibly at the lack of preamble. He steeples his fingers together. It’s a gesture much rarer on his younger counterpart, which is probably for the best. Jim is fixated on Spock’s hands enough as it is. “I assure you, I am quite well.”

“No long-term illnesses? Debilitating diseases? Serious injuries from your childhood?” It’s a wide net, but he wants to cover all his bases.

Spock hesitates, and Jim’s heartrate spikes. His answer is careful. “Like all Vulcans, I am suffering from the destruction of my planet. In a telepathic species, the loss of so many voices at once has severe mental consequences. It is compounded in my case, by a greater loss, stemming from my own universe. However, it is not fatal. I will heal, as will all of Vulcan.”

“That’s…okay. That’s great.”

Spock’s eyebrows lift, and Jim flushes. It’s strange; Spock Prime has an uncanny habit of making Jim feel like a kid, even while reminding him that this is what his Spock is going to look like someday. Jim’s not attracted to Spock Prime, necessarily - okay, maybe a little, but only because he makes silver fox (post-silver fox? How old even is he?) look great - but it leaves Jim the weirdest combination of embarrassed and mildly turned on. His crush really needs to be reined in, and soon.

He leans back in his chair, rubbing his face with one hand. In the privacy of his quarters, it feels safe to slip a little. “Younger you had me sign some paperwork today.”

“I made my captain sign many things,” Spock says, lips twitching with amusem*nt. “I suspect you mean something out of the ordinary?”

“I’ll say.” He wraps his arms around himself, suddenly self-conscious. He’s prying into Spock’s personal business, and maybe it’s for a good cause, but he finds himself second-guessing. Not enough to stop him, though. “It was kind of a weird medical leave form? He was pretty cagey about it, but it seemed like a Vulcan-specific thing. Sort of a general ‘at some non-specific time, you’re going to have to hightail me to my home planet, ask no questions’ kind of deal. I just…I want to make sure he’s alright, that’s all.” Having read the entirety of the form, or at least all the non-redacted bits, Jim is still suspiciously short of concrete information. He’s not sure about the logic of secrecy, especially where medical information is concerned, but it’s infuriatingly Vulcan to keep everyone else out of the loop.

Understanding dawns in Spock’s eyes. “I see. I am familiar with the document. I was the one to suggest the policy, and I was consulted in its drafting.”

“You were?” Jim leans forward, hands braced on his knees. He tries not to look too eager. “So?”

Spock doesn’t take the prompting. “We made an agreement about the future, did we not?”

Jim groans, tipping his head back in frustration. When he eyes Spock again, there’s definitely amusem*nt in the old guy’s expression. There’s something else, too, a hesitancy Jim doesn’t really understand. “I’m not asking for details,” he says, waving a hand. “Just a sort of overview.”

It’s a weak argument, and they both know it. Spock sighs. When he speaks, the relenting is clearly partial, but Jim will take it. “What you are asking about is something Vulcans do not speak of. Rarely amongst ourselves, and never with otherworlders unless absolutely necessary. In my own timeline, I did not consult with Doctor McCoy until it was nearly too late. I am pleased that my counterpart will not be taking such extreme measures.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Jim asks hopefully.

Spock visibly wrestles with himself. It’s strange, honestly, to see such expression on a Vulcan. Jim doesn’t know if it’s that Spock is only half Vulcan, or that he’s had time to mellow out with age, or if it’s just that Jim is starting to get really good at reading Spocks. Finally, he says, “I will tell you it has the potential to be fatal. However, it is something all Vulcans experience, and when caught early, there are no ill effects. That is why it is vital you respond as soon as Doctor McCoy indicates it necessary.”

Jim already plans on doing that, so it’s redundant advice. “But what is it, exactly? And how do you stop it?”

“I understand your frustration, Jim, but I cannot say more at this time. Even now, I have difficulty discussing it. Even with you.”

Even with the ghost of his former friend, he means. A man he knew for years. A man Jim isn’t and will never be. Not really. “But why go back to New Vulcan?” he presses. He’s an asshole. He knows he should stop. But this is Spock. He has to know.

He gets another long pause for his trouble, but it’s a contemplating pause, not a f*ck-off one. At length, Spock says, “The best chance of survival will be through Spock’s bondmate. The journey to New Vulcan is an attempt to assuage that need.”

“Spock’s bondmate.” It comes out flat. He knows a little about Vulcan mating bonds. He knows they’re initially formed at age seven. He’s been trying really, really hard not to think about it, because his interest in Spock is creepy enough without a sort-of-fiancée in the picture.

“In my universe, her name was T’Pring. Unfortunately, I believe she perished in this universe, along with Vulcan.”

Jim has never been more conflicted in his life than receiving that piece of information. Spock continues, as if he hasn’t done a number to Jim’s insides, “Even in my universe, we never fully bonded. In many ways, I count myself fortunate for it; her rejection enabled me to eventually bond with my t’hy’la, for which I am eternally grateful.”

“T’hy’la?” Jim echoes. His Vulcan vocabulary is kind of pitiful – he’d go to Uhura, genius that she is with languages, but he’s pretty sure she’d see right through his reasoning, and he gets enough teasing as it is. T’hy’la sounds familiar, but in a distant way, like when he tries to think about the memories from his one mind meld with the Vulcan on his screen.

Spock dips his head. “It is a word which has many meanings. Friend, brother, lover. Often, it encapsulates all, and therefore can be translated approximately into Standard as ‘soulmate.’”

Spock has a soulmate. Spock has a soulmate . Jim can’t work out if he should be jealous or impressed, because apparently Vulcans are just cool as hell. “What happened to them? Your t’hy’la?”

The deep sorrow that etches itself across Spock’s face almost makes Jim regret asking. “They were lost to me long ago, even before my crossing into your world. It is a broken bond which will never fully heal.”

Jim’s heart breaks. “I’m sorry.”

Spock shakes his head. “I knew our time would be limited. I have made my peace with it, and I will go on.”

“Still,” Jim says. He shakes his head, clearing his throat in an attempt to steer them back into shallower waters. “But he doesn’t need a bondmate or a t’hy’la to survive, right? I can fix it?”

“Your help would be invaluable to Spock,” Spock Prime confirms, “as my captain’s was to me.”

Jim opens his mouth to ask for more specifics – what did his counterpart do that helped Spock? Was it just ferrying him home, or is there something more, anything more he can do to make sure this potentially fatal disease doesn’t take his Spock before they can be whatever it is they’re supposed to be to each other – but on the screen, Spock holds up his hand. “It is too early to tell if any more information will be of value to you, and I have already told you more than I would wish. It is not my place to toy with your future, or the future of my younger self.”

Sulking is unbecoming. Jim’s lip threatens to pout anyway. He forces it between his teeth, biting back the questions. “Sure,” he says. “Thank you.” It’s more help than Bones had been, and more than he’d probably get out of his Spock, which makes this a win.

“I trust that next time you contact me, it will be without ulterior motives?”

The rebuke is gentle, but Jim blushes anyway. “I promise I’ll stop calling just to meddle with the future.”

The eyebrow he gets says Spock doesn’t believe him, but finds it amusing nonetheless. “I look forward to hearing from you, old friend.”

It’s good he’s sitting down, because the appellative makes his knees a little weak. He’s not attracted to this Spock. It’s just that he sounds so fond when he says it, and Jim has always been too needy for his own good, even if the real endearment isn’t for him. He swallows hard and smiles. “Take care, Spock.”

“Live long and prosper.”

Jim throws up his own ta’al in response to Spock’s, and the screen goes dark. Jim turns the terminal off and sits back in his chair, chin in his hands. Outside his tiny window, the stars shoot by, and if he strains, he can hear the sound of sonics turning on in the bathroom he and Spock share, a sign that his first officer is done with work for the day.

He catalogs the facts. Spock has special Vulcan medical leave, set for a currently unknown date, for a medical condition that all Vulcans experience, which might kill him if Jim doesn’t hightail it to New Vulcan fast enough when it hits. Spock’s intended bondmate, the person best suited for helping him through it, is dead, and who knows if his soulmate survived the implosion or, if they did, if Spock could find them in time. Jim has an unhealthy crush on Spock, who is patently not interested. He has no idea what the medical condition is. He has no idea if there’s anything he can do to prevent it. He is, fundamentally, helpless.

But helpless is something Jim Kirk has decided he will never be again. He’s been abandoned by his mother with men who weren’t looking to raise a kid, been shunted off-planet to the hellscape that was Tarsus IV, fought through years of nightmares and the steadfast belief that he would never amount to anything because he didn’t deserve the luxury of trying and failing. Helpless is something he decided against the minute Christopher Pike left him sitting in a bar, dangling Starfleet in front of him like a carrot. It’s something he rejected the three times he took the Kobayashi Maru, and it’s something he’s sure as hell not going to give in to now.

He gets up, fast enough his legs prickle with pins and needles, striding past the closed bathroom door where Spock is taking a sonic shower and into the alcove that makes up his bedroom, digging in the closet until he comes up with an abandoned PADD, this one blank and unthreatening. He drops onto his bed, staring up beyond the ceiling, puts on his game face, and makes a plan.

***

It’s a testament to the strength of their bridge dynamic, as opposed to any personal relationship, that Uhura doesn’t immediately glare at him when Jim plops into a seat opposite her in the mess. Her nod is formal, polite, even if her eyes get a bit squinty at him. “Kirk.”

“Uhura.” He knows her first name now, if only on a technicality, but they’re really not close enough for him to be using it, especially if he wants to keep on her good side. Which he does, in general, but especially now, because he’s about to open himself up for so much teasing. “I want you to teach me Vuhlkansu.”

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows make it all the way to her hairline. They’re not quite as expressive as Spock’s, but they don’t need to be when the rest of her face is half laughing, half disbelief. “First of all,” she says, clipped tones all business, “while it’s not inaccurate to refer to the language as ‘Vuhlkansu,’ it’s a more archaic usage. Second, there are about three major versions of the language, dialects aside. And third, why on earth would I want to teach you anything?”

“Counter,” Jim offers, stabbing one of the weird geometric shapes on his tray and jabbing the fork at her, “we’re not on Earth.” He shoves the bite into his mouth and makes a face. Sure, it’s a step up from aeroponics bays and protein resequencers, but he can’t get used to these newer synthesizers. He doesn’t get why they can’t make food look like food. His dodecahedron looks spongey and red and tastes exactly like an apple. The contrast in texture is jarring, even aside from the fact that biting an apple obnoxiously in Uhura’s direction is a lot more difficult when everything is sponge cubes. For her benefit, he swallows instead of talking with his mouth full. “Look, I could try to do it on my own, but you’re a genius with languages and I’d rather learn from someone who knows what they’re doing.” He’s not even laying it on that thick; she is a genius, and he would rather learn from her. He’s a hands-on student; textbooks are fine in a pinch, but it’s so much easier when he has someone to bounce things off of.

The deserved praise cuts the edge out of her expression, although she still squints at him, clearly trying to work out his game. “If this is some new way to bother Spock-“

“Believe it or not, I have goals in life besides pissing Spock off.” Even if pissing him off might mean those hands around his throat again…he forces that thought down with another forkful of geometric sponge. No pissing Spock off. He has a more important mission in mind.

“Look,” he starts again. “I have a Vulcan first officer, and we’re doing a lot of diplomacy work with the Vulcan government since…you know. And maybe if I’d known that a couple years ago, I would have taken Vulcan instead of Andorii for my Starfleet language credit. But I didn’t. So now I’m asking you, very nicely, if you’ll help me. Please.”

Uhura considers him, ponytail swishing as she co*cks her head. “This is really about diplomacy?”

“This is about wanting to be a good captain. Having an amazing communications officer is great and all, but even knowing a couple phrases of Vulcan would look better than knowing nothing at all. Starfleet trusted me with a lot when they gave me this ship. I want to prove them right.”

It’s not exactly his goal, but it’s his goal a bit to the left, and it’s a good reasoning. Nothing he’s told her is untrue. He wants to be more diplomatic. He wants to be a better captain.

He also wants to decipher Vulcan medical books, the ones they don’t translate because they don’t like people all up in their business, on the off chance there’s anything there to help Spock. He’s got a plan, and begging for Uhura’s help is only step one.

“Why not ask Spock?” she asks. She’s gone from serious contemplation to smirking, and this is more familiar territory for Jim. He isn’t sure if she knows about his crush – the only one he can say for sure is Bones, who has to listen to drunk Jim belaboring how unfairly gorgeous Spock is in the name of being a good friend – but she probably at least suspects something, given the number of pigtail-pulling jokes she’s made when Spock is out of earshot, especially after he and Jim have had one of their ‘debates.’ That, or she thinks making jokes about him and his first officer will make Jim uncomfortable. They do, but not because he’s alien or male or Jim’s subordinate. They just hit a little close to home.

He forces a casual shrug. “He’s pretty busy, and it’s not like we’re that close. Besides, he’s petty enough I wouldn’t put it past him to teach me insults disguised as compliments, just so I end up looking like an idiot.” That’s a lie. Spock is too professional to teach Jim the wrong thing. To not correct him, though, and have him still end up looking like an idiot...that seems plausible, at least.

“And you think I won’t?” Uhura’s smile is positively evil. Jim respects her for it.

“It that a yes?” he presses.

“As long as you promise not to make weird student/teacher roleplay jokes about it.” It’s her turn to jab a fork at him. Her geometric sponges are mostly green and orange. He can’t even guess what they’re supposed to taste like.

“Deal,” he agrees easily. “No jokes.” It’ll be tempting – there’s a lot of low-hanging fruit here – but Jim can be professional about this. They shake on it and finish their cubes in silence.

The micro-expression Spock makes when he walks into the mess and catches them sitting together is worth every awkward second. Jim grins and waves. Spock’s hand half-raises, like he’s too stunned to fully control the action, and that is even better.

Jim’s not jealous of Uhura. She and Spock are close, sure, but it’s not like they ever dated, despite the persistent rumors around campus. Jim has it on good authority – Uhura’s authority, vehement and vicious after a too-loud whisper from an ensign on the bridge – that their long office hours and extra study sessions were purely academic. Uhura’s a genius who wanted something more challenging than the coursework, and Spock is too professional to even consider dating one of his students.

Jim does wonder, after Uhura wasn’t in Spock’s classes anymore, if anything happened between them. He doesn’t ask. He’s pretty sure they’re just friends, but if he’s wrong, he doesn’t want to know.

The lessons are less hellish than he expected. They start them a few days later, when they both have some free time and Uhura’s gotten her hands on a primer for him. She doesn’t call him an idiot for his horrible pronunciation, which is an unexpected delight. She speaks Andorii too, and Graalen, the other major Andorian language, because she’s just that cool, and they go back and forth in that a little to get Jim’s brain out of the habits of Standard before she starts to teach him some basic terminology and sentence structure. He learns a couple standard greetings, most of which double as farewells, pretty much every variation of ‘logical’ and ‘illogical’ known to man, and the difference in conjugation when he’s addressing elders and diplomats and other Vulcan leaders. He asks questions – would he use formal or informal when talking to Spock? How does he know which elders are more appropriate to address in Golic? Why are there multiple Vulcan scripts, and how do they represent the different alphabets? – and Uhura seems genuinely thrilled to find him an attentive student. The first time they meet, it’s clear she’s tense, eyes narrowed and twitchy like she’s waiting to rap his knuckles with a ruler for throwing spitballs or something, but by the third lesson she’s laughing at his enthusiastic, albeit stumbling attempts to tell jokes in a language really not designed for joking and praising him when his pronunciation starts to shape into something intelligible.

They hold the meetings in a briefing room when there’s one available, and in the entry room of his quarters on the few occasions there’s not. It’s better that way; no one gawking at him in rec rooms while he fumbles his way through conjugations and unfamiliar syllables. According to Uhura, once he actually figures out what he’s doing, his pronunciation is better than average for a human – after some nosing, she determines it’s probably the bits of Hebrew Jim learned as a kid, when his mom was still trying to pretend she was an attentive parent, because the syllables are a lot closer than most Earthen languages. He learns that her first language is Swahili, and they get distracted one day going into all the languages she knows and the ways they’re alike and different. Uhura lights up when she talks about languages. It’s better than the sniping they usually do.

They’re better than cordial on the bridge now; Uhura actually laughs at some of his jokes (only the ones that are funny, she insists) and they eat together at least once a week, using the opportunity to practice informal conversation. Jim’s not exactly hiding his studies from Spock, but half the reason Spock hasn’t found out about them yet is probably because every time he sees them sitting together, he doubles back out of the room. It’s equal parts funny and perplexing, and Jim would ask someone about it if the candidates weren’t all liable to make fun of him.

“No, really,” Uhura asks him, a couple weeks into their lessons, when Jim is doing more than just stuttering through repetitions. “Why ask me? Why not get Spock to do this? He actually taught xenolinguistics at the Academy, and he grew up speaking Vulcan. He’s objectively a better teacher than me.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Jim protests. He’s got his feet up on the briefing room table, because he doesn’t have to be the captain right now and no one can yell at him for being unprofessional. Or, in Spock’s case, raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re a great teacher.”

“Oh, for sure,” Uhura says, no arrogance, just smooth, collected confidence. “But he’d be better. He taught me .”

“Yeah, but you’re a prodigy. How much teaching was actually involved?”

“Enough.” The mild glare she gives him proves she hasn’t missed him edging away from the question. “Come on, Kirk. You’re not an idiot, no matter what you pretend to be. Why not ask Spock?”

He sighs and pulls his feet down, leaning against the table with crossed arms. He rests his chin on them. “Spock doesn’t like me,” he says. Uhura’s eyebrows twitch upwards – yeah, Spock was definitely her teacher – but Jim ignores it. Everyone knows Spock doesn’t really like him. “I figure I can only bother him for so many things, right? And considering what I did to the last test he gave me, I don’t think he’d be keen to quiz me on grammar. It’s easier this way.”

He didn’t think it was a particularly disarming answer, but Uhura looks taken aback. It doesn’t matter; it’s the truth. The last time he and Spock met over academics, Jim cheated. He thought he’d be proud of it, proving a point to the stuck-up test-makers about beating the odds. Instead, in the aftermath of Vulcan and Nero and losing so many people, he just feels ashamed. Sure, they won, but at what cost? Jim knows those figures intimately. They keep him up at night. And he knows it has to be worse for Spock, grieving his mother and an entire planet. It threw into crystal clarity for him Spock’s point, and why it’s so important for Starfleet captains to face a crisis like that in training first.

He’s also asked Spock Prime about what the other him did, the James T. Kirk who wasn’t a delinquent but still cheated. The answer makes him feel worse. In another universe, he still changes the test, but only enough to make winning a possibility. To make it winnable, not an automatic win. The other James T. Kirk – the real James T. Kirk, from the timeline that should have happened – is a better person than him in every conceivable way. No wonder Spock counted him a friend.

No wonder he speaks with such affection. Affection Jim is stealing from a ghost.

Uhura clears her throat, turning off the primer with gentle fingers. “Next lesson,” she says, and there’s a thickness to her voice that isn’t pity, but is affected nonetheless. “Let me teach you some Vulcan swears.”

Jim jerks his head up, and she grins at him. “I think you’ve earned them.”

“Vulcans swear? ” The words come out mostly laughter, which prompts a snort of mirth from her too.

“Oh, they like to pretend they’re above it,” she tells him, “but they have some truly fascinating expletives.”

Jim sits forward in his chair, fingers laced, leaning so far towards her he’s practically bent over the table in his eagerness. Perfect attentive student, he says, “Tell me everything. ”

***

With step one of his plan ongoing, and going well, Jim thinks step two is in order. It involves Bones. Bones, who walks into Sickbay and stops, mid-conversation with M’Benga, to stare at Jim. “Whatever this is about, the answer is no.”

Seated on a biobed, Jim swings his legs, hands folded in his lap like a good little patient. “Just here for my physical,” he says, all innocence. He can see M’Benga suppressing a smirk, the other doctor clapping Bones on the back before leaving him to it.

As M’Benga strides off to the other end of Sickbay, Bones takes a step towards Jim that would look threatening if Jim didn’t know that Bones is mostly bark. Actually, it looks pretty threatening anyway. “Jim, among the many, many marks on your medical transcript is one that tells me you’ve never reported on-time for a physical in your life . You have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, for me to so much as take your temperature.”

“Maybe I’m trying to set a good example for my crew.”

“Or maybe you’ve gotten some hairbrained scheme into your thick skull, and you’re here to torment me with it.”

Jim clasps a hand to his heart, gasping theatrically. “How dare you! I thought we were friends!”

“The reason we work as friends is precisely because I can see through your hairbrained schemes.” Bones sighs. “Now, if only I could beat some sense into you once in a while, everything would be just peachy. But, since you’re here…” He goes for his medical tricorder and the hyposprays, and behind his back, Jim winces. Bones isn’t exactly wrong about his aversion to doctors. It makes their friendship all the more ironic.

Ignoring the beeping as Bones sets to scanning him, Jim admits, “There is something I wanted to ask about.”

“I’m not approving any paperwork that lets you sleep with the Edosians. Not that I know why you’d want to.”

“Three hands,” Jim points out automatically. They’re not the most attractive alien race by his standards, but Jim will try anything at least once, and six limbs is definitely interesting. Then he shakes his head. “It’s not about that. This is a diplomatic mission. I’m pretty sure no one wants me sleeping with anyone. ”

Bones snorts, dialing something into one of his hyposprays. “Jim, I’ve listened to enough of your treatise on ‘interplanetary relations’ to know exactly what you think of conjugal diplomacy.” He smacks the hypospray against Jim’s neck, depressing it before he even has the opportunity to flinch. “Still, I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The fewer alien STDs I have to treat you for, the happier I’ll be.”

Part of Jim wants to point out that the number of STDs he’s contracted, alien or otherwise, is a respectable zero. He’s a slu*t, not stupid, and he’s got enough allergies as it is. The last thing he wants to deal with is a surprise allergic reaction on his dick. He’d also like to point out that he hasn’t slept with anyone in the couple months they’ve been at this, and it’s not like he hasn’t had the opportunity. They’ve visited half a dozen alien worlds already, and Jim is the youngest captain in Starfleet history. He’s kind of a catch, at least for a one-night stand. He’s the kind of story you tell your friends about. That’s not bragging, that’s just politics. Normally, he’d take it – he’d kind of dreamt, during his years at the academy, of romancing gorgeous aliens of a variety of genders in the name of diplomacy – but it feels a little more sour now. He’s always known he wasn’t the kind of person for the long haul, first because commitment seemed overrated and then because he wasn’t the kind of person anyone wanted around that long, even if maybe it didn’t sound so bad to him anymore. He’s got the ship, and he’s got Bones and his crew – and Spock, god, he hopes he has Spock, as a first officer if not really a friend – and he can be happy with that. But he’s got a picture of James T. Kirk in his head, the better version of himself that maybe someday he could be if he gets himself back on the right path, and fine, upstanding captain James T. Kirk probably didn’t go around sleeping with aliens on every planet they encountered. He was probably better than that.

Instead of pointing any of that out to Bones, he says, “It’s an academic thing.”

“Academic, huh?” Bones looks up from his readings just long enough to give Jim a look. “And you’re coming to me with it because…?”

“It’s a medical academic thing?”

Bones pauses. Jim flinches. He knows the note in his voice that Bones is picking up on, the edge it gets when he knows he’s treading thin ice. He can’t help it; there’s no way he’s not going to get caught here, so why bother trying? He can see Bones mentally flicking through their conversations. Honestly, he’s surprised Bones didn’t jump to it when he first started talking, but Bones also doesn’t think about Spock half as much as he does, probably because it makes him irritable. Well, more irritable than usual. To borrow a country-doctor-ism from his friend, Bones and Spock get along like cats and dogs. Although, given Spock’s tendency to debate anything that moves, that could just be how they demonstrate affection. Bones has been known, a time or two, to pat Jim’s back when they’re both sloppy drunk, telling him he doesn’t know what Jim sees in the Vulcan – actually, he says ‘hobgoblin,’ but Jim really hates that word – but that Jim could do a whole lot worse. Which is pretty much as close to approval as Bones gets with anyone. And Spock will occasionally stoop to calling Bones’s work ‘adequate’ instead of ‘medieval,’ which Jim’s Vulcan studies have taught him is pretty high praise. Vulcans like competence. Go figure.

It has nothing to do with why he’s started acting more professional on the bridge. Nothing at all.

“I give up,” Bones says at length. “Why don’t you just tell me, so I can get to saying no, and we can be done with it?” He gets in another jab with a hypospray, and Jim rubs his neck and glares.

“What, and deny you the chance to keep torturing me?”

“Kid, without these inoculations, you’re fixing to take shore leave at the nearest medical facility on solid ground. Let me do my job so you can keep doing yours. How does that sound?”

“You’re a sad*st.”

“All the best doctors are,” Bones retorts glibly.

“I don’t suppose the best doctors keep Vulcan medical texts lying around, do they?”

He says it mostly under his breath, but Bones has ears like a bat – not Vulcan-good, probably, but Jim has his suspicions. He straightens sharply. “Really, Jim. This again?”

“You don’t know what I want them for!”

“I thought you were going to let that go.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Bones sighs, heavy and weary. “No, I didn’t.” He crosses his arms. “You get why that’s a terrible idea, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know Spock ain’t gonna talk about his paperwork, and I ain’t about to break doctor-patient confidentiality, so you figure the best way around it is to try and work it out yourself. That about the shape of it?”

Jim’s answer comes out too sulky for his taste. “Maybe.”

Bones hums, irritating and all-knowing. “That why you’ve been cooped up with our communications officer at all hours? Taking Vulcan language lessons?”

“…it’s not the only reason.”

He gets another annoying hum for that, and another hypospray. “Speaking as a medical professional, you trying to self-diagnose Spock is about as hairbrained an idea as it gets.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, I’ve got a list a mile long about what’s wrong with him.” Bones snorts, and the beeping comes back as he hovers the scanner by Jim’s temple. “Medical f*cking miracle, mixing two kinds of blood like that. Copper and iron ain’t exactly a perfect matchup. Not to mention, his insides are all over the place, and I don’t even know what to do with whatever he’s got in place of a brain. He’s damn lucky that between M’Benga and me, he has doctors who actually know what to do with a Vulcan, let alone a half-one. But the one thing I’m not going to tell you-“ and here, Jim gets a pointed look, sharp enough to cut dilithium “-is his personal, private medical business.”

“So, I should ask M’Benga for the textbooks?” Jim says brightly. He hops off the biobed, slapping Bones on the arm. “Thanks, Bones!”

“That’s not what I said!” Bones shouts after him. He curses, loud enough that Chapel does a double take from her desk. “Dammit, Jim, I’m not done with you!”

“You can give me the rest of the physical later!” Jim calls back. He heads in the direction that M’Benga went. Bones’ll kick up a fuss and catch him on the way out. He might as well get some books for his effort.

M’Benga does in fact have some Vulcan medical texts lying around. He actually has a lot of medical texts, not just Vulcan but Andorian and Tellarite and a dozen other species, all untranslated from the original languages. Jim didn’t personally select his entire crew, but he did choose both of the main doctors on staff. Bones is just a medical genius in general, sadism with the hyposprays aside, but Jim picked M’Benga because he’s the best practical exobiologist Starfleet currently has on offer. About twenty percent of his crew is alien, which is a pretty high percentage for a mixed Starfleet ship. Even before he was worried about Spock, it made sense to have someone who really knew what they were doing where non-human patients were concerned.

Some of the books M’Benga keeps are physical prints, which is cool as hell. Jim has a collection himself - classic literature, mostly - and there’s no substitution for paper and ink. None of the physical ones are Vulcan, though. When Jim asks, M’Benga tells him that he used to have a handful, but after the destruction of Vulcan he sent them back to the elders. A lot was lost when the planet died. It didn’t seem right to keep them for himself. However, he has digital copies of all the texts, and he offers copies of those to Jim without any qualms. The stack of PADDs is enough to put Jim in a great mood, good enough that Bones frog-marching him back to a biobed to finish his physical doesn’t even register as an annoyance.

The problem with step two is that it’s time consuming. Jim’s not in a rush, necessarily – Spock looks fine, or at least as fine as he ever looks, all entendre intended – but it’s hard not to be a little worried when he knows that, at the drop of a hat, Bones could tell him to redirect to New Vulcan in the name of saving his first officer’s life. He doesn’t know what the symptoms look like, or if there are any to begin with. Vulcans are so logical, Jim wouldn’t be entirely surprised if they just woke up in the morning and decided to be sick.

So he hits the books, but it’s slow going. The lessons with Uhura, learning the different scripts, the different words, are a massive help, but there’s plenty of vocabulary Jim’s missing. Vulcans are meticulous, and the books are long, and Jim can’t skim through a table of contents because he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, and he can’t just scan them into Standard to speed things up, both because some of the scripts are too complicated and because he doesn’t want to miss anything if the translator has issues with nuance. He tackles them a chapter at a time, marking up the sections he understands with the translations, chunking out the words and phrases and sometimes whole paragraphs he can’t make sense of. He can slip them into his lessons with Uhura, if he’s lucky. He contemplates just telling her his goal, but rejects that offhand. Uhura and Spock are friendly enough, there’s a good chance she would go straight to him if she knew what Jim was doing, and he’s not ready to hash this out with Spock until he’s made at least some progress.

He’ll keep at it, inching through the texts. If nothing else, it’ll be useful for his Vulcan studies. Jim will take anything that helps him figure out what makes his first officer tick.

***

Even with the challenges step one and two present, step three is the hardest because it’s the least defined. It wasn’t like Jim had expected to magically figure out the answer, even months into his studies, but he’d hoped he would have more of a clue by now.

Step three is complicated for two reasons. Firstly, it’s made up of options, sub-steps Jim can take depending on how well they’re received, how much they seem to be working. Secondly, it involves Spock.

Technically, all the steps thus far have involved Spock, but this is different, because Jim isn’t sort-of talking to Uhura about Spock or blatantly talking to Bones about Spock or reading books and learning languages that will theoretically help him understand Spock. This is about Spock, full stop. This is about cashing in on the good will he’s built up with Spock over months of working together. They’re over six months into their mission and over a year into their acquaintance and no one can say they don’t make an effective team, verbal sparring on the bridge included. Now Jim just has to take brilliant first officer/captain dynamics and turn it into friend/confidant status too.

It’s not an encouraging prospect. Jim has been professional on the bridge. He doesn’t slouch too much in his fancy captain’s chair. He actually reads everything Spock hands him to sign, and he does it without complaining, even when he can feel his eyes glazing over. He consults with his bridge crew and department heads where appropriate, and makes what he hopes are intelligent, informed decisions about what to do with his ship. He challenges Spock, needling him with questions, but when Spock has an opinion, Jim listens. He doesn’t always follow them to the letter, because he and Spock have different philosophies where rules and logic are concerned – Jim doesn’t know exactly where James T. Kirk fell on rules , but a guy who messed even a little bit with the Kobayashi Maru has to be willing to bend a few regulations in the name of defending his crew, surely – but he always listens to Spock’s opinions, because Spock is his first officer and his science officer, a certified genius and his senior in Starfleet experience. Jim would have to be an idiot or a prideful egomaniac not to consider what he has to say. He’s trying not to be either.

As plans go, that part at least seems to be working. Spock is still rigid, but he’s less tense. Their banter takes on softer edges, no longer baring teeth at each other as they debate the spirit versus the letter of General Order Number One, dispute appropriate landing party complements, and bicker affably about the nature of instinct and its role in decision-making. Sulu takes to whispering jokes about “mom and dad fighting” across the helm to Chekov, which never fails to draw pinched expressions from Spock and laughter from Jim. He likes them better than Uhura’s pigtail-pulling jokes, anyway.

But the bridge is the extent of their contact, figuratively speaking. They have to talk outside it sometimes, in the briefing rooms or one of the laboratories or on the surface of planets for away missions that Spock continues to insist the first officer and captain shouldn’t both be present for – Jim gets it, losing both of them at once could devastate the chain of command, but he doesn’t feel right letting his officers go into danger without him – but their exchanges are almost entirely on-duty, and exclusively about ship’s business. Jim passes him occasionally in the hallway or sees him eating in the mess, and on one memorable occasion walks into the rec room to find Uhura singing and Spock accompanying on some kind of handheld electric harp. Uhura later tells him that the proper name is ka’athyra, commonly the Vulcan lute, and that Spock plays the instrument to relax. Jim doesn’t tell her that Spock looked the opposite of relaxed when Jim walked in, even though a crowd of officers was already gathered to listen. He’d packed up and fled the minute the performance was over, before Jim had a chance to say anything.

Harp music isn’t really Jim’s thing, generally speaking, but Spock’s hands dancing over the strings, strong and lithe and confident, had mesmerized him. He’s tried listening to records of the instrument in the ship’s databanks, but the result is less satisfying by far. Maybe it’s the contrast, the fact that Spock’s hands have equally the power to leave bruises on Jim’s throat and the gentleness to make music, or maybe it’s just one more sign of Jim’s hopeless crush, but he can’t stop himself from suggesting on the bridge one day that the Enterprise start some kind of music club, on the hope that he’ll get to hear Spock play again.

Uhura gives him a whole lesson on Vulcan words about music, but so far Jim hasn’t had the opportunity to use them.

To make a long story short, contact between them is limited to professional exchanges. Jim gripes about it to Spock Prime a couple times, but the old Vulcan just smiles and tells Jim not to worry about it, that Spock will warm up to him in time. The way he says it, Jim is pretty sure he knows that waiting has never been Jim’s strong suit.

When Jim plonks his tray down on the empty half of Spock’s favorite table – the two-seater in the most isolated corner of the mess – Spock jerks up in quickly concealed surprise. There’s a stack of PADDs between them and one in Spock’s hand, and upside-down, Jim sees a lot of charts and graphs with labels telling him they’re part of Spock’s latest science experiment. He gestures to them. “Anything interesting?”

Spock blinks at him, but the amount of time it takes him to recover from Jim’s intrusion is negligible. “I am still analyzing the results. It is too early to form a conclusion.”

“Sure,” Jim says easily. He tries not to slurp his lunch. There are no geometric sponges on his tray today, because after Uhura turned him on to the couple of Vulcan recipes programmed for the food synthesizers, Jim has been working his way through them, both for the sake of his lessons and out of curiosity. Vulcan food is a little blander than most human dishes, but there are a lot fewer ingredients that Jim is allergic to, and any given meal is designed to maximize health benefits where possible, two facts that get Bones off Jim’s back about his diet, so he’ll call it a win. Today’s experiment is called shur thas, thin and watery and a weird off-white color with floating chunks of beige. It tastes better than it looks, invoking the flavor of cream without the slickness coating his throat.

Spock has soup too: a vegetable broth Jim hasn’t tried yet. He’s neater about eating it than Jim is. Jim bets he’s mentally calculating the exact volume of each bite, ladling precise spoonfuls into his mouth. When Jim doesn’t get up to leave, Spock lowers the spoon back into the bowl with a clink, then sets the PADD in his hand down and folds his fingers together on top of the table. Jim doesn’t let his gaze linger on neatly trimmed nails and faint musician’s calluses, forcing himself to meet Spock’s eyes instead. It’s fractionally less distracting; Spock’s eyes are rich brown, cocoa-dark and intense across the table, the kind of eyes that could get Jim taking his coffee black out of sheer captivation.

He doesn’t drink coffee, but that’s not the point.

After a few more beats of silence, Spock asks, “Did you require me for something, Captain?”

“I thought we should spend some more time together. Outside of work.”

Jim wasn’t expecting outward revulsion at the suggestion, given that Spock is a Vulcan and the most they usually express is mild disdain, but Spock’s reaction is unreadable. He doesn’t so much as twitch. It leaves Jim open to press his argument without being immediately shot down. He stirs his soup, going for casual, but the spoon clanks against the bowl and Spock’s fingers tighten, so he stops. He clears his throat. “I think it’d be good for morale, knowing the captain and first officer got along. And getting to know each other off duty would cut down on the amount of time we spend debating sh*t on the bridge, right? More efficient for everyone involved.”

It’s not as eloquent as he meant it to be when he rehearsed it in front of the mirror of their shared bathroom, waiting for the steam to clear out so Spock wouldn’t have to deal with the dampness when he took his turn. Vulcan is – was – a dry place, and while Jim has never heard him complain, he’s seen Spock get twitchy with discomfort on away missions to humid planets. Barely noticeable, to anyone who wasn’t paying ridiculously close attention. Anyone except Jim.

Spock tilts his head, apparently considering, although the downturn of his lips looks like he’s specifically considering the best way to reject Jim’s offer, so before he can say anything, Jim pulls out the big guns. “Increasing our familiarity increases productivity in crisis situations. Over eighty percent of Starfleet captains cite a solid relationship with their first officer as a vital tactic for effective actions. It would be logical to emulate that.”

“Eighty-six point three.”

It’s not much of a response, but it’s a crack in Spock’s armor. Jim grins. “Well, you’re the one with the head for numbers.”

“An attempt at immodesty, considering your computational capabilities. You would not be in your position were you not at least passable at calculations.” Spock keeps his tone light, on par with their usual banter. The discomfort remains present in his posture, but his fingers loosen, no longer white-knuckled with tension.

Jim gives an easy shrug. “You know me. Always fishing for compliments.”

“Another human idiom I will never understand.”

“You know,” Jim mimes casting a reel at Spock. He didn’t fish often, back in Iowa, but there was a little pond not too far from the farm. It’s one of the few things he misses.

As a Vulcan, and therefore beyond rolling his eyes, Spock doesn’t rise to the bait. “I will…take your word for it.”

It’s barely a concession, but it makes Jim’s heart stutter a beat. He stuffs another spoonful of hot soup in his mouth, so he has something to blame if his cheeks flame up. Over the bowl, he mumbles, “So, about my suggestion?”

“It has merit,” Spock allows. He takes two more measured bites. “Given my tenure under Christopher Pike, I must concur with the statistics.”

“You were that close with him?”

“I was referring to his first officer prior to my taking the position. Commander Una had no psychic abilities, but it seemed at times that she was able to communicate with the captain without words, and he with her. I am not certain the exact nature of their relationship, but I am aware they were close, outside of professional boundaries.” Spock studies his hands, an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty that makes Jim frown. “In spite of my best efforts to be as proficient, I have never been able to achieve the same rapport with any of my captains.”

It’s not just a crack in Spock’s vulnerability; for a split second, all his shields are down. It’s like looking in a mirror of all the times Jim has questioned himself, felt unworthy, felt like an imposter, known with gut-wrenching certainty that he was only a sham of Captain James T. Kirk, and it looks so wrong on Spock. Softly, Jim says, “Well, speaking as your captain, I think we’re doing alright.”

Spock meets his eyes, studying him, and the mask slips neatly back into place. “But you believe we would benefit from further socialization?”

Jim shrugs. He fidgets with his spoon. “I’d like to be friends with my first officer,” he says honestly. “Barring that, I’d like us to be the best team we can possibly be.”

“Vulcans do not have friends, merely colleagues and acquaintances.” It’s stated simply, a fact with an implied “I,” but the hesitation that follows speaks louder. Jim thinks about asking after Uhura, and doesn’t. Finally, Spock says, “Your proposal is logical. I accept.”

Jim wants to whoop with relief. Instead, he sucks on his spoon and grins at Spock, who flushes, looking affronted. “Perfect. You’re a Grandmaster in chess, aren’t you? Let’s start there.”

***

“You’re gonna play a Vulcan in chess?” Bones asks him later. “You realize you’re going to have your ass handed to you, right?”

“Come on, I’m not that bad,” Jim protests. It’s marred somewhat by the way he can’t stop beaming. He slaps Bones on the back. “I beat you, don’t I?”

Halfway across the bridge, he hears Uhura stifle a snort. Over the helm, Chekov and Sulu shake on a bet. Jim can’t see much of Spock’s face, buried as he is in the science station, but his jaw flexes in what could be irritation or might be a smirk. Jim’s excited to find out.

He also sends another silent thank you out to the universe, one of many directed at whoever designed the layout of his ship. Spock likes to stand at the science station, and it gives Jim the perfect view of his ass. Like the shared bathroom situation, it does nothing whatsoever to dampen Jim’s attraction.

***

Chess is just a gateway drug, metaphorically speaking, so Jim doesn’t really mind when, halfway into the game, it becomes obvious that Spock really is going to kick his ass. Jim’s no slouch at chess: hustling pool is for idiot drinkers in dive bars at night, hustling chess is for idiot nerds in libraries during the day. Jim likes variety, and it’s fun to see bookworms who dismissed him as a moron turn red in the face when he captures their king. He would have joined chess club at the academy if he could, but his workload hadn’t left much time for extracurriculars.

But Jim’s also not an idiot, and he knows the only reason Spock doesn’t trounce him in the first five moves is that Vulcans don’t really play 2-D chess. The rules are just different enough to give Jim an edge in the first half. It’s an edge that vanishes abruptly when Spock takes Jim’s first rook.

“Admit it,” Jim teases as Spock removes the piece from the board, “I had you on the ropes for a minute.”

“The appearance of winning does not equate to actual success.” When not making a move, Spock’s fingers stay laced in front of him, not steepled, but it’s no less distracting to Jim. A quirk of the alternate timeline, or will Spock fall habitually into the gesture as he gets older? Jim desperately wants to find out.

He kicks back in his seat, legs stretching out into Spock’s space, careful not to make real contact. “Come on, Spock. I’m better than you thought I’d be.”

“That is accurate. I apologize for the presumption.”

Spock’s eyes glitter, and Jim snorts. “That was a joke. You can’t tell me it wasn’t.”

“Very well. I will not.”

Jim starts to laugh, and then curses as Spock liberates him of bishop number two. “If this is what it looks like in two dimensions, I’d hate to see how badly you’d thrash me in three.”

“Three-dimensional chess is the preferential version,” Spock says evenly. “There is more nuance to the game. However, considering your relative success early in our match, it may be worthwhile for me to practice your human version more frequently. It would be unfortunate to lose my status.”

Jim’s going to lose, he can tell. Surrender isn’t his style, so he snags another one of Spock’s pawns. “Am I imagining things, or was that almost a compliment?”

“It was not intended as one, but I am certain you will interpret it however you like, regardless of my intent.” The words are almost warm.

Jim nudges his foot closer to Spock’s, too soft to be a kick. He’s taking liberties, he knows. He can’t help it; they’re in his quarters, on his turf. Spock had expressed a preference not to use the rec rooms, because their game was likely to turn into a spectacle (Jim agreed, because even if that spectacle was just his bridge crew, that left plenty of room for taunting), and suggesting Spock’s quarters felt invasive. Jim has his own chessboard, so he offered his quarters. “Don’t think I’m letting you off easy,” he says. “You might be winning, but I’m taking as many of your pieces down with me as I can.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Spock says, dexterous fingers swapping his knight with Jim’s last rook. “Check.” He slides his foot away from Jim’s, and Jim doesn’t chase it. They’re in his quarters, but he’s off-balance anyway.

Spock glances up at him. “If you’re warm, you should turn down the temperature.”

It’s not really why he’s flushed, but it’s a good out. Jim shrugs. “I’m trying to compromise. You’ve got to be freezing all the time, right? The least I can do is crank the heat up.”

“The consideration is appreciated.”

“Why do it?” Jim asks. He mirrors Spock’s pose, fingers laced, leaning forward just slightly. “Be on this ship, I mean.”

“You required a first officer. As I had already served that function, both for you and aboard this vessel, I believed myself an acceptable candidate.”

He says it as if Jim hadn’t intentionally flouted regulations to reject every other application without looking at them. As if Jim hadn’t waited specifically for Spock. Technically, a captain was allowed to disembark without a designated first officer, but every admiral had cautioned Jim against waiting. It looked sloppy, co*cky, inexperienced. Jim knew that. He’d also had a taste of Spock’s pride, and knew there was no way the Vulcan would let Jim leave without him. They don’t have to be friends for that.

Jim shakes his head. “I meant more along the lines of ‘why Starfleet?’ There are Vulcan ships, and I’ll bet they keep the temperature nice and toasty. You wouldn’t have to deal with illogical humans all day. It’d be easier, wouldn’t it?”

“You pose an interesting quandary.” Spock’s voice stays light, but his jaw flexes, like he has to stop himself gritting his teeth. “Would it be easier on a Vulcan ship? In some ways, I suppose the answer would be yes. However, I did not base my decision on what would be easy. When I rejected the VSA in favor of Starfleet, I did so knowing that I would encounter difficulties. Some of them, I believe I have overcome. Others, I have in fact come to…appreciate.”

“Like what?”

Spock hesitates. Though his expression is less open than his counterpart’s, Jim still thinks he sees warring on his face. “Consider,” Spock says at length, “though it may seem difficult to comprehend, where here I am seen as a Vulcan amongst humans, at the VSA or in the Vulcan Expeditionary Service, I would be viewed as a human amongst Vulcans. Here, it is my Vulcan blood which defines me.”

Jim turns that thought over in his mind for a minute. Spock’s right; Jim can’t picture anyone viewing him as human. It goes beyond the physical, beyond the eyebrows and the ears and the green blood coursing through his veins. All the reading Jim’s done about Vulcan language, Vulcan culture, position Spock as Vulcan through and through. He follows their teachings, believes in their principles. He’s intelligent, composed. Logical.

Then he thinks about goading Spock on the bridge. Calling him a computer. He pictures the fire raging in Spock’s eyes, the way he’d roared when he hit Jim, snarled when he’d wrapped one hand around his throat and started to squeeze. He remembers the rebuke in Sarek’s voice, a father disappointed in his son, and he remembers the way the other Vulcans had looked at Spock on their journey back to Earth, even though Spock had rescued their council of elders to preserve their culture, at the cost of his mother’s life. “I get it,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know what that’s like, being a kid from two worlds. But I get what you’re saying. No one here is going to challenge you to be more Vulcan.”

“Doctor McCoy frequently challenges me to be less so.”

Jim laughs. “That’s Bones for you. He’s big on feelings.”

“I am well aware of that fact.”

The dryness of Spock’s tone, curled with amusem*nt, softens Jim’s laugh. “He’s big on family, too,” he admits. “Probably because he’s got Joanna back home. His daughter,” he clarifies when Spock gives him a questioning look. “He doesn’t bring up my parents with me, because, you know, ouch, but I know he thinks a lot about what that looks like. Family legacy. He can trace his back centuries, from Atlanta, all over Georgia and the Carolinas. Get him going long enough, he’ll start telling you about coal miners in 1950s Pennsylvania.”

“Vulcans are equally meticulous in family documentation. My father’s family line is quite prestigious among my people. Historically, we would have been considered royalty.”

Spock with a crown…Jim entertains a very brief fantasy of kneeling to swear fealty and then gets his mind out of the gutter. “I think Bones just doesn’t want you to forget-“

“My mother? Her heritage? I could not, nor would I try.”

“I know.” Jim reaches out, around the board, to touch Spock’s wrist. It’s an instinctive gesture – he’s tactile, and he’s been trying to respect cultural differences, but he wants to comfort Spock, doesn’t know how else to do it. Before he can make contact, Spock jerks his hands away, dropping them into his lap beneath the table. Jim does the same. His apology dies on his lips.

Eyes fixed downward, Spock murmurs, “My mother, may her memory be a blessing, was human. Part of her resides forever within me. I do not require Doctor McCoy to remind me that my lineage is two-fold.”

The words find Jim’s tongue without conscious thought. “Tushah nash-veh k’odu.”

Spock looks at him. His eyebrows don’t raise – this isn’t surprise, against all odds – but his forehead creases ever so slightly. He could be questioning how Jim knows Vulcan, or why he chose the honorific. It wasn’t conscious, but it feels right. Spock inclines his head. “Thank you.”

Thanks is illogical. Spock has said as much. In his studies, Uhura admitted that it was a rare phrase, and the translations don’t always convey the same meaning. Spock chose those words on purpose. Jim clears his throat. “You know, as someone who says he doesn’t have any friends, you’re pretty good at opening up to people. For a Vulcan.”

“And you are adequate at obfuscating your intentions.” Jim’s heart leaps into his throat, and he opens his mouth, but Spock meets his eyes, expression placid once again. He gestures to the board. “It is still your move. Stalling will not prevent your defeat.”

“Oh. Right.” He takes a piece at random, pulse still thrumming in his ears.

Spock hums softly. He moves his queen, and tips Jim’s king over with one long finger. “Checkmate.”

Jim huffs, going loose-limbed as he sits back. “Should have seen that coming.”

“You played admirably. However, I would discourage you from seeking another game with me until you are significantly more practiced.”

Like Jim said, chess is a gateway drug. He wants to get back in practice, but there are computers for that. He doesn’t have to take up Spock’s time with it until he’s a worthy opponent. “Maybe you can teach me the 3-D version sometime, huh?”

Spock’s raised eyebrow is all skeptical amusem*nt. “The rules are in the database. If you can achieve a victory at an intermediate level against the computer, I will consent to playing with you again.”

“Because you like a challenge?”

“You will not learn if you are not given the opportunity to.”

“And you like to win too much to go easy on me.” Jim smirked at him. “I’ve got your number, Mr. Spock.”

Spock doesn’t confirm or deny it; if he did, Jim predicts it would be something along the lines of ‘it is illogical to play beneath your skill level for the sake of another’s ego.’ It doesn’t matter. This is just like on the bridge, where Spock advises but lets Jim make his own moves. There, at least, they’re more evenly matched. Human instinct versus Vulcan logic.

He starts packing up the chess set, nestling the wooden pieces back in their felt box. “So, if not chess, what counts as socializing? Do I have permission to bother you at lunch?”

“You hardly require my permission to take a seat in the mess, even one adjacent to my own.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Jim tells him. He sets the box back on its shelf. “Maybe you, me, and Uhura can eat together sometime, and you two can teach me more about Vulcan logic.”

Out of the corner of Jim’s eye, he sees Spock’s tension flare up again. He inclines his head. “Perhaps.” The rise from seated to standing is so fluid, Jim almost misses it. “I shall take my leave of you now. I will see you tomorrow, Captain.”

“It’s Jim, Spock. And don’t forget: lunch.”

“Very well.” Spock could technically go through their shared bathroom, but he crosses instead to the door leading out into the corridor. On the threshold, he pauses, and looks back. The lights in Jim’s quarters are lower than the hallway, giving Spock an outline of glowing white that makes Jim’s breath catch. “In spite of your skill level, our game was not without merit, Jim. I look forward to you achieving a level at which we can play.”

The door slides shut behind him. Jim blinks, shakes himself, and beats his own hasty retreat to his bed.

***

“So, how long did it take him to crush you?” Uhura asks over breakfast. “Sulu thinks you might have held your own, at least for a little while, but I told him Spock could mate you in three.”

Jim chokes at the word choice – sure, it’s chess, but it’s early and there are too many words in that sentence he’s trying not to associate with Spock. Maybe he should start drinking coffee. He swallows his gulp of juice and snipes, “What, no one was betting on me?”

“Chekov had this wild theory that you could use sheer unpredictability to win. Sweet kid. I think it killed him to be rooting against his idol.”

Spock isn’t Chekov’s idol. Jim isn’t either, when it comes down to it. On a ship stocked with geniuses, Chekov holds his own, and if there’s anyone he idolizes, it might be Scotty, who spends his free time in Engineering mentoring the kid. Mentoring being a generous word for ‘swearing enthusiastically about warp theory and teaching the kid to make homebrewed hooch.’ Jim pretends he doesn’t know about Scotty’s still. The crew won’t thank him if he shuts it down, and no one has turned into a raging alcoholic yet. If that line gets crossed, then he’ll step in. It seems like the adult thing to do.

He clears his throat. “I’ll have you know, I did pretty well. Had him in the first half.”

“So, the first move.”

“ No. ” Jim can’t manage to glare at her when she’s grinning like a loon. “I gave him a run for his money.”

“Really?” Uhura asks flatly, eyebrows raised.

Catching sight of his science officer entering the mess, Jim brightens. “Yeah, you can ask him. Hey, Spock!”

For a split second, Spock freezes. Then, he raises his hand in greeting, snatches something from the synthesizer, and walks right back out again.

Jim stares after him. He had said lunch, not breakfast, but so much for friendly conversation. He turns back to see Uhura biting back a laugh. “What?”

“You really must have done a number on him last night. Okay, I’ll take your word for it. Sulu will be thrilled.”

Jim doesn’t think he did any kind of number on Spock last night. But it’s still too early to think, so Jim buries himself in his breakfast and decides not to worry about it.

***

The thing about step three is that Jim’s kidding himself and he knows it. Well, he’s kidding himself on all the steps, but step three is the biggest ‘screw you, Jim Kirk’ of them all. He can argue that it’s good to learn Vulcan, that it’s good to study their medicine and their culture, that it makes him a better diplomat and a better captain, but when it comes right down to it, Jim doesn’t have a chance in hell of deciphering Spock’s cryptic paperwork. He’s throwing spaghetti at the wall and hoping it gives him the diagnosis Bones won’t.

Which means that this is all a desperate ploy for Spock’s attention. This is Jim Kirk being a little kid, tagging after the other boys in the hopes it’ll make them like him. This is Jim Kirk, a captain with an inappropriate crush on his first officer, twisting himself into knots to justify a friendship he hasn’t earned.

This is why Spock Prime won’t tell him about the future. You throw the phrase ‘life-defining friendship’ at an affection-starved kid like Jim Kirk, and he will move heaven and hell and delude himself into thinking he’s doing it for someone else.

***

“Why don’t you hack the file?” Bones asks.

They’re both drunk. The mission was hell, with a pair of ensigns dead and nothing to show for it except that Starfleet’s flagship can turn tail and flee from a planet with enough venomous snakes to make Earth’s Australia look like the garden of Eden. It’s not the first time Jim has lost someone on a mission, even apart from the Narada incident, but it still hurts, wedged under his ribcage like a Klingon Daqtagh. He’d kept himself together long enough to pull the landing party out and break orbit, and then he’d gotten the hell off the bridge.

Spock had been planet-side. He’d convinced Jim that as a simple survey mission, the captain really wasn’t needed, and shore leave was coming up in a couple weeks, so Jim wasn’t going to argue just to stretch his legs. Spock is currently in sickbay in a healing trace, fighting off the venom in his system from seven separate snake bites – all acquired while defending his science team. After an hour by his side, Bones dragged Jim away. “Let him do his Vulcan mind sh*t,” Bones told him. “He’s a lot tougher than a couple of snakes.”

On the floor of Bones’s office, Jim lifts his head and squints at his CMO. “Hack what file?”

Even drunk, Bones is too professional to put his feet up on the desk. He waves the mostly-empty bottle of Saurian brandy – so illegal, but so, so good – at Jim. “Spock’s file. The one you’ve been antsy about for months. Why not hack it?”

The words are slurred enough that Jim can’t tell if it’s a question or a suggestion. His own head is fuzzy, the best way to be, because it means he’s not thinking about Spock, pale as death on a biobed. “Can’t,” he mumbles. “Wouldn’t be good.”

“Never stopped you before.”

It didn’t. Jim wasn’t good when he hacked the Kobayashi Maru, wasn’t good when he hacked into classified files for practical jokes, wasn’t good, wasn’t good at all. James T. Kirk was good, and Jim isn’t him, will never be him, and Spock might die, and losing his friend will define Jim’s life. He shakes his head. “It’s Spock. ”

It’s barely an answer. It’s the only answer. He flops back on the floor. That’s the line he can’t cross here. It’s one thing to take all the other routes, but he can’t breach Spock’s trust. If he does that, what’s the point of any of it?

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me,” he says more than asks, because Bones is always so professional, except when he’s swearing at Spock on the bridge, and they’ve had this conversation before.

Bones snorts. “Vulcans made it damn clear I keep my trap shut if I want to keep practicing medicine in Starfleet. Secret cultural biological bullsh*t. Bunch of stuck-up dicks, the lot of them.”

Jim hums absently. His addled brain puts those things together, Spock and stuck-up Vulcan dicks, and gives him a blurry, disjointed image that isn’t remotely what Bones meant. It probably isn’t accurate either, but Jim has gotten through enough of the medical texts to have a guess what his first officer looks like naked. It warms him, or maybe that’s the brandy, in a way he doesn’t let it when he’s sober, when he’s in bed or in the shower and trying desperately to picture anything else.

His co*ck twitches and he thinks about Spock, strong again, not on a biobed, but in Jim’s bed, one hand hard on his hip, the other curling around his throat. Maybe Vulcans are logical in bed. Maybe Spock f*cks like he fights, animal instinct unleased. Maybe it’s both, maybe Spock hisses that the logical thing to do is put his captain in his place, that it’s illogical in copulation not to perform acts that give one pleasure, and that Spock being rough with him makes Jim so deliciously hard.

He has just enough sense not to touch himself, lying here on the floor of Bones’s office. He has enough sense to know that he’s going to regret thinking about it in the morning, when Spock is injured and would be horrified to know what Jim wants from him.

Spock’s mate is supposed to help him through the sickness that Jim hasn’t unraveled. Spock doesn’t want him like that, and their budding friendship is too delicate for Jim to slip. But he would be, if he could. You have to want a mate, a soulmate, but if Spock did…Jim would be anything, help him through anything. He already will, as much as he can.

***

The real step three, as it’s written in Jim’s playbook – not that the page exists anymore, because he deleted it the moment the plan was formulated, so thoroughly even a computer whiz like Spock couldn’t prove it ever existed – is a pronged battle plan with three major facets. Lunches are one of them, and chess if he can swing it (he’s been practicing, he’s almost there) or other off-duty meetings for strategy games and debate. When Spock is up and about, without any scars – according to Bones – or any sign that he’d been bitten by venomous snakes and nearly died in the first place, they start up again.

Like chess, they only play Fizzbin once, but for entirely different reasons. It’s a game so ridiculous, Spock asks halfway through if Jim made it up himself. He wishes he can take credit – some of the rules are technically his, because one of the things about Fizzbin is that half the rules are house rules, and some are supposed to be made up on the spot – but the game itself is a lot older than he is, picked up sometime when the famed Jonathan Archer was making scores of first contacts. It’s good when Spock is shuffling the cards, the discs riffling through his fingers, and goes downhill the moment he starts to deal.

“It’s really not ideal to play with two people,” Jim says, trying not to laugh at Spock’s failing attempts to suppress his frustration. “You’re supposed to play with four.”

“The game would be equally illogical with any number of players,” Spock replies tersely. He’s not sulking; he’s a better loser than that, but his discontent is enough to make Jim strike this from the list of games he plans on suggesting in the future.

Still, he likes to needle. “I’d argue it would be more illogical with more players, wouldn’t you, Mr. Spock? Since the…human element is what makes it so complex in the first place.”

“I do not see the point of a game with no internal rules.”

“I thought you’d appreciate a test of strategy under fire.”

“In life, there is no application for ‘making it up as you go along.’” When Jim grins and starts to answer, Spock interrupts, “Even when you are improvising, you are still dictated by internal constants. Laws of physics, the logic of certain outcomes. You do not reinvent the theory of temporal mechanics simply by saying you disagree.”

Jim would argue he’s reinvented a lot of things by saying he disagrees, their relationship being one of them. But he lets Spock take the point. God knows, he lost enough of them during the game. “No more Fizzbin,” he agrees. “For the sake of your sanity, and the wellbeing of the ship’s first officer.”

He’s being deliberately cheeky, but Spock’s hesitation is serious. “If it is a game you enjoy-“

He shrugs. “Nah. I mean, I don’t dislike it or anything. Thought it worth trying, that’s all. I’m really just biding my time until we can play chess again.”

Spock raises his eyebrows. “You have been practicing?”

“I’ve got a lot of downtime in the chair. Keeps me busy when there’s not paperwork to do.”

He doesn’t think he’s imagining that Spock looks touched. “Then I anticipate our next game. In the meantime, perhaps we may attempt Kadis-kot.”

The strategy games serve a specific purpose in Jim’s plan. At least, ostensibly they do. Sure, they’re a way, like all of step three, to spend time with Spock, and even if he decided to give up his plan tomorrow, he wouldn’t trade any of step three for the world. But the specific intent is to give Jim a way to monitor Spock’s mental state. Even a couple weeks in, he can see fluctuations in Spock’s gameplay when he’s otherwise preoccupied or stressed – not that Spock ever admits to being stressed. Jim doesn’t have a medical tricorder, and even if he stole one from Bones, it’d be creepy of him to go around running Spock’s vitals all the time, so this gives him a metric. If Jim suddenly beats Spock handily at checkers, he’ll know there’s a problem.

Lunch does kind of the same thing. Jim’s not tracking Spock’s meals or anything, partly because they don’t always eat together and partly because it’s Bones, not him, who harasses crew members about what they eat, but he makes a habit of noting what’s on Spock’s tray. Like Jim, he eats a lot of the Vulcan recipes, although in the morning he’s more likely to get some variation of the cubes. When Jim asks, the answers vary from tomato omelets to grilled fish and rice. He asks about the last one – according to his research, Vulcans in general tend to be vegetarians, and he knows for a fact Spock is – and Spock explains the cultural reasoning: in a pacifist culture, it is considered barbaric to kill something in order to eat it, a process synthetization does not involve in creating food. Out of curiosity, after he left Vulcan, he tried a variety of synthesized meats, but found that fish was the only one acceptable to his palate.

“Makes sense,” Jim says. “So long as you don’t start griping at me over steaks.”

“It is a decision specific to my culture and tastes, and therefore not a moralistic value I would apply to you,” Spock tells him. Then he adds, with a hint of one of his smiles, “Besides, I believe that is Doctor McCoy’s job.”

Jim groans, because Bones hasn’t let him eat even a synthesized steak in months, much less anything planet-side. “Your blood pressure will thank me in a couple years,” the doctor insists, but Jim just thinks he likes being cruel.

He learns two things about Spock’s eating habits that interest him, though. The first is that when Spock eats oatmeal, he eats the human kind, not the Vulcan, albeit without any of the toppings (maple syrup, brown sugar, even fruit) that most humans embellish the dish with. While Jim doesn’t exactly blame him for it – whatever grain Vulcans use makes the end product gritty and frankly unappetizing – it’s one of the few times he’s seen Spock show a preference for something human when something Vulcan was on offer. It feels like a bigger deal than it ought to.

The other is that Spock likes dessert.

It’s not that he eats dessert all the time, or anything. For all that Spock is a fastidious eater in general, he seems particularly aware of his sugar intake. Jim’s not sure if it’s a health thing or a palate thing or both; his research indicates it could be either. Vulcan deserts are typically fruit or vegetable based, like ameelah, which tastes like a mild fried banana, or tufeen hushani, which reminds Jim of carrot cake without the cream cheese icing, but after a difficult shift, Jim always sees Spock with some kind of dessert on his tray.

He offers to split a slice of the tufeen hushani with Spock once. Spock’s ears tint that dark ochre – it’s not a true green, more a tinted gold like a deeply ripened pear – and he actually stammers the negative, which prompts another dive into his research and the embarrassing realization that he basically offered to split wedding cake with Spock. He does not tell Uhura, and hopes Spock will chalk it up to ignorance – which it was – instead of Jim making advances – which he wasn’t, even if he wants to.

So noticing what Spock eats is another way Jim can see if he’s stressed: if Spock ever gets prusah kisan three days in a row, he’ll know something is up. For all that Jim protests his own Bones-enforced healthy diet, it’s nice to know at least that whatever is going to happen to Spock won’t be brought on because Spock doesn’t take care of his body.

Which brings Jim to the final and trickiest prong of step three, and the one that he acknowledges to himself is probably the least altruistic. He knows Spock meditates, like all Vulcans, as a way to keep his mind and body (i.e., his emotions) in balance. He also knows Spock is an athlete.

The word might imply more than it really means in Spock’s case. He isn’t on any sports teams on the Enterprise, and there’s no record he ever was at the Academy. Knowledge of Spock’s combat training, a requirement of command track and personally witnessed via routinely-mentioned fingers around Jim’s throat, are responsible for the formation of step three, prong three. The catalyst, like Spock’s hidden musical depths, Jim finds out about by accident.

The Enterprise has a gym on board. Technically, it has two gyms and a pool. Jim rarely uses the latter; never, really, except for the one time he joined Uhura and Sulu to swim laps, something they apparently do on a regular basis. Much like with Sulu and fencing, Jim is unable to keep up. He can swim, sure, but he prefers relaxing in the shallows.

He assumes Spock never uses the pool, what with his disdain for water. Jim wonders if Spock is even capable of swimming, if that’s something Amanda would have thought to teach her half-Vulcan son on a desert planet. He can’t work up the nerve to ask. Anyway, Spock in a bathing suit is just asking for trouble. Jim struggles enough to focus when Spock is covered neck to wrist. Shirtless Spock might actually kill him.

The two gyms serve different purposes. There’s one outfitted with exercise machines, weights, that kind of thing, while the other is designed to serve more as a court. People reserve it for tennis and basketball pretty regularly, and the couple of Andorian officers on board play a game called tarashas – a game Jim can only describe as a cross between hockey and wrestling – at least once a month. There are also mats, which can be put down for actual wrestling or gymnastics or martial arts. Jim likes wrestling, for reasons he doesn’t want to analyze too closely, but probably have to do with being touch-starved for most of his life. Unfortunately, as it turns out, things are a little different when you’re the captain of a starship instead of some upstart cadet in combat training, and it becomes obvious to Jim extremely fast that no one is entirely comfortable with him being there. The one time he gets on the mat, the lieutenant seems hesitant to even touch him, so Jim gives up and resolves to sit out the rest of the session on the bench.

It gives him the opportunity to look around, and his gaze catches on the far corner of the room, where Spock and Uhura are standing, both in exercise clothes. Uhura is in standard black tank-top and bright red tights, with insignias on the chest and hip. Jim’s in pretty much the same; it’s the standard workout clothes they’re given here, like the uniforms they wear. But like the extra green shirt beside the gold in Jim’s closet, Spock doesn’t seem to have gotten the same. His whole outfit is black, the pants loose-fitting, flaring over his bare feet. The top looks like a tunic or a gi, a white belt wrapped around the waist. When Spock moves, the long sleeves shift up, exposing some of his forearm, and when he turns, Jim can make out Vulcan characters embroidered around the hems in white, too small to read across the room. He can also see a slight vee in the collar. Not much, but probably enough to expose the hollow of his throat if Jim were close enough to see. It’s a laughably Victorian thought, but it makes Jim’s heart pick up speed.

Spock and Uhura don’t touch. They’re about a yard apart, and when they move, it looks like fighting forms, fluid and sure. But they don’t touch. Instead, they circle each other, moving faster and then slower, never getting any closer or farther apart, never landing a single blow. Jim’s breath catches watching it, and he knows he’s going to be thinking about it again tonight, the grace of Spock’s movements and the vulnerability of bare forearms and bare feet. Jim isn’t into feet as a rule, but he feels the sudden urge to worship at Spock’s.

It’s not much of a sudden urge when it’s been happening on and off for months.

When Spock and Uhura bow to each other, Jim gets up. Uhura heads in the direction of the locker room, probably to hit the showers, but Spock just picks up his boots from the edge of the mat, slips them on, and heads towards the gym doors. One of the first things Jim picked up from the medical textbooks: it takes a lot to make a Vulcan sweat.

He falls into step beside Spock as the doors swish open in front of them. “Heading home?”

“I am returning to my quarters.”

“Sweet. I’ll walk with you.”

He keeps quiet until the turbolift, enjoying the sound of his and Spock’s steps clicking in time. When the lift starts to move, he asks, “What were you and Uhura up to? In the gym?”

Spock’s shoulders straighten, then forcibly release the tension. “Sof’el’itju. It is an ancient Vulcan martial art. Nyota expressed interest in it at the Academy, so I have been teaching her.”

“It was gorgeous.”

The look Spock gives him is bottomless and unreadable. “The name means ‘dance of combat,’” he says, although Jim had already done that translation in his head.

“I didn’t know you knew martial arts.”

“I am passably-versed in many Vulcan forms, including susmanah, a’sum’i, ke-tarya, and kheile’a. However, I would not consider myself proficient.”

“Why not? You looked pretty good to me.”

Spock glances at him, then stares straight ahead. His voice tightens, but Jim doesn’t think it’s directed at him. “As I am significantly weaker than a full-blooded Vulcan, I was not considered an adequate sparring partner. Therefore, the only forms I learned beyond a beginner level were ones like sof’el’itju, where participants are not permitted to touch.”

“Oh.” So it’s not just him. Vulcans aren’t touchy-feely people, but most humans are. Jim had assumed Spock’s inclinations were towards the former, but he wonders now just how much of that was an expectation. How much of Spock’s childhood was reaching out, and how long did it take for him to stop?

He’s being fanciful, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

The turbolift doors open, and Spock strides out before Jim is ready, forcing Jim to skip a couple steps to catch up. “I kind of have the opposite problem,” he says, slowing his jog once he’s back in pace with Spock. “Not, I mean, it’s not that everyone wants to spar with me. Just, apparently the captain isn’t allowed to wrestle his subordinates.”

“I can see how that would be the case. Assaulting an officer, particularly a superior,, can be a punishable offense even if it is encouraged. And as the captain, most of your crew looks up to you significantly. They consider you beyond their reach.”

It’s too good an opening to pass up. Jim is a glutton for punishment, but there’s a third, brilliant way to assess Spock’s health. It has nothing to do with Jim’s fervent desire to see Spock in action, to get to touch him and be touched and feel that strength again. That would be inappropriate. That would be selfish.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to indulge me,” he says.

Spock considers him. “As a sparring partner, you mean.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “You’re second in command, so it’s not like you’re a terrified, awestruck ensign who won’t lay a finger on me. We’ve already seen that.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them; is it too soon to joke about what happened on the bridge during the Narada incident? Will it ever not be too soon?

But Spock’s lips tick up into a smile. “The data does match your conclusion. I must warn you, although not fully Vulcan, I am still significantly stronger than a human.”

Jim scoffs, bumping Spock’s shoulder with his own. “Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. I’m not afraid of you.”

“If you insist.”

“Maybe you can teach me some of the Vulcan forms. Give you someone to practice them with.” He smiles, “That is, if you don’t mind fighting a newbie.” He’s given the computer a run for its money on the hardest 2-D chess settings, and after weeks of practice, he’s finally managed a 3-D victory on level one. He’ll play Spock in chess again yet.

“This is an area where I would relish any opponent, regardless of skill level,” Spock tells him.

“I promise, I’ll respect you as an instructor.”

The side-eyed look Spock gives him has signs of mirth. “I will remain unconvinced of that fact until demonstrated.”

“Come on, I’m a great student.”

“You are proficient. However, you are also prone to willfulness. Outside the academic setting, I have come to appreciate its value. On certain occasions,” he adds, when Jim smirks. “Given the application of it I have witnessed inside the classroom, I have yet to be convinced of its merit.”

The playfulness leaves Jim’s lungs, his chest going cold. He stares at his feet. “Right. Sorry.”

“Jim.”

They’re off duty, but it catches him by surprise anyway. He looks up. Spock has stopped a pace behind him, and Jim turns to face him. It’s difficult to say if a Vulcan looks earnest; sincerity is kind of a default state when your culture has a dedication to truth (even if they like to bend what precisely that means). Jim thinks this expression of Spock’s is as earnest as it gets. “I have forgiven you,” Spock tells him, “for the Kobayashi Maru. I would not have requested service aboard your ship if I had not.”

“Oh. Good.” It’s nice. Jim still hasn’t forgiven himself.

“I still do not agree with your motivations. However, I do now understand them.”

“It was stupid,” Jim mumbles. It was arrogant. He was arrogant.

“It was not. Your refusal to accept the ‘no-win’ scenario is one factor which makes you an effective captain. One I am honored to serve beside.”

Spock is honored to serve with him. Spock is honored. He tests that. “I thought Vulcans didn’t lie?”

“We do not.” Spock’s gaze is steady, meeting his. “I value your insights, and I suspect you value mine.”

“I do.”

“Then we understand each other.”

He’s trying. Everything he’s doing is with that goal in mind. “Yeah,” he manages. “I think we do. Or, at least, we’re getting there.”

“Then I would teach you, if you still desire it. It will be pleasing to have a sparring partner. Nyota prefers non-contact sports.”

Jim’s seen Uhura throw some nasty punches when she has to. He guesses she saves them for missions, as opposed to exercise. “I’m here to learn.”

They start walking again, separating only at the doors to their quarters. Jim takes first shower – Vulcans might not sweat, but humans do, even if Jim wasn’t on the mat for long. He stays under the spray for a long time, at war with himself. He always planned to do something like this, to find a way to pull the ‘let's work out together card.’ But this…he’s basically been given permission, in one area at least, to put his hands on Spock. He’s going to feel all that Vulcan strength, directed at him again. He shouldn’t want it as much as he does.

He turns the water as cold as he can stand and manages not to jerk off. He has a horrible, guilty feeling that once he gets Spock on the mat – or vice versa – that kind of control is going right out the airlock.

***

In the rec room, Uhura slings herself into the seat opposite him. “I thought we were meeting in briefing room four today.”

“What?” Jim looks up from the board, spread out in front of him in magnificent tiers. Sure, it’s still plugged into the computer, but this is the first time he’s tried playing in the physical space, not just moving theoretical pieces around a PADD. It feels different, realer. He catches up with her words, and flushes. “Sorry, totally forgot. I can shut this down.”

“You’re playing chess? I thought that was your and Spock’s thing.”

“One, Spock and I don’t have a thing.” It doesn’t come out as sharp as it would have a few months ago. “Two, even if chess were our thing, we’d actually have to play together for that to be true. Spock won’t play me again until I’m worth it as an opponent, so…” He gestures to the board.

Uhura raises her eyebrows. “Look at Mr. Commitment over here.”

She cut her hair, Jim notices. It had to have been recently; she had her ponytail the other day in the gym. It looks nice, not straightened all to hell, but with thick curls tucked in a bob around her ears. He shrugs. “I can commit.”

It’s a newish thing, wanting to. Not Spock-new, but Starfleet-new. A four-year course in three years is a commitment. A five-year mission, even more so. Jim wants it. No shortcuts.

He turns off the chessboard, swiveling in his chair so he’s facing her more directly. “You want to head over?”

“Sure.” She stands, and he follows suit. His strides are longer, but hers are faster. They don’t sync up like he does with Spock, and he ends up speed-walking to keep pace. “I hear I’m not your only teacher on board,” she tells him, a teasing tone creeping into her voice.

Jim goes on the defensive at once. “What, did Spock tell you?”

“No,” Uhura says, dragging out the words like she’s enjoying stringing him along. “We don’t talk about you. Funnily enough, every time I mention your name, he gets squirrely.”

“Vulcans don’t get squirrely,” Jim says, mostly to be obstinate. He’s noticed the same thing.

“Well, Spock does.” It’s weird, not hearing her ponytail swishing when she shakes her head. “No, I heard it from Sulu.”

“How did Sulu hear about it?” Jim knows the gossip mill aboard Enterprise is alive and well, and as helmsmen, Sulu and Chekov are a vital hub for it to pass through. As the captain, it’s inevitable that the gossip ends up being about him on a regular basis, but he still doesn’t relish being part of it, especially where Spock is concerned.

“I didn’t ask, but if I had to guess, someone saw you talking the other day when you left the gym.” When Jim pulls a face, she says, “Don’t think I didn’t see you watching us. Is it true? He’s going to teach you sof’el’itju?”

“Probably not.” Jim gestures her in first when they reach briefing room four. Not that it’s necessary; she’s way ahead of him. “But he is going to teach me some of the other forms he knows. At least, that’s what he implied.” Considering how many Spock knows, Jim probably should have asked for more specifics.

“So, you’re going to let him throw you around the gym, essentially. In front of other people.”

“I was thinking we’d reserve the gym. As good for morale as it’d probably be to watch Spock beat me up, it’s probably better if no one’s watching.”

“Considering what happened last time the crew watched Spock beat you up?” Uhura whistles. “Yeah, probably for the best.”

When they come out of the lesson a couple hours later – they’ve covered leisure activities before, but in light of recent events, Uhura suggested a crash course – they run into Spock and a gaggle of his scientists, a sea of chattering blueshirts abruptly silenced when they catch sight of Jim and Uhura. Spock stiffens. “Captain. I wasn’t aware you were using the briefing room.”

“It’s all yours, Mr. Spock.” Jim nods towards the cluster behind him. “Which department?” He’s getting better at faces, but there’s still a lot to remember, and as Chief Science Officer, Spock heads all the departments.

Spock folds his arms behind his back. His bearing was already straight, but it gets taller, tighter, as he answers, “Astrophysics.”

Jim gives the scientists a smile. “Have fun with your star charts, then.” A couple blush, and a few nod back in acknowledgement. They follow Spock into the briefing room.

The door swishes shut. “Squirrelly,” Uhura says. “Definitely squirrely.”

“Yeah.” Jim frowns. “Any idea what it’s about?”

“He’s probably not used to having to share friends.” Uhura shrugs, her smile playful. “Seeing more than one of us in the same room might be too much for him.”

“Maybe.” Spock sees them together on the bridge without getting tense, but maybe that’s different than seeing them off-duty. As explanations go, it’s not bad. At least, Jim can’t come up with anything better.

***

Reserving the gym is harder than scheduling in time to play Kadis-kot. Spock pulls a ridiculous number of shifts, even for someone who allegedly needs far less sleep than a human, and Jim’s schedule isn’t a picnic either. Finding times that align for them is tricky, with the added layer of making sure that of the four-hundred-plus other people inhabiting a Constitution-class starship, none had already secured the gym for their own use. Jim’s getting ready for bed, halfway into his Starfleet-issued pajamas, when he gets the notification of a cancellation on his computer terminal. By his calculations, Spock will just be getting off shift. He forwards a message to the science labs and changes into his gym clothes instead.

Spock meets him inside the gym, the door opening and closing near-silently on the equally empty hall. He’s dressed in the same workout clothes Jim saw him wearing before, and his voice is mild when he calls across the floor, “I did not anticipate receiving your summons this late, Captain.”

Jim is already stretching on the mats. The uniforms aren’t hideous, but they don’t show off Jim’s chest and arms like the form-fitting athletic gear does. He doesn’t have abs or bulging biceps – he’s not a bodybuilder, doesn’t have the time or the inclination – but he knows his body is powerful, and he’s never had any complaints when the shirt comes off. Totally the opposite.

He’s not sure about the pants. The red is really bright, and they don’t leave much to the imagination. It’s fine, though. It’s another incentive for Jim to control himself.

“Late is relative, Commander, but if you want to go to bed, be my guest,” he answers.

Spock toes out of his boots and socks, raising his eyebrows at Jim. “Were that my intention, I would have sent a denial, rather than come here myself. I merely meant to remark that, by the relative cycle of ship’s time, it is later in the day than I would have expected to hear from you.”

Jim shrugs. “We’re both awake, and we’re not doing anything else. Considering how hard it’s been to find free time this week, I didn’t want to pass up the chance.” He swings his arms, enjoying the loose feeling. With only two bodies, even he’s cold in the cavernous gym. He can feel his nipples pebbling against the soft fabric of his tank top. He swallows. “Is it too cold for you? We can turn the heat up.”

“Computer, raise ambient temperature by five degrees.” Spock comes to rest in front of him. If he’s been affected – by the cold, by Jim’s sleevelessness, by anything – he gives no indication. “That should be sufficient. We will warm up quickly enough.”

It’s not suggestive, Jim chants in his head. It’s not suggestive. It’s a statement of fact. They’re about to work out, which will raise their body heat, and that is all Spock is trying to imply. He clears his throat. “So, what are we learning today? Do I get to learn to’tsu’k’hy, or is that a Vulcan trade secret?”

He likes showing off his Vulcan in front of Spock. Uhura assures him his grasp of the language is excellent, at least where pronunciation is concerned. Jim’s a quick study, and he’s been at it for months. Now, like always, it widens Spock’s eyes, a faint frown creasing his forehead, as if Jim is truly a fascinating puzzle. “To’tsu’k’hy,” Spock repeats, but it’s a question, not a confirmation.

“Colloquially the Vulcan nerve pinch?” Jim prompts.

“I am aware of what it is. You have seen me use it many times.”

He’s felt Spock use it. It’s not fun to be on the receiving end, but as self-defense moves go, it’s pretty sweet. “So, what’s the problem?”

“Aside from the fact that you are untrained and psi-null, two factors which would make teaching you the to’tsu’k’hy inadvisable, I am curious how you learned the term.”

“Uhura taught me.”

The reaction is predictable: Spock’s back goes ramrod, his jaw clenches, and he folds his arms tightly behind him. “I see.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Negative.” Spock shakes his head, even though it still looks to Jim like there’s a problem. His stance becomes looser, although the tension in his jaw remains. “Since you’ve demonstrated interest, we will begin with kheile’a, from which the to’tsu’k’hy originated. As a form, it is the least aggressive, designed solely to deflect attacks while minimizing the amount of damage inflicted. Attack me.”

That sounds like an awful idea. Spock’s expression is blank, worse than neutral, and Jim isn’t looking to be knocked out. “You’re not going to nerve pinch me, are you?”

“That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. Kheile’a has a few principle forms from which all others are based. Attack me, slowly, so I may demonstrate.”

“Okay,” Jim says. His self-preservation instinct has never been stellar. He throws a slow punch, wide and swinging, with no power behind it.

Spock brushes it aside so lightly, Jim barely feels the heel of his palm make contact with Jim’s bare arm. His voice is as cold and level as, well, a metal spirit level on a flat table on Delta Vega. “I notice you have yet to submit fraternization papers with Lieutenant Uhura.”

“So she’s Lieutenant Uhura now?” Unless they’re on duty, Spock always calls her Nyota. It’s a point Jim’s made a note of; he still has yet to earn that honor.

“To my knowledge, she has never been otherwise since taking this post.” Spock makes a gesture that looks impatient. “Again.”

Jim obliges, lunging with a little more force this time. “I didn’t realize I had to sign paperwork to be friends with my officers.” Spock sidesteps, without touching him, and Jim uses the momentum of his lurch to swing around for a second try. “Should I be filling out fraternization papers for Bones, too?”

He means it as a joke, but Spock’s face twitches – a snarl , Jim manages to think for the microsecond it exists, and then all he can think is sh*t, ouch as Spock catches his fist and crushes the knuckles together. “I doubt Doctor McCoy wishes to be brought into this.” He drops Jim’s hand, and Jim stumbles a retreating two steps back, rubbing his fingers. “Regulation states-“

“Don’t quote regulation at me, Spock, I get that plenty everywhere else on this ship.”

“Again.”

Jim goes for a kick this time. Spock catches that too, and the twist he gives Jim’s ankle doesn’t hurt, but does have enough strength behind it to spin Jim face down on the mat a few feet to Spock’s left. “ Regulation states that any officer intending to engage in intimate relations with a subordinate-“

“Intimate relations?” Jim hauls himself upright, staring at Spock in disbelief. “You think-“

“Seven months ago, you began arranging private interactions with Lieutenant Uhura, at which time you began to exhibit behavior cues consistent with-“

“You’ve got to be kidding-“

“ Again. ”

Jim goes for a tackle, which is probably the dumbest choice, but all his smart brain cells have been suddenly reserved for marveling at how stupid his genius first officer is. He pays for the decision when Spock takes a half-step back and drives the point of his elbow, hard, into the small of Jim’s back, pinning him on his stomach with one knee. “You exhibited behavior cues commonly associated with intimacy,” he says, “but in those seven months have failed to file the appropriate forms to reflect the change in status.”

“That’s an-“ Jim coughs. Spock’s hold isn’t painful, but it’s hard, and on his stomach his chest is constricted. “That’s an awfully unspecific number, Mr. Spock. I thought you’d have it down to the nanosecond.”

“I cannot ascertain the precise date, only estimate from the time I noticed the behavioral changes. I anticipate no more than a fourteen-day differential.”

“Spock, let me up.”

Spock steps back. Jim sits, but doesn’t go any higher, rubbing his chest as he gets proper airflow back into his lungs. “Do me a favor,” he says, because Spock is logical, but he’s Vulcan, and Jim suspects that overlap, in this case, is the flaw. He props himself back on one hand. “Walk me through why, exactly, you think Uhura and I are banging.”

Spock’s flush is subtle, relegated to the tips of his ears, but it’s there. He straightens into parade rest, fixing his gaze on the far wall. “I did not say-“

“You said ‘intimate relationship,’ which, yeah, doesn’t always mean banging, but as far as fraternization protocol is concerned, it means a romantic and/or sexual relationship. Walk me through it. What’s your logic, Mr. Spock?”

“You ceased open hostilities. Adversarial aspects of your interactions gave way to more amicable challenges. You eat meals together often, and you spend significant time in isolation from the rest of the crew, many instances of which have occurred in your quarters.” Spock hesitates. His eyes flicker to Jim’s before returning to the wall. “She…laughs at your jokes.”

Holy sh*t. Jim breaks out into a grin. He manages to keep himself from laughing, but only just. He rises, planting his feet and crossing his arms. “Spock, I do the same thing with you.” And Bones, and sometimes Sulu and Scotty and Chekov, but that’s not the point right now.

Spock opens his mouth, and then closes it. “I…do not joke, Captain.”

“Sure you don’t.” This isn’t the time to continue that battle. He takes pity on the floundering Vulcan. “I haven’t filled out fraternization paperwork because Uhura and I aren’t dating. Or having sex.” Also because he doesn’t believe his personal life is any of Starfleet’s business, and that regulation is a suggestion, not a rule, but Spock doesn’t need to know that.

Spock frowns. His posture loosens with the confusion, and he looks at Jim. “You aren’t?”

“We’re your friends, Spock. If we were dating, we would have told you. You’re pretty much the only thing we’ve got in common.” He respects the hell out of Uhura, but dating her? Even if she were interested, which she made clear from the moment they met that she patently wasn’t, she’s not what Jim’s looking for in a partner. Especially not right now.

“Then why the individual interactions?”

“Hey, Bones and I get drunk alone. You and I play games, and now we do this too.” He gestures around the mat to emphasize the point, and then shrugs. “She’s teaching me Vulcan.”

Spock blinks at him. “You are learning Vulcan?”

“All three versions. Plus the scripts.” He kind of likes the shocked look on Spock’s face. It softens him, somehow. “I’ve got a Vulcan first officer. I thought it might be a good idea.”

“You are learning Vulcan…for me?”

“And for the sake of diplomacy, but who’s counting?” Jim plays it off with a laugh, but his chest seizes, worse than it had when Spock was pinning him.

“That is…admirable of you, Captain. I apologize for misinterpreting your efforts.”

Jim’s an invasive bastard. He’s not worth admiring. “It’s Jim, remember?”

“My apologies, Jim.”

“We’re all good.” He flexes, stretching his arms out behind him. “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird around us?”

Spock looks ready to object, probably to the word ‘weird,’ but then doesn’t. Instead, he inclines his head in a small nod. “I am still new to interpreting social interaction, particularly within the nuance of human culture.”

“You don’t say?”

Spock raises an eyebrow but continues without remark. “On Vulcan, the intent of a relationship is stated outright, to avoid unnecessary confusion. And it is not common, generally, to pursue romantic entanglements.”

“Apart from your koon’ul, you mean.”

“Koon’ul-veh,” Spock corrects mildly. “Betrothed, not betrothal.”

The tension that topic holds for Jim offsets the hotness that is Professor Spock, allowing Jim to keep a straight face when he shrugs. “We haven’t gotten to that chapter yet.” Not because he’s avoiding it. Absolutely not.

Spock nods in understanding. He clarifies, “Even with our intended, relationships are often not pursued until after marriage. It enables us to focus on our studies.”

He probably never met T’Pring, Jim realizes. At least, not outside of the betrothal ceremony. Not since he was seven.

He’ll never meet her again. Jim hates that he doesn’t hate that fact. “Seems kind of lonely,” he says.

“Affection is a choice. It is logical to provide us with an option. No one insists we marry if we decide against it.”

“Very Vulcan of you, but I’ll stick to the human way, I think.” Jim offers a wry smile. At least where Spock is concerned, Jim doesn’t think his affection is a choice at all. “You know, it’s kind of funny, you thinking my study sessions with Uhura are actually an excuse to make out.”

Spock frowns. “I do not understand. Why would that be humorous?”

“Well, that’s what happened with you guys, right? People saw totally platonic office hours, and decided it meant you were screwing her over your desk.”

The vulgarity of the phrase is a bad choice, but Jim can’t help it. It’s the only defensive mechanism he has, in case Spock’s answer is anywhere along the lines of ‘that it was platonic was not always the case.’ It backfires on him, because he gets a mental image of Spock and a desk and him, and has to will the pants not to betray him now.

He gets both of Spock’s eyebrows for that one, but no blush. “Perhaps it should have served as a lesson to me, that how one interprets events may in fact be contrary to their nature.”

That’s a no, right? That’s as close as a no as Jim can possibly get without asking ‘have you or have you not ever had a personal relationship with Nyota Uhura?’ He can’t ask that.

His mouth opens. “They never were, right? I mean, they were study sessions. Platonic.”

He hates his mouth.

Spock relaxes, and he’s got his ‘humans are baffling and amusing’ eyebrows again. “I would not consider engaging intimately with one of my students.”

“No, I know. But after.” He needs to shut up. He needs to shut up right now.

Spock shakes his head. “After, Nyota and I had become friends. It did not seem worthwhile to pursue romantic or sexual intimacy, and I had no inclination to do so.”

Jim feels a sh*t-eating grin spread across his face. “I thought you didn’t have any friends?”

“I have since re-evaluated my definition of the word.”

It’s dry and funny and exactly the right ground to be on. For the first time since Uhura’s name came up – since Spock walked into the gym, really – Jim feels sure-footed again. “I’m glad to hear it.” He widens his stance, rolling his shoulders back. “Now, are you going to teach me how this actually works, or do you want to throw me around the mat a little more?”

Spock has the decency to blush again. Still just the tips of his ears, but that’s for the best. Jim doesn’t know if he could handle any more. “We will put aside that technique for the time being.”

“Glad to hear it.” If Spock is going to thrash him in physical combat, Jim wants there to be actual touching involved. “Let’s do this thing.”

“We will begin with the basic stances. Your foundation must be solid, but you must be fluid enough to move with the energy of your opponent. Copy my stance, and do as I do.”

Two hours later, Jim is sore from falling and deliriously happy about it. He hasn’t embarrassed himself with the red pants, and he manages to take a responsible shower before tumbling into his inviting bed. It’s easy to forget sometimes, with Vulcan rigidity and efficient logic, that Spock can be fluid grace and ease when he wants to be. On the mat, once the hard conversation was over, he’d been that, and it had been stunning.

Is Jim one of Spock’s students? Not technically, right? The Enterprise gym isn’t the Academy by a long shot. Not that it matters, because there’s a million other reasons why Spock wouldn’t date him, well before ‘might arguably be a student’ comes up.

“Why did you not ask me to teach you Vuhlkansu?” Spock asked him after they’d finished for the night, with hints of the High Vulcan accent his royal ancestors probably used. It had crept in over the course of two hours on the mat, Spock explaining the different forms and the Vulcan phrases that accompanied them. “Nyota’s abilities notwithstanding, I am the logical choice.”

“This was seven months ago,” Jim reminded him. “We weren’t really talking much back then. I kind of thought you hated me.”

“Your belief was inaccurate.”

It’s not exactly what he wants, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Jim turns onto his side as the sonics start to hum through the walls, facing away from the bathroom. He’s being responsible tonight. He’s not picturing the puddle of Spock’s layers on the floor – no, not a puddle, neatly folded or already set aside to be laundered – or Spock’s fingers turning the dials, scrubbing bare shoulders and arms. He’s not thinking about Spock and a desk and him splayed over it, calling Spock Professor and promising he’ll make the grade. He’s being responsible.

Jim groans and shoves his pillow over his ears. Responsibility sucks ass.

***

“He thought we were sleeping together,” Jim tells Uhura, the morning after. It’s funnier with a night of sleep between them, heading into Alpha Shift after breakfast. “He totally beat me up trying to get me to admit it.”

Uhura chokes, stopping in the middle of the corridor. “Us. Sleeping together.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s a Vulcan.” And an idiot, but the two are obviously connected where relationships are concerned. Jim’s an idiot too, about a lot of things – namely, crushing on said Vulcan. There’s plenty of idiocy to go around.

Uhura scoffs, but there’s more mirth than heat in the sound. “As if I would ever consider sleeping with you.”

“Hey!” Jim lays on the mock-offense, and he lays it on thick. He loves being able to joke with Uhura, loves that she gives as good as she gets. “I would be the best night of your life .”

Where once she might have rolled her eyes and ignored him, Uhura has the comeback already loaded. “The best night of my life was from Eiteria Prime, and she had three tongues. Somehow, I don’t see you being much competition.”

Jim catches sight of Spock at the other end of the corridor and grins, throwing his arm around Uhura’s shoulder. He likes this too, the physical contact. Jim’s always been tactile, and before his only outlet had been Bones, but now he pats Chekov on the back and claps Sulu on the shoulder and once Uhura had slugged his arm the first time in jest, he had that with her too. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says, and doesn’t bother to hide his line of sight.

She shakes her head when she sees where he’s looking, but she smirks too. “You’re awful, you know that?”

“And yet, you love me anyway. It’s why we get along so well.” He plants a kiss on her temple just as Spock looks up from the PADD in his hand, winking and laughing at the stutter it puts in Spock’s stride. “That for me, Spock?” he asks as his first officer draws level.

Spock looks down, then back up again. “Affirmative, Captain. Next week’s duty roster, for your review.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

“Let’s,” Uhura says dryly. “And while we’re at it, let’s take back that hand before you lose it, Captain .” The smirk cuts the edge of the words just enough to tell Jim she doesn’t actually mean it.

He pulls the hand back anyway, but not before flicking at her hoop earrings. She flicks him back. He calls it even and addresses Spock, who looks nonplussed by the exchange. “We’re heading to the bridge. Walk with us.”

Spock obediently falls into step beside them, flanking Jim’s right, Uhura on Jim’s left. They make a nice display, Jim thinks. A line of red and blue and gold. Poster kids for Starfleet. When they get to the turbolift, Spock says, “Is it customary for friends to threaten each other with violence over displays of physical affection?”

“In all of Jim’s friendships? Yes,” Uhura says.

“What can I say?” Jim laughs. “I’m cute like that.”

Spock and Uhura exchange a look. It’s the same one Bones gets, without the Southern doctor flavor. “Adorable,” Uhura says, still smirking. “Absolutely.”

They make it almost all the way to the bridge before Uhura rounds on Spock, short curls bouncing, her eyes wide with sudden realization. “Did you think we were having sex in the briefing rooms? ”

Sulu and Chekov probably think Jim’s nuts when he falls out of the turbolift laughing, but it can’t be helped. Spock’s expression, subtle but guilty and embarrassed all the same, is just too funny not to.

***

New Vulcan – T’Khasi T’uzh – isn’t as hot as the original. At least, it doesn’t live up to Jim’ expectations of heat. He’s sweating from the moment he beams down, sure, but he remembers standing on a drill above the old planet, feeling so much hotter. Maybe that’s just circ*mstance.

“No wonder the cold-blooded bastards love it here,” Bones gripes, picking at the collar of his shirt. “It’s hot enough to fry an egg mid-air, forget any kind of sidewalk.”

“Ah, stop complaining. You’re the one with short sleeves.” It’s an advantage Bones’s medical scrubs have over Jim’s uniform. He’s got his own sleeves shoved all the way up to the elbow and he skipped the undershirt, but it offers minimal relief. “Be glad we’re not in dress for this.” It’s a diplomatic mission, but an informal one. The Vulcan colonies need supplies. The Enterprise might not be a cargo vessel, but they’re fast and they’re new and it shows the Federation is taking this seriously if Starfleet sends their flagship every now and again. Jim isn’t complaining, even under the burning of the suns.

“We’re all getting off this rock with radiation poisoning,” Bones continues, as if he hadn’t heard Jim. “It’ll make Earth sunburn look like a bridal blush.”

Bones gave everyone a hypo against that before the cargo teams beamed down, and two for Jim, so colorful metaphors aside, Jim isn’t worried. The depot hums with energy, ship staff in all colors passing off antigrav pallets to robed Vulcans, clusters of science and engineering officers gathered around Vulcan city planners as they gesture to a skyline littered with half-formed structures after over a year of construction with intent. Jim’s seen holophotos of the initial structure, before the exodus; a tiny outpost, populated by never more than five Vulcan scientists at a time, geologists comparing the planet’s formation to their own. Now it’s a city, or getting there.

Spock stands apart, his head bowed over the manifest, a communicator in one hand. He’s too far away for Jim to hear him, but he speaks into it intermittently, coordinating the efforts. He looks unruffled, unflappable in the heat. No one approaches him, cutting a wide berth around his rooted figure, kicking up swirls of dust that never seem to touch him. A blue tree in the red desert.

“Captain Kirk.”

Jim turns into the sunlight, shielding his eyes. Bones’s grumbling tapers into low muttering, taking a step away from Jim and staring down at his tricorder, blatantly removing himself from the conversation. The speaker is a female Vulcan in grey robes, and she’s flanked by two of her compatriots, all immaculate and expressionless. She raises her hand in greeting, and Jim returns the ta’al, lowering his when she does. “May I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course.” He stops the instinctive, political grin, schooling it into a more appropriate neutral expression. Vulcans don’t approve of being charmed. “How can I help you?”

“Your Starfleet record states that you completed your Academy’s command track in three quarters the time allotted. Is that correct?”

Technically, officers can take more than the four years to complete training, but Jim doesn’t point that out, unsure if it would be read as bragging. “That’s right.”

“You also achieved exceptionally high marks, in spite of records of academic insubordination.”

Jim’s suddenly glad he wasn’t smiling. He’s not Vulcan, and he wouldn’t have the control to keep it from falling off his face. He swallows. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, what’s this about?”

The Vulcan woman exchanges glances with the other two, then looks back to him. “In light of recent events, many of us are considering Starfleet Academy as an acceptable alternative for our education. You are an unusually decorated graduate, despite your humanity. It seemed logical to enquire after your advice.”

Youngest captain in Starfleet history. Awarded a medal for saving the galaxy. An academic record that, even with the Kobayashi Maru, is still littered with surprised praise from his professors at Jim’s dedication and intelligence. His file is public record, as most Starfleet officers’ are. It doesn’t say just how little Jim deserves the distinction.

But he’s trying to deserve it, trying to be James T. Kirk, trying to be the man his record makes him appear to be, so he nods – sagely, he hopes, but he can see Bones’s smirk out of the corner of his eye – and says, “I’m sure Starfleet would be proud to have you.”

If Vulcans can look pleased, these three do. The leader starts to ask another question, but an easy voice cuts over her, smooth and polite but firm. “T’Sori, I require a word with the captain about rebuilding efforts. Perhaps you should speak with him at a later time.”

She bows her head. “Of course, Ambassador.” She looks to Jim. “If it is acceptable to you, Captain, we will contact you after your work here is done.”

“Uh, sure,” Jim manages. He keeps himself together long enough for the trio of Vulcans to walk away before he can’t hold back any longer and the beam splits his face in two. “Spock!”

The old Vulcan smiles. “It is pleasing as ever to see you, old friend. And Doctor McCoy.”

Bones’s ears go pink, and he mumbles something under his breath. Spock Prime raises an eyebrow, but his smile remains. “Thank you, Doctor. If I may, I would like to speak to the captain in private.”

Bones needs no further pressing. He takes off. Jim looks at Spock Prime. “I commed ahead, but they told me you were busy.”

“And to that end, I should tell you, they call me Selek here. It seemed unwise to advertise my true identity to the community at large. It is not quite a secret, but discretion is not unwise in instances such as these.”

“Time travel, gotcha,” Jim says. “Selek, huh?” He catches sight of his Spock looking over at them. “sh*t.” Then Spock starts walking. “ sh*t , Spock, you should probably-“

“Ambassador,” Spock says. His strides are long, and he reaches them just as Spock Prime turns. Jim braces himself, but Spock merely offers his elder self the ta’al, and then says, “I was not aware you and Captain Kirk continued to be in communication.”

The world isn’t ending. Jim looks back and forth between the two Spocks. Prime seems vaguely amused. “You knew about him,” Jim accuses, directing it at his Spock. “And you didn’t tell me.”

“It did not seem pertinent to do so.”

“You cheated,” Jim informs Spock Prime, whose eyes continue to sparkle with mirth. “Just so you know. Totally cheated.”

“You drew your own conclusions from my words. I did not state-“

“Bullsh*t,” Jim says. With anyone else, he’d be angry, but it’s Spock, so he bites back the laughter under the irritation and just lets that part out. “You know who he is, right?”

Spock inclines his head. “We met on Earth shortly after you received the Enterprise. He encouraged me to continue in Starfleet. In many ways, you have him to thank for my continuing on as your first officer.”

Well, when he puts it that way. Jim sighs. He points a finger at them. “Selek, Ambassador, whatever. No more lying, no more implying, just truth or no truth, got it? It’s still yanking us around, and you’re the one who keeps saying we’ve got to live our own lives. And Spock? Next time, don’t let me have a heart attack thinking the world is going to end. We deal with enough of that as it is.”

“As you wish, Captain,” Spock says. The Ambassador dips his head in agreement, although he still looks a little too mirthful for Jim’s taste.

Jim wipes his brow. Between him and two unflappable Vulcans, he’s the only one sweating. “You said there was something you wanted to talk about, Ambassador?”

“It is of no concern.”

“You said it was about the rebuilding efforts?” But Bones didn’t need to be sent away for that, and Jim’s chest tightens. “Is everything okay?”

Spock Prime catches the subtext without difficulty. “I remain quite well. Building efforts continue slowly, but your effort, and Starfleet’s, has been invaluable. I merely wished to redirect T’Sori and the others. You seemed uncomfortable with their interest.”

Jim rubs the back of his neck. He feels too hot. Maybe he’s developing that sunburn after all. “It’s been a long time since anybody expected me to turn out amazing,” he says. He remembers that weight as a kid, doing everything possible to shrug it off, until people realized he was just a delinquent and not anything special. Everyone but Pike. “And Vulcans don’t look up to pretty much anyone,” he adds. ”Just getting used to it, is all.”

“You have many traits that Vulcans admire, Captain,” Spock says. “You are determined, persistent, and eager in the pursuit of knowledge. As a role model, you leave less to be desired than you might imagine.”

It’s too matter-of-fact to mean anything, but Jim chokes on it anyway. He swallows hard. “Thanks, Spock.”

Spock Prime tilts his head. “It is good to see you are getting along.”

“Yeah, we’ve smoothed out the rough spots,” Jim says. He pats Spock on the back. “Isn’t that right, Commander?”

“Our relationship is adequate.”

Ouch. Where Jim hadn’t been paying attention before, coping with rearranging the knowledge that two Spocks can coexist, he now sees an underlying tension in his first officer. It’s not the same tension he’s finally dropped around Jim and Uhura, but it’s not dissimilar either.

Jim clears his throat. “Spock and I should probably get back to work. I’ll comm you later, Ambassador. We can catch up.”

“As you wish.”

When he walks away, Jim turns his back, shoulder to shoulder with Spock, and murmurs, “You okay?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“You’re tense. Don’t think I can’t tell,” he adds, when Spock opens his mouth to protest. “I’m getting to know you pretty well. What’s wrong?”

Spock hesitates. “It is…disquieting, seeing you interact with my elder self. I was not aware you maintained contact after Delta Vega.”

“You have a problem with us being friends?”

“Your friends are your business. It is not my place to intrude.”

“But?” Jim pushes. He needs to push. Spock won’t say it on his own.

“But,” Spock finally allows, “it has become clear to me, in my interactions with my counterpart, that we are not the same person. His past is not my future. I have been changed by our timeline, in ways that he cannot comprehend.”

“So what?”

“The knowledge that you interact with both of us, that you have therefore a baseline of understanding-“

“I don’t think he’s you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Spock closes his mouth, turning abruptly to face Jim fully, brow furrowed. Jim shrugs. “I mean, yeah, he’s you. He’s a version of you. But he’s not you, you. He knows that. It’s one of the reasons we’re friends. We both care about you.”

“I see.”

“Is that what that was? Were you jealous or something?”

“Vulcans do not experience jealousy.”

Jim gives Spock his best skeptical expression. He learned it by copying Spock’s. “Then you were logically and unemotionally concerned that I was comparing you in my head to someone I don’t interact with on a daily basis, and thought I might like him better, even though you’re the one I spend all my time chasing around our ship.”

“That is…not an entirely inaccurate summary.”

Vulcans. Jim keeps the eyeroll to himself. “You’re not the only one living in the shadow of his universe, you know. I’m not his James Kirk, and I don’t think I ever will be. Not even close. And even if we’re friends, he’ll never be my Spock. That position is already filled. Commander.”

The possessive comes automatically, and for a fraction of a second Spock reacts to it, so quickly Jim can’t get a fix. It’s not a negative response, he thinks. “Come on,” he says, when Spock doesn’t respond. He squeezes his shoulder. “Why don’t we go back up to the ship? We can oversee everything from the bridge, and I’m sure Bones would be thrilled if I got out of this heat.”

“You go, Captain. I will stay.”

“You sure?” It’s not disappointment, exactly. This place isn’t Vulcan, but it’s natural Spock would want to stay as long as possible. They’ve talked about Spock’s physical discomfort on the Enterprise, and Jim berates himself for suggesting it.

Spock raises his eyebrows. “It is logical for me to be on-site. It will move the unloading procedures more efficiently. I believe we have a game scheduled after shift, do we not? I would be remiss if I did not return in time.”

Jim thinks he hears an unspoken word in that sentence. His chest unwinds, and he grins. “Kadis-kot?”

“I will meet you in your quarters at 1900 hours, ship’s time.”

“See you then.” He pulls out his own communicator, flipping it open. “Kirk to Enterprise . One to beam up, Mr. Scott.”

The door to his quarters chimes at 18:21, and it slides open when Jim gives the voice command. “You’re early,” he says.

Spock strides in like he’s at home, which, considering how many times they’ve met here…nope, that’s still not a safe thought. “All teams report success,” he says. “Cargo has been transferred, and the Federation personnel who intend to remain for construction efforts have found suitable accommodation.”

Jim moves his half-finished meal tray off the table, making room. “Is it my imagination, or did you get a tan down there?”

“Vulcans do not tan as humans do. Nor do New Vulcan’s suns produce adequate radiation to affect my pigmentation after only one day on the planet’s surface.”

“I think you look tan.” Jim scoops up another mouthful of his dinner, swallows, and says, “Sorry, I meant to eat in the mess, but I got caught up in reports, so I took it in here.”

“Apology is not necessary. I have yet to eat as well.”

“Do you want to go get something and bring it back?”

“Negative.” But he picks up Jim’s unused spoon and fishes up a few vegetable-flavored cubes. They’re supposed to be fek’yar, a kind of Vulcan cucumber, and Spock’s expression is one of appreciation, so they’re probably pretty close in flavor if not in look. Jim raises his eyebrows, and Spock mirrors the gesture. “You have offered to share your food with me on nine separate occasions, in addition to thirteen missions where cultural diplomacy required it. If the invitation is not an open one, I will refrain.”

After Tarsus, food is kind of a thing with Jim, so it says a lot, how often he offers. The invitation was open, always has been, although on those nine occasions, Spock had turned him down. Jim smirks. “Have at it.” He abandons the other half of the meal in favor of setting up the Kadis-kot board. As a strategy game, it offers its own challenges, which makes it acceptable to Spock and fun for Jim, but he’s still looking forward to replacing it with chess. A couple more weeks, he thinks, and he’ll be ready.

With the hand not manipulating the spoon, Spock picks up the PADDs Jim had been looking over before his entrance. “Academy recommendation letters?”

“Requests for them, anyway. I’m not sure I’m qualified to sponsor anyone, though.” T’Sori and her friends – Stelev and V’lissa, according to the extensive documents they sent, detailing personal achievements and educational experience – delivered them by way of the computer a couple hours after Jim returned to the ship. “It’s kind of amazing that you used to be the only Vulcan in Starfleet, now that applications are going up.”

“I was never the only Vulcan in Starfleet,” Spock says. He sets the PADD down. “I was the first Vulcan to reject the VSA in favor of Starfleet, and I was the first Vulcan to attend the Academy, as opposed to training through the VSA and transferring later. However, Vulcan involvement with Starfleet predates the Federation. Archer himself-“

“His first officer wasn’t officially part of the Starfleet crew, I thought.”

“She was granted a commission shortly before the disbandment of the Vulcan High Command as a governing body. It was required reading at the Vulcan Learning Center in my childhood.”

“Huh.” Jim finishes dividing the pieces into their three colored piles. “I guess I got used to hearing about you being the first.”

“The wording has been very careful, but it does lead to much confusion of the truth.” Spock finishes his half of Jim’s dinner and sets the tray aside. “Regardless, the VSA has struggled to regain its previous status, with a number of instructors no longer with us. It is only logical that where Starfleet was once considered superfluous, it is now the favored choice amongst Vulcans looking for more immediate forms of education.”

“So, you’re a trend-setter.”

“I believe the change would occur even without my presence in Starfleet. I find it unlikely that my commission is more than a minor factor in any Vulcan’s decision, and previously would have served to dissuade rather than convince.”

“Because you’re not Vulcan enough.”

“Yes. Many considered my rejection of the VSA disrespectful, a sign of my willful human arrogance.”

Jim snorts. “And here I thought willful human arrogance was my job.”

Spock smiles faintly, taking the seat opposite Jim. “Willful and human, yes. Arrogance…I am coming to believe that is not the case.”

“Careful, there,” Jim says. “The number of compliments you’ve given me today, I might start to get a big head.”

“Should that happen, I will call Doctor McCoy for treatment.”

Spock’s tone is carefully wry, and Jim wags a finger at him. “Don’t act like you don’t understand human idioms. I know you do.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I merely meant that the doctor has an uncanny ability to deflate your impulses towards aggrandizing.”

“Yeah, Bones knows how to hit where it hurts.” Jim nods towards Spock. “First move is yours.” He picks up his own piece, tapping it against the table. “Does that bother you? The way he talks to you, I mean.”

“I am Vulcan.” Spock lays his piece on the gameboard. “Doctor McCoy’s attempts to bait me aside, an emotional response-“

“I’ve seen you be emotional, Spock. I know you feel things. Probably more than any of us humans do.” They couch it in erudition, but the textbooks all indicate that Vulcan feeling runs deep. Jim’s seen it firsthand, and felt it in the meld, bottomless and overwhelming.

Caught, Spock folds his hands. He steeples his fingers, and Jim’s heart skips a beat. “I dislike much of his terminology,” Spock allows. “There are associations with it I do not approve of. However, at its core, I appreciate his antagonization. It provides a contrast that I find useful.”

To seem more Vulcan by comparison. He’s said as much before. “Is it hard being the only one?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “It is your move, Jim.”

He lays the piece. “Is it, though? Being the only half-Vulcan?”

“That is another fallacy. I am inarguably the most famous, but I am hardly the first, nor the only.”

Jim stares. “That’s news to me.”

“Obviously.” Spock takes his turn, the piece clicking into place with a too-loud snap. “It is not advertised amongst my people. However, my father provided me with the few reports that do exist. Occasionally, a Vulcan will forge a relationship with a non-Vulcan, and occasionally there will be offspring. In most scenarios, it is a Vulcan who has rejected in at least some way our basic tenants, or follows a more liberal version of them. Others, like my father, who spend significant time around other races may find logical or emotional reasons to attach themselves.”

Jim had assumed the Spock was unique. That Vulcan-human relations were an all-but-forgone conclusion. Spock’s casual admittance is kind of rocking his world. “So, there are other kids?”

“Largely part human. A few with ancestry connecting to other Federation species. None currently living, to my knowledge, but that could be a lack of data. They often live very private lives. It is my father’s status, both as ambassador and as a distinguished member of our bloodline, that does not afford me the same. Additionally, the Vulcan genes are unpredictable. They are often recessive; a human could reasonably have them, and save for a few minor quirks, never display any Vulcanoid nature. It is unusual that mine are so dominant.”

“You should tell Bones that,” Jim says. It’s a lifeline more than anything. Joking is the only thing keeping him from grabbing Spock’s hand, asking him about whether his interest in human-Vulcan relations extends beyond the academic, like his father’s. Spock spends all his time around humans too. Logical or emotional attachments, like to a friend or a close colleague…Jim shakes himself internally, grapples back to the joke. “Can you imagine how freaked out he’d be?”

Spock doesn’t notice the struggle. His humor is repressed, but palpable. “I have occasionally suspected Doctor McCoy of sharing my blood. He displays all a Vulcan’s intense emotionality, with none of our control.”

Jim cracks up. “I can see it! Right around the eyebrows.” He snickers. “Let him try to work that into his family history.”

“Statistically, it is improbable.”

“Still.” Jim settles, leaning back in his chair. His chest hurts, but he can pretend it’s from laughing so hard. It’s his move again. He takes a minute to consider it, working out the gambits he can use. When he finally lays it, he says, “You didn’t answer me, though. Is it hard?”

“I have answered before. There are always challenges to my nature, parts of me that may always be at war. My counterpart appears to have found a way to live with them. Slowly, I am finding the same.”

“Is it lonely?”

Spock meets his eyes. “An illogical question, Jim.”

“Not really. Not when you’re the only one you know.”

“There are many ways in which I am the only one of my kind, many places I find myself apart. There is no changing that. Kaiidth.”

Another Vulcan expression. What is, is. As always, Jim presses. “And you think that means you can never be lonely?”

“I have chosen not to be.” Spock picks up a piece, but does not lay it. It rolls between his fingers, and Jim watches it. When it stops, he meets Spock’s gaze, black and intense and steady and sure. “I have chosen not to be lonely, Jim. I have chosen the Enterprise .”

Logical and emotional reasons to attach themselves. Jim catches the inhale before it turns into sound. He breathes out again, and doesn’t let it shake. It’s soft in his cabin, empty except for them. “The Enterprise is lucky to have you.” He’s talking about the ship, just barely.

Spock folds his hands. Not looking away. “Luck,” he says, “as I have often reminded you, has nothing to do with it.”

***

After the first time Jim crowded a third chair around Spock’s favorite two-seater, cramming Uhura in with them, Spock wisely abdicated his corner for a more spacious and central table in the mess. It’s self-defense, Jim would argue. Alone with Spock, he gets the impulse to do stupid things. He needs a chaperone, and even without telling her that’s what she is, Uhura is an easy buffer.

Jim’s still smarting from the previous night; after about an hour of kheile’a – they’ve had a couple lessons now, but Spock still won’t teach him the nerve pinch, no matter how Jim wheedles – Spock had offered something a little more hands-on. Ke-tarya is definitely that, and Jim has the bruises to prove it. He’s seriously rethinking his exercise outfit, because the red pants hide nothing, and the first time Spock had gotten him in a chokehold – there’s a word for the thing Jim has been fantasizing about, it’s lan-dovna, and it’s still hot enough to make Jim’s brain short-circuit, even when he’s pinned to a mat instead of a console on his bridge – Jim had almost embarrassed himself.

“I apologize, Captain,” Spock said when he let Jim up, leaving Jim doubled over and wheezing, half to hide his real reaction and half because fighting a Vulcan is no joke, even for sport. “I did not intend to injure you.”

“It’s fine,” Jim managed, straightening only when he felt it was safe to do so. “Don’t hold back. I like the challenge.”

He had not been good in the shower that night. He’d pressed every bruise Spock had given him, and come with his own hand wrapped around his throat.

“Tell me how it works,” he asks now. “Irak-nahan-esta.”

“Touch telepathy?” Spock raises his eyebrows. “It is a form of nonverbal communication. I do not believe it requires much explanation.”

Into her cubes, Uhura snorts. She’s in gold today, not red. Jim wants to ask, but it’s not top of his list at the moment.

“How does it work for Vulcans?” Jim clarifies. He’s been reading about Pa’nar syndrome in the medical texts, and telepathy keeps coming up. He’d always kind of known Vulcans were touch-telepaths – he’s seen Spock do the mind-meld, obviously – but he’s starting to realize it might be important to know the specifics. The last thing he needs is Spock wrestling him onto the mat and reading in Jim’s thoughts how much it turns him on.

“It works for Vulcans much as it works for other races with psionic abilities. You have seen me perform the kash-nohv for the sake of our missions. You have been party to one as well.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jim waves his fork. “With the touching and the ‘my mind to your mind,’ I get it. Is there more than that?”

He braces himself as Spock goes into lecturer mode. He’s not going to think about desks. “Vulcan hands are our major psionic centers,” Spock says. Even Uhura has straightened minutely, Jim notices, reacting to the shift in Spock’s tone. He continues, “It is what makes them sensitive to contact with organic materials or inorganic materials capable of thought. However, skin-to-skin contact, or an equivalent, is typically required for telepathic intervention. The positioning of the fingers during the meld capitalizes on the psi-points of the face, to ensure the strongest possible connection.”

Skin contact. Not ideal, since wrestling involves a lot of that, even when Spock is mostly covered up. “What about ambient psychic energy?”

Spock studies him, probably trying to puzzle out where Jim’s interest is coming from. “Vulcans are sensitive to it, yes, particularly to individuals who are not psi-null but do not shield. It is why the destruction of T’Khasi was so painful for my people.” To Spock’s credit, his voice hardly wavers, although his gaze drops to his own tray. “We are trained to shield ourselves to it from childhood. It has become an invaluable skill on a ship of humans. The emotional bleed can be quite overwhelming.”

Great. So Jim’s bleeding everywhere. Guilt stabs through him, and then redoubles at the thought that Spock might be able to feel it. A vicious cycle. “I’m sorry.”

“There is no cause for apology.” When Spock looks up again, he’s fully composed. He’s got oatmeal again this morning. Still human, still no topping. “Nightly meditation allows me to maintain my shields without undue difficulty. Most humans would consider it invasive to know that I was capable of reading their emotions. I take adequate precautions to prevent it.”

“So, you can’t tell what I’m feeling right now?”

Spock tilts his head. “I am aware you are feeling uneasy, possibly guilty. You are considering the strain our interaction in particular may place on me, while also regretting that I may be reading feelings you would normally consider private.” He takes a precise spoonful of oatmeal, swallows, and then says, “I am aware of this because I have come to know you, not because I am detecting your emotions. I have been shielding for the majority of our interactions. The ones I have not…” He looks down again, and Jim can read Spock too. Always back to the bridge. Always back to the moment Jim made Spock feel too much. “My own control was lax, and therefore I was too overwhelmed by my own emotions to be able to distinguish yours.”

Spock doesn’t know. It’s a relief, at least. He could, if he wanted to, because Jim is bleeding, because they touch, but he doesn’t know. He bites into his own breakfast – also cubes, but they’re a reconstituted kind of Vulcan toast, pir mah, and they taste like strawberries, minus the fact that Jim is allergic to those. It sits heavy in his stomach anyway.

Uhura looks between the two of them, then rolls her eyes. “I don’t have to be a telepath to read the amount of angst at this table right now.”

“Your input is appreciated, Lieutenant,” Jim snarks at her, and the tension breaks when Spock suppresses his own smile. Jim waves his fork at her. “What’s with the getup, anyway? Communications is an operations division. Unless someone forgot to send me the memo.”

“Nyota has enough command qualification to wear gold,” Spock says. “As do I.”

“We just choose not to,” Uhura smirks, “to protect your delicate sensibilities.”

“Consider my sensibilities hard enough to handle it,” Jim shoots back, and then bites his tongue as the word choice catches up with him. He clears his throat. “Anyway, Mr. Spock here would look terrible in gold. Blue really is your color, you know.”

Spock doesn’t so much as blink at the compliment. “Aesthetics are irrelevant. I wear the science uniform because I am your science officer, and because it may send the crew inappropriate messages were I to dress for command. Given our power struggle when you initially took Enterprise’s command, I would prefer to avoid alluding to the idea that I am looking to retake my original position.”

“And I don’t care,” Uhura says. “I forgot to send my reds to the laundry this week, so gold is all I have left in the closet.”

“A difficulty I never have,” Spock says lightly, like he’s making a joke.

“No, you just forget to eat and sleep and all those pesky things.”

Jim swallows his own laugh. “She’s got you there.”

“I neither forget to sleep, nor eat,” Spock says calmly. “When my time is otherwise demanded, I occasionally make the choice to forgo-“

“You forget,” Uhura says.

“Your repetition does not make it fact.”

“Girls, girls, you’re both pretty,” Jim cuts in, and earns Uhura’s narrowed eyes and Spock’s scathing eyebrows. If looks could kill… He gives them a cheeky smile. “Uhura’s right, Spock. You need to take care of yourself.”

“If you are dissatisfied with my health, I give you leave to consult Doctor McCoy. Until such time, I will continue as I am.”

It’s a joke, but it twists Jim’s stomach. He forces down the last of his breakfast. It doesn’t quell the feeling. He’s gotten so used to his time with Spock, he’d almost forgotten how it started. He’d almost forgotten about the plan.

“I’m sure Bones will let me know if something’s wrong,” he says. It doesn’t come out as light as he wants it. Uhura gives him a funny look. He ignores it. “In the meantime, I’ll defer to your good judgment.”

Sulu’s voice breaks out over the comms system. “Senior officers to the bridge.” Jim literally leaps at it, seizing his tray and depositing it back in the slot almost before Spock and Uhura start to move. If Sulu’s calling them, that means there’s a problem to tackle. Jim doesn’t care if it’s Romulans, Klingons, or giant spacefaring amoeba. Anything would be easier than staying at that table.

***

It’s not Romulans, or Klingons, or giant spacefaring amoeba. It’s a report from Starfleet about a planet in the vicinity, where a group of researchers went undercover to study the local population, to determine readiness for first contact. Apparently, the team has missed four check-ins and is presumed injured, captured, or dead. Enterprise’s mission is to locate them and get them out if they’re alive. If they’re not, they have to make sure the bodies are removed, along with any other technology the researchers brought with them. They can’t afford cultural contamination.

It’s all very clinical in the report.

“You’d think a species on the verge of interstellar travel would know about something like pockets,” Jim gripes in the transporter room. The security officer with him, Lieutenant Elena, hides their smile as he fights with the phaser belt, trying to secure it underneath his tunic. They have a costuming department on Enterprise – a lot of starships do, for situations like this, staffed with specialized anthropologists and tailors – and Jim doesn’t know why they can’t just put pockets in their clothes, cultural accuracy be damned.

“A bold assessment, considering the Starfleet uniform has done away with pockets as well.”

Jim turns to snark back at Spock and stops cold. Now, that’s just not fair. Where Jim and Elena are in tunics and shoulder-wraps, Spock has been kitted out in what looks like an honest to God leather jacket, the shirt underneath made up of elaborate folds and tucked into high-waisted slacks. The collar is a low enough vee that Jim can actually see Spock’s chest hair. He whistles in spite of himself. “Commander Atox in Costuming clearly has a favorite senior officer.”

Spock doesn’t need to say it for Jim to know he’s thinking that’s illogical. Instead, he says, “It would be impractical for us all to wear the precise same outfit. Commander Atox has taken that into account, and provided accordingly.” His own phaser is already attached to his hip, half-hidden under the jacket, and he wraps a strip of fabric around his forehead, hiding his eyebrows and ears. The Mes’ih are humanoid; most of the differences are beneath the skin, and everything else beneath the clothes, so they won’t look out of place.

“We should go,” Jim says, forcing his gaze away when he realizes he’s been staring too long. “Before Bones barges in and insists we take a medical officer too.” Extraction is the priority. If the researchers need medical attention, that’s a problem for sickbay, not a field medic.

He isn’t the only one checking Spock out, Jim realizes as they step onto the transporter platform. Elena and the transporter chief keep shooting him appraising looks as well. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one distracted by his first officer. “Energize,” Jim commands, and their atoms dissolve into nothingness.

When they rematerialize, the street around them is empty. Spock turns on his tricorder, scanning the surrounding area. “We should be close. Human life signs were detected in this general vicinity.”

“Definitely not a sensor glitch?” Jim asks. The Mes’ih life signs are similar enough to confuse the computer.

“It is not outside the realm of probability,” Spock allows. “I estimate a twenty-three point two-seven percent chance for sensor error.” He fiddles with his tricorder, engrossed in the device. “Confirmation, that way.” He points towards a cluster of spherical buildings at the far end of the street. “If the readings are accurate, that is where we will find the team.”

“Then let’s go,” Jim says. He strides off, shoulders back, letting his footsteps fall into a casual, natural lope. He’s always been good at pretending he belongs places. It’s an invaluable skill on missions like these.

Spock and Elena look less natural, but they follow. Over his shoulder, Jim asks, “So. Leather jacket, Spock?”

“I believe that is an approximation of the material.”

“What’s the Vulcan take on leather?”

“The same as other animal byproducts. This is synthetic. Commander Atox is accommodating in that regard.”

“I wasn’t kidding, you know. I think he likes you.” Jim hates himself, clearly. “Like, more than friendly, if you know what I mean.”

Spock’s gaze falls briefly to Elena, then back to Jim. “Commander Atox is a professional colleague. Your insinuations are unwarranted.”

Jim doesn’t think so. No one puts Spock in an outfit like that without feeling something about it. Besides, he’s seen Commander Atox talking to Spock in the science labs, even though as an anthropologist, he has his own section. Spock’s attractive, and he’s single. Jim wouldn’t blame anyone for being interested.

He doesn’t feel jealous. He doesn’t.

“What if they weren’t?” he asks. “You interested?”

“This is hardly the time.” Spock’s tricorder beeps, and he gestures around the side of the spheres. “There is a concealed entrance, leading to a substructure. I believe that is where the researchers are being held.”

“Carefully,” Jim says, switching back into captain mode. “Phasers on stun.”

Spock places a hand on his arm. “Lieutenant Elena should lead,” he reminds him. “As security officer, that is their job.”

Jim bites back the protest when Elena nods. “Well, far be it from me to keep my crew from doing their jobs.” He gestures ahead of him. “Lieutenant.”

Elena steps out in front, checking and clearing the door Spock indicated. Jim follows them down the steps, Spock at his back. They reach a landing, and that’s when the shooting starts.

***

Jim’s having the best dream. In it, the sun is shining over the Vulcan sands, the towering city of Shi’Kahr looming in the distance. He can hear gongs ringing, and shouted Vulcan phrases that slip from his grasp like water. He’s grabbed from behind, knows instinctively that it’s Spock’s hands, pinning his arms in a crushing grip as he’s tackled to the ground, a wave of sparks alighting from his skin and setting the desert on fire. Spock’s breath is hot against his ear, his body an immovable stone against Jim’s back, and he pants “t’hy’la, t’hy’la, t’hy’la” until that’s the only sound Jim can hear.

***

“Captain.”

Jim groans. His head is too heavy to lift. His arms ache. It would take less time to catalog what doesn’t hurt. He squeezes his eyes tighter, chasing the vestiges of the dream, but it’s already floating away.

A hand grips his shoulder and shakes. The voice returns, more insistent. “ Captain .”

“Five more minutes, Spock,” Jim slurs. Whatever surface he’s on is comfortable, and he wants to go back to sleep.

The hand releases, and when it comes back, it jabs firmly into a pressure point. Jim yelps, his eyes snapping open, his body jerking into a seated position on reflex. “ f*ck. ”

“My apologies,” Spock says, like the bastard he is. His arms fold behind his back. “Once I ascertained it would not be harmful, it seemed necessary to wake you.”

“You’re teaching me that later, so I can use it against you.” Jim rubs the still-stinging point, fighting to put his thoughts in order. The away mission. The firefight. “Where are we? Where’s Elena?”

“Dead.” Spock’s mouth is a thin line, and Jim’s stomach drops. “As, I believe, are the rest of the research team.” He’s lost the headband, Vulcan features on full display. Otherwise, he looks mostly okay, if a little scuffed up. Jim takes stock of his own clothes. Ripped to pieces, hanging half off him, with burn marks where he was shot by energy weapons. Torn at the knees from when he fell. A lot of pain, but no more serious injuries.

“A trap?” he asks.

“It seems likely.” Spock takes a step back, and Jim sees properly that they’re in a cell. He’s sitting on a thin bedroll, resting atop a slab built into the wall. There are bars on the door.

“By the natives?”

“Negative.” Spock glances towards the door. “The weapons were not consistent with those of this planet. They were much more advanced.”

Their own weapons are gone. Of course they are. Jim doesn’t even have an empty phaser belt to show for it. Spock’s tricorder is absent as well. “Any guesses who they belong to?”

“Several, although I can only speculate.”

“Please, speculate.”

“Klingons rarely take prisoners. Our assailants were able to not only replicate human life signs, but also mask their own. In the dark, they were able to best me in hand-to-hand combat, rendering me unconscious with a technique similar to the to’tsu’k’hy, although cruder. Therefore, the most probable conclusion is-“

“Romulans,” Jim finishes. He pushes himself to a stand, running his hand along the stone walls. They’re curved and smooth, likely the same sphere-structure they entered, or at least a very similar one. “Any idea what they want?”

“We are high-ranking officers of a body the Romulans consider themselves at war with. Additionally, we had a direct hand in defeating Nero. It seems reasonable to conclude, as we are not dead yet, that what they want is us.”

“But for what? Romulans aren’t big on ransom.”

Spock hesitates. “I do not know,” he admits. “Captain, I accept full blame for this scenario. It was my responsibility to ensure the signal we received-“

“We’re not playing that game now.” Jim tugs experimentally on one of the bars on the door. “Put whatever you want in your report, but when we get home, I plan on saying that my first officer warned me there was a chance the signal was inaccurate, and followed mission protocol to the letter.”

Spock relaxes. “Very well.”

“In the meantime, if you have escape ideas, I’m all ears.”

“That will not be necessary, Captain Kirk.” From the hallways outside the door, the voice echoes a little, giving it a theatrical quality Jim would appreciate, if he weren’t being held prisoner by it. “Stand back from the door, and you won’t be harmed.”

Jim takes a step back, and Spock takes one forward, so they’re side-by-side. Jim’s fought Spock on the mat enough times to see that he's braced for combat. Unfortunately, the voice seems to be able to tell too. “Captain, Commander Spock, I must advise you against attack. Even if you made it past me, my guards would stop you well before you made it out, and you’d still have no way to contact your ship.” The lock clicks, and the door swings open, and yeah, that’s a Romulan, decked out in purple and grey shoulder pads like some kind of fashion statement. Jim likes it more than Nero’s tattoos, at least. The Romulan spreads his hands, the gesture almost welcoming. “Your cooperation is appreciated. Please, follow me.”

Jim and Spock exchange glances. They follow him.

In the hallway, they’re met with the aforementioned guards, a team of five armed with phaser weapons Jim doesn’t recognize. Overkill, maybe, but Jim’s seen Spock fight. Between the two of them, five unarmed combatants, even with Romulan strength, aren’t impossible odds. Armed, though…best to follow the leader.

He strolls ahead of them, apparently without concern that his back is to the enemy, leading them down the sloped, spiraling hall. There are doors every couple of meters, all closed. Some have bars on the windows, some don’t, but Jim can’t see or hear anyone in them. No allies, then.

“Just the six of you, then?” he asks conversationally, as if this were a diplomatic dinner and he was arranging place settings. “How many Romulans does it take to infiltrate a planet?”

The head Romulan chuckles. “You’ve very astute, Captain. I appreciate your gall. Unfortunately, you have the wrong idea. We’re not here for the planet. That was just a means to an end, a convenient place to summon the Enterprise . We are, as your Mr. Spock surmised, here for you.”

He doesn’t give a headcount, so he’s not stupid. But with that goal, it’s not unreasonable to think that six is all they have. Maybe a couple more guarding the perimeter, or wherever their phasers and communicators are, assuming they haven’t been destroyed. Jim glances at Spock, who inclines his head slightly. He’s reached the same conclusion.

He wants to whisper to Spock, to ask him to calculate the odds. It’s always reassuring, even when the number is low. As long as it’s not zero, there’s a chance. Instead, he addresses the Romulan again. “I’m afraid we’re at something of a disadvantage, Mr…?”

“Commander Lirrok, Captain. A pleasure to meet you.”

One of the Romulans behind them snorts. Not a fan of Jim, or unamused with his commander’s eccentricity? “Commander Lirrok, can I assume you want us for something specific? It’s just, I hate surprises.”

“No surprises,” Lirrok says. He stops at one of the doors, opening it and gesturing them in. “No tricks, no games. Won’t you sit down?”

The room is sparse, furnished with a table and three chairs. Jim glances at Spock, who takes a seat in one. Jim turns his around, straddles it backwards. Lirrok signals to his guards, and they flank the door. Lirrok closes it behind him.

He sits opposite them, smiling widely. Nero had been all snarls, but either way, so much emotion on a Vulcanoid face, not even couched in the subtlety that Jim enjoys reading on Spock, feels uncomfortable and strange. It reminds him of Spock’s feral rage.

“What I want from you gentlemen is simple,” Lirrok says. “And really, it’s not a matter of what I want, but what the Romulan Star Empire has commanded me to obtain, at any cost. I am a soldier, like you. Like you, I am simply doing my job.”

“We are not soldiers,” Spock says. “The Federation is not a military force.”

“Hmm, explorers, I know.” Lirrok sounds amused. “Tell me, Commander Spock, what is the difference between a soldier and an explorer with a gun? Very little, in my experience. We at least are honest about it.”

“Well, you took our guns,” Jim says. “You’re the ones with the phasers here, so let’s not debate politics and cut to the chase. You’ve been authorized to get something. Information, I’m guessing. What is it? Security codes? Because we’ve been in these seats before, Lirrok. We’re not giving you anything.”

“No?” Lirrok tisks. The condescension itches under Jim’s skin. Unless that’s the phaser burn. “That’s disappointing, Captain. I’d honestly prefer to do this like civilized beings. Between ourselves, I’m not one who enjoys our military’s tactics. I respect strategy, oh yes, but there’s something so messy about interrogation. Leaves an unfortunate stain on one’s clothes.”

This guy is nuts. Jim’s convinced. “If this is about Nero-“

Lirrok waves a hand. “Nero was a fanatic from a supposed future, nothing more. We do not recognize him, or the ship the Federation, your Enterprise , destroyed. As far as we are concerned, he’s not one of ours. No, our interest in you is a little bit different.”

“What, then?” Spock asks. Jim recognizes the compartmentalization; there is absolutely no emotion in Spock’s tone. “What could we have that the Romulan Empire would consider of value? You did not take our ship. You have not yet taken our lives. Therefore, logic suggests-“

“Oh, please do not lecture me on your Vulcan logic. We may share ancestry, Mr. Spock, but we hardly ascribe to your ways. Such passion in a people is useless when repressed.” Lirrok shakes his head. “To it, then, I suppose. My offer is simple: I ask you a few questions, you provide me with the answers, I make your death swift and painless. The mercy of the Romulan Empire.”

“No deal,” Jim says.

“You don’t know what the questions are.”

“Unless it’s recipes you’re after, I’m going to assume anything you want to know is something I’d rather not say.”

“That is your choice, but I’m afraid I must insist.” He signals towards the door. Someone must be watching, because it opens, and one guard steps in. The bundle of wires he’s holding glints, menacing. The guard crosses the room in long strides, reaching for Jim. Spock half-rises from his chair, arm outstretched to block, and Lirrok tisks again. There’s another guard at the still-open door, Jim realizes. He has a phaser trained on Spock.

“Stand down,” Jim murmurs.

“Captain, logic dictates they will not shoot me.”

“Logic may not dictate it, but if I grow tired of you, I will order you shot, Mr. Spock,” Lirrok says. “Please, do not test my resolve.”

Under the table, Jim brushes his fingers against Spock’s hand, praying that he’s got it right, that this works. As clearly as he can, he projects his thoughts, screaming them in the hopes it at least cracks Spock’s shields. Like an echo, he feels them falter. He pushes through patience, and certainty. The Enterprise will be tracking them. If they just wait it out a little longer, they can come up with a plan.

Slowly, Spock sits back down. He tugs his hand away from Jim’s, breaking the connection. Lirrok flicks two fingers lazily, and Jim gets strapped into the helmet of doom. It’s a lot of wires and blinking lights, poking into his scalp. It almost tickles. “So, I get the fun hat,” he says. “What does Spock get?”

“The questions, Captain.”

For a second, there’s nothing. Then pain lances through Jim’s skull, digging in like needles everywhere the wire-tips touch. It eviscerates, carving lightning arcs through him, electricity he can feel in every nerve-ending in his body. He hears the scream before he feels it, scratching raw up the inside of his throat.

It stops, and he slumps, panting. The aftermath tingles, but it’s no longer a tickling sensation. It’s ominous.

Spock’s face is expressionless, except for the eyes. The eyes, Jim thinks, are a little too wide.

“That is the lowest setting, Commander,” Lirrok says. “When you fail to give an answer, your captain will suffer. Continue to resist, and I will order the setting increased. Most human minds break before the third. I suspect, at most, your captain will survive to the fifth, but the state it will leave him in, I do not relish.”

“You are attempting to evoke an emotional response,” Spock says flatly. “It will not succeed.”

“The first question, Commander. The black hole device Nero utilized. What became of it?”

“It was destroyed.”

“Are you certain?” Lirrok raises his eyebrows and lifts a finger.

“I performed the act myself.”

“Hmm.” He lowers his hand. Jim keeps his sigh of relief to himself. “Second question, Commander. How did the device function?”

Spock remains silent. Lirrok nods, understanding. Bracing himself for it makes the pain worse. Jim clenches his jaw against it, and only succeeds in nearly cracking his teeth. He screams anyway.

“How did the device function, Commander Spock?”

“If I knew, I would not tell you.”

Again, and Jim topples backwards out of his chair, hitting the ground so hard his head cracks against it. It doesn’t dislodge the device, only makes the points dig in. Blood trickles into his hairline.

The guard hauls Jim up, slamming him down on the table between Lirrok and Spock. Neither flinches. “You know,” Lirrok says. “We have it on good authority that you designed the device.”

“Your authority is incorrect.”

“Setting two.” It’s worse. It’s so much worse, not just needling but splitting. It’s the opposite of a mind-meld, trickling into the cracks of his brain and tearing them apart. He thinks, hysterically, that Bones is going to need to prescribe him medical grade cough drops. His throat has to be shredding itself.

“The device, Mr. Spock. Your design?”

“It came from the future. No one living knows the design.”

Another jolt. Jim keeps expecting his brain to go numb, but it’s like a different set of nerves get fried each time. He pants, thrashing against the table, but the Romulan guard’s grip on him is too strong. His muscles are kittenish, he’s covered in phaser burns, and he still has bruises from fighting Spock. He can’t win this one.

“How strange it must be, to be so cold that your captain’s pain means nothing to you. You know the design. Nero was insistent that you were the one to design it.”

“Then logic dictates that the design is something I will know, not something I know now.”

Jim needs to have a talk with Spock about sass. To say he screams is redundant; his brain is on fire, spreading, licking its way down his skin.

“Does the Federation have records of the device? Schematics, information that can be used to reconstruct it?”

“Your attempt to continue this path is illogical. I have already said-“

“Setting three, then.”

Jim howls, clawing at his skin until the guard restrains him. There is no worse pain than this. He has never felt anything before. He will never feel anything again.

A chair scrapes, sharp on the floor.

“An emotional response, Mr. Spock?” Lirrok asks. Spock is standing, a hand planted on the table by Jim’s head. Jim turns into it; he can feel the back of it against his cheek. He closes his eyes. It’s nice to touch Spock. A balm amidst the pain. His hands are soft.

He can practically hear Lirrok’s scowl. “Need I remind you that my guards-“

“If you shoot me, I cannot answer your questions.”

“As you are not answering them now, I hardly see the difference.”

Spock sounds so calm. It’s good that he sounds calm, a veneer of ice. He’s a good first officer. He’ll be a good captain. He’ll find a way out of this, and he’ll take care of the Enterprise . He’ll be better than Jim, better even than James T. Kirk, paragon and hero. He’ll be Spock, and there’s nothing that Jim would rather him be.

“Once again, Mr. Spock. Records of the black hole device.”

“There are none.”

Jim’s eyes snap open, back arching off the table, hoarse and raw, more lighting than man for nearly a second, and then it’s gone. It’s shorter than the other bursts. Through hazy eyes, Jim sees Spock’s jaw twitch, the tiniest crack in his façade. His eyes are black holes.

“Commander, I don’t think your captain can survive much more. It is procedure to download records. They therefore must be stored somewhere. Your logic at work. Where are the records, Mr. Spock?”

Spock’s jaw stays locked. His expression is empty, but his eyes are all fire.

“Setting four, then.”

Jim feels…nothing. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Lirrok frowns. He looks somewhere beyond them, searching for the interruption, and Spock lashes out, smashing his fist into the nose of the guard holding Jim down. He grabs the phaser first, then Lirrok, shoving both their bodies between Jim and the door. “I’ll kill him,” Spock says.

Jim can’t move. He tries, but twitching so much as a finger hurts. Spock’s voice is dispassionate on the surface, but underneath Jim can hear a snarl repressed. “Allow us to leave, or your commander dies.”

There’s a second of deliberation. In the tiny part of Jim’s brain still working, he’d bet anything the grunts are trying to decide if their commander is worth it. One starts to go for his phaser, and Spock shoots. No hesitation, no mercy. The Romulan drops, and hell breaks loose again. Spock shoves Lirrok, who stumbles, tripping the two Romulans attempting to shove through the doorway. It allows Spock to shoot again, first at the one he punched, ceasing his efforts to rise and retaliate, then at the two beyond Lirrok. They both go down. Spock hauls Jim over his shoulder, blocking the rest from view, but he hears another two phaser blasts, and then Spock says, “Where are our communicators?”

“You won’t make it out of the compound without-“ Lirrok’s voice cuts off abruptly. Spock strides forward, and through closing eyes – he’s tired, so tired, he thinks he could sleep forever – Jim sees Lirrok’s crumpled body, a shot clean through his chest and out his back. The highest phaser setting. Spock starts running, and even though his arm is steady, strong around Jim’s waist, he feels himself falling anyway, falling into darkness, swallowed by the black.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

***

The hum of sickbay is familiar when Jim resurfaces. He’s clear enough to recognize that. His body is numb, his brain sore, like a thousand tiny needles have been picking through his skull. He tries to raise a hand, to brush his matted hair out of his face, but he can’t move his arm more than an inch.

“He’s waking, Doctor.”

A hypospray depresses. Some of the numbness fades, and a familiar Georgian accent drawls, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Jim manages to get his eyes open on the second try. Bones is standing over him, and over his shoulder Jim can see Spock, his hands clasped behind his back, watching like a hawk, still in the same clothes from the planet. Jim tries for a smile, then winces when his face rejects it. He opens his mouth, and Bones immediately shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t recommend talking just yet. Your vocal cords were pretty fried. Give it a couple minutes.”

He needs water. He can’t even rasp the word. Spock approaches, and bless him, he has a cup. He sits on the edge of Jim’s bed, lifting him up with one strong, careful hand. When Jim tries to take the cup, his hands are shaking so badly that Spock takes it back before it spills, raising it to Jim’s lips for him.

Bones snorts. “We have nurses for that sort of thing, Mr. Spock.”

Jim flinches, and gets a face full of water for the effort. Spock doesn’t say anything, just reaches for a towel and dabs him dry. Bones sighs. “What do I know, I’m only a doctor. Get him to drink a little more water, and if his vitals start spiking, give me a holler.” He pauses, and then says, “You gave us a hell of a scare, Jim, but you’ll be alright.”

It’s only by virtue of knowing Bones so well that Jim can hear what he’s not saying, the tremor beneath the words. He’s shaken, badly. Jim must look like hell.

He drinks the second cup Spock gets him, wiggling his fingers and, when he feels up for it, reaching up to touch the hollow of his throat. Spock eases him back against the pillows, but does not stand.

Jim wets his lips, and croaks out, “Report?”

Each sentence comes out short, more empty than concise. “You have been unconscious for twelve hours. We are no longer in orbit. After neutralizing the guards, I was able to find our communicators and contact the Enterprise. All potential contaminants have been removed from the planet.” A hint of feeling bleeds back into Spock’s voice, strained but amused. “Doctor McCoy recommends two days of bedrest, which, given your record, I believe you will ignore.”

He might only ignore one of them. The amount of pain he’s still in, twenty-four hours of sleep sounds like a good deal. “You saved my life.” There must be something in the water. Talking doesn’t hurt quite as much with each consecutive word.

The humor drops. Spock looks stricken. He rises, turns his back, but Jim can see his knuckles, white and clenching. “You were tortured in order to elicit a response from me. I would not classify that as ‘saving your life.’”

“I’ve been tortured before. I’ll probably be tortured again.” He doesn’t like it, but that doesn’t make it false. “You’re not to blame.”

“I allowed us to walk into a trap, and then allowed us to be caught in it.”

“Bullsh*t.” Jim struggles up on his forearms. Spock twitches, obviously hearing him, but still doesn’t turn to look. “You fought off six Romulans single-handedly. You saved my life.”

“I should have taken action before your life was in jeopardy.”

“And done what? You waited until you had an advantage. That’s logic, Spock.”

Spock pauses. He straightens. He says, “He was…incorrect. Commander Lirrok.”

Jim frowns. “What?”

From this angle, he can see the corner of Spock’s jaw clench. Spock hangs his head. “I was not unaffected. I allowed myself to seem as such, but your pain-“

“You took it, didn’t you? Those last couple shocks.” They were touching. Jim remembers that. He doesn’t know what else Spock might have felt from him, but he’s certain he took on Jim’s pain.

Spock’s voice is a far cry from the flat one in the interrogation room. It’s subtle, but it’s colored with feeling. “You seemed unlikely to withstand any more. It was a logical solution, but it was also an emotional one.”

Jim wants to kiss him. He can’t, so he settles for asking, “Chocolate gets you drunk, true or false?”

Spock whirls, his expression comical. Still gorgeous in a beaten leather jacket, his face smeared with grime, the bewilderment at Jim’s question is funny enough to make Jim laugh, which turns into a hacking cough. Spock immediately shifts back into hovering mode, but Jim waves him off, and he stands down.

“I want to get you a present,” Jim says by way of explanation, when talking doesn’t hurt again. “A thank you, for saving my life. If it were Bones or Scotty or Sulu, that’d be alcohol, but I’m pretty sure you don’t drink. Our stuff doesn’t even affect you.” Vulcan metabolisms are too high. The joys of learning. Jim shifts a little higher on his arms. “Now, I could get you something stronger. Romulan Ale seems a little too ironic, but there’s some Klingon stuff that’s pretty good. But I’m guessing that’d be missing the point, because somehow, I can’t see you getting drunk willingly even if alcohol did do it for you.”

Spock still looks perplexed. Slowly, he agrees, “That is an accurate assessment of my character.” He reaches out, adjusting Jim’s biobed so he doesn’t have to prop himself up. Jim slumps appreciatively. His arms were starting to ache again. “I find I still do not understand,” Spock says.

“Well, you like dessert, right?” The surprise resurfaces, but Jim shrugs. “I noticed. So, I thought, ‘hey, dark chocolate.’ Not too sweet, but hits a lot of the stuff I know you like, especially if I get one with orange in it or something. But I heard a rumor that chocolate is a Vulcan intoxicant, and I can’t find anything that confirms or denies it. So, I figured I’d ask.”

The expression on Spock’s face has probably never graced Bones’s sickbay before. Certainly not from Spock, not in Jim’s memory. Even exploring the mysteries of space, he’s never seen Spock look so baffled. There also might be some affection there, unless that’s wishful thinking. “Jim,” Spock says, so very softly, with so much pain still in the words, “I do not require thanks. I saved you because you are my captain and my friend and because it was the right thing to do. You would do the same for me, or any number of your crew.”

He wouldn’t, Jim thinks. He’d like to, but even though there’s a lot he would do for his crew, he can’t fathom taking on their pain the way Spock took on his, the gesture so intimate Jim’s throat thickens just thinking about it. He swallows around the lump, forcing a smile. “Sure I would. But I want to thank you anyway.” He can do this for Spock. This is something he does for his friends.

Spock keeps looking at him, and it’s intense, but Jim can’t break away. He was never good at backing down. Even when he ought to. At length, Spock says, “I should make my formal report.”

The lack of an answer is disappointing. Jim tries to turn it into a joke. “And desert my bedside?”

“Doctor McCoy has already complained of my presence multiple times. However, I could not leave knowing your state was still uncertain.”

It’s an emotionalism, plain and simple. It’s one Jim has been on the other side of a few times. Some days, Bones can drag him away. He doubts Spock is ever so moveable. “If Bones says I’ll be okay, he’s probably right. He’s pessimistic enough that any positive diagnosis is probably a good sign. Anyway, you should change.” He tugs on the end of Spock’s sleeve. “The leather’s a good look, but I prefer my science officer in blue.”

It’s not flirting. At least, not really. Spock doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown either. He inclines his head. “I will take that information under advisem*nt.” He takes a step towards the door, and then pauses. “It is an acceptable gift, Captain.”

“What?”

“Chocolate,” Spock says. “I appreciate the consideration.”

“Oh.” Jim’s heart flutters. It makes his chest ache. “Great. Next starbase, then. I’ll get you some.”

“I am glad you are alright, Jim.”

He leaves, and Jim stares after him. It’s not pathetic at all. Bones comes back, mouth pinched tight as he pokes at Jim’s vital readings. “Heartrate’s up,” he says dryly. “Wonder what caused that.”

“Is he okay?”

“Physically? He’s fine. A minor phaser wound, some serious bruising around the knuckles. For a pacifist, he can be quite the brawler when he wants to be.”

Jim seems to bring that out in him. It’s less upsetting than it probably should be. “And mentally?”

“I took some scans. He had some of the same damage you did, but his brain bounces back a lot quicker. Something to do with Vulcan healing, but I try to keep that out of my work. Suffice to say, I was more worried about him turning into a tripping hazard, hovering around here. You’ve got one dedicated first officer, you know that, right?” The words are dripping with meaning. Jim ignores them.

He tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed, only to be pushed back down. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“My quarters.”

“I don’t think so. Medical observation, another twenty-four hours. If you’re good, then I’ll release you, but you’re staying off duty. Spock can handle the ship for a couple days.”

Spock’s a great first officer, and a good captain. The Enterprise is in good hands. It’s that thought alone that has Jim relaxing against the biobed, giving in to Bones’s mothering. For now, at least.

He calls Uhura in for their language lessons when her shift gets off. He’s got a hankering to learn the Vulcan words for emotions.

***

It takes Jim about a month to address his first officer suddenly treating him like glass. Spock cancelling their sparring matches the first two weeks might have been a coincidence – lots of paperwork, in light of Romulan kidnap and torture, and they can be busy at the best of times – but when Jim insists they get on the mat the third week, it’s back to kheile’a, and even then, Spock barely touches him. He doesn’t comment on the change in Jim’s wardrobe, either. The gym is pretty cold, so Jim doesn’t think it’s a problem to wear his standard black uniform undershirt instead of the exercise tank top. He’s being considerate to his telepathic sparring partner.

Spock doesn’t comment on much of anything at all. He’s quieter during their Kadis-kot games, but it can’t be to hone his strategies. Jim thrashes him twice in a row, and nearly calls Bones in a panic before he realizes that this probably isn’t Spock’s medical thing, but Jim’s. He’s fully recovered, but still. Spock’s confrontational, and these days, he can barely look Jim in the eye.

So, on the fourth week, Jim throws the chocolate bar he picked up at Starbase 12 down onto the bleachers next to where Spock is stretching and says, “We need to talk.”

Spock pauses, releasing the stretch and setting himself into parade rest. “Of course.”

“Do we have a problem?”

Spock frowns. “Not that I am aware of.”

“Have I done anything to make you think I’m unfit for duty?”

The fact that Spock doesn’t even joke about any one of Jim’s illogical, human impulses is another point in favor of something being wrong. “Of course not.”

“Then I must have done something to offend you personally.”

“Captain-“ Spock’s eyes go wide.

Jim cuts him off. “It has to be that, because the only other reason I can think for you to be acting like this is that you’re still upset about what happened on the Mes’ih mission, and where’s the logic in that?”

“My behavior has not-“

“Vulcans don’t lie.” They do, they can, but that always gets thrown around as if it were fact, and Jim can’t take this anymore. “You’ve barely said two words to me off the bridge in the past month, you eat with me like it’s a chore, and play games like you’re bored. Am I boring you, Spock?”

“No.”

“And then we come in here, and I think we’re going to work out, actually get to do some sparring, because god knows I need the exercise, and you had that whole speech about never getting to fight with a partner willing to touch you, and I even changed my outfit to stop some of the psychic bleed, because I know it’s got to be exhausting, protecting yourself from us emotional humans all the time, and all of a sudden, you’re going through the motions like you think you’re going to break me.”

“I-“

“I just-“ Jim cuts himself off. He drops onto the bleachers beside where Spock is standing, dropping his head into his hands. “I can’t do this, okay? I get it, what happened was f*cked up and terrible, and I’m sorry I got hurt and I’m sorry you got hurt, but this blaming yourself has got to stop. You’re a good first officer, but I really need my friend.”

Silence stretches. Then, Spock sits down next to him. He picks up the chocolate and turns it over in his hands. “I apologize,” he says. His voice is so quiet, Jim has to strain to hear him. “I did not realize you changed your workout apparel for my benefit.”

“Yeah, well,” Jim stares at his hands, gripping his knees like a lifeline. “I wanted to make things easier for you. It’s not a big deal.”

“I have been…struggling with definitions. Myself as your first officer, and myself as your friend. I did not realize how severe my difficulties were until our mission.”

Jim’s chest goes cold. “Oh?”

“My duty as first officer, and as an officer of Starfleet, required that I not give Lirrok the information he asked for. Nor do I think you would have wanted me to. I had the information. The files may be classified, but I have reviewed what Starfleet has retained of the black hole device. I could have recreated that information from memory, given the time.” Spock looks up at him. “When I heard the pain in your voice, I wished for nothing more than to help my friend.”

“Do you think we should stop?” The words hurt, worse than any of Jim’s screams on the planet’s surface.

“I do not wish to.”

“But?”

“If my judgment is compromised-“

“Caring about people isn’t easy.” Jim knows that only too well. “A lot of the time, it hurts. And sometimes, in Starfleet, it means letting them get hurt, even when every inch of you is screaming out to stop it. You did your job.”

“What if, next time, I do not?”

Jim doesn’t think that’ll happen. Spock means the world to him, and Jim still knows, with gut-wrenching certainty, that the Enterprise, the Federation, will almost always come first. Spock has to think the same.

“It’s your call,” he says. He doesn’t say the ultimatum. If Spock goes back to being just his first officer, Jim doesn’t think they can last. He’d keep the ship – Spock would insist – and Spock would leave and Jim would hate himself for the rest of his days. The words “life defining” don’t have to be a good thing.

Spock is silent so long, Jim’s heart plummets. “Okay,” he says, and stands to go.

“This is blood orange?”

Jim looks back at him. Spock is still fingering the package. “Uh, yeah. It’s a little less sweet, a little more tart. Bitter.” It pairs well with the dark chocolate. It’s a very Vulcan desert, for something human-made.

The foil crinkles under Spock’s hands, but he doesn’t open it. Instead, he sets it aside and stands. “There is one more kheile’a form I would like to teach you, and then we can resume our training in ke-tarya.”

Jim groans theatrically, smothering the rush of warmth smoldering into the pit of his stomach. “More kheile’a? Really?”

“You will enjoy this.” Spock gives him a faint smile. “I believe it is high time I taught you the to’tsu’k’hy.”

Jim’s mouth falls open. “I thought you said- I mean, I’m psi-null.”

“You do not require telepathic abilities to perform the to’tsu’k’hy. It merely makes it easier to administer, and therefore less prone to injuring your opponents in practice or misapplying it in combat. You have shown great mastery of the kheile’a forms in a short time. I believe you satisfactorily advanced.”

Giddiness overlays the soft warmth in Jim’s stomach. Spock’s going to teach him the Vulcan nerve pinch. This is awesome. “What happens when I knock you out, though? Kind of puts a damper on the rest of practice.”

Spock’s grin is tiny but extremely smug. “You will not incapacitate me. Let us begin.”

Then he gets right up in Jim’s personal space, his hand warm and solid against his shoulder, fingers digging into the juncture of Jim’s pulse. It jumps under the touch. Oh, right. That. Spock’s voice rumbles in Jim’s ear. “Look at the positioning of my fingers. They correspond with pressure points associated with energy flow from brain to body.”

It was a good call to ditch the tank top. Jim might have to ditch the pants, too – oh, bad phrasing, very bad – especially when he turns his head carefully, his lips close enough to Spock’s hand that if he tilted forward half an inch, he could kiss it. He holds his breath. Spock does no such thing, walking Jim through the physicality of the to’tsu’k’hy, and why it functions the way it does. Each word whispers through Jim’s hair, hot on his neck.

When he turns around and does it to Spock, that’s almost worse, Spock humming in approval when Jim makes micro-adjustments to the position of his fingers. “Apply pressure,” Spock instructs, “Lightly. I need to ensure placement is correct.”

Jim obeys, and the shiver that rolls through Spock’s body is so dangerous, Jim snatches his hand away. Spock closes his eyes, then straightens, raising his eyebrows at Jim. “Very good. I would recommend you only attempt it as a last resort. It is a difficult move to achieve results, particularly with unfamiliar species. However, you appear to have it in principle.”

“Great,” Jim says. He wants to bolt for the showers; he’s sweating more than he ever has grappling with Spock before. Uhura slipped a word into his last lesson, one of the emotion ones, as if she thought he wouldn’t notice. Jim’s feeling risa-guv-aitlun, alright. He is a terrible friend.

He clears his throat. “Ke-tarya now?”

“If that is your wish.”

Spock wipes the mat with him. It’s reassuringly familiar. They make their way back to quarters together, afterwards, and Jim’s an idiot, so he says, “We’re still friends, right?”

“I believe we demonstrated that tonight. Nyota did say your friendships are expressed through physical violence.”

It’s a smart-ass answer, and Jim laughs. Because his mouth hates him, and he’s keyed up and he really needs that shower and he needs Spock not to hate him too, he says, “I also express friendship by being an awesome wingman. If there’s one thing to take away from that mission, it’s gotta be that Commander Atox is totally into you. I could totally hook you up.”

The look Spock gives him is confounding. “I am not interested in Commander Atox. That information is neither relevant, nor interesting. It is not my takeaway from the Mes’ih mission.”

“Oh.”

“My takeaway is that you are my friend, Jim. And that there is much I would endure to maintain that truth.”

Oh. It’s too much, too serious. Jim swallows. “Same here, Spock. Same here.”

He takes that shower. He takes it cold. He can endure too. A crush is nothing. Spock is his friend, and Jim would do anything to keep making that a reality.

***

“Hah! Yes!” Jim crows, punching the air. “Take that, Mr. Spock!” The Vulcan has gotten into a habit of hovering over his chair lately, a hand placed on the back of it for reasons Jim can’t begin to fathom. He can’t say he’s complaining, but Spock isn’t standing there at the moment, which means Jim has to actually turn to look at him.

The entire bridge crew is staring at him. From the science station, Spock raises an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

They’re in the middle of nowhere space, and Jim’s paperwork for the day was finished hours ago. He leaps from his chair, grinning like an idiot, and smacks his PADD on the railing between him and the science station. “Checkmate!”

“I was not aware we were playing a game.”

From the communications console, Uhura stifles a snort.

Jim leans against the railing, shoving the PADD forward until Spock swivels to take it. “We weren’t. That’s your computer chess program, 3-D variety, intermediate level. And just to be sure, that’s not actually my first checkmate, it’s my seventh. You can review it in the logs.”

“That will not be necessary.” Spock’s lips quirk up into his ghost smile. Jim loves that smile, loves the easy affection it lights in his chest. “I assume your enthusiasm is related to our agreement involving the game?”

“You’re on,” Jim says by way of answer. “My quarters, tomorrow night, after beta shift. Get ready, because I’m going to kick your ass.”

“Keep dreaming,” Uhura stage-whispers. Chekov and Sulu hide their laughter in the helm.

“I accept your challenge,” Spock says, but there’s no hiding his own smug expression, even with layers of Vulcan wrapped around it. “I look forward to reviewing your improvement.”

Spock crushes him, but it takes an hour the first time around, and Jim can’t stop grinning the entire time. “You have shown marked increase in skill,” Spock allows, after the first checkmate. “As an opponent, you are adequate.”

“Adequate enough to go again, or are we going back to Kadis-kot?” Jim eggs. He’s high on this feeling, Spock’s focus and the back and forth of pieces across a board.

The second game takes two hours, and Spock’s eyes glitter when Jim puts him in check three separate times.

***

Anniversaries are complicated in space, where no calendars apply. An Earth year is different from a Vulcan year, and a year on T’Khasi was different from the year on T’Khasi T’uzh.

Jim mostly marks the second anniversary because he remembers the first. There had been a ceremony, a few months into their mission, and the Enterprise had attended. He hadn’t given it much thought. It had seemed more for Starfleet than for the Vulcan people, if he was being honest. Vulcans don’t mourn their dead the same way humans do. They simply honor and rebuild. Va’Pak, the Immeasurable Loss, didn’t need to be commemorated. Not when it was all too real for those who survived.

Spock Prime had taught Jim that word, not Uhura. It haunts Jim’s nightmares sometimes, with lightning storms and black holes and everything red, everyone screaming. He tried to say it once, but it sits too heavy on his tongue. He couldn’t get his voice above a whisper.

He marks the second anniversary more carefully than the first. Spock gets tenser as it approaches, more reserved. The week of, he cancels their games and sparring lessons. Jim doesn’t know if he’s taking meals in his quarters, but he doesn’t see him in the mess. He’s disappointed, but he lets it happen. Spock’s grief is quiet, and well-deserved.

Day of, though, he knocks on the door of Spock’s quarters. The bathroom door, not the hallway one. He’s never tried to enter Spock’s room before, but today is meant for privacy. The crew doesn’t need to see this happening.

He’s surprised when the door opens. Spock looks put-together, but tired, dressed in robes Jim has never seen. They’re long and black, with white characters embroidered, like his workout clothes but more elegant. They could be mourning-specific, but Jim’s seen enough of Vulcan culture that he thinks that might be considered wasteful. They’re nice robes, either way.

Spock doesn’t look like he’s been crying. He’s capable of it. He has tear ducts. But crying isn’t very Vulcan, even if what Spock is mourning is the death of his human mother.

Jim clears his throat. From his position in the doorway, he holds out an offering. “You didn’t ask for dispensation, so I went ahead and filed it for you. Just in case you wanted it.”

Jim had assumed, given that he’d signed off on the paperwork allowing Spock to have a small, ritual incense burner, that Spock would ask for this as well. When he hadn’t…

“I know it’s presumptuous,” he says awkwardly, when Spock just stares at him. The bathroom tile is freezing against his bare feet. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I just wanted you to have the option. You’re Jewish, right? She was Jewish?”

It’s a guess, based on some of the things Spock has said. It’s one of the reasons Jim feels twitchy about comments, not just from Bones, but about Vulcans in general. Earth has evolved, but Jim still knows the stereotypes. Green blood and goblins and devil-ears, devil-eyes. Spock isn’t any kind of demon. His heart may be where a human liver would go, but it beats just as human as Jim’s.

Slowly, Spock takes the yahrtzeit candle from Jim’s hand, cradling it in both of his, looking down into it like it holds answers. “Yes,” he says, in answer to the question. “She was not a deeply spiritual woman, but her heritage was important to her. She passed some of it on to me.”

He takes a step back from the door, beckoning Jim in, and Jim crosses the threshold into Spock’s room. It’s dark, lit by a deep red glow, and warm enough Jim feels sweat break out under his shirt. He can see Spock’s ka’athyra sitting on the table next to a stack of PADDs, and the walls are lined with Vulcan tapestries and relics Jim doesn’t know the name of. Beyond, Jim catches a glimpse of the bed, perfectly made, with a meditation mat at the foot. On a shelf, the chocolate bar he gave Spock months ago sits, partially unwrapped. Half-eaten.

Spock crosses to the table, taking the ka’athyra and setting it in a stand on the floor before putting the candle in its place. He looks at Jim, who wordlessly hands him a match. They’re not supposed to have fire on a starship, hence the dispensation paperwork, but the suppression system won’t go off for one candle. Not if they’re careful, and Spock deserves to have this.

As Spock lights it, Jim says, “I brought something else.” He keeps his voice soft. It’s a day for quiet, and anyway, it feels like speaking above a whisper will shatter something. As awful a moment as it is, he wants to live in it with Spock a minute longer. “I know there’s rituals and stuff, but they’re pretty religious, and I wasn’t sure you went in for that kind of thing.” He never had, even when his mother had been making an effort. He continues, “I know this isn’t technically right, but my mom did it a couple times when I was a kid. Not for deaths or anything, but she said it was important. I always liked it. I thought you might appreciate it, that maybe it would remind you of your mom.”

He sets the bundle on the table, next to the candle, followed by a salt shaker and a knife, and then takes a step back, tucking his arms behind his back. He gets why Spock does it. It makes him feel more secure.

Spock’s brow creases, and he lifts the corner of the covering, revealing two small, braided loaves, six strands each. “Challah?”

It’s not chocolate, but as gifts go, Jim put a lot of thought into this one too. More, probably. “My mom wasn’t big on the blessings, and I didn’t really get the significance, but I loved eating the bread. She always got it real, not synthesized. I made it yesterday in ship’s kitchens. I thought we could eat it together.”

It occurs to him too late that Spock might have been fasting, but honestly, he didn’t expect to get this far anyway. Spock replaces the cover. The candle casts flickering light over his face. Jim has no idea what he’s thinking.

“Very well,” Spock says, but not the way he says it when he’s accepting a decision of Jim’s that he thinks is a mistake, with something just short of a sigh. This sounds closer to reverence. “I accept your offer.”

They wash their hands together in the bathroom in silence. There are two sinks, and they pass a cup between them, pouring the water. It’s not quite right, but Jim can blame his mom for being lax on his upbringing. Even with the sinks, he’s never been in the bathroom at the same time as Spock. Their morning and nightly routines don’t sync up, and Spock is private. Jim will invade his space on the bridge, but not here. It makes this moment all the more intimate, more intense.

Spock tears the bread with his hands instead of the knife, which is another novelty, and Jim feels the strangest urge to hold his breath when he takes his piece. Vulcans don’t eat with their hands. Spock does now, passing the salt back and forth with Jim like the water cup. It’s not the longest they’ve been silent together, but it feels bigger, pressing outward from Jim’s chest. Spock licks salt from his fingers, and Jim’s thoughts aren’t even crude. They’re almost holy.

They don’t touch. Spock’s movements aren’t telegraphed to avoid it, less careful than they used to be, so Jim is more careful to compensate. Spock has to be feeling so much grief. He doesn’t need Jim’s sorrow on top of that, even if it’s on Spock’s behalf. He keeps his fingers to himself.

If he could take Spock’s pain, he would. He’d endure Lirrok’s torture a thousand times if it meant seeing his first officer smile. He would drown himself in tears.

The silence stretches even after the bread is gone, the candle still burning on the table. It’ll burn a lot longer, if Spock doesn’t put it out, and Jim gets the sense he doesn’t intend to. Just when Jim thinks he’s overstayed his welcome, that he should really get up and leave, Spock looks at him. His eyes are darker than cocoa in the dim light. So much darker. It’s like looking out into the black, where some people see the void of space and Jim sees all the stars.

“Thank you,” Spock says.

Jim’s throat tightens. “Any time,” he manages.

Back in his own quarters, he braces himself against the back of a chair, inhaling in sharp breaths. He’s shaking, he realizes dimly. He didn’t expect that.

This isn’t a crush, an affection, a weird erotic fixation, or any of the other things Jim’s been calling it in his head. It hasn’t been for a while, but there’s no way Jim can call it that anymore. Not unless he wants to truly be deluding himself.

He wonders if Vulcans can get heartsickness. If maybe that’s Spock’s mystery illness. God knows they feel deep enough for it. If it is, he can’t imagine the depths. In his too-human chest, it already hurts like hell.

***

“Catch.”

Jim does automatically; of all the things Spock has handed him, Jim doesn’t think any of them have been this sharp. “Uh…”

“It is called a lirpa,” Spock tells him, striding across the gym floor not from the direction of the hallway, but from the locker rooms, where equipment is usually stored. He’s carrying one of his own, a short staff topped with a flared, semi-circular blade on one end and a conical counterweight on the other. “Vulcans are taught to wield them from childhood. I thought, given our lessons, it might be appropriate to teach you.”

“Not that I’m not interested, because bring it on, but, uh, aren’t these a little more dangerous than you throwing me around on the mat?” They’ve done a lot of that, ke-tarya and kheile’a, susmanah and a’sum’i. Jim’s hardly an expert in any of them yet, but he likes to mix things up. He likes the contrast between forms, the ones where Spock is fluid and always dancing out of reach before he strikes, and the ones where his grip is iron bands on Jim’s arms, pinning him to the ground.

He really likes Spock pinning him to the ground.

“We will not be using them against each other today,” Spock tells him. “Today, your goal is to get a feel for the weapon. I will lead you through some basic stances. When I feel you are prepared, we will spar with capped versions, to avoid undue injury.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jim says, shifting the lirpa from hand to hand, letting his arms adjust to the weight, “but lirpas are usually ceremonial weapons, aren’t they?” Uhura’s mentioned them in a lesson or two, and he’s seen references to injuries in the medical texts. They usually mention some kind of meditative ritual to go with them, although the details are always vague. Vulcan cultural secrecy, always at its finest.

“Yes and no.” Spock, showoff that he is, twirls the lirpa in his hands, slicing cleanly through the air before setting it to rest at his side. “The lirpa is an ancient weapon, and we continue to use it symbolically in many of our rituals. However, the object itself holds no intrinsic spiritual value. The khy’lan, which I will be teaching you today, were battle exercises in pre-Reform days. Now, it is an artform. One I would teach to you, if you are willing.”

“So willing,” Jim says. “You’ve been stabbing things with this since you were a kid?”

“Not this one specifically,” Spock says. “Nor is stabbing the appropriate motion. However, the spirit of your statement is correct.” Another spin, blade flashing. “As such, I am adept in its usage.”

Hot. So hot. Vulcans aren’t the only ones who can appreciate competence. Jim finds all of Spock’s competences sexy as hell, but Spock being competent with a sharp object in his hand? New levels. Jim’s id may be an idiot with a death wish, but at least it knows what it wants.

He’s tried not to get tense around Spock, now that he can put the real name to his feelings. It’s not Spock’s fault Jim’s in love with him. Anyway, what does it really change? Somehow, Jim doubts the difference between “I want to screw you” and “I want to marry you and have your babies” – figuratively, of course, although he hears bio science is a wonder these days – would make much of a difference in Spock rejecting him.

Spock is his best friend. He’d apologize to Bones, because it’s close, but it’s true. He’ll soak up whatever attention he can get, and Spock gives him plenty. Life-defining friendship. Well played, old man.

“Now, when we say kid,” Jim asks, giving the lirpa a loose swing, testing the feel of it in motion, “are we talking human or Vulcan terms? Like, before or after they drop you in the desert for the whole ‘you’re an adult now’ ritual?” He’s picturing a tiny Spock, with his tiny bowl cut and big baby eyes, swinging a lirpa as tall as he is. The image is adorable.

“If you are referring to my kahs’wan, it is only one test of Vulcan maturity. Survival is not equivalent with adulthood.”

Jim gives the lirpa another swing. He’s not half as graceful as Spock with it – not a quarter, probably not even an eighth – but it feels nice in his hands. The counterweight always swings it back to center. “So?”

Spock sighs, but it’s one of his fond ones. It has to be, because he’s smiling around the eyes. “I received some training with blades prior to my seventh year. It is part of what enabled me to succeed in the kahs’wan ritual; bringing weapons was not allowed, but crafting them was encouraged as a sign of resourcefulness. When I returned upon the tenth day’s conclusion, I was allowed to begin my training with the lirpa, to accompany other rituals I could then participate in.”

“Like bonding.” He doesn’t mean to bring it up. He sets the lirpa against his foot, both fists wrapped around the shaft just beneath the blade. He looks at Spock. “That’s age seven, too, isn’t it?” Glutton for punishment. Jim Kirk, party of one.

“If the kahs’wan is completed, yes.” Spock doesn’t look like he feels any particular way about that. The neutrality looks almost natural. “It is not unusual, nor disgraceful, for the first attempt to be unsuccessful. Many, my father included, expected me to fail.”

Jim finds himself grinning. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

His voice flattens into it, and Jim frowns. Spock’s eyes stay focused on the weapon in his hands. Eventually, he says, “I began the ritual before my scheduled test date. I was having difficulties, and wished to prove myself. I was...unprepared. My sehlat, I-Chaya, accompanied me. She died.”

Jim knows what a sehlat is. Big, kind of terrifying even when domesticated. Somewhere between a saber-toothed tiger and a bear. Truly bizarre as a choice of childhood pet. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

Spock matches his volume. “I experienced grief,” he says. “My father accused my mother of indulging it too long. When I went through Telan t’Kanlar, T’Pring, my intended, complained of the emotional state of my mind. It was agreed that we would have no further contact until the bond would be consummated as adults.”

He really hasn’t seen her since he was seven. Jim had guessed, but the bitterness in Spock’s voice…

“She died on Vulcan, didn’t she?”

“Correct. I find myself…unmoored.” Spock visibly swallows, staring into the reflective blade in his hands. Jim wonders what he’s looking for. “I am rik’tel. It is not inherently shameful; many have found themselves without a bondmate, intended or otherwise, following the loss of our planet. However…” Spock trails off. Jim wants to interrupt him, the struggle so clear in Spock’s face, but he can’t find the words.

“I did not like T’Pring,” Spock says at last. “That was acceptable. She was willing to bond with a partner many considered unsuitable. However, I find myself disturbed by the fact that when I consider her loss, it is not with the regret of a Vulcan life extinguished, but with the selfish thought that, whatever her faults, I am unlikely to find another such as her. Preserving Vulcan blood is considered more precious now than ever. Those few who may have overlooked my human half before will now know it is illogical to do so. I will not find a mate among my people.”

Does it have to be among your people? It’s what Jim wants to ask. Or maybe to tell Spock that it’s not selfish to be afraid to be alone. Or that half-Vulcan blood is better than no Vulcan blood, that if his people were really concerned for their species, a specimen like Spock, a genius at everything he touches, and gorgeous to boot, would make perfect Vulcan babies. But he can’t have a conversation head-on with Spock anymore. He has to dance around it. “You eat human oatmeal.”

Spock’s brow creases. He looks up. “You have made note of my eating habits.”

“We eat together a lot.” He knows plomeek is Spock’s favorite soup and that he has a soft spot for vash g’ralth but won’t eat it from the synthesizer because the human dressings don’t taste right. He knows why and how often Spock orders desert. And Spock…

He asked, the other day, if Bones had put Jim on another diet, because Jim had sat down with aforementioned vash g’ralth on his plate. But it’s not a secret Jim isn’t a fan of salad, even Vulcan ones. It probably doesn’t mean anything.

Spock spearing a leaf off his plate and eating it, lips pursed together in displeasure at the synthetic taste of the vinaigrette, probably doesn’t mean anything either.

“You could eat Vulcan oatmeal,” Jim says, “but you eat the human kind.”

“Tikh has certain nutritional benefits, but the sensation of consuming it is unpleasant,” Spock says diplomatically. He still seems a little confused. More than a little.

“Trust me, I agree,” Jim says. “It’s just…there’s good stuff to being human, too. It’s not all bad, right?”

Spock stares at him.

Jim fights the instinctive hunch to his shoulders. He’s the captain, dammit. “I’m just saying, you have a lot to offer, that’s all. Human and Vulcan.”

Spock keeps staring at him and oh god, Jim went too close to the line, didn’t he? He rethinks the words, frantically searching for the one that went too far, the one that f*cked up everything between them-

But then Spock is saying, “Thank you. You have much to offer as well.”

Relief. A valve in his chest releasing air. He breathes, gives a crooked, mostly-sincere grin. “Thanks, Spock.”

“Shall we begin the khy’lan, now?”

It’s such an obvious out, but Jim seizes it with both hands. “Absolutely.” He hefts the lirpa upwards, sweeping it at Spock. “How do I hold this thing?”

Spock corrects his grip and stance without touching Jim before they begin the exercises. It’s better that way. As they work through the postures, Jim says, “Most humans don’t eat oatmeal plain, you know. You could put fruit in it.”

“Fruit?” It’s barely a question. Spock’s voice is comfortable, familiar, humans are baffling and illogical.

“You’re right,” Jim laughs. “Far be it from me to suggest you be more human.” He means it. Mostly.

They spar a little with the lirpas before Spock asks Jim to try the to’tsu’k’hy again, this time with intent. It takes half a dozen tries before Jim gets even close to rendering Spock unconscious. When he finally gets him to at least collapse to the mat, the feelings of pride as a student and horror as Spock’s captain go through him in quick succession. The sight of Spock sprawled out like that, glassy-eyed and disheveled, takes a little longer to fade away.

In the morning, Spock’s got pla-savas in his human oatmeal, stark indigo against the bowl of beige. Jim steals one. The sweetness bursts across his tongue, but he doesn’t say anything.

***

The medical textbooks are a dead end. Jim always knew they would be. He’s read them cover to cover, translated enough of them to be intimately familiar with diseases of the Vulcan mind, degradation of the Vulcan body. There is no disease that affects one hundred percent of the Vulcan population. Whatever Jim’s been looking for, he’s not going to find it in a book. Which means it might be time to stop looking.

It’s not that he doesn’t care anymore. It’s the opposite of that.

***

“I’m thinking maybe we skip the lesson today,” Jim says, when Uhura cracks open a list of vocab words like ak’spra and korsovaya and katra and ni’var. “I’m really not in a philosophy mood.”

“You’re the one who asked for a rundown of the metaphysical side of things,” Uhura reminds him, but she sits, crossing her legs and turning the PADD off. “You said you wanted a counter to all the science-y stuff.”

“I did. I do.” Jim isn’t just a pretty face. He can jargon with the best of them. And in the face of Vulcans’ hard-on for science and logic and empirical data he really, really wanted to be able to turn around and talk about the nature of existence. Then he read the last chapter of his last textbook, the one about katric sicknesses from kr’alieu rights and the horrible, awful side effects that can come from a dying Vulcan shoving their katra into someone else’s brain. Vulcans believe in the soul. Go figure.

They have to believe in the soul to have soulmates, but Jim is never thinking about that, never.

Anyway, it’s enough to make him squeamish. It’s not a word he’d usually apply to himself, but he keeps getting flashes of not-quite-memory, and every time he thinks about katric transference, he gets nauseous. He’d ask Spock Prime about it, since it’s probably something from the mind-meld, but that would mean asking about the future. He figures he has a limited number of those questions, and he’s not about to waste one on something that’s basically nothing.

“I’m just tired today,” he says.

Uhura’s lips twist into smugness. “I’m sure. Spock giving you a workout?”

He’s her captain, and it’s inappropriate to imply things about him and his XO. Especially salacious things. She should be reprimanded. That’s the logical thing to do. He rubs his forehead. “We weren’t working out last night.”

“ Oh?” she says, the insinuation intensifying.

“We played chess ,” Jim snaps. “Believe it or not, I’m not trying to get written up for workplace harassment by my first officer!”

Silence. Uhura looks gobsmacked, floored by the tone. Jim sighs. “I’m sorry. Didn’t sleep well. I’m a bit tetchy today.”

They’d played chess in Spock's quarters. He’d never offered before, and Jim had accepted instantly, eager to see Spock making the overtures for once, thrilled out of his mind that Spock was letting him in. Then he’d actually gotten to Spock’s quarters and remembered. He loves his first officer, and Spock doesn't know, which makes his presence in Spock’s space the worst kind of invasion. The last time he’d been in there…

Had gone okay, actually. Except for the part where Jim had quietly panicked afterwards. Last night was like any other time they’ve played chess, except Spock had lowered the temperature for Jim and on Spock’s home turf, Jim was acutely aware of his every movement. Spock had placed his hand on the back of Jim’s chair, like he does on the bridge, and Jim had nearly snapped his spine making sure they didn’t touch. He’d slept badly, unable to get the tension out of his body. He’d take up like meditation, like Spock, except Jim has always been too fidgety to sit still for long periods of time.

Also, his brain seems categorically incapable of emptying. Even when he can get everything else to quiet, Spock always surfaces to the forefront. Spock, and their friendship, and the fact that even if Jim represses, even if he can keep everything he feels locked up inside, sooner or later Spock is going to touch him. And Spock is going to know . And Jim is going to lose him forever.

So yeah. Not sleeping well is an understatement these last few days.

When he meets Uhura’s eyes again, her expression has morphed into pity, and it socks Jim in the gut as surely as a blow. “Captain-“

“Please.” He can’t handle that. She knows. She has to know. It isn’t a joke anymore. It isn’t funny.

“For what it’s worth, Spock likes you.”

“Spock is my friend ,” Jim says. He’s telling her. He’s telling himself. He’s telling the universe.

Uhura purses her lips. “You don’t think-“

“No.”

“But-“

“I said no, Lieutenant.” Jim closes his eyes. “I don’t…” He can’t pretend. He can’t contemplate. That leads to wishful thinking, and he can’t afford that. Competence. Professionality. Friendship. Jim as friend, Jim as captain. He can’t become Jim, lecher and libertine. Definitions. Boundaries.

Uhura swallows. She brushes a curl back behind her ear. “Okay,” she murmurs. “We’ll skip the lesson.”

“Thanks.” Jim stands, gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Next week, okay? I just…I can’t.”

“Of course, Captain.”

He goes and sulks in sickbay until Bones kicks him out, muttering about pining children. Then he lurks in the botany lab until Sulu tells him he’s scaring the techs with his sullen expression. Eventually, he makes it down to the bowels of Engineering. Chekov is babbling a mile a minute to Keenser, but Scotty takes one look at Jim and peels off from their cluster, throwing an arm around Jim’s shoulder and steering him through the maze of machine, the pumping veins that keep Jim’s ship aloft, chattering easily about something he wants Jim to take a look at, if the captain has a minute.

Getting drunk on duty is unprofessional, but Jim isn’t on duty right now. And Scotty’s still is every bit as impressive as the rumors imply.

Scotty asks him, just once, if Jim’s hiding has anything to do with a certain Vulcan crewmember, who apparently has been terrorizing the geophysics department all day. The look Jim gives him should be scathing, but comes out so pathetic that Scotty switches tracks into drinking songs.

The alcohol helps, a little. It doesn’t get rid of the itch beneath Jim’s skin, the growing restlessness tearing him from the inside out. It just quiets it for a little while, that’s all.

He doesn’t leave Engineering until he’s sober. It takes a long time. He passes Spock in the corridor, the Vulcan’s pace quick, his expression thunderous. Off to the geophysics department again, Jim guesses. He barely nods when Jim passes him. It’s for the best. Jim’s stomach roils, and he has to brace against the bulkhead to avoid being sick.

He can’t keep living like this.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

He goes back to Bones, who diagnoses him with stop acting like an adolescent, dammit, I have actual patients in here and gives Jim a hypo for the headache. It doesn’t work as well as the scotch.

***

Later, Jim will berate himself for his personal angst almost making him miss the signs. He had a plan, even if he abandoned the spirit of it, if not the letter, after he realized that being Spock’s friend outshone everything else, every reason in his head.

He begs off a sparring session. He can’t touch Spock right now, can’t handle that closeness. It’s barely begging; Spock is distracted, and he accepts Jim’s suggestion with hardly a nod, not looking up from his breakfast – not eating, just stirring his spoon around the bowl like raking a garden of sand. That should be a sign too, but isn’t; for all his insistence that he does eat at appropriate intervals, Jim has seen Spock miss meals before. It’s rarer for him to be in the mess and not eat, but it happens. Jim’s stressed enough that it doesn’t seem like a big deal. He hasn’t picked much at his own food, either.

He can’t beg off chess, though. He’s worked too hard to have this, wrestling with the computer for months on end, refreshing his skills, polishing his gambits, making himself a worthy opponent to have these moments with Spock, the logic and instinct debate made tangible on the board, a place where when they fight, no one’s life is at stake. Chess, like sparring, is at the core of who they are, the tenuous bond they’ve formed. And between the two, chess is the safer alternative.

He hardly needs to raise the temperature in his quarters before Spock arrives. He isn’t keeping it Vulcan-hot or anything, but Jim’s pretty sure the cold nights in space are getting into his head. When he tries to sleep, he’s freezing.

Spock’s hands are clenched tight behind his back when he enters, and he keeps them in his lap when he takes a seat, not even raising an eyebrow when Jim goes first, even though he realizes a couple moves later that it was Spock’s turn to take white.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’ve been distracted.”

Spock doesn’t reply, just moves another pawn. His moves are subdued, but it takes Jim another couple minutes to realize the lackluster performance, given that his own isn’t much better. He sighs, and Spock’s eyes flick up to him. “Headache,” he says by way of explanation. “Bones tranqed me up, but there’s only so much he’s allowed to give me, you know?” He’s been there every morning before shift this week, and the good doctor is starting to give him looks that mean full physicals, the kind where Jim is strapped down and stabbed with hyposprays until he screams bloody murder. The stress is getting to him, that’s all. He doesn’t need a medical tricorder to prove that.

Spock begins to rise. “Perhaps we should postpone our match until a later date.”

“No!” It’s too quick a response, but Jim can’t help it. The thought of Spock leaving is suddenly intolerable. He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

When Spock doesn’t take a seat, Jim leans forward. “Please.” His expression is open, pleading. Slowly, Spock lowers himself back into the chair, and Jim can breathe again.

Looking to change the subject, he grasps onto the first thing that comes to mind. “I hear you’ve been giving the science departments hell.” For all the initial reports were about geophysics, it’s apparently been spreading. An ensign from quantum mechanics had come to Jim in fits this morning, terrified he was going to be reassigned, and half of stellar cartography had sent him a desperate message, begging that the captain intervene before people started to cry. It’s not like Spock’s never reduced someone to tears before. Most of his senior staff has done it at least once; not on purpose, but it’s par for the course with the kind of ship Jim’s running. They’re the flagship. They need to be the best. That it’s becoming epidemic, though…that might be cause for concern.

Spock’s mouth goes tight. “Their performance has been unsatisfactory as of late.” It’s hard to slam down a chess piece with any kind of force, especially on a 3D chess board, but Spock makes a rousing effort that takes Jim aback.

“It can’t be that bad, surely,” he ventures, trying to soften whatever this is. “You trained half of them yourself.”

“Which is what makes this lapse entirely unacceptable.”

It’s not emotionalism. It can’t be. Spock has two settings: rampant, uncontrollable feeling – mostly rage, in Jim’s experience – and the soft, barely-there emotion he expresses when he feels comfortable enough to relax his tight controls. He doesn’t seethe. He doesn’t throw fits. It’s unsettling, uncomfortable, and Jim is left floundering at how to fix it.

“Maybe I can talk to them-“ he begins.

“I am capable of running my own departments!”

He doesn’t yell, but his voice pitches upward in volume, and Jim jerks back. “Whoa, okay. I know that. I just thought-“

Spock snatches another piece, and Jim’s been trying not to look at his hands, since that leads down dangerous roads, but now he looks, really looks. Spock’s fingers shake, and Jim grabs him by the wrist without thinking. “Spock, what’s-“

“Release me!”

“Just tell me what’s wr-“

“You will cease prying into my personal affairs!”

It happens fast. In one motion, Spock yanks his hand back and smashes the other into the chessboard between them. It hits the far wall and shatters into snapped tiers of plastic, shards of glass, black and white game pieces flung across the room and bouncing against the floor. Jim’s mouth falls open. Spock’s chest heaves, and all at once his eyes go wide, inhaling sharply, his posture straightening into officer bearing.

“Captain, I-“

“What. The hell.”

They stare at each other, Jim shocked, Spock on his dialed back setting, expressing horror. “What the hell was that?” Jim asks, voice low in the quiet. A single white pawn lays on the table between them, the sole survivor of Spock’s outburst. It rolls a little, but doesn’t tip over the edge.

Spock swallows. “My…meditation has been ineffective, as of late.”

A short, terrified laugh bursts from Jim’s throat. “ Meditation? The last time I saw you like that, your whole planet had died.” He has just enough sense not to bring up Spock’s mom by name. Even with Lirrok, Spock hadn’t shown such unbridled rage. It had been calculated. Frigid, even. An icy, tempered anger. The last time Spock had exploded…

“I apologize,” Spock says. He lurches to his feet and takes a few stumbling steps back. Under his feet, a bishop shoots out and clanks against the table leg. “I should-“

“Go to sickbay? Yeah, you absolutely should, I agree.” He doesn’t want to think it, doesn’t want to jump to the worst possible conclusion. But the signs are there. Spock not eating, his distraction, his fits of rage. Just one of them could be normal. Altogether, they look an awful lot like symptoms. He still doesn’t know of what. Just that if they are, if this is the moment Jim’s been waiting for, there’s a countdown on Spock’s life. Every second might count.

“Captain, I must protest-“

Oh, Jim is so not in the mood. His head is throbbing and he can barely breathe. He opens his mouth to retort, and bites down into a silent curse when his comm goes off.

“Bridge to the captain.”

He wants to murder Sulu, just a little. He gives Spock a look that freezes the still-retreating Vulcan in his tracks, then jabs the response button. “Kirk here. This better be important.”

Sulu hesitates half a beat. “Sensors picked up Romulan signatures. Just for a second, and then they were gone.”

sh*t. sh*t, f*ck, and a half a dozen other expletives Jim knows, some of them in Vulcan. “Go to red alert,” he snaps, all business. “I’ll be there right away.”

“I should join you.”

Jim stabs the button to turn off the terminal. He wants to kick a couple chess pieces, but doesn’t. “Absolutely not.”

“My place is on the bridge.”

“Your place is in sickbay, getting a full physical from Doctors McCoy and M’Benga.” Jim stalks to the door as the red alert starts blaring, shoving his way out into the corridor almost before it slides open enough to admit him. Spock stays hot on his heels. Officers rush past, sprinting to their posts. It would be almost normal, if not for the sickening feeling in Jim’s stomach.

“The science station-“

“ Sickbay .” Jim stops in the middle of the hallway, plants his feet and points. He never really feels like Spock’s captain, not fully, but in this moment, he can’t be anything else. His voice is harsh as he spits, “ Now , Mr. Spock. Or this ship is going to be without its captain and its first officer while we’re fighting f*cking Romulans, because I’m going to march you there myself. And then I’m going to throw you in the brig for insubordination, assuming we’re still in one piece that long. Is that what you want?”

Spock opens his mouth, obviously to protest. Then he closes it. The shame on his face hurts, stabs right into Jim’s gut, but Jim stands firm. “I- I will go,” Spock finally says. His shoulders slump, and he turns, making quick steps in the direction of sickbay. Jim waits just long enough to be sure he’s really going. Then he turns and books it to the turbolift.

The red alert is still screaming in his ears when he makes it onto the bridge, Sulu giving up the con without a word. Jim is sure his face must still be like thunder, because Chekov actually flinches at the helm, trying to appear smaller than he already is. “Report,” Jim says, and tries not to sound angry about it. It doesn’t work.

“Two signatures, both Romulan,” Sulu reports. “Shadowing us for at least ten minutes. We thought it was a sensor ghost at first, but then there was a blip, and they appeared. Disappeared just as fast, too.”

Red alert might be slightly overkill. It’s probably a yellow alert at most. But Jim has had it up to here with Romulans, and they’re too damn far from the Neutral Zone to be dealing with this sh*t today. “Any sign of weapons?”

“Negative,” Chekov squeaks. He clears his throat, still shooting Jim nervous glances.

Jim’s going to have to apologize to his bridge crew when this is over. Keeping himself level and focused is all he can promise at the moment. His voice tremors slightly, torn between fury and anxiety. “Uhura?”

Where once she might have snapped back, concern is etched into her features, but her answer is all consummate professional. “No transmissions between the two ships. They’re on radio silent.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. God, his head hurts. “Do they know that we’ve seen them?”

The response should be from Spock, giving out the science station’s reading. He never needs to be addressed, always knows when Jim needs him. The silence lasts a beat too long before Jim whirls, “ Science station, report. Do they know we’ve seen them?”

The junior lieutenant there – Andorian, zh’Ziathess – startles, blushing a darker blue with nerves. Great. Now he feels even worse. “Unknown, Captain.” Zher antenna twitches anxiously. “Our scans can’t penetrate the cloaking device.”

“What the f*ck do they want now?” Jim hisses, mostly to himself. A little louder: “No hostile action yet?”

“None, sir.” Sulu turns in his seat at the helm. “Captain, unless that cloaking device works two ways, they’ve seen us go to red alert. They know we know something’s wrong.”

He can’t win today, but damn if he’s not going to try. “Lieutenant Uhura, open hails, all channels. Let them know that they’re in violation of treaty, and if they don’t return to their side of the Neutral Zone, we’ll be forced to take action.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Ziathess, I want ideas on how to get a look at them. If we can’t take down that cloak, I want sensors to have a general idea where they are.”

Zha nods sharply, swishing back zher white bangs out of zher eyes and getting to work, fingers flying over the console.

“That goes for you too, Chekov. Any genius ideas you and Scotty have been working on?”

“None of this manner, Keptin.”

“No response,” Uhura reports. Her voice is clipped.

“Repeat it until you get a response or I tell you to stop.” Jim leaps out of the chair, pacing across the floor. He can’t sit still, has to move. His stomach is in knots. “Sulu, where were they when we saw them?”

“Flanking, one on either side. About a thousand meters out.”

“Our shields weren’t up,” Jim says. “They could have disabled our engines. Why didn’t they?”

“Captain,” Ziathess says. “When the sensors picked up the ships, we were passing through a pocket of highly charged ion gasses native to this region. Our warp bubble repels them. It stands to reason that the same is true of the Romulan ships.”

“And the displacement gives us a look.” Jim snaps his fingers. “Sulu, head for the biggest pocket you can find.”

The helmsman nods, already on it. Jim swings around, grabbing the back of Chekov’s chair. “Ready phasers. Try to make it look like a warning shot. Let’s not actually blow them up just yet.” The itching under his skin screams that they deserve it. The Good Captain James T. Kirk tells him extreme force hasn’t been warranted yet. The Good Captain wins, but only just.

His voice steadier now that Jim isn’t directing his irritation at him, Chekov chirps, “Phasers armed.”

Jim’s grip on his chair tightens. “Wait for it…”

On the viewscreen, there’s nothing. But the science console beeps, and Ziathess says, “Sensors detect ion displacement!”

“Fire!”

The hit is probably meaningless. It’s a love tap, low power, and even with shields down while the cloaking field is active, it’s unlikely they could do real damage to an enemy they can’t see. But even if they somehow managed to hit vital systems, Jim is counting on the right being on his side. This is Federation territory. If they damage a couple Romulan ships, they’re not the ones with a treaty violation to show for it.

Sure enough: “Ships are peeling off,” Sulu reports. “We’ve lost sensors on them, but they sure looked like they were in a hurry.”

“Still no response?” Jim asks Uhura. She shakes her head. “Alright. Stop hails and send a message to Starfleet Command, letting them know about our friends. Anyone close to the border should be on the lookout.” He slumps back into his chair, forcing himself to take a breath. His fingers are trembling. Trembling like Spock’s were. He clenches a fist to stop it. “Why didn’t they disable us earlier?” he asks again.

“Locking on at warp would be difficult,” Chekov offers. “If they did not hit us precisely on the first shot, we would have been alerted to their presence.”

“So they planned on lurking until they had a better opening.” It’s logical. There’s nothing worse than Romulans being logical. Especially today. “Stand down red alert. Let’s hope that’s the last of it, at least for now.”

The doors to the bridge swish open, and Jim turns. His throat tightens at the sight of Bones moving double-time, expression tight. “It’s time, isn’t it?” Jim says softly when he comes to halt beside the captain’s chair. He feels like he’s getting whiplash, too many things happening at once, his stomach constricted with nausea.

“It’s time,” Bones confirms. There’s an ire to his voice Jim doesn’t really get, unless it’s worry. Bones expresses empathy through sharpness. Jim is feeling pretty ill himself. “You know the drill. Orders revoked and all that. For all the good it’ll do.”

“Right.” Jim clears his throat. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. “Helm, set a course for New Vulcan, maximum warp. Nebulas and Romulans can wait.” Interstellar phenomena isn’t urgent or vital. The little bit of relief Jim allows himself is on that count. They couldn’t have picked an easier mission to divert from, even with their uninvited guests. No one’s going to challenge him that space dust is worth Spock’s life.

“Course laid in,” Sulu says. Jim feels the ship sway under him. It’s probably his imagination.

He grips the armrests with both hands and lowers his voice again, “Bones-“

“If you’re about to ask me what’s going on, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Is he alright?”

“For now. He’s confined to quarters until this damn thing is over, for better or for worse. And before you get any fool ideas, there’s a medical emergency only lock on his door, and if I hear you’ve hacked it-“

“I’ll be good,” Jim promises, without meaning a word. He does mean it when he says, “I’ll leave the lock alone.” At least for now. He definitely thinks he’s going to be sick. Deep breaths. In and out. “Do we have enough time?”

Bones grumbles. It’s not an encouraging sound. “Just focus on getting us to New Vulcan. Help is waiting for him there.”

No bondmate. No soulmate. Jim doesn’t know what’s waiting for Spock at New Vulcan, but he doubts it’ll be much help. And they’re so far off. If they’re cutting it close, it doesn’t matter what else happens. Instead of saying that, he says, “Sulu, you have the con.”

“Jim-“ Bones begins, but Jim is already moving towards the turbolift.

“I just need to make a call,” he says. “I’ll be good!”

There are still chess pieces scattered all over the entry room of his quarters. Picking them up is the least important thing in the universe. The call takes eight agonizing minutes to go through. “It’s time,” he says the moment the viewscreen connects. “But I’m guessing Bones told you that already.”

Spock Prime inclines his head. “I was informed, as was our father. Preparations are being made.”

“I don’t suppose you found someone who actually wants to admit Spock’s a catch.” The words are bitingly ironic.

“A bondmate has not been procured. Spock will endure…other methods to assuage his needs.”

“Will they work?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both.” Spock’s expression is set, neither hard nor cruel, but resolved. “In my timeline, I was never required to undergo such extreme alternative measures. For some Vulcans, they are effective. For others…”

“What’s going to happen to him?” When Spock hesitates, Jim snaps, “I’m not asking for all your secrets, dammit. I just need something, anything that tells me I’m not carting my first officer, my friend , to his death .” The Enterprise can’t be Spock’s coffin. Jim can’t fly a ship haunted by Spock’s ghost.

Prime’s expression softens. “He must break the plak’tow,” he says. Blood fever, Jim translates in his head. Is that what Spock has? “It is the final stage of his condition, and the one which will kill him if not dealt with. There are rights, rituals, which have sometimes proven effective when a bondmate cannot assist. Even so, there is a risk.”

“Of what?” His thoughts flash through textbook images, somber words about things even the tow-kath can’t heal. Bile climbs his throat.

Spock’s voice is gentle, trying to ease the blow. “If the techniques are unsuccessful, he will lose his mind to madness.”

Rock bottom. The impact he should have had over two years ago, hitting the rocks of crumbling Vulcan instead of a transporter pad. Everything flattens inside him. “I’ll lose him,” Jim says. “Even if he survives, you’re telling me I’ll lose him.”

“It is not guaranteed.” But that’s not mild reserve on Spock’s face. That’s pain. Pain, and deep uncertainty. He knows, Jim realizes, that there’s almost no chance this will work.

“You said your captain helped you,” Jim says desperately. He doesn’t care if he has to cash in every token about the future in one go. This matters. This is the only thing that matters. “What did he do? How did he help you?”

“The future-“

“If I don't do something, Spock doesn’t have a future.” Helpless. He’s helpless. An infant screaming in the uncaring coldness of space. Jim shivers. He feels feverish himself, his head throbbing, his stomach in his throat.

“You would do anything to save him?”

“Yes.” An easy answer. The only easy answer. And: “I love him.”

Saying it out loud breaks something, not just in Jim’s chest, but in Spock’s expression. Spock opens his mouth, and Jim’s heart leaps into his ears.

An impact rocks the hull. The warp engines stutter, then stall, and the entire ship plunges into black.

***

Emergency power illuminates the corridors in low red light. Jim’s first instinct had been to dart out into the hall, but the deck is mostly clear at this point in the shift cycle. His door opened automatically when the backups kicked on; Spock’s remains closed. Jim tries not to think about it.

His terminal had gone dead, and wouldn’t reconnect. Communications blackout. It’s a bad sign.

The turbolifts aren’t working either. It’s fine. Jim was never a slouch at fitness, but if there’s one thing working out with Spock has done, it’s getting him into top shape. He climbs through what feels like miles of Jeffries tubes at the equivalent of a sprint. He breaks a sweat, but he’s barely out of breath when he gets himself to Engineering. Things are sparking; Scotty’s voice is loud and echoing, shouting at his engineers, and he hardly flinches when Jim drops down next to him. “Report, Mr. Scott.”

“Something hit us, and hard. Knocked out our warp engines, fried the dilithium crystals and half the ship’s circuitry besides. We’re stranded.”

“How long will it take to fix?” Time is of the essence. All Jim can hear is the ticking countdown in the back of his mind. It’s worse, because Jim doesn’t know when it ends. Spock was going to tell him something, he’s sure. How to help. How can he help?

He has to be the captain. He has to be Spock’s friend.

Scotty stares at him. “Captain…we can get life support up and running again. We can maybe get internal communications, but that’ll be patchy at best with the circuity fused. But it’ll be at least a day before we’re fixed to get a signal out to Starfleet, and you can forget about impulse engines, much less warp. We’re really, truly stuck.”

“We have a whole store of backup crystals. They can’t all be fried.”

“No,” Scotty allows, “but the systems that open up storage are. And we can’t cut through with phasers unless we want to blow the ship to hell.”

Jim’s heartbeat is so loud, it might as well be blasting from the comm systems. The comm systems that barely work. “We’re stuck here.”

“I’m sorry, Captain.”

“Scotty…” The frantic energy is back, but Jim swallows it down. He has to be a captain, he has to- “Tell me you’re joking. You’re my miracle worker. You can fix anything.”

“I wish I was.” Scotty looks stricken. “We’re dead in the water. I can piece us together enough to stay afloat, but without fresh dilithium crystals, there’s nothing I can do.”

Jim takes a deep breath. It’s hard when his strongest impulse is to collapse, to go into a nice, peaceful coma on the floor and let someone else deal with all of this. “Not nothing, Mr. Scott,” he says. He squeezes Scotty’s shoulder. “Get life support up and running. And get me what communications you can. I need to contact the bridge.” The Jeffries tubes don’t go there; a precaution against boarding parties, Jim thinks one of his professors at the Academy said, and a major design flaw right now. The one place Jim can’t get to is the one place he needs to be.

Well. Maybe not the only place.

“Aye, Captain,” Scotty says softly. He hustles back into the fray, barking orders to his team. They’re good engineers, Jim tells himself. The wall supports his weight when he presses back against it. He’s got the best crew.

A voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like Bones tells him he might be having a panic attack.

A voice that feels a lot more like Spock says Jim.

Jim jerks, forcing himself back to a proper stand. A captain. The best damn captain in the fleet. It has to mean something. He joins Scotty over the communications paneling, shoving his sleeves up and reaching for a hyperspanner. He knows his way around machines. He’s not helpless. Not here.

When the panel finally gives a halfhearted blink, Jim exhales. “Keep us on minimum lighting,” he tells Scotty. “Fix whatever you can, and preserve as much power as you can. We can’t run on backups forever.”

“Are we under attack, d’you think?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out.” He gestures Scotty away, then punches the button to connect him to the bridge. “Bridge? This is the captain. Come in.”

“ Captain, ” Uhura sounds so damn relieved. “We’ve been trying to establish communication with the rest of the ship-“

“Engineering’s got their hands full. We’ve slapped a bandage on it for now, but there’s a good chance this circuit could blow any second. What’s the status on the bridge? What happened?”

“Our invisible friends must not have liked your party favor,” Sulu says. His voice is strained, but calm. He’s always been good in a crisis. “Seems they decided to send one back.”

“Just one shot?” They’ve had plenty of time to fire off a second one. Hell, they’ve had plenty of time to do anything they wanted. What’s their game?

“Just the one,” Sulu confirms. “Then they took off again.”

“They didn’t beam anyone with them?” Spock. Oh god, what if-

“Negative, Keptin,” Chekov says. “We have only limited internal sensors, but all crew members remain accounted for.”

Breathe. Just breathe. “Starfleet Command?”

“We didn’t have time to notify them before our systems went out,” Uhura says. “Even if they know something’s wrong, we’re still days away from any other ships.”

“Any other friendly ships,” Jim says grimly. “How many days?”

“At least seven at maximum warp. Maybe more.”

Seven days with next to no power. Assuming their reserves last and their Romulan friends don’t come back, that still leaves one pressing question. “Bones? You still up there?”

“I’m here,” Bones says. His calm is different from Sulu’s. It’s the same level head in a crisis, but it’s undercut with something so bleak Jim’s heart constricts.

“You’re the doctor,” Jim says softly. “How long has he got?”

It’s an open channel. Anyone on the bridge can hear him. Anyone in Engineering could too, if they were close enough. It doesn’t really matter.

“Not seven days,” Bones says. “At least, not without help. Help we can’t give him. If communications were up, that’d be one thing. There’s mind sh*t, guided meditations. Things trained healers can help him with, over subspace, to keep him stable. We can’t do that here. If it were a matter of us getting to New Vulcan in seven days, hell, even ten or twelve, that’d be one thing. But we can’t assume they’re sending the kind of help Spock needs, and he definitely can’t make it fourteen.”

Jim deliberates. No help from Spock Prime. No help from Vulcan - and even if they sent the right help, Prime made Spock’s odds sound horrifically low. But there’s something he can do. There has to be. Spock was going to tell him, he’s sure of it. “Bones,” he says, and drops his voice even further. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Jim-“

“We’re dead in the water. We don’t know what the Romulans want, and we can’t do anything to stop them if they decide to take action. Scotty’s doing what he can. But we both know that the best person to have on deck in a situation like this is Spock.”

“Even if I let him out, he’s not going to be able to help you.”

“Because he’s sick.”

Bones hesitates. “Yes. Because he’s sick.”

“Tell me what’s wrong with him.”

“Jim-“

“This isn’t a debate, Bones,” Jim says. God, he can picture them on the bridge: Chekov and Sulu trying to act like they’re not paying attention, Uhura openly staring, worried. This is Spock’s personal, private business, but Jim can hate himself for it later. Right now, he has a mission. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, exactly.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

Bones hedges a second longer. Then he breaks. Jim can almost see the crumbling of his expression. “It’s called pon farr,” he says. “It’s a sort of seven-year, biological cycle for Vulcans.”

Pon farr isn’t in Jim’s vocabulary. As a phrase, it’s meaningless. Both of the words just indicate time. “What kind of cycle?”

“There’s hormonal imbalances. It…strips their logic, makes them beholden to their emotions. The pressure gets bad enough, their organs shut down. It kills them.”

This is taking too much time. Every word out of Bones’s mouth seems an eon long. “But what does it do? How do I stop it?”

“It needs mental and physical connection. That’s all I know, Spock was too cagey to tell me anything else. Psychic transference, and physical exertion.”

That’s why Spock needs a bondmate. Someone in his mind, someone to help him through the physical ordeal. “That’s all he said?”

“There was some cryptic sh*t, about marriage and ritual combat, but I don’t really-“

There’s a squeak, and the fragile wiring blows. “Bones?” Jim punches a couple buttons. “ Bones? Bridge, come in.” But it’s fruitless. The system is dead. Repairing it again will take even longer, and Jim doesn’t want to waste that kind of time.

Ritual combat. Psychic transference, physical exertion. Jim can do that. Jim knows how to do that. “Scotty!” he shouts.

The engineer jumps, by his side in an instant. “Aye, Captain?”

“I need overrides, if you can swing them. Is there anyone else on Deck 5?”

Scotty checks a panel. “Just Mr. Spock, sir.”

“Perfect. Lock down the deck, accessible only by my command codes.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it. And whatever life support power you can spare, I want the temperature up. Not enough that it’s boiling, but any raise in temperature will help.” It needs to feel like Vulcan, or at least as close as Jim can make it. He’d put sand on the floors if he thought the synthesizers could be kicked into working. “I don’t suppose you can override a medical emergency lockout?”

“Not even if we were at full power.”

“Fine.” He claps Scotty on the shoulder. “The rest, then. And keep repairing the ship. Phasers or shields if you can get them.”

“Captain-“

He’s already hauling himself up into the Jeffries tube. “I know I’m asking for miracles, Scotty. Do what you can. Take care of her.” The Enterprise almost always comes first. Except it doesn’t. There are other people who can take care of the Enterprise . There’s only one person on this ship who can take care of Spock.

He makes a detour to the gym locker rooms. There’s something in the equipment storage that he needs.

Stepping back onto Deck 5 is like stepping onto another planet. The red lights glow, dark and angry, but that’s for the best. It reminds Jim of Spock’s quarters, the day they’d mourned his mother’s death. He’s long since broken into a sweat – carrying two lirpas around in the Jefferies tubes is no joke, and he’d almost nicked himself a couple times. Maybe he should have taken an extra second to make sure the caps were on. It’s fine, probably.

Spock beholden to his emotions. Jim’s been there before. It didn’t kill him last time. He’s counting on that again.

The heat isn’t as oppressive as it could be. Jim doesn’t know if it’s a failing of the temperature controls, or his own tendency towards freezing these days. His lungs feel tight, though, and breathing is a little difficult. It’ll pass. He hopes. There’s still the thought, deep in the back of his mind, that they’re sitting ducks for a couple of Romulan ships, ships who attacked them and then left, ships whose mission is still unknown. But he buries it down deep. There’s nothing he can do about that right now. Kaiidth, as Spock would say.

He sets the lirpas down next to Spock’s door and jimmies open the locking mechanism, forehead creased as he digs into the wiring. It’s a simple, elegant solution. As logical as chess, really. He’s going to save Spock. But first, he has to get the door open.

It takes him longer to hack in than he would like, and he crows in triumph when the door slides open. “Spock?” he says into the darkness. “It’s me.”

The answer isn’t words, but a low rumbling, so soft and animal that Jim almost misses it. He hesitates. He picks up both lirpas and takes a step back. He has to lure Spock out. Their quarters aren’t tiny, but they’re too small for this, and Spock has too many breakable things. Relics of a dead planet. Carefully, he calls, “Bones told me about pon farr. Or, as much as you told him, anyway. He said ‘ritual combat’ and, I mean. You’ve been training me in that. So let’s have it. I know how much you love kicking my ass.”

If the hallway is dark, it has nothing on the pitch of Spock’s room. There’s only the faintest glow from within, not from any lights, but from a curling wisp of incense on Spock’s altar. The end is just an ember, illuminating nothing. Even from the doorway, the scent of the incense is thick, spicy and cloying. Is he trying to meditate? Jim tries again. “Spock?”

The rumble echoes a second time. It’s not angry. It’s feral. A growl, Jim realizes, and then there’s a blur in the open doorway and he’s being tackled, his body hitting the bulkhead with a thud that rattles his teeth, the lirpas dropping from his hand on reflex. Spock has his teeth bared, a forearm braced against Jim’s chest, pressing down until Jim has to gasp to suck in enough air. He’s in the same robes he was wearing on his day of mourning, black folds swallowing up his form like a shadow in the dark. His eyes are black, pupils blown, shining. He pants, like a dog.

Like a desert animal.

“Spock,” Jim manages. The word comes out mangled with the pressure against his lungs. His fingers twitch, but there’s no way he can reach the lirpas. He’s on his tiptoes, pressed halfway up the wall. “It’s okay. I’m here to help.”

Spock’s expression is uncomprehending. It doesn’t change.

“Gol-tor,” Jim repeats, grasping frantically at an idea. “Kal-gol-tor nash-veh du.”

It has to be a messy translation, but Spock’s hold lessens, just a fraction, and Jim can breathe. He ducks down, fumbles for the lirpa, brandishing it at Spock. “Kal’i’fee!”

It’s a word which means challenge, or fight. It’s popular in their legal system. From what little Jim skimmed of that chapter, it also has archaic usages in Vulcan weddings. Bones said Spock brought up marriage, so maybe-

Spock roars. Where he had been still before, looking vicious but unmoving, now he’s fast on his feet, snatching the other lirpa and swinging it at Jim. Jim yelps, tripping backwards as the blade narrowly misses cleaving his head off. Okay. Mission accomplished, then.

“That’s right,” he says, even knowing Spock probably can’t understand him. “Come and get me.” He has to burn out whatever this is, the plak’tow that will drive Spock insane. He dances back a few steps, then swishes forwards with the lirpa. It clangs against Spock’s, who knocks it aside hard enough that Jim can barely keep ahold of his. Spock snarls, slicing with the blade and then spinning it around and catching Jim across the ribs with the counterweight. It punches the breath out of him, and he smashes into the bulkhead, barely getting to his feet in time to duck Spock’s next swing.

It’s not like fighting Spock on the mat. On the mat, Spock is grace, is clean lines and calculated attack, calculated defense. Any defense now is by accident, Spock leaving himself wide open in favor of hammering on Jim just as hard as he can. Good defense by virtue of good offense; Jim can barely get a blow in when he’s running from Spock’s. The swings are wild, and when one catches Jim’s shoulder it tears, his shirt ripping, blood dripping from the scythed flesh onto gold fabric, onto white floor. Spock makes a sound of triumph, throaty and inhuman.

“sh*t,” Jim pants to himself. Okay. Maybe not his most brilliant idea. He tucks and rolls, coming up behind Spock, and gets a good solid hit against his lower back with the blunt end of the lirpa. It’s a dirty blow, akin to kicking Spock in the balls if the books are to be believed, but Jim is lightheaded and exhausted and fighting dirty is his best defense against violent Vulcan strength. Inhaling is as hellish as fighting in this heat.

Spock howls, a furious sound, and spins on him, getting a clean slice across Jim’s chest. It slits his shirt from end to end, an inch above his nipples, a line of red blood welling up and soaking the fabric. Fine. That’s fine too. Physical exertion and psychic exchange. The shirt’s a lost cause, and Spock’s a touch telepath. Jim can do the math.

He tears it off; it doesn’t even need to go over his head, the seams already weak from the cuts to the fabric, dropping to the deck in a heap of scrap. It wastes a precious second, though, giving Spock a chance to sweep his feet out from under him, slamming the blade of the lirpa down so hard the metal shatters off the wooden staff in huge, jagged pieces, an inch away from Jim’s head. An inch that would have hit, if Jim hadn’t yelped and thrown himself out of the way.

Like lightning, he realizes. Spock is going to kill him. This is going to be a battle to the death.

It occurs to him, distantly, that he might be able to make it to the Jefferies tubes. He has the override. Even in his right mind, Spock wouldn’t be able to get around that, at least not easily. He pictures sitting on the other side of the door, listening to Spock pounding it down, fists clanging, voice a fading howl as the plak’tow takes him under. Or he could knock Spock out, do his best to apply the to’tsu’k’hy and then run. But even if that works, it’s still the same result. Spock alone, on the other side of a door. One life, or the other. Spock’s, or Jim’s.

The thought comes almost peacefully, a moment of clarity in battle. He’ll die, then. He’s not James T. Kirk. James T. Kirk was probably smart enough to do better, to save himself and his friend. Jim is just…Jim. And Spock is Spock. And between the two of them, Jim knows who he’d put first. Who he’ll always put first.

He rolls to a stand and throws aside his lirpa. It catches Spock off guard, but only for a split second. Then Spock is charging at him, his own broken weapon discarded in favor of hands outstretched, bowling a pliant Jim onto the floor and pinning him there, two fists closing tight around his throat. It’s not the lan-dovna. It’s not a neat, Vulcan move from one of Spock’s many, many arts. It’s a chokehold, pure and simple, and meant entirely to kill.

It should be weird that it makes Jim’s dick twitch. He’s conditioned himself thoroughly, that way. The pulsing blackness around the edges of his vision isn’t just the corridor lighting. He can feel his eyes rolling back. His snarling first officer pins him down harder, and against his thigh, Jim can feel, bafflingly, an answering kind of pressure.

Bondmates. Physical exertion. Marriage. He’s an idiot. “Kroykah,” he croaks. He wraps his fingers around Spock’s. “Sanu. Spock-“ He projects everything he can into his hands, into where their bare skin touches, projects the want and desire and willingness that Spock can never, could never know about, except that maybe, just maybe, it’s what Jim needs to save him. “Kal-tor sanoi nash-veh du. Nash-veh na’du.” He closes his eyes. “Ashau nash-veh…”

It takes a second to realize that, while Spock hasn’t let go, his hands haven’t tightened either. His eyes are coals, searching Jim’s, his forehead creased in anguish and confusion as he rasps out, “Yontaya nash-veh.”

Burning…blood fever. Okay. There’s a sheen of sweat on Spock's Vulcan face. Jim doesn’t think it’s from the external heat. He’s flushed, not just his ears but his cheeks, in blotches down the hollow of his throat. Jim reaches up, brushing a thumb over Spock’s lips, brushing damp bangs out of his eyes. There’s something echoing in him, a kind of pulse at the back of his mind, radiating out from Spock’s hands and back. He doesn’t know the right words, but he takes his best guess. “Samuyau shal-du.”

Spock shudders, exhaling sharply. His grip relaxes, smoothing over Jim’s throat and collarbones. His expression gains no clarity, but his words are even, as if long-practiced and entrenched in memory. “Dahshauk kwi’nash-veh heh worla dahshauk,” he murmurs. “Worla eh kwon-sum estuhl heh esta. Ragel-tor etek na’shi loit’lej.”

The answer spills over Jim’s lips, from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere he’s certain didn’t used to exist. “Dahshauk kwi’nash-veh heh worla dahshauk,” he echoes. “Worla heh kwon-sum estuhl heh esta. Bek-tor nash-veh na’du.”

What the f*ck.

But it’s the right thing to say. Spock makes a pleased sound, deep in his throat. It sounds like a purr, vibrating through where he’s touching Jim. The petting slides up, cradling Jim’s face, fingertips brushing over meld points. There are no ritual words now, no ‘my mind to your mind,’ in Standard or in Vulcan, but Jim can feel Spock’s mind probing in. He doesn’t fight it, just sinks into the embrace.

Like a match lit, he catches flame. Spock’s mind is burning, his body consumed by need, and it brushes into the cracks of Jim’s brain, licking tongues of fire that tear into him, not painful, but desperate. Eager. Hungry. He catches a wisp of meaning, near-incoherent in the chaos of what should be ordered Vulcan thought. Pon farr. The time of mating.

Jim is going to give Spock hell for that later. Time time. Ridiculous.

Spock makes a chuffing sound, like a big cat. He digs a little deeper into Jim’s mind, and then touches something that lights sparks behind Jim’s eyelids. It’s not intense, just bright, and when it fades, Spock slips from his mind but also doesn’t. The touch is gone, but there’s an echo left behind. “T’hy’la,” Spock whispers. “Jim.”

There’s such feeling behind it, pulsing through Spock’s shields – where are Spock’s shields? – that Jim chokes. “Spock,” he breathes, gripping the back of Spock's robes, holding on for dear life. T’hy’la. Soulmate. Spock thinks Jim…

Spock is delirious. Spock is in heat. Whatever he thinks he’s feeling, it has to be an echo. Jim wants him so badly. “Let me help,” he says. “Kal-gol-tor nash-veh du.” Spock’s getting whatever he needs psychically, the presence in Jim’s head, but Jim can feel the physical need beneath the surface, the plak’tow ebbing but not gone, actually rising stronger. Jim sees what he did wrong. He shouldn’t have challenged. He should have been good, should have submitted, and let Spock take.

The thoughts don’t quite come from him, but he doesn’t exactly disagree. Really, really the opposite. Spock grinds down against him, hips rocking into Jim’s thigh. “Okay,” Jim says, mostly to himself. It’s gentler than he expected, Spock’s aggression fading with the reassurance that Jim isn’t going to fight him, is going to stay pliant. The Vulcan slides their fingers together, an imperfect, messy grip that sparks at Jim’s nerves, shooting like lightning to the pleasure centers of his brain. It’s not a true ozh’esta, but it serves the same function. Psi-centers in the hands. Sensitive. Jim grips back, rubs his thumb over the back of Spock’s hand, and feels Spock shiver. Perfect. He anchors a hand on Spock’s hip, drags him a little harder against Jim, encouraging him to hump against his leg. Spock ruts, messy and eager, for a few more sharp thrusts, before his body goes rigid, and Jim feels the echo of org*sm faintly, through the shallow link of their minds. Spock pants, and his grip slackens.

“Better?” Jim teases. Spock lets out a wordless huff. The fever isn’t satiated – won’t be, Jim can sense, for a while yet – but the urgent edge is gone, and Spock noses into the juncture of Jim’s bare throat, lips and teeth worrying a claiming bruise there. Jim strokes his back through the heavy robes. It occurs to him that he’s hard too, but it doesn’t seem pressing when Spock is a comforting weight atop him.

Beneath him, the floor is hard. For fighting, the corridor was the better choice, but for this…Jim has an exhibitionist fantasy or two, but without knowing how long this will last, he’s pretty sure relocating would be smart. “Spock,” he says, getting the Vulcan’s attention. “A’sim.”

Spock pulls back, rearing up on his knees. Jim feels cheated by the robes; his own pants are obviously tented, front jutting out obscenely, but the layers of fabric swallow any hint of Spock’s form. Spock co*cks his head. “A’sim?”

“Az’ir’kh’ar du k’nash-veh fi’a’sim. Sanu.” Uhura would be so proud of him. He bites his lip suggestively and traces a finger over the tip of Spock’s ear. They’re not inherently an erogenous zone for Vulcans, even if Jim finds them sexy as hell, but he thinks Spock gets the point. His eyes light up, and then he’s standing, yanking Jim up with him. He doesn’t throw Jim over his shoulder caveman style, but he does shove Jim along, shepherding him eagerly into Spock’s quarters so fast Jim trips on the meditation mat in the dark, tumbling backwards onto the bed. He’s covered instantly by amorous Vulcan.

“Lights,” he says, groaning as Spock’s hands fumble with the front of his uniform pants, too clumsy to do anything more than give Jim some really delicious friction. He bucks up against the touch, biting back a keen. “Computer?”

It takes a second, but he gets lights, as dim and red as the rest of the ship, but enough that he can make out Spock, swimming into clarity as his eyes adjust. “Hey there,” he murmurs, the words choked as Spock tugs hard, frustrated with the buttons. “Easy.” He undoes them himself, and hears Spock rip a seam as he yanks the pants off Jim, along with his underwear. They catch on his boots, splitting under Spock’s grip. Jim hisses, his co*ck hot and heavy as it falls against his naked stomach. His balls ache, and he groans when Spock prods curious fingers over them, squeezing carefully. “ f*ck .”

Spock jerks his head up, alarmed, and Jim shakes his quickly. “Rom. Pehkaya tor’ri.” Forget Uhura, he’s proud of himself. It’s a hell of a time for a vocab quiz. Then again, hands-on learning has always worked best for him. Spock’s definitely hands-on right now, and with Jim’s permission continues his exploration, rolling the heavy sacs between his fingers, pulling carefully on them when they tighten up. Jim’s head falls back against the pillow, hips arching into it. He pants, groans bubbling up his throat. He’s so hard. Spock’s fingers loosely circle his shaft, giving it a little rub, like he’s testing something, and Jim can’t take it anymore. “I’ska’sai-vel.” He tugs uselessly at Spock’s robes. “Sanu, Spock.” He’s burning, his groin aching with need. The pressure at the back of his mind pulses in agreement: need, want, take . Quench the fire. Sate the flames.

The Vulcan rears back, shedding the robes without preamble, the fabric tossed aside. He’s naked underneath them, and Jim is finally, finally treated to the image he’s been dreaming of for months – for two years – forever. The flush goes all the way down Spock’s neck, darker under the unexpectedly thick thatches of chest hair, narrowing and then flaring again at Spock’s groin. His body is all lean muscle, rippling under pale skin, a Vulcan Adonis or, maybe more appropriately, a male Lia or Valdena, ancient Vulcan goddesses of fertility and beauty. He definitely looks, well, fertile. His co*ck juts straight out, full and heavy under its own weight, the engorged shaft as close to emerald as Jim’s is to a purple like red wine. The veins along it throb and pulse, and lubrication dribbles thickly from underneath the double ridges set beneath the glans. Even without the lack of testes hanging beneath it – internal, chenesi , Jim’s distant memory supplies – it’s blatantly alien. It’s huge. It’s hot as f*ck.

He's not circumcised, Jim notes. Jim is, but for whatever reason (logic, maybe? The fact that Spock’s foreskin looks less like a stretch of protective skin and more like flower petals unfolding, bearing the glistening, leaking head?) Spock apparently forwent that particular ritual as a child. It gives him a tapered sort of tip, which eases something that had tightened in Jim’s chest as the sight of the thick length, so much bigger than his own. It’ll go in easier like that.

As excited as his own dick is about the proceedings, he’s under no illusions about what’s going to happen here. He can feel the aching in Spock’s body, the need that must be satisfied. Spock needs a hole to f*ck, a place to spill his seed. Jim doesn’t have the womb Spock’s instincts are searching for, but he has the other thing. More importantly, he wants to give it. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around Spock’s erection, giving it a friendly tug. His fingertips don’t quite touch, and a bolt of heat shoots through him. Spock is going to f*ck him with this. Spock is going to f*ck him.

He's not worried about lube. Spock’s making plenty of that, the Vulcan writhing and groaning as Jim jerks him nice and easy, Jim’s hand soaking with his fluids. But he can feel the blood-heat ramping up again, the desperation as Spock starts to buck, a low unhappy sound in his throat as he tries to sate himself in Jim’s hand. “K’diwa, palutunau. Attend .”

The Standard word startles Jim; Spock’s face is screwed up, and the pressure in the back of Jim’s mind is increasing. “It’s okay,” he soothes. He wraps his other hand around Spock, making more of a channel for him. He doesn’t know if it helps. Spock braces himself against the bed, fingers tearing into the sheets, thrusting hard. He grits his teeth, snarls, and the rage isn’t directed at Jim, frustration lancing between them as Spock fights for his second org*sm. It’s not enough; now that his body knows it has a mate, it can’t be satisfied with half-measures. Which means it’s way past time to move this along.

“Spock, you need to open me.” The words keep breaking as Spock’s thrusts jar him up the bed. “Tu’ash. Sakadau, uh…hul’a nash-veh. K’du’ozhlar.” He tries to push the thought across their minds, showing Spock what he means. If worst comes to worst, he’ll take it as is, but even one finger would help. Jim’s been too good; if he’d have known that not masturbating over his first officer would end up being worse in the long run, he would have dealt with that guilt and come on his fingers every night. As it is, he’s going to be tight, given what Spock’s packing.

The prospect seems to intrigue Spock. At least, the razor-edge of fire dims, and his thrusts slow. He braces himself on one hand, reaching curiously for Jim’s hole. Jim cants his hips up to encourage him, and the digit probes at the ring of muscle. Jim relaxes himself as the tip wriggles in, fighting a wince at the dryness. It disappears, and Spock’s fingers nudge against his where he’s still gripping Spock’s dick, and when they return, wet and slick, the first finger slips in to the second knuckle. Jim hisses, but his reaction has nothing on Spock, who chokes out a sound of pleasure so deep that it thunders across their linked minds and makes Jim’s co*ck spurt out a dribble of precum.

Sensitive hands. Right.

The combined sensation does the trick, soothing the need enough that Spock can keep thrusting leisurely into Jim’s hands as he opens him up, without the animal instinct taking over. The sounds he makes are all approval, especially when Jim encourages him to lower his hips so they both can get friction on their co*cks. Jim groans at the hot press of Spock’s body, hotter even than the burning of the air, though not as hot as the burning in his veins, and thrusts back and forth between where Spock is f*cking him open with his fingers and where he’s rubbing against him with his co*ck, the feedback skirting back across their link and feeding even more into Spock’s pleasure. It’s intimate and arousing beyond anything Jim has ever experienced before. To be cherished so thoroughly…it envelops him, thick enough to choke, but it’s okay. Spock can do his breathing for him.

When Spock reaches a fourth finger inside him, Jim can feel the impatience start to surge. It’s probably Spock’s, but it could be either. They’re too entwined to tell. “That’s good,” he pants. “You can go. Samuyau shal-du. Nem-tor mon.”

Spock tugs his fingers free. Jim starts to turn over, but a hand pins him to the mattress, iron and unyielding as Spock spreads Jim’s legs roughly, forcing room for him to settle between them. Jim isn’t complaining; if Spock wants to do this face-to-face, Jim is all for that. He grabs himself a handful of Spock’s ass – it’s a nice ass – and kisses him the human way, licking against Spock’s lips until they part for him, allowing entrance. Clever as always, Spock picks it up fast, and then Jim’s mouth is the one being invaded, alien tongue probing in, swiping along his teeth and pallet, tasting him. One of Spock’s hands grips his face, thumb digging in hard at the base of Jim’s skull, two-fingered Vulcan kiss/embraces pressed into his cheek as if to brand him, just shy of the psi-point there. With the other hand busy bracing himself up, Spock makes a couple inelegant thrusts, growling into Jim’s mouth as his co*ck glances over the crack of Jim’s ass, unable to find home. “I’m got you,” Jim promises, reaching between them to get a grip on the base, angling Spock’s erection until the head nocks against him, and then Spock thrusts and oh. f*ck.

The first thrust only gets him an inch or two in, catching hard on the first ridge. It’s still enough to burn. Not a friction burn – Spock’s too slick for that – and not quite a stretching burn – Spock’s fingers did their job – but a deep-seated fire that aches in Jim’s gut, fierce enough that he gasps. He grips Spock’s forearm, desperate to shore himself against the onslaught of flame, and Spock makes a cooing sound, his lips gentling against Jim’s, sipping more human kisses from them. Reassuring him, Jim realizes, as the feeling floods into him. Spock rocks his hips but doesn’t thrust deeper, letting him adjust to the thick intrusion. The ridge toys at Jim’s rim, teasing it. The physical is easier, really. It’s the pressure in his head that feels like too much. The headache is long-gone, replaced with Spock. The threads that connect his consciousness to his trembling muscles are tenuous, frayed enough to snap. It’s too much.

“T’hy’la,” Spock murmurs. “Esh-tor, ashayam. Kal-svi-tor nash-veh.”

Jim relaxes his body, but Spock doesn’t move. Gradually, he relaxes his mind. Spock hums in approval, and the pressure eases, not disappearing, but slipping back in, weaving into the gaps where resistance had been. Jim inhales, his body arching; the pleasure is indescribable, unmoored from any physical location. “Herish-tor etek’kashektal,” Spock whispers, or maybe Jim does. “Nam-tor ka etek’kashek.” He can’t tell which is self and which is echo; it is no mirror, just one half on each side of the glass, pressing forever into one.

Jim surfaces with a gasp, snapped back into his body and yet…also not. It’s not an echo of Spock in his mind anymore, but the full presence, settled everywhere that Jim is not, as if his mind suddenly expanded to fit another consciousness. The pressure is gone.

At least, the pressure in his head is gone. The pressure in his ass, however…he clenches, and Spock groans, hips jerking forward. The first ridge catches, and sinks in. Jim grins, nipping at Spock’s lips. “Come on, Mr. Spock. If you don’t know how this goes, I’m sure you can find something in my brain that can teach you.”

Spock growls, and his next thrust is vicious; the second ridge pops in with almost no resistance, battering half his length into Jim’s stretched hole. Jim grunts, but there’s no pain, just a strange feeling of pressure on his own co*ck, tightness enveloping it as Spock ruts himself further in. Shared sensation. Jim’s down for that.

He f*cks back against Spock, forcing himself to take it. The ridges dig against his prostate, and Jim groans, immediately aiming for a repeat. Spock obliges him. Inch by inch, they fit him in, until Spock’s pelvis is flush with Jim’s, filling every space inside him. Nothing more will fit. He’s stuffed to bursting, stretched and remolded into a sleeve meant for Spock. No other shape will ever satisfy.

He has no idea which of them is thinking it.

Spock grinds, powerful rolls of his hips that keep him deep. Jim can see – can feel – the plak’tow edging back in, stealing the tiny bits of clarity from Spock’s consciousness. f*ck me, Jim thinks. He doesn’t have to translate. The sound Spock makes is pure animal, pure need, and he draws out part-way and slams back in, roaring with satisfaction. He sets a hard pace, pounding himself into Jim’s tight hole, so thick he rubs at Jim’s prostate on every thrust, unyielding in his passion. Jim hangs on as best he can; his hands are slick, sweat-damp. They slip against Spock’s skin, and he has to screw his eyes shut against the feeling of f*cking and being f*cked, his co*ck throbbing in tandem with Spock’s as the Vulcan plows him open. He’s been on edge for so long, his org*sm punches him like a physical blow, Jim crying out as his co*ck jerks and spills all over his stomach. Spock grunts as the rippling pressure, f*cks in more eagerly as Jim’s walls milk his co*ck, and Jim sobs a little at the oversensitivity. It’s too much, too intense, he can’t take any more-

And then Spock groans, and he’s spilling inside, pumping his cum so deep inside Jim there’s no way he’ll be able to get it out, will have to bear this claim of Spock’s forever. There’s so much of it, gushing in powerful pulses, and Spock keeps f*cking him through it, milking every drop. His breathing eases and then he goes still, lips parted, eyes closed, and Jim watches his face, in wonder at the open display of rapture there, the pure pleasure, uncouched by logic or repression. His co*ck softens inside Jim, but doesn’t slip out. The ridges stay hard. Ensuring his seed catches.

Jim strokes Spock’s hair. He’s still on top of Jim, still in control. But he looks so vulnerable like this. “Hey,” Jim murmurs. “You with me?”

Spock’s eyes open. He frowns. “Nam kusut?”

Not quite, then. Jim smiles. “I’m fine.” He can hear logical Spock’s retort in the back of his mind: fine has variable definitions. It makes him smile more, and Spock reacts to that, a pulse of his delight at Jim’s joy seeping through Jim’s mind. It fades quickly on Jim’s end. He’s just had sex with Spock. He’s pretty sure he’s bonded with Spock. Vulcans mate pretty much for life, and while Spock could probably get the link broken if he wanted, Jim knows it would be painful. He’s taken advantage of his first officer. His friend. In the throes of pon farr, Spock revels in it. When he’s in his right mind, he’ll hate Jim forever.

Spock latches on to the sudden distress, the waves of guilt and shame and self-loathing Jim has no way to shield him from. He whines, and Jim cuddles him to his chest, trying to reassure him. They end up on their sides, Jim holding him close. It’s awkward, still joined together, and Jim presses his face into the crook of Spock’s neck. How long will this last? How much satiation does the plak’tow require? How many minutes does he have left in Spock’s arms?

***

They sleep. More accurately, they doze. Spock eventually softens enough to slip all the way out, and Jim finds the time to finally lose his boots and socks, kicking them over the side of the bed. The lights don’t come up any further, and no one reaches them by comm. Jim can’t be sure how much time passes. Whenever he shifts to get up – thinking of the bathroom, thinking of the comm terminal – Spock’s distress hits him so palpably he bowls over, keeping him within arm’s reach.

The bruises are inevitable with Spock’s Vulcan strength. Spock doesn’t try to choke him again, but Jim can’t be disappointed when he gets the full brunt of Spock’s force every other way. The rough needs of the body are tempered by the gentleness of Spock’s mind, his utter love and delight, the affection he bathes Jim in. They f*ck and rest twice more before Jim’s ass starts to protest, and by then Spock’s calmed enough to take his thighs for the fourth time, spooning Jim and mouthing human kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, index and forefinger pressed together, entwined with Jim’s. Jim loses track of his own org*sms eventually, his co*ck spurting dry in protest. His ass is leaking, his skin covered in Spock’s cum, chest and neck and shoulders littered with bites and bruises. Under any other circ*mstances, it would be glorious.

Jim tries to focus on the physical, the pleasure he’s giving and receiving in turn. He tries to focus on the knowledge that this is saving Spock’s life. Spock calls him t’hy’la and k’diwa, ashayam and ashal-veh, and Jim fights the urge to feel sick. It’s everything he’s wanted for so long, and he hates himself for getting it. He tamps it down as best he can, because every time it surfaces Spock reacts to his distress, frantic and confused. Jim’s hurting him enough.

The final time, Jim’s dizzy from the heat and the exhaustion. Spock ruts himself against the crease of Jim’s ass but doesn’t try to enter, purring contentedly when Jim squeezes their hands together. He tries to lower them, to stroke Jim’s co*ck – he’s half-hard, unable to go down fully with the sheer amount of stimulus, but too tired to get it all the way up – but Jim deflects, reaching around to massage Spock’s lower back, the swell of his chenesi less pronounced after so deep a satiation. He’s been coming less too, though it’s still a lot. They’re not quite spooning anymore; Spock has one leg thrown over Jim, half-mounted as he thrusts, his body a heavy pressure, like a weighted blanket that moves. His skin still feels hot to the touch, but less feverish now, the plak’tow winding down as it's finally satisfied. Jim feels the echo of org*sm when Spock comes, but his own co*ck barely twitches. He can feel, somewhere deep inside himself, that it’s over.

It's a feeling confirmed when Spock stills, not settling but suddenly ramrod against him. “Captain?”

“Welcome ba-“ Jim chokes at the wave of horror that hits him, gasping suddenly for air. He’s being smothered, choking in it, revulsion and fear and loathing hitting him all at once, then cutting off just as suddenly, Spock’s shields slamming down as he wrenches himself away from Jim. Jim coughs, clutching his chest, fighting to breathe even as his mind cries out instinctively at the loss of psychic touch. He rolls over, putting another couple inches between himself and Spock, who is off the bed and practically against the far wall, his eyes wide. He’s not quite as banged up as Jim probably looks, but he’s got a few bruises and scratches to show for it.

He opens his mouth, looking nauseated. “Captain-“

“Can we not do this right now?” It’s a coward’s way out, but Jim seizes it with both hands. “We can talk repercussions later, but right now the ship is in danger.”

Spock hesitates. Then his expression smooths. “What happened?”

“f*cking Romulans,” Jim curses. He gets up, reaching for his uniform before he remembers that half of it is in shreds on Spock’s floor, the other half in shreds in the corridor. He grabs his boots, calling over his shoulder as he steps through the bathroom, “Sulu caught them tailing us, and when we fired a warning shot they snuck around back and hit us twice as hard.” He curses when he steps on a chess piece, grabbing a shirt at random, then underwear and pants. “Try the comm panel, see if you can raise anyone.”

A few beats later, Spock says, “Captain, I have Mr. Scott on the line.”

Jim darts back into Spock’s quarters. The Vulcan is standing by the comm terminal, still nude but clutching his discarded robes in one hand. It’s a surreal moment, both of them still naked, covered in the evidence of sex, shoulder to shoulder and trying not to look at each other as Jim reaches him and says, “Scotty? Report.”

His chief engineer’s voice breaks over the line. “Internal communications are online and holding steady. Doctor McCoy said not to raise you unless it was urgent. Life support is stable, but we’re still running on low power for the time being.”

Jim breathes a sigh of relief. “No sign of the Romulans?”

“External sensors are patchy, but Sulu thinks they’ve popped in and out. They haven’t tried anything though.”

“How long have we been…” Jim winces. “Uh, occupied?” Spock’s expression remains stoic, but Jim thinks he sees a twitch.

“A little less than twelve hours, sir.”

“Standard,” Spock says quietly. “From the beginning of the ritual to the conclusion, the average is between ten hours and fourteen.”

It’s wildly imprecise. Jim’s heart clenches. He clears his throat. “Are turbolifts working? Can we get to the bridge?”

“We should have them up in ten minutes or less.”

“Great. Tell Bones we’ll be there in a few. Kirk out.” He clicks off the panel and turns to Spock. “You’re really okay? Ready for duty?”

“The hormonal imbalances will continue for a few days, but the fever has passed.” Spock still looks a little disoriented, but Jim doesn’t know how much of it is the lingering of pon farr in his system and how much is him shielding the bond, coping with the knowledge that he’s been bound to his captain forever. “I can perform my duties as first officer.”

He’s so professional. He’ll be a good captain. Jim’s already anticipating the court martial, but it’s worth it. At least Spock is standing here. It’s a small price to pay for that. “Okay,” he says. “I say we clean up fast, get dressed, and fight some Romulans.”

Spock doesn’t answer aloud. He just inclines his head, setting the robes at the end of his disheveled bed and stepping towards the closet. Jim beats it to the bathroom. The sonics won’t turn on but the sink works, and he wets a cloth and wipes himself down the best he can, fleeing to the safety of his room when Spock’s footsteps approach. He yanks on his uniform and steps out into the corridor to wait.

A moment later, Spock appears, his hair still in slight disarray, his rank braids shining against the gold of his shirt. A conscious decision, or is he still that badly upset? Jim can’t tell. Spock’s eyes catch on the discarded, half-broken lirpas, the remnants of Jim’s shirt, the spots of blood dotting the floor. He stiffens.

“Turbolifts,” Jim blurts, just to make Spock stop looking like that. “We should go.”

They walk in silence, their pace brisk, their footsteps loud and echoing. The locking mechanism accepts Jim’s override, unsealing the deck, and the turbolift responds when Jim says, “Bridge.” It whirrs into motion, soaring upwards, even as Jim’s stomach sinks lower and lower.

When they step out, they’re accosted by Bones, charging at them with thunder in his eyes, only to stop short at the sight of them. Jim looks at Spock, then down at himself: he grabbed the weird green shirt, showing off a number of the bruises around his throat. Bruises shaped like Spock’s hands from the challenge. Bruises shaped like his lips from the sex. He can see Bones ramping up to swear, and cuts him off. “We’re fine, Bones. It’s handled.” Mostly. They’ll deal with the rest after this is done. “Let’s finish this, and then you can hassle us in Sickbay to your heart’s content.” At least until Jim excuses himself to the brig. “Okay? Okay.”

He claps Bones on the shoulder and brushes past him, leaving the doctor spluttering in his wake. He can feel without seeing the way Spock follows, coming to a stand beside Ziathess at the science station. The lieutenant squeaks and scoots a step away.

Jim looks to Uhura. He can’t meet her gaze, so he focuses on her earrings. “Have they tried hailing?”

“Unknown,” she reports. Her voice is edged. “We still don’t have ship-to-ship. Scotty’s working on it.”

“Sulu, you said they’ve circled back a couple times?”

“We think so,” Sulu says. He’s easier to make eye contact with; he looks confused, but it’s buried under professionalism. “We got a couple helm readings, like the shadow again. But it’s hard to be sure.”

“With limited sensors, it is impossible to be accurate, but I am detecting energy displacement consistent with Romulan cloaks.” Spock’s eyes are on his station, fingers flying over the buttons. “I suspect our attackers have returned.” His eyes flick up, meeting Jim’s for half a second before they jerk down again. Jim swallows, and faces the viewscreen.

“Uhura, let me know the second Scotty gets us ship-to-ship. I want to talk to our friends, and since they haven’t attacked us, I’m willing to bet they want to talk to us too.”

“Aye, sir.”

He doesn’t take the chair. He’s never going to sit in it again, might as well not torture himself with it now. Instead, he parks himself between Chekov and Sulu, arms folded across his chest. “It’s been twelve hours, Scotty said?”

“Just about,” Sulu nods. “It’s been pretty tense.”

“It is like being sitting ducks,” Chekov adds. He still looks a little uneasy. “Keptin, is everything alright? Doctor McCoy said Spock was sick, but he looks-“

“It’s fine,” Jim cuts him off. He doesn’t look at Spock. He can’t look at Spock. “At least, it will be.”

“Ship-to-ship now available, Captain,” Uhura says. “Audio only.”

“Scotty, the miracle worker,” Jim sighs. “Open a channel. All frequencies. I want them to hear us.”

“Hailing on all frequencies.”

“This is Captain Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise ,” Jim says. “We know you’re out there, and we have the sensor logs to prove it. Now, considering you’ve disabled us but you haven’t blown us up yet, I’m thinking maybe you want to talk. Does that sound about right?”

He waits. He glances at Uhura, who shakes her head.

He tries again. “You’re on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone, and you’ve opened fire on a Federation vessel. That’s a serious breach of treaty.”

Static crackles. Uhura presses a couple buttons, and the response echoes around the bridge. The accent is subtly Romulan, and the voice vaguely female. “My sincerest apologies, Captain Kirk. I assure you, this has been a misunderstanding.”

“Your misunderstanding has my ship dead in the water,” Jim snaps. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Commander Piros of the Romulan ship Omesa. It seems some of our patrol ships suffered sensor malfunctions, and strayed out too far. One of the captains was young and inexperienced, and when you caught them on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone, he panicked. He will be dealt with most severely.”

Uh-huh. Jim believes that, definitely. He scowls. “Well, it seems to me like you’re still on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone. I’m sure Starfleet will be very interested to hear about that. I’d hate for this little accident to turn into all-out war.”

“We merely came to offer assistance,” Commander Piros says smoothly. “We don’t want war, Captain. Our sensors tell us your ship was badly damaged. It will take a long time for your Federation vessels to get there, and without dilithium crystals…” She clicks her tongue. “Consider this a peace offering, Captain, with my greatest regards.”

There’s a hum over the line, and then Scotty’s voice pipes over the line from Engineering. “Bridge, what’s going on? We’ve got an unauthorized beam-in.”

“An intruder?” If Jim had been sitting, he’d have lurched to his feet. As it is, he wants to run.

“No, sir. It’s…well, I cannae explain it, but-”

“Dilithium crystals, Captain,” Piros says. “We had a few spare. It seems a fair enough trade to keep the treaty intact. Especially since no casualties were involved.”

“Mute the channel,” Jim says. Uhura obeys, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Scotty, what kinds of readings are you getting?”

“Seems normal, far as I can tell. It’s good quality dilithium. We’ll be up and running within a few hours.”

“They are trying to bribe us,” Spock says. “Logic dictates that they were attempting to spy. Assuming the story is true, that an inexperienced officer did fire on us and fled, this remains a breach of treaty, and Commander Piros’s actions little more than an attempt to silence us on the subject.”

“She could also silence us by blowing us up,” Jim says. “Bribery or not, let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth. The admiralty can decide if they want to go to war over this. I just want to get our people home.” Romulans aren’t Vulcans, but Jim’s starting to understand the Empire pretty well, or at least well enough for a human. After Nero, anything could set the tension off. If blowing up their ship has even a chance of being tracked back to the Empire…well, he gets why Piros wants to bribe them out of it instead.

If she’d found a way to make the offer sooner…if Scotty hadn’t needed to repair ship’s communications…maybe they could have made it to Vulcan on time. Maybe Spock could have gotten the help he needed, and maybe it even would have worked. Maybe Jim wouldn’t have betrayed his best friend’s trust.

He has a sinking feeling, though, that he would have done it anyway. Spock’s mind is worth preserving just as much as his life. It’s a shame Jim won’t be able to find out what genius things he does with them.

He signals Uhura. “Channel back on. Commander Piros? We accept your generous offer.” He doesn’t bother to keep the contempt from his voice.

“You’re very welcome, Captain. We’ll be leaving now.”

“We’ll be watching,” Jim says. It’s an empty threat. “In the future, let’s not have any more sensor malfunctions, shall we? The Federation will only tolerate so many Romulans in their territory before they start to suspect these aren’t accidents after all. They might start to suspect there’s actually a pattern.”

“I’ll see to it that our navigational difficulties are looked into at great length. Goodbye, Captain Kirk.” The channel goes dead.

Jim sags. f*cking Romulans. “Scotty, you there?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Get those crystals set up. I want power and I want subspace. Uhura, as soon as we’ve got it, let Starfleet Command know the situation. Sulu, Chekov, set a course for…New Vulcan, I guess.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Spock stiffen at the reminder, but if breaking the bond is the way to go, and Jim’s assuming it is, they’re going to need a healer anyway. It’s the only place to go. “As soon as we’re up and running, execute.”

His bridge crew gives their affirmatives, and Jim looks to the doctor, who’s been hovering as close as Spock will permit. “Alright, Bones. Your turn.”

“Sickbay,” Bones says. “Now.”

***

Spock tolerates Bones prodding him just long enough for the doctor to ensure he’s not dying and to heal most of the minor abrasions before he bats his hand away and insists, “The worst of pon farr is over, doctor. The rest I can attend with meditation. I ask that you release me to my quarters.”

“Fine,” Bones bites. “But I want you to report to me before your next three shifts to make sure there are no side effects.”

“Very well.” And Spock sweeps from the sickbay without another word.

Jim’s been sitting awkwardly on the other biobed, trying not to look at anything. Bones cleared everyone else out of Sickbay the moment they walked in, leaving the space too empty and silent. Now, he comes to stand by Jim, running his scanner over Jim’s body. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

Jim groans. “I really don’t need a lecture, Bones, okay?”

“Not okay. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I was going to save my first officer’s life.”

“By getting yourself killed?”

“Well, I didn’t.” Jim stares at the floor sullenly. “Nobody died.”

“Oh really? Then why do you and Spock look like you’re attending some kind of funeral? For that matter, you want to explain to me why your psi-readings are suddenly spiking when I know for a fact your esper readings are nil? Or how about that lovebite on your collar, huh?”

“You’re a doctor,” Jim snaps. “Why don’t you do the math?”

“You’re right, I’m a doctor. And what the math tells me is that you up and bonded to Spock. Now that’s fine. God knows you’ve been pining long enough. But I’d have thought you’d be thrilled.”

“Oh yeah, I’m thrilled,” Jim spits. “I sexually assaulted my first officer. Who wouldn’t be thrilled?”

“Jim-“

“I wanted it so f*cking badly, Bones. I wanted him so badly he could feel it, and his pon-f*cking-farr responded to it and made him think he wanted it too. And now he’s so horrified by it that he’s got this thing-“ Jim jabs a finger towards his temple “-locked up so tight that nothing can get through. So excuse me for not whistling Dixie.”

To his credit, Bones looks chagrined. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

“Are you done here? Because I’ve got a call to make and a report to write for Starfleet and then if Spock doesn’t insist that I’m written up on charges, I’m throwing myself in the brig for assaulting a fellow officer.” Jim hops off the biobed without waiting for an answer.

Bones grips his arm and doesn’t let him go. The touch is surprisingly gentle. So is Bones’s voice when he says, “Let me run a couple more scans. And you need a hypo. Sex with open wounds is an infection waiting to happen, and it looks like Spock sliced you up pretty good before things got…busy.”

“Fine.” Jim sits back down. “You want to probe me too?”

“Only if you think I have to.”

“Whatever.” Jim lies down, staring at the ceiling. He lets Bones prod him a bit more, making sure everything is healed, that there are no tears, and he takes the hypo without complaint. Then he hauls himself off the biobed and heads for the door.

“Jim,” Bones says. “You should talk to him.”

It’s brilliant advice. There’s no way in hell Jim’s taking it.

Normal lighting has been restored by the time he reaches Deck Five. Normal heat, too. The ship rumbles under him, and Jim thinks he can feel the exact moment they jump to warp. He’s going to miss this. But he never really deserved it in the first place.

The lirpas are gone, as is his shirt. The spots of blood have been carefully wiped away. The locking panel hangs in front of Spock’s door, broken and sparking faintly. Maintenance will have to fix it. Jim steps into his own quarters and is assaulted by the heat. He blanches. “Computer, restore normal temperature.” It drops to human levels of comfort, and Jim sighs. There are chess pieces still scattered across the floor, the board in broken bits against the wall. All that happened today. It feels like a lifetime ago.

He picks up the pieces, piling them carefully on the table. He takes a seat in the chair. Even with the medical treatment, his ass is still sore. It’s a dim sensation. He might be a little numb.

The subspace communication goes through when he tries. It picks up almost instantly. “Jim?”

“Hey,” Jim says. Seeing Spock Prime’s face doesn’t provide any relief. “I fixed it.” He broke it. Same difference, for him.

“When the communications cut out, I feared something had happened.”

“Romulans happened.” Jim waves his hand. “It’s taken care of.”

“And…my younger self?”

“He’s been taken care of too.” Bile climbs Jim’s throat. He swallows. “He’s alive.”

“I am grateful to hear it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he’ll be giving you a call soon. Probably wants to know if you ever had to put up your captain on assault charges.”

Spock blinks. “Assault charges? Are you not bonded?”

“Oh no, we’re bonded.” Jim rubs his forehead. “And based on Spock’s reaction, it’s obviously the last thing he wanted. Which I pretty much expected.”

“But…you are t’hy’lara.”

He seems genuinely baffled, but the word makes Jim’s stomach lurch. “You knew? ” Oh f*ck. Of f*cking course.

“I- yes. My captain and I-“

Of course James T. Kirk gets to be Spock’s soulmate. Of course there’s a version of him that gets to actually have what he wants, that genuinely deserves it. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“Jim-“

“I just wanted to let you know no one died. It’s fine. Now, I have a report to write, and then someone needs to throw himself in the brig for crimes against an officer.” He looks up, caught halfway through the sentence by the sound of the bathroom door opening. Spock stands there, looking stricken. “sh*t. I’ll let you go, Ambassador. Dif-tor heh smusma, and all that.”

On the viewscreen, Spock glances between Jim and his younger self. “Sochya eh dif, old friend. I am sure you have much to talk about.” The connection goes dead. Jim swivels in his chair. Spock’s hair is combed, but he still hasn’t changed out of the gold uniform.

“Captain,” Spock begins. “On the matter of the crime committed-“

Jim sighs. “I swear, Spock, I’m just going to write the report about the Romulans-“

“-I ask that you give me time to compose a report to Starfleet-“

“-and we can get a healer when we get to New Vulcan, and-“

“-then I will remand myself to the custody of-“

They both stop. “What do you mean, you’ll remand yourself?” Jim demands. “Spock, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Spock looks a little offended. “Captain, I attacked you. I assaulted you, first with a lirpa, and then repeatedly with…” He looks away. “I committed unacceptable acts on your person.”

“Uh, pretty sure I hit you first,” Jim says. He stands. He can’t be sitting if Spock isn’t, not for this conversation. “And I’m pretty sure I was the one doing bullsh*t to your mind, so any acts you committed were my fault too.”

“I intended to kill-“

“If I didn’t court martial you for it the day we met, I’m sure as hell not doing it to you now.”

Spock huffs. The irritation is clearer in his face than usual. Probably the aftereffects he mentioned, Jim guesses. “I forced you to meld with me,” Spock says, as if it were the only logical interpretation. “I forced you to feel the effects of my pon farr, the arousal I experienced, and then I used your body repeatedly, in spite of the knowledge that you were in distress. Do not deny it,” he adds, when Jim opens his mouth to protest. “My recollection of the experience is clear enough to remember that much. You projected intense negative emotions, and then had to defend yourself against my negative response. I have committed an assault not only shameful of a Starfleet officer, but of the gravest offense to my people. To treat one’s own t’hy’la in such a way-“

“Hang on,” Jim says. He holds out a hand, waving it between them. “We’re not- I mean-“ He shakes his head. “I figured it out, okay? Pon farr, physical and mental, all that sh*t. I thought we could fight it out. But you were going to kill me and I know what that would do to you, so I figured…I mean, god, I’ve wanted you for so long. And it seemed like it would work, only you were totally out of your head, and you got it twisted up that you were the one who wanted me, even though I know it was just-“

“Kroykah!” Spock says sternly. Jim clams up, like his mouth has been glued. Spock advances a step, forehead creased. “You spoke to me in my native tongue when I could not remember yours, when the blood-fever took too deep a hold to comprehend. This is true?”

“I mean, yeah. You were kind of freaking out. I wanted to…” What? Reassure him? Jim hardly knows.

Spock takes another step forward. Jim would take a step back, except there’s kind of a computer terminal in the way. “When I attempted to kill you as a challenger, you instead offered yourself to me as a mate. Is this true?”

He swallows. “Yeah, but not out of self-sacrifice or anything like that.”

“No?”

“No.” God, he’s disgusting. Spock is still prowling forward. Is he going to attack? Nothing makes sense anymore.

Spock leans in, planting his hands on the table, on either side of Jim. Boxing him there. Trapped. “And when I claimed you as my mate,” he rumbles, “you felt great shame. Is this not true?”

“No. I mean, I did, but not at you, Spock, at me.”

“Because you believed you were coercing me. Because you believed that in the fires of pon farr, I could not comprehend my own desire?”

Spock is so close now they’re almost touching, and Jim leans back, almost sitting on top of the table in his haste to lean away. “I mean-“

“Because you desired me also.”

“Yes.” It breaks as a whisper, like releasing a valve. Jim closes his eyes and shudders.

He feels Spock’s hand on his face, cupping his chin. He tilts it up. “Open your eyes, Jim.”

Jim obeys. Spock’s eyes are fire, in a way they hadn’t been even deep in the plak’tow. “Vulcans feel deeper than any human,” Spock says. “You know this to be true. Do you truly believe that I would be overwhelmed by your feeling when my own burned at its peak?”

Jim gets the sense that Spock is not going to attack him. He blushes. “You said when your defenses were down, you couldn’t necessarily tell-“ He stops. Spock had said, very specifically, that he hadn’t been able to identify Jim’s feelings. He’d been too swept away in his rage. “Oh,” he says, a little late.

“Indeed.”

“You…wanted me.”

“When you challenged, I was disoriented. But if I had truly seen you as an enemy, I would not have tried to take you as my mate. You could have done any number of things to me, and I still would have killed you where you stood.”

Jim’s stupid tongue says, “Hot.”

A smile twists at Spock’s lips. He gives Jim a little more space, although he doesn’t step away. “When I protected you from pain, our minds touched. I recognized t’hy’la. I assumed a given nature of that bond, and I was incorrect. In my time of need, my katra called out for yours. It is possible you experienced some symptoms, to a lesser degree.”

The headaches. The irritation. So it wasn’t lovesickness, just a phantom of pon farr. “I did, yeah.”

“But you say your feeling predates this?”

Jim flushes more deeply. “I didn’t know that’s what it was until a couple weeks ago. Maybe a couple months. But yeah. I’ve been pretty much in love with you from day one.”

“I see.”

“Is that…okay?”

“It means that what you feel is truly your own. My own feelings are more difficult to determine. I have felt great affection for you, but I did not examine its nature until very recently. However, knowing what I know now, I suspect many of my earlier reactions would indicate…”

Jim grins. He can’t help it. “You were jealous.”

Spock straightens. “I-“

“You were jealous of me and Uhura, you were jealous of me and old you-“

“You have made your point. Please desist.”

Jim breaks off, still grinning. It fades, and he probes, “But you shielded the bond. I thought-“

“I shielded the bond because I believed you would react negatively to it. When we joined, I felt your distress. I believe now I also felt your affection, but could not totally distinguish it from my own.”

“So…you don’t want to break it?” Jim asks hopefully.

“We are t’hy’lara. We could not break it if we tried. Nor would I wish to.”

“Awesome,” Jim breathes. With every word from Spock, weight has been lifting off him. At this point, he could probably outfly the Enterprise . “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

Something in his mind cracks open. “I know,” Spock says, and through that door bleeds affection, bleeds love. “Taluhk nash-veh k’dular isha.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” Jim grips the front of Spock’s shirt, reeling him in for a human kiss. He grins. “I take it no one’s going to the brig today?”

“Negative.”

“Then there’s just one order of business to take care of, Mr. Spock.”

Spock raises his eyebrows. “Oh? What would that be, Captain?”

Jim flicks Spock’s chest. “I thought I told you already. I like my science officers in blue.”

“My apologies,” Spock says. He leans in again, his teeth scraping over Jim’s lower lip. “When I dressed, my mind was…otherwise absorbed.”

Jim laughs, and lets Spock make out with him on top of his desk. The chess pieces get scattered again. He’s absolutely not complaining.

***

“Okay, so I’ve still got a question,” Jim says later. They’ve written classified reports to Starfleet about the Romulans and classified reports to the Vulcans about Spock’s pon farr. They’ve filled out, at Spock’s insistence, both the fraternization paperwork and the registration of their Vulcan marriage, despite Jim’s insistence that if they’re already married, it’s really not fraternizing anymore. They’ve assured Bones that yes, they’ve finally gotten their heads out of their asses, and yes, he can be best man when they get hitched the human way, although he and Uhura will have to fight over who gets Jim and who gets Spock. For all that he doesn’t buy into the ritual, Jim had suggested a more traditional Jewish wedding. He thinks Amanda might have liked that, and based on Spock’s reaction, he’d obviously agreed. They’ve christened both of their rooms very thoroughly, and Jim has licked chocolate off of Spock’s incredibly hot body – chocolate which might be a Vulcan intoxicant after all? Spock refuses to answer that question, and Jim can’t tell if the reaction is to the candy or to Jim. Either way, he’s into it. He’s found out that those black robes are essentially Vulcan pajamas, but that when it’s warm enough Spock likes to sleep in the nude. It’s been a time of great discovery all around.

The point being, they’ve worked everything out. And it’s probably a good thing that when they spar in the gym, it’s under lock and key. Those sessions have a pretty different ending now. Different mostly in that Jim doesn’t always wait until he’s in the shower to work out that risa-guv-aitlun. Spock had given a half-hearted protest at first, but he’s clearly satisfied with the results.

Spock raises his eyebrow, fingers steepled as he meets Jim’s gaze across the board. “There are an infinite number of questions in the universe. I assume you are referring to a specific one.”

“You said you knew I was your t’hy’la, but you didn’t know exactly what that meant. T’hy’la means soulmate, right?”

“In essence.” Spock inclines his head. He takes his turn. They’re in the rec room, playing chess. Jim’s 3D board is still destroyed, and he doesn’t feel right filching another one. He’ll get his own next time they dock. Uhura’s parked across the room with Sulu and a couple other officers, pretending not to watch. Taking bets, Jim assumes. He still can’t call her Nyota, not because they aren’t friends now, but because it feels too strange. She’s cornered him, after everything, to ask what happened. He’d told her, more or less, and thanked her again for the Vulcan lesson. She had no idea how much they’d come in handy. “You will recall,” Spock says, “that t’hy’la has three meanings. Friend, brother, lover.”

“Sure,” Jim says. That does ring a bell. He moves a piece.

“T’hy’la can mean one of these things, or all. I knew you were my friend. I considered you my brother, as the ancients used the term brother-in-arms.” Spock counters his move. “I did not allow myself to consider the third definition until I was more certain of the nature of your feelings. You hid them well.”

Jim snorts. “High praise. But I guess we’d have figured it out sooner or later. Fate and destiny and all that jazz.”

Spock shakes his head. “Vulcans do not believe t’hy’lara merely come together as an inevitable impulse of fate. That would be illogical.” He gestures for Jim to go, and continues, “T’hy’lara must reach for each other. They must find that which within themselves is reflected in another person. They must recognize it, and choose to pursue it, to say ‘this one is like me, and that is beautiful.’ T’hy’lara are katriclly entwined, but they are not destined because the universe says so. They are forged, through every choice we make. That is why the word means many things. We believe our katra live on, and join with others in many different ways. As friend. As brother. As lover. It is only in the choosing that true t’hy’lara come to be.”

“Fascinating,” Jim teases. Underneath the surface, affection wells. It could be his. It could be Spock’s. He doubles down on it, just to be sure, pushing it back across their link. Oh yeah. James T. Kirk never had it this good.

“It is your move,” Spock reminds him. “Or are you going to continue to delay?”

“Maybe I don’t want the game to end,” Jim smirks.

“I do not yet have you in check.”

“You say that like it’s an inevitability.”

“Merely the most probable outcome. Of course, I would challenge you to the improbable course of action, since it is your favored track.”

“Challenge accepted,” Jim grins. He makes his move and leans back, pleased. “I believe the word is vitaya?”

“Remarkable,” Spock says. His eyebrows say humans are baffling…and I love them. “You have achieved a stalemate. How I did not see it beforehand…”

“Just you wait,” Jim says. He reaches over the table, placing a two-fingered kiss on the back of Spock’s hand, just shy of inappropriate for a public setting like this. “Next time, I’m going for checkmate.”

Spock looks down at their hands, the tips of his ears coloring faintly. He does not remove his hand. “That you will eventually achieve it, I have no doubt.”

“It’s about understanding your opponent,” Jim says. “Once you do that, everything else falls into place.”

“Sound advice, ashayam.” Spock’s amusem*nt pings, bright between them. “Perhaps I will utilize it to my own advantage.”

“I think we’re doing alright.” Jim stands, jerking his head towards the gaggle of officers pretending not to look. “Come on. Let's let the vultures pick over their winnings. You and I have a date with Commander Atox.”

“Commander Atox, Captain?”

“What?” Jim’s smile is all innocence. “I just commissioned something for you, that’s all.”

“If it is another leather jacket, I must remind you that it is irresponsible to utilize ship’s resources for your own fetishes.”

“It’s got matching gloves,” Jim chirps, linking arms with Spock as he drags his first officer, his friend, his husband down the corridor.

Spock allows himself to be led, although he does unlink them to walk at a respectful distance from Jim’s side. “You enjoy making Commander Atox squirm.”

“I like reminding people of who you belong to.”

“Your possessiveness could rival a Vulcan’s.”

“Yep,” Jim says cheerfully. “And don’t you forget it.” And he grips Spock’s hand, right there in the middle of the corridor. There’s no one around to notice, but still. He understands his first officer, alright. And he’s going to take advantage of that every chance he gets.